High Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  Nor did it. Before the retreating riders had ridden more than a dozen yards from their meeting place, a sudden flurry of activity boiled up behind the enemy lines. Dozens of sturdy poles were hoisted briskly upright and seated in holes dug to receive them, each pole bearing a stoutly nailed crossbar at the top. Over each arm of the crossbars trailed a rope ending in a noose. As the poles thudded into their sockets, Duncan stood in his stirrups and brought his spyglass to bear, unable to control a gasp as pairs of prisoners in the blue and silver livery of Cassan—scores of them!—were forced to stand up beneath the poles, hands lashed cruelly behind their backs.

  Even as this occurred, a banner was unfurled toward the center of the line: the banner of the Duke of Cassan, Duncan’s father. At the same time, a tall, graying man wearing Cassan’s sleeping lion and roses on his surcoat was prodded up a short platform beneath one of the crossbars, hands bound behind him, and a rope halter was made fast around his neck, his feet also bound. Duncan let out a groan, for it was Duke Jared himself!

  Frozen with horror, Duncan watched as more ropes were secured around the necks of the rest of the men with Jared, two men beneath each pole, and a great cheer erupted from the enemy lines as all the ropes were pulled taut, the prisoners briskly hoisted off their feet to dangle and die. At the same time Duncan saw Morgan, Kelson, and Arilan pausing in the field a few hundred yards away to turn and gape, Kelson’s horse plunging and rearing as he tried to control it.

  A roar of disbelieving rage went up from the massed army of Gwynedd, and the front ranks began to waver. And then three things happened simultaneously. Warin, with a strangled cry of outrage, drew his sword and plunged it into the side of the smirking Lord Torval, striking but an instant ahead of Duncan, whose face had gone savage with the horror of his father’s brutal death.

  Kelson, white-lipped as he tried to control his plunging mount, bolted with Arilan and Morgan for his own lines, frantically signaling Warin and Duncan to retreat.

  But Morgan, after only an instant’s hesitation, wrenched his mount on its haunches and began spurring straight for the retreating Rhydon and Lionel, his drawn sword like lightning in his hand.

  “Derry!” he screamed as he rode, his face gray with helpless rage. Behind him, the front ranks of the royal army were heaving forward, ready to break and attack, but again and again Morgan screamed Derry’s name.

  Derry somehow heard him. At Morgan’s shout, Derry glanced over his shoulder and pulled up to gape openmouthed, instantly assessing the situation: Rhydon and Lionel spurring toward him as they saw him wavering, the bodies jerking at the ends of ropes behind him, and Morgan thundering toward all of that disaster at a dead gallop, sword in fist and shouting defiance.

  At once Derry spun his horse on its haunches and bolted toward Morgan and the Gwynedd lines, instinctively cutting a diagonal slightly away from Rhydon and Lionel. The enemy lords were close—they could not have been more than ten yards behind when Derry turned—and they were closing fast. He saw that Morgan was fast gaining on the heavier Torenthi warhorses, that he was now almost neck and neck with Lionel’s big bay charger; but behind Derry, Rhydon’s mounted archers were nocking arrows to their bowstrings.

  Lionel tried to turn across Derry’s path to block his escape, but Morgan was already abreast of him, yanking his horse’s head to the left and throwing its weight against Lionel’s. Lionel’s horse missed a stride and stumbled, then went down as Morgan’s spurred boot lashed out in a vicious kick.

  Lionel was pitched head over heels as his mount hit the turf, and Morgan thundered on past to gain on Rhydon as Lionel picked himself up and snatched at the reins of his staggering horse. A hail of arrows began to rain down on them from the Torenthi escort. The arrows glanced off harmlessly against the steel helmets and mail hauberks of Morgan and Rhydon, but the horses were unprotected; a chance bolt transfixed Rhydon’s mount through the throat and sent it screaming to its knees.

  Rhydon landed on his feet as the horse collapsed under him, already running toward the now remounted Lionel and waving his arms frantically for the archers to cease fire. But another arrow caught Derry in the back even as Morgan was drawing abreast of him and the archers were lowering their bows. With an oath, Morgan yanked the faltering Derry across his saddle and wheeled to race back toward his own lines. At the same time, Rhydon scrambled up behind Lionel and the pair of them spurred back toward the east. Morgan, with a fearful glance back over his shoulder, could see Rhydon mouthing maledictions as he and Lionel rode for safety. Morgan steadied Derry’s limp form across his saddle and crouched low as he rode for the Gwynedd army.

  But the army was in turmoil, the men milling angrily behind the front lines, naked swords and axes brandished against the noonday sun. In a determined effort to restrain his officers, Kelson was galloping up and down the center of the line, but even he could not be everywhere at once. The troops’ outrage was rising in a roaring crescendo as they angrily shook their weapons at what the treacherous enemy had just done to their comrades.

  “Lower your weapons!” Kelson was shouting. “Hold, I say! Don’t you see? He wants us to attack. Sheathe your weapons! I command you to hold!”

  His words could scarcely be heard against the din. As the lines parted to admit Morgan and the limp Derry, the line to the left began to surge forward of its own accord, its officers no longer able to maintain control. Kelson saw their intention and made one last, futile attempt to order them back, then jerked his horse’s head around and began galloping out ahead of the men. He pulled up short and whirled his black charger in a perfect levade, then dropped the reins as the animal stood stock-still. Standing slightly in the stirrups, he threw back his head and thrust his arms heavenward, pronouncing forbidden words that only the wind heard.

  Light flashed from his fingertips like crimson fire as he thrust his arms upward again, flaring to sear a crimson line of warning in the spring turf. The riders who had broken from the line pulled up in fear and confusion, their crazed horses plunging wildly before the wall of flame that had sprung up where the red fire seared.

  To Kelson’s amazement and relief, the Torenthi lines held behind him. Rhydon, Lionel, and their archer escort had reached the safety of their own lines even as Kelson’s army started to break.

  But Kelson was not concerned with that just now. As he lowered his arms and glared at the men with his proud Haldane eyes, his soldiers managed to bring their terrified mounts under control and sped back to their places in the ranks, trying once more to bring some order out of chaos.

  Quiet descended on both the armies as Kelson spread his arms again and passed his hands palm-down above the fire he had made. The flames died, the seared lines faded away. As he lowered his arms, the crimson aura that had surrounded him like a royal mantle fell away and disappeared, leaving the King of Gwynedd human once more.

  Taut and stiff with repressed anger, Kelson gathered up his reins and turned his head to slowly survey the enemy. Not a sound disturbed the silence save the snorting and blowing of horses and the jingle and creak of harness. Kelson searched them long with his gray Haldane eyes, memorizing every banner, every detail of the awful fruit of the gallows trees.

  Then, after a moment, he turned his face back toward his own army and began riding slowly back to them: regal, meticulous. The deadly silence persisted until he had nearly reached the lines; then a lone sword began beating against a shield in approval—an emphatic commentary that was quickly picked up and echoed by more and more men, until the entire army was vibrating to the music of steel on leather-covered wood and steel.

  Kelson held his head high as he drew rein before them. After a moment he raised one hand for silence. Morgan, the limp form of Derry still held across his saddle, could only stare in amazement, watching in wonder as the royal eyes slowly became fully human once more.

  “Is he dead?” Kelson asked quietly.

  Morgan shook his head and motioned for two men-at-arms to lift Derry down from the saddle. “No, he
’s alive, but the wound is serious. Call Warin, will you, Captain?”

  “See to it,” Kelson said with a nod, returning his glance toward the distant Torenthi army. “Morgan, what think you of the little display that has just been staged for our benefit?”

  Morgan quickly changed mental gears, a little surprised that Kelson could dismiss his own actions so quickly and get back to the heart of the matter.

  “Wencit wished to goad us into battle before we were ready, my prince. And yet, I am not certain he is ready to fight, either. I confess that I do not understand why.”

  “Nor do I—and that was also my impression,” Kelson agreed. He turned in his saddle to glance at Duncan. “Father Duncan, I very much regret what happened to your father—and all those other men of Cassan and Kierney. Are you all right?”

