Gaelin had no answer. He lifted Seriene to her feet and held her, cradling her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You deserve better than this.”
Her cheek was wet with tears against his neck. He closed his eyes and held her as darkness fell around them, stroking her hair. His heart ached for her, but he couldn’t restrain the sense of freedom, of elation, that flooded him. “I wounded Erin when I told her that we had to stop seeing each other,” he said after a while. “How do I set things right?”
Seriene snorted in the darkness. “I’ll step aside, Gaelin, but don’t ask me to plan the wedding. You’ll have to address that issue for yourself.”
He smiled. “We should get back down to the camp before everyone wonders what we’ve been up to. I have to think about how we’re going to meet up with your father’s army.”
Seriene reached up and shyly kissed his cheek, moving away f rom him. Side by side, they walked back down to the camp as the soft night breeze dampened their hair with cool dew.
Riding a coal-black hellsteed, Bannier galloped into the Ghoeran camp with sparks flying from his mount’s iron-shod hooves. His long black cloak billowed behind him like a dark storm. He loathed the idea of acting as a simple courier for the Gorgon’s purposes, but anything that would restore him to the awnshegh’s good graces was worthwhile and necessary. He could not afford the smallest display of disobedience, and if that meant abasing himself in front of Tuorel, he would do so.
The Ghoeran camp seemed almost empty; few soldiers were in sight, and the ones he encountered were porters and quartermasters, busily ferrying food, water, weapons, and other supplies to the lines in front of Caer Winoene. He also met the litter carriers who dragged the dead and wounded back to the camp from the fight. Despite the grim nature of their work, the Ghoerans seemed cheerful and excited. Bannier deduced that the siege was going well.
Slowing to an easy canter, he passed through the camp and into the maze of ditches and emplacements that ringed the Mhorien lines. From here he could see the battered walls of Caer Winoene rising a half-mile away, and the wreckage of line after line of earthworks between the camp and the castle. Off on the left flank, near the shore of the lake, he spied the banners that marked Tuorel’s headquarters. Swallowing his distaste, he turned toward the pavilion and galloped over to it.
As he approached the tent, the soldiers of the Iron Guard watched him with mixed hostility and suspicion. Bannier dismounted slowly, holding his hands in the air. “Tell Tuorel I have returned and beg an audience with him,” he said to the guards. They surrounded him with bared swords, but the captain disappeared into the tent, presumably to request instructions.
After a quarter-hour, he returned and ordered the soldiers to escort Bannier inside. Although he couldn’t keep the scowl of anger from his face, Bannier accepted with docility.
The soldiers took him through the busy command center to the privacy of a small, empty partition beyond, leaving him there. Bannier resigned himself to a wait.
Nearly an hour later, the canvas flap was drawn aside by a guardsman, and Noered Tuorel entered, with Baehemon a step behind. The baron was dressed in full armor, and from the dust and mud Bannier guessed he’d been near the forefront of the fighting. The wizard bowed carefully. “My lord baron,” he said.
“Bannier. I see that you have returned again. How did you fare at Caer Duirga?” Tuorel handed his helmet to the guard by the door and removed his leather and iron gauntlets. “The guardsmen you requested have not returned with you. Can I assume your adventure was less than successful?”
The wizard’s eyes smoldered, but he kept his temper in check. “Gaelin defeated me,” he said. “He freed Ilwyn, and killed or scattered your guardsmen. I was not able to bring them back.”
Tuorel smiled, savoring Bannier’s discomfiture. “An unfortunate reversal for you, Bannier. However, Gaelin’s heroics will not help him much. His army is dying of thirst even as we speak; in another day, or maybe two, the castle will have to capitulate.” His smile faded and his eyes narrowed. “So, what is it you want of me?”
Baehemon moved around behind Bannier, lurking just at the edge of his peripheral vision, an anvil waiting for the hammer to fall. Ignoring the stocky warrior, Bannier focused on Tuorel. “I have news for you,” he said. Baehemon growled and muttered. “Call it a peace offering, if you will. I was not able to defeat Gaelin, but I may still help you to do so.”
Tuorel frowned. “I’m not inclined to accept your ‘gifts’ at this point, Bannier. It seems to me I can finish Gaelin Mhoried without any more of your help.”
“Even if I can place Warlord Kraith’s army at your command?”
“Kraith is at least ten days away, in Thak Mor Kadan. If you summoned him this instant, he’d be here too late to aid me in the fight ahead. Besides, I like the terms of my existing bargain with the goblin. If he helps me again, he’ll exact a price I may not want to meet, especially since it looks as if I’ll be able to crush the Diemans without giving up the siege.”
“Kraith must abide by your agreement, Baron. He can demand nothing from you.”
Baehemon rasped, “We neither need nor want him here, Bannier. Even if he could be here in time to help us.”
“That is regrettable, Lord Baehemon. Kraith and his warband should be here on the morrow.”
Tuorel’s face was hot with indignation. “You presumed to summon Kraith without asking me? Bannier, you idiot! If the goblins appear on the battlefield, Kraith can hold me at sword point with the threat of changing sides! Do you have any idea of what that might cost me?”
Baehemon’s fists clenched Bannier’s arm with bone-crushing force. The stocky general spun the wizard about and glared into his face. “I told you this one would bring trouble, Tuorel,” he grated.
Ignoring Baehemon, Bannier turned back to Tuorel. “Kraith will do whatever you bid him to. He has his orders.”
The baron’s eyes narrowed. “Orders? From whom?”
Bannier considered some kind of lie, but then it occurred to him that Tuorel would be shaken to the core by the revelation of the Gorgon’s involvement. Bannier was damned, anyway – why let Tuorel believe he was his own master? He grinned at the idea of the mighty warlord, the great reunifier of the empire, learning that he was nothing more than a pawn. Deliberately, he said, “Kraith marches at the Gorgon’s command, Tuorel. You are to do as Prince Raesene bids and cooperate with Kraith of Markazor.”
Absolute silence reigned in the tent for a long moment.
Tuorel’s face was pale, and he blinked twice. Behind him, Baehemon gasped as if he’d been punched. Delighting in their horror, Bannier continued, “Why do you think Kraith was so eager to ally with you earlier this year, Tuorel? Not because he has any love for you, but because his master – and yours, now – commands it. You have championed the Gorgon’s cause for years.”
Behind him, Baehemon drew in a long, hissing breath. If Tuorel was shaken by Bannier’s revelations, Baehemon was destroyed by them. The lord general might have been a faithful follower of Tuorel the warlord, but aiding Tuorel the Gorgon’s pawn was something else entirely. Baehemon took one small step back, distancing himself from the truth.
Tuorel’s eyes flickered past Bannier, and without warning he struck like a serpent, leaping forward to thrust his sword into Baehemon’s throat. The blade passed only an inch or two from Bannier’s face, and the wizard flinched as hot blood splattered the back of his neck. He gagged in revulsion and twisted away, while Tuorel followed Baehemon to the ground, clamping a hand over the general’s mouth to silence the choking sounds of his death.