"The Falcon and The Wolf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baker Richard)

Chapter Four

Gaelin awoke late in the day to the sounds of horses stamping and prancing on the foredeck. He sat up too quickly and was rewarded with a burning pain in the center of his stomach that doubled him over. Cursing weakly, he dragged himself out of the bunk and began to dress. By the slanting shadows outside the porthole, he guessed it was late afternoon.

Although each careless movement drove a jagged knife through the muscles of his belly, he forced himself to don his mail shirt, lacing the leather ties tightly to press against his injured stomach. It was stiff and awkward, but he hoped it would provide some support while riding. When he finished, he took a moment to smooth the pain out of his face before striding onto the deck to see what was going on.

Madislav, Ruide, and a pair of Viensen’s sailors were carefully leading the horses down a makeshift ramp to the shore.

The animals’ hooves scraped and thumped on the wooden deck, and some rolled their eyes suspiciously at the planks and the water beneath. It was a clear, cold day, with a raw wind from the north raising whitecaps on the river. Gaelin made a long, careful sweep of the water from one bend to the next, but he saw no other vessels beating their way against the bitter weather.

“Prince Gaelin! You’re looking much better,” Viensen called from the quarterdeck. His face was red from the wind.

“I’m feeling a little better, Master Viensen,” Gaelin replied.

He noted pitch and sawdust caked on the boatsman’s clothes.

“How does the boat look?”

The captain’s face fell a little. “The damage is not irreparable, but we’re going to have to haul her up on the bank and cut some lumber to patch the hull. At least this weather’ll help the pitch set quickly when we’re ready.”

Gaelin made his way forward, just as Ruide led the last of their horses, Daene’s steed, down the ramp. Madislav had the horses tethered to a stand of bare cottonwoods on the shore, and the party’s gear lay in a jumble of blankets, boxes, and bags off to one side. Gaelin picked up a pair of saddlebags, trying not to wince, and followed Ruide down the ramp.

“Gaelin! How are you feeling?” Madislav straightened from his work and came over to take the bags from Gaelin’s hand.

“I thought you were going to wake me an hour after sunrise.”

Madislav shrugged. “You were not saying which day.”

“We’ve lost a day of travel!”

“You would not have been able to ride earlier, and you are knowing it,” the Vos replied. He poked Gaelin in the stomach, and Gaelin grunted in pain. “You might not be able to ride now, but I guess I will let you try.”

Gaelin decided to change the subject. “Ruide, did you send my message to the Mhor?”

The valet’s head was swaddled in a heavy bandage, but he seemed much steadier on his feet than he had been the night before. He nodded in affirmation. “The Mhor may be reading your message even as we speak.”

“Assuming there are no Ghoeran falconers between us and home,” Gaelin muttered under his breath. Well, there was nothing to be done about that. Either the message would get through, or it wouldn’t. He turned back to look over the horses and the gear. “Captain Viensen could use some help getting his boat out of the water. Let’s see if our horses can make the job easier for him, and then we’ll try to ride a few miles before sunset.”

Rank upon rank, spearpoints glinting dully in the wan sunlight, the army of Ghoere stood assembled by the banks of the Maesil. If any of the soldiers wondered why they were mustered by the riverside, they restrained their curiosity; the companies and regiments stood silently, banners snapping and fluttering in the bitter wind.

Noered Tuorel, the Baron of Ghoere, cantered along the column on a great black courser. He was a man of average height, with lean hips and broad shoulders. His face was handsome if somewhat rugged, relatively unmarked by his forty years, but his eyes burned with a fierce yellow intensity, and his grin was feral and dangerous. Ghoere was sometimes called the Iron Barony, and Tuorel found that a fitting match for the Iron Throne of all Anuire. He meant to claim that seat for his own someday.

