Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Eighteen

They missed the armed band until they were face to face. Eight heavily armed brigands in scale and chain mail, with good swords at their sides, seemed to spring from the trees to surround them. Two had shields. Paks clawed for the blade slung over her shoulder. Canna had no time to string the bow; she was grabbed from behind and wrestled to the ground. Paks found herself facing three men, who circled to get behind her. Her longsword gave her a better chance than Saben’s curved one, but not much. She backed a step, glancing around. Canna was heaving and pitching under two of the men, and Saben fenced frantically with three opponents. She parried thrusts of two blades at once, and dodged the third. One man tried to get behind her again; she backed quickly, unable even to look behind.

Paks heard a hoarse cry from Saben, then Canna: “By St. Gird!” Again she retreated, and again. Canna yelled, “Paks! Run! Run for it!” just as Paks backed another step and the ground gave way beneath her. She tucked her head and tried to roll as she tumbled down a high bank of earth and leaves into a shallow stream. Above her was a roar of laughter, voices, and the squelch of wet leaves as someone started to follow her down. She forced herself up, stumbling on a loose stone, and fell again. But her vision had cleared, and she saw the single pursuer, picking his way carefully down the slope. He was only halfway, and testing his footholds.

Paks gathered her legs under her, then realized she had dropped the sword in her fall. No wonder he wasn’t in a hurry. Then she remembered Canna’s words. She looked around; above her, the ruffian chuckled at her evident fright. That way, she decided, upstream. Taking two quick breaths, she hurled herself into a run along the creek bed. The brigand shouted and threw his sword at her; it missed by a foot, but she did not stop to grab it. Behind her came other shouts. She ran as fast as she could, watching her footing. After fifty yards or so, the creek banks were not so steep, and she scrambled up the south bank and set off through the woods. She heard arrows thunking into the trees around her, but none touched her.

After the first frantic spurt, she settled into a steady run, wondering if the brigands had horses. She was not sure of her direction. Darkness closed in around her. She slowed to a jog after several falls, but kept going. She could not stop. She swung right, back toward the road. When she could not run any more, she slowed to a walk, gulping for air. Wet ferns whipped her legs; vines tripped her. Somewhere she lost her cloak, and she was wet through. Keep moving, she thought. Keep going.

When she came to the road at last, it surprised her. For a moment she could not think what it was, or why she had wanted to find it. The rain had stopped; the road was just visible against the solid dark of the trees. Paks turned and walked beside it, just out of the mud. She got her breath back, and began running again. Canna’s cry rang in her head. And Saben. What had happened to Saben? She found herself running faster, and sobbing as she ran.

After some time she realized she was no longer running beside trees: the forest was behind her. She stumbled into a brimming ditch beside the road, and scrambled out on the wrong side. It didn’t matter; she settled back to a jog and went on. The fields were soft with rain; she staggered when she hit the deeper mud of plowland. Her thighs ached. She slowed to a walk; the night grew lighter. She hoped for dawn, but looked up to see the clouds blowing away and stars shining between them.

At last she saw the twinkling watchfires ahead. She forced herself into a run again, terrified that something, even now, would come upon her before she reached the Duke. By the time she hit the outer guard perimeter, she was staggering with weariness.

“Halt!” came a shout from before her. Paks stopped and stood, swaying slightly as she gasped for breath. She heard the squelch of footsteps approaching. “Who’s there?” demanded the guard. “Give the password.”

She could not recall what the password had been weeks ago when they left for Dwarfwatch; surely it had changed by now. Besides, she had no breath for speech. A hard hand gripped her arm and shook her.

“Speak up, there. Who are you?”

“Duke Phelan’s Company,” she managed. “Must see the Duke.”

“At this time of night? Sober up, soldier—what’d you do, go off on a tear and get lost?” Someone brought a torch near; she could see the polished armor of the guard who held her. “Tir’s gut, you’re a disgrace,” he said disgustedly. “Duke Phelan’s Company—I don’t believe that. His people don’t wallow in filth.”

