“But somewhere, someone knows who those men really are. The bodies may be here, but the heads are somewhere else—and I dread what may happen when we find those heads.”

THEIR departure from that place was delayed yet another hour while the funeral pyres were lit, and then each column of soldiers must make its final salute as it passed the smoking pyres of the dead men. There had been rumblings among the ranks as the news of the slaughter spread, and the expected fears and speculations as to the identities of both victims and perpetrators. But in all, the army had taken the incident in stride. None could now question the evil of Wencit of Torenth, who could condone such atrocities upon a vanquished enemy—even if the mutilations had been done after the men were dead. Such a man deserved no mercy from the King of Gwynedd. When battle was joined in the morning, it was certain to be hard and bloody.

So the army had marched on, leaving in its wake two smoldering beacons whose greasy smoke spiralled upward in an ever-widening swath of black against the sky. They encountered no further harassment as they went, perhaps because the enemy had deemed the spectacle of the previous hour sufficient; or perhaps they were merely saving their strength for the battle in the morning.

Whatever their reason, Kelson was glad of it as they reached their final campsite, for darkness was falling. The day had been long and grueling, the past hours emotionally draining. The army would need all of the rest they could get.

It took nearly three hours to make camp, but finally Kelson was sufficiently satisfied with the camp’s defenses to retire to his tent for a light supper. Morgan, Duncan, and Nigel joined him, but they kept the tone light all through the meal, none of them wishing to discuss the day in detail. After the last glasses of wine had been poured, Kelson stood and held his goblet aloft, the others rising as well.

“Gentlemen, I give you a final toast. To the loyal dead—and to victory: may it come tomorrow to the just!”

“And to the King!” Nigel added quickly, before Kelson could raise the cup to his lips. “Long may he reign!”

“To victory and the King!” the others repeated, and tossed off their drinks.

Kelson allowed himself a wan smile, then raised his own cup and drank, finally setting it on a small table and sinking back into his chair. He glanced at each of them wearily, then shook his head and sighed.

“If any of you are half as tired as I am…” He sighed again. “But, no matter. We all have further duties to attend to. Morgan, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Certainly, my prince.”

Kelson nodded. “I should like you to see the Lady Richenda and inform her what has happened today—without elaborating on the graphic details, of course. She is a very refined lady. Tell her that I shall think no less of her if she chooses not to try appealing to her husband tomorrow.”