Lord Baehemon trailed him, a bulldog following a wolf, his stony face free of expression. Like his master, he was dressed for battle. He commanded the Iron Guards who surrounded Tuorel, a duty that had been considered ceremonial until Baehemon applied himself to the task of forging Tuorel’s bodyguards into the fiercest fighters in Anuire.

At Tuorel’s side another powerful, armored figure paced him on a red-eyed goblin hellsteed. The last rider stood half a hand taller than Tuorel, but he was every bit as stocky as Baehemon, with short, curved legs, long arms, and wide, spade-shaped hands. His face was flat, and his mouth was too wide to be human, and his skin was a deep olive-green. His eyes blazed with impatience as Tuorel rode forward from the siege and baggage trains that brought up the army’s rear. “Impressive,” the goblin growled. “Your pretty boys look good on parade.”

“They’re fighters, Warlord Kraith,” Tuorel replied with an even smile. He was proud of his men, and he took pains to let his soldiers know how much he valued their service. As he rode past, the soldiers raised a hearty cheer, dipping their banners and clashing spear on shield. They’d not been told much, but they sensed that war was near.

At the fore front of the army, Tuorel found the captains of his vanguard clustered around the shallow bluff that marked the Maesil’s banks. The great river was more than a mile wide at this point, and the brown hills and fields of the Mhorien bank stretched away to the east and west as far as Tuorel could see.

He reined in his war-horse and looked out over the river.

“I would like to know how you intend to cross that,”

Kraith remarked. “It’s going to take you a week to ferry this many men to the Mhorien shore.”

“The matter is in hand, Warlord Kraith.” Tuorel dismounted and pushed his way past the lower-ranking officers. Baehemon and Kraith followed him. On the very edge of the bluff, a large area had been cleared and decorated with intricate circles and runes of unknown meaning. A gaunt man in a plain brown cassock busied himself with a device of frost-covered metal in the center of the ring. Tuorel’s eyes narrowed; he had a knack for sensing sorcery, the legacy of his ancestral bloodline, and the air almost quivered with the power of the enchantment before him. He swallowed his distaste and called out, “Master wizard! How does your work go? I’ve every man of my army here and dressed for battle, as you instructed. Now how do we cross?” He nodded at the Maesil.

The river was too wide to bridge with pontoons or floats.

Tuorel’s conscripted laborers had been hard at work building barges, and his agents were confiscating every boat from Ghieste to Hope’s Demise, but the wizard had promised a crossing of his entire army in a mere hour.

The brown-clad sorcerer completed a portion of his enchantment and stepped back to admire his work, examining the pattern of ancient glyphs and runes circling the site. In the center, an iron tripod supported a strange white stone that smoked with cold. Tuorel’s eyes narrowed. What kind of sorcery was this? “You must be patient, Baron,” the wizard said, interrupting Tuorel’s suspicions. He sounded tired and old. “This is an enchantment of great power, and it is extremely taxing.”

“You’ve only been at it an hour,” Tuorel observed.

“On the contrary, I’ve been working at this spell for the better part of a month,” the wizard countered. “Didn’t you notice the unseasonable cold over the land this spring?”

Tuorel looked at him with new respect. “You mean that this weather was your doing?”

“Aye. You cannot comprehend the forces involved.”

“Bah! Wizards! I should never have agreed to this,” Kraith spat, pulling his iron gauntlets from his hands. With a snort of disgust, he thrust them through his belt and tucked his helmet under his arm. His hand rested on the hilt of his heavy, curved sword.

“Regardless of what you may think of our ally, you must agree that it’s a sound plan,” Tuorel offered.

Kraith fixed Tuorel with his fierce stare. “Don’t take me for stupid, Tuorel. I’ve read Anuirean books on warfare, and my father and grandfather passed everything they knew of battle to me before I had them killed. While you diddled around in Elinie, I spent the winter harrying Mhoried’s borders and bleeding the Mhor white.” He grinned savagely. “I know a good plan when I see one. I also know that if you don’t cross the Maesil, I’ll be cut to pieces by the Mhor’s concentrated troops. I want to see you on the other side with my own eyes before I commit to this war.”

