Kelson found the Deryni duke at the head of the main column astride a great white destrier, with Duncan, Nigel, and Bishop Cardiel gathered at his side. Morgan was questioning a frightened-looking scout on a bay rouncy, who seemed barely able to keep his skittish mount in check. Beyond, half a dozen more horsemen milled in a tight circle, churning up dust, their leather jerkins and badges identifying them as scouts of the same unit as the man with Morgan. The Deryni general looked annoyed as he talked to the scout, and Cardiel was fidgeting nervously with the ends of his reins.
Only Nigel nodded greeting as Kelson joined them. The king noted with a shock that Duncan was fingering the tattered remnants of a bloodstained battle pennon with the crimson roses and sleeping lion of Clan McLain. Wordlessly he kneed his mount closer to Morgan, his eyebrows lifting in question.
“I am not able to tell you what has happened, my prince,” Morgan said, curbing his horse sharply as it reached out to nip at Kelson’s black. “Apparently someone has left us a none-too-subtle warning on the other side of the rise. Dobbs brought back that banner,” he gestured toward the silk in Duncan’s hands, “but he seems reluctant to say much about it. I think we’d better investigate.”
“Do you think it’s a trap?” Kelson asked, shivering as he glanced again at the banner. “Dobbs, what did you see out there?”
Dobbs chanced a furtive look at his king, then gathered his reins more tightly in his fist and crossed himself with a shudder.
“God hae mercy on ’em, Sire, it—I cannae speak of it,” he whispered, his voice rasping in his throat. “It was hideous, obscene. Sire, let us be away from this place now, while we still may! We cannae fight an enemy what would do this to its foes!”
“Let’s go,” Morgan said, shaking his head firmly to cut off further protests.
With an impatient yank at the bit, Morgan whirled his mount and urged it up the near side of the rise, followed closely by Kelson, Duncan, and the others. At the top, Warin and two of his lieutenants were already waiting. Bishop Arilan was with them, standing in his stirrups to stare out over the plain, and Warin nodded curtly as the others drew rein beside him.
“Something is very wrong, Sire,” he said in a low voice, nodding toward the plain stretching before them. “Look at the kites and the hawks circling. There are some of them on the ground as well. I do not like it.”
As Kelson followed Warin’s gaze, a gasp escaped his lips. Out on the plain, perhaps half a mile away, he could see what appeared to be a band of armed men standing at attention amid a cluster of low brush. The men cast long, lean shadows in the late afternoon sun, and the sunlight turned their armor and helmets to a ruddy gold.
But he could see no movement save for the ceaseless wheeling of the carrion birds. As Kelson squinted against the sinking sun he could make out more of the birds, gorged and bloated, waddling drunkenly among the men standing there—and no man moved. Farther to the west, yet more of the carrion eaters darkened the sky above the small ravine where Kelson’s scouts had first reported activity. It required little effort to imagine what was going on in the ravine, and Kelson ducked his head and swallowed visibly.
“Are—are all the banners ours?” he asked in a small voice.
One of Warin’s lieutenants closed a spyglass and gave a curt nod. “Aye, Sire—an’ they’re all dead. Or at least I hope they are,” he added in a lower voice, choking back an involuntary sob.
“Enough of this,” Morgan said, momentarily taking command. “Wencit has left us a grisly message—that much is clear. The extent of that message remains to be read. Nigel, signal an escort to join us. The rest of you, come with me.”
With that he touched spurs to his mount and began cantering down the slope, Duncan and the bishops falling in behind. Kelson glanced hesitantly at Nigel, who seemed to be waiting for some confirmation from his royal nephew, who nodded and then fell in behind Morgan and the others. Warin rode down the shallow slope at his side, as Nigel turned to summon the required escort. Though the beginning of their ride was brisk enough, the horses slowed as they drew near the gory scene, for the stench of death was heavy in the air. Several of the horses shied as the great, gorged carrion birds took wing and deserted their feast.
