“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.