Deryni Checkmate (28 page)

He fingered the hilt of his blade thoughtfully, then tipped the scabbard up under his left arm, hilt down. That position, sheathed and with the blade held in place by his sword hand, should suffice until he reached wherever he was going. And then a quick draw—

He heard sounds in the antechamber, and knew he must act at once if he hoped to avoid a confrontation with the treacherous little monk and his reinforcements. Taking a tighter grip on his sword, he stamped on the square and crouched in the middle of the carpeting, felt the floor tipping out from under him. He caught a last glimpse of the heavy chapel doors crashing back on their hinges—of the little monk, who did not look nearly as little now, framed in the doorway with three mailed and armed foot soldiers.

Then he was sliding through the darkness, sword clutched to his side, faster and faster into what danger he knew not.

POWERFUL hands jerked Morgan roughly to his feet and immobilized him, pinning his arms behind him and throwing a choke hold around his neck. He struggled at first, as much testing the strength of his captors as trying to escape. But a few sharp jabs to kidneys and groin sent him quickly to his knees, doubled over with pain. A numbing pressure across his throat brought the darkness swimming dangerously near again as blood to his brain was restricted.

Stifling a moan, Morgan closed his eyes and forced himself to relax in his captors’ grip, willed the pain to recede as the men pulled him to his feet once more. It was clear he could not hope to win a physical contest against so many while in his present drugged condition. Nor, until the merasha wore off, could he call upon his powers. And as for normal thinking processes—ha! He couldn’t even
think
straight at this point. It would be interesting to see if he could, indeed, salvage anything out of this fiasco.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to remain calm, to assess the current crisis as well as his befuddled senses would allow.

There were about ten armed men in the chamber: four holding him prisoner and the rest grouped in a semi-circle in front of him, swords drawn and ready. From behind him came a strong light source—probably a doorway to the outside—and it glinted from the swords and helmets of the men before him. Two of the men also held torches aloft, the orange light spilling around them like fiery mantles. Between those two stood Warin and another man in clerical garb whom Morgan thought he recognized. Neither had spoken a word during the short scuffle, and Warin’s face was impassive as he gazed across at his prisoner.

“So this is Morgan,” he said evenly, with no emotion evident in voice or face. “The Deryni heretic brought to bay at last.”

Folding his arms across the falcon emblazoned on his chest, Warin walked slowly around his prisoner and studied him from head to toe, his boots rustling the loose straw as he passed. Morgan, because of the choking arm across his throat, could not observe Warin in turn; nor would he have given the rebel leader that satisfaction had he had the chance. Besides, his attention had shifted to the cleric ahead. Recognition of the man had brought with it a chilling suspicion.

The priest, if Morgan recalled correctly, was one Lawrence Gorony, a monsignor attached to Archbishop Loris’s staff. And if that were, indeed, the case, then Morgan was in worse trouble than he had thought. For it could only mean that the archbishops had recognized Warin in some capacity, that they stood ready now to support the rebel leader’s bid for power.

It betokened another, more immediate, danger, too. For the presence of Gorony at this ambush—not one of his high-ranking episcopal masters—perhaps indicated that the archbishops had washed their hands of Morgan, had written him off, that they were now prepared, after a token semblance of ministering to his soul, to give him over to Warin’s authority.

Warin had never suggested anything but death for men of Morgan’s race. Warin’s mission, so he believed, was to destroy Deryni, however repentant they might be. And he was not likely to let Morgan, the arch-Deryni of all, in his eyes, escape the fate he believed destined for all of his kind.

Morgan controlled a shudder, somewhat heartened that he was able to do so, then flicked his gaze back to Warin as the rebel leader returned to his original place. Warin’s eyes were cold and stern and glistening jet as he addressed his captive.

“I shall not waste time, Deryni. Have you anything to say before I pronounce judgment on you?”