  Duncan raised his head and stared dully at the king for a moment, then nodded slowly. He had sheathed his sword, but his hands were still red with the blood of the hostage he and Warin had slain. He glanced out at the enemy lines, at the dangling bodies, then down at his bloodstained hands.

  “I—I killed that hostage in anger, Sire. It was not my place to do so. I should have stayed my sword.”

  “Not so.” Kelson shook his head solemnly. “You and Warin have saved me the task of killing him myself. Torval knew, when he rode out here, that his life would be forfeit if there was treachery.”

  “Right deed, wrong reason.” Duncan smiled cynically. “That does not make it right for me, my prince.”

  “Perhaps not, but it is forgivable. I would—”

  “Sire! Wencit rides toward us!” a man suddenly gasped.

  Kelson whirled in his saddle, half expecting to see the entire Torenthi horde advancing. Instead, there was only a handful of riders breaking away from the Torenthi lines now: a bannerman bearing Wencit’s leaping hart standard, black on silver; Lionel and Rhydon; a slender, proud figure who could only be Bran Coris; and Wencit himself. The riders advanced at a brisk walk, drawing purposefully toward the center of the field once more. Kelson’s eyes narrowed as he watched the advance.

  “It’s a trap,” Duncan murmured, glaring at the riders through ice-blue eyes. “They wish no parley—only trickery. Do not trust them, Sire.”

  “Morgan, what say you?” Kelson asked, not taking his eyes from the advancing King of Torenth.

  “I agree that they are not to be trusted, my prince. But I fear we must parley again—though I have no more cause than Duncan to love these treacherous foes.”

  “Very well.” Kelson nodded. “Bishop Arilan, will you ride out with me again? I value your counsel.”

  “I will, Sire.”

  “Good. And Father Duncan—I value your counsel as well, and would desire your company, but I shall not command you, under the circumstances. Can you keep your righteous wrath in check for a while longer?”

  “I’ll not disgrace you, my prince.”

  “Then let us ride. Nigel, you are in command until I return.”

  “As you will, Sire.”

  Kelson wrapped his reins around his left hand, then glanced aside to where a young baron on foot held the royal lion banner. With a grim smile, Kelson sidestepped his horse toward the man, then reached out a gloved hand and closed his fist around the staff. The baron froze for just an instant, then broke into a wide grin and hefted the end of the standard up to rest in Kelson’s stirrup. As Kelson steadied the standard at his right side, a cheer went up among his men, and the morning breeze picked up the crimson silk and spread it in the sun.

  Then, with the lion banner snapping in the rising breeze, Kelson turned his horse toward the enemy and touched spurs to his mount. The great black warhorse minced and pranced as it led Morgan, Duncan, and the Bishop Arilan out to meet the Deryni enemy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “They shall hold the bow and the lance: they are cruel, and will not shew mercy: their voice shall roar like the sea, and they shall ride upon horses, every one put in array, like a man to the battle, against thee.”

  JEREMIAH 50:42

  “SO, you are Kelson Haldane,” Wencit said. His voice was smooth, cultured, his manner supremely confident, and Kelson instantly despised him.

  “It pleases me that we can discuss the matter at hand in a civilized fashion, like two grown men,” Wencit continued, eyeing Kelson up and down disdainfully. “Or, nearly grown.”

  Kelson would not permit himself the luxury of the scathing retort he longed to unleash. Instead, he made himself return his enemy’s scrutiny, gray eyes noting every aspect of the lean, red-haired Deryni known as Wencit of Torenth.

  Wencit sat his great golden steed as though born in the saddle, gloved hands lightly holding wide velvet reins embellished with burnished golden bosses. A frothy purple plume fastened in the headstall of the golden bridle trembled and floated on the breeze as the golden charger shook its head and snorted at Kelson’s black.

  Wencit himself was attired all in gold and purple, every part of his body save his head either encased in gilt-washed mail or adorned with cloth of gold or the rich purple and gold brocade of the mantle that swirled from his jeweled gold collar. Gem-studded wrist guards met supple kidskin gloves on his hands, and a heavy neck chain lay aglitter on the breast of his golden surcoat. His brow bore an ornate coronet of chased gold set with pearls and tawny-colored gems. On any other man, the cumulative effect might have seemed ludicrous, but on Wencit it but underlined his potency.