The fate of the men beneath the circling birds now became all too clear. The men wore the blue, silver, and crimson of Kierney and Cassan—Duncan’s house—and each had been impaled upon a narrow wooden stake set firmly into the ground, driving the sharpened point of the stake upward into the body cavity. Several of the bodies—those originally protected by less armor than the others—had been almost completely devoured by the carrion eaters. The air reeked with the stench of sun-ripened flesh and bird droppings.
Kelson blanched whiter than the egret feather that trembled in the badge on his cap, and the others were pale and silent as they drew rein. Duncan shook his head and closed his eyes against the gory sight, and even Warin reeled in the saddle, as though he might faint away at any second.
Cardiel pulled a square of white linen from his sleeve and pressed it hard against his nose and mouth for a long moment, obviously fighting a rebellious stomach, then turned dull eyes on Kelson.
“Sire—” Cardiel’s voice choked, and he had to begin again.
“Sire, what manner of man could do such a thing to fellow creatures? Has such a man no soul? Does he summon demons from the black reaches to serve him with magic?”
Kelson shook his head bitterly. “Not magic, Bishop,” he whispered. “This is human horror, calculated to terrify far more than any mere magic Wencit could leave us at this distance.”
“But, why this?”
Morgan curbed his skittish horse and swallowed with an effort. “Wencit knows human fears,” he said in a low voice. “To see our own, maimed and mutilated unto death like this—what greater horror can there be for fighting men? The man who conceived this—”
“No mere man—a Deryni!” Warin spat, jerking his horse around to glare at Morgan. “One who is Deryni and deranged! Sire”—his eyes flashed a fanatic fire that Kelson had thought to see quenched forever—” you see now what the Deryni are capable of! No human lord would have visited such wrath upon an enemy. It was a Deryni who has done this thing! I told you that they were not to be trust—”
“Hold your tongue!” Kelson snapped, cutting him off. “I do not condone such an act, but there is ample historical precedent among humans for such atrocity—much to all our shame. You are not to bring up the Deryni matter for the duration. Is that clear?”
“Sire!” Warin began indignantly. “You wrong me. I never meant that you—”
“His Majesty knows what you meant,” Arilan said wearily, shifting his weight in his saddle and scanning the scene before them. “What is more important at this point, however, is that…”
His voice trailed off thoughtfully as he glanced again at the impaled corpses, and he suddenly shifted his cloak to the horse’s near side and swung down to the ground. As the others watched uncomprehendingly, the bishop approached the nearest corpse and pulled aside a fold of its cloak. After a reflective pause, he moved to another one and repeated the process. His head was cocked in consternation as he turned back to Kelson and the others, who still watched from their horses, mystified.
“Sire, would you come here a moment? This is very odd.”
“Come and look at dead men? Arilan, I don’t need to see them closer. They’re dead, horribly murdered. Is that not enough?”
Arilan shook his head. “No, I do not think it is. Morgan, Duncan, come with him, if you please. I believe these men were dead before they were placed here—and likely not from impaling. Perhaps they even died in battle. All of them have massive wounds, but there is very little blood.”
Exchanging puzzled glances, Morgan and Duncan dismounted and joined the Deryni bishop, Kelson scurrying after them. Nigel and an armed escort thundered down the slope from the army, drawing up in horror as they saw what lay before them. On the rise in the background, more of Kels
on’s officers were gathering on the crest, curious as to what was happening on the plain below. As Nigel swung down from his horse, Arilan beckoned him to join them and pointed to a third body.
“Look at this. Now I am certain they did not die here. Many of the wounds do not even match the blood and rents on the clothing. They may even have had their uniforms changed to make them look better at a distance. For that matter,” he started to remove the helmet of the next man, “some of these men might not even be our—”
As he tugged at the helmet, he gave a sudden, horrified gasp as it came away empty in his hands. The corpse that had borne the helmet was headless, with a blackened stump of neck extending where the head should have been.
