Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Thirty-one

The next day they crossed the Immer at the same ford Siniava had used. The Duke’s column spent two days crossing, but started the pursuit well-fed and rested. Siniava’s trace was clear, bearing almost due east: discarded equipment and dying men littered the way. For three days they followed the trampled trail, but saw no enemy. The Sobanai riders returned to the northeast; the Clarts and a half-cohort of Blue Riders stayed with them.

On the fourth day, they sighted a large mass of troops moving slowly northeast, and followed them for several days until they found what they’d begun to suspect: these were the Falsith and Semnath reinforcements, already headed home. The Duke turned them south, toward Fallo. The next day they intercepted a courier; within an hour the news ran through the column. Fallo had closed its gates to the Honeycat, and Ganarrion was chasing him down the Imefal. He had fewer than seven hundred men left, and those were lean and travelworn.

“He’ll cut through the forest,” said Vik, “and head for the coast. What else can he do?”

“Try to get to the Immer and go downriver; that might work.”

“Does he have any troops left at Immervale?” asked Paks.

“He won’t have any troops anywhere after they hear about the last few weeks.”

They were marching as they talked, angling south and west to block any move to Immervale.

“But what if he crosses the Imefal and gets into the forest?” Paks did not want to trail Siniava into another forest trap.

Arcolin, riding beside them, grinned down. “He won’t.”

“But—”

“You remember Alured?” said Arcolin. Heads nodded. “He’s why Siniava can’t cut through the forest. He’d need Alured’s permission and guidance. And Alured—well, he’s finding it profitable to oppose Siniava.”

“But, sir, he’s a pirate,” objected Rauf. “He could be playing both sides.”

“He could. But he’s smart. He can see that Siniava’s beaten—he’ll choose the winning side, I expect. Especially since our Duke offered something he wants.”

“What’s that, sir?”

Arcolin laughed. “I can’t tell you that now. But it’s what he left the sea for, and he thinks we have it to give. Perhaps we do.”

Day after day they marched toward Immervale as their couriers kept contact with Ganarrion’s horsemen. Two days running rain slowed them—the Sobanai hirstar had been right about the roads—and finally they gave up and traveled the fields and pastures. Paks felt she had a permanent crick in her neck from staring off to the south all the time.

Paks had lost track of the days they’d marched when they came over a rise to see a small, straggling body of troops off to their left. And ahead, on top of a low ridge in front of them, were the banners of Vonja and Foss Council. They were squarely between the enemy and Immervale. The enemy army turned sharp south, and drew together.

“Now where’s he going?” asked Paks.

“The river. There’s nothing down there, but—” Stammel stopped and looked thoughtful.

“What?”

“I’ll ask the captain—I thought I remembered something.”

By nightfall it was obvious what Siniava had been making for: an old and partly ruined citadel reminiscent of Cortes Andres, built high on a rock bluff where the Imefal met the Immer. A great stone bridge spanned the Imefal below the citadel walls. Siniava had posted a rear guard here, but as the combined mercenary and militia forces came nearer, they withdrew before the archers were in range. Arcolin led his cohort across the bridge first, and swung right around the citadel, up a slope of broken rock to the forest that lay beyond its massive walls on the south side.

There they found their advance scouts talking to a company of archers in russet leather. Alured the Black, teeth flashing in his dark face as he grinned at Arcolin, waved the captain over.

“So—he’s well in the trap, eh? Where’s your Duke?”

“Coming,” said Arcolin. “How has it gone here?”

“Easily. He wanted nothing but to put a wall between himself and trouble.”

“You could not keep him out?”

“Out? But, Captain, your Duke wants him alive. I’d have had to kill him to hold him—if I could.”

“I see.” Arcolin looked up at the walls. “Well, he’s caught now, and if we have a stiff fight to get in, still—”

“It is about that, Captain, that I must speak to your Duke.”

