“Fair enough,” Kelson replied, getting up and moving with Morgan toward the exit. “You will be careful, though, won’t you?” The statement ended on a doubtful note.

“On my honor, I will, Sire.”

CHAPTER THREE

“He shall dwell on high: his place of defense shall be the munitions of rocks: bread shall be given him; his waters shall be sure.”

ISAIAH 33:16

ON the vast plain below the city of Cardosa, the army of Bran Coris Earl of Marley had been camped for nearly a month. They were two thousand strong, these men of Marley, and fiercely loyal to their young commander, but they had been waiting beside the swollen flood runoff for more than a week now, anticipating the cessation of the flooding, yet dreading the moment when Wencit of Torenth would send his men streaming down the Cardosa defile.

What most frightened the waiting soldiers was that Wencit’s forces could fight with magic—or so it was believed. Yet the men of Marley would stand by their young earl despite the danger, the almost certain death, for Lord Bran was a charismatic leader and an able tactician. Moreover, he had always been extremely generous to those who supported him. There was no reason to believe that success in the Cardosa campaign would not yield similar largesse. And in the end, what more could a soldier ask, besides rewarding service and a leader he could respect? They did not dwell on the possibility of defeat.

It was early morning, and the camp had been stirring for several hours. Lord Bran, a tartan blanket draped around the shoulders of his blue undress tunic, lounged against one of the outside support-poles of his pavilion and sipped at a goblet of mulled wine as he scanned upriver toward the distant mountains, gleaming in the early morning sun. His gold-brown eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to see beyond the mist. A hard set to the handsome mouth betokened stubbornness and determination. He hooked a thumb in the jeweled belt at his waist and glanced to one side at the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Any special orders for today, m’lord?”

The speaker, Baron Campbell, was a longtime retainer of the earl’s family. As he approached, helmet tucked diffidently under one arm, he hiked part of his azure and gold plaid farther back onto his shoulders.

Bran shook his head. “Any change in the river soundings this morning?”

“We’re still reading close to five feet, even at the fords, m’lord. And there are sink holes that could swallow up man and horse with nary a trace. I doubt the King of Torenth will be coming down off his mountain today.”

Bran swirled the wine in his cup and took another swallow, then nodded. “Then we’ll proceed as we have been: regular patrols and lookouts on the western perimeters, and a skeleton watch on the rest of the camp. And ask the bowyer to see me sometime this morning, will you? The grip still isn’t right on my new bow.”