“Is that a bandage, Sim, on the left arm?” asked another voice.

“Who can tell?” grumbled the first. “Are you hurt?” he bawled at Paks.

“Just a cut,” she said. Her voice shook. “Please—I must get to the Duke now—it’s important.”

“You’ve missed roll call, if that’s what you mean,” said the first guard. “That was hours ago. They won’t thank you for showing up now.”

“Well, but Sim—we don’t want this mess in our area, either. Let the Phelani take care of it, if it’s theirs.”

“I don’t know what it is—d’you think that was ever his uniform?”

“It might have been. We’ll be in trouble if it is, and we don’t—”

“All right, all right. You take it—her—over then, if it concerns you so. Tir’s bones, I hate to be seen near such a ragbag. If it is the Duke’s, I don’t know what he’s coming to.”

“Please,” said Paks. Her legs were trembling under her, and she was afraid she might faint. “Please, we must hurry. It is important, and the Duke must know—”

The second guard grabbed her arm and swung her ahead of him. “Don’t tell me what I ’must,’ not when I don’t know who in thunder you are. We’ll go, but at my pace.”

Paks found even that hard to sustain as they threaded their way between tents toward the Duke’s perimeter. At last they were challenged by a voice she knew. She started forward, but the guard pulled her back. “Not so fast,” he said. He raised his voice. “It’s me, Arvor of the Sorellin militia, with someone who claims to be one of yours. Came in on our north perimeter, dirty as a miner and no good tale to tell.”

“Let’s see, then.” It was Barranyi holding a torch. “Who are you?”

“P-Paks,” she stammered. “Barra, I’ve got to see the Duke. Now.”

Barranyi held the torch closer. “Paks? Tir’s bones, it is you! But you were with—” she flicked a glance at the Sorellin guard.

“Well now,” he said. “Seeing as you know her, I suppose it’s all right—”

“Yes, Arvor—thanks—” said Barranyi in a rush. “Paks. Come on. What happened?”

Paks heard the guard leave, and tried to muster her thoughts. “C-call the sergeant, Barra. I must see the Duke tonight. I—I can’t explain to anyone but the Duke.”

“This late? He’s long abed; you can’t see him now. Why do you—you’re wet through!” She took Paks by the arm; Paks winced. “What’s this—a wound?” Paks nodded, suddenly too tired to speak. “You might trust me,” said Barranyi, her voice sharpening. “We trained together, after all.” She paused but Paks said nothing. “Very well, then; I’ll take you, but—”

“Sorry,” murmured Paks. “Can—can I sit down?”

“Wait. Malek!” she called back toward camp.

“Yo.”

“Mal, take over here; I have to take someone to the sergeant.”

“Sure thing.”

“Come on, Paks. Sergeant Vossik is by the fire; you need to warm up, I’ll warrant.” Paks followed Barra’s stiff back to a fire some yards away. She was shivering hard now, and stumbled repeatedly. She barely heard what Barra said about her. Vossik’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, and she had to puzzle out the meaning of his words before she could answer.

“But did you break your parole?” he insisted.

“She must have come all that way afoot,” said another voice.

“But why? Paks, tell us—”

“The Duke—” she said again. She felt herself sagging, heard a gasp from Barra, then a grunt as Barra caught her and eased her down. Her eyes closed in spite of herself. “The Duke,” she repeated. “Must see the Duke.”

“She’s wet through and cold,” said Vossik. “Not making sense. Get warm blankets, Barra. Seli, fetch a pot of sib.”

Paks tried to struggle up again; Vossik held her shoulders. “Please,” she said. “Please, sir—take me to the Duke. He has to know—right away.”

“Know what? And we’ll get you warm and dry before we—”

Paks shook her head and tried to free herself. “No—sir—must know now.” She felt tears burn her eyes.