  Almost, Kelson felt himself beginning to respond to the sheer visual presence of the man seated on the warhorse before him, and he forced himself to shake the feeling, drawing himself a little straighter and lifting his chin. Coolly he permitted his gaze to touch on Wencit’s companions: the unctuous Lionel, the scowling Rhydon, traitor Bran, who would not meet his eyes just yet. Then he returned his full attention to Wencit. His eyes were flint-hard as he met the sorcerer’s gaze, and he did not flinch at the contact.

  “I assume, by your statement, that you consider yourself a civilized man,” Kelson said carefully. “On the other hand, the brutal killing of scores of helpless prisoners hardly seems calculated to demonstrate any high degree of civilization.”

  “No, it was not,” Wencit agreed amiably enough. “But it was calculated to demonstrate the extent to which I would go, if necessary, to ensure that you carefully consider the proposal I am about to make to you.”

  “Proposal?” Kelson snorted contemptuously. “Surely you don’t think I’m of a mind to bargain, after the brutality I have just witnessed. What kind of a fool do you take me for?”

  “Oh, not a fool,” Wencit laughed. “Not the son of Brion Haldane. Nor am I so witless as to underestimate the threat you pose to me, even though you are contending outside your class. It is almost a pity that you shall have to die.”

  “Until that is an accomplished fact, I suggest that you turn your words to other topics. Say what you have to say, Wencit. The day grows later.”

  Wencit smiled and bowed slightly in the saddle. “Tell me, how is my young friend, Lord Derry?”

  “How should he be?”

  Wencit clucked his tongue in disapproval and shook his head. “Now, young Haldane, please give me credit for a little intelligence. Why would I have ordered Derry’s death? He was the token I had hoped to play for the recovery of my Lord Bran’s family. I assure you, the archers acted wholly without my orders and have been punished. Is Derry alive?”

  “That is not your concern,” Kelson answered curtly.

  “Then, he lives. That is well.” Wencit nodded. He smiled lightly, glancing down at his gloves, then looked up at Kelson again. “Very well, what I have come to say is this: So far as I am concerned, there need be no great battle between our respective armies. Men need not die in masses for us to settle our differences.”

  Kelson’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Just what did you have in mind as an alternative?”

  “Personal combat,” Wencit replied. “Or, to be more specific, personal combat o
n a group level: a duel to the death by magic, Deryni against Deryni. Myself, Rhydon, Lionel, and Bran against you and any other three whom you may designate. I would assume that Morgan and McLain and perhaps your royal uncle would be your logical choice—but of course, you are free to choose whomever you wish. In ancient days, such combat was called the Duel Arcane.”

  Kelson scowled and glanced at Morgan, then at Arilan and Duncan. He was suddenly uneasy at Wencit’s proposal, and the notion of another Duel Arcane filled him with dread; the one with Charissa had been bad enough. There was a trick involved, there had to be. He must discover what it was.

  “Your advantage in such a contest is obvious, my lord. You and yours are trained Deryni; most of us are not. And yet, even with these advantages, it does not strike me that you are the sort of man to risk so much on one battle. What is it that you neglect to tell me?”

  “Do you suspect me of subterfuge?” Wencit asked, raising an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “Well, perhaps you are well-advised. But I had thought the other advantages of such a resolution would be quite clear. If we join battle here, army against army, the flower of knighthood from both our sides will be destroyed. Of what use to me is a dead kingdom? A kingdom inhabited only by old men, young boys, women and children.”

  Kelson eyed the enemy king shrewdly. “I have no more wish than you to lose my finest fighting men in battle. If we fight here today, the impact will be felt for a generation to come. But I cannot trust you, Wencit of Torenth. Even if I defeat you here, who is to say what next spring will bring? Who is—”

  Wencit threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoed lightly by his companions. Kelson shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, for he was not aware that he had said anything particularly amusing. But one glance at Morgan convinced him that the general knew. He was about to say something when Wencit suddenly stopped laughing and moved his horse a few steps closer.