“Message from the seneschal, Lord. Captain Osberic has the ship readied. He will loose her on signal, but does not know how long the wind will serve.”
Time . . . Simon tried to gauge the wind, though he did not have any sea knowledge. If Jaelithe did not come—then still they must move and risk the greater peril inherent in a true storm, with no aid of witchcraft. It must be tonight, or no later than tomorrow.
A sharp bird call and the black-and-white falcon that was ears and eyes for Uncar spiralled down to settle on its master’s fist.
“The seneschal comes,” Uncar reported.
Simon had never understood the tie between man and bird, but he had long ago learned that such reports were accurate and that the hawk range of the Falconers was far more effective than any human scouting in these heights. Koris was on the prowl, and this time Simon would have to agree with the other’s urging to move. But where was Jaelithe?
In spite of his ungainly body Koris moved with the economy of action marking an experienced fighting man. The huge ax he had taken from the hand of legendary Volt in the bird-god’s hidden tomb was muffled in a riding cloak, but he wore his winged helmet and came armed for battle. That handsome face, so ill supported by his misshapen body, was grimly alight as Simon had seen it before upon occasion.
“This night we move! Anner says that wind and wave favor us. He can not promise so later.” He hesitated and then added in a lower voice, “There is no word from the north.”
“So be it! Pass the signal, Waldis. At dusk we move.”
The boy disappeared arrow-swift between the rocks. Uncar’s lean face showed within the narrow opening of his bird-head helm.
“The rain comes. It will favor us that much more. At dusk, March Warder—” Hawk on wrist he followed Waldis, to bring up his men.
There was no true sunset; the gathering clouds were far too heavy. And the wave action was stronger. Soon Osberic would loose his bait ship. The wreckers had three watch points—two on the reef and one on the center tower of the hold; all would be manned in ill weather. Those on the reef need not be feared, but the sentry post on the tower also overlooked those fields through which the attackers must move. And though they had marked every bit of cover on that approach, Simon was worried. An early rain would give them cover.
But the storm winds came before the rain. And they had only the dusk to cloak them as the line of Borderers and Falconers sifted down to the entrance hole, climbed into the dark beneath. There was a sudden gleam and Simon heard an exclamation from Koris.
The blade of Volt’s ax shone with light. And Simon sensed a stir of the force from the crumbling altar, the rising of an energy beyond his ability to describe, but one he feared.
“A battle light!” Koris’ humorless laugh followed. “I thank you, Volt, for this added favor!”
“Move!” Simon ordered. “You do not know what may wake here with that blade!”
They found the entrance to the passage quickly. There was a tingling in Simon’s skin, his hair lifting despite the weight of his helmet, answering the electricity in this place. Here the walls were slimed with oily streaks of moisture which shone in their journey lights, and a moldering, rotten stench thickened as they went. Underfoot, the flooring vibrated to the pound of rising waves not too far away.
A stair before them, where silvery trails crossed and recrossed the stone, as if giant slugs had made highways there for countless generations. Up and up. All Jaelithe’s knowledge of these passages was gained during her flight through them. Loyse had discovered and used them for her purposes, and Simon wished he had her direction now. But he must be certain of his goal and not explore. They would emerge in the tower chamber which had once been Loyse’s; from there they could spread to take Fulk’s hold—always providing the bulk of his garrison were occupied elsewhere.
The steps rose endlessly, and then Simon’s counting ceased. There were still steps ahead, but this landing had counted out correctly for the door. And he could see the simple latch which held on this side. Luckily, the builder who had devised these ways had not concealed such catches. He bore down and a five-foot oval swung away.
Even here they had to use journey lights for the room was dark. A canopied cavern of a bed faced them. There was a chest at its foot, another under the window slits outside of which howled storm wind.
“Signal!” Simon need not have given that order. One of Koris’ guard had leaped on the chest, his arm up to thrust open the covering on the slit. Then the beat of the vibration pattern winked through all their journey lights, as it would through Anner Osberic’s if he were in position. The ship would be released. Now they had only to wait until the alarm of her coming would awake the castle.
But that waiting was the worst for all of them, keyed to action as they were. Two small parties, one under Ingvald, and one of Falconers under Uncar’s command, went back to the wall ways to explore. Uncar reported another door giving upon an empty sleeping chamber, providing a second exit.