“Know what? If it’s important, tell me—”

“Honeycat,” said Paks. “Tell the Duke—”

“What!” Vossik lowered his voice after the first bellow. “What about the Honeycat? Is that your message? Have you seen—?”

“Tell the Duke,” repeated Paks. She felt herself hauled to her feet.

“All right,” said Vossik grimly. “For that you’ll see the Duke. If this is some game, Paks—”

“No, sir. Im-important.” She shivered violently as Vossik supported her. He wrapped his dry cloak around her and called someone to help as he took her to the Duke’s tent.

The sentries there were reluctant, but Vossik overrode them. “Either you call him now, or I’ll raise a shout that’ll have half the camp up.” One of them ducked inside. The other stared curiously at Paks. A light flared inside the tent; dark shapes moved against the lighted walls. The sentry reappeared at the door and took up his post. One of the Duke’s servants peered out the opening. “He says come in,” said the man softly. Vossik pushed Paks forward into the tent’s main room. Another servant was lighting oil lamps around the room, but there was already enough light to see the Duke standing by his work table with a fur-lined robe thrown about his shoulders. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were cold.

“This had better be important, Vossik. Have you a good reason not to go through your captain?”

“Yes, my lord, I believe so.” Vossik cleared his throat. “This is Paks, my lord, of Ferrault’s cohort. She insisted she had to speak to you at once—and, sir, she mentioned the Honeycat.”

The Duke crossed the room in two strides to stare closely at Paks. “Honeycat! What do you know about the Honeycat? Why did you leave the fort? What’s happened?”

Paks tried to focus on his face. “Sir—my lord Duke—he’s coming. On the road. He has—he has a large force, sir, and—”

“Did Ferrault send you?” asked the Duke abruptly.

“No, sir. He—he’s been taken, I think.”

“Taken! Who? Not the Honeycat; the Halverics wouldn’t turn prisoners over to him.”

“Sir, they took—took the—we think they took the fort. They killed the Halverics, and took prisoners, and—”

“The Honeycat? How do you know? Did you see it? Did you escape?” Paks tried to nod, but felt herself starting to fall.

“Sir, we—we weren’t taken—we saw—” She could not get the words out. Her legs were limp. Vossik let her down gently on the carpets that overlay the tent floor. She heard the voices above her, but could not muster the energy to answer.

“Is she wounded?” asked the Duke.

“I don’t know, my lord. I know she’s wet and cold and filthy, but when she said Honeycat, I brought her straight to you.”

“Very well. Vossik, I want you to send the captains here at once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And alert the perimeter, but don’t say why. And send the surgeon, and tell the cooks I want something hot at once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You may go.”

Paks was hardly aware of it when the Duke’s servants stripped off her wet and filthy tunic and wrapped her in warm furs. She roused, coughing, only when the surgeon spooned a bit of fiery liquid into her mouth.

“I hate to do this,” the Duke was saying, “but we must know what message she brings. Can you tell how badly she’s hurt?”

Paks opened her eyes and tried to focus on the surgeon. He pressed a mug to her lips and she swallowed. Whatever it was, it sent warm currents through her cold arms and legs, and cleared the fog from her head.

“Exhaustion, mostly,” said the surgeon. “Maybe a broken rib or two, and this cut—sword or knife wound, but not bad. Bruises and scrapes; I’d say she’s fallen many times in the last day or so. She needs sleep, my lord, as soon as may be.” He met Paks’s eyes. “Better now? Drink the rest.”

Paks swallowed again, and then again. He took the mug away and offered another, of steaming sib. When she had drunk half of that, she turned her head to see the room around her. The Duke was dressed in his usual mail, as were the captains with him.

“There, my lord,” said the surgeon. “She’ll be able to talk with you a short while; I hope it’s enough.”

“If not, we’ll dose her again.”

“My lord, that would be most unwise. She will need to sleep—”

“You may go,” said the Duke. “And leave that stuff here.”

“But my lord—”

“I’ve no more wish than you to harm a good soldier, Master Visanior, but I must know her message. You may go.”