Baehemon spoke, his voice menacing. “We’ll be there, goblin.”

Kraith laughed. “I’ll be at your throats in a year or two if you’re not.”

Tuorel turned to the mage. “Well?” he asked. “What wizardry are you working here?”

“You see this stone?” the wizard asked. He indicated the odd white rock supported in its stand. Tuorel noted that transparent runes were carved into the surface of the stone, winding and twisting around each other in a distinctly unsettling fashion. The iron tripod itself was white with frost.

“This is a shard of true ice, ice from the great northern wastes that lie past the Thaelasian Sea. It is the focus for the enchantment I am working. When I am finished, you’ll have a bridge of ice ten miles wide, or perhaps more if conditions are favorable. You’ll be able to march your army across in as long as it takes you to walk from here” – he gestured to the far bank – “to there.”

Tuorel chewed his tongue. “How long will the river be frozen?”

The sorcerer straightened and pushed the brown hood of his cassock back from his face, revealing his stubbled scalp, hollow features, and bright, feverish eyes. Bannier, court wizard of Mhoried, studied the air, tasting the wind, and then chuckled drily. “Well, that depends on the weather. Once the ice forms, it will melt at whatever pace nature decrees. But it will be four feet or more thick, and it will stand for days even if spring returns this afternoon. I’d predict three days at a minimum, and perhaps as long as a week.” Bannier spared one more glance at the sky, and then carefully inspected the true ice in the center of the ring. “It’s time,” he finally announced.

“Tell your officers to fall back at least fifty paces, or they may be frozen along with the river.”

The Ghoeran nobles and captains didn’t need Tuorel to tell them to move back once they saw the sorcerer was ready to complete his spell. Tuorel, Baehemon, and Kraith retired as well. Bannier didn’t bother to check on the Ghoerans; if any fool was standing too close, that was his own ill fortune. He began a sibilant chant, speaking unintelligible words in an even, measured pace as he circled the stone. The wizard’s words rolled about Tuorel and his officers, a perversion of the very air that carried through the wind with preternatural clarity. “Iagores nu thadazh khet aighur, iagores nu burzha’a tutholan,” he droned. Tuorel suppressed a shiver. Granted, he didn’t know much about magic, but he did know that most wizards used Sidhelien – Elvish – for their enchantments. He remembered enough of his schooling to know that those words were definitely not Elvish.

Tuorel shuddered again and was surprised to note that a fine film of ice had formed on the plates of his armor. As he watched, the rime whitened and spread like hoarfrost. The armor and clothes of the men around him were whitening as well. The chant continued, and now the cold seared Tuorel’s nose and throat, and his fingers and toes ached as if they were on fire. But great white patches of ice dotted the Maesil as far as he could see in either direction, and they were slowly growing together, until only a spiderweb of dark channels separated the floes. At the sight, Tuorel forgot the bone-numbing chill, and forgot the pervasive, insidious words that coiled and slithered in his ears – the wizard’s spell was working.

“Iagores nu thadazh khet aighur, iagores nu ra’aghk kaidur!”

The wizard’s voice was a resonant rumble, echoing in the frozen stillness of the ice-rimed field. One last time he repeated the chant, and then he stepped forward and shattered the stone of true ice with his iron-heeled staff. Asearing white light claimed Tuorel’s vision for twenty heartbeats, even as waves of cold intense enough to bring him to his knees washed over him. By the time his sight cleared, Tuorel found that most of the men within three or four hundred yards had been similarly affected. He spun around, trying to quickly gauge whether his army had suffered any lasting damage – but then the Maesil caught his eye.

From bank to bank, the river was an unbroken sheet of ice.

“He’s done it,” Tuorel breathed. Shaking off the fear and nausea, he surged forward to grab his standard-bearer and shake him like a rag. “Raise the march, boy! We cross now!”

