When Duncan only turned his face away, welcoming the rough caress of the bark against his cheek, he could sense Gorony’s disappointment. Battling the merasha-enhanced despair beginning to well in his mind, he tried to distance himself from what was about to happen. His torturers spent what seemed like hours testing their scourges on the ground behind him, making sure he heard the whistle of the leather rending the air and the dead snap the weighted thongs made as they struck the ground, but all too soon they paused.
Only a prior scourging could have prepared him for what came next. Even though he was expecting it, the first actual stroke of the lash caught him totally unready for the agony it produced. Biting back his first cry of pain and shock, he clenched his fists and tried to grind his raw fingertips against the rough bark of the stake, hoping to dull the new pain with an older, better tolerated one. It did not help.
Each individual thong of the scourge laid a fiery welt across his back, blotting out all other sensory input—and there were two scourgers. His torturers never seemed to tire. After the first half-dozen lashes, blood began to run, mingling with the sweat pouring from his pain-wracked body; and after a few more, time began to blur as well.
He sagged more and more heavily against his chains as the scourging continued, no longer able to see for the pain. His wrists were numb and slick with his blood, but that was as nothing compared to what they were doing to his back. He had heard of men being flayed to the bone by the scourge. Perhaps he would die. Loris would never break his spirit with the scourge, but facing the fire was a different kind of trial.
“He can’t take much more,” he heard Sicard say to Loris, the words only barely filtering through his agony. “Unless, of course, you prefer a cremation to an execution.”
“He is stronger than you think,” came Loris’ cold reply, as another stroke drove Duncan even nearer the brink of blessed oblivion. “Still, I would not cheat the fire of its living sacrifice. Gorony?”
The scourging ceased. As the half-fainting Duncan stirred feebly, trying to get his feet under him again, rough hands seized his biceps and supported him while someone unlocked his wrists. His hands throbbed worse than before as circulation returned, but when they turned him and set his back hard against the stake, stretching his arms behind him to embrace its rough surface against his flayed flesh, he knew that all his previous pain had been but prelude. The metallic click of the shackles locking around his wrists was underlined by the clank of the chains Gorony then began winding across his chest, binding him to the stake so that even the fire would never release his body from the fate Loris had determined should be his. He tried to ride with the pain, tried to will himself to succumb to it, to pass into blessed unconsciousness, but he lacked sufficient control.
As the men set bundles of faggots closer around his feet, filling in most of the opening they had left for access to the stake, Duncan’s sight grew preternaturally clear. Now there would be no new pain until the flames. Beyond Loris and Gorony, he saw and noted many of the men who had turned against him and the Haldane cause in the past six months: Grigor of Dunlea, a powerful neighbor of the traitor Brice of Trurill and old Caulay MacArdry.
Old Caulay was dead, of course—though he never would have forsaken his oath to the Haldane kings. Loyal and steadfast Caulay, who had raised Dhugal as his own son. Duncan swallowed hard at the realization that he would never see Dhugal again, and prayed that the boy had gotten to safety.
And then there were Tibald MacErskine and Cormac Hamberlyn, two of the border chieftains of his own vassalage who stood to gain by his death—and an outlaw from his own border regions called O Daire.
And Sicard MacArdry, kinsman to his son and husband of his enemy, and Kelson’s enemy, standing with armored forearms crossed on his chest and a look of distaste on his bearded face.
Fire caught Duncan’s attention then, far out at the periphery of his vision—a torch in the hands of a cowled man approaching slowly from the direction of Loris’ tent. Against his will, Duncan found his eyes locking on the flame in horrid fascination, unable to look away even when the man passed the torch to Loris’ gloved hand.
An awed hush fell upon the assembly then, for it was not often that the Church burned a priest and bishop, though Deryni aplenty had burned in the past. The silence was so profound that Duncan could hear the hiss and crackle of the burning brand as Loris approached, holding the torch aloft like the crozier that was his usual accoutrement. The prelate’s cross on his breast reflected both heat and light as he stopped within an arm’s length of his prisoner and looked him up and down.