Still time dragged and Simon mentally listed the many things which might go wrong. Fulk would be prepared for invasion from without. He had his scouts, as they had discovered in the pass. But this passage had never been discovered as far as Loyse knew.
“Ahhhh—” Someone nearby breathed a sigh of relief, which was swallowed in a blast of brazen clamor from just above their heads, startling them all.
“That is it!” Koris caught at Simon’s shoulder and then pushed past him to the door of the chamber. “The wreck tocsin! That will shake these rats out of their holes!”
3 BLACK NIGHT
PATIENCE. Long ago Loyse had learned patience. Now she must use it again as a weapon against fear and the panic which was chill in her, a choking band about her throat, a crushing weight upon her. Patience—and her wits—that was all they had left her.
It was quiet enough in this room where she had been left to herself at long last. There was no need to rise from the chair and try the window shutters or the door. They had even stripped the bed curtains from their supports. Lest she try some mischief against herself, she supposed. But it had not come to that yet; oh, no, not to that. Loyse’s lips shaped a shadow smile, but the glint in her eyes was not that of amusement.
She felt very faint, and it was hard to think clearly when the room spun in dizzy sideslips from time to time. Nausea had racked her on board the coasting ship—then she had not eaten for a long time.
How long a time? She began to reckon childishly on her fingers, turning them down in turn, trying to put a memory to each. Three, four, five days?
A face etched on her mind for all time—the dark-haired woman who had come to her in Es Castle in the early morning with a tale. What tale?
Loyse fought for a clear memory of that meeting. And the fear cloud grew thicker as she realized that this was no mental haziness born of nausea and shock, this was a blocking out which had no connection with her body or emotions. There had been a woman—Berthora! Loyse had a flash of triumph when she was able to set name to the woman. And Berthora had brought her out of Es Castle with a message.
But what was that message and from whom? Why, oh, why had she been so secretive about riding forth from Es with Berthora? There were fleeting memories of a wood road, and a storm—with the two of them sheltering among rocks while rain and wind made fury in the night. Then, a meadow sloping to the sea where they waited.
Why? Why had she remained there so calmly with Berthora, feeling no uneasiness, no warning! Ensorcelled? Had she been power-moved? But no—that she could not believe. Estcarp was friend, not enemy. And now that Loyse pieced together these ragged tatters of memory, she was very certain that Berthora had moved in haste and as a fugitive in enemy territory. Did Karsten also have its witches?
Loyse pressed her hands against her cheeks, cold flesh meeting cold flesh. To believe that was to negate all she knew of her own land. There were no witches in Karsten since the Old Race had been three times horned, outlawed to be killed on sight. Yet she was certain, just as certain, that she had been spellbound, spellled, to that meeting with the ship from the south.
There was something more—something about Berthora. She must remember, for it was important! Loyse bit her knuckles and fought her queasiness, the haze in her mind, fought grimly to remember. At last she achieved a bit of a picture . . .
Berthora crying out—first in entreaty, and then in despairing anger—though it was her tone rather than her words that Loyse recalled. And one of those from the ship striking at her with a callous casualness. Berthora stumbling back, her hands on the sword which had given her death, so fast upon that blade that its owner could not pull it free. Then an order, and another man bending over Berthora, fumbling in her riding tunic, bringing forth a hand clenched about something, something Loyse had not seen.
Berthora had delivered her to Karsten, and had been paid with death. But to aid in that delivering Berthora had had some weapon beyond Loyse’s knowledge.
How it had been done must not concern her now. That it was done . . . Loyse forced her hand down from her mouth, made it rest on her knee. She was in Kars, in Yvain’s hold. If they had sought her in Estcarp, were seeking her now, they could only conjecture as to where she had been taken. As for plucking her forth again—It would take an army to break open Karsten, such an army as Estcarp could not put in the field. Loyse had listened enough to the councils of war to know just how precarious was the Old Kingdom. Let them strip the country to invade Karsten and Alizon would snap down from the north.
In Verlaine once she had been one against all the might of Fulk, with no friend within that sea-pounded pile. Here she was one against many again. If she did not feel so sick and dizzy she could think more clearly! But to move made the floor under her dusty riding boots heave and roll as had the deck of the coaster.