The young herald brought the banner of Ghoere high over his head and swung it back and forth. Held by discipline stronger than their terror, the first ranks staggered forward, but in ten yards they’d found their stride and spirit. The master sergeant of the first company began to call a marching cadence in a rough voice, pitched high to carry. “Come on, you dogs!” he roared. “The way’s clear before us!”

Company by company, the rest of Tuorel’s army caught the mood and marched down to the river’s edge, stepping off onto the ice. There was a sudden flurry of activity as Tuorel’s officers and banner-leaders sorted themselves out and rejoined their units, leading them across. Tuorel left matters in their hands, called for his horse, and rode over to where Bannier stood, leaning heavily on his staff. The wizard was unharmed by the spell he had unleashed, and a grim smile of satisfaction was engraved on his face.

“See, Baron? Your men are crossing, and Mhoried will be caught unawares. Where do you strike first?”

“Riumache. We’ll need the harbor and the roads for our supply trains once the ice melts, and it guards our rear from any intervention.”

Tuorel grinned savagely. “If this ice goes all the way down there, the city’s as good as taken. Her walls are n ’ t made to keep foot soldiers from walking through her harbor. ”

The wizard looked away, examining his work. “That’s for you to decide. The campaign’s yours to win or lose.”

Tuorel rode a couple of steps closer. “I remind you that your part of the bargain is only half complete. You promised to deliver Shieldhaven to my hands, wizard.”

“Are your guardsmen assembled, as I instructed?”

Tuorel grunted. “Aye, five hundred of my best soldiers. They’ll be missed in the campaign ahead. How will they take Shieldhaven, staying behind in Bhalaene?”

“I’ll bring them to Shieldhaven when it’s time.” The wizard Bannier sighed and watched the army crossing the ice. “I must return now, to make sure the Mhor doesn’t escape my net. He’ll want to be on the march within a day. Have your troops ready at midnight tomorrow. I’ll be back for them.”

Tuorel stifled his questions. Bannier had committed himself to Ghoere’s cause. Even if the wizard led his five hundred straight into the Gorgon’s Crown, Tuorel’s lightning invasion would be sufficient to overwhelm Mhoried’s defenses – especially if Kraith’s armies struck where and when the goblin chieftain promised.

The wizard began to gather his baubles and instruments, stuffing them into an old rucksack. Tuorel turned his warhorse to join the army’s advance, but Kraith moved his hellsteed in front of Tuorel, blocking his path. “Wait,” said Kraith.

“Tell me of the bargain again.”

Tuorel frowned, and shot a glance at Bannier. The wizard met his eyes and returned to his work. “Very well,” the baron said. “The Mhor’s kingdom is mine to take, with the exception of the provinces of Marloer’s Gap and Torien’s Watch.

These I cede to you for your part in this war. Your warriors may pillage any lands your forces take before Mhoried is defeated, but if those lands fall in my territory after the war, you shall withdraw.”

“How do I know that you won’t take Marloer’s Gap and the Watch from me once you’ve consolidated your position?” the goblin demanded.

Bannier raised his staff. A wicked green glow sprang up from the head of the staff, and his voice took on a deeper tone.

“I will guarantee the bargain,” he said. “Whoever breaks it first will answer to me. It’s a fair arrangement, Kraith, and you know it.”

The goblin’s eyes blazed like fire. “Aye, it’s fair enough for Tuorel and I. But what do you gain from it, wizard? What’s the price of your treason?”

“My purposes are my own,” Bannier snapped.

“What Bannier means to say, Kraith, is that I have agreed that the Mhor’s family is to be delivered into his hands.”

Tuorel’s face twisted in a cold smile. “I can only guess that he means to slay them in order to seize the power of the Mhoried blood.”

Kraith barked laughter. “That’s it? Bloodtheft? And you humans call us barbaric!”

