Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Twenty-nine

Paks snatched a few hours of sleep before they set off again, upstream along the river. She was still tired and sleepy, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. No one asked her any questions. They came to a shallow stony ford just as the Clart scouts discovered an enemy party guarding it, but the skirmish ended quickly.

“Well,” said Piter generally, “now we know we’re going the right way—”

“If those lights we saw last night were Siniava’s fires, we’ll have to turn back east,” said Vik.

“I’d like to find the Vonja militia,” said Devlin. “At least to know which side they’re on.” But they found nothing that day.

The next morning they found traces of a large camp. While looking for a clue to which army had used it, they found a refuse pit half-full of bodies. Here were the missing men: young Juris, and Sim, of Dorrin’s cohort, and old Harek. Harek was still alive, missing both hands, now, and with a festering wound in his belly. The other bodies bore evidence of the same bitter torment. Paks helped dig the graves; as they buried Sim and Juris, she glanced over at the Pliunis, massed across the clearing. They had said no more about deserters. Nothing could be done for Harek, but numbwine to ease his pain and a friend’s hand for comfort. When he died, they laid him in the grave they’d dug. Paks heard from Piter about his family.

“It was his last year,” he said. “He got his little bit of land two years ago, and he was going to retire last year, only this came up. It’s a shame—” Piter spat. “His oldest boy is old enough to farm that land, but he’s always been wild to join the Company. Effa, that’s his wife, is a hard-working woman. Those scum—one more year, and he’d have been home, working his own bit of land.”

Paks felt a pang of guilt—they had come so close, to help Cal Halveric, and had done nothing for their own companions. The rest of that day she marched with deepening anger, anger reflected in the eyes around her.

The next day they found the Vonja and Foss Council militia at last, drawn up facing Siniava’s lines. In the hours of daylight that remained, Paks looked over their allies. Units from all three Foss Council cities were there, distinguished by the color of their trousers and the trim on their gray tunics: red for Foss, green for Ifoss, and yellow for Fossnir. Like the Vonjans, they wore trousers tucked into soft-topped boots in the field, though at home they went bare-legged. Vonjan militia wore russet-orange tunics over black trousers. Those from Cortes Vonja had orange helmet-plumes as well, and a leaping cat in black on their tunics. In comparison, those who had come with the Duke looked shabby and travel-worn—but, Paks noted, equally ready to fight.

Across a shallow valley, Siniava’s camp was set on rising ground. In the late slanting sunlight, Paks could see troops in the familiar black and yellow, and other colors: light green, blue, and many in rough brown leather. She wondered if they would attack that afternoon; her heart leaped to think how soon Siniava might be dead, and the war over.

But overnight Siniava slipped away eastward, eluding the militia scouts who should have alerted them. The Duke came back from the council of commanders in tight-lipped fury; the militia commanders were arguing about the order of march. It was some hours before the army moved at all. They finally caught up with Siniava again at nightfall. His position was even stronger than before: rising ground sheltered from flank assaults by hummocks of broken rock.

“He’ll have bowmen in there, I don’t doubt,” said Stammel, frowning. “We can’t see ’em, and they’ll have a lovely view of us. Sun behind ’em, too. Blast those militia! Why wouldn’t they move?”

“For that matter, why didn’t they notice when he moved in the night? They said they had their scouts out and didn’t need ours.” Kefer glared across the space as if his gaze could strike a blow.

“Militia—” began Paks and stopped short. What she knew of some Vonja militia was not to be talked about.

“Well—” Stammel stretched and sighed. “The Duke won’t let ’em slip away again. We’ll have a day’s work tomorrow. Paks, make sure everyone in your file has rechecked their weapons. Vik, the same for you. And tell the other file leaders. We don’t want any more surprises than he gives us.”

By first light they stood arrayed in battle formation, watching the sky lighten behind the slope Siniava held. Paks flexed her hand on the shield grip, tested one more time the balance of her sword. She glanced down the line. At the far end, barely visible in the dimness, were the Pliunis and two cohorts of Vladi’s spears. Next a solid block of Foss Council militia—a thousand pikemen—then the Vonja militia, half pikes and half swords. The right flank was Arcolin’s and Dorrin’s cohorts, and beyond them two cohorts of Halverics. Vonja archers stood behind the left flank, and Cracolnya’s cohort and Halveric archers behind the right. Clart Cavalry, the rest of Vladi’s spears, and some five hundred mixed militia waited in reserve.

When their advance began, Paks wanted to run, wanted to charge into the enemy lines like an arrow in flight.