The door opened and a flare of a hand lamp struck at her through the dusk, blinding her so that she must squint up at those who stood there. Three of them, two in the livery of ducal servants, one holding the lamp, the other a tray of covered dishes. But the third, that slender figure with a scarf about head and shoulders in masking concealment—Putting down lamp and tray on the table the serving women left, closing the door behind them. Only when they had gone did that other come into the full light, twitch aside her veiling to view Loyse eye to eye.
She stood taller than the heiress of Verlaine, and her figure had a delicate grace Loyse could not claim. She wore her fair hair looped in intricate plaiting, the whole snooded in a gem-spangled net. And there were more jewels at her throat, her girdle, braceleting her arms above the tight fabric of her sleeves, ringing each finger. As if she had set out the wealth of her gem caskets with purpose to overawe the beholder. Yet, looking beyond all that glitter to her calm eyes, her serene expression, Loyse thought such a gesture could only be a screen. The wearer of that wealth might do it because it was expected of her, not because she needed support of her treasures at this meeting.
Now her hand, with its glinting burden, advanced and she picked up the lamp to hold it higher, facing Loyse with a measuring look which stung, but under which the girl sat unmoving. She could not match the other’s beauty. Where this one was golden-haired, Loyse was bleached to fading; where this one was all grace, not studied but instinctive, Loyse was awkward angularity. Nor could she pride herself as to wit, for the Lady Aldis was noted for her astute moves in the murky waters of Yvian’s court.
“You must have more to you than appears,” Aldis broke the silence first. “But that lies far buried, my lady duchess.” The sober appraisal of that speech became mockery at its close.
Lamp still in hand, Aldis swept a curtsy which made her skirts swing in a graceful swirl not one woman in a hundred could have equaled. “My lady duchess, you are served—pray partake. Doubtless the fare upon which you were forced to break your fast of late has not been of the best.”
She returned the lamp to the table and drew up a stool, her manners a subtly contemptuous counterfeit of a servant’s deference. When Loyse neither moved nor answered, Aldis set forefinger to lip as if puzzled, and then smiled.
“Ah—I have not been named to your fair grace, have I? My name is Aldis, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to this, your city of Kars where you have long been awaited. Now, does it please you to dine, my lady duchess?”
“Is it not rather your city of Kars?” Loyse put no inflection into that question, it was as simply asked as a child might do. She knew not what role might aid her now, but to have Yvian’s mistress underrate his unwilling wife seemed a good move.
Aldis’ smile grew brighter. “Ill-natured tittle-tattle, gossip, such as should never have reached your ears, my lady duchess. When the chatelaine is missing, then there needs must be someone to see that all is done mannerly, as our lord duke would wish. I flatter myself in believing that you shall find little here, your fair grace, that must be changed.”
A threat—a warning? Yet if either, most lightly delivered in a tone which gave no emphasis. But Loyse believed that Aldis had no intention of yielding what power she had here to a wife married for reasons of state.
“The report of your death was a sad blow to our lord duke,” Aldis continued. “Where he was prepared to welcome a bride, came instead an account of an open tower window, a piece of torn robe, and the sea beneath—as if those waves were more welcome than his arms! A most upsetting thought to haunt our lord duke’s pillow by night. And how greatly relieved he was when came that other report—that Loyse of Verlaine had been bewitched out of her senses by those hags of the north, taken by them as hostage. But now all is well again, is it not? You are in Kars with a hundred hundred swords to keep a safe wall between you and the enemy. So eat, my lady duchess, and then rest The hour is not far off when you must look your best to ravish the eyes of your bridegroom.” The mockery was no longer light—cat-claws unsheathed to tear the deeper.
Aldis lifted the covers from the dishes on the tray and the odor of the food turned Loyse’s emptiness into a sudden pain. This was no time for pride or defiance.
She smeared her hand across her eyes as might a child who is come to the end of a crying bout, and got to her feet, clutching at the bed post to steady her steps. A lurch brought her to the table edge and she worked her way along the board to drop onto the stool.
“Poor child! You are indeed foredone—” But Aldis made no move to approach her and for that Loyse was thankful. A small part of her resented fiercely that the other watched while she had to use both hands to bring a goblet to her lips; her weakness was a betrayal.
But Aldis did not matter now. What did was restoring the wavering strength of her body, clearing her head. That Aldis had come here might in turn lead to something. Though Loyse could not yet see the advantage in the visit.