“The Mhor’s line is one of the oldest and strongest of Anuire,” Bannier replied. “He can trace his lineage all the way back to Deismaar. All the great nobles – such as Baron Tuorel, here – and quite a number of lesser lords and rulers – myself, Lord Baehemon, and you, Kraith – possess divine bloodlines. You may know that the spark of godspower can be wrested from the living descendants who hold it, but you have no idea of what can be done with the ancient strength of the great bloodlines.”

“I know more than you think,” Kraith snapped. “I ran my father through the heart to seize the power of our line. And I’ve a talent or two that manifested the day I usurped his power.”

“I see,” Bannier said. “The Mhor’s line carries a great deal of this divine power, and I have need of it.”

“The Mhor’s blood is tied to Mhoried itself,” Tuorel said.

“As I am tied to Ghoere, and Kraith to Markazor. In order to rule the lands we propose to take from the Mhor, the strength of his blood is necessary to us, as well.”

“In time, by force of arms, you can pacify the lands you take and add them to your kingdoms. Besides, the Mhor’s blood is my price.” Bannier slung his sack over his shoulder and picked up his staff. “Now I’ve told you enough of my designs.

It should suffice that you stand to gain vast new lands from my actions.”

“Be that as it may, it’s hard to trust a traitor.” Kraith laughed again and spurred his mount toward the east, cutting through the column of the march. His own guards joined him as he galloped back toward Markazor. Tuorel watched him go, considering how long it might be before he would have to fight Kraith himself.

Beside him, Bannier hesitated. “One more thing, Baron,” he said. “Gaelin, the Mhor’s second son, is heading for Endier. I need him killed or taken while I look after Shieldhaven.”

“That’s your affair, Bannier. After all, you demanded the right to take the Mhor and his family in exchange for your assistance.

Some would say that the Mhor’s blood is an even greater prize than Mhoried itself.”

Bannier fought to supress his anger. “I have already attempted his removal. But the fools to whom I entrusted the matter failed me. Now I need your help.”

Tuorel’s face was cold and expressionless. “I may have agreed to let you have your price, but why should I help you to collect something I also have use for?”

The wizard stopped packing and whirled on the baron.

“We have a bargain, damn you! You still need me if you want this war to be a quick one. Otherwise, you’ll be years in taking the Mhor and breaking his resistance.”

Tuorel smiled. “Aye, I still need your services,” he said quietly.

“Very well, I’ll have my spies set on Gaelin. Chances are he’ll try to return to Mhoried when he hears of the war. We’ll catch him as he gallops home to the rescue.”

Bannier held the baron’s gaze a moment longer, and then smiled himself. “Then I must be going, my lord. Stand ready to lead your troops into Shieldhaven tomorrow.” With that, he turned and strode off, his rucksack slung over his shoulder.

Tuorel watched as the wizard seemed to shimmer, and then appear somehow farther than he should have been, moving faster in a determined walk. In a matter of moments Bannier had disappeared toward the north. Tuorel’s jaw tightened as he considered the wizard’s words, and with a scowl he turned and joined his army.

Gaelin was dreaming.

He was standing in a place of darkness and power, a great citadel of jagged battlements and iron doors. Ash and smoke hung in the air, drifting over the stone and metal that surrounded him on all sides. Although he’d never been there in his waking life, in his dream he knew the place: Kal-Saitharak, the Battlewaite of the Gorgon’s Crown. He wandered from turret to turret, lost in the cyclopean maze of walls and gates. Something waited for him in the center of the fortress, something unspeakably ancient and evil. Each step Gaelin took only brought him closer to the master of the dark place. Even as he finally found the escape he sought, redglowing eyes appeared in a gaping black arch before him. The eyes transfixed him, tearing will and thought away from him, leaving only terror and dark madness as the monstrous creature stepped forward into the fiery light…

Gasping, Gaelin awoke, his heart hammering in his chest.