Paks heard no more before Stammel moved them farther around the citadel, to meet the troops coming the other way. Soon a solid line circled the walls, and camps were laid out at a little distance.

Paks was waiting in line to eat when she caught sight of a tall man in Marshal’s robes coming along the lines from the Vonja position. With him was another in bright red over shining mail—the paladin, thought Paks. They were chatting with different soldiers as they moved along. Paks didn’t know if she wanted to talk with them or not. What little she remembered about her conversation with the High Marshal was unsettling. She saw Stammel smile as they spoke to him and looked away.

“Ah—Paksenarrion.” They were in front of her. It would be rude to ignore them. Paks met the High Marshal’s eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir Fenith, here wanted to meet you—awake, that is. He is the paladin you fought beside in Sibili.”

Fenith had dark hair and wide brown eyes. He grinned at Paks. “I’ve been wanting to thank you. Your help came at the right time.”

Paks felt herself blushing. She wished she could remember what had happened. Without the memory, she could not feel she had done anything.

“But tell us,” Fenith went on, “how has the fighting been, where you were?”

They listened closely, and encouraged her to continue when she faltered, as she told about the weeks of pursuit and fighting. Not until then, telling it, did Paks realize how short the time had been. She felt they’d been marching forever, yet the spring green of the trees was just darkening. She had seen newborn calves even this past week. Paks wondered where the High Marshal and paladin had been. She did not dare to ask.

“I’ll be glad to see the end of this,” said Fenith, when she had finished. “It was necessary, but these realms will suffer for it.”

“Yes.” The High Marshal’s face settled into grim lines. “Evil has been wakened that will take much work to lay. And not only by Siniava.” Paks felt a threat she did not understand. He looked at her, and smiled. “Does it seem strange to you that a High Marshal of Gird and a paladin should be regretting a war?”

“A little—yes—”

“Remember what I told you, in Sibili. Gird fought as a protector, to ward his people against evil, both natural and supernatural. Not for plunder or pay—” Paks felt a flicker of anger. “No, I’m not insulting your Duke or you; I know his cause in this. But you’ve seen the ruined farms and homeless wandering folk. That will take long years to heal, that and the breach of law and trust that lets brigands roam as they will. That’s what we want to see an end of.” Paks slid her gaze to the paladin; he smiled at her.

“High Marshal, Paksenarrion is our ally—not a novice yeoman in the barton. She fights for honor in this—as do we.” Paks relaxed a little. The paladin, she thought, was much friendlier than the High Marshal. “Tell me,” he asked, “have you had any help from the medallion you carry? Do you still wear it?”

“Yes, sir, I do wear it. I’m uncertain what the help would be like. I remember the High Marshal telling me it saved my life, but I don’t remember that day at all.”

“Do you ever feel anything—warmth, or cold, or such?”

Paks considered telling him about the first time she’d handled it, when Canna was wounded, but decided against it. Not in front of the High Marshal. Nothing had happened recently. She forced down the memory of that weight on her chest before the ambush—she’d been very tired. She shook her head.

“If it does—if anything strange happens, if you feel anything—you’d be wise to let one of us know. It could be important, to you and to all of us.” With a casual wave, the paladin turned away, and the High Marshal followed. Paks stared after them, her appetite gone.

“What was that about?” asked Jenits.

Paks shook her head. “I’m—not sure.”

Jenits stared after the paladin with open admiration. “I’d like to have mail like that. I wonder how he keeps it so shiny. It makes even the Duke’s look dull. Do you suppose I’ll end up a paladin, Paks?” He grinned at his own joke, and thumped her arm. Paks laughed, easing her tension.

“About as soon as I will.”

Shortly after dark, all those in Arcolin’s cohort who wore the Dwarfwatch ring were called to his tent. There they found the mercenary commanders, Alured the Black, and a group of Halveric soldiers that Paks recognized from Dwarfwatch.