“Steady now!” bellowed Stammel. “Keep the lines, Tir blast you! You’ll need that strength later.” Paks forced herself to slow, shortening stride slightly and keeping the drum cadence. She willed the strength she saved to flow into her sword arm. She could feel Canna’s medallion and Saben’s stone horse on her chest. Soon, she told them. Soon. They were halfway to the enemy lines where lowered pikes awaited them. She heard the whirr of a crossbow bolt. Someone yelped, behind her. Directly ahead, the enemy wore dark blue tunics bordered in scarlet. Paks wondered where they were from. Then she heard screams from the rocks to her right, and a roar of sound as Siniava sent his army forward. The men in blue charged, keeping no formation; the lines crashed together into chaos. Paks thrust her sword into the first blue-clad body, blocked another’s slash with her shield, and drove forward.

The rest of that day the armies struggled on, hour after hour, unable to win or withdraw. The lines swayed back and forth, dissolved, reformed squad by squad. Dust choked the fighters and hid the action from their commanders—and the noise drowned out their commands. At times allies who could hardly see each other for the dust fought desperately for some minutes before they realized the error. Paks fought pikemen in blue, pikemen in black and yellow, swordsmen in brown—and nearly found herself battling a squad of green-clad swordsmen until they cried “Halverics!” She fought until she could hardly lift her sword, and still fought on, with the memory of Harek and Canna and Saben filling her mind.

At last both armies faltered. Fighters stepped back when they could, and quit driving forward. A gap opened between them; the dust settled slowly. When Paks looked up, she saw it was long past noon. She was thirsty and hungry and ached in every bone. She tried to gather her wits and help reform the cohort, but she could not see them at first. She heard the Duke’s horn call and looked around—there. Still alert and wary, she picked her way across the battlefield, littered as it was with dead and wounded fighters, to join them. Stammel was checking over her cohort as she came up. Their faces were gray with dust, sweat-streaked, with eyes like dark pits of exhaustion.

“There you are,” said Stammel, as she found her place. “Seli’s with the surgeons; he’ll be out some time. Take over for him, junior to Devlin.”

“Yes, sir.” Paks was too tired to feel any elation at the promotion.

“Take whoever you need—we’ll need water up here, and bandages—food if you can find it.”

“Yes, sir.” In the next hour, she had supplied the cohort with water and food. Other companies began to regroup; the Halverics looked almost ready to fight again. But militia wandered around in apparent confusion. She could not see the Pliunis at all, and wondered if they’d deserted. Across the field, the enemy army slowly condensed into formation. Paks’s bones ached as she thought about another battle. But it was late afternoon before the field was cleared, and neither army moved from its position. As the sun slipped westward, Paks began to feel chilled in her sweat-damp tunic. Her nose itched; she rubbed it on the rim of her shield. She saw Arcolin ride to meet and speak with a messenger in Foss Council gray, then he rode back. The trees behind them threw long shadows that crept across the field; their own shadows loomed tall as giants. Still nothing happened, and it was dusk.

That night Paks wondered if corporals and sergeants ever slept; she was busy until her turn on guard with things she had never noticed corporals doing. Checking on the wounded, counting weapons retrieved from the field, issuing new weapons or clothes to those who’d lost theirs in battle… an endless list of chores awaited her. That night, too, assassins slipped through the lines, trying to kill both the Duke and the Halveric. They succeeded with the captain-general of the Foss Council militia. Paks and Jenits captured an enemy trying to sneak through the lines in the confusion of the assassins’ attack; she turned him over to the watch captain, and never heard what happened to him.

Morning dawned cloudy and damp. A thin rain began just as the army formed. Battle that day was even more confused and exhausting than the day before, as the hazards of mud compounded those of battle. When heavier rain fell in curtains after some hours of fighting, Siniava’s troops gave back slowly. The Phelani and Halverics pushed forward, but the militia in the center could not advance. Paks slogged on through the slippery mud, rain beating in her face, but she could not keep up with the retreating army, which vanished into the woods. At last the Duke halted them. As far as Paks could tell, Siniava’s army was in full retreat.

Back in camp, rumors flew that Siniava was on the run and his army dissolving. Paks had her doubts. Siniava had regrouped before. She splashed through the rain, checking on the wounded, bringing food to those who could eat, and making sure that no one was missing. When she went back to the cooks’ tent at last for her own meal, Stammel, Kefer, and Haben of Dorrin’s cohort were inside talking.

“You can’t blame the Clarts,” Kefer was saying. “They’ve taken losses all along, and this heavy rain is hard on ’em.”

“Aye—but those Blue Riders needn’t have been larking about with Sorellin’s militia. Not that they could have done it alone—Vonja and Foss Council just wouldn’t move.” Stammel turned to Paks and grinned. “Got ’em taken care of? Good. Eat hearty; we’ll be marching early.”