Paks felt the surface under her shift as the surgeon stood, and realized that she lay in a bed. The Duke’s face replaced the surgeon’s.

“Now, Paks,” he began. “You were in the fort when the Halverics came. Your name is on the roll I received for ransom. What happened: did you break your parole?”

Paks shook her head. When she tried to speak, the words came easily. “No, my lord. We were waiting to be ransomed—most of the Halverics had left, and they let us go outside a lot. We were gathering berries one day when strange troops came up the road—many of them—and the Halveric captain rode out to meet them. Then he fell from his horse, and they started chasing those outside the walls—”

“Except you?”

“As far as I know, my lord. We—”

“Who—how many?”

“Three of us, sir. Saben and Canna and I. We were in tall brambles, and they didn’t see us. We made it into the woods, and—”

“What about the fort?”

“They attacked it, sir, but the Halverics dropped the portcullis—we heard that—and we saw our men on the wall as well as theirs. So we started south to tell you—”

“You came all the way from the fort?” Paks nodded. “On foot?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How long were you? When did the attack happen?”

Paks tried to count back. “Sir, we were—seven days, coming. It was the afternoon before we started that they came.”

“Were you on the road all the way?”

“No, sir; we weren’t on the road at all. They had patrols, and we were nearly caught the first day, so Canna said to stay off the road, as far as we could and not get lost.”

“Where is the Honeycat now?”

“I—don’t know, sir. They were on the road—we watched them past the crossroads to be sure, and then we came ahead. We had—had trouble.” Paks shivered at the memory of uncle’s place.

“I daresay.” The Duke sighed, and looked up. “Well, captains, we have trouble ahead of us, too. If he’s come to relieve the siege, he’ll hit the lines somewhere, and we’d best find out where.” He turned back to Paks. “Where are the others, Paks? Were they killed?”

Paks had forgotten Canna and Saben in her anxiety to see the Duke. Now the memory of their last encounter returned full force. Her eyes widened. “Sir! The brigands! They attacked us in the forest, and—and Saben and Canna—I don’t know what happened. Canna said to run—I had to leave them. I had to get to you, my lord, but I didn’t mean to leave them to—”

“Shh. That’s all right. We don’t think that of you. You did well.”

“But, sir, you must find them—they need help—” Paks felt her strength and awareness slipping away again. She wanted to get up and find Saben and Canna, she wanted to chase the Honeycat, she wanted—she fell into sleep as dreamless as a cave.

She woke again in broad daylight, hearing voices from the next room. For awhile she lay with her eyes closed, listening idly.

“I don’t want guesses, Jori; I want facts.” That was the Duke, and he sounded angry.

“No, sir. But the scouts haven’t found anything else.”

“They’d better. Jori, go back to the Sorellin—no, wait. Take this to Vladi—”

“Sir, the Count?”

“Yes. Don’t look like that, just do it. It’s around the far side; take a fast horse. Wait for an answer. I’ll go to the Sorellin commander myself. Go on, now.”

A much younger voice. “If only they hadn’t been so careless in the forest.”

The Duke snorted. “What is it, Jostin, did you expect me to scold her for that?”

“Well, my lord, you’ve always said to us—”

“Lad, some mistakes carry their own punishment. And consider what they did—I doubt any of you squires could make such a journey. After all that, you don’t scold like an old granny for things they couldn’t help.”

“But they should have been watching—”

The Duke’s voice hardened. “When you’ve done as much, squire, you may offer criticisms. For now, you may ready my mount. Go.”

Paks opened her eyes. She was in the tent, in a small curtained room, wrapped in soft furs on a bed. Slumped on a stool nearby was a servant, who jumped up when he met her eyes.

“Are you awake? Can you speak?”

Paks yawned, swallowed, and managed to say yes.

“My lord Duke,” called the servant, “she’s awake.” He offered Paks a mug of sib. She was warm and comfortable as long as she held still, but when she tried to shift her legs, she ached in every muscle. The Duke pushed through the curtains between the rooms.