“I have a special mission for you,” the Duke began. “You have known the treachery of the Honeycat longest; I assume you want him dead the most.” A murmur of anger and assent followed. “Good. Our ally Alured tells me there’s a secret passage between the citadel and the outside. He knows where it begins, in the dungeons under the inner keep, and where it comes out, in the forest.” Paks felt a surge of excitement. She imagined them breaking in, finding Siniava in his chamber—

“He’ll know of it, surely,” Alured said, his rough accent breaking into her fantasy. “I sent a man to his army, when your Duke said, and he’ll have told them the secret, as if he found it himself. I’ve used the passage a few times myself. It’s narrow, but sound. You can wait at the outer end, for him to try an escape, or you can go in. If he’s barred the opening, on the inside, you’d have trouble breaking in. And if he’s got a wizard, you’d need a wizard to break the lock.”

“Has he a wizard, Alured?” asked the Duke. Alured was silent a moment before answering.

“He’s got someone in a long fancy gown. Might be a merchant or banker—a high guildsman. Or it could be a wizard. I don’t know.”

“Mmm. We’ll wait, and let his well-known selfishness lead him out the bolthole.” The Duke looked around at the soldiers. “I want you to keep watch over the forest end of the passage. You will not leave it unguarded, even for an instant. If he has a wizard—a mage—he may come out in disguise, even shapechanged. And he will certainly come out with his bodyguard and as much wealth as they can carry. Remember: their weapons may be poisoned, and the bodyguard is marked, dark tattoos all over the face. Siniava himself, if not in disguise, is a little taller than Aliam, here, and dark-haired. Harek told us, before he died, that Siniava has a small tattoo himself, between the eyebrows: the horned chain of Liart. I doubt you’ll see it; he’ll be in armor, most likely. But I want to be sure nothing escapes that way. Nothing. And when he comes, I want him alive. Can I trust you for this?”

“Yes, my lord!” came the response. The Duke smiled at them.

“I thought so. Now—you must go by night, so his sentries on the wall see nothing. You’ll have to camp there—but no fires; they’ll see light or smoke. One of us or our squires will be always near, within hail. When someone comes out, try to be sure they’re all out before you attack. Set up your watch schedules so that some from both companies are always on. Paksenarrion—”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I heard good things of you when you took over from Seli. You’ll command our unit and work with the Halveric—sergeant, is it, Aliam?”

“Sergeant Sunnot.” The Halveric looked at her. “You should remember him from last fall.”

“Yes, my lord.” Paks caught Sunnot’s eye; he smiled.

Not long after, they faced the black-in-black maw of the passage, an irregular hole in a rocky outcrop south of the citadel. Paks would not have noticed it, in the darkness, if Alured had not pointed it out. The next morning Paks and Sunnot examined the situation more closely.

The passage entrance faced south; above it a steep rockface, thickly forested on top, blocked their view of the citadel a half-hour’s walk to the north. Below, a gentle slope dipped more west than south, to the Immer; a small clearing gave them a good view of the passage and its surroundings. Paks poked cautiously into the near end of the passage. It crooked sharply left, then right, its rough walls looking like a natural fissure in the stone, but beyond the second turn Paks found smoothly hewn walls and floor, with torch brackets set into the walls. The passage ran straight from there, dipping gently. She backed out and told Sunnot what she’d seen. They decided to pile dry leaves just inside the entrance to give warning of Siniava’s approach. Then they rearranged the guardposts, and decided on the signals to use when something happened.

That evening the Duke came to inspect their arrangements. “How long do you think he’ll wait?” asked Paks.

“He can see us cutting timber for siege towers. I think he’ll go soon, before his own men decide to turn on him. Tonight—tomorrow—tomorrow night. I doubt he’ll wait much longer than that. And I’d say at night—it’s how he’s left every other position this campaign.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“But don’t count on it. If he realizes his pattern, he’ll change it. And remember, Paks: take him alive.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Paks and Sunnot walked the posts that night, but nothing happened. No sounds came to them from the citadel. In the dark Paks had time to think back over the campaign. It seemed that nothing could go wrong this time: Siniava was well in the trap. But they had thought the same before, only to face another long march and battle. She sighed, louder than she’d meant to, and Arñe spoke her name softly.

