Richard Baker: The Falcon and The Wolf

“I don’t know about that,” Gaelin laughed. “I don’t recall that I had much aptitude for your arts.”

“On the contrary, you were a quick study. You have the intelligence to grasp the principles of thaumaturgy, and your Mhoried blood gives you the potential for harnessing true magic, not just illusions.”

Gaelin noticed his father looking in their direction, and he nodded toward the table. “Baehemon’s almost here. Let’s see what he has to say.” They found places by the Mhor’s side, and Gaelin tugged at his tunic and squared his shoulders. He was a little flattered that his father had invited him to sit in on the audience, but he guessed he’d probably tire of such things in a few weeks.

A moment later, a chamberlain opened the panelled door and stood aside for the Ghoeran lord and his small entourage.

Baehemon was a short, broad-shouldered man with a shaven head and a thick neck that vanished into knots of muscle around his shoulders. He was nicknamed the Hound of Ghoere, but he resembled a human bulldog, with a wide and powerful jaw and deep-set eyes that gleamed like frosted steel. Baehemon’s gestures and speech were short and clipped, and his posture suggested explosive violence barely held in check. With a bare nod of his head, he took a seat at the opposite end of the table. The Mhor had deliberately kept him waiting an extra quarter-hour as a not-so-subtle reminder of who was master of Shieldhaven.

“Well, my lord Baehemon, you have requested this audience.

How may we be of service to you?” the Mhor began.

“My lord Mhor, Baron Tuorel of Ghoere sends his greetings,” Baehemon said. His voice was thick and gravelly, but his words were measured carefully. His eyes never left the Mhor’s face. “He hopes this day finds you well and your duchy at peace.”

“It does, Lord Baehemon. Please proceed.”

The Ghoeran nodded briefly and continued. “Baron Tuorel praises the peaceful relations of our two countries, and sends his sincere wishes that our future dealings will be similarly blessed. However, he is also forced to observe that dark times have come upon the empire. Enemies are gathering who could destroy us all. Goblins and elves beset our borderlands.

The Gorgon’s armies grow stronger. The old outposts of the empire are falling to savages and outlanders. And in the midst of this storm, the lords of Anuire turn upon each other, engaging in petty squabbles when all are threatened by the forces of chaos and darkness.” Clearly, Baehemon had rehearsed this speech. Gaelin’s brows drew together, as he tried to puzzle out where the Ghoeran was going with all this.

“So you say, Lord Baehemon,” replied the Mhor. “I must point out that Ghoere was recently engaged in one of these petty squabbles with the lord of Elinie.”

Again, Baehemon nodded, as if to concede a point. “Be that as it may, darkness still threatens our land, a darkness against which we must stand together or fall. But who has stepped forward to lead us? Who can claim the Iron Throne?”

Mhor Daeric spoke dryly. “Your presence here makes it obvious, but I’ll ask anyway: Who is this contestant for the Iron Throne?”

“You have guessed my purpose already,” Baehemon said.

“My lord Mhor, the Baron Noered Tuorel humbly advances his name as the next rightful emperor of Anuire and asks that you consider an oath of fealty to his cause.”

The Mhor leaned forward, giving emphasis to his words.

“Before I swear support to a candidate, he’ll have to swear support to me. I agree that strife between Anuirean lands is terrible, but I stand on the borderlands of the empire, and I’ve no time, money, nor troops to spare in wars beyond my border. It’s Mhorien soldiers who keep the goblins of the Stonecrowns at bay, Lord Baehemon.”

Tiery snorted and added, “My lord Baehemon, you ask us to create another contender for the throne? Ghoere can’t muster the support the claimants from Avanil or Boeruine already have.”

“Ah, but Mhoried is one of the most prestigious neutrals in Anuire. Should the Mhor endorse Baron Tuorel’s claim, others will follow.” Baehemon leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on the table. The Mhor eyed him, a thoughtful look on his face.

Bannier leaned close to speak quietly. “My lord, Ghoere’s offer may be worth considering. Avanil and Boeruine have nothing to offer you, but should you support Ghoere, you’ll anchor your southern flank forever. Ghoere has strength enough to seize the Iron Throne. Mhoried would be well-off as an ally of Ghoere when that happens.”

The Mhor glanced at Bannier. When he spoke, he made certain that Baehemon could overhear him, without directly addressing the Ghoeran. “I’ll grant you that Avanil and Boeruine have done nothing for Mhoried, but neither has Ghoere. The only courtesy he’s shown Mhoried has been in not starting a war with us.”

Bannier persisted. “It costs you nothing to offer him allegiance, my lord.”

The Mhor’s face hardened. “On the contrary, it costs me a great deal to swear an oath of fealty to a cause I’ve little use for. I’ve seen nothing that indicates that Ghoere would be a better emperor than Avanil or Boeruine, and I’ll have no hand in putting an unworthy successor in Roele’s seat. The legends say that someday the line of Roele will reappear, but Baron Tuorel is not the emperor returned. I will not pretend that he is for the convenience of his friendship.”

Baehemon’s face darkened as he listened to the Mhor’s discussion.

“You may want to reconsider, my lord Mhor. There is a new power in the heartlands, one that stands to win the Iron Throne where others have fallen for five centuries. You can stand beside us in victory, or you can stand in our way.”

The Mhor stood and his eyes flashed. “Are you threatening me? Because if you are, Lord Baehemon, you may want to reconsider.”

Baehemon met the Mhor’s glare for a long moment, before slowly rising to take his leave.

“The Baron Tuorel regrets any misunderstandings in this discussion,” he said stiffly. “However, I must also point out the potential for – shall we say, unpleasant differences? – should you fail to make the right decision in this matter.” He smiled in a sinister fashion, his eyes glittering. The Ghoeran warlord would relish those differences if the situation was not resolved to Tuorel’s liking. He’s straining at Noered Tuorel’s leash already, thought Gaelin. Ghoere’s army was powerful, well trained, and well equipped; Gaelin did not dismiss the threat.

The burly lord turned slowly and walked toward the door.

He halted in the doorway, his retainers flanking him, and spoke over his shoulder. “I hope you’ll forgive me, my lord Mhor, but I have been summoned back to Ghoere immediately.

I shall depart within the hour. My apologies for missing your banquet.” With that, he left.

“That’s a deliberate slight,” Tiery observed. “And he doesn’t even care if you’re insulted or not, my lord.”

“Tiery, what do you make of Lord Baehemon’s generous offer?” said the Mhor.

“It seems to me that Ghoere’s feeling like the cock of the walk,” Tiery said with a wry chuckle. “Now that he’s beaten Elinie into the ground, he’s going to throw his weight around and see who grovels to him next.” The minstrel rapped his knuckle on the table. “You should be careful of your court.

There may be Mhorien lords who would disagree with the stand you just took.”

“Lord Maesilar, certainly. His lands lie in Tuorel’s path, should war come. Balteruine will follow where he goes. And possibly Dhalsiel,” the Mhor replied absently. Gaelin looked up, surprised to hear that the Mhor regarded Cuille Dhalsiel as less than reliable, but his father was staring into his steepled hands. “Gaelin, what do you think?”