After the introductions, Vandiel took a moment to greet his daughter and then gestured toward his pavilion. “I understand that time is pressing,” he said. “Let’s step inside and discuss our strategy for tomorrow.”
They followed him into the spacious tent and gathered around a sturdy table. Over a goblet of wine, Gaelin briefed Vandiel on the course of the war to date, beginning with the Ghoeran invasion and the treachery of Bannier, the disaster of Cwlldon Field, and the destruction of the army at Marnevale by Bannier’s black sorcery.
“Do you have any plans for dealing with this necromancer, if he should employ his sorcery against you tomorrow?”
Vandiel asked. “From what you’ve told me, we don’t have a chance if he takes the field against us.”
“A few days ago we struck at the source of his power,” Gaelin told him. “Seriene was indispensable. Without her courage and her skill, Bannier would still hold my sister prisoner, and he would have the full command of his powers to use against us. But as far as we know, we either killed or wounded him so badly that we don’t expect him to be able to oppose us tomorrow. We only have to worry about the Ghoerans – and that’s enough, as far as I’m concerned.”
Vandiel nodded. “That’s one piece of good news, anyway.
So what’s our plan of battle?”
“It occurs to me that Tuorel has the edge in a set-piece bat- tle,” Gaelin said. “Too many of our men are not trained or equipped for a fight on an open battlefield, so we have to give Tuorel a different kind of battle, a fight where he can’t use massed horsemen to smash us to pieces.”
“Unfortunately, Tuorel also has the advantage in one other regard,” Lord Ghaele added. “He can sit where he is and still win. The burden of action is on our side, which means we will have to go to him.”
“You are right, of course,” Gaelin said. “Here’s the plan I’ve come up with: First, we’ll divide into two forces, one to circle Lake Winoene to the north and thus come upon Caer Winoene from the back side of the siege lines, and one to circle the lake to the south and threaten Tuorel’s camp. Since the terrain to the south is more open, we’ll show Tuorel our heaviest forces there – the Dieman army, the Haelynites, and the Mhorien lords. To the north, we’ll use our militias. Since they’ll be fighting in and among the siege lines, we might as well use the men who aren’t used to fighting as part of an army on an open field.”
The room fell silent as the commanders and officers weighed Gaelin’s plan. Vandiel spoke first, frowning. “If Tuorel keeps his army together, he’ll outnumber either of your two forces.”
“You’re right,” Gaelin conceded, “but here’s Tuorel’s problem:
He has to defend two places. You see, the northern force can break his siege lines and relieve the army in Caer Winoene, while the southern force threatens his camp. If he tries to smash just the one or the other, he will either lose the siege lines or he’ll lose his camp.”
Vandiel leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “Ah. I see. You’re right, Gaelin.”
“Well, he’ll have two choices,” Seriene observed. “He can split his army to meet each threat, or he can ignore one to face the other. From what I know of the baron, I don’t think he’ll just wait where he is.”
“If he splits his army, I’ll be happy. We’ll outnumber him on both sides, and I think we can win a hard fight,” Gaelin replied.
“But I don’t think he’ll divide his forces. It’s a better move for him to pick one or the other and destroy it outright. I don’t think he’ll attack the northern army, because the terrain won’t favor his cavalry. He’ll probably try to isolate and destroy the southern army in the open terrain south of his camp.”
Vandiel grimaced. “It could be a long day for my army, Gaelin. If Tuorel abandons the siege lines in order to throw everything he has at me, what will you do?”
“First, you’ll give ground in order to draw him out, and to preserve your own army as a fighting force,” Gaelin said, thinking. “Then, I’ll advance past Caer Winoene to attack his camp. I’ll also see if I can sortie the Caer Winoene army. We should have close to three thousand men behind those lines.
If Tuorel doesn’t keep them engaged with his army, I’ll turn them to the attack as soon as I can.”
“What if Tuorel surprises you by attacking the northern army?” asked Erin.
“Then we’ll do the same thing from the south,” Vandiel answered.
“We’ll burn his camp and go on to break the siege lines, while Gaelin backs away. We can bait Tuorel like a badger caught in a trap.” He looked at Gaelin with newfound respect.
“I can see why Tuorel’s so desperate to finish you off, Mhor Gaelin. You’re a formidable enemy.”
“It seemed like the best plan,” Gaelin said, shrugging.
Weeks of working with Baesil Ceried had given him a knowledge of military strategy. Or was there something else at work, another hidden legacy of the Mhoried blood? He deferred his curiosity to another time – a good plan was one thing, but there was still a battle to be fought. “We’ll see whether or not it works. I haven’t beaten Tuorel yet. He’ll think of something that we haven’t, and we’ll have to adjust to it quickly.”
“There’s no way to anticipate inspiration,” Vandiel said.
“We’ll respond when we see how the battle lies. Where will you be?”
“I’ll lead the northern force. They’re the troops that are most likely to break and run against hard opposition, and they’ll be encouraged more than the trained soldiers by my presence. If we can’t bring them to grips with the enemy, the battle’s lost.” He looked around the room at the various officers.
“Prince Vandiel will command the southern army. But I’ll ask you to share your command with the high prefect, since her officers will be the liaison between your forces and the rest of the army.”
“Very well,” Vandiel said. “Now, I suggest we let our offi- cers work out the signals and other details. We’ve a lot of planning to do.”
The discussions and debates lasted for hours, until well after midnight. Even when the last of the major problems had been worked out, there were still dozens of contingencies that could not be accounted for. When they finally returned to the Mhorien camp by the lake, dawn was only four or five hours away.
Despite the hour, Gaelin wasn’t tired. The skies were clear, and the new moon was a bright sliver of warm light in the sky. A shallow ground mist blanketed the hillsides and valleys in shining silver. The night was still, and those around him seemed to sense his desire for reflection. The white falcon embroidered on his surcoat gleamed in the moonlight, and he found himself thinking of his father, and his fathers before him, all the men and women who had worn the falcon in the long years of Mhoried’s proud history.
When they returned to the camp, Gaelin let a groom lead Blackbrand away and wandered to a hillside overlooking the lake, in the shadow of the old monastery. Light sparkled on the lake’s placid waters, a shining trail of silver that dappled the dark bluffs and hills with beautiful reflections. It struck him as disrespectful to make a battlefield of such breathtaking beauty.
After a time, he heard Erin’s light footfalls. She sat down on the cold grass beside him, admiring the view. They looked out over the landscape together in a companionable silence for some time before she spoke. “You should try to get some sleep,” she said quietly.
He smiled. “It won’t happen tonight. I’m not anxious, or frightened – well, a little frightened, perhaps. I feel as if this may be my last night, so why spend it sleeping?” He looked at Erin. Her hair seemed to gleam with its own fire in the moonlight, and her face was silver and perfect. Her Sidhelien blood was very noticeable, in the cast of her eyes, the delicacy and strength of her features, and the almost tangible aura of otherworldliness that seemed to dance around her. He found his heart racing, as he moved closer and took her hand. “Erin, if we triumph tomorrow, I want you to be my wife.”