To Torval’s right, Warin was fidgeting with the hilt of his sword, nervous as a cat in the aftermath of what had just been played out in the center of the field. The two guards sat their horses behind, grim eyes darting from their prisoner to the returning king and his companions. The tableau seemed strangely calm and peaceful, almost like a dream. Abruptly, Duncan knew that it could not last.

Nor did it. Before the retreating riders had ridden more than a dozen yards from their meeting place, a sudden flurry of activity boiled up behind the enemy lines. Dozens of sturdy poles were hoisted briskly upright and seated in holes dug to receive them, each pole bearing a stoutly nailed crossbar at the top. Over each arm of the crossbars trailed a rope ending in a noose. As the poles thudded into their sockets, Duncan stood in his stirrups and brought his spyglass to bear, unable to control a gasp as pairs of prisoners in the blue and silver livery of Cassan—scores of them!—were forced to stand up beneath the poles, hands lashed cruelly behind their backs.

Even as this occurred, a banner was unfurled toward the center of the line: the banner of the Duke of Cassan, Duncan’s father. At the same time, a tall, graying man wearing Cassan’s sleeping lion and roses on his surcoat was prodded up a short platform beneath one of the crossbars, hands bound behind him, and a rope halter was made fast around his neck, his feet also bound. Duncan let out a groan, for it was Duke Jared himself!

Frozen with horror, Duncan watched as more ropes were secured around the necks of the rest of the men with Jared, two men beneath each pole, and a great cheer erupted from the enemy lines as all the ropes were pulled taut, the prisoners briskly hoisted off their feet to dangle and die. At the same time Duncan saw Morgan, Kelson, and Arilan pausing in the field a few hundred yards away to turn and gape, Kelson’s horse plunging and rearing as he tried to control it.

A roar of disbelieving rage went up from the massed army of Gwynedd, and the front ranks began to waver. And then three things happened simultaneously. Warin, with a strangled cry of outrage, drew his sword and plunged it into the side of the smirking Lord Torval, striking but an instant ahead of Duncan, whose face had gone savage with the horror of his father’s brutal death.

Kelson, white-lipped as he tried to control his plunging mount, bolted with Arilan and Morgan for his own lines, frantically signaling Warin and Duncan to retreat.

But Morgan, after only an instant’s hesitation, wrenched his mount on its haunches and began spurring straight for the retreating Rhydon and Lionel, his drawn sword like lightning in his hand.

“Derry!” he screamed as he rode, his face gray with helpless rage. Behind him, the front ranks of the royal army were heaving forward, ready to break and attack, but again and again Morgan screamed Derry’s name.