Richard Baker - The Falcon and The Wolf

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.