“Excellent,” Gaelin replied. “Think we’ll catch Lord Baehemon’s army off guard?”
Baesil shrugged. “We won’t know until we get there, will we? I’ve got scouts combing the path before us. With luck, we’ll have early warning of any Ghoeran scouts or patrols.
The next hour will tell.”
The ride was strange; clouds hid a waning moon, so it was dark, and none of the Mhoriens showed any lights. Instead, the lead elements of each division were guided by scouts on foot, men of Ceried who knew the area well. Count Baesil had also ord e red extraordinary measures taken to quiet the march, and each man had muffled his horse’s hooves by swaddling them in soft cloth. No talking was permitted, and even loose pieces of armor were padded for silence. The night around Gaelin was filled with creaking and rustling, broken by the snort of a horse and a few muted clinks and jingles. For almost an hour, they crept along at a slow walk.
Under the shadows of a dark, tangled wood, they drew up in ranks for the attack. The fires of Ghoere’s army could be seen a half-mile or so off, drawn up in the center of a broad, open field. “Not a bad place for a camp,” Baesil observed quietly.
“Excellent visibility for hundreds of yards all around.
But, on the other hand, this big field is perfect for mounted troops.”
“Could they be waiting for us?”
“I’ve heard two reports of Ghoeran patrols. One our scouts were able to silence, man for man. The other, we’re not sure of.” He lowered his visor. “Cover your face, lad. No sense waiting for a stray arrow in your eye.”
Gaelin shut his own visor. There was a whisper along the ranks of the horsemen, and slowly the line began to move forward.
Gaelin, Baesil, and their guards followed about twenty yards behind. Twisting in his saddle, Gaelin could see a hundred light cavalry waiting by the woods, guarding their escape route and standing by as a reserve. “When do we charge?” he asked Baesil.
“I’ll walk right up to the camp if they don’t give an alarm,” the general replied. He held his men to a walk. They were three hundred yards from the Ghoeran camp when they heard the first few panicked shouts of alarm from the firelit tents ahead. “That’s our signal,” Baesil said. “Captain, sound the charge!”
From beside Gaelin, a bugler let loose with a deafening blast that split the night. With a great roar, the knights and light horse spurred their mounts, thundering ahead toward the camp. The command company picked up their pace to a gentle canter, staying well back of the front lines. Bright yellow light flared as horsemen uncovered lanterns and pitch pots, turning the night into a chaos of shadows and glinting steel. Ahead of them, Gaelin saw men inside the camp racing to man the earthworks surrounding the tents. He swore in disgust – the Ghoerans hadn’t been surprised. “They’re wait- ing for us!” Gaelin yelled. “Call it off!”
“Too late now,” Baesil replied. The charging line slowed and swirled for a long moment, held up by the shallow ditch and palisade of stakes surrounding the camp. Ghoeran crossbowmen and pikemen were still streaming up to man the dike, and at point-blank range they wreaked havoc in the leading ranks of the Mhorien charge. Horses reared and plunged, screaming, impaling themselves on the stakes or the pikes of the Ghoeran defenders. Gaelin found himself pressed in on all sides as the attack faltered, and in a nightmarish chaos of shadow and fire he fought to keep Blackbrand beneath him.
Suddenly, the ranks around him opened up, and he spurred ahead into the fight. Although the Ghoerans had held them for a moment, the weight of their attack had punched a hole in the enemy line, and with shouts of fierce glee the Mhoriens dashed into the camp. Within moments, dozens of Ghoeran tents were fired, and Mhoriens were galloping through the camp, cutting down anyone in their path.
The command group rode down one lane between the tents. Gaelin realized he’d completely lost his bearings in the smoke and noise of the fight. Beside him, Baesil growled in disgust. “What a fiasco!” he shouted over the screaming and rising roar of flames. “If we’d been any slower, they would have cut us to pieces on the dike!”
“Well, we’re here now. Let’s fire his supplies!” Gaelin replied.
Baesil nodded. “All right, but we stay away from any big fights.” They rode around the perimeter of the camp. Their guards were soon caught up in a series of small melees with bands of Ghoerans, and arrows and crossbow bolts began to pelt through the company at random as unseen archers fired at the Mhoriens.
They passed a corral where several hundred horses reared and whinnied in panic, and Baesil sent several men to tear down the fence and drive the animals away from the camp.
They continued to circle the camp and came to a great swirling melee of fire and fighting men around the Ghoeran supply train. Gaelin guessed that there were a hundred or more wagons drawn up in neat lines, surrounded by the tents and rough lean-tos of several companies of infantrymen and guards. These men were waiting for the Mhorien attack, and as far as Gaelin could see in the smoke and the darkness, men rushed to meet the attacking horsemen or to fight the fires that had already been set. The first division had been assigned to head for the wagons, and they were embroiled in a bitter fight to finish their job of destroying Baehemon’s supplies.
“They’re waking up now,” said Bull.
“You’re right, soldier,” Baesil replied. “Time for us to leave.”
Gaelin looked around. It was a scene of hellish confusion, and acrid smoke burned his nostrils and stung his eyes. The din was deafening: weapons beat on shields and armor, men screamed orders from all sides, and flames roared hungrily.
Suddenly, from behind them, furious war cries filled the air, and an onslaught of half-dressed footsoldiers armed with whatever weapons they could find overtook their guards.
Gaelin turned his horse to face the men who poured through the screen of guards. “Baesil, watch your back!” he cried.
A few feet in front of him, Bull leaned away from his saddle and smashed one spearman to the ground with a monstrous blow from his long-handled maul, but a fellow swinging a battle- axe over his head dodged aside and came for Gaelin with an angry ro a r. Gaelin twisted in the saddle to catch the first blow on his shield, and then brought his sword across his body in a heavy chop that split the Ghoeran’s skull. He wheeled to look for another foe, but suddenly a heavy flail struck a crushing blow across his shoulder blades, smashing him out of the saddle.
The world spun and went dark as Gaelin crashed heavily to the ground, breathless and stunned.
Gasping for air, he rolled over to his hands and knees in the mud and looked up just in time to see the Ghoeran raising his weapon for the killing blow. Gaelin lunged out of the way.
His Mhoried blood might help him to recover from crippling injuries, but a well-aimed blow could kill him before his ability had time to repair the damage. “Blackbrand!” he yelled.
Like many war-horses, Blackbrand was trained to protect a dismounted rider. The great stallion reared and lashed out with his hooves, driving back a pair of Ghoerans who were advancing on the fallen prince. Gaelin used the momentary break to regain his feet, snatching his sword out of the mud.
The flail-wielder shortened his swing and leveled a deadly blow at Gaelin’s head, but Gaelin ducked and stabbed him through the chest. Spots still danced in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t draw a breath, but he groped his way to Blackbrand’s side and heaved himself back into the saddle.
Around him, Baesil’s knights and guards were driving the foot soldiers away. “Gaelin! Are you all right?” Baesil’s voice was hollow behind the iron mask of his helmet.
Gaelin managed a nod. He was still out of breath, his chest aching as he tried to find his wind. Baesil dispatched another man with a skillful blow to the throat. “Enough of this! Sound the retreat!”