It took a long moment before his mind registered the fact that he was lying in a cold, damp sleeping roll beneath a stand of cottonwoods, somewhere along Alamie’s fog-shrouded riverlands.

He rolled over onto his elbow and surveyed the nearby darkness. The horses dozed a few yards away, hobbled together to keep them from wandering away. They shifted and sighed heavily, a reassuring sound. Ruide and Madislav lay nearby, each wrapped in his own blankets. The small fire in the center of their camp had burned down to embers.

Sitting up, he rubbed his hands across his face and stare d out into the darkness. “The Gorgon,” he muttered to himself.

“That’s an ill omen, to say the least.” For fifteen centuries, the Gorgon had been the deadliest enemy of the Anuirean lands – all of them, not just the wreckage left behind by Michael Roele’s death and the fall of the Anuirean Empire. The monster was the most powerful of the awnsheghlien, creatures who carried sinister bloodlines of power derived from Azrai, the Face of Evil. The Gorgon’s lands lay north and east of the Anuirean heartlands, in the impassable mountains known as the Gorgon’s Crown. Gaelin recalled hearing that a dream of the Gorgon presaged mischance and ill fortune. Shuddering, he tried to banish the images from his thoughts.

One of the horses nickered in wakefulness.

Gaelin carefully reached over and set his hand on the hilt of his sword, stilling his own breathing to listen for any suspicious sounds. For a long time, he heard nothing, but then the horses shifted nervously, and he heard the muffled clipclop of a horseman approaching their camp. “Madislav,” he whispered. The Vos grunted and turned to face him. “Someone’s coming.”

Madislav fell silent, cocking his head to listen. “A rider, alone,” he said a moment later. He rolled quietly out of his bedroll and rose, taking hold of a short-handled throwing axe. Gaelin stood as well, moving carefully to avoid pulling his injured stomach. “Is middle of the night,” the warrior whispered. “No honest man is abroad now.” He stepped over to nudge Ruide awake with his toe and gestured for the valet to remain silent.

The footfalls grew louder, although the heavy mists had the curious property of muffling sound. Gaelin peered toward the old river road, a ribbon of gray barely visible in the darkness.

They had made their camp about seventy or eighty yards fro m the track; a low hillock screened their fire from anyone passing b y. As he watched, a dark shape emerged from the mists, edging closer to their camp, a cloaked rider on a gray charger.

Madislav glanced at Gaelin, his eye raised in an unspoken question: hail the rider, or stay quiet and let him pass?

Gaelin shook his head. Let him pass by, he thought. But at that moment, one of their horses stamped and snuffled. The rider stopped, listening, and then turned his steed toward their camp and walked forward. Gaelin slid his sword from its sheath, deliberately allowing the metal to rasp against the wood and leather, and called out in a low voice: “That’s close enough, stranger. What brings you to our camp?”

The cloaked figure paused, then replied, “Prince Gaelin Mhoried?” It was a woman’s voice, high and clear, musical in quality.

“You are making mistake,” Madislav growled. “There is being no one here by that name.”

The woman paused. “I bring him tidings. Are you certain?”

Gaelin stepped forward, sliding through the shadows until he stood by Madislav. “Who are you?” he called.

The rider paused, and then drew the hood of her cloak fro m her face, shaking out a fiery red mane of hair. Her face was pale, and she seemed to glimmer in the cool darkness. Beneath her cloak, she wore a blouse of white cotton tucked into long riding pants. Gaelin noted the slender Brecht-style rapier at her hip.

“I’m the master bard Erin Graysong,” she replied. “Is Gaelin of Mhoried among you, or not? I’ve been riding all night, and if he’s not here, I’ll go my way and keep looking.”

