Richard Baker: The Falcon and The Wolf

When they returned to the camp, Gaelin let a groom lead Blackbrand away and wandered to a hillside overlooking the lake, in the shadow of the old monastery. Light sparkled on the lake’s placid waters, a shining trail of silver that dappled the dark bluffs and hills with beautiful reflections. It struck him as disrespectful to make a battlefield of such breathtaking beauty.

After a time, he heard Erin’s light footfalls. She sat down on the cold grass beside him, admiring the view. They looked out over the landscape together in a companionable silence for some time before she spoke. “You should try to get some sleep,” she said quietly.

He smiled. “It won’t happen tonight. I’m not anxious, or frightened – well, a little frightened, perhaps. I feel as if this may be my last night, so why spend it sleeping?” He looked at Erin. Her hair seemed to gleam with its own fire in the moonlight, and her face was silver and perfect. Her Sidhelien blood was very noticeable, in the cast of her eyes, the delicacy and strength of her features, and the almost tangible aura of otherworldliness that seemed to dance around her. He found his heart racing, as he moved closer and took her hand. “Erin, if we triumph tomorrow, I want you to be my wife.”

“Oh, Gaelin, why did you have to say that?” She leaned forward, hiding her face. “You know you can’t promise any- thing to me. You’re the Mhor. Mhoried will demand you marry a princess of your own status, not a half-breed minstrel without a trace of the ancient blood.”

“If all that didn’t matter, what would you say?”

She looked up at him, a sad smile on her face. “You know already, or you wouldn’t have asked. My heart has been yours, almost from the first time I saw you.”

“Then I’ll find a way to make it work.”

Erin started to speak but hesitated. After a moment, her face darkened, and she stood up abruptly. “We might pretend for a while that it doesn’t matter, Gaelin, but you know as well as I that it will. What will you do when someone like Baesil tells you he’ll foreswear his allegiance before taking a half-elf nobody for his queen? What will you say when Iviena declares you a heretic or tries to disinherit you?” She turned away.

“Why are you looking for a reason not to marry me?”

She stopped and whirled to face him, pulling her arm away. “It’s not that! It’s – you wouldn’t understand!”

“Erin, I love you, and I want you to be my wife. I don’t think I could ever give my heart to another woman, not after loving you.” He touched her face, and raised her head to look into her eyes. “If I win tomorrow, and we drive Tuorel out of Mhoried, the lords and common folk will support me. They know you, and they like you.” He lifted her chin and kissed her tenderly. “I don’t need an answer tonight, Erin. Just promise me you’ll think on it.”

Erin laughed softly through her tears. “I don’t see how I can avoid it.” Sighing, she stood and paced away, pulling her cloak around her shoulders, silhouetted against the lightening gray of the eastern sky. “Dawn’s not far off.”

Gaelin nodded soberly. He stood and stretched. “I suppose it’s time to get to work.”

Riding Blackbrand, Gaelin led the Mhoriens along the north shore of the lake. The hills came down to the water at the lake’s western end, and Gaelin was afraid the Ghoerans would try to hold the narrow front between the heights and the lake, halting his advance before he even got started – but his fears proved empty, and the Ghoerans didn’t oppose his advance. Tuorel wants us all within reach of his jaws before he strikes, he thought glumly, but he took the bait and continued his march.

The Mhorien militia had a greater distance to cover than the southern force, a march of almost ten miles, and Gaelin hoped that his men would not be exhausted by the time they reached the Ghoeran lines. The light equipment of the militiamen was to their advantage in the march. They weren’t burdened by the heavy arms and armor of the Diemans or Haelynites and were much better off than the heavier troops would have been. The weather was another advantage for Gaelin, a cool and fair day that made for an easy marc h.

About three thousand men marched with Gaelin’s host, the majority of them equipped with little more than longbows or spears, and perhaps a rusty old sword or a boiled-leather helmet.

Given a fair fight in an open field, Ghoere’s professional soldiers and mercenaries would cut them to pieces, but Gaelin hoped that the swarming chaos of a brawl for the Ghoeran siege lines would prevent the enemy commanders from wielding their army as a cohesive machine. In a man-to-man fight, the Mhoriens would give as good as they got.

The heart of his force was a crack guard composed of one hundred and fifty of the Knights Guardian of Mhoried. In the beginning of the war, his father had dispatched many of the knights to aid the highland lords in repelling the goblin invasion; riding in bands of ten to twenty, the knights had fought long and hard against the northern threat. They’d been trickling into Caer Winoene over the past two to four weeks, depending on how matters stood in various places across the northlands. The knights may have been few in number, but they were perhaps the finest fighters on the field. More importantly, Gaelin knew almost every one of them from his years as a squire and a knight-aspirant, and he was reassured by their company. The Guardians were led by Gaelin’s old master, Knight Commander Anduine.

Although Gaelin was unhappy about it, Erin and Huire had joined his retinue, while Seriene rode with her father in the southern force. Gaelin had argued with Erin in particular for most of the morning with little luck; she ignored his orders to remove herself from the army, instead pointing out that her magic might be useful in coordinating with Vandiel’s host. “Besides,” she had said as they rode out of the camp, “I’d never forgive myself if I let something happen to you.”

When Gaelin had pointed out he felt the same way about her, she replied, “We should watch out for each other, then.”

Throughout the morning, Gaelin rode up and down the column, letting the men who followed him see him. His armor was resplendent; some of the Knights Guardian had taken the time during the night to repair his battered plate and refurbish his surcoat and coat of arms. Even Blackbrand’s mail skirts were covered by a brand-new drape of green and white, with the argent falcon boldly displayed on each flank.

Around noon, they called a brief halt about three miles from the Ghoeran position. The men rested and ate a spare midday meal of dried beef and mutton, cheese, and hardtack.

While they rested, Gaelin sought out the Haelynite captain who was his liaison with the rest of the army. The Knight Templar was a pious, severe man named Ulmaeric, and Gaelin found the fellow never volunteered anything except brief prayers to Haelyn. “Sir Ulmaeric, where’s the southern army now?”

“They started their march two hours after we did, as planned, my lord,” Ulmaeric replied. “They are almost directly opposite us, on the other side of the lake.” He pointed at a low hilltop about three miles away, on the opposite shore.

“We have signalmen on the hill, there.”

There was a quick flash of light from the hilltop, followed by three more in succession. “You’re using mirrors?” Gaelin asked.

“Haelyn smiled upon us,” Ulmaeric said. “Mirrors or smoke allow us to stay in contact with Prince Vandiel’s force, but if the day had been foggy or rainy, we would have been cut off from them. That signal you just saw reported that Prince Vandiel’s army is confronted by a large Ghoeran host.”