When Gaelin had pointed out he felt the same way about her, she replied, “We should watch out for each other, then.”

Throughout the morning, Gaelin rode up and down the column, letting the men who followed him see him. His armor was resplendent; some of the Knights Guardian had taken the time during the night to repair his battered plate and refurbish his surcoat and coat of arms. Even Blackbrand’s mail skirts were covered by a brand-new drape of green and white, with the argent falcon boldly displayed on each flank.

Around noon, they called a brief halt about three miles from the Ghoeran position. The men rested and ate a spare midday meal of dried beef and mutton, cheese, and hardtack.

While they rested, Gaelin sought out the Haelynite captain who was his liaison with the rest of the army. The Knight Templar was a pious, severe man named Ulmaeric, and Gaelin found the fellow never volunteered anything except brief prayers to Haelyn. “Sir Ulmaeric, where’s the southern army now?”

“They started their march two hours after we did, as planned, my lord,” Ulmaeric replied. “They are almost directly opposite us, on the other side of the lake.” He pointed at a low hilltop about three miles away, on the opposite shore.

“We have signalmen on the hill, there.”

There was a quick flash of light from the hilltop, followed by three more in succession. “You’re using mirrors?” Gaelin asked.

“Haelyn smiled upon us,” Ulmaeric said. “Mirrors or smoke allow us to stay in contact with Prince Vandiel’s force, but if the day had been foggy or rainy, we would have been cut off from them. That signal you just saw reported that Prince Vandiel’s army is confronted by a large Ghoeran host.”

“See if you can find out if it’s all of Tuorel’s forces, or only part,” Gaelin said. “If Vandiel’s facing the entire Ghoeran army, we’re going to have to move fast to threaten Tuorel’s rear and keep him from destroying Vandiel’s force.”

Ulmaeric saluted and set off in search of a messenger. From the hilltops on the north side of the lake, they could signal the southern post, but Ulmaeric still had to get someone to carry the message to a place where it could be easily seen. Gaelin watched him ride off – they’d have to resume the march immediately, now that Tuorel was showing his hand. He started to give the order to his standard-bearer, but his eye fell on a small rock that overlooked the resting column. He rode over to the boulder, dismounted and climbed to the top.

“Soldiers of Mhoried!” he shouted, to get their attention.

All along the column, men were sitting by the roadside or lying down with their heads on their packs. As they noticed Gaelin preparing to address them, they fell silent and turned or sat up to see him better. In a few moments, Gaelin had more than a thousand men looking at him.

“Soldiers of Mhoried! We’re about three miles from the Ghoeran lines. Tuorel does not want to face you – he’s gone south to meet the Diemans and the Haelynites instead!” That evoked a few chuckles from the waiting militiamen. “We’ll march about two miles more. When we reach the open lands around Caer Winoene, we’ll break out of the column, form a line, and advance. Stay with your companies, and listen to the Knights Templar! They’re my means for communicating with you. Our first priority will be to take the siege lines and free Count Ceried’s men. Once we’ve chased the Ghoerans away from the castle, we’re going to press forward and attack the Ghoeran camp, with Ceried’s men to back us up. It’s going to be a long day, but by the grace of Lord Haelyn, we’ll send Tuorel back to Ghoere with his tail between his legs!”

The men surged to their feet, cheering. When they quieted again, Gaelin finished. “I’d hoped to rest here for an hour, but we can’t give the Ghoerans too much time to hammer the Diemans. We have to press ahead to get to the fight in time.

Good luck to you all!” With that, he waved once and jumped down to Blackbrand’s saddle, cantering back to the vanguard.

The cheers of the freemen rang from the hillside out over the lake, a roar of defiance that could be heard for miles.

Gaelin hoped Tuorel could hear it, wherever he was. As he came to the command company again, the standard-bearer raised his banner and signaled the march. The army surged forward again, following Gaelin to war.

Baron Noered Tuorel sat astride his charger, dressed for battle. His Iron Guard held the center of the Ghoeran line, arrayed in rank upon rank of bright steel, like the fangs of a great armored dragon gaping wide in anticipation. Calruile rested in its sheath by his pommel, and he caressed the hilt absently. If he could bring Gaelin to personal combat, a thrust through the heart would wrest the power of the Mhoried blood away from the boy, settling the Mhorien rebellion once and for all. From there, an ambitious man didn’t have to stretch his imagination to see the Iron Throne of Anuire itself.

Tuorel grinned in anticipation; one way or the other, the affair would be settled today.

He turned to the captain of his guard, Lady Avaera. She was beautiful and deadly, like a well-made sword, and Tuorel admired her in the way he might admire a predatory cat. “Any reports on where Gaelin of Mhoried rides today?” he asked. “I must know, before I engage these fools in front of us.”

Avaera glanced at him, and slipped her steel dragonbeaked helm over her face. “I’ll check with the master of scouts immediately, my lord.” She cantered away, leaving Tuorel to consider the army that opposed his own. The Diemans he knew well, having skirmished against them several times in the past decade in the frontier lands of Roesone and Endier. They were good troops, on a man-for-man basis probably the equal of his own army. The Haelynite troops he’d never fought before, and there was a scattering of minor Mhorien lords mixed in. All the troops on the enemy line seemed to be professional soldiers; he guessed the Mhorien levies he’d heard about were circling the lake to attack his siege lines from the north.

Even without the men he’d left behind in the trenches, his army outnumbered the Dieman and Haelynite force three men to two. The question in his mind was not whether he would win, but how many of the enemy soldiers his cavalry could ride down in the pursuit. Tuorel meant to smash his enemies so badly that no one in Mhoried would ever dare take arms against him again.

He spied Avaera returning, cantering in front of the Ghoeran lines. She rode up to his banner and saluted. “My lord, the master of scouts reports that the Mhor’s banner has been sighted north of the castle. Apparently, the Mhorien levies are preparing to assault our lines while we’re busy down here.”

Tuorel nodded. “It’s a good plan on their part, but the Mhor’s showing a naive confidence in his conscripts. I’ve never seen a levy that could fight worth a damn, let alone storm a defended earthwork.” He looked around at the battle; the Diemans were holding their ground, about eight hundred yards away, apparently hesitant to attack an army that outnumbered their own. No matter; Tuorel would make that decision for them, in just a moment. He rubbed his jaw and scowled. “What of our so-called allies?”

“The goblins are ready, my lord, but they’re not happy with their position. They want to join the fight.”

“Kraith can keep them under control. All right, then, here are my orders: Avaera, take command of this force, and attack the Diemans with everything you’ve got, save the Iron Guard. You outnumber them, so bring the fight to Prince Vandiel. Capture the prince, if you can, but if he perishes in battle, I’ll not mind.”

Avaera swallowed. “Yes, my lord. Where will you be?”

“I’m taking the Iron Guard and going to the northern lines to confront Gaelin. I want the pleasure of killing him myself,”