“Soldiers of Mhoried! We’re about three miles from the Ghoeran lines. Tuorel does not want to face you – he’s gone south to meet the Diemans and the Haelynites instead!” That evoked a few chuckles from the waiting militiamen. “We’ll march about two miles more. When we reach the open lands around Caer Winoene, we’ll break out of the column, form a line, and advance. Stay with your companies, and listen to the Knights Templar! They’re my means for communicating with you. Our first priority will be to take the siege lines and free Count Ceried’s men. Once we’ve chased the Ghoerans away from the castle, we’re going to press forward and attack the Ghoeran camp, with Ceried’s men to back us up. It’s going to be a long day, but by the grace of Lord Haelyn, we’ll send Tuorel back to Ghoere with his tail between his legs!”
The men surged to their feet, cheering. When they quieted again, Gaelin finished. “I’d hoped to rest here for an hour, but we can’t give the Ghoerans too much time to hammer the Diemans. We have to press ahead to get to the fight in time.
Good luck to you all!” With that, he waved once and jumped down to Blackbrand’s saddle, cantering back to the vanguard.
The cheers of the freemen rang from the hillside out over the lake, a roar of defiance that could be heard for miles.
Gaelin hoped Tuorel could hear it, wherever he was. As he came to the command company again, the standard-bearer raised his banner and signaled the march. The army surged forward again, following Gaelin to war.
Baron Noered Tuorel sat astride his charger, dressed for battle. His Iron Guard held the center of the Ghoeran line, arrayed in rank upon rank of bright steel, like the fangs of a great armored dragon gaping wide in anticipation. Calruile rested in its sheath by his pommel, and he caressed the hilt absently. If he could bring Gaelin to personal combat, a thrust through the heart would wrest the power of the Mhoried blood away from the boy, settling the Mhorien rebellion once and for all. From there, an ambitious man didn’t have to stretch his imagination to see the Iron Throne of Anuire itself.
Tuorel grinned in anticipation; one way or the other, the affair would be settled today.
He turned to the captain of his guard, Lady Avaera. She was beautiful and deadly, like a well-made sword, and Tuorel admired her in the way he might admire a predatory cat. “Any reports on where Gaelin of Mhoried rides today?” he asked. “I must know, before I engage these fools in front of us.”
Avaera glanced at him, and slipped her steel dragonbeaked helm over her face. “I’ll check with the master of scouts immediately, my lord.” She cantered away, leaving Tuorel to consider the army that opposed his own. The Diemans he knew well, having skirmished against them several times in the past decade in the frontier lands of Roesone and Endier. They were good troops, on a man-for-man basis probably the equal of his own army. The Haelynite troops he’d never fought before, and there was a scattering of minor Mhorien lords mixed in. All the troops on the enemy line seemed to be professional soldiers; he guessed the Mhorien levies he’d heard about were circling the lake to attack his siege lines from the north.
Even without the men he’d left behind in the trenches, his army outnumbered the Dieman and Haelynite force three men to two. The question in his mind was not whether he would win, but how many of the enemy soldiers his cavalry could ride down in the pursuit. Tuorel meant to smash his enemies so badly that no one in Mhoried would ever dare take arms against him again.
He spied Avaera returning, cantering in front of the Ghoeran lines. She rode up to his banner and saluted. “My lord, the master of scouts reports that the Mhor’s banner has been sighted north of the castle. Apparently, the Mhorien levies are preparing to assault our lines while we’re busy down here.”
Tuorel nodded. “It’s a good plan on their part, but the Mhor’s showing a naive confidence in his conscripts. I’ve never seen a levy that could fight worth a damn, let alone storm a defended earthwork.” He looked around at the battle; the Diemans were holding their ground, about eight hundred yards away, apparently hesitant to attack an army that outnumbered their own. No matter; Tuorel would make that decision for them, in just a moment. He rubbed his jaw and scowled. “What of our so-called allies?”
“The goblins are ready, my lord, but they’re not happy with their position. They want to join the fight.”
“Kraith can keep them under control. All right, then, here are my orders: Avaera, take command of this force, and attack the Diemans with everything you’ve got, save the Iron Guard. You outnumber them, so bring the fight to Prince Vandiel. Capture the prince, if you can, but if he perishes in battle, I’ll not mind.”
Avaera swallowed. “Yes, my lord. Where will you be?”
“I’m taking the Iron Guard and going to the northern lines to confront Gaelin. I want the pleasure of killing him myself,”
Tuorel snarled. He was not happy about leaving the southern battle, which he regarded as the more important of the two engagements, in Avaera’s hands; her experience was in skirmishing and raids, not open field battles. But with Baehemon dead, he had no one else he could trust to do as he ordered.
As he had each day for the past week, he regretted killing the seasoned general.
“What shall I do about the Markazorans?”
“Don’t worry about that; I’ll handle Kraith. If you think you need him, send word to me first, and I’ll see what I can do.” He looked at her face, obscured by her sinister helmet device. “You’d better get to work; it looks like Vandiel’s getting ready to charge.” Tuorel pointed at the Dieman line, closing at a rapid trot. “Remember, take him alive if you can. And don’t disappoint me.”
Avaera saluted, and Tuorel rode off again with a curt gesture at the standard-bearer. The Iron Guards peeled off from the Ghoeran line, and followed him as he galloped north to confront Gaelin Mhoried’s attack. He didn’t even bother to spare a glance over his shoulder to see how she handled the massive shock of the first Dieman and Haelynite charge.
“ They’re waiting behind the ramparts,” said Boeric, squinting at the Ghoeran earthworks. The sturdy sergeant was serving as Gaelin’s standard-bearer; although his leg still pained him, he refused to sit out the battle.
Gaelin frowned, studying the maze of earthworks that confronted his column. “Well, I didn’t expect Tuorel would just line up his troops for us to shoot down with a few volleys of arrows.”
Lord Anduine, the commander of the Knights Guardian, trotted close to Gaelin. “This could be a damned hard fight, my lord Mhor. Our lads have courage, but I’m not sure if I would ask the best-seasoned troops you could find to attack the siege lines without cover or heavy engines of some kind.”
“We don’t have the luxury of preparing a deliberate attack,” Gaelin replied. “It’s right now, or not at all.”
“I hope you have some kind of plan?”
Gaelin took off his helm for a better view and rode a few steps ahead. His army was lined up four hundred yards shy of the Ghoeran defenses, just outside crossbow range. He could see the Ghoeran soldiers standing on top of their wall, jeering and hooting as they tried to taunt the Mhoriens into a rash attack. The dark walls of Caer Winoene were visible just beyond.
What are our advantages? Gaelin asked himself. We’ve got nearly two thousand archers right here; we’ve got a thousand spearmen; we must outnumber the fellows in those ramparts by a long margin, if Tuorel is facing the Diemans. Now he just had to figure out how to cross the open ground and storm the ramparts without getting his men slaughtered. Gaelin realized he should have thought more about this part of the plan – in retrospect, he should have known it would come down to this.