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.”