High Deryni (38 page)

“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.

“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 on 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.

“Forgive me, young prince, but your naïveté is touching. I offered a four-way battle to the death. Under those circumstances, the losers would hardly be in any position to threaten the victors—unless, of course, you believe that some men can return from the grave.”

Kelson scowled at that, for far more bizarre things had been hinted about Wencit of Torenth over the years. But then he forced himself to dismiss the thought and return to what Wencit had actually proposed: a duel to the death by magic. His hesitation apparently did not set well with the Torenthi king, however, for Wencit abruptly frowned and kneed his horse still closer to reach out a gloved hand to Kelson's reins.

“If you have not already noticed, I am an impatient man, Kelson Haldane. I do not brook interference with my plans. If you are considering rejecting my proposal, I suggest that you put it out of your mind immediately. I remind you that I still hold nearly a thousand of your men captive—and there are far worse ways to die than by simple hanging.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Kelson whispered icily.

“It means that if you do not accept my challenge, what you saw in the last hour will be as nothing. Unless your word prevents it, two hundred prisoners will be drawn and quartered before your army at dusk, and two hundred more impaled alive and left to die at the rising of the moon. If you hope to save them, I would not advise procrastination.”

Kelson's face had blanched at Wencit's description of the intended fate of the prisoners, and his hands clenched tightly as he jerked his reins from Wencit's grasp. He glared across at the Deryni sorcerer as though to destroy him with a single thought as Wencit backed his mount a few casual steps, and would have moved after him, had not Morgan held out a restraining arm and kneed his own horse to block the king's. Kelson glanced at Morgan angrily, intending to order him back, but something in Morgan's expression made the young king hesitate. Morgan's eyes were cold as the midnight fog as he met Wencit's haughty gaze.

“You are trying to force us into a hasty decision,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know why. Why is it so important that we accept the challenge on your terms?” He paused only slightly. “Or is there some new treachery afoot?”

Wencit turned his head deliberately to stare directly at Morgan, as though incensed that Morgan had dared to interrupt his negotiations with Kelson. Then he ran his glance disdainfully over the other's form. His voice was mocking when he finally spoke.

“You have much to learn of the Deryni, Alaric Morgan, for all that you claim that heritage for yourself. You will find, if you survive, that there are ancient codes of honor concerning our powers which even I would not willingly transgress.” He returned his gaze to Kelson. “I have offered you formal duel under the laws set forth by the Camberian Council more than two centuries ago, Kelson Haldane. There are other laws, far older, which I am also bound to obey. I have sought and received permission from the Council to wage this duel with you on the terms that I have already specified, and to have Council arbitrators present. I assure you, there could be no treachery where the Council is concerned.”

Kelson's brows furrowed in consternation. “The Camberian Coun—”

Arilan interrupted for the first time, cutting across Kelson's response. “My lord, you will forgive my intrusion, but His Majesty was not prepared to answer a challenge such as you have proposed to him today. You will understand that he must have time to consult with his advisors before giving you a final answer. If he accepts, the lives and fortunes of many thousands of his people will hang upon the talents of four men. You will appreciate that it is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

Wencit turned to study Arilan as though he were some particularly noxious form of lower life. “If the King of Gwynedd feels that he cannot make a decision without consulting his inferiors, Bishop, that is his weakness, not mine. However, my original warning still stands. If I do not have the decision I require by nightfall, two hundred prisoners will be drawn and quartered where we now stand, and two hundred more impaled alive at the rising of the moon. Such measures will continue until all of the prisoners are dead, and then I shall take even sterner measures. See that you do not provoke me overmuch, Kelson of Gwynedd.”

With that, Wencit backed his horse a few more deft paces, then whirled the animal on its haunches to begin cantering back toward his own lines. His companions wheeled with him in perfect formation and followed, leaving a stunned Kelson staring after their retreating forms.

Kelson was angry at Arilan for interrupting, at Morgan for provoking Wencit, at himself for his indecision, but he did not trust himself to speak until they, too, had returned to their own lines and were dismounting outside the royal pavilion. He gave orders for the battle lines to be put at ease, since there was obviously to be no fighting until the morrow, at the earliest, then motioned the three who had ridden with him to follow him inside.

He decided to deal with the bishop first, since he was within reach, but as they entered the tent they found nearly a dozen men clustered around the unmoving form of Derry, stretched on a pallet to the left of the chamber. A bloodstained Warin was bending over him, and Nigel's son Conall was kneeling beside him with a reddened basin of water, a look of awe on his face as he watched the former rebel leader wipe his bloody hands on a piece of towelling. Derry's eyes were closed and his head was rolling back and forth as though still in some pain, but there were fragments of a half-shattered arrow shaft on the floor beside him.

As Kelson and the bishop entered, Morgan and Duncan right behind them, Warin looked up and nodded greeting. He was wan and obviously exhausted, but there was also satisfaction in his eyes.

“He should be all right, Sire. I withdrew the arrow and healed the wound. He is still feverish from whatever happened earlier, however. General Morgan, he keeps murmuring your name. Perhaps you should take a look at him.”

Morgan moved quickly to Derry's side and dropped to one knee, laying a gentle hand on the young man's brow. Derry's eyes flickered open at the touch and looked up at the ceiling for just an instant; then he turned his head to gaze at Morgan, a frightened shadow flitting behind his eyes.

“Be easy, Sean,” Morgan murmured. “You're safe now.”

“My lord…You're all right.” Then, “I didn't betr—”

He broke off and stiffened for just an instant, as though remembering something terrifying, then shuddered in revulsion and jerked his head away. Frowning, Morgan moved his fingertips to Derry's temples, intending to exert his powers and calm him, but met resistance there that he had never encountered in Derry before.

“Just relax,” he whispered. “The worst is over. Rest now. You'll feel better after you've slept—”

“No! I mustn't sleep!”

The very thought seemed to terrify Derry, who began tossing his head from side to side so wildly that it was all Morgan could do to maintain contact. The younger man's eyes blazed with an animal fear, all reason gone, and Morgan realized that he was going to have to do something quickly or Derry would burn himself out in his exhausted state.

“Sean, relax. Don't fight me! It's all right, you're safe. Duncan, give me a hand here!”