When it was over, he glanced up at Bannier with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Baehemon could never stand to serve me, after hearing that,” he said. “For years he was content to follow without question, but he would have done everything in his power to bring me down, instead of serving the Gorgon.”
Bannier turned to look at Baehemon’s body. Bright red blood stained the general’s gorget and surcoat. “Well, he’ll never speak of it,” the wizard said, returning his attention to the baron.
“Nor will you,” Tuorel replied. He stood and with both hands drove Calruile, his fathers’ sword, through Bannier’s chest. The force of the blow actually lifted the sorcerer from his feet and slammed him to the ground. “That’s for making me kill Baehemon,” Tuorel hissed. “I’ll have to think of a way to explain Kraith’s involvement, but you won’t blackmail me with tales of your dark master. Betrayal’s a dangerous path, Bannier. Here’s what lies at the end of it.”
Bannier coughed once, his hand pushing at the sword that pierced his breastbone. Almost an arm’s length of steel protruded from his back. Darkness was coming for him, dimming his sight, and the light was whirling away from him. He reached out with one bloody hand and gripped Tuorel’s shoulder, a horrible smile on his face. “Bastard,” he coughed.
“Hear my words: You’ll never see the Iron Throne.” Then the light faded, and he slipped off the cold steel as he fell to the ground.
Noered Tuorel studied the scene in silence for a moment.
Outside, the guard called to see if he was well. His face twisting in barely controlled rage, the baron called the guards in.
When they burst through the door and took in the scene, the soldiers halted in astonishment. “Are you hurt, baron?” asked one.
“No, I am uninjured,” Tuorel replied. “But the traitor attacked and killed Lord Baehemon before I managed to cut him down. Treat Lord Baehemon with the appropriate honors and respect.”
“And the wizard?”
“Quarter his body and throw it in with the rest of the offal,” Tuorel said. “Then leave me be.”
The weather was fine, cool, and clear as Gaelin rode into the Mhorien camp, beside the placid waters of Lake Winoene.
Nearly two thousand men followed him. The armored soldiers of the Temple of Haelyn had been joined by hundreds of villagers and freesteaders answering the call to arms. It had been a hard march, but they’d made it with half a day to spare. A lthough the men were tired, Gaelin set them to fortifying the camp immediately – he didn’t want his army smashed by a Ghoeran attack before they’d organized themselves.
On the bright side, their position was defensible. The southern end of Lake Winoene was boxed in tightly by the surrounding hills, unlike the open terrain by the castle of Caer Winoene, and strategically placed earthworks would suffice to guard the Mhorien muster. A long time ago, there had been a small village on this site and an old monastery high on a hill overlooking the lake. From the ruins of the monastery, Gaelin could make out the distant walls and towers of Caer Winoene, about seven miles away. Threads of dark, ominous smoke rose from the site of the siege. Gaelin found it unsettling to think the Ghoeran army lurked only a day’s march distant.
Agreat number of Mhoriens had answered Gaelin’s call in just five days. The ancient Count Torien had brought threequarters of his fighting strength, five hundred cavalrymen and a levy of nine hundred archers, leaving only a handful of men to hold the precarious northern borders of Mhoried.
Lord Ghaele, the husband of the Countess Marloer, led two hundred heavy knights and four hundred pikemen. A dozen more highland lords totaled about three hundred knights and retainers. However, the most impressive turnout came from the common folk of Winoene, Byrnnor, and Dhalsiel. Clan by clan, village by village, they came in bands of twenty or thirty, until more than two thousand were waiting for Gaelin to arrive. Many of these men were untrained and poorly equipped, but almost all carried the powerful Mhorien longbow, and knew how to use it.
Trying to make sense of the milling crowds of men and keep peace among those who weren’t friendly with each other consumed most of Gaelin’s afternoon. Since the Haelynites were the most organized unit on the field, he had Iviena’s officers divided among the detachments of the Mhorien lords and the horde of militiamen. The temple knights could use their common sets of orders and chain of command to control the various bands and militias they were attached to, although the Mhorien leaders kept command of their own units. Some of the minor lords and the villagers complained, but Gaelin realized it was the best he was going to come up with in the half-day he had to assemble the army.
Controlling the army was one thing; dividing his forces proved much more difficult. Even with the help of Iviena’s knights, Gaelin was reduced to riding about, ordering each group of men to go stand on a different part of the field. Eventually, he hammered together something resembling military units from the freemen and managed to assign them to different commanders. It was a chaotic, frustrating afternoon;
Gaelin was besieged with questions, demands, and helpful suggestions one after the other, the whole time shouting at the top of his lungs to make himself heard.
By the end of the day, Gaelin guessed that he had about three thousand trained, armored troops for the heart of his army, plus the same number of militiamen without companies or organization. Along with the Diemans, that would give him an edge over the Ghoerans. If he could coordinate a sortie from the defenders of Caer Winoene, he could create a significant advantage in numbers. But the Ghoeran army was generally better-equipped than the forces Gaelin had at his disposal, and, more importantly, they were one army to his motley assortment of highlanders, temple soldiers, and castle defenders.
Late in the day, the commander of scouts – an old Knight Guardian who led a tough band of highland freesteaders and huntsmen – reported they’d been able to signal Caer Winoene from a hilltop overlooking the castle. As Gaelin feared, Baesil’s army had been pushed off the lakeshore and cut off from their main source of water and the hope of resupply. The scouts reported that Count Baesil had managed to stretch his water and food for a couple of days by catching rainwater in makeshift cisterns and going to short rations, but the Mhoriens couldn’t hold out much longer.
Gaelin was much heartened by the arrival of a Dieman envoy around sunset. He reported the Dieman army was camped only a couple of miles away, tired but ready to fight after their march up along the Stonebyrn. Gaelin returned to the monastery and gathered Seriene, Erin, Count Torien, Lord Ghaele, and Prefect Iviena to visit Prince Vandiel.
“I never knew that assembling an army could be such a tedious task,” he grumbled as they left, riding through the cool evening shadows. “We could be weeks getting ready.”
“Regrettably, that’s not an option for us,” observed Lord Ghaele. “If we don’t relieve Ceried soon, he’s finished.”
The Diemans were camped in a vale about three miles from the Mhorien camp. As they approached, Gaelin envied the clean order and discipline of their camp. Escorted by Dieman guards, they were led to Prince Vandiel’s pavilion. Gaelin was greeted by the lord of Diemed as he dismounted. With a slight shiver, he realized that the dream he’d had the other night had been uncannily accurate; Vandiel looked exactly as he expected him to. Dressed in a comfortable tunic of black and silver, Vandiel sketched a bow and said, “Welcome to my camp, Mhor Gaelin. It’s good to finally meet you – Seriene speaks quite highly of you.”
Returning his bow, Gaelin said, “Prince Vandiel, I am honored to be here. Thank you for coming to our aid. I am sorry that we had to meet under these circumstances.” He nodded to Erin, and the bard made all the introductions of the Mhorien party; then Vandiel’s own herald introduced the Dieman officers who accompanied the prince.