“Forgive me, Sire, but I am old and tired and unable to fight any longer. Much as I fear you are wrong, I have not the strength to oppose you—and I fear I could not survive your dungeon. I ask permission to return to my estates outside Rhemuth. I—I am not well, Sire.”

“Very well,” Kelson said quietly. “If I have your word that you’ll not oppose me, you are free to go. My lords, I thank you for not making this any more difficult than it had to be. And now, Morgan, Warin, Lord Hamilton, I wish to be riding out of here by noon, if at all possible. Please see to whatever needs to be done.”

IT was late afternoon, not midday, before the combined armies were ready to move out, but Kelson gave the marching orders anyway. By traveling through the night and not stopping until the following midday, they could hope to cross most of Corwyn before having to rest. Then, a short stop until the early morning hours of the next day, and they could be in Dhassa by noon of the second day.

From there, it would take at least another two days to combine this army with the other already waiting outside Dhassa. In all, it would be nearly a week before they could hope to meet Wencit’s forces farther north. Kelson prayed that it would be soon enough,

The shadows were lengthening, but no one felt the slightest urge to complain at the late start as the advance battalions pulled out of Coroth and began their trek to the northwest. Royal lion banners vied with the gray and black falcon standards of Warin’s former rebels, both flags interspersed with the episcopal purple of Cardiel’s elite troops brought down from Dhassa. Supply carts creaked their way along the roads, while mounted cavalry thundered across the grass-green of the fields through which they passed. Pack animals snorted and squealed as their drovers bullied them along in the wake of the main army, gay tassels and braid bright and cheerful in the afternoon sun. The richly embroidered surcoats of Morgan’s rescued liegeman were interspersed with the uniform tunics of the Royal Haldane Lancers, the Joshuic Foot, the Haldane Archers Corps, lord and commoner alike bound in the common tie of loyalty to the young king who rode in the vanguard.

On returning to his camp, Kelson had once again donned the gold-washed mail of the kings of Gwynedd, had laced his boots with cords of gold, bound his slim waist with a belt of snow-white leather edged with gold, on which hung the gold-chased greatsword that his father had carried in war at a similar young age. Kelson’s golden helmet glowed like burnished sunlight as he rode out that afternoon, a jeweled golden circlet fixed to the helm and a crimson plume bobbing jauntily from the top.

Around his shoulders was a cloak of scarlet, on his hands gloves of scarlet leather. The white charger between his thighs pranced and arched its neck as Kelson curbed it, red leather reins supple and sleek between its rider’s gloved fingers. At Kelson’s side rode his lords: Morgan, Duncan, Cardiel and Arilan, Nigel and his son Conall, Morgan’s lieutenants, a host of others.