The horn sounded again, and in the distance Gaelin heard the faint response of the other divisions as they replied.
Count Baesil stood in his stirrups and yelled, “Forward! Let’s go! Leave these bastards behind!” The command company disengaged, and almost before Gaelin knew it, they were galloping away into the darkness surrounding the camp. Arrows fell among them, clattering from armor or plunging to stick in the ground. Baesil led them in a curving circle away from the burning camp.
A few hundred yards off, well out of bowshot, Baesil held up his hand and brought the group to a halt. Gaelin looked around the company. He could see they were missing a number of men, maybe a third of their number, and many more were injured as well. Behind them, roaring fires raced through the camp, and he could still hear the occasional clash of arms as Ghoerans fought Ghoerans in the confusion. “I’d say we bloodied their nose,” Gaelin said to Baesil.
“Aye, we did, but we lost a lot of men we couldn’t afford to lose,” Baesil replied. He lifted his visor, and Gaelin was surprised to see a line of blood trickling down the side of the count’s face. “Don’t believe that we did anything more than make them mad. Maybe we killed a few and burned some wagons, but that’s still a formidable army behind us, and they’ll be after blood now.”
“Let them follow us,” Gaelin said. “We’ll give it to them.”
Chapter Twelve
Bannier caught up with the retreating army of Mhoried in the southern borderlands of Winoene. The gem in which the warrior’s soul resided, the princess Ilwyn, and Bannier’s own mindless body were safely hidden in his secret place of power, deep within the Shadow World. It was a mere step away from the world of sunlight, but no one save a wizard or a halfling could ever locate Bannier’s retreat. For two days he had ridden Madislav’s body mercilessly to catch up to the Mhorien army.
It was the evening of the day after the raid, and the Mhoriens were strung out over ten miles of winding track as they climbed north into the highlands of the country. As he joined the main body of the march, Bannier glanced at the troops with a critical eye. They seemed exhausted, and many struggled along with wounds or battered gear. But there was a spring in their step, a rough and ready wit in their speech, that Bannier didn’t like. The Mhoriens were beaten, but they hadn’t been broken yet. He snorted in disgust – that was Tuorel’s problem, not his.
He settled into an easy canter and rode alongside the army as it snaked up into the green, rocky hills. Now and then he was hailed by a passing soldier or knight familiar with Madislav, but to each he waved and called out, “I cannot be talking now!” as he cantered past. In a mile, he came upon a knot of knights and lords, the banners of Mhoried flying proudly from the standard-bearers. It was late in the evening, and the vanguard was already stopped for the night.
He spied Gaelin sitting atop his horse beside a nobleman he recognized as Baesil Ceried, with a small number of guards watching over him. In fact, one of these watched him approach for a long moment before raising his visor for a better look, blinking in disbelief. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Mhor Gaelin! It’s Madislav!”
Gaelin turned at Boeric’s call, breaking off in midsentence.
“Madislav! Is that you? By Haelyn, how did you escape?
Where have you been?”
Bannier pasted a broad grin on his features and focused on Gaelin. The prince knew Madislav as well as anyone, and if he’d inherited any of his father’s talent for seeing through deceptions… the wizard would have to be careful to speak no lies. “Hah! Is good to see you, Gaelin! I could not believe you got away!”
Gaelin swung down from the saddle, and Bannier did likewise.
The prince hugged him, slapping his back. “How did you manage it, Madislav? I thought you’d been shot dead in the courtyard.”
Bannier showed an exaggerated wince. “I thought so too, but this body is harder to kill than most. I just was looking dead.”
Gaelin drew back, concern on his face. “I’m sorry, I should have been careful of your wounds. Do you need someone to look after them?”
“I have seen to them already. I will live.”
“So they took you for dead? Did you just get up and walk away when no one was looking?”
Bannier smiled broadly and clapped Gaelin on the shoulder.
“How were you getting away, Gaelin?”
The prince missed the reversal and quickly related the story of his escape with Erin, Boeric, and Niesa and their subsequent journey. “So, here we are,” he concluded. “I’ll be glad to have your counsel again, my friend.”
Bannier bowed. “Is yours as long as you need it,” he answered.
“Now, begging your pardon, where can I find something to eat?”
Gaelin smiled. “Same old Madislav,” he laughed. “Boeric, have one of your men show Madislav to the mess tent. I’m sure they can find something for him.” He turned back to Bannier and grinned. “Get yourself something to eat, a little sleep if you need it, and come by later. I’ll want to hear all about your escape.”
“You will be seeing me later,” Bannier promised. “We are having much to discuss, no?” He noticed Erin was staring at him, an odd look on her face. He looked away and rode off in search of the mess tent.
They climbed higher into the downs and hills of upper Winoene.
Unlike the lowlands of Mhoried, these regions were mostly wild; villages and farms were few and far between.
Often they found themselves flanked by rocky foothills whose sheer sides streamed water from patches of melting snow high on their barren crowns. It was a desolate and unforgiving land, but Gaelin loved the wild beauty and solitude.
Baesil led them into deep, trackless valleys hidden in the hills, places of heather and boulders where they encountered no one save a few shepherds with their flocks. Gaelin quickly understood why Baesil had run for the highlands – it was hard going for an army, and forage was even scarcer than it had been in the lowlands. They could outwait and outmaneuver any larger force that pursued them into the hills. In fact, Gaelin spotted a dozen or more good places to make stands or set ambushes for the armies that followed.
Erin was moved by the beautiful scenery, as well. One morning, when the frost was thick on the grass and the red light of dawn shone from the stark peaks that fenced them in, she asked, “How much of Mhoried is like this, Gaelin?”
“The highlands run a hundred miles or more, from the headwaters of the Stonebyrn to the springs of the Maesil,” he told her. “And from here it’s still fifty miles north to the Stonecrowns and Torien’s Watch. It’s the better part of a third of the kingdom, and most of it’s just like this.”
“It’s spectacular,” she murmured, drawing a deep breath.
“I’m glad I got a chance to see it, regardless of the circumstances.”
“I could stay up here forever,” Gaelin agreed. He stretched and worked his knuckles into the small of his back. “Well, we’ll see more of the scenery over the next day or two.” He gave her a tired smile and saddled Blackbrand for the day’s ride.
During a halt on the third day of the march, Gaelin and his usual riding companions – Erin, Huire, Madislav, and the Princess Seriene – climbed a short way from the track to eat a light meal of cheese and bread on a hillside. Gaelin’s back still hurt from the fall he’d taken during the raid, and he didn’t mind finding an excuse to rest between marches. Erin softly strummed her lute as they ate. After a quarter-hour or so, Seriene reached over and touched Gaelin’s arm. “It seems that your lunch is about to be interrupted. There’s a messenger heading this way.”
Gaelin groaned and stood up. “It never stops.” The rider, a young northland lad with a mud-splattered tunic, slid off his horse a few yards away and presented a wax-sealed parchment to Gaelin with a bow. Gaelin thanked him and moved away, examining the seal. “It’s from the Count Rieve of Torien’s Watch,” he announced. He opened it, read the letter, and reread it to make sure he understood.