High Deryni (36 page)

“Sorry. It took a bit longer than I expected. What have you got?”

Duncan's voice was carefully neutral, avoiding any reference to the place Morgan had just left. “I'm not sure. We are hoping you can tell us. It sounds like Wencit's men are building something.”

“Building something?” They were passing a guard post, and Morgan almost missed the salute as he turned to stare at his cousin. Duncan shrugged.

“This way. We can hear it best from over here.”

As they approached the northern limits of the camp, one of the guards from the last outpost detached himself from his comrades and headed into the darkness ahead, which was lightened only by starlight. Morgan and Duncan followed, dropping to a crouch at his gesture to snake along the last few yards on their bellies.

At the crest of the ridge, they found Kelson, Nigel, and a pair of scouts already there, lying on their stomachs and gazing out over the plain of the enemy encampment. The enemy watch fires stretched north as far as the eye could see, and high above at the summit of the pass, the torches on the rampart walls of captive Cardosa twinkled in the thin air.

Morgan scanned the array quickly, for he had inspected the plain earlier; then he squirmed into place beside Kelson and nudged the young king with his elbow.

“What's this about them building something?” he whispered.

Kelson shook his head slightly and nodded toward the enemy camp. “Listen. It's very faint, but sometimes the wind carries it better. What does it sound like to you?”

Morgan listened, slowly extending his Deryni senses to heighten his hearing. He was aware at first only of the normal sounds of military encampment, both from their camp and from the enemy below: the usual sounds of low voices, of horses blowing and stamping in the quiet, the call of the watch changing, the rattle of mess kits and weapons being cleaned.

But then he was able to filter out the ordinary sounds until he detected another which was far and strange. He cocked his head and closed his eyes to listen better, then glanced at Kelson with an odd expression on his face.

“You're right. It sounds like someone hammering on wood. And sometimes I hear what sounds like chopping.”

“That's what it sounded like to us, too,” Kelson replied, resting his chin on his hands and staring into the night once more.

“Now, the next question is, what is Wencit building? What is he doing with wood and hammers and axes in the middle of the night before battle? And why?”

THE
next day looked to become unseasonably warm and humid once the sun fully rose, but at dawn it was still pleasant enough as the army of Gwynedd took up its battle formations. Well before first light, the men had been roused, their captains moving among them to supervise rationing and arming before the priests came to perform their sacred functions. Often, final sacraments went hand in hand with final briefings, for there was much to say and little time to say it.

By dawn the men were in position, column on column of them, row on row—nearly two thousand mounted knights, twice that many archers, and the rest foot soldiers. The men were silent as they formed up, even the horses strangely calm in the wan morning light. Of enemy activity there was as yet little sign, though the men of Gwynedd knew that they were there and preparing, less than a mile away. Whispered questions rippled through the ranks as the sun climbed in the eastern sky behind the enemy and there still came no sign whether or when battle would be joined.

On a small knoll to the right of the center lines, King Kelson and his commanders had gathered to survey the site of the coming battle. The dawn had brought with it the not unexpected sight of severed heads stuck on pikes all along the leading edge of the enemy encampment. Warin and Nigel were taking turns scanning the faces of the slain with their glasses, hoping to make positive identifications.

The distance was too great, and decay too far progressed, for any real recognition, but the spectacle was having its desired effect on the waiting men. Though the troops of Gwynedd knew that Wencit was trying to undermine their morale, that the heads might not even belong to slain Cassani men, still they could not be sure. Eyes strained across the mile-wide space separating the two armies, and many lips framed speculations; but it was all futile. Frayed nerves grew yet more ragged as the hour wore on.

Kelson, meanwhile, was absorbed in his own concerns. He studied a map as he sat his horse, a hard biscuit clutched forgotten in one hand as he leaned to hear what Morgan was saying about the location of reserve cavalry units. The young king appeared rested and confident, but his gaze kept returning to the piked heads along the enemy's front lines. There was, as yet, no sign of Wencit or any of his ranking officers, and the enemy ranks stood at ease, row on row, as the sun rose higher still.

After a while, Bishops Arilan and Cardiel left their troops and rode up the knoll where Kelson sat, joining Duncan and a worried-looking General Gloddruth a few yards from the king's side. It was Arilan who first noticed the beginnings of movement behind the enemy lines, and kneed his horse closer to touch Kelson's sleeve and point as a gap opened and a small contingent of horsemen emerged. The lead rider bore a traditional white parley banner.

“Nigel, can you read the others' devices?” the king said, fumbling at his saddle to draw out his own spyglass.

“Not at this distance, Sire. Shall I send out a party to meet them?”

