Tuorel frowned. “I’m not inclined to accept your ‘gifts’ at this point, Bannier. It seems to me I can finish Gaelin Mhoried without any more of your help.”

“Even if I can place Warlord Kraith’s army at your command?”

“Kraith is at least ten days away, in Thak Mor Kadan. If you summoned him this instant, he’d be here too late to aid me in the fight ahead. Besides, I like the terms of my existing bargain with the goblin. If he helps me again, he’ll exact a price I may not want to meet, especially since it looks as if I’ll be able to crush the Diemans without giving up the siege.”

“Kraith must abide by your agreement, Baron. He can demand nothing from you.”

Baehemon rasped, “We neither need nor want him here, Bannier. Even if he could be here in time to help us.”

“That is regrettable, Lord Baehemon. Kraith and his warband should be here on the morrow.”

Tuorel’s face was hot with indignation. “You presumed to summon Kraith without asking me? Bannier, you idiot! If the goblins appear on the battlefield, Kraith can hold me at sword point with the threat of changing sides! Do you have any idea of what that might cost me?”

Baehemon’s fists clenched Bannier’s arm with bone-crushing force. The stocky general spun the wizard about and glared into his face. “I told you this one would bring trouble, Tuorel,” he grated.

Ignoring Baehemon, Bannier turned back to Tuorel. “Kraith will do whatever you bid him to. He has his orders.”

The baron’s eyes narrowed. “Orders? From whom?”

Bannier considered some kind of lie, but then it occurred to him that Tuorel would be shaken to the core by the revelation of the Gorgon’s involvement. Bannier was damned, anyway – why let Tuorel believe he was his own master? He grinned at the idea of the mighty warlord, the great reunifier of the empire, learning that he was nothing more than a pawn. Deliberately, he said, “Kraith marches at the Gorgon’s command, Tuorel. You are to do as Prince Raesene bids and cooperate with Kraith of Markazor.”

Absolute silence reigned in the tent for a long moment.

Tuorel’s face was pale, and he blinked twice. Behind him, Baehemon gasped as if he’d been punched. Delighting in their horror, Bannier continued, “Why do you think Kraith was so eager to ally with you earlier this year, Tuorel? Not because he has any love for you, but because his master – and yours, now – commands it. You have championed the Gorgon’s cause for years.”

Behind him, Baehemon drew in a long, hissing breath. If Tuorel was shaken by Bannier’s revelations, Baehemon was destroyed by them. The lord general might have been a faithful follower of Tuorel the warlord, but aiding Tuorel the Gorgon’s pawn was something else entirely. Baehemon took one small step back, distancing himself from the truth.

Tuorel’s eyes flickered past Bannier, and without warning he struck like a serpent, leaping forward to thrust his sword into Baehemon’s throat. The blade passed only an inch or two from Bannier’s face, and the wizard flinched as hot blood splattered the back of his neck. He gagged in revulsion and twisted away, while Tuorel followed Baehemon to the ground, clamping a hand over the general’s mouth to silence the choking sounds of his death.

When it was over, he glanced up at Bannier with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Baehemon could never stand to serve me, after hearing that,” he said. “For years he was content to follow without question, but he would have done everything in his power to bring me down, instead of serving the Gorgon.”

Bannier turned to look at Baehemon’s body. Bright red blood stained the general’s gorget and surcoat. “Well, he’ll never speak of it,” the wizard said, returning his attention to the baron.

“Nor will you,” Tuorel replied. He stood and with both hands drove Calruile, his fathers’ sword, through Bannier’s chest. The force of the blow actually lifted the sorcerer from his feet and slammed him to the ground. “That’s for making me kill Baehemon,” Tuorel hissed. “I’ll have to think of a way to explain Kraith’s involvement, but you won’t blackmail me with tales of your dark master. Betrayal’s a dangerous path, Bannier. Here’s what lies at the end of it.”

Bannier coughed once, his hand pushing at the sword that pierced his breastbone. Almost an arm’s length of steel protruded from his back. Darkness was coming for him, dimming his sight, and the light was whirling away from him. He reached out with one bloody hand and gripped Tuorel’s shoulder, a horrible smile on his face. “Bastard,” he coughed.

“Hear my words: You’ll never see the Iron Throne.” Then the light faded, and he slipped off the cold steel as he fell to the ground.

Noered Tuorel studied the scene in silence for a moment.

Outside, the guard called to see if he was well. His face twisting in barely controlled rage, the baron called the guards in.

When they burst through the door and took in the scene, the soldiers halted in astonishment. “Are you hurt, baron?” asked one.

“No, I am uninjured,” Tuorel replied. “But the traitor attacked and killed Lord Baehemon before I managed to cut him down. Treat Lord Baehemon with the appropriate honors and respect.”

“And the wizard?”

“Quarter his body and throw it in with the rest of the offal,” Tuorel said. “Then leave me be.”

The weather was fine, cool, and clear as Gaelin rode into the Mhorien camp, beside the placid waters of Lake Winoene.

Nearly two thousand men followed him. The armored soldiers of the Temple of Haelyn had been joined by hundreds of villagers and freesteaders answering the call to arms. It had been a hard march, but they’d made it with half a day to spare. A lthough the men were tired, Gaelin set them to fortifying the camp immediately – he didn’t want his army smashed by a Ghoeran attack before they’d organized themselves.

On the bright side, their position was defensible. The southern end of Lake Winoene was boxed in tightly by the surrounding hills, unlike the open terrain by the castle of Caer Winoene, and strategically placed earthworks would suffice to guard the Mhorien muster. A long time ago, there had been a small village on this site and an old monastery high on a hill overlooking the lake. From the ruins of the monastery, Gaelin could make out the distant walls and towers of Caer Winoene, about seven miles away. Threads of dark, ominous smoke rose from the site of the siege. Gaelin found it unsettling to think the Ghoeran army lurked only a day’s march distant.

Agreat number of Mhoriens had answered Gaelin’s call in just five days. The ancient Count Torien had brought threequarters of his fighting strength, five hundred cavalrymen and a levy of nine hundred archers, leaving only a handful of men to hold the precarious northern borders of Mhoried.

Lord Ghaele, the husband of the Countess Marloer, led two hundred heavy knights and four hundred pikemen. A dozen more highland lords totaled about three hundred knights and retainers. However, the most impressive turnout came from the common folk of Winoene, Byrnnor, and Dhalsiel. Clan by clan, village by village, they came in bands of twenty or thirty, until more than two thousand were waiting for Gaelin to arrive. Many of these men were untrained and poorly equipped, but almost all carried the powerful Mhorien longbow, and knew how to use it.

Trying to make sense of the milling crowds of men and keep peace among those who weren’t friendly with each other consumed most of Gaelin’s afternoon. Since the Haelynites were the most organized unit on the field, he had Iviena’s officers divided among the detachments of the Mhorien lords and the horde of militiamen. The temple knights could use their common sets of orders and chain of command to control the various bands and militias they were attached to, although the Mhorien leaders kept command of their own units. Some of the minor lords and the villagers complained, but Gaelin realized it was the best he was going to come up with in the half-day he had to assemble the army.