“You’re speaking to him,” Gaelin said. Cautiously, he stepped out into the open and met Erin’s gaze. Her features were sharp and well defined, with high cheekbones, a delicate slant to her eyes, and subtle points to her ears. He realized with a start that she had the blood of the Sidhelien, the elven folk, in her. Ignoring Madislav’s suspicious scowl, he continued, “We were to meet you in Endier, Lady Erin. What brings you here?”

The bard sighed and slid from her horse, taking the reins in her hand and approaching. “I’m afraid I have ill tidings for you, my lord prince,” she said. “I learned today that Baron Tuorel has invaded Mhoried. Riumache has fallen already, and the goblins of Markazor are attacking the northern lands.”

Madislav barked bitter laughter. “Is impossible! Tuorel would need days to bring his army across the Maesil! And Riumache can hold him for weeks.”

“Impossible or not, it’s true,” Erin said. “Yesterday morning, the Maesil froze solid. Tuorel’s army crossed in an hour.”

“The Maesil hasn’t frozen in years!” Gaelin protested.

“Look, you can see it from here. There’s no ice on the river!” He gestured at the mistbound river.

Erin shrugged and looped the reins of her steed over a nearby branch. She looked at him, her face unreadable. “Maybe it only froze farther north. You’re a hundred miles or more from Riumache. My sources are reliable, Prince Gaelin – Tuorel crossed in a single day because the river was frozen.”

She knelt by the campfire and carefully prodded it to life with a shiver.

Gaelin slammed his sword back into its sheath and took a seat across the fire, while Madislav and Ruide followed suit.

He chewed his tongue thoughtfully. “We were in Riumache only two days ago, and there was no ice then. How could the river freeze in so short a time? Tuorel’s army would need a foot of ice to support the wagons and siege engines.”

Erin frowned. “Believe me, Prince Gaelin, I would not have thought it possible, either. But my college – the White Hall – has informants in Ghoere’s camp, and there’s no doubt that Tuorel marched into Riumache. Mhoried and Ghoere are at war. ”

Gaelin stood and paced away. The ground was cold and wet beneath his feet, and the water beaded on his cloak and his blankets. His head reeled at Erin’s message. He had known that Ghoere meant trouble, but in his heart he hadn’t really believed that Mhoried would be plunged into war so quickly. It was unreal. Struggling to grasp the implications of Erin’s news, he complained, “Countess Tenarien should have been able to throw him back, or at least delay him, if he’d crossed by boat.”

“Whatever else you can be saying about Tuorel, he is knowing how to start a war,” Madislav rumbled. “Riumache’s sea walls were made to keep boats out, not men on foot.” He shrugged helplessly. “Lady Tenarien’s keep is strong. Stand a siege she can, even if she is losing the city.”

“I doubt Tuorel will bother to dig her out,” Gaelin replied.

“If I were him, I’d leave some troops behind to keep her bottled up, and I’d keep going.” He rubbed his hands against his arms, noticing the air seemed clammy and colder than it had earlier in the evening. Hundreds or thousands of Mhoriens would be killed or driven from their homes by Tuorel’s army. Fighting the goblins who raided Mhoried’s northern provinces was one thing – goblins were goblins, after all, and in lean times they’d rather steal from their neighbors than starve on their side of the border. He couldn’t imagine what a real war would be like, let alone one fought on Mhoried’s soil. Best worry about what’s next instead of how to win the war, he realized. It’s not in my hands at the moment. Deliberately, he faced Erin and asked, “How in the world did you find us?”

The bard grimaced. “When I heard the news, I thought your plans might change. I figured that I should set out for Shieldhaven on my own, and I didn’t want to wait until the Mhor got around to sending someone to Endier.”

Gaelin studied her, trying to conceal his surprise at her audacity.

“It’s dangerous for a woman to travel these lands alone, Erin. You might have been riding into a brigands’ camp, for all you knew.”

Erin shrugged. “I know how to take care of myself.”