“Paks, I know you need more sleep, but I need more information. Sim will bring you something to eat, while you answer my questions.”

Paks tried to push herself up in the bed, but failed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Now, this force you reported—the colors were black and yellow, you said. Any other reason for thinking it was the Honeycat?”

“Yes, my lord. That first day we overheard one of the mounted men; he called his commander Lord Siniava. Canna said that was the same.”

“Yes. It is. You said he took prisoners—do you know where they are?”

“With the column, sir. I don’t know about the fort, but the ones outside are with the column.”

“Just our men?”

“No, sir. Some Halverics, too. But he killed those who tried to run or fight.”

“Just a moment; I want someone else to hear this.” The Duke stepped to the curtain and returned with a man in dark green that looked like the Halveric uniform. “Cal, you’ll need to hear this for yourself. Go on, Paks.”

Paks looked curiously at the man before turning back to the Duke. She was not sure what he wanted to hear.

“Tell us again what happened when the Honeycat’s force reached the fort: what did the Halverics do, and what did our men do?”

“Yes, sir. I think almost half our men and the Halverics were outside the gates. When the column was sighted, the Halverics’s horn blew. Then a man rode out of the fort—we thought it was the Halveric captain. He seemed to be talking to someone at the head of the column—”

“Had it halted?”

“Yes, my lord. Then he backed his horse a length or so, and raised his arm, and fell from his horse. We thought he’d been shot; they had bowmen.”

The man in green stood abruptly, face pale. “Seli! No!”

Duke Phelan shot him a glance. “Who—?”

“My lord, he—my brother Seliam—you wouldn’t remember him. Seli dead, and by treachery!”

“Cal, I’m sorry. I do remember—a little lad of six or so, perched on your father’s saddle.”

The other man turned his head aside. His voice shook. “My lord, it—it was his first command.” Suddenly he was at the bedside, hand fisted in the sleeping furs at Paks’s throat. “Are you sure it was Seliam? How do you—?”

Duke Phelan reached out and removed the hand. “Let be, Cal. ’Tis not her fault.” The younger man turned away, shoulders hunched. “You thought it was the captain, Paks. Why?”

Paks was frightened. “He—he wore a cloak with gold at the shoulders, my lord; it glittered. And he rode a dapple gray with a black tail.”

“It must be so,” whispered the other man. “Sir, I must go at once. By your leave—”

“Wait. You may need to know more of this.”

“I know enough. Seli dead, my men prisoners, others sieged—”

“No. Stay and hear. Not for long, Cal.” The Duke and the other matched gazes; the young man’s eyes fell first.

“Very well, my lord Duke, since you insist.”

“Go on, Paks. After the captain fell, what then?”

“Then the Honeycat’s men moved in squads, rounding up those who were outside. Some of the Halverics fought, and tried to get back to the fort or protect our men, but they were outnumbered. Some of ours tried to escape, but we saw them fall. Then we heard the portcullis go down, and after a bit we saw ours on the walls along with the Halverics.”

“Where was Captain Ferrault?”

Paks thought back. “I think, my lord—he was inside.”

The Duke grunted. “And you don’t know how big a force the Honeycat left at the fort?”

“No, sir. We thought of trying to sneak back and find out, but Canna had been hit. She said we should shadow the main column and come to you.”

“Canna was hurt? I thought you said you weren’t seen.”

“We weren’t, my lord, not then. But their first sweep around the fort, they shot into the brambles to scare anyone out. It was bad luck she was hit; they couldn’t see us.”

“I see. Now—you’re sure that some of the prisoners were taken with the column?”

“Yes, sir. We couldn’t see it often, because of the sweeps, but on—it must have been the third day—Canna and Saben got a clear look. They said sixty or more prisoners, both ours and the Halverics.”

“And how many enemy?”

