“Think they’re still with us?” Erin asked. Clods of mud were stuck in her hair, and she grimaced as she pulled one from her tresses and dropped it to the ground.
“They won’t give up so easily, now that they’ve caught our trail,” Gaelin said. “We’d better keep moving quickly. That band may not catch us, but they’ll report to their superiors.”
The horses were exhausted from the long run, and Gaelin decided to dismount and lead them for a bit. They should have let the animals rest, but he didn’t think it would be wise.
He patted Blackbrand’s neck and promised himself he’d find an extra apple for the big stallion that night. Baesil Ceried’s army was still somewhere ahead, but he noticed everyone was looking over their shoulders as they marched on in the gray drizzle.
Chapter Eleven
Riding as fast as they dared push the horses, Gaelin and his companions covered fifty miles on the first day of travel from the abbey. They encountered no more Ghoerans, but they ran across the work of marauders and raiders in several places.
Gaelin was surprised to find black-feathered goblin arrows by one homestead near the border of Dhalsiel and Byrnnor.
Even in the worst winter raids, the goblins of Markazor didn’t come this far west into Mhoried.
They camped for a few hours in the ruins of a long-abandoned estate in the countryside, stabling their mounts in the wreckage of the manor’s hall. Before sunrise, they rose and continued on their way, blundering through a dense, wet fog that shrouded them in gray mist.
After a morning of cutting across the broad, open fields of Byrnnor, Gaelin spied the dark turrets of a castle looming out of the rain, a few hundred yards ahead. Castle Ceried was not as large or modern as Shieldhaven, but it was still a well-built motte-and-bailey fortress, slowly improved over the years by the counts of Ceried. The fields around the castle were crowded with the white tents and smoky fires of the army of Mhoried.
They rode beneath the castle’s rain-streaked battlements.
Gaelin led the way under the castle’s gatehouse, followed by the rest of his entourage. Adetachment of men-at-arms in the colors of House Ceried manned the gate. The sergeant in charge held up his hand to stop Gaelin as he rode into the courtyard. “Halt, sir,” he said in a rough voice. “Your name?”
Erin spoke up from beside Gaelin. “The Mhor Gaelin and his company, sergeant.”
The sergeant hastily saluted. “I’ll send word to the count immediately, my lord.” He sent a young page running off toward the keep at once and called for the stablehands to help with their horses. While Gaelin and the others dismounted, stretching and kneading the kinks in their legs and backs, a crowd of off-duty soldiers and servants gathered, pointing and whispering.
A few moments later, the doors of the keep burst open across the courtyard, and Count Baesil appeared, striding purposefully across the bailey in his black armor. A dozen knights, officers, and lords flanked him, talking excitedly among themselves. Gaelin stepped out from behind Blackbrand and walked forward to greet the count. “Count Ceried.
It’s good to see you.”
“I thought you dead or captured, Gaelin,” Baesil rasped. “I certainly didn’t expect you to show up on my doorstep.” He looked past Gaelin at the curious spectators and barked, “Go on, get on with your business!” Reluctantly, the commoners and off-duty soldiers broke up and went their own way.
Gaelin looked around, frowning. “You didn’t have to do that on my account. Friendly faces have been hard to find lately.”
“Come with me, Gaelin. We’ve much to discuss.” Without waiting for Gaelin’s reply, Baesil turned on his heel and strode off through the gatehouse, dismissing his guards with a curt wave of his hand. Gaelin stared after him, glanced at Erin, and then hurried to catch up. The bard followed a respectful distance behind him. The count didn’t speak as they walked out of the castle’s gate and started toward the camp, skirting the moat.
“Well?” said Gaelin as he drew abreast of the count. Baesil’s long, shanky stride was difficult for Gaelin to match, and must have left shorter men in the dust. “How do things stand?”
“You have no idea how much harder you just made things for me,” Baesil snapped.
“What? What do you mean?”
“With you dead or captured, there was nothing for me to do but make the best terms I could with Tuorel. He’s beat us in the field, he cut out Mhoried’s heart when he took Shieldhaven and killed the Mhor, and he’s got half the southern lords bending their knees to him. Now I have to decide what I’m going to do with you.” The old lord didn’t even glance at Gaelin as he finished his declaration with a bitter stream of foul oaths.
Gaelin caught Baesil by the arm. “Stand still and talk to me, damn it! I didn’t spend the last ten days fighting my way through ambushes and skulking through the countryside to let you decide what you’re going to do with me!”
Erin touched Gaelin’s arm softly. “Gaelin, it may be wise to hold your temper in check.”
Baesil’s eyes bored holes in Gaelin, as he studied the prince. “I have no time to coddle a hotheaded young rake who has the gall to call himself Mhor. Your father was the Mhor, Gaelin. You will be treated as an honored guest until I decide where you should be, but you will not stray out of my sight until I figure out what to do.” Baesil jerked his arm from Gaelin’s grasp and turned his back on him.
Gaelin clenched his fists. “I swore the oaths before the Red Oak yesterday morning, Baesil. I’m the Mhor, whether you like it or not. You hold these lands from me, and that is my army camped in those fields. I’ll ride down there and tell them to storm your castle if that’s what it takes to get your attention.”
“I’m their commander. How many do you think would follow you?”
“I’m Daeric’s son, and I swore the oaths. I think most of them would.”
“You’d pick a fight with a Mhorien lord, while Ghoere’s army stands only three days’ march away?”
Gaelin returned his gaze evenly. “My father always spoke highly of you, count. He said that you were one of the three or four lords he’d trust with his life. I’m beginning to wonder what he saw in you.”
Baesil held Gaelin’s eye a moment longer. Then, slowly, his face split into a fierce grin, and his eyes flashed. “Good,” he said. “You’ve iron in you, boy. More than I remember. That’s good.”
Gaelin was still shaking with anger. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right. Let’s try this again. How do matters stand?”
“In a minute. First I want to hear how you found your way home from Endier.”
“Very well.” Gaelin related the entire tale, starting with the appearance of Lord Baehemon in Shieldhaven. Baesil constantly interrupted with curt questions, until Gaelin found himself growing furious.
“Well, it sounds as if you’re the Mhor.” Baesil inclined his head. “I’m afraid that Mhoried’s been gutted like a fish, my lord.”
“Go on.”
Baesil started walking toward the camp again, this time at a slower pace. “Ghoere sent damn near their whole strength against us, starting with Riumache. We’d always thought Tuorel would attack there, but we figured the town could hold out for a couple of weeks at least, time enough to muster the lords and relieve Lady Tenarien.”
“But the Maesil froze,” Erin said.
“I see you’ve heard the story. Tuorel took the town in an afternoon, and he was off and running.” Baesil swore under his breath. “The man knows how to run an army, I’ll grant him that. He caught us with our forces dispersed and drove straight up through Tenarien into Cwlldon on the Old Stoneway. Within two days of the fall of Riumache, I took the army of Bevaldruor south to meet him, trying to gather up as many of the lords’ musters as I could. But the northlords were busy with a horde of goblins that crossed over from Markazor at the same time that Tuorel invaded, and half the southlords decided to sit on their collective behind and watch Ghoere cut their rightful lord to pieces.”