“My circumstances were different then. Mhoried’s army was smashed, and I was a fugitive accompanied by only a handful of retainers. Things might not be much better, but maybe Iviena’s had a change of heart in the last month and a half.” Gaelin glanced at her and smiled. “Besides, the abbey is along the way. What could it hurt?”

Riding to the front of the fortified retreat, they entered through the open gates and rode into the great courtyard in the center of the monastery. An unsettled feeling flitted through Gaelin’s stomach as he recalled the ambush at Shieldhaven, but he had nothing to fear: the Haelynites welcomed his arrival with military honors. A gaunt, hatchetfaced captain wearing the garb of a brother superior over his armor personally escorted Gaelin and his immediate entourage into the temple.

High Prefect Iviena met him in the same audience chamber he had visited before, but instead of the humble habit she had worn on the previous occasion, she was dressed in gleaming ceremonial armor. He removed his helm, and strode forward to kneel before Iviena, kissing her hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “You were expecting me, Prefect?”

Iviena smiled, motioning him to rise. “The countryside is afire with rumors of war, Gaelin. From here to the Stonebyrn the militias are gathering. We may be cloistered to contemplate Haelyn’s glory, but we aren’t that sheltered.”

“You know why I’m here, then?”

“I suspect that you wish to rally us to your cause, Mhor Gaelin.”

“If I remember right, you have nearly a thousand men under arms here, including three hundred Knights Templar,” Gaelin said. He met Iviena’s eyes, letting her see a glimpse of the white fire that fueled him. “We have a hard fight ahead of us, and we’ll meet Tuorel’s army with or without your soldiers.

But they’d be a great help, Iviena. They might even tip the battle in our favor.”

The old priestess turned away, facing the small altar of Haelyn that stood at the end of hall. Closing her eyes, she breathed a silent prayer. Gaelin waited quietly. “The issue is still in doubt,” she said at last. “But you are the Mhor now, not a pretender or fugitive, and you deserve our support. The soldiers of the faith shall join you against Ghoere.”

Gaelin risked a quick glance at Erin; she offered a fiery grin, her face flushed. For the first time, he felt a sense of something greater than himself coming together. The events he had set in motion were gathering momentum, drawing him along with a newfound sense of gravity and history. His place was at the front of this rising tide, in the center of the storm, and they’d know in a few days whether he had done everything he needed to do.

He looked back at Iviena and clasped her hand in a warrior’s handshake. “We’ve half a day’s light left,” he said with a bare smile. “How soon can your men march?”

Thick, black smoke wreathed the Mhorien lines, turning the battle into a swirling hell of fire, blood, and torment. Surrounded by the black-armored knights of his Iron Guard, Baron Tuorel rode forward with a grim smile of satisfaction hidden beneath his wolf-shaped visor. He delighted in the clash of arms, the fierce struggle for survival and victory, the ultimate test of who was right and who was wrong. He and his knights had spent the morning in a pitched fight on the Mhorien ramparts, driving Ceried’s men back in a bitter struggle.

Water splashed around his war-horse’s bloody hooves.

He’d finally fought through to the shores of Lake Winoene, and all around him his knights were driving the Mhoriens back into the ruins. Here along the lakeshore, the smoke was thinner, and Tuorel raised his visor to gasp for breath while he watched the end of the fight. After a few minutes, a blocky form in red and black armor approached on foot, carrying a spiked mace.

“Lord Baehemon,” said Tuorel. “I see you’ve lost your horse.”

Baehemon lifted his own visor and bared his teeth in a savage snarl. “They know how to fight, all right. We must have lost half our force storming that dike.” He looked around at the corpse-strewn battlefield, and grunted in satisfaction.

“We’ve got the lakeshore. How long do you think old Ceried can keep his men going without water?”

“Three days,” Tuorel said. “We’ll have to reinforce this position.

He has no choice but to try and take it back.” He dismounted, his feet splashing in the cold, muddy water, and then reached down to wash the grime and mud from his face.

“What about the Diemans? They’ll be here by then.”

Tuorel smiled and looked at his general. “We’ll hold what we’ve got with the foot troops and pull off the cavalry and knights to meet the Dieman attack.” Catching his horse by the reins, the baron swung himself up into the saddle again, and walked his horse up on to the gravel shore. “Now, let’s see if we can find the fight again. I’m not done with these dogs yet.”

The Haelynite column set off for Lake Winoene later in the afternoon, marching out of the abbey’s courtyard in ordered ranks of cavalry and foot soldiers. Gaelin traveled with High Prefect Iviena and the leaders of her army, discussing strategy and preparing rudimentary plans. On Gaelin’s advice, the Haelynite army traveled with doubled scouts and prepared rudimentary defenses every night. He didn’t doubt Ghoeran marauders and spies were everywhere in the highlands – if he had been in Tuorel’s position, he would have placed ambushers along the route of the approaching army.

Balancing the need for caution against the difficulties of moving nearly one thousand men over eighty miles in only four days, the Haelynites were forced to begin their marches well before sunrise, after sleeping only five to six hours a night. At first Gaelin was concerned that the soldiers would be too exhausted to be good for anything at Caer Winoene, but he soon learned they were excellent, well-conditioned troops, and dozens of priests accompanied the march to urge the men forward with their prayers and hymns.

The weather was fair, with warm afternoons and light rainfall, but the journey passed slowly for Gaelin. He was anxious to get back to Caer Winoene and see how matters stood, and Erin continued to hold herself at a distance from him. At least he had the pleasure of watching Ilwyn recover from her ordeal – the princess flourished under the care of both Erin and Seriene, who went out of their way to keep her mind engaged on anything except the nightmare she had endured.

At the end of their second day of travel, they camped along the Northrun, just inside the long, low ridge of hills that marked the border of Dhalsiel and Marloer’s Gap. On the next morning’s march, they would have to leave the road and travel through a series of passes and valleys to reach Lake Winoene.

Tired but satisfied with their progress, Gaelin cantered up the grassy slope of a small rise to watch over the campbuilding and enjoy the sunset. He sat down with his back to a tree, and let Blackbrand graze nearby. The clouds overhead were painted brilliant hues of red, gray, and gold as the sun hovered in the narrow space between the dark horizon and the overcast sky.

“A fair evening, wouldn’t you say?”

Startled, Gaelin scrambled to his feet and reached for his sword, but he realized that it was only Seriene. The Dieman sorceress was watching him with a slight smile on her face.

With a mischievous look to her eye, she rounded the tree and took the spot he’d just occupied, demurely arranging her skirts before looking up at him and asking, “Why don’t you join me? I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

He sat down beside her. They watched the sun disappearing behind a distant peak, as the sunset deepened into dusk.