Riding into the center of the town, Gaelin discovered that word of his arrival had preceded him. A hundred or more of the villagers were assembled on the commons by torchlight, the fires leaping and crackling beneath the stars, and as the battered group appeared, the Sirilmeeters raised a resounding cheer. “Mhor Gaelin! Mhor Gaelin! Mhor Gaelin!”
Even in his exhaustion, Gaelin was profoundly moved.
The crowd swirled around him, dozens of people pressing close to offer their hands. Blackbrand neighed nervously and pranced back as the crowd engulfed him. “What’s going on?”
Gaelin shouted to Bull.
“I guess Dhalsiel’s lack of loyalty didn’t sit well with them,” the big farmer replied. “I told you Sirilmeet would fight!”
Gaelin glanced over at Erin. Her face shone in the firelight, and tears glistened in her eyes. Seriene sat a little way beyond her, a puzzled look on her face. He realized that the princess had a hard time understanding the loyalty commoners could feel for their lords. He reached down to return the handshakes and greetings as best he could. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over again.
“We’re ready to march under the falcon banner, Mhor Gaelin!” Pushing his way through the crowd, Master Piere and his sons fought their way to Gaelin’s side. “Just tell us where and when!”
“Piere! It’s good to see you!” Gaelin leaned down and clasped the farmer’s hand in a stout grip. “I need you at Caer Winoene, in five days’ time. How many men can you bring?”
“Five hundred, or my name’s not Piere,” the farmer replied.
“Good,” Gaelin replied. He was starting to feel that there might be a chance. “Now, can – ”
“The count! The count is here!” From the edge of the commons, a confused cry arose as people turned to catch a glimpse of a long column of riders approaching the green.
Gaelin looked over the crowd surrounding him. He could make out the red and blue of Ghoeran cavalry, a patrol of sixty or more riding into the village. His heart sank; they were too tired to flee, and the Ghoerans were already upon them.
If he ordered the Sirilmeeters to attack, they would be slaughtered by the mounted troops in close combat.
Erin drew in her breath. “Gaelin, look!”
Cuille Dhalsiel and a handful of his retainers rode in the center of the Ghoeran column. The Mhorien lord was armed for battle in a light suit of half-plate, wearing the yellow and black of Dhalsiel over his arms. The Ghoeran captain beside him spotted Gaelin and began to bark out orders, but Cuille caught his arm and silenced him.
“What do we do, Mhor Gaelin?” Piere was grimacing, his hand on the rusty old short sword on his belt. “Do we attack?”
“Wait a moment,” Gaelin said quietly. He trotted ahead a couple of steps, and raised his voice. “Cuille! I want to talk!”
“Your fame’s growing by leaps and bounds, Gaelin,” Cuille replied, doffing his helmet and shaking out his mane of hair. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a look of bitterness and defeat. He laughed hollowly. “We heard you were coming here hours ago. Why Sirilmeet?”
“I knew there were loyal Mhoriens here,” Gaelin answered.
“I need them at Caer Winoene.”
The Ghoeran captain growled in agitation. “That’s the Mhor’s son, Dhalsiel! We must take him!”
Cuille gave the fellow a pained look. “You are my guest, sir, and not my lord. Wait a moment.” He looked back at Gaelin. “Tuorel’s placed quite a bounty on your head. If I brought you to him, I’d triple my lands and holdings.”
“Do you really want to betray me, Cuille? You let me leave your castle before.”
Cuille fell silent for a moment, studying Gaelin. Their eyes locked, and he flushed and looked away. “Princess Ilwyn! I am delighted to see you alive and well. I feared that you had come to harm in Bannier’s hands.”
Ilwyn somehow drew herself up, banishing the exhaustion with an unconscious will and throwing back her head. “Lord Cuille. I see you’ve reached an accommodation with Ghoere.”
The Mhorien turncoat gazed at Ilwyn, his face softening for a moment. “I did so for your safety. I’m sorry that Tuorel did not honor his bargain.”
“Then why do you remain in his camp?” Gaelin asked.
“What fealty do you owe him? It’s not too late to honor your allegiance to Mhoried, Cuille. To honor your allegiance to me.”
“Gaelin…” A glimpse of the Cuille Gaelin had once known appeared, though masked in dark cynicism. “I’m damned already. How could I undo what I’ve done? How could you ever trust me again?” He returned his gaze to Ilwyn and bowed in the saddle. “My lady, I am forever unworthy of you.”
The cavalry captain spat in disgust. “All right, Dhalsiel!
I’m not going to wait on you all night!”
Cuille glanced at the fellow in irritation. “I said I want to talk to him, and I will. Now be patient, good sir.” He tapped his horse’s flanks and walked forward.
Behind them, the Ghoeran cursed. “That’s it. Take them all!”
The cavalrymen spurred forward, slashing into the crowd of Sirilmeeters. In an instant, the scene was transformed into a mad, swirling melee of torchlight and flashing swords. Instead of fleeing, the villagers turned on the Ghoerans with the fero city of a wounded bear. Armed with pitchforks, clubs, and staves, they surged forward to meet the attack, dragging Ghoerans down from their mounts even as the cavalrymen slashed and hacked with abandon. Gaelin kicked Blackbrand forward, hauling his sword from its saddle sheath and making for the nearest attackers. His small retinue followed in his wake.
Across the square, Cuille drew his sword and lunged after the Ghoerans sweeping past him. “Stop! Stop, I beg you! This is unnecessary!” He raised his arm, trying to interpose himself between the cavalrymen and the villagers, but the Ghoeran behind him leaned forward and rammed his lance into the count’s back. Cuille gasped and spun out of the saddle, falling into the surging brawl of the square. A moment later, an archer on a nearby rooftop shot the captain through the throat. Gagging on blood, the Ghoeran officer fell forward and slid out of his saddle.
Gaelin met the first of the Ghoerans and engaged the fellow with a series of overhand cuts, but before he could strike a telling blow, the man was spitted on a pitchfork and dragged screaming from his saddle. As Gaelin looked for another man to engage, there was sudden brilliant light and a sharp crack! as Seriene unleashed a bolt of lightning that crashed through the main body of the Ghoeran column. In moments, the Ghoerans turned to flight, their front ranks drowned in a sea of angry villagers and their rear ranks raked by archers and magic. Gaelin watched in exhaustion as the Sirilmeeters streamed after the retreating enemy, brandishing torches and screaming in rage.
Behind them, dozens of dead and wounded, both Mhorien and Ghoeran, littered the town commons. Gaelin spotted Cuille Dhalsiel lying beside the dead captain. He slid down from Blackbrand’s back and ran forward, dropping to his knees beside the dying Mhorien. “Cuille! Are you – ”
Cuille looked up at him, his face pale and drawn. “Should have known a Ghoeran was going to stab me in the back, sooner or later,” he said. He gazed up past Gaelin. “I’m sorry… didn’t know it would be like this.”
“It’s not my place to forgive you, Cuille. Make your own peace with what you’ve done.”
“I told you, Gaelin… I’m damned as a traitor.”