High Deryni (33 page)

“You may keep the toy. I doubt that Rhydon will miss it for a while. But I fear it will bring you no great amusement. You see, I cannot permit you to use it, my friend. But you will learn that soon enough.”

As the door closed and the key turned in the lock once more, Derry sighed and lay back in the straw in exhaustion, the dagger slipping from his shaking fingers. For a few moments he only lay there and closed his eyes tightly, trying to slow his racing heart and calm the horror of the past hour.

But as his mind cleared and his pains receded, Wencit's words suddenly reverberated in his mind:
You will betray him to me.
With a hysterical sob, he rolled onto his side to bury his face against his good arm.

God! What had Wencit done to him? Had he heard aright? Oh, but he had! The sorcerer had said that Derry would betray his lord, that Derry would play Judas to his friend and liege lord, Morgan. No! It must not be!

Dragging himself to a sitting position, Derry felt around in the straw until he found the dagger again, snatched it up in feverish hands, and gazed at it in horror. He was distracted briefly by a strange ring glinting on his right forefinger, a ring he could not remember having seen before; but then the flash of the dagger blade caught his eye once more, and he was returned to his original purpose.

Wencit was responsible for all of this. A horrible cusp had been reached, and now Wencit controlled Derry's body just as certainly as he controlled his lowest underlings. He had said that he would make Derry betray his master, and Derry had no doubt that Wencit could do it, if he said he would. He had also forbidden Derry's escape through death—though that, perhaps, could be circumvented. Derry would not, could not, permit himself to be used as the instrument of Morgan's betrayal.

Digging down through the straw, Derry used the blade to clear away to the bare clay, hollowing out a narrow hole that was deep enough to hold the hilt. He glanced at the door, hoping that there was no one watching what he was about to do, then lay down on his stomach beside the hole he had prepared, propped on his elbows, and held the dagger in his two hands.

Suicide. It was an act forbidden even in thought for a man who believed, as Derry did, in the God of the Church Militant. For the believer, the taking of one's own life was a grave offense, damning one to an eternal torment in Hell.

But there were things worse than Hell, Derry argued with himself. The betrayal of self, the betrayal of friends…Himself he could not help. He had been tested against the master of Torenth and had been found wanting. There was no one to blame for that. But, Morgan—the powerful Deryni lord had saved Derry's life more than once, had more than once snatched him from the jaws of death against unthinkable odds. Could Derry, in conscience, now refuse to do the same for him?

Grasping the dagger by its blade, Derry gazed at the cross-hilt for a long moment, rehearsing half a dozen childhood prayers and discarding them. Then he touched the cross-hilt fervently to his lips before placing it pommel-first into the hole in the floor. A compassionate God would surely understand—and Derry's faith in that compassion would have to sustain him through that which he must now do…and whatever came after.

With the blade pointing upward like a silver flame, Derry raised himself from his elbows and shifted sideways, positioning himself with the blade angled up beneath his ribcage.

It should not take long in his depleted condition. His arms would give out in a few seconds, and he would no longer be able to hold his body off the shining steel. Even Wencit could not prevent the fall of an exhausted body.

He closed his eyes as his arms started to tremble with fatigue, thinking of a day long ago when he and Morgan had ridden laughing through the fields of Candor Rhea. He remembered the battles and the good horses, the girls he had tumbled in the hay of his father's stables, his first stag hunt…

And then he started to fall….

PANIC!
No! He could not do it!

As the blade began to press deeper against Derry's flesh, again drawing blood, his arms suddenly stiffened, bearing him up and to one side, away from the death he sought, to collapse into the straw. With an agonized moan, he wrenched the weapon from the floor and tried to slash it against his wrists, against his choking throat.

But it was no use. He could do nothing to injure himself. It was as though an unseen hand deflected every attempt, always guiding the blade to harmless destinations.

Wencit!
Wencit had been right! Derry could not even kill himself!

Weeping uncontrollable tears of frustration, Derry flung himself onto his stomach and sobbed, his wounds burning with his exertion and his head ringing. The dagger was still in his hand, and he stabbed it hysterically into the straw-covered clay floor, again and again, until, after a while, the flailing ceased and the sobs subsided. Fading consciousness took with it some of the futility of his situation.

Once he thought he came to. Or perhaps he only dreamed it. He thought he had been asleep for only a few minutes when he became aware of a gentle touch on his shoulder—the tentative probe of a human hand.

He flinched and tensed, fearing that it was Wencit, come back to torment him, but the hand did not punish, and the pain did not come. When Derry finally gathered the courage to turn his head toward the intruder, he was astonished to see a gray-cowled stranger gazing down at him in concern. Somehow he was not afraid, though he knew he probably ought to be.

He started to open his mouth to speak, but the stranger shook his head and placed a cool, warning hand over his mouth. The stranger's eyes glowed with a silver, smoky hue, a frosty light in the shadow of the monkish hood; and Derry had the impression of silvered-gold hair, that he had seen the face somewhere before, though he could not remember where. But then his vision blurred, and he began to drift again.

He became vaguely aware of the man's hands gliding over his body, probing at his wounds, and of a lessening of the hurt from those wounds, but he could not seem to focus his eyes anymore. He felt the man's touch on his right hand and thought he heard a sigh of dismay as the man lifted the hand to inspect something cold and silvery on the right forefinger; but he could not seem to move a muscle to resist.

He started to drift again as the stranger rose. He wondered idly if he was truly seeing a nimbus of light around the man's head, or if he was only hallucinating. Somehow, even that did not seem to matter.

Then the man was backing toward the door, staring at him strangely. Derry had the distinct impression, as the door closed behind the gray-clad figure, that there was a touch of blue to the man's apparel, that a darker countenance flickered beneath the façade of fairness. The thought crossed his mind that something very odd had just occurred, that there was something he ought to be able to deduce regarding what had just happened.

But he could not make the connection. With that, his head fell back on the straw in merciful oblivion again, and he slept.

DERRY
could not have known that Kelson's army even then was drawing near to the plain of Llyndruth. Since Kelson was eager to reach the proposed battle site before dark, the royal army had been on the march since before dawn. Reconnaissance patrols and single scouts had been sent ahead throughout the day, hoping to gain intelligence of the surrounding area before the entire army should come upon danger unprepared. But nothing out of the ordinary had been reported until late afternoon, when they were within three hours' march of the Cardosa plain. The news, when it did come, was most unsettling.

One of the patrols had been casting ahead and slightly to the west of the main line of march when they spotted what appeared to be a skirmish band of foot soldiers waiting silently in a brush-filled ravine: perhaps fifty men, with sunlight glinting off the polished steel of cuirass, helmet, and lance—an apparent ambush. Not wishing to reveal their own presence, the outriders had refrained from going close enough to make positive identification of the troop's battle pennons and returned immediately to inform the King.

Kelson frowned as he tried to fathom the enemy's intent. The planned ambush could only be a diversionary tactic of some sort, for so small a band could not hope to inflict serious damage on the entire combined forces of Gwynedd. But such a mission would be suicide for the ambushers—unless, of course, there was sorcery afoot to protect the men and change the seemingly impossible odds.

That thought sobered Kelson immediately, and after a moment's reflection he called General Gloddruth to his side. Gloddruth had been acting as Kelson's aide-de-camp since his return from the Rengarth treachery, and he listened carefully as the young commander-in-chief gave revised marching orders to be passed down the chain of command. Then, as Gloddruth turned to go, Kelson rode forward to locate Morgan and seek his opinion.

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 Kelson'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.