“Gaelin, look!” Erin clutched his arm and pointed back toward the Alamien village. He peered into the darkness and saw dozens of bobbing orange haloes sweeping into the town. The fog obscured the details, but he could see that riders bearing torches were rushing onto the landing. Shouts and the ringing of weapons reached his ears, muffled and distorted by the clinging mists.
“The Ghoerans must have been closer than we thought,” rumbled Madislav.
“Ferryman! Take us back!” Gaelin said. “We’ve got to get the rest of the guards out of there!”
“I counted thirty-odd soldiers with horses waiting to cross, boy,” said the master of the boat. “We can’t take them all in one trip. Besides, you probably don’t want to be in the middle of that.”
Gaelin gripped the rail. “Half my men are back there!”
“So? The six men in this boat won’t make a difference, Mhorien. I’m not putting this ferry about until the fighting’s over.” The ferryman challenged Gaelin with an angry glare.
“Thanks for bringing your war down on my head.”
Gaelin took a step toward the man without realizing what he was doing, balling his fist. The fellow stood his ground defiantly.
For a tense moment, Gaelin held his gaze, until a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.
“He is right, Gaelin,” Madislav said. “We must be keeping you away from Ghoere, and Captain Maesan will have to fight without us.” He peered off into the darkness. “I think he is not outnumbered too badly. He may drive them off yet, eh?”
Gaelin stood, watching, as the bargemen continued to pull for the other shore. The fighting receded into the night as they drifted further into the river. He couldn’t stand the idea that he was running from a fight in which Mhorien soldiers were standing against an enemy in his name. Deliberately, he turned his back on the echoes of the conflict and strode to the front of the boat. The Mhorien bank was just ahead, a black mass looming out of the shadow and mist.
“We’ll wait until daybreak and then see who holds the town,” he said after a moment. Instead of the relief he’d expected, there was only a cold and ashen feeling in his heart as the boat grounded on Mhoried’s shores.
Chapter Seven
The cell door opened with a rusty creak of protest. Mhor Daeric blinked in the sudden light of lanterns that seared his dark-adjusted eyes. He’d lost track of how long he had been incarcerated in his own dungeons. He guessed it was only a day or a day and a half, but with nothing to measure but the darkness and silence, it was impossible to tell. His head still ached, and there was a throbbing knot of pain right at the hinge of his jaw, but his thoughts were clear, and he no longer felt dizzy or nauseated. As best he could, he rose to confront his guards.
“Baron Tuorel wants to see you,” grated a voice behind a lantern. The soldiers dragged him from his cell and escorted him from the dungeons to the lower levels of the castle.
Daeric did his best to mask his shock at the number of Ghoeran soldiers who had mysteriously appeared in his castle.
The guards led him into the castle’s chapel. The black-clad Iron Guard of Ghoere lined the walls, silent as oiled steel. By the chamber’s doors waited a handful of Ghoeran knights and lords, the leaders of Tuorel’s armies. They watched Daeric enter with mingled contempt and triumph on their faces. The Mhor let his eyes slide past these lesser wolves, but he spied a face he knew. “Dhalsiel?” he said, pausing in his stride. “I see you’ve finally found companions suited to you. What was your price?”
The young count sneered. “I received no bribe,” he said in a contemptuous voice. “I serve those who are strong enough to deserve my allegiance. Baron Tuorel will set matters right in Mhoried.”
“If you betrayed your allegiance for that, you’re stupider than I thought.” Daeric turned his back on the Mhorien lord and marched ahead to the center of the room to meet his foe.
Baron Tuorel was standing in the center of the room, waiting for him with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes smoldered with a fierce hunger, a tangible desire for power that leaped to Daeric as he entered the room. Daeric glanced past Tuorel to take in the rest of the room. The emblems of Haelyn had been replaced by the signs of Cuiraecen, the Anuirean god of war. Red-robed priests clustered around the altar, watching him.
The baron nodded. “Good day, my lord Mhor,” he said. “I trust your accommodations have not been too intolerable?”
“Forgive me, baron,” Daeric replied. “I just smelled something that turned my stomach, and I’m in no mood to banter.”
“Ah, young Count Dhalsiel. I suspect that your Baesil Ceried will sorely miss his troops in Cwlldon.” Tuorel smiled.
“My army should meet yours within the day, I expect.”
“I’m surprised you’re not there to lead your army in person.”
“Lord Baehemon is capable of supervising the destruction of Ceried’s force. Besides, I have matters requiring my attention in Shieldhaven, as you can see.”
“Well, get on with it, then.” The expectation of his imminent death did not disturb Daeric – he felt only sadness that his beloved Mhoried would fall under the heel of a conquering tyrant without a Mhor to defend it.
Tuorel’s false grin faded. “Very well, I’ll set to business.”
He stalked forward, halting an arm’s reach from the Mhor.
His eyes were cold as a serpent’s. “It is my intent to divest you of the rule of Mhoried,” he said. “You will participate in the ceremony of investiture and pass to me the lordship of your kingdom.”
Daeric managed to contain his surprise, keeping his face an iron mask. Blooded lords who ruled kingdoms – as the Mhor did, and Tuorel, for that matter – enjoyed a mystical link to the lands they ruled, above and beyond the innate power they inherited from their ancestral lines. In a very real sense, the Mhor was Mhoried, and the strength of Mhoried’s wild and untamed lands, the hardiness and character of her people, surrounded him. The union of bloodline and realm lived in his veins. Presumably, Tuorel shared the same sort of bond with Ghoere.
Frowning, Daeric sought a glimpse of what was in Tuorel’s mind. Any blooded scion could wrest the power of his bloodline from Daeric by committing bloodtheft. In fact, the power of all the Mhorieds could be claimed by the lord who killed the last Mhoried. But if Daeric died heirless, the tenuous link between him and the country he ruled would simply dissipate. By acquiescing to Tuorel and willingly transferring the mystical link to the baron, Daeric would pass the divine right to rule Mhoried to Tuorel intact and unweakened. There was something much more important than himself, or his family, at stake here.
“Why, Tuorel? What do you hope to gain from this?”
Tuorel paced away, his gestures betraying a growing impatience.
“One way or another, I mean for Mhoried’s strength to be mine. Isn’t it obvious? With Mhoried anchoring my northern flank, and Elinie my eastern marches, I can bring the rest of the heartlands to my banner within a year.”
“To what point?” asked Daeric.
“I mean to have the Iron Throne,” Tuorel said. “Once Anuire was the greatest of nations, an empire that stretched from the Sea of Storms to the Sea of Dragons. Now, look at us.
Five centuries of strife and disorder have brought us to our knees. I will end that. If peace must be found at the point of a sword, then so be it.” He stepped close to Daeric, close enough that only the Mhor would hear his words. “I am the one, Daeric,” he said, a glimmer of feverish intensity showing in his eyes. “It’s been shown to me. I must have the strength. I will have the strength.”
The Mhor met Tuorel’s gaze. “My question remains unanswered,” he said. “You cannot rule Mhoried until I allow it.
You may hold the lands, you may murder and threaten the people, you can even wrest the power of the Mhoried blood from me and my children – but the divine right to rule the land will not be yours until I hand it to you. You will be an occupier, an invader, but never the king.”