“Pronounce ju—” Morgan broke off in consternation, realizing he had spoken the words aloud as well as in his mind, and trying with only partial success to mask the fear and indignation the words had invoked.

Merciful saints, had he gotten that strong a dose of merasha, that he could not even control his tongue? He must be wary, try to stall for time until the drug began to wear off and he could think clearly.

Even as he thought it, he realized he was not thinking clearly at all, that he would be lucky at this rate to even last out the next few minutes without totally betraying himself. He wondered where Duncan was—his cousin would surely be looking for him by now—but of course, Morgan wasn’t even sure when now was. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Further, he might not even be at Saint Torin’s anymore. He dared not count on Duncan to rescue him. If only he could stall, could bluff until some measure of power returned.

“You were about to speak, Deryni?” Warin said, observing Morgan’s face and beginning to realize that he did, indeed, hold the upper hand.

Morgan managed a wry grimace and tried to nod, but the arm across his throat was heavy and mailed, and he could feel the metal links bite into his neck as the guard tensed.

“You—have me at a disadvantage, sir,” he said shakily. “You know me, but I do not know you. Might one inquire—?”

“I am your judge, Deryni,” Warin replied curtly, cutting Morgan off in mid-sentence and studying him with cold deliberation. “The Lord has appointed me to rid the land of your kind forever. Your death will be an important step in the accomplishment of that mission.”

“Ah, now I know you,” Morgan said. His voice had steadied, but his knees trembled with the effort of concentration. He tried, successfully this time, to keep his tone light.

“You’re that Warin fellow who’s been raiding my northern manors and burning out crops. I understand you’ve been burning out a few people as well. Not in keeping with the benevolence you claim, I must say.”

“Some deaths are necessary,” Warin replied coolly, refusing to be rattled. “Of a certainty, yours is. I will grant you one grace, however. Against my better judgment, I have promised that you should have the opportunity to repent your sins and seek absolution before you die. Personally, I feel that such is a waste of time for your kind; but Archbishop Loris disagrees. If you do wish to repent, Monsignor Gorony is prepared to hear your confession and attempt to salvage your soul.”

Numbly, desperately, Morgan flicked his gaze to Gorony, a further stalling technique coming to mind. “I fear you may have jumped to some hasty conclusions,” he said. “If you had taken the trouble to ask before resorting to ambush, you would have found that I was on my way to Dhassa to submit myself to the archbishop’s authority. I had already decided to renounce my powers and lead a life of penance,” he lied.

Warin’s black eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I find that highly unlikely. From all that I have heard, the great Alaric Morgan would never renounce his powers, much less do penance.”

Morgan attempted to shrug, and was heartened to find that the guards had relaxed their hold just a bit.

“I am in your power,” he said, telling the truth now to give weight to the lie he had just told, and to the lies he intended to tell if necessary. “As whoever procured the Deryni drug will have told you, I am quite helpless under the influence of the merasha. Not only are my arcane powers suspended, but my physical coordination is hampered. Nor, I think, could I lie to you in this condition if I wanted to.”

That
was a lie, for as Morgan had discovered when he told the first falsehood, he
could
lie under the influence of the merasha. Now, if Warin would only believe him.

Warin frowned and pushed at a clump of straw with his boot, then shook his head. “I don’t understand what you hope to gain. Nothing can save your life now. You shall burn at the stake in just a short while. Why do you compound your sins by perjuring yourself even as death approaches?”

The stake!
Morgan felt his senses reel again.
Am I to be burned as a heretic, without even a chance to defend myself?

“I have told you I would submit to the archbishop’s authority,” he said, incredulity edging his voice. “Will you not permit me to carry out that intention?”

“That possibility is no longer open to you,” Warin said coldly. “You have had ample opportunity to amend your life, and you have not taken it. Accordingly, your life is forfeit. If you wish to try to save your soul, which I assure you is in the gravest of danger, I suggest you do it now, while my patience still holds. Monsignor Gorony will hear your confession if you wish it.”