“Something over three hundred foot, and a hundred horse, and ten wagons.” The Duke turned to look at the man in green. Paks watched their faces, trying to understand why the man looked so familiar—had he been at Dwarfwatch with the Halverics?

Suddenly she realized that, though taller and not bald, he looked like Aliam Halveric. She looked more closely. His well-worn sword belt was tooled in a floral pattern; his cloak was fastened with an ornate silver pin. If he was a Halveric son, and the captain killed at Dwarfwatch his brother—she shivered.

“Now,” said the Duke, “What time yesterday did you meet the brigands?”

“Afternoon, sir, and starting to get dark.”

“And when did you last see the Honeycat’s column?”

Paks thought, counting the days. “The—the fourth day, sir. They had passed the Guild League road; there’s a village just south, and they burned it. Then we passed the column, the next day, and that was the fourth after we started.”

“How fast were they traveling?”

“Sir, I—I don’t know. Canna said when we were three days from here that it would take them five—but that was before the rain.”

“Yes. With rain—those wagons should be slowed—Cal, tell your father this. I’m leaving today, with the Company, to see if I can catch them on the road. After that, I’ll go north. I’ll do what I can to save his men; I’ll expect to meet him soon. I can’t offer you much escort—”

“Sir, I’ll be fine.”

“Cal, the Honeycat is infinitely devious. Let me send my youngest squire, at least: he’s brave, if pigheaded.”

“Sir, I thank you, but my own escort will suffice.”

“Be careful, then. And Cal—be fast.”

“I’ll kill every horse I own, if I must. May I go?”

“Yes. Luck go with you.” The young Halveric bowed and withdrew. The Duke looked at Paks; she was drinking a mug of soup the servant had brought in. She started to put it down when she saw him looking. “No,” he said kindly. “Go on and finish it; you need that. Paks, the first scouts I sent out last night have come back; they found no trace of your friends or the brigands. I’m not sure they went far enough; I had told them to be back an hour after sunrise. We’ll keep searching, you may be sure. As for you—” he sighed, and sipped from the mug the servant had handed him. “You heard me tell Cal I’m leading the Company out. If we’re lucky, we’ll catch him on the road, unprepared. You’re not fit for this—” Paks opened her mouth to protest, and he waved her to silence. “No. Don’t argue. You’ll stay here. One of my scribes will take down everything you recall—no matter how unimportant—about your journey and the Honeycat. You will not talk to anyone else about it until I give you leave. Not even the surgeon. Is that clear?”

Paks nodded. “Yes, my lord. But sir, I could—”

“No. You’ve had less than half the sleep you need; I’m not risking my only source of information. When the surgeon passes you as fit for duty, there’ll be plenty for you to do.” The Duke’s sudden smile held no humor; Paks shivered. “Now. What can you tell me about their order of march, and the scouts?”

Paks explained the forward and flank sweeps as well as she could. The Duke nodded, and stood. “Very well. Remember that if anyone other than my scribe Arric tries to ask questions, you’ll have a lapse of memory.”

“Yes, my lord.” Paks felt a wave of sleepiness rise over her. She hardly knew when the Duke left, and she slept heavily several hours. The tent was very quiet when she woke, and she fell asleep again quickly. The next time she woke, the lamps were lit, and the surgeon was beside the bed, calling her name.

“It’s partly the stimulant you were given,” he explained when Paks asked why she was so sleepy. “That and the exhaustion from your journey. If you didn’t sleep now—well, you must. Try to eat all Sim brings, and sleep again.”

Paks had trouble working her way through the large bowl of stew and half-loaf of bread. Even swallowing was an effort. She sat up briefly, but sleep overwhelmed her again. She woke in early morning feeling much better. When she asked for clothes to put on, Sim told her she was to stay in bed.

“You’ll be getting clothes when the surgeon says you can get up and not before. That’s the Duke’s orders, so it’s no good looking at me.” He left her to her meal, and Paks looked around the room. It had not registered before that she was in the Duke’s tent—she noticed a carved chest bound with polished metal, a three-legged stool with a tooled leather seat, the rich sleeping furs she lay under—in the Duke’s own chamber. She finished breakfast. When Sim came to take the dishes, Arric the scribe arrived, a slender man of medium height whom Paks had often seen in the quartermaster’s tents.