Warmth from the liquid she swallowed spread through her; the surface fear ebbed. Loyse put down the goblet. She did not want a wine-born muzziness clouding her thoughts. Now she pulled a bowl of soup to her and began to spoon it up, the savor of it reaching her. Duke Yvian was well served by his cooks. Against her will Loyse relaxed, relished her supper.
“Boar in red wine,” Aldis commented brightly. “A dish you shall find often before you, lady; since our gracious lord relishes it. Jappon, the chief cook, has a master hand for it. My lord duke expects us to mark his likes and dislikes and be attentive to them.”
Loyse took another sip of wine. “Vintage of a good year,” she commented, striving to hold her voice to the same even lightness. “It would seem that this lord duke of yours has also a palate. I would have believed tavern wine more to his taste, since his first man draughts came from such casks—”
Aldis smiled more sweetly. “Our lord duke does not mind allusions to his somewhat—shall we say—irregular beginnings. That he won Karsten by the might of his sword arm—”
“And the backing of his blank-shields,” Loyse cut in blandly.
“And the loyalty of his followers,” Aldis agreed. “He feels pride in that fact and often speaks of it in company.”
“One who climbs to heights must beware of the footing,” Loyse broke a slice of the nut-flour bread in twain and nibbled its crust.
“One who rises to heights makes very sure that the footing on that height is smoothed,” Aldis countered. “He has learned not to leave aught to chance, for Fortune is fickle.”
“And wisdom must balance all swords,” Loyse replied with a hill proverb. The food had drawn her out of her misery. But—no overconfidence. Yvian was no stupid sword swinger, easily befooled. He had won Karsten by wits as well as fighting. And this Aldis— Walk softly, Loyse, walk softly, beware of every leaf rustle.
“Our lord duke is paramount in all things, with sword, in the council chamber and—in bed. Nor is his body misshapen—”
Loyse hoped her sudden freeze had gone unnoted, but she doubted that. And Aldis’ next oblique shaft confirmed that doubt.
“They speak of great deeds done in the north, and that a certain misborn, misshapen churl who swings a stolen ax there led the van—”
“So?” Loyse yawned and then yawned again. Her fatigue was not pretended. “Rumor always wags a wide tongue. I have eaten; is it now permitted that I sleep?”
“But, my lady duchess, you speak as one who considers herself a prisoner. Whereas you are paramount lady in all Kars and Karsten!”
“A thing I shall keep in mind. But still, that thought, as uplifting as it is, gives me not as much joy as some rest would do. I bid you good eve, my Lady Aldis.”
Another smile, a tinkle of laughter, and she did go.
But nothing covered the sound Loyse listened for—the scrape of key in lock. Paramount lady she might be in Kars, but this night she was also prisoner within this chamber—and the key lay in other hands. Loyse sucked her lower lip against her teeth as she considered what that might lead to.
She gave the room a measuring survey. The uncurtained bed, as was usual in a room of state, stood on a two step dais above the flooring. There were windows in two walls. But as she loosed the inner shutters of one after another, she discovered beyond a netting of metal mesh through which she might thrust her fingers to the second joint, but no farther to freedom.
There was a chest against the far wall, wherein lay some garments she did not examine past the first glance. But she was still tired, her whole body ached to stretch out on the bed. There was one more task she set herself to, and it was one which left her weak and trembling. Sleep she must, but no one would come upon her unawares, for the table was now an inner barrier across the door.
Though she was so tired she felt that it would require a vast effort to raise her hand to her head, sleep did not come as Loyse lay there, staring up into the rafter frame which had supported canopy and curtains. She had not turned down the lamp and that made a fine glow by which she could see every part of the chamber.
In the past she had known a similar disquiet—strongest of all in that temple or shrine of the forgotten race where the hidden passages of Verlaine opened to the clean sky. The hidden ways of Verlaine . . . For a moment it was as if their dankness, the acrid odor of them, was about her now. Witchcraft! You could sniff it when you had known it before. Loyse’s nostrils pinched as she drew in a deep lungful of air. After all, she did not know all the secrets of Estcarp—and once before she had had a part of one here in Kars, while she and Jaelithe had fished in many pools for such scraps of information as might aid the northern cause. So there could still be agents of the Guardians hereabouts.
