Now militant rebels and curial forces stood shoulder to shoulder behind the walls of Castle Coroth, ready to wage war against the city’s lawful lord and her king. They had captured the castle through the trickery of a few key men inside the walls, had taken proud Coroth without a single death or major injury.

Morgan’s staunchest adherents now lay in the dungeons deep below Coroth Keep, fed and cared for, but nonetheless prisoners of the fanatical religious forces that had occupied the city. Warin’s charisma had swayed even the citizens of Coroth, winning them over from their age-old loyalty to duke and king.

Now, peering down from his sheltered vantage point atop the walls of Coroth, Warin surveyed the enemy anew. A scabbard scraped against the wall behind him, and one of his lieutenants coughed to clear his throat.

“They bring many men, Lord. Will the walls keep them out?”

Warin nodded. “For now, Michael. At least for now. This Morgan was no fool when he fortified his city. He is certain to have defended it against every kind of attack he could foresee. How, then, can he breach his own defenses?”

A second man, Paul de Gendas, shook his head. “I like it not, Lord. You know what kind of villain this Morgan is. Remember what he did at Saint Torin’s, while not even in full command of his powers. Now he is joined by more Deryni: the priest McLain, the king himself, perhaps even the king’s uncle and his uncle’s sons. All of the Haldane line are to be feared, Lord.”

“Be not anxious,” Warin said softly. “I have reason to believe that even Deryni powers cannot broach these walls without considerable difficulty. Where are my lord archbishops, by the way? Have they been informed of what is happening here?”

“They’re coming, Lord,” said a third man, bowing slightly in response to the question. “His Grace of Valoret was infuriated when he heard.”

“No doubt he was,” Warin murmured, allowing the briefest of smiles to cross his lips. “His Grace of Valoret is a man of violent appetites. Happily, he is not afraid of Morgan face-to-face. He will be our most formidable spokesman this afternoon.”

Around him, all along the wide battlements, archers and spearmen were taking their positions on the castle ramparts. Great piles of stones had been readied in the days just past, and now strong men in sweat-stained jerkins stood ready to hurl the missiles down on unprotected attackers, should the need arise. As Warin turned to scan the towers to his rear, he saw the archbishops’ colors break from the top of the highest tower. His own falcon standard already whipped in the brisk sea breeze on a less lofty tower. And as he watched, the banners of nine more bishops appeared along the ramparts proper, interspersed with the lesser banners of nobles who had been persuaded to join the holy cause.

Warin returned his attention to the plain below and noted that the enemy leaders were assembling before the massed army, a white-cloaked rider approaching the king. At that moment, Warin was joined by Archbishops Loris and Corrigan and several of the lesser bishops. Loris was dressed in a plain working cassock of somber purple, a cloak of the same fabric pulled around his shoulders against the chill sea air. A skullcap made a halo of what wispy white hair could escape from beneath its confines, and Warin found himself idly wondering what kept the cap on in this breeze. A silver pectoral cross and a bishop’s ring were Loris’s only adornment against the somber violet of his robes, and his face was set and pale.