“Paks? What’s wrong?”

Paks moved to Arñe’s post and leaned on a tree. “Nothing—it seems strange not to be marching somewhere, that’s all. I keep thinking we’ve got him, but I thought that before.”

“I know. For awhile it seemed we’d been marching a year, and would go on forever, but—”

“It hasn’t been that long. We did start early—”

Now Arñe sighed. “We did indeed. I tell you, Paks, I don’t feel the same. It’s only our third year, but I feel older—I feel there’s been more than a year between this campaign and last spring. Do you remember when we came to Rotengre?”

“Yes. I know what you mean. We were so glad to be second-years—but we knew we weren’t really veterans. And then Dwarfwatch—”

“Yes. Dwarfwatch. Then Rotengre. Then this.” Arñe sighed again.

Paks pushed herself away from the tree. “Well—it’ll be over soon. We’ll feel different when he’s dead, and when we’ve had some rest.”

“I hope so,” said Arñe soberly. Paks walked on, still thinking.

The next day was as quiet as the first. No one grumbled about missing the action at the citadel, but Paks knew many shared her fears: what if he doesn’t come this way? What if others make the capture? By nightfall they were edgy and watchful. Paks and Sunnot had both slept during the day, so they’d be on together.

Night chill made Paks shiver suddenly between guardposts. She looked at the tunnel mouth and saw nothing. She felt distinctly colder; she wondered if a weather change was coming. She pulled her cloak closer around her, and leaned into a tree trunk. She felt a breath of cold air drift down the slope, chilling her face. Her cloak was warm. She yawned, suddenly sleepy despite the cold. Her mind wandered.

All at once a sharp prick, like a thorn, stung her chest. She jerked her eyes open, realizing in that instant that she’d been almost asleep. She looked quickly around and saw nothing. She started to relax, and realized that she should have seen at least one guard, even in the gloom. She pushed herself up. The nearest guard had slumped to the ground. Paks felt a trickle of fear, like icewater, down her spine. The hairs rose on her arms. She shook the guard—a Halveric, she remembered—and the woman grunted.

Paks pinched her arm and muttered, “Wake up! Trouble.” The woman stiffened, grabbed Paks’s arm, and started to rise.

“What happened?”

“Magic, I think.” Paks drew her sword as she spoke. “Pray we’re not too late. Draw your blade.”

“The others?”

“Wait—we’ll have to wake them, but—” She peered toward the tunnel mouth again. A dark shadow seemed to flow out of it. “There—see?”

“Falk’s oath in gold! But what do we—?”

“Wake the others on this side; I’ll go across. If they think we’re all asleep, maybe they’ll be careless. Watch—don’t sit down—be sure the torchlighters are ready.”

A glimmer of starlight lit the rockface, as Paks edged around in the trees to find the other guards. She could see another shadow, and another, emerge from the tunnel. She found a pair of guards and woke them, then another pair. Where was Sunnot? More shadows emerged, to cluster a few yards from the entrance. Paks had most of the guards awake; she could only hope they would stay so. She wished she knew which of those shadows was the wizard, and which the Honeycat.

The shadows took up a blunt arrowhead formation, and Paks tensed. Which way would they move? Her left hand fumbled for Canna’s medallion without her thought, and it seemed to twitch left. She moved from the trees along the rockface, where she could cut off a retreat to the tunnel.

A last cloaked figure emerged, and the entire group moved slowly westward toward the trees. Paks took a deep breath and yelled, a wordless cry of mingled anger and triumph. Torches flared around the perimeter; guards stepped forward. She spared a thought of relief, that the guards had stayed awake, as she charged the group of fugitives. They turned, forming a hollow ring, blades whistling in the air as they drew them.

