The trail of blood and death ended at Llyndruth Meadows. Derry had arrived at dawn to find the army of Bran Coris encamped in concentric circles around the mouth of the great Cardosa defile. He knew he should report what he saw and get out while he could, but he knew that there would be no chance to speak with Morgan by the prearranged Mind-Speaking until later tonight; and Derry might learn much more by then.

Discreet wandering among the outlying camps of the army revealed even more disturbing information. For apparently Bran Coris had switched his allegiance to Wencit of Torenth on the very eve of war, not more than a week ago, tempted and held by dark promises whose implications were too horrible to even contemplate. Even Bran’s men grew uneasy when they talked about it, if they talked about it; though they, too, were lured by the promise of fame and fortune which Wencit seemed to offer.

Now, if only Derry could stay free long enough to tell Morgan tonight. If only he could last until a few hours after sunset, it would be a simple matter to slip into that strange Deryni sleep by which he and his lord could communicate even at this distance. The king must be told of Bran’s treachery before it was too late. And something must be done to determine the fate of Duke Jared and the remnants of his army.

Derry had re-entered the trees and was almost to his horse when the faint crackle of a breaking twig put him on his guard. He froze and listened, hand creeping to the hilt of his broadsword, but heard nothing further. He had nearly decided that the sound had been nothing, that his taut nerves were playing tricks on him, when he heard a horse snort and shuffle its feet in the clearing ahead.

Could the animal have smelled him?

No, he was downwind of the thicket. The situation was showing all the signs of a trap.

A faint rustling sound repeated itself slightly to his left, and he was sure of the trap. But he could not hope to escape without a horse. He had to brazen it out. There lay his only chance.

Hand resting warily on sword hilt, he strode into the clearing ahead where his horse was tied, making no effort now to go quietly. As he had feared, there were soldiers there waiting for him: three of them. He rather expected that there were others that he could not see: perhaps even bowmen with feathered death aimed at his back right now. He must act as though he belonged here.

“Are you looking for something?” Derry asked, coming to a cautious halt a few yards inside the clearing.

“What’s your regiment, soldier?” the foremost of the three men asked. His tone was casual and only faintly suspicious, but there was something vaguely menacing in the way his thumbs were thrust under his belt to either side. One of his companions, the shortest and heaviest of the three, was more openly hostile, and toyed with the hilt of his weapon as he glared across at Derry.