Numbly shaking his head, Morgan shifted his attention to Gorony. “Is it your intention to permit this, Monsignor?” he whispered. “Will you stand by and be party to an execution without proper trial?”

“I have no orders other than to minister to your soul’s needs, Deryni. That was the agreement. After that, you belong to Warin.”

“I do not
belong
to any man, priest!” Morgan snapped, his gray eyes flashing in anger. “And I do not believe the archbishop can be aware of this gross miscarriage of justice!”

“Justice is not for your kind!” Gorony retorted. His face was dark and malevolent in the torchlight. “Now, will you or will you not make a confession?”

Morgan wet his lips and mentally chided himself for losing his temper. Argument would do no good. He could see that now. Warin and the priest were blinded by their hatred of something they did not understand. There was nothing he could say or do that was likely to have any effect—except, perhaps, to hasten the execution if he wasn’t careful. He
must
stall for time!

He dropped his gaze and made a visible effort to adopt a suitably contrite expression. Perhaps he could stretch things out. There must be hundreds of things he could confess over thirty years of life. And if he ran out, he was sure he could invent a few.

“Please forgive me,” he said, bowing his head. “I have been rash, as so often in the past. Am I to be permitted private confession, or must I speak before all of you . . . ?”

Warin snorted disdainfully. “Surely you jest, sir. Gorony, are you prepared to hear this man’s confession?”

Gorony pulled a narrow purple stole from the sleeve of his robe and touched it to his lips, draped it behind his neck.

“Do you wish to confess, my son?” he murmured formally, averting his eyes and taking a step toward Morgan.

Morgan swallowed and nodded, and his captors sank to their knees, bearing him down with them. The arm across his throat was removed, and Morgan swallowed again with relief as he bowed his head. He tried to flex his left wrist experimentally as he settled on his knees—which was difficult because of the vise-grip on all his limbs—and amazingly, there was the reassuring pressure of steel along his forearm: his trusty stiletto, which he did not think the men could detect through his mail hauberk. Apparently they had not bothered to search him—
Clumsy fools!
he thought triumphantly as he prepared to speak—which might also mean that he hadn’t been unconscious for very long. Perhaps, if it came to that, he could at least take a few of these fanatics with him in death when the time came. For it appeared that there was, indeed, to be no escape.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he murmured, turning his attention back to Gorony standing before him. “These are my sins.”

Before Morgan could even draw breath to begin his enumeration, there was a sudden rumbling in the beamed ceiling overhead. Heads jerked backward to gape incredulously as a lean figure in brown hunting leathers came hurtling through a narrow opening to land with a thump in the straw where Morgan had lain.

As the priest rolled to his feet, blade whipping from its scabbard, he slashed out at the unprotected knee of one of Morgan’s guards. The man screamed and went down, clutching his leg in agony. At the same time Morgan flung his full weight to the left, carrying two more of his captors to the floor with him.

A fourth man, fumbling and caught off balance by the double offensive, tried to draw sword to protect his fallen comrade before Duncan could strike again, but his indecision cost him his life. Duncan cut him down before he could even get his weapon clear. Then the room erupted in confusion as Warin’s men overcame their initial shock and attacked.

Duncan fought with gusto, sword and dagger responding in his hands as though they were extensions of his own arms. Morgan, on the floor and still in the grip of two of his original captors, kicked viciously as one of the men attempted to rise. The man’s anguished collapse threw the second man off guard long enough for Morgan to free his stiletto and dispatch him. Then Morgan was shouting and slashing wildly at another attacker who had come flying out of nowhere to land squarely on top of him with a dagger poised.

As he wrestled for possession of the weapon, he was dimly aware of Duncan almost straddling his feet and fighting ferociously with half a dozen swordsmen, and that they could not possibly hope to hold their own against such odds.

Then Gorony’s harsh voice cut through the chaos shouting, “Kill them! The Devil take you, you must kill them both!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SAINT TEILO