Arilan attempted to cover his consternation by moving on to the next corpse, but removal of this helmet produced the same result: another headless body. With a muffled curse, Arilan moved to another and another yet, each time knocking empty helmets from headless shoulders. In fury he turned away from the others and slammed a fist into an open palm.
“Damn them all to eternal perdition! I knew him ruthless, but I did not think even Wencit capable of this!”
“This—this is Wencit’s work?” Nigel managed to stammer, swallowing down bile as he surveyed the carnage.
“So we must assume,” Arilan murmured.
Nigel shook his head in disbelief. “My God, there must be half a hundred men here.” He had to struggle to choke back a sob. “And I would be willing to wager that every one of them is headless. These men were our friends, our comrades in arms. Why, we don’t even know who they are! We—”
He broke off and turned away abruptly to bury his face in one gloved hand, and Kelson dared a quick look at Morgan. Other than the nervous clenching and unclenching of gloved fists, the Deryni duke was standing impassively, showing no outward sign of emotion. Duncan, too, was controlling his anguish well—though at what cost, Kelson could not even begin to guess, for they had believed these to be Cassani and Kierney men, Duncan’s own.
Morgan must have sensed Kelson’s eyes upon him then, for at that moment he looked up, brushing Kelson’s shoulder in reassurance as he moved past to confront the rest of the company.
“A burial detail will be required, gentlemen—no, a funeral pyre. There is no time to bury this many men. Someone must see to the ones across the plain, in the ravine, too. Sire,” he turned slightly toward the king, “what is your feeling about informing the men what has happened?”
“They must be told.”
“I agree,” Morgan said with a nod. “And I think we must stress that these men were dead before they were brought here; that in all likelihood, they died in honorable battle—not spitted like so many wild animals.”
“That should give some measure of comfort,” Arilan agreed, “yet still remind them why we are fighting—and the measures a ruthless enemy may take to achieve his ends.”
Kelson nodded, his composure returning. “Very well. Uncle Nigel, have your men take them down and prepare a funeral pyre.”
Nigel nodded agreement.
“And Warin, if you and such of your men as you feel necessary would attend to the others in the ravine…”
Warin bowed stiffly in the saddle. “As you wish, Sire.”
“Bishop Arilan, Bishop Cardiel—there will be no time for proper services just now, but perhaps you and your brethren can say a few words while the men prepare the pyres. And if any of you should find any indication of the identities of the victims, I—I should like to be informed. It is difficult, I know, without the heads, but—” He shuddered and averted his face slightly. “Please do what you can.”
With his head lowered, Kelson walked briskly back to his horse, turning the animal’s head as he mounted so that he would not have to look for even a second longer at the terrible sight he was leaving. As he cantered up the slope alone to rejoin his other generals and bishops, Arilan watched him go, watched Warin and his men start toward the ravine with Cardiel, watched the men of Nigel’s escort dismount and begin the grisly task of laying the slaughtered men to rest. As the soldiers spread through the ranks of the dead to gently lift each man to the ground, Arilan moved slowly to where Morgan and Duncan stood watching dumbly, coming between them to lay a comforting arm across the shoulder of each.
“Our young king is sorely troubled, my friends, as am I,” he said in a low voice, watching with morbid fascination as the soldiers slowly cleared a path in the terrible forest of stakes. “How do you think this will affect him in the days to come?”
Morgan snorted and crossed his arms across his chest. “You have a talent for asking questions I cannot answer, Bishop. How will any of us react? Do you know what worries me more than this?”
Arilan shook his head, and Duncan looked at him in apprehension.
“Well,” Morgan continued in a low voice, “for now these are just bodies—horribly defiled, I will grant you, but still only bodies. For all we know, they could be dead Torenthi soldiers dressed in captured Cassani livery—though I doubt it.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed.
“But somewhere, someone knows who those men really are. The bodies may be here, but the heads are somewhere else—and I dread what may happen when we find those heads.”