“And late,” added Haben. He was Dorrin’s senior sergeant. “By Zudthyi’s Spear, I hope they don’t slip us and get away somewhere to regroup.”

“What I heard is the Blue Riders are keeping contact.”

“But can we keep contact with the Blue Riders?” Haben took his bowl back for another helping. “And even if we can, would you wager those militia could?” He gulped down several mouthfuls. “I tell you, Stammel, if they set foot out of camp by noon tomorrow, I’ll buy you a jug of The White Dragon’s best ale.”

“No bet,” said Stammel gloomily. “They won’t. I’ve heard that a good third of the Vonjans are actually Siniava’s anyway.”

“After today?” asked Kefer, grinning.

“Maybe not, after today. Tir’s bones, I’m tired. Paks, you’re watch-second to Kefer tonight. If you need me before the change, Kef, I’ll be asleep near the middle post.” Stammel yawned, waved, and went out. Paks finished her meal while Kefer waited. When they left the tent, Haben turned toward Dorrin’s area, and Paks and Kefer walked the perimeter posts together. This was her first experience as watch second; she was very aware of her responsibility as she went from post to post during the watch.

Morning looked no better; rain had continued all night. The mercenary companies were soon ready to march, but as Haben had predicted the militia were only then struggling out of their tents to look around. When the march finally began, about noon, the mercenaries went alone, though the militia were pulling down their tents.

The Clarts had found a village, mostly burned but with several large barns intact, along the line Siniava had taken. They reached this village by nightfall; all the wounded, and most of the others, slept in shelter. Paks tried to ignore the stains where the villagers’ bodies had been dragged away for burial by the Clarts. Rain continued all that night, slow and steady. In the morning light, the wreck of the village was even uglier. Paks found a body the Clarts had missed: a young girl or woman who had been trapped in a burning sheepfold. She stared at it for a time before she called someone to help carry it away for burial.

For three wet days they marched on in the mud, along crooked lanes that led from village to village. Paks heard from Stammel that the militia was finally on the move behind them. But they could not catch Siniava’s army, and one day the Blue Riders reported that it had split. They were not sure which part of it Siniava was with. Finally the Duke turned them south, toward Cortes Cilwan.

“He thinks Siniava might have kept troops in reserve there,” said Kefer. “The Blue Riders are still trying to find out which remnant he’s with, but if the Duke is right, we could cut him off.”

Several days later they came in sight of the high walls of Cortes Cilwan, the inner keep standing far above the main city. They marched closer, in battle order. Paks could see sentries on the walls, and hear horns cry the alarm.

“Hmmph. I don’t see his standard,” said Arcolin. “I wonder if they’ve changed sides already.”

The Duke had ridden to the front of the column with Vladi and Aliam Halveric. “They’ll wish they had, if they haven’t,” he said. “But I expect they’re waiting to see who we are before they decide who they’re for. Let ’em see our colors, Arcolin, and we’ll find out.” Arcolin signalled the standard bearers, who unfurled the Duke’s banner to the light breeze.

“Nothing yet,” said the Halveric. “Coy, aren’t they?”

“Merchanters,” growled Vladi. “No courage, no honor—bah! Tir take all such to the black realms!” Paks glanced cautiously at him; she’d never been so close to him before. He looked like someone who would be called the Cold Count: a pale narrow face with cold blue eyes and a pointed gray beard.

The Duke lifted his reins and rode a little forward; the others went with him. A bellow came from the walls. Paks could not understand the words, and the Duke made no reply, advancing farther. He was close under the walls when he stopped. After a few minutes, someone came from a postern gate to speak with him. The discussion went on some time. Paks counted the sentries on the wall, and tried to see if there were archers up there too. It was hotter; standing in the sun she felt sweat trickling through her hair under the helmet. It itched. She resisted the urge to scratch her nose. Sun glared on the city walls. She looked past the city to the river. A bath in the river—Stammel cleared his throat and she jerked her attention back to the Duke. He and the others were riding back.

“Siniava isn’t here,” he told them. “They’re having riots inside, it sounds like, but they all swear Siniava isn’t here, and hasn’t been since he marched for Koury and Ambela. They won’t open the gates to us, and I won’t waste time taking the city when Siniava isn’t there. We’ll stay here until our scouts can tell us where he is.”

Paks had her bath in the river, as refreshing as she’d hoped; the camp was festooned with drying socks and tunics. By the time the couriers came in, rest, hot food, and baths had revived enthusiasm for the chase—among the mercenaries. They heard without surprise that the Vonja and Foss Council militia would not go farther east.

