Richard Baker - The Falcon and The Wolf

Stinging needles of ice and snow whipped across the frozen road, clawing at Prince Gaelin Mhoried. He shivered in the teeth of the bitter wind and drew his heavy woolen cloak closer to his body. Although the month of Pasiphiel was nearly gone, winter hadn’t released the land of Mhoried from its grip.

Nearly a foot of snow still lay over the countryside, and in places man-high drifts lingered in the shadows of the woods beside the road. It was unseasonably cold weather, even for Mhoried, a land accustomed to long and cold winters. Worse yet, the skies brooded with the promise of more snow.

Despite the cold and gathering gloom, Gaelin enjoyed the ride. The ancient forest on either side of the road was deep and dark, steeped in a sense of purpose that silenced his thoughts. Mhoried’s wild places brought him solace and quiet reflection, an emptiness in which he could examine himself with unflinching honesty. The harsh weather only sharpened Gaelin’s appreciation of the open lands; the frigid air scoured his body, reminding him that he was a part of the land, not a ghost only passing by.

The old Northrun was clear, if not in the best shape. The few wagons that came this way had beaten the snow into a thick, frozen slush over the black mud of the road. Gaelin was accustomed to winter travel; now twenty-six, he’d spent the greater part of his boyhood hunting and hawking in the lands around his father’s castle, and he knew from experience just how miserably cold and wet a winter road could be. He reached down to pat Blackbrand on the neck, glad that the horse’s feet and not his were in the freezing mire of the road.

The wind picked up again. Gaelin’s shoulders were tense and tight from hunching his body against the cold, and a dull ache had been sinking deeper and deeper into his limbs for hours. The fine steel of his breastplate might turn an arrowhead or the blade of a sword, but the wind’s edge this day was far keener than either. Trying to ignore his discomfort, Gaelin gazed off into the dark, snow-blanketed forest that stretched away from the road.

A violent gust snatched his cloak away and fluttered it behind him. The romantic solitude of a winter’s ride in the woods was fading fast for Gaelin. He cursed and twisted in the saddle to catch the cloak’s edge. “You’d think the trees would block some of this damned wind!” he growled.

Beside him, Madislav gave a booming laugh that brought showers of snow down from the branches nearby. “Is nothing!” the hulking Vos mercenary said, slapping one bearlike hand on his thick chest. “In my homeland, we call this spring!”

Madislav was six and a half feet tall, with arms like gnarled oaks. He disdained the wool and linen favored in Anuire, dressing in the leathers and furs of his own people. Even his horse was bridled and saddled Vos-style. Gaelin, unlike many of his peers, preferred practicality over decoration, and his attire reflected his tastes. His only concession to fashion was a green surcoat with Mhoried’s white falcon embroidered on his chest, the minimum expected of a prince of the realm.

Madislav drew in a deep breath, letting the frigid air sear his lungs, and then stood in his stirrups to pull open his jerkin. Gaelin winced. Madislav grinned and struck his thickpelted torso with an exaggerated sigh of enjoyment. “When I was being small and my mother had no food, Kriyesha herself nursed me with an icicle!” he boasted.

Gaelin tried to imagine the Vos goddess of ice and darkness dandling a hairy infant on her knee and grimaced. “With any luck, we’ll make Shieldhaven before the sun goes down. I’ve spent my last night under the stars this winter,” he said.

He scratched Blackbrand’s neck again. The horse nickered and tossed his head, picking up his hooves. “Only two leagues more, Blackbrand, and there’s a warm stable with fresh hay for you.”

The road climbed the shoulder of a steep ridge mantled with a stand of weathered pines. A great portion of the Mhor’s domain was still unsettled and wild, with vast reaches of trackless highlands and deep, forbidding woods.

Years of riding and wandering, and then service as a squire of the Knights Guardian, had carved Mhoried’s every copse and hilltop into Gaelin’s heart. From the green fields of the Maesil valley to the forested flanks of the Stonecrown Mountains, fifty leagues from the kingdom’s southern marches, he knew almost every inch of Mhoried. He and his brother had often hunted by this very ridge when they were younger, and home wasn’t far now.

He fell silent, realizing that the end of his journey was near.

For the past seven years, Gaelin had seen his family only in passing visits. Like all princes of the Mhoried blood for hundreds of years, he had been required to join the Order of the Knights Guardian, and subjected to the same discipline and regimen of exercise that any aspirant would face.

Gaelin had spent the winter campaigning in the northern passes of Mhoried, riding with a company of his fellow knights. The unusually cold weather had brought the goblins out of Markazor and the Stonecrowns in search of easy plunder once they’d depleted their own stores of food. Gaelin’s band had skirmished with goblin raiders several times over the last month. Spring was nearing now, but a number of Gaelin’s comrades lay under the snow in Torien’s Watch and Marloer’s Gap. The thought clouded his face and brought a hollow ache of exhaustion to his heart.

“You are not happy with going home?” Madislav said, riding closer. The Vos made a habit of exaggerating the guttural accent of his own tongue when speaking Anuirean. Ten years ago, the Mhor Daeric – Gaelin’s father – had ordered the Vos to follow Gaelin and keep him out of trouble. As a teenager, Gaelin had chafed under Madislav’s watchful tutelage, but despite daily confrontations he’d never convinced Madislav to give up his task. After a time, the prince had come to view the outland warrior as a mentor and companion.

“I’ve grown accustomed to life away from the court,” Gaelin answered. “I haven’t spent two nights in a row in Shieldhaven for years. Even before I started training for the Order, I was happier out here.” Gaelin nodded at the forest.

“I’m afraid of what my father might have in mind for me, now that I’m back to stay. You know we never saw eye to eye.” He rubbed his hands together to fight off the numbness that was setting into his fingers, and blew a warm breath into his cupped hands.

“Maybe you are marrying some pretty lass, eh?” Madislav said with a wicked smile.

“Hmmph. I hope my father hasn’t had that thought.”

“You are son of the Mhor, a great noble. I hear you are most – how you say – eligible prince in all Anuire, eh?”

“I’d think my brother is. He’s going to be the next Mhor, not me. A duty I wouldn’t wish on anybody.” Gaelin smiled and turned back to the road.

The two riders crested the ridge, breaking free of the ancient forest that surrounded the city and castle of Bevaldruor – Shieldhaven in Andu, the old tongue. The proud fortress slumbered on a rocky hilltop overlooking the town below. Wisps of smoke danced away from hundreds of chimneys and hearths, dissipating on the fierce northern wind.

Gaelin reined Blackbrand in, drinking in the sight. The wind stung his eyes to tears. Madislav drew up beside him and watched in silence.

“I never thought this day would come,” Gaelin said slowly.

With a wry smile Gaelin realized that he’d been brooding about his return to Shieldhaven for months without admitting it to himself. As a boy, he had fought for years to win free of his father’s iron discipline. Now he feared the old battle was about to be rejoined, but Gaelin had little heart for resuming the fight. “Bevaldruor looks the same, doesn’t it? Four years as a squire, three as an aspirant… Has anything changed?”