THEIR departure from that place was delayed yet another hour while the funeral pyres were lit, and then each column of soldiers must make its final salute as it passed the smoking pyres of the dead men. There had been rumblings among the ranks as the news of the slaughter spread, and the expected fears and speculations as to the identities of both victims and perpetrators. But in all, the army had taken the incident in stride. None could now question the evil of Wencit of Torenth, who could condone such atrocities upon a vanquished enemy—even if the mutilations had been done after the men were dead. Such a man deserved no mercy from the King of Gwynedd. When battle was joined in the morning, it was certain to be hard and bloody.
So the army had marched on, leaving in its wake two smoldering beacons whose greasy smoke spiralled upward in an ever-widening swath of black against the sky. They encountered no further harassment as they went, perhaps because the enemy had deemed the spectacle of the previous hour sufficient; or perhaps they were merely saving their strength for the battle in the morning.
Whatever their reason, Kelson was glad of it as they reached their final campsite, for darkness was falling. The day had been long and grueling, the past hours emotionally draining. The army would need all of the rest they could get.
It took nearly three hours to make camp, but finally Kelson was sufficiently satisfied with the camp’s defenses to retire to his tent for a light supper. Morgan, Duncan, and Nigel joined him, but they kept the tone light all through the meal, none of them wishing to discuss the day in detail. After the last glasses of wine had been poured, Kelson stood and held his goblet aloft, the others rising as well.
“Gentlemen, I give you a final toast. To the loyal dead—and to victory: may it come tomorrow to the just!”
“And to the King!” Nigel added quickly, before Kelson could raise the cup to his lips. “Long may he reign!”
“To victory and the King!” the others repeated, and tossed off their drinks.
Kelson allowed himself a wan smile, then raised his own cup and drank, finally setting it on a small table and sinking back into his chair. He glanced at each of them wearily, then shook his head and sighed.
“If any of you are half as tired as I am…” He sighed again. “But, no matter. We all have further duties to attend to. Morgan, may I ask a favor of you?”
“Certainly, my prince.”
Kelson nodded. “I should like you to see the Lady Richenda and inform her what has happened today—without elaborating on the graphic details, of course. She is a very refined lady. Tell her that I shall think no less of her if she chooses not to try appealing to her husband tomorrow.”
“From what I have heard,” Duncan said with a wry chuckle, “he will have his hands full convincing her of that.
The Lady Richenda may be a very refined lady, but she seems to me a very stubborn one.”
Kelson smiled. “So I have come to suspect. But I cannot fault her when that stubbornness is for the Crown. Morgan, try to make her understand what we are up against. I have no right to ask her assistance under the circumstances. I shouldn’t even have allowed her to come.”
“I shall do my best, my prince,” Morgan agreed.
“Thank you. Now, Uncle Nigel, I wonder if you would come with me to look over the northernmost defenses. I am not convinced that they are adequate, and I should like your opinion.”
As Kelson pulled out several maps to show to his uncle and went on with his briefing, Morgan took his leave and slipped out of the royal pavilion. Kelson’s request both pleased and troubled him, for he had not been at all certain it was wise to seek out Richenda of Marley again—not after their all too brief but emotionally potent meeting at Dhassa.
A part of him, of course, positively yearned to see her again; but another, more cautious part of him—a part which, he strongly suspected, was closely bound up with his personal sense of honor—that part warned him to stay away, warned that no honor could come of permitting himself to become more emotionally involved with another man’s wife—especially if he might have to kill that man on the morrow.
But now the matter had been taken out of his hands. He had been given an order by his king, and he must obey. Pushing aside a curious sense of elation at being thus forced to circumvent the proddings of his conscience, he made his way through the camp until he came to Bishop Cardiel’s compound.
The bishop had not yet returned, was probably overseeing troop placement with Warin and Arilan somewhere, but the bishop’s guards passed the King’s Champion unchallenged. Very shortly Morgan was moving across the torchlit common before the Countess of Marley’s bright blue tent. Torches blazed to either side of the entry-way, but he could see through the open flap that the interior was lit by the softer glow of candles.
High Deryni Page 31