“I suppose we can’t complain,” said Devlin. “With all these bandits running loose in the confusion, and their own cities and lands at risk, I can see they’d want to stay closer to home.”

“I heard the trouble with Foss Council is that they’re still arguing about who’s in command since their captain-general was killed,” said Paks.

“Probably. With those units from different cities, their chain of command is tangled as briars. I wish the Sorellin militia would show up. Just because they were beaten once is no reason to hang back now. Siniava’s lost a lot, and not just on the battlefield.”

Seli limped heavily to their fire and eased himself down.

“Are you supposed to be here?” asked Devlin.

Seli grinned. “The surgeon said to try walking a few steps.” Devlin looked at the distance from the surgeons’ tents and shook his head. Seli ignored him. “Well, Paks,” he said. “How do you like being corporal?”

Paks blushed. “I’m not, really. Just until you’re well.”

“You’re doing the work. You’re as much of one as I am. If you weren’t doing it right, Kef and Stammel would have replaced you by now. Or so they told me, when I was worrying about it a few weeks after my promotion. I remember I was scared stiff. Did you feel like that, Devlin? I thought my friends would think I’d gotten conceited, and wondered if anyone would obey my orders.”

Devlin nodded. “Yes—I think everyone feels like that at first. I’d been bedding a woman in Cracolnya’s cohort, and she kept teasing me about it. So I quit, and she said my new rank had made me proud. And we had a big old fellow in this cohort then—as tall as you, Paks, and immensely strong. He wasn’t too bright, but he had years on me. He’d grumbled before when someone a year junior to him made corporal, and I was sure he’d cause me trouble.” Devlin paused to drink.

“Well? Did he?”

“He started to. He complained—claimed I’d done gods know what all for my promotion—things like that. I was young and brash in those days—” Seli laughed, and Devlin grinned. “Brasher, then. And a quick tongue, that I’ve always had. So I went to him, and we had a little talk—I asked him how he thought a little runt as ugly as I was—for that’s what he’d called me—could sell his favors to anyone. And then I suggested that since he was bigger, stronger and smarter—which he claimed to be—that if I’d been chosen, it must have been with divine guidance. That was in the days when no one in this company would have considered evil influence. He hadn’t thought of that, he said, and had I any proof. The proof, I said, was in the promotion—surely he knew the captains and the Duke could recognize the gods’ will—but if he wanted proof, to wait until nightfall.”

“What did you do?” asked Seli. “Coat yourself with one of those glowing mushrooms?”

“No. Better than that, I thought. We’d had a rich haul of treasure from the last campaign, and I’d noticed something—or thought I had. The quartermaster then was a friend of mine, and as corporal I could go through the stuff. I told him what I wanted, and he laughed and agreed, as long as I brought it back by morning. I’d told my troublemaker to meet me at midwatch of the second. This was late summer, and what would be rising?”

“Torre’s Necklace—by all the gods, Dev, what did you do?”

“Don’t be hasty, Seli; it’s not good for your wound. Well, he was there, and I was, and I’d told the watch to leave us be. I think they thought that if we wanted to fight on the walls they’d rather not know. I told the old boy that my proof was this: as I saluted the Necklace of Torre, her grace would give light to my blade—only briefly, of course, unless he was one of the evil ones.”

“It’s a wonder you weren’t blasted out of the sky.”

“The gods love the brave.” Devlin stretched and went on. “When the whole Necklace was above the hills and clear to see, I drew the blade I’d borrowed, and made some kind of invocation. Sure enough, it flared as blue as could be, and my—friend—nearly fell onto his knees. I sheathed it quickly, before the glow died, and had a time keeping quiet. The thing stung my hand when it lit up, and left blisters that lasted two weeks.”

“I thought something would happen,” said Seli. “The gods may love the brave, but some of them wouldn’t like your wit. I assume the man gave you no more trouble?”

“Right, he didn’t. But there was trouble nonetheless—one of the captains was up for some reason, and saw the flash. Next thing I knew I was explaining it to her—”

“Dorrin’s sword!” exclaimed Paks.

“Yes. It wasn’t hers at the time; she took it in the captain’s draw a few days later. She did about chew my hide off for mocking the gods. When I showed her my hand, though, she said they’d taken their revenge, and all she wanted was the sword.”

“It is a magic sword, then?” asked Paks. “I thought I saw it glowing last year in Rotengre, when we’d killed the webspinner’s cleric.”

“Yes, it’s magic. Good magic, too. She doesn’t show it off—swords like that attract thieves like honey brings bees.”

“Why doesn’t it glow all the time?”

Devlin shrugged. “I don’t know—I suppose it was made that way.”