“What is it?” Morgan asked, stepping into the entryway and blocking Duncan’s view of the interior.

Duncan ducked his head apologetically. “Sorry to intrude, but I checked your tent and you weren’t there. The king wishes you to see something.”

With a clipped nod of agreement, Morgan turned back briefly to meet Richenda’s eyes once more—there was no need for further words—then inclined his head in leave-taking and joined Duncan.

“Sorry. It took a bit longer than I expected. What have you got?”

Duncan’s voice was carefully neutral, avoiding any reference to the place Morgan had just left. “I’m not sure. We are hoping you can tell us. It sounds like Wencit’s men are building something.”

“Building something?” They were passing a guard post, and Morgan almost missed the salute as he turned to stare at his cousin. Duncan shrugged.

“This way. We can hear it best from over here.”

As they approached the northern limits of the camp, one of the guards from the last outpost detached himself from his comrades and headed into the darkness ahead, which was lightened only by starlight. Morgan and Duncan followed, dropping to a crouch at his gesture to snake along the last few yards on their bellies.

At the crest of the ridge, they found Kelson, Nigel, and a pair of scouts already there, lying on their stomachs and gazing out over the plain of the enemy encampment. The enemy watch fires stretched north as far as the eye could see, and high above at the summit of the pass, the torches on the rampart walls of captive Cardosa twinkled in the thin air.

Morgan scanned the array quickly, for he had inspected the plain earlier; then he squirmed into place beside Kelson and nudged the young king with his elbow.

“What’s this about them building something?” he whispered.

Kelson shook his head slightly and nodded toward the enemy camp. “Listen. It’s very faint, but sometimes the wind carries it better. What does it sound like to you?”

Morgan listened, slowly extending his Deryni senses to heighten his hearing. He was aware at first only of the normal sounds of military encampment, both from their camp and from the enemy below: the usual sounds of low voices, of horses blowing and stamping in the quiet, the call of the watch changing, the rattle of mess kits and weapons being cleaned.

But then he was able to filter out the ordinary sounds until he detected another which was far and strange. He cocked his head and closed his eyes to listen better, then glanced at Kelson with an odd expression on his face.

“You’re right. It sounds like someone hammering on wood. And sometimes I hear what sounds like chopping.”

“That’s what it sounded like to us, too,” Kelson replied, resting his chin on his hands and staring into the night once more.

“Now, the next question is, what is Wencit building? What is he doing with wood and hammers and axes in the middle of the night before battle? And why?”