“Well, well, dear Duncan, we have come to an ending at last, haven’t we?” he said, so softly that only Duncan could hear him. “It is not yet too late to confess your sins, you know. I still can save you.”
Duncan shook his head carefully.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Ah, then you prefer to go to your death unshriven and excommunicate,” Loris said, raising an eyebrow in mocking agreement. “I had hoped that mortification of the flesh might help you to master your pride and to repent.” His expression hardened. “Tell me, Deryni, have you ever seen a man burn?”
Duncan shivered despite the heat of the day and the menace of the flame in Loris’ hand, but he was determined not to allow his tormentor the satisfaction of any further response. Turning his head slightly away, he raised his gaze to the line of sun-glazed hills stretched across the eastern horizon. The bright rim of the rising sun dazzled his eyes as he fixed his attention on it, helping him turn his mind away from awful memories and the knowledge of what lay ahead for him.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help, he thought dully.
“Well, I can tell you that burning is not a pleasant way to die,” Loris went on. “And I can make it less pleasant, still. You will note that the kindling is set to burn very slowly, giving your body ample time to taste the full torment of these earthly flames before your soul must face the flames of Hell. It will be more terrible than you can even contemplate. But I could be merciful.…”
Duncan swallowed dry-mouthed and closed his eyes briefly, but the afterimage of the sun-rim persisted, presaging the fire to come, and he shifted back to physical vision almost immediately.
My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.…
“Yes, I could be merciful,” Loris repeated. “If you will recant your heresies, and denounce your cursed Deryni powers, I could see that the fire is quick and hot. And for the additional favor of giving me the information I desire on Kelson’s whereabouts, I could be more merciful still.”
As he glanced back at the men knotted around Sicard and gave a nod, Tibald MacErskine drew his dirk. The harsh rasp of metal against metal as it left the sheath called to Duncan, promising release, but he knew he dared not buy his body’s ease at the cost of betrayal, either of his own conscience or of the faith he kept and would always keep with his king.
“Look you. His blade is sharp,” Loris whispered, as Tibald came to join them. “See how it flashes in the sun, in the light of the flame.…”
As Tibald brought the blade to eye level before him and turned it, smiling obscenely, Duncan found himself watching with horrible fascination, squinting as the torchlight dazzled his sight.
“Yes, the fire is hot, but the release of steel is sweet,” Loris whispered, taking the weapon in his own free hand.
As he set it gently against Duncan’s throat, letting the flat of the blade lie cool and seductive across the pulse point, Duncan closed his eyes, trembling.
So easy to succumb. So easy.…
“It would be very easy, Duncan,” Loris’ voice purred on. “Very little pain. Far less than you have already suffered. They say that a tiny nick, just here, behind the ear.…”
He felt the momentary pressure of the metal like a caress, though flat-bladed still, but even that was withdrawn before he could have leaned into it. The heat of the torch beat upon his clo
sed eyelids, leaving the brief memory of the cool blade the sweeter still.
Oh, blessed Jesu, have pity on Your servant! came his quick and desperate prayer.
“What, so eager?” Loris whispered, stroking the flat of the blade across his throat again. “Ah, but it would be a welcome exchange, wouldn’t it, Duncan? The quick mercy of the blade balanced against the fire. Why, even in your weakened state, you could surely manage that, before the flames reached you. If you tell me what I wish to know, I will give you your mercy.”
YOU could manage.…
Duncan forced his eyes to open as the trap suddenly became apparent, even to his dulled senses. Loris had tried to lure him to a far more lasting torment than the fire. It was not the coup de grâce Loris offered him—the stroke of mercy, to spare the recipient further agony. The alternative Loris offered to death by fire was death by Duncan’s own hand—which would carry far heavier consequences than mere death of his body when he stood before God’s judgment in the hereafter.
