“Baesil!” Gaelin leaned over to embrace the old count, thumping his gauntleted fist on the other man’s back.
“Thanks for the help. I don’t know if we could have finished them without your sortie.”
“It’s not over yet. There’s one hell of a fight about a mile south of here. The better part of Ghoere’s army is down that way, engaging the Diemans and the Haelynites. Good timing for your allies, too, by the way.”
Gaelin looked off toward the south, but the castle and its attendant fortifications prevented him from catching even a glimpse of Vandiel’s fray. “Baesil, the Diemans are just trying to hold on until they get some help. How many men can you sortie toward the Ghoeran camp, and how soon?”
“I can throw fifteen hundred cavalry at him right now, followed by a thousand mixed troops. That’ll only leave me five hundred to hold the castle, if things go poorly.”
“If things go poorly, it won’t matter how long we hold Caer Winoene. Get them ready, and bring every man you can spare.” Gaelin looked around at the streaming mass of his militiamen and shook his head. “It’ll be a miracle if I can get these lads back into fighting order before sundown. Ulmaeric, pass the word. Tell your officers to lead the militiamen to the south side of the castle and assemble them on the open field. I want them ready to march on the Ghoeran camp in half an hour.”
Ulmaeric’s jaw dropped. “Half an hour? It can’t be done.”
“We’ll do it anyway,” Gaelin declared. “Now pass the orders, and follow me.” With Boeric holding his standard high, Gaelin spurred Blackbrand in a rapid canter, circling the castle’s defenses. “Men of Mhoried! Follow me!”
Although they were little more than a mob, the Mhorien levy slowly began to surge after Gaelin, following in his wake. A number pursued the broken remnants of the Ghoerans, but everywhere Gaelin passed, the Mhoriens raised a cheer and ran after him, by twos and threes and dozens. On the southern side of Caer Winoene, Gaelin led them out over the Ghoeran dike and halted, giving his officers a chance to rally the shouting mob. Ahead of him, a half-mile across the trampled nomads land before the castle, he could see the tents, palisades, and siege engines of the Ghoeran camp. And beyond the camp, he could see the flash of steel in the distance, and he felt the thunderous shock of the armies clashing. Impatiently, he danced Blackbrand across the line, shouting orders and encouragement to the militiamen, directing them to one standard or the other to rebuild their organization.
“What next, Gaelin?” asked Erin, riding close. Her eyes burned with a fierce flame, and her long rapier was red with blood.
“We’ll let the spearmen pillage the camp, while I’ll lead the archers past the camp to come on Tuorel’s army from the rear.
We’ve got to draw some of the pressure away from the Diemans.”
He struck his fist against his armored thigh. “Damn! We need more time!”
“The militiamen are recovering as fast as they can. You’re almost ready to advance again.”
“Haelyn help us if Tuorel’s had time to break the Diemans,” Gaelin said. He pulled his gaze away from the battle and met her eyes. A chill of apprehension seized his heart – there was so much that could still go wrong. He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Erin, I beg you: Stay here, in the castle.
The battle ahead of us is going to make the last fight look like a friendly tavern scrap. I want to know you’re safe.”
To his surprise, she nodded soberly. “All right. I don’t want to distract you. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I’ll try,” he said, hoping that his visored helm would conceal the lie. Somehow, he doubted Tuorel would allow him the luxury of caution.
Chapter Twenty
Tuorel brought his Iron Guard to the edge of his camp, and peered toward Caer Winoene. Amazingly, his scouts reported that Gaelin’s rabble of yeomen and farmers had stormed the lines and broken the forces he’d left behind to maintain the siege. Now the Mhor was reassembling his army to continue the advance, into the Ghoeran camp and on to the southern battle beyond.
Beside him, War Chieftain Kraith sat on his black-armored hellsteed, a massive battle-axe slung over one shoulder. The goblin watched the Mhoriens rallying, and leaned over to spit into the mud. “We should take them while they’re mustering,” he growled. “They’re not ready to fight anyone yet.”
“We’ll wait,” Tuorel grunted. “If we show ourselves too soon, they’ll retreat back to the cover of the castle defenses, and you don’t want to chase that many archers into the siege lines.” He nodded behind him at the titanic struggle that still continued on the dusty plain south of the camp. “Gaelin knows his allies are overmatched, and he’ll be desperate to bring his army into that fray. He’ll come to us.”
Kraith waited impatiently. “Well, they’ll be in for the Gorgon’s own surprise when they attack your camp, Tuorel. I’ve got four thousand fighters hidden back here.” He smiled grimly. “Although it’s awful tempting not to sack your camp ourselves, as long as we’re here.”
Tuorel smiled cheerlessly. “I don’t think your master would like that.”
The goblin warlord narrowed his eyes. He settled for a mean-spirited gibe in reply: “He’s your master, too, Anuirean.
Why else would my warriors be at your command?
And how would your loyal soldiers feel if they knew the name of the power you serve, heh?”
“I suspect I stand high in his favor, Kraith.”
“Aye, but we’ve served Raesene for five centuries. When your kingdom’s blown away in the wind, we’ll still be his servants.”
The goblin straightened in his saddle, and pointed at the distant band of Mhoriens. “They’re moving.”
“That was quick,” Tuorel said, surprised. “It can’t be a levy.
Could Gaelin have disguised regular troops?”
“Why would he do that?”
Tuorel chose not to answer, although his mind was working furiously to unravel the puzzle. Gaelin’s head for strategy was extraordinary. Tuorel had heard of blooded scions who manifested uncanny gifts of strategy and battle-wits. The Mhoried line was descended from Anduiras, the ancient god of war.
“Where did he learn his skill at command?” Tuorel wondered aloud. “Gaelin’s proved to be a much more able leader than I ever thought he would be.”
Kraith smiled. “We have a saying in Markazor, Tuorel. ‘It takes fire to make steel.’ You’ve taught him everything you know about warfare, and he’s survived and learned. Why are you surprised he’s learned your lessons so well?”
Tuorel snorted. “Spare me your goblin platitudes, Kraith.”
He turned to one of the knight commanders nearby and asked, “How does the southern engagement go?”
“At last report, the issue is still in doubt, my lord. Captain Avaera feels that she can wear down the Diemans, given time.”
“Baehemon would have routed them by now,” Tuorel snapped. “Very well. Kraith, we must prevent Gaelin from reinforcing Vandiel’s army. Between your warriors and my own Iron Guard, I believe we have sufficient force to slaughter Gaelin’s sortie, and we’ll attack when we know they can’t retreat back to the castle.”
“Fine,” Kraith replied. “Just let me know when you want to unleash my fighters.”
“One more thing. You will instruct your commanders to leave the Mhorien standard alone. Above all, you must not engage Gaelin’s escort, not unless he tries to flee the field. I and my Iron Guard will attack the Mhor’s standard.”
“That may be difficult for my warriors,” Kraith grated.
“I don’t care.” Tuorel drew his sword from its sheath, and laid the gleaming blade across his saddle. “Gaelin Mhoried must fall by my hand and no other.”