The girl’s hands balled into the covers on either side of her thin body. If she only had a measure of their power! If she could loose a sending now—to be picked up by a receptive, friendly mind! She willed that fiercely, crying soundlessly—not really for help, but for a steadying sense of companionship. She had been alone once, but then had come Jaelithe, and Simon, the tall stranger whom she had instinctively trusted and—and Koris. A faint flush warmed her cheeks as she remembered Aldis’ sneers. Misborn, misshapen. Not true—never true! Mixed blood, yes—so that he united two strains to his own despite—the squat, powerful body of his Tor mother’s kin, the handsome head of his noble Gorm father. But above all men the one her heart fixed upon from the day she had found him with Simon, wearing blank-shield disguises, outside the gate here in Kars, drawn by Jaelithe’s sending.
Drawn by a sending . . . But she could not send! Once more Loyse fought her inner barrier, striving to break through. For there was the scent of witchcraft or at least of some other thing hereabouts. She was so sure of that! It roughened her skin, made her alert, waiting.
Loyse slipped from the bed, went to set her hands on the table across the doorway. Her arms straightened, she was pushing at that barrier. But something in her still unlulled, still awake, battled against that compulsion to do this.
She backed away to the foot of the bed, facing the door. The key clicked, the latch loosed. The heavy slab swung back. Aldis again! For a moment Loyse relaxed. Then she stared into the other’s face. It was the same, exactly the same, feature by lovely feature. Yet—no!
And how it had changed she could not tell. There was even a little mocking smile still playing about those generously curved lips, the same expression on the fair face. Only Loyse knew, with every inch of her, that this was not the Aldis she had seen before.
“You are afraid,” Aldis’ voice, also. Exact—yet—no! “You have a right to fear, my lady duchess. Our lord duke does not like to be crossed. And you have played him several ill turns. He must make you truly his wife, you know that, or his purpose will not be served. And I do not think you will relish the manner of his wooing. No, I do not believe you shall find him a gentle lover willing to sue for your accord in the matter! Because you are in some ways a trouble to me, I shall allow you this much, my lady duchess.”
Flashing through the air to land on the bed by her right hand—a dagger. More a lady’s toy than the belt knives she had worn sheathed at her own hip, but still a weapon.
“A sting for you,” the Aldis who was not Aldis continued, her voice falling to a soft murmur so that now Loyse could hardly understand her words. “I wonder how you will choose to use it, lady duchess, Loyse of Verlaine, in one way—or another?”
Then she was gone. Loyse stared at the heavy wood of the now closed door, wondering how she had vanished so swiftly. As if she had been a thing without corporal body—an illusion.
Illusion! The weapon and defense of a witch. Had Aldis indeed ever stood there? Or was this some move on the part of an Estcarpian agent who could only aid Yvian’s captive in so much? But she would not nurse that thread of hope unduly.
Loyse turned to look at the bed, more than half expecting to find the blade gone, an illusion. But no. It lay there and under her hand it was solid, the whole slim length of it to needle point. The girl brought it to her breast, fondled it from simple cross hilt to that point. So she was to use it, was she? On whom? Yvian or herself? The choice had not seemed to matter to Aldis, or the semblance of Aldis, who had brought it to her.
4 FULK AND—FULK!
SIMON STOOD on the mid-step of the stair listening. Below was the din of battle where the forces of Estcarp mopped up the main hall. The loud “Sul! Sul!” of the Sulcarmen echoed faintly to him. But he strained to hear something else, movement above. He had not been mistaken, of that he was sure. Somewhere ahead on this narrow stair was Fulk. And the cornered lord of Verlaine had the advantage of anyone who dare follow him to his last stand.
There! Scrape of metal on stone? What sort of a surprise was Fulk preparing for his pursuers? Yet Fulk, above all, they must take in order to carry out their plan for Karsten. And time worked against them as Fulk’s ally.
Simon edged on, his left shoulder pressed to the wall. So far their plan was working. The wrecked ship on the reef had opened Fulk’s shore gates, sent out his men, centered the attention of the keep there. So that the invaders had nearly occupied the hold before the castle garrison was aware of their move.
But that had not led to quick surrender; rather the wreckers fought as men must who have no escape behind, and an unforgiving enemy before. Only because Simon had been sent spinning out of one swirling segment of the hall battle had he seen the flight of the tall man, his helm gone so that his red-gold mane identified him. Unlike Fulk of all the legends Simon had heard, this skulker did not seek to rally his men, take the lead in the next furious drive against the Borderers. Instead he had dodged, ran, sought this inner stair. And Simon, still with head ringing from the blow which had shaken him out of the press, followed.
