Closer on his left flank, Prince Nigel’s crack Haldane archers were taking positions at a point of vantage atop a cluster of sand dunes. The regiment’s drummers, garish in their lowland dress of green and violet stripes, were hammering out a fast, complicated marching beat, twirling their sticks above their heads and shouting occasionally as they marked time with their feet. Each archer was partnered with a foot soldier armed with spear and shield, whose duty it would be to protect his archer during a rain of enemy bow-fire. All the men in the regiment wore the green and violet feather cockades of the Haldane Archers Corps in the front of their hard leather fighting caps.

At Kelson’s back, the flower of Gwynedd’s cavalry waited, knights and squires, pages and men-at-arms pulling quickly into position behind their king. The banners of the Lords of Horthness and Varian, Lindestark and Rhorau, Bethenar and Pelagog, floated above the heads of the royal knights: leaders of the greatest houses in Gwynedd, scions of families loyal to the Crown through all of Gwynedd’s noble history, since the inception of the Eleven Kingdoms. Morgan’s black gryphon banner could be seen off to the right, where Morgan was conferring with several of his officers on some minor point of strategy.

And riding toward Kelson was Duncan, accompanied by a squire carrying his McLain banner of sleeping lions and roses, the banner marked with the red label of three points that identified him as the heir to Cassan and also, since the death of his elder brother Kevin, Earl of Kierney. Duncan wore a fighting harness as he joined Kelson atop the command rise, only a small, plain silver pectoral cross denoting his priestly calling in the midst of McLain plaid and fighting gear.

The Deryni priest nodded greeting to Kelson as he drew rein, then turned to watch Morgan now riding toward them. The gryphon banner joined sleeping lion and roses and the Gwynedd lion, followed shortly by Arilan’s episcopal banner of Rhemuth and Cardiel’s Dhassa banner. Nigel’s crescent-charged demi-lion was also approaching.

“Well, what think you, Morgan?” Kelson asked. He pulled off his helmet and ruffled at damp raven hair with one gloved hand. “You best know the strength of your own seat. Can it be taken?”

Morgan sighed and slouched in the saddle, resting crossed forearms across the high, tooled pommel.

“I should hate to try to take it by force of arms, Sire. Any wall can be breached, given time and the proper equipment. I would prefer to have my city back intact, of course, but I realize that may not be possible. We haven’t a great deal of time.”

Arilan cocked an eye at the lowering sun, increasingly shrouded in mist, then turned in his saddle to glance at Kelson. Leather creaked as he moved, and his bishop’s cope gleamed in the weakening sunlight. Both he and Cardiel were mailed and armed beneath their bishops’ robes: two fighting bishops ready to fight for the Church Militant. Arilan’s keen eyes sought out Kelson’s in question.