Nor, even if Duncan were fool enough to accept the terms, was there any guarantee that Loris would keep his part of the bargain. Did Loris really think he would betray his conscience and his king so that he might be permitted to commit the mortal sin of suicide?
“Ah, so you don’t care for my little offer,” Loris said, shaking his head in mock regret as he gave the dirk back to Tibald. “Well, I don’t suppose I ever really thought you would. I do have a care for your soul, though—if Deryni even have souls, of course. And even if suicide is not among your faults, I am sure you will welcome the time to contemplate your other sins. The fire will take a long time to kill you.
“And that is all to the good of your immortal soul,” he went on, as he began slowly backing off. “Your body, of course—”
He gestured with the torch, the fire passing so near a bit of brush-kindling that Duncan caught his breath in horror.
“But, you have surely seen others purified by the flame,” Loris continued. “The blackened, twisted forms—the hands contorted into claws as the heat contracts the muscles. Of course, you may be dead by the time that begins to happen.…”
Duncan’s imagination began filling in its own gruesome details long before Loris reached the edge of the kindling and his voice fell silent. As the fiery torch sank lower and lower in Loris’ hand, finally setting the first edges of brush alight, a roar went up from the watching men. They rattled swords and spears against shields in approval as Loris trailed the torch slowly around the outer perimeter and the flames spread to follow in his wake.
All but despairing, Duncan wrenched his gaze above the growing flames and concentrated on the hills beyond, praying that he might be granted the grace to die as well as Henry Istelyn—steadfast and true, faithful unto death to himself, his king, and his God.
Judge me, O Lord; for I have walked in mine integrity: I have trusted also in the Lord; therefore I shall not slide. Examine me, O Lord, and prove me; try my reins and my heart.…
And his trying would be ruthless, Duncan knew—deadly, at least to his body. The flames leaped ever higher, beginning to eat toward him, but the heat that drove Loris and his minions back with its intensity would not reach him for some time—perhaps as long as half an hour. Not hot enough to kill, at any rate. He could feel the sting of sweat drenching his lacerated back, streaming down his limbs, but that was as much from his nerves and the beating sun as from the fire.
In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; let me never be ashamed: deliver me in thy righteousness. Bow down thine ear to me; deliver me speedily.… Into thine hand I commit my spirit: Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth.…
Beyond the flames, Sicard and his officers began returning to their units and preparing to move out, cavalry and foot bristling with lances and pikes and bows as they formed up, mounted scouts already scattering to the west to reconnoiter.
The camp had nearly disappeared around him, even Loris’ tent all but dismantled as his men packed the canvas onto sumpter mules. Farther out, the white-clad episcopal knights were mounted already, the mettlesome battle chargers fidgeting and anxious at the flames leaping up ever stronger around the condemned Duke of Cassan.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.… The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.…
So rapt was Duncan in his devotion that he did not even notice, at first, that the light of the eastern sky had begun to reflect from the points of hundreds of lances, or that the eastern glare masked the steady approach of Haldane banners.
But Sicard noticed—and Loris. And as their officers began bawling frantic orders to arm and mount, the dust of the Haldane advance roiled on the plain like the coming of an avenging angel.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering and to conquer.
—Revelations 6:2–3
“A Haldane!”
Suddenly the hills to south and east were abristle with lances and raised swords, the Haldane host streaming down onto the plain of Dorna to sweep the Mearan army before them, crimson banners flying. Through the flames rising higher around him, Duncan was dully aware of the Mearan panic and its cause, but that knowledge was a thing apart, a theoretical change of circumstances touching him hardly at all; because he knew the flames would reach him before his rescuers could.
