Finding himself in the clear, Gaelin stood and twisted in his saddle to see what was happening. He turned back again just in time to catch the fall of a halberd with his shield and knock it aside, leaning forward to spit the Ghoeran before the fellow could recover from his mighty blow. Gaelin glanced around again, and found several knights were clustered around him, screening him from the fight. The reverse side of the dike was a gigantic, muddy brawl as the Ghoeran defenders found themselves in hand-to-hand combat with the Mhorien archers, who now streamed up and over the wall to join the fray. While the Ghoerans were better troops, the unexpected attack on their reserve had prevented an effective counterattack, and now weight of numbers and sheer hard fighting would decide the issue.
“Anduine!” Gaelin shouted. “Take half the knights and ride left. I’ll go right, and we’ll help out with the melee!”
Anduine’s helmet bobbed up and down, and the old commander drove his men along the base of the dike, riding down the knots of Ghoerans who waited to join the fray.
Gaelin took his own knights and did the same, riding in the other direction. Embattled on three sides, the Ghoerans were pushed off the ramparts and into the no-man’s-land between their two lines of defense. Here, on the flat and open ground between the earthworks, they closed ranks and began to hold their ground with more discipline, while Gaelin’s disorganized levy suddenly found themselves facing troops experienced in close-order fighting. The attack began to stall, and Gaelin growled in frustration. They were so close!
“My lord Mhor! Look!” Boeric was leaning over to point at Caer Winoene. Even as Gaelin watched, the green and white emblem of Mhoried was run proudly up the highest flagpole, announcing his return. With a great peal of trumpets and a thunderous shout, a thousand pikemen surged up and out of the Mhorien defenses to attack the Ghoerans from the re a r. The inward-facing trenches had been nearly abandoned in order to meet the attack of Gaelin’s militiamen, and Baesil’s infantry swept over the Ghoeran lines without breaking stride.
While Baesil’s men engaged the Ghoerans, Ulmaeric sounded the withdrawal to break his archers free of the hand-to-hand combat and managed to form up several companies of bowmen to menace the Ghoeran position. Now embattled on all sides, with archers in easy range to rake the center of their formation, the Ghoerans broke and retreated to the east, circling Caer Winoene as they were channeled away by their own ramparts. Gaelin’s exuberant forces pursued them closely, and as they swept around the castle, they rolled up the Ghoeran siege lines.
“Your timing is perfect, my lord Mhor!” Count Baesil rode up, surrounded by a small guard of cavalrymen. “I’m glad to see you again, that’s for certain.”
“Baesil!” Gaelin leaned over to embrace the old count, thumping his gauntleted fist on the other man’s back.
“Thanks for the help. I don’t know if we could have finished them without your sortie.”
“It’s not over yet. There’s one hell of a fight about a mile south of here. The better part of Ghoere’s army is down that way, engaging the Diemans and the Haelynites. Good timing for your allies, too, by the way.”
Gaelin looked off toward the south, but the castle and its attendant fortifications prevented him from catching even a glimpse of Vandiel’s fray. “Baesil, the Diemans are just trying to hold on until they get some help. How many men can you sortie toward the Ghoeran camp, and how soon?”
“I can throw fifteen hundred cavalry at him right now, followed by a thousand mixed troops. That’ll only leave me five hundred to hold the castle, if things go poorly.”
“If things go poorly, it won’t matter how long we hold Caer Winoene. Get them ready, and bring every man you can spare.” Gaelin looked around at the streaming mass of his militiamen and shook his head. “It’ll be a miracle if I can get these lads back into fighting order before sundown. Ulmaeric, pass the word. Tell your officers to lead the militiamen to the south side of the castle and assemble them on the open field. I want them ready to march on the Ghoeran camp in half an hour.”
Ulmaeric’s jaw dropped. “Half an hour? It can’t be done.”
“We’ll do it anyway,” Gaelin declared. “Now pass the orders, and follow me.” With Boeric holding his standard high, Gaelin spurred Blackbrand in a rapid canter, circling the castle’s defenses. “Men of Mhoried! Follow me!”
Although they were little more than a mob, the Mhorien levy slowly began to surge after Gaelin, following in his wake. A number pursued the broken remnants of the Ghoerans, but everywhere Gaelin passed, the Mhoriens raised a cheer and ran after him, by twos and threes and dozens. On the southern side of Caer Winoene, Gaelin led them out over the Ghoeran dike and halted, giving his officers a chance to rally the shouting mob. Ahead of him, a half-mile across the trampled nomads land before the castle, he could see the tents, palisades, and siege engines of the Ghoeran camp. And beyond the camp, he could see the flash of steel in the distance, and he felt the thunderous shock of the armies clashing. Impatiently, he danced Blackbrand across the line, shouting orders and encouragement to the militiamen, directing them to one standard or the other to rebuild their organization.
“What next, Gaelin?” asked Erin, riding close. Her eyes burned with a fierce flame, and her long rapier was red with blood.
“We’ll let the spearmen pillage the camp, while I’ll lead the archers past the camp to come on Tuorel’s army from the rear.
We’ve got to draw some of the pressure away from the Diemans.”
He struck his fist against his armored thigh. “Damn! We need more time!”
“The militiamen are recovering as fast as they can. You’re almost ready to advance again.”
“Haelyn help us if Tuorel’s had time to break the Diemans,” Gaelin said. He pulled his gaze away from the battle and met her eyes. A chill of apprehension seized his heart – there was so much that could still go wrong. He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Erin, I beg you: Stay here, in the castle.
The battle ahead of us is going to make the last fight look like a friendly tavern scrap. I want to know you’re safe.”
To his surprise, she nodded soberly. “All right. I don’t want to distract you. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I’ll try,” he said, hoping that his visored helm would conceal the lie. Somehow, he doubted Tuorel would allow him the luxury of caution.
Chapter Twenty
Tuorel brought his Iron Guard to the edge of his camp, and peered toward Caer Winoene. Amazingly, his scouts reported that Gaelin’s rabble of yeomen and farmers had stormed the lines and broken the forces he’d left behind to maintain the siege. Now the Mhor was reassembling his army to continue the advance, into the Ghoeran camp and on to the southern battle beyond.
Beside him, War Chieftain Kraith sat on his black-armored hellsteed, a massive battle-axe slung over one shoulder. The goblin watched the Mhoriens rallying, and leaned over to spit into the mud. “We should take them while they’re mustering,” he growled. “They’re not ready to fight anyone yet.”
“We’ll wait,” Tuorel grunted. “If we show ourselves too soon, they’ll retreat back to the cover of the castle defenses, and you don’t want to chase that many archers into the siege lines.” He nodded behind him at the titanic struggle that still continued on the dusty plain south of the camp. “Gaelin knows his allies are overmatched, and he’ll be desperate to bring his army into that fray. He’ll come to us.”
Kraith waited impatiently. “Well, they’ll be in for the Gorgon’s own surprise when they attack your camp, Tuorel. I’ve got four thousand fighters hidden back here.” He smiled grimly. “Although it’s awful tempting not to sack your camp ourselves, as long as we’re here.”