Watching her alert eyes, the poise and confidence of her face, and the easy way she wore the sword at her hip, Gaelin elected to take her at her word. Erin was not an ornament, not by any measure. He wondered what she would have done if she had encountered brigands or highwaymen. “So you set off for Mhoried, just like that?”

“I rode hard all day, making good time. I decided to stop for the night when I encountered Captain Viensen and his men. When I learned that you had been with him until just an hour or two before I arrived, I decided to ride after you. Since Viensen didn’t know about Tuorel’s invasion, I figured that you might not have heard either.”

Ruide spoke up from his seat by the fire. “You may want to reconsider your decision to continue to Endier, Lord Gaelin, especially since Lady Erin has spared us the ride already.”

Erin watched him for a moment, and then added, “There’s more news, Prince Gaelin. I’ve heard that the Ghoerans have been ordered to kill or take you. Although I guess you know that already – Viensen told me about the attack.”

Madislav growled. “I would be liking to get my hands on those kolturski again.” His brows drew together in a fierce scowl. “I am thinking they must have been hired in Riumache.”

“I’m not naive enough to believe that every Mhorien is loyal to the Mhor, but I can’t believe there are men in Riumache who would take gold to put a knife in me,” Gaelin said.

“Think, Gaelin. They had to wait to see if you would take ship or ride to Endier. And they would also need to be knowing which road – or which ship – you would take to be making ambush.”

Gaelin looked up at Madislav. “You’re right. It would have been hard to get word of our route ahead of us, since we weren’t sure of it ourselves. I wish we’d left at least one of those fellows alive. We could have found out exactly who was behind this.”

“They got what they deserved,” Madislav growled. “And if I am ever seeing their friends again, they will have company. ”

“I’d like to get my hands on those bastards for what they did to Daene, but I’d really like to find out who put them up to it,” Gaelin said, staring into the fire.

“Now that is the nyelnye’chik I would like to be getting my hands on,” Madislav observed sourly.

The conversation faltered as Gaelin wrestled with his thoughts. Erin shivered and warmed her hands by the fire. Finally, Gaelin spoke again. “I want to return to Mhoried as quickly as possible.”

“Travel may be dangerous now,” Ruide observed.

“As far as our enemies know, I’m dead already. They shouldn’t be looking for me,” Gaelin said.

“That may not be true,” Erin interrupted, shaking her head. “Viensen told me that he’d had a visitor, earlier this evening. A man in brown robes, asking about you. The captain told me he tried not to say too much, but he just couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut when the man asked him questions.

When this fellow had heard everything Viensen had to tell, he disappeared. ’Withered up and blew away like smoke’ is the way Viensen put it.” She glanced over at Madislav.

“Your nyelnye’chik may be closer than you think.”

“Then this is an excellent time to head back to Mhoried,” Gaelin said. “As far as Viensen knew, we were making for Endier. Whoever this man is, he’ll be looking in the wrong place. We’ll leave at sunup and try to outdistance Ghoere ’ s agent or agents before they figure out which way we’ve gone.”

Madislav nodded at Erin, “What about the bard? We did come here to get her, after all.”

“We can’t place her in the kind of danger we might be riding into, especially if Ghoere’s men are looking for me,” Gaelin said. “She’d be better off waiting a few weeks and traveling with pilgrims or traders. Erin, we’ll leave you with Viensen.”

“Don’t you think I should be allowed to make that decision?”

Erin was watching him, her hand cocked on her hip, challenge in her posture and expression. “I am not so helpless that I need you to protect me. I am a bard of the White Hall, and I would be failing in my duties if I let you leave me behind.”

Gaelin glanced at the other men. Ruide shrugged. Madislav turned and asked, “You are being good rider?”

“Don’t worry,” she replied, “I won’t slow you down.”

Madislav looked back over to Gaelin and shrugged as well.

Gaelin straightened up and looked off to the east. A grayish streak blurred the sky, the first sign of morning’s approach.

“All right, then. We’ll break camp at sunrise.”