“Not yet. Let's be careful on this. Gloddruth, get one of your men ready to ride.”

The horsemen drew to a halt perhaps four hundred yards from their own lines, only the rider with the parley banner continuing toward the center of the field. With a nod, Kelson signaled Gloddruth to send out his own man; and as the Gwynedd rider was dispatched, Kelson lifted his glass to scan the men waiting on the plain beyond.

Seven men sat blooded horses behind the banner rider. Four of them could be mostly dismissed as a military escort of mounted archers, liveried in the tawny orange of Torenth. The men were bearded, turbans swathed around their steel caps, with short recurve bows slung across their backs and short swords at their knees.

But the other three were not mere fighting men. One Kelson judged to be a priest or a monk, black robe kilted up around his knees, a dark cloak muffled and closely hooded around his shoulders. But the other two were High Lords of Torenth, bright as peacocks in their battle silks and steel. Arilan identified one of them as Duke Lionel of Arjenol, kinsman to Wencit himself. He was the one wearing white silk over his armor, the sun gleaming brightly from his gold-washed mail. An ebony braid hung down his back from beneath his mailed coif, and the helm itself was adorned with a ducal coronet set with jewels.

The other—and here, the Deryni bishop's face hardened—was Rhydon of Eastmarch: a full Deryni, and apparently one whom Arilan had no cause to love, though he did not say so. Rhydon wore a flowing caftan of blue and gold brocade over his armor. Kelson could not see the man's face at this distance, even through his glass.

Kelson lowered the glass. The two banner riders had met in the center of the plain half a mile away and held their mounts in tight, mincing circles as they conferred. Kelson glanced at Morgan for a reaction but saw that he was staring beyond the front lines of the enemy to where a small forest of bright silk banners was moving onto a small rise. Beneath the banners, Kelson could see a handful of well-born riders. Morgan grunted as he put a spyglass to his eye and brought it into focus.

“There's Wencit,” he said in a low voice. “I thought it was about time for him to make an appearance. I believe that's Bran Coris to his left.”

Kelson studied the group for a moment with his own glass, then glanced at Morgan once more.

“Morgan, I think we'd better abandon the idea of the Lady Richenda trying to sway her husband. I have never liked the idea—and this is no place for a woman. I never should have brought her here.”

Morgan shrugged and slipped his glass into the case at his knee. “I think you would have been hard-pressed to dissuade her, my prince. I tried to talk her out of it last night, and she—well, she is a very determined woman.”

“So I have gathered. “Kelson sighed, turning in his saddle as Duncan conferred briefly with a guard captain and then moved his roan near. The banner riders were now galloping toward the Gwynedd lines, their white pennants snapping in the breeze.

“Our spotters identify Wencit's man as Baron Torval of Netterhaven,” Duncan said. “He is one of Wencit's elite officers. They'll be bringing him here under guard to deliver his message.”

Kelson nodded and turned to Morgan. “You don't suppose Wencit wants to offer terms already, do you?”

“Unlikely, my prince. And if so, they will be terms you could not think of accepting. That's the way the game is played. My guess is that this will be yet another attempt to keep us off balance. Watch what you say to him.”

“Don't worry.”

As the two riders approached, the Gwynedd men parted, and a band of Kelson's crack cavalry fell in with the enemy messenger to escort him up the rise to the king. The man was bareheaded, his manner arrogant and assured as he reined his horse to a halt a few yards away. His jeweled satin surcoat glittered in the sunlight as he bowed slightly in the saddle. He could not have been more than twenty.

“Kelson of Gwynedd?”

“I am he. Speak your message.”

The young man bowed again, an unctuous smile touching his lips. “Torval of Netterhaven, my lord. I bear greetings from my Lord Duke Lionel, kinsman to our king.” He wagged his head toward the party still sitting their horses near the center of the plain. “His Grace comes at the behest of King Wencit to propose terms for the coming battle. He desires that you and a like number of your men ride out to discuss the matter.”

“Indeed?” Kelson said evenly. “And why should I parley with a mere duke? Why should I risk my safety if your king will not do the same? I do not see Wencit there on the plain.”

“Then name another in your stead,” Torval said glibly. “I am to remain hostage until their safe return.”

“I see.” Kelson's tone was glacial, his eyes hard and cold, and he stared pointedly at Torval until the young Torenthi lord was finally obliged to lower his gaze. At that, Kelson glanced at Morgan, at his other commanders, then gathered up his reins.

“Very well, we will parley with your Duke Lionel. Uncle Nigel, you are in command until we return. Morgan, you and Arilan will accompany me to the actual meeting in mid-field. Father Duncan and Warin will ride with us partway with an escort.” He gestured toward two of the riders who had accompanied Torval up the rise. “Sergeant, please relieve the baron of his weapons and then bring him along with us.”