Again, metal on stone. He was very sure of it. Some other weapon more forceful than sword or ax being readied? The stair took an abrupt turn to the right just beyond, a yard-square landing was all he could see, the step up the other angle hidden. There was a globe light burning, but pallidly.
The light flickered. Simon drew a quick breath. If the lamp was on the verge of failing . . . But the flickering followed a pulsating pattern, almost as if its power had been sapped at regular intervals. Simon took another step, and another—the third would bring him to the landing and so exposed to what might be waiting on the other flight of stairs.
Flicker, flicker—he found himself counting those blinks. And now he was sure that each drained energy. Simon had never learned the secret of the globe lamps; they could be governed in intensity by tapping on wall plates set below each one, but as far as he knew the globes themselves never had to be renewed, and no one in Estcarp had been able to explain how they worked. Set in these castle piles ages ago their secret was forgotten.
Flicker again. Now the light was much dimmer. Simon whirled about the angle of the stair, his back to the wall, his dart gun ready. Four, six steps up and then the smooth forward run of a narrow corridor. At the top of those steps a barricade, stuff hastily dragged from rooms above. Was Fulk lying in wait to pick off the first to disturb that erection of stools and a table?
Somehow Simon was worried. Fulk’s actions were so contrary to all he had heard of the coast-lord. These were the moves of a man trying to buy time. Time for what? All Fulk’s forces were engaged below; he could not be attempting to assemble a relief. No, he was striving to get out himself! Why he was so certain of that Simon did not know, but he was convinced it was so.
Did Fulk know of an inner wall passage, was he hunting the exit now? No more sounds except that the muffled clamor from below lessened, the last of Fulk’s men must be cut down.
The blink, blink of the light grew feebler. Then he did hear a faint sound, and fighter’s instinct sent him scrambling down the stair angle. The white flash of an explosion! Simon, blinded by that glare, almost lost his footing. He rubbed his eyes.
Light, but no sound at all. Whatever force had been unleashed there was new to him. Now trails of smoke, acrid and throat rasping. Simon coughed, fought to see, but his eyes were still dazzled by the flash.
“Simon! What is here?”
Pound of feet on the stair. Simon caught a hazy glimpse of a winged helm.
“Fulk,” he answered. “Up there—but watch—”
“Fulk!” Koris’ long arm was out, solidly against the wall, supporting Simon. “But what does he up there?”
“What mischief he can, lord.” More steps on the stair and Ingvald’s voice to identify them.
“He is late to our meeting,” Koris commented.
“Do not rush in—” At last he was able to see again. But the light globe was now far sped. Simon slipped up on the landing, forestalling Koris. The flimsy barrier was gone. Some charred bits of wood, a drift of ash and stains on the wall marked its site.
No sound, no movement from the hall or from the doors opening into that way. Step by step Simon advanced. Then he heard a small scuffling from behind the first door. Before he could move the great ax of Volt swung down to hit that barrier. The door gave and they looked into a room, the window facing them was open, a trail of rope hung out of it, anchored within by the weight of a chest.
Koris laid the ax on the floor and set his hands to the rope. All the strength of his great shoulders and arms went into an upward pull as Simon and Ingvald moved to the window.
The night was dark, but not too shadowed to hide the scene below. That rope, meant to drop Fulk to a lower roof, was now ascending, even with Fulk’s weight upon it, past the point where the wrecker lord would dare leap free. Only—Simon saw the white oval which was Fulk’s face turned up to him. The dangling man, coming up to their waiting grasp through a series of pulls by Koris, deliberately loosened his hold on that line. He screamed aloud, a dreadful cry, as if he were protesting against his own action. Had he, until that last second, really believed he had a chance to land safely? But when he crashed down he lay there. An arm was lifted and fell again.
“He is still alive.” Simon reached for the rope. He did not understand the need which moved him now, but he must look upon Fulk’s face. “I must go down,” he added as the rope end whipped in the window and he sat about making it fast to his own waist.
“There is more in this than seems?” Koris asked.
“I believe so.”
“Then down with you. But take care, even a broken-backed serpent wears fangs in its jaws. And Fulk has no reason to let his enemies live after him.”