Around the pyre, the Mearan forces so recently drawn up to watch him burn were milling in confusion and panic, their composure not aided by Loris, shaking a crozier at the attacking Haldane forces and screaming for a horse. White-surcoated ecclesiastical knights boiled around the renegade archbishop as one was brought, but their greathorses, skittish with battle fever, only made it more difficult for Loris to mount, and he ranted at them while Gorony tried to rally the Connaiti mercenaries.
The secular levies were somewhat better disported, for Sicard commanded with a logic unheated by the passions that had impelled Loris, but even with his reasoned direction, some of the Mearan levies milled in confusion as their officers tried to order them for a counteroffensive. Ragged formations were beginning to charge across the plain to intercept the attacking Haldanes, but isolated bands were already fleeing in disorder, streaming westward along the only avenue of escape not already menaced by Haldane attackers.
None of it was to Edmund Loris’ liking—and even less, the possibility that his victim might yet escape his vengeance. Cursing and muttering in his mitre-crowned helm, he yanked his horse’s head around and gigged it with his spurs, forcing it nearer the flames, and pointed his crozier at the half-fainting Duncan as if he wished it could strike him dead.
“God damn you, Duncan McLain!” he shouted above the crackle of flames and the din of battle being joined. “God damn you to eternal Hell!”
The sound of his name roused Duncan a little from his pain-dulled stupor, but lifting his head toward Loris only made the horror of his situation all the more terrifying. The flames leaped ever higher as they ate at the edge of the pyre, their heat an increasingly stifling oppression threatening to choke him even before the fire could consume his flesh. Beyond the fire and the white-clad renegade archbishop, the glad, welcome sight of Haldane and Cassani banners fighting their way toward him only taunted, for he knew they could never reach him in time. He tried to believe they would, and to shutter off his fear—as he had done so many times in the past half-day—but the merasha in his body still raveled his concentration. Dully he watched as Gorony returned to Loris’ side, two nervous episcopal knights in attendance.
“Excellency, we must flee!” he dimly heard Gorony shout, as the priest kneed his mount into the side of Loris’. “Leave McLain! Let the flames do their work.”
Stubbornly Loris shook his head, the blue eyes blazing with the single-minded fanaticism that had brought all of them to this event.
“No! It burns too slowly! They will save him. He must die!”
“Then, put an e
nd to him some other way!” Gorony begged, signalling his episcopal knights to throw themselves between Loris and the first Haldane attackers now beginning to penetrate the former Mearan campsite. “We must be away, or they will take us!”
Shaking with indecision, Loris stared through the flames at Duncan, his hate distorting his reason even as the heat distorted his vision. The sounds of battle crashed ever nearer, but Loris did not seem to hear.
“Fight through to the duke!” Duncan heard someone cry, from beyond the pyre’s opposite perimeter.
“Save the bishop!” someone else shouted hoarsely.
Face contorting with rage, Loris pointed his crozier toward the nearest of the Connaiti mercenaries still remaining in the immediate area.
“Archers, I want him dead!” he screamed, ignoring the pleas of Gorony and other of his episcopal knights to come away to safety. “Kill him now! I will not leave until he is dead!”
Instantly three of the men detached themselves from their fellows and began working their way to Loris’ side, drawing deadly little recurve bows from saddle cases.
“Kill him!” Loris ordered, gesturing toward the feebly struggling Duncan as the archers drew rein before him. “Slay him where he stands. We cannot wait for the flames to finish him!”
“Your Excellency, you must come away!” Gorony muttered, again sidling his horse closer to Loris’ snorting stallion, this time close enough to seize the near rein. “Let them do their work. You must not be taken.”
Loris jerked the rein out of Gorony’s grasp.
“No! I will see him dead!”
The end was very near now. Duncan knew it as surely as he knew Loris would pay for what he had done—though Duncan would not be there to see it. As the flames leaped higher, smoke stinging his eyes, and the heat began to scorch at his bare legs, he watched the archers fitting feathered death to bowstrings, trying to hold fire-skittish horses steady with knees and legs as they maneuvered close enough to take aim.
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