Torval chuckled as he handed over the short dagger at his belt and let himself be surrounded by the two burly cavalrymen, retaining an insolent smile as his guards guided him to follow Kelson and the others down the slope. Kelson's men cheered as he rode by, but the ranks closed and were silent as the party rode out onto the plain.

About four hundred yards out, the group drew rein momentarily, with only Kelson, Morgan, and Arilan continuing out toward the center of the plain. Duncan and Warin remained with the hostage and his guards. Almost immediately, Lionel and Rhydon broke away from their guardian archers and began riding out to meet them. The quiet drumming of the horses' hooves on the turf was the only sound in the still morning air.

Kelson kept his gaze on the pair as they galloped toward him, trying to keep his head erect and his hands steady on the reins. Even so, his hands must have telegraphed his tension to his mount, for the high-strung black warhorse began prancing sideways and curvetting against the bit as the two riders approached. Kelson chanced a look at Morgan to his right, but the Deryni duke's attention seemed riveted on the approaching riders. Arilan, to Kelson's other side, seemed serene and unruffled, his handsome features betraying no hint of emotion. He might almost have been riding to church, so calm was he—or so it appeared.

“Hail, Kelson of Gwynedd!” Rhydon called, giving a slight bow as the two groups met and drew rein. “I was not altogether certain that you would come to treat with us personally. But, no matter. My king sends cordial greetings.”

Arilan stared across at him coldly, a muscle rippling in his clenched jaw. “Guard your tongue, Rhydon. If you are the bearer of greetings, we may be assured that they are not cordial. Your reputation is well-known, as is your master's.”

Rhydon turned in the saddle to bow silkily to Arilan, then gestured gracefully to Lionel as he returned his attention to Kelson. “Allow me to present His Grace the Duke of Arjenol, kinsman to Wencit, as you may be aware—and I am Rhydon of Eastmarch. I know my lord Bishop Arilan from other days of which we dare not speak, so the other man who rides at your side can only be the infamous Alaric Morgan. My master of Torenth sends special greetings to you, Your Grace—and a gift.”

He reached into the front of his tunic and withdrew something which he closed in his leather-covered fist, then touched heels gently to his horse's flanks and moved knee to knee by Morgan's right. As Rhydon held out his hand, Morgan made a tentative probe to be certain no treachery was involved, then let his gaze come to rest on the slowly opening hand.

“I believe this is may be yours,” Rhydon said softly as he revealed a shining mass of silver and chain. “Wencit thought you would like to have it back. He who wore it meant something to you at one time, I think. I fear that the chain is broken.”

Without looking further, Morgan knew what it was that Rhydon held. Wordlessly he stretched out his gloved palm and let Rhydon pour the silver into his own hand, felt the fleeting edge of Derry's essence as his fist closed over the Camber medallion. He allowed himself no trace of emotion in face or voice as he raised his eyes to Rhydon's.

“Is Derry dead?”

“No. However, you may wish him so, if your king proves unreasonable.”

“You threaten us with Derry's safety?” Kelson demanded.

Rhydon chuckled, low, dangerous. “Not precisely, my young friend. We have learned—never mind how—that you hold certain high-ranking prisoners who are of great interest to us. My Lord Wencit is willing to negotiate a trade: your Derry, alive and unharmed, in exchange for our people.”

“I am not aware of any Torenthi prisoners in our midst, are you, Morgan?” Kelson frowned. “To whom are you referring, my lord?”

“Did I say that they were Torenthi? Pray, forgive my imprecision. The prisoners are the Countess of Marley and her young son, the Lord Brendan. The Earl Bran wishes the return of his family.”

Morgan's eyes widened and his heart seemed to rise into his throat, but he dared not look at Kelson. He could sense Kelson's astonishment at the demand, and knew the young king to be momentarily taken aback by it, but he also knew that this must be Kelson's decision, regardless of Morgan's personal involvement. The trade could not be made; Morgan knew that. But
he
could not be the one to seal Derry's death warrant. The young Marcher lord deserved better, even if Morgan could not give it to him.

Morgan's fist tightened around the medallion in his hand—he could feel Kelson's gaze upon him—but he would not permit his stony gaze to shift from Rhydon's face. Kelson shifted uneasily in his saddle, glancing both at Morgan and then Arilan, then returned his gaze to Rhydon once more. Arilan said nothing; he, too, aware that this must be Kelson's decision—and well aware what that decision must be.

“You offer a trade,” Kelson said warily. “Even if we were to consider such an offer, how can we be certain that Derry is still alive and unharmed, as you claim?”