When he had readied his writing materials, she began to tell her story again. Arric was accustomed to the halting accounts of inexperienced soldiers, and prompted her with pointed questions when she faltered. Paks was surprised when Sim arrived with lunch for them both. After lunch they began again. Paks was beginning to tire when the surgeon came to check on her. He drove Arric off, and Paks slept for several hours. She woke with a huge appetite, ate everything Sim brought, and greeted the surgeon with a demand to be let out of bed.

“Being hungry’s a good sign,” he told her. “You’ll come back fast now. I’ll have Sim bring more food in an hour. Work with Arric a few hours tonight, and you may be able to get up tomorrow. I’ll check on you before breakfast.”

Paks devoured her second supper eagerly, and answered Arric’s questions as fast as she could. She dared not ask if they had had word from the Duke; she thought she heard more noises in camp, and was determined to be ready if he called. She was sure she would not sleep, when Arric finally left, and thought of trying to sneak out of bed and find clothes. The bed was warm, though—and the surgeon woke her as he came in the next morning.

He had brought a bundle of clothes, as if certain she would be well enough. Everything was new, from boots to cloak. She said nothing while he looked her over. He sighed.

“It’s too early, really, but you’ll be well enough if you don’t exhaust yourself again. Eat more than usual for several weeks, and rest when you can. Your wounds are healing cleanly, no trouble there. Dress and come out front.”

When she came through the curtain, the Duke was standing in the tent entrance, talking to someone outside. The surgeon stood frowning by the work table.

“Ah, Paks,” said the Duke, as he turned and saw her. “You’re better, I see. Ready to ride?” The surgeon grunted, but Paks grinned.

“Yes, my lord. When?”

“At once. We ride north, to the fort; I expect to meet the Halverics there.” He moved toward the table, and sat, looking up at Paks. “We hit the Honeycat on the road, with Vladi’s spears and Clart Cavalry to help. He and his captains escaped, but the rest didn’t.”

“And our men, my lord? The prisoners?”

The Duke frowned. “Most of ’em had been killed. We saved some—by Tir, that devil-worshipper has earned a beating—I’ve heard how the others died.” He looked so stern that Paks dared not ask who lived. “Get some food for yourself, and a sword; we’ll have to catch up with the rest on the road.”

Paks left the tent to find the camp almost deserted. She got sword and scabbard from the quartermaster, and filled saddlebags with food at the cooktent. Rassamir, one of the Duke’s senior squires, beckoned her from the horse lines.

“Here—I’ve saddled for you, and you’ll lead a spare. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Paks slung the saddlebags over and fastened them.

“Fine. Mount and wait here.” He swung himself onto a rangy bay, and took up the leadline of one of the Duke’s chargers. Paks mounted, wincing at her painful ribs. One of the horseboys handed up the lead rope for a horse much like her own sturdy mount. In a few minutes the Duke and Rassamir rode up beside her; each took another horse to lead.

“If you start feeling bad, Paks,” said the Duke seriously, “I want you to drop back with the wounded that’ll be coming in from yesterday’s battle. You won’t help us any if you can’t fight when we reach Dwarfwatch. The surgeon thinks you shouldn’t go, but—”

“I’m fine, my lord. I’ll be all right.”

He smiled. “I thought you’d say that. Just remember: you’ve already served me and the Company well; I won’t think less of you if you can’t ride and fight so soon.” Paks nodded, but she was determined to find out what had happened to her friends. She knew she would make it to the fort, surgeon or no surgeon.

The surgeon, in fact, was riding north too. “Arbola’s coming back with the wounded,” he said. “He won’t be able to catch up. You’ll have plenty of work for Simmitt and me both.” The Duke merely nodded and they set off.