“Do you suspect me of subterfuge?” Wencit asked, raising an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “Well, perhaps you are well-advised. But I had thought the other advantages of such a resolution would be quite clear. If we join battle here, army against army, the flower of knighthood from both our sides will be destroyed. Of what use to me is a dead kingdom? A kingdom inhabited only by old men, young boys, women and children.”

Kelson eyed the enemy king shrewdly. “I have no more wish than you to lose my finest fighting men in battle. If we fight here today, the impact will be felt for a generation to come. But I cannot trust you, Wencit of Torenth. Even if I defeat you here, who is to say what next spring will bring? Who is—”

Wencit threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoed lightly by his companions. Kelson shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, for he was not aware that he had said anything particularly amusing. But one glance at Morgan convinced him that the general knew. He was about to say something when Wencit suddenly stopped laughing and moved his horse a few steps closer.

“Forgive me, young prince, but your naïveté is touching. I offered a four-way battle to the death. Under those circumstances, the losers would hardly be in any position to threaten the victors—unless, of course, you believe that some men can return from the grave.”

Kelson scowled at that, for far more bizarre things had been hinted about Wencit of Torenth over the years. But then he forced himself to dismiss the thought and return to what Wencit had actually proposed: a duel to the death by magic. His hesitation apparently did not set well with the Torenthi king, however, for Wencit abruptly frowned and kneed his horse still closer to reach out a gloved hand to Kelson’s reins.

“If you have not already noticed, I am an impatient man, Kelson Haldane. I do not brook interference with my plans. If you are considering rejecting my proposal, I suggest that you put it out of your mind immediately. I remind you that I still hold nearly a thousand of your men captive—and there are far worse ways to die than by simple hanging.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Kelson whispered icily.

“It means that if you do not accept my challenge, what you saw in the last hour will be as nothing. Unless your word prevents it, two hundred prisoners will be drawn and quartered before your army at dusk, and two hundred more impaled alive and left to die at the rising of the moon. If you hope to save them, I would not advise procrastination.”

Kelson’s face had blanched at Wencit’s description of the intended fate of the prisoners, and his hands clenched tightly as he jerked his reins from Wencit’s grasp. He glared across at the Deryni sorcerer as though to destroy him with a single thought as Wencit backed his mount a few casual steps, and would have moved after him, had not Morgan held out a restraining arm and kneed his own horse to block the king’s. Kelson glanced at Morgan angrily, intending to order him back, but something in Morgan’s expression made the young king hesitate. Morgan’s eyes were cold as the midnight fog as he met Wencit’s haughty gaze.