Andre Norton - Web of the Witch World

“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.

The wind in their faces was sea-scented. Somewhere ahead an inlet in the coast waited. Was a ship there—to make a quick pickup and then to sea—to Karsten? What had brought Loyse into such danger? He wished for the Falconers and their trained birds to spy on what lay ahead.

Simon could hear the rustling advance of his men—they would certainly not go unheralded in this country. His mount flung up its head and neighed—to be answered from ahead. Then they came out in an open pocket of meadow sloping gently to beach in a cove. Two horses grazed there, saddles empty. And well out stood a ship, its painted sail belly-rounded by the wind, it was far beyond their reaching.

Jaelithe dismounted, ran towards a splotch of color on the beach and Simon followed her. He stood looking down at a woman. Her face was oddly blank and calm, though both her hands were tight upon the blade which had been driven into her. To Simon she was a stranger.

“Who?”

Jaelithe frowned. “I have seen her. She was from across the mountains. Her name—” From storehouse of memory she produced it in triumph. “Her name was Berthora and she once lived in Kars!”

“Lord!”

Simon looked to where one of the troop beckoned. He went to see what was mounted on the very edge of the wave-lapped shore. A spear driven deep into the sand so that it stood uprightly defiant held a mail gauntlet. He did not need any words of explanation. Karsten had been and gone, and wanted that coming and going known. Yvian had declared open battle. Simon’s hand closed upon that gauge and pulled it loose.

2 BORDER FORAY

THE RAYS of the lights centered on the glittering thing in the middle of the board, making it seem to ripple with a mindless life of its own. Yet it was but a glove, sweat-stained leather palm down, mailed back up.

“She left two days ago, but the why no one can say—” Bleak voice from which the fellowship had chilled away, leaving only grim purpose. Koris of Gorm stood at the end of the table, leaning forward, his hands so tight about the haft of his war ax that his knuckles were sharp ridges. “Last eve—last eve I discovered it! By what devil’s string was she tolled here?”

“We can take it,” Simon replied, “that this is Karsten’s doing and the why we can guess.” More “whys” than one, he thought, and meeting Jaelithe’s gaze, knew that she shared that guess or guesses. With Koris so emotionally involved this kidnaping would upset the delicate balance of Estcarp defense. Not even witch power was going to keep the young seneschal from Loyse’s trail, at least not until he had a chance to cool off and begin to really think again. But had that ship borne away Jaelithe would he, Simon, have been any the different?

“Kars falls.” A simple statement, fact when delivered in that tone of voice.

“Just like that?” Simon retorted. For Koris to go whirling over the border now with such a force as he could gather in a hurry was the worst stupidity Simon knew. “Yes, Kars falls—but by planning, not by attack without thought behind it.”

“Koris—” Jaelithe’s long-fingered hand came out into the light which had gathered about Yvian’s battle gauge, “do not lessen Loyse!”

She had his attention, had broken through to him when Simon had failed.

“Lessen her?”

“Remember Briant. Do not separate those in your mind now, Koris.”

Briant and Loyse—again she was right, his witch-wife; Simon gave respect where it was due. Loyse had ridden as the blank-shield mercenary Briant, had lived with Jaelithe in Kars, keeping watch in the very maw of the enemy, just as she had stormed into Sippar. And as Briant she had not only won free of Verlaine, but brought the captive Jaelithe with her at the beginning of her adventure, when all the might of that castle and its lord had been arrayed against her. The Loyse who was also Briant was no helpless maiden, but had a mind, will, and skills of her own.

“She is Yvian’s—by their twisted laws!” Koris’ ax moved into the light in a sweeping arc which bit deep, severing the stuff of the gauntlet as if it had been fashioned of clay.

“No—she is her own until she wills it otherwise, Koris. What manner of mischief was wrought to get her into their hands, I do not understand. But that it can hold her I doubt. However, think on this, my proud captain. Go you slashing into Kars as you wish, and she will then be a weapon for Yvian. The Kolder taint still lies there—and would you have her used against you as they can do?”

Koris’ head turned to her, he looked up to meet her gaze as he must always do from his dwarfish height. His too-wide shoulders were a little hunched, so that he had almost the stance of an animal poised for a killing leap.

“I do not leave her there.” Again a statement of fact.

“Nor do we,” Simon agreed. “But look you—they will expect us to be after such bait, and the trap will be waiting.”

Koris blinked. “So—and what then do you urge? To leave her wrest herself free? She has great courage—my lady—but she is not a witch. Nor can she, one against many, fight a war on her own!”

Simon was ready. Luckily he had had those few hours, before Koris and his guard had come pelting into the keep, to do some planning. Now he slapped a parchment map down beside the ax head still dividing the severed gauntlet.

“We do not ride directly for Kars. We could not reach that city without a full army and then we needs must fight all the way. Our van will enter the city at Yvian’s invitation.”

“Behind a war horn?” Koris demanded. “Shape changing—?” He was not so hostile now, beginning to think.

“After a fashion,” Simon told him. “We move here . . .”