Morgan must have sensed Kelson’s eyes upon him then, for at that moment he looked up, brushing Kelson’s shoulder in reassurance as he moved past to confront the rest of the company.

“A burial detail will be required, gentlemen—no, a funeral pyre. There is no time to bury this many men. Someone must see to the ones across the plain, in the ravine, too. Sire,” he turned slightly toward the king, “what is your feeling about informing the men what has happened?”

“They must be told.”

“I agree,” Morgan said with a nod. “And I think we must stress that these men were dead before they were brought here; that in all likelihood, they died in honorable battle—not spitted like so many wild animals.”

“That should give some measure of comfort,” Arilan agreed, “yet still remind them why we are fighting—and the measures a ruthless enemy may take to achieve his ends.”

Kelson nodded, his composure returning. “Very well. Uncle Nigel, have your men take them down and prepare a funeral pyre.”

Nigel nodded agreement.

“And Warin, if you and such of your men as you feel necessary would attend to the others in the ravine…”

Warin bowed stiffly in the saddle. “As you wish, Sire.”

“Bishop Arilan, Bishop Cardiel—there will be no time for proper services just now, but perhaps you and your brethren can say a few words while the men prepare the pyres. And if any of you should find any indication of the identities of the victims, I—I should like to be informed. It is difficult, I know, without the heads, but—” He shuddered and averted his face slightly. “Please do what you can.”

With his head lowered, Kelson walked briskly back to his horse, turning the animal’s head as he mounted so that he would not have to look for even a second longer at the terrible sight he was leaving. As he cantered up the slope alone to rejoin his other generals and bishops, Arilan watched him go, watched Warin and his men start toward the ravine with Cardiel, watched the men of Nigel’s escort dismount and begin the grisly task of laying the slaughtered men to rest. As the soldiers spread through the ranks of the dead to gently lift each man to the ground, Arilan moved slowly to where Morgan and Duncan stood watching dumbly, coming between them to lay a comforting arm across the shoulder of each.

“Our young king is sorely troubled, my friends, as am I,” he said in a low voice, watching with morbid fascination as the soldiers slowly cleared a path in the terrible forest of stakes. “How do you think this will affect him in the days to come?”

Morgan snorted and crossed his arms across his chest. “You have a talent for asking questions I cannot answer, Bishop. How will any of us react? Do you know what worries me more than this?”

Arilan shook his head, and Duncan looked at him in apprehension.

“Well,” Morgan continued in a low voice, “for now these are just bodies—horribly defiled, I will grant you, but still only bodies. For all we know, they could be dead Torenthi soldiers dressed in captured Cassani livery—though I doubt it.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed.