“I don’t debate your identity, Prince Gaelin,” the prelate said. “You are who you say you are. My question is, are you what you say you are?”
Erin leaned forward. “For whatever reason, Tuorel obtained neither the Mhor’s blood nor his regency. The Mhor Daeric chose death over divestiture, giving Prince Gaelin a chance to continue the reign of the Mhors.” She nodded at Gaelin. “Aweek ago, he took the oaths of the Mhor before the Red Oak of Mhoried. He is the lawful ruler of this realm, and he still holds the divine right to Mhoried.”
“Granting you that,” Seriene said, “Tuorel is still right about one thing: you are a hunted man in your own kingdom.
His army outnumbers you by three to one, and he holds the richest lands of your realm. You may be able to elude him for a time, but in the long run he will grind you to nothing.”
“That is precisely why we need your help,” Count Baesil replied. “Ghoere has almost his entire army in Mhoried, engaging us on all fronts. If Diemed’s army threatened him, he would be forced to withdraw some of his forces to meet you, giving us the chance to defeat him entirely.”
“ You realize, of course, that we would have to secure the cooperation of Endier or Roesone in order to engage Ghoere? ”
“They’re no friends of Tuorel. They may be willing to help.”
“My father anticipated this request,” Seriene said, her face unmoving. “His reply is this: Assuming Diemed joins you in a war against Ghoere, can you guarantee you will be able to threaten Ghoere enough to hold at least half his army here?
Diemed can muster about four thousand men for an invasion of Ghoere, which means Ghoere can meet and defeat our attack with only a portion of his strength.”
Baesil Ceried snarled in disgust. “In other words, you don’t want to jump in on what you perceive as the losing side, regardless of old friendship or treaties.”
Seriene’s eyes flashed in anger, but her voice remained cool. “You could look at it that way,” she replied. “The truth of the matter is simple – if by helping you we do nothing but become Ghoere’s next victim, we have neither helped you nor served our own purposes. Diemed has enemies of its own to worry about; Prince Avan of Avanil, the new barony of Roesone, even pirates from Mieres across the straits. We dare not weaken ourselves by allying with a weak power.”
Gaelin thought for a moment, staring out over the Mhorien camp from a shuttered arrow embrasure. “Your concerns are understandable,” he said after a moment. “If we were to demonstrate we have at least the capability to keep Ghoere’s attention engaged in Mhoried, would that change your mind?”
Seriene glanced at the prelate before answering. “My lord Mhor, we would have to see you make some effort to retake the lands you’ve lost. So far, you have not been able to stand up to Ghoere’s army. Show us at least the promise of success in a future campaign, and we will do what we can.”
“I suppose that’s the best we will get for now,” Gaelin said with a sigh. “Would you consider aid that didn’t directly involve your forces in the fight?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We can use arms, equipment, and supplies of all kinds,” Gaelin said. “If you want to see us become strong enough to stand up to Ghoere, deliver these things to us. Of course, we will pay for them when we can.”
Seriene’s eyes narrowed. “I feel confident that my father will be willing to help you in this fashion, but you must realize that there’s no easy way to reach you. It may be a while.”
“Then the sooner we start, the better,” Baesil replied.
Seriene stood and smoothed her gown. “I will prepare a dispatch for my father,” she said. “We are agreed that Diemed will wait until Mhoried is in a better position before committing troops to the war? And that we shall undertake to help you with arms and equipment as we can?”
Gaelin nodded. “I wouldn’t say we’re agreed on both points, but we will accept it.”
Seriene smiled a little more warmly. “It’s a fair measure of what my father thinks of Tuorel that I’m here talking to you at all,” she continued. “In fact, he has requested I remain here for a time to act as Diemed’s representative at the court of the Mhor in exile.” She dropped her gaze demurely.
“We will be delighted by your company,” Gaelin replied.
“As you see firsthand how things are going, you may be moved to increase your efforts to help us throw Tuorel back across the Maesil.”
Seriene bowed gracefully. “Then we shall withdraw for now.” She paused a moment before addressing Gaelin by his rightful title. “Mhor Gaelin, my time is at your disposal.” She raised her eyes to Gaelin’s with a direct, disarming expression and a slight smile on her perfect lips before turning away. Gaelin watched the Diemans leave, holding his thoughts until they were gone.
Later that same day, in the evening, Baesil reported that the footsoldiers and the remaining baggage train were on their way, and Baehemon was camped only four miles away. As the sun set, he took Gaelin up to the battlements and pointed out the twisting lines of smoke that marked the Ghoerans’ cooking-fires. “We’ll give them a couple of hours to get nice and comfortable, and then we’ll hit them,” the general said.
“I’ll ride with you on the raid,” Gaelin said. His stomach was twisted and tight with nervousness, but he offered Baesil a smile. “I want the men to know I won’t send them someplace I wouldn’t send myself.”
The general scowled. “Damn it, Gaelin, this isn’t some kind of game! There’s every chance Baehemon might have caught wind of our plans and we’ll be riding into an ambush! Or even if he hasn’t, some Ghoeran might pop up when you’re looking elsewhere, and then where will we be? You’re the last hope we have of getting the throne back, lad. Don’t take it into your head to get yourself killed in a raid that won’t matter one way or the other!”
“I’ll be careful and keep out of the thick of things,” Gaelin promised. “Sorry, Baesil, but my mind’s made up.”
The general snorted. “Bah! I should have known you’d be thinking of this.” He turned and poked Gaelin in the chest with one finger. “You’d better not be doing this to impress that Dieman princess who showed up today!”
Gaelin returned to his borrowed chambers and managed two hours of sleep in the early evening. As the hour of the raid app roached, he rose and began to arm himself. Boeric appeared as he struggled with the last awkward pieces. The guardsman had been promoted to sergeant and would carry Gaelin’s standard in the upcoming fight. “Are you ready, my lord?”
“Almost. Here, give me a hand.” Flanked by his guards, he strode into the courtyard and found Blackbrand had already been dressed for battle in a skirt of chain mail and stiff, metalstudded leather. He mounted smoothly, took up the reins, and rode into the night with his guards arrayed around him.
They, too, were dressed in their heaviest armor, with lances stepped by their stirrups and swords hanging in easy reach by the saddlehorns. He noticed Bull among his personal guards; two days before, the beefy farmer had decided to enlist in Gaelin’s cause.
Outside, they joined Count Baesil’s command group, a knot of fifty or so guards, officers, and messengers, along with standard-bearers and musicians. All around the field, knights and cavalrymen sat in even ranks. There were three divisions, each marshalled together under a standard. Even as Gaelin rode up, the first division was moving away into the darkness, riding slowly with no lights showing.
“Good evening, my lord Mhor,” Baesil said, raising his hand in salute. “As you can see, we’re on the march.”