Loyse? Simon could not be so sure, but he accepted her word without question. There were four of them, oddly assorted—four fighters for the freedom of Estcarp, for their own freedom from the evil which Kolder had sown so far in what had once been a fair world.
Simon Tregarth, the alien from another world; Jaelithe, the Witch of Estcarp; Koris, exiled from. Gorm before its fall into darkness, Captain of the Guard and then Seneschal and Marshal of Estcarp; and Loyse, the Heiress of Verlaine, a castle of wrecker lords on the coast. Fleeing a marriage with Yvian of Karsten, she had brought Jaelithe out of Verlaine, and together they had wrought subtly in Kars for the undoing of Yvian and all that he stood for. Loyse, wearing hauberk, carrying sword and shield, had joined in the attack on Gorm. And in the citadel of Sippar had pledged herself to Koris. Loyse, the pale, small girl who was indeed a warrior strong and brave beyond most counting. And this sending dealt with danger for Loyse!
“But she is at Es Castle—” Simon protested, as he pulled on mail to match that which now clinked softly in Jaelithe’s hands. And Es Castle was the heart, if the enemy had dared to strike there—!
“No!” Again Jaelithe was positive. “There is the sea—in this there is the sea.”
“Koris?”
“I do not feel him, not in this. If I only had the jewel!” She was tugging on riding boots. “It is as if I tried to track a drifting mist. I can see the drift, but nothing is clear. But Loyse is in danger and the sea is part of it.”
“Kolder?” Simon put into words his deepest fear.
“No. There is not the blankness of the Kolder wall. But the need for help is great! We must ride, Simon—west and south.” She had turned a little, her eyes now focused on the wall as if she could really see through it to the point she sought.
“We ride.” He agreed.
The living quarters of the keep were yet silent. But as they sped together down the hallway to the stair they heard the sounds of the changing guard. Simon called, “Turn out the Riders!”
His words echoed hollowly, but carried, to be answered by a startled exclamation from below. Before he and Jaelithe were halfway down the stairs, Simon heard the piping of the alert.
This garrison was well prepared for sudden sallies.
Through spring and summer the alarm had sounded again and again to set the Borderers loose along the marches. Those who made up the striking force Simon commanded were largely recruited from the fugitive Old Race. Driven out of Karsten when the massacre orders of Kolder were given, they had many causes to hate the despoilers and murderers who now held their lands and who came, in quick stab raids, to try the defenses of Estcarp, the last home of that dark-haired, dark-eyed race who carried ancient wisdom and strange blood, whose women had witch power and whose men were dour, stinging wasps of fighters.
“No beacon, Lord—”
Ingvald, Simon’s second in command from the old days’ when they had fought, rode and fought again in the high hills, waited him in the courtyard. It was Jaelithe who answered.
“A sending, Captain.”
The Karstenian refugee’s eyes widened as he looked at her. But he did not protest.
“An attack here?”
“No. Trouble west and south.” Simon made answer. “We ride fast—with half a troop. You remain in command here.”
Ingvald hesitated as if he wished to argue that, but he did not speak except to say, “Durstan’s company has the hill duty for this day and are ready to ride.”
“Good enough.”
One of the serving women ran from the hall behind them, holding a platter covered with rounds of journey bread, new from the oven and each bearing a smoking slice of meat. Behind her pounded a kitchen lad with filled beakers slopping their contents over his hands as he came. Jaelithe and Simon ate as they stood, watching the troop check mounts and supply bags, ready weapons, for the move out.
“The sender!”
Simon heard a small, pleased laugh from Jaelithe. “She knows! Had I but my jewel in again, we could dismiss her to other duties.”
Simon blinked. So Jaelithe, even without her jewel, had communicated with the young witch who was their link with Estcarp command. The warning must even now be on its way to the Guardians’ Council. In turn Jaelithe might be able to hold that communication as they rode, stretching it to report.
He began to consider the terrain west and south—mountains, the broken foothill country, and sea coast to the west. There were one or two small villages, market centers, but no other keep or castle. There were also temporary guard points, but all were too small, too far within Estcarp’s own territory to house sending witches. So hill beacons passed warning. And there had been no such beacon lighted.
What was Loyse doing there? Why had she come forth from Es Castle and ridden into that wilderness?
“Brought by trick.” Jaelithe was reading his surface thoughts again. “Though the manner of the tricking I cannot tell you. The purpose I think I can guess—”
“Yvian’s move!” It was the most logical answer to any action against the heiress of Verlaine. By the laws of Karsten she was Yvian’s wife, through whom he could claim Verlaine—though he had never set eyes on Loyse, nor she on him. Get her under his hand and the bargain Fulk had made for his daughter would be completed. Karsten was in uproar by all reports. Yvian, the mercenary who had won to power by might of arms, was facing the bared teeth of the old nobility. He would have to answer their hostility firmly or his ducal throne would crumble under him.
And Loyse was of the old blood; she could claim kin-rights with at least three of the most powerful houses. Using her as a tool Yvian’s own ability could accomplish much. He had to put Karsten in order in a hurry.
Though Simon knew that Estcarp had no intention of carrying war beyond her own borders—save in the direction of the Kolder—Yvian would not believe that.
The Duke of Karsten must rest very uneasy, knowing that his massacre of the Old Race gave more than a little reason to center the vengeance of the witches upon him. And he would not believe that they did not intend to attack him. Yes, Loyse was a weapon and a tool Yvian must be wild to get within his two hands for use.
They rode out of the keep at a purposeful trot, Jaelithe matching Simon’s pace in the lead, Durstan’s twenty men providing a competent fighting tail. The main road ran to the coast, perhaps four hours ride away. Before the fall of Sulcarkeep, the traders’ city, under Kolder attack, this had been one of the trade arteries of Estcarp, linking half a dozen villages and one fair-sized town with that free port of the merchant-rovers. Since Sulcarkeep had been blasted into rubble nearly a year ago by the last despairing gesture of its garrison, taking with it most of its enemy, the highway had lost most of its traffic and the signs of its disuse were visible, save where the patrols worked to keep it free of fallen trees and storm wrack.
The troop clattered through Romsgarth, a central gathering point for the farms of the slopes. Since it was not market day their swift passage awoke interest from the early stirring townsfolk and there were calls of inquiry as they passed. Simon saw Durstan wave to the town guard, and knew they would leave a watchful and ready post behind them. The Old Race might be destined to go down to defeat, their neighbors snarling at their borders. But they would take a large number of those enemies with them in the final battle. And that knowledge was one of the things which kept Alizon and Karsten from yet making the fatal move of outright invasion.
Some leagues beyond Romsgarth Jaelithe signaled a halt. She rode barehead, her helmet swinging at her saddle horn. And now she turned her head slowly from right to left, as if she could scent the path of the quarry. But Simon had already caught the trace.
“There!” The sensation of danger which had been with him since waking focused unerringly. A track split south from the main road. Across it lay a fallen tree and that trunk bore fresh scars on its bark. One of the troop dismounted to inspect.
“Scrapes of hooves—recent—”
“Infiltrate,” Simon ordered.
They spread out, not to use the artery of the half-closed path, but working in through brush, among trees. Jaelithe took up her helmet.
“Make haste!”
This ground was right for ambush; to run into attack was the choice of a fool. But Simon nodded. What had brought them here was building to a climax. Jaelithe pressed heels to her mount, jumped the log, headed down the path with Simon spurring to catch up with her again. To any watcher it might seem they were alone, his men remained behind.