Tuorel smiled cheerlessly. “I don’t think your master would like that.”

The goblin warlord narrowed his eyes. He settled for a mean-spirited gibe in reply: “He’s your master, too, Anuirean.

Why else would my warriors be at your command?

And how would your loyal soldiers feel if they knew the name of the power you serve, heh?”

“I suspect I stand high in his favor, Kraith.”

“Aye, but we’ve served Raesene for five centuries. When your kingdom’s blown away in the wind, we’ll still be his servants.”

The goblin straightened in his saddle, and pointed at the distant band of Mhoriens. “They’re moving.”

“That was quick,” Tuorel said, surprised. “It can’t be a levy.

Could Gaelin have disguised regular troops?”

“Why would he do that?”

Tuorel chose not to answer, although his mind was working furiously to unravel the puzzle. Gaelin’s head for strategy was extraordinary. Tuorel had heard of blooded scions who manifested uncanny gifts of strategy and battle-wits. The Mhoried line was descended from Anduiras, the ancient god of war.

“Where did he learn his skill at command?” Tuorel wondered aloud. “Gaelin’s proved to be a much more able leader than I ever thought he would be.”

Kraith smiled. “We have a saying in Markazor, Tuorel. ‘It takes fire to make steel.’ You’ve taught him everything you know about warfare, and he’s survived and learned. Why are you surprised he’s learned your lessons so well?”

Tuorel snorted. “Spare me your goblin platitudes, Kraith.”

He turned to one of the knight commanders nearby and asked, “How does the southern engagement go?”

“At last report, the issue is still in doubt, my lord. Captain Avaera feels that she can wear down the Diemans, given time.”

“Baehemon would have routed them by now,” Tuorel snapped. “Very well. Kraith, we must prevent Gaelin from reinforcing Vandiel’s army. Between your warriors and my own Iron Guard, I believe we have sufficient force to slaughter Gaelin’s sortie, and we’ll attack when we know they can’t retreat back to the castle.”

“Fine,” Kraith replied. “Just let me know when you want to unleash my fighters.”

“One more thing. You will instruct your commanders to leave the Mhorien standard alone. Above all, you must not engage Gaelin’s escort, not unless he tries to flee the field. I and my Iron Guard will attack the Mhor’s standard.”

“That may be difficult for my warriors,” Kraith grated.

“I don’t care.” Tuorel drew his sword from its sheath, and laid the gleaming blade across his saddle. “Gaelin Mhoried must fall by my hand and no other.”

It wasn’t pretty, but Gaelin assembled the levied bowmen and spearmen in something resembling their original formations.

The Haelynite soldiers were indispensable; with at least one or two of the Knights Templar in each band of Mhorien militia, they were able to position themselves roughly where Gaelin wanted them. The Knights Guardian of Gaelin’s bodyguard were now surrounded by nearly a thousand of Baesil’s cavalry, and the spearmen were led by hundreds of trained and armed Mhorien infantry. Despite the heavy fighting around the Ghoeran siege lines, Gaelin was able to build a column of nearly three thousand men to continue his attack.

“I think that’s about the best we’ll do, my lord Mhor,” Baesil Ceried said, observing the muster. “I hope they won’t break at first contact with the enemy.”

“They’ve already won one fight today,” Gaelin said. “They have the courage, if we lead them well.” He nodded at Boeric.

“Signal the advance; we’ve left the Diemans and Haelynites to fight our battle for too long.”

Baesil’s soldiers included a contingent of signal drummers.

With a stirring martial splendor, they hammered out the advance and settled into a slow march. Awkwardly trying to keep in step, Gaelin’s army slowly lurched forward, closing on the Ghoeran camp. As it moved forward, his army divided.

The spearmen and Baesil’s foot-soldiers jogged to the camp to burn and ransack Tuorel’s supply train and stores, while Gaelin led his archers and Baesil’s cavalry toward the lakeshore to bypass the camp and head out to the raging battle to the south.

“Do you have any idea of how Vandiel fares?” Baesil asked.

“He’s still fighting, so he hasn’t been swept away by Tuorel’s army, but I don’t want to risk any more delay. The sooner we can get there and tip the scales, the better,” said Gaelin.

Baesil gave Gaelin an odd look. “You’ve grown somehow in the past couple of weeks, lad. You’ve found the heart to be who you were born to be.”

“I was tired of letting Bannier and Tuorel tell me how this war was going to be fought,” Gaelin said with a shrug. “It was time to hit back.”

“Did you plan to lure them up here for this fight?”

Gaelin laughed sourly. “No, I’m not that clever. Tuorel thought this up for me and then put my back against the wall.

I’m only here because I have to be.”

Baesil held his gaze a moment longer. “I’m beginning to wonder, my lord Mhor.”

“When we get up to the fight, I want your cavalry to hit any reserves you see. I’ll lead the archers – ”

“Mhor Gaelin! Goblins!” Boeric interrupted him with a desperate shout, pointing at the seemingly deserted Ghoeran camp. From the hundreds of tents and the maze of trenches and earthworks, thousands of goblins were streaming into view, shrieking their high-pitched war cries and descending on Gaelin’s army with unnatural swiftness. In an instant, Gaelin understood what had happened. Tuorel had concealed an army of his vile allies in his own camp, waiting for a chance to spring the ambush. And now Gaelin had set his foot squarely in Tuorel’s snare. In a matter of moments, the men advancing on the camp were inundated by a tide of dark warriors. They fought for their lives, while the goblins swarmed past the Mhorien spearmen and raced toward Gaelin’s column.

“May the gods have mercy on us,” Baesil whispered in horror.

“Lord Mhor! What do we do?”

Gaelin didn’t know who shouted the question, but with blinding white fury building in his veins, there was only one answer.

“We stand here,” he said. Rising in his stirrups, he held his sword aloft and roared a challenge. “Knights Guardian, to me! Archers, fire at will!” With agonizing slowness, the Mhorien column turned to the side to confront the screaming wave of goblins that stormed at them. Arrows flew toward the oncoming horde, first as a ragged volley, then growing into a withering storm of steel that scythed into the goblin ranks. Gaelin bit his lip, watching the approach of the enemy horde. He turned to give Boeric an order for the standard, and found himself looking into Erin’s face. Dressed in a borrowed soldier’s cloak, the minstrel waited beside the Falcon standard. “Erin! What are you doing here?”

“I had a feeling you might need me,” she said. “And I didn’t want to let you out of my sight.”

He glanced at the oncoming goblins. The archery was taking its toll, but it was too little to stop the horde in its tracks.

Without time to set in position or organize their fire, the archers could only blunt the Markazoran charge. He lowered his voice. “Erin, promise me you’ll stay out of the fighting!”

Erin drew her sword and moved up beside the standard. “I don’t think the goblins are going to give us that option,” she said.

Gaelin whirled to watch the leading wave of goblins crash into the Mhorien ranks, swallowing his archers in a deadly, swirling melee. As the bowmen were forced into hand-tohand fighting, the deadly missile fire withered and ended, and the rear ranks of the goblin army piled forward unmolested.

In a matter of moments, Gaelin was looking out over a sea of struggling bodies; surging knots of goblins broke through his lines and cut into the free yeomen and highlanders who made up his levy.