These were the Honeycat’s bodyguard: faces tattooed in garish patterns, bladetips dark with poison even in dancing torchlight. In seconds the woods rang with the clash of swords, and the cries of the fighters. Paks swept her blade in joyful strokes across the enemy blades, exultant. Trick me, will you, she thought. Ha! She glanced past her opponents to those sheltered by the ring. One was a man with a narrow dark beard—surely a wizard. The other must be Siniava. Except—Paks nearly missed a parry—except that it was a woman. Very obviously a woman, in a thin silk gown. Shapechange, thought Paks, astonished, and pressed her attack.

The fighter in front of her went down: one of the guards had gotten a lateral stroke. More were down. The mercenaries surged forward, overrunning the rest, to grapple with the two in the center. They went down in a heap of bodies, each eager to grab hold. Paks, an instant too late, stood panting beside them. She rubbed her corselet absently; her chest itched. A tingle ran down her left arm, as if someone had jabbed her elbow. She whirled, searching the shadows, and stiffened as she caught a movement along the base of the rockface. She relaxed: only an animal. An instant later she charged, sword high. What animal would be out in the open with all that noise and light?

As her sword came down toward a furry back, the animal shape rippled, and she faced a man in black armor inlaid with gold. The first blow of his broadsword snapped the tip of her blade. Paks yelled a warning to the others, yanking her dagger from its sheath, as she tried to parry another of his strokes. This time her sword shattered in her hand.

“Phelan’s bitch!” snarled the man. “This time you’ve gone too far—touch me with a blade, will you!” He lunged; Paks jerked aside. The thrust barely missed her. She tried to stab with her dagger, but it was too short. His blade sliced into her corselet; the force of the blow staggered her, though she felt no cut. He whirled and ran for the trees. Paks launched herself after him and managed to grapple his legs. They fell sprawling together. Before she could get loose, she felt him heave up and start to swing his sword.

The next instant he gave a loud screech, and writhed away.

“Hang onto him!” said a brisk voice. Paks clung to the kicking, squirming legs, and tried to see who had spoken. Against the light of the torches, her helper was only a dark shape. She heard boots running toward them. In moments, six or eight soldiers were holding the black-armored man down. Paks pushed herself up, panting. Her elbows hurt, where she’d fallen, and she had a stitch in her side.

The Duke strode into the light. “Got him, have we?”

“I think so, my lord.” Now Paks recognized the paladin’s voice. “We’ll get his helmet off—”

“Allow me.” The Duke knelt beside the man and slipped the tip of his dagger into the visor to lift it. Paks stared. The face inside was pale and angry. Dark eyes, a lock of dark hair showing, and a small tattoo between thick eyebrows.

“Well,” said the Duke cheerfully. “What a surprise, Lord Siniava, to find the commander of a besieged citadel wandering the woods at night.” Paks could not hear what Siniava said in answer, but the Duke’s shoulders stiffened. The paladin growled. Paks looked around, suddenly remembering the other man and woman. What had they been, and who were they? She saw a circle of mercenaries, and walked over to see two captives, bound hand and foot.

“Kieri!” No mistaking that call; the Halverics had arrived, both bareheaded.

“It’s Siniava,” said the Duke. “We’ll have to get his armor off before you can have what you’re looking for.”

“We can manage that, can’t we, Cal?” The Halveric looked eager.

Cal was grinning too. “How badly is he hurt?”

“Nothing much,” said Fenith. “Paksenarrion caught him, and I disarmed him. He’s got a slashed wrist; that’s all.” He paused a moment. “What are you planning?”

“Don’t be silly,” snapped the Duke. “We’re going to kill him.”

“I know that,” said the paladin, equally shortly. “Go on and do it.”

The Duke gave him a long stare. Paks felt her belly clench. “Do you know,” he asked softly, “what he did to my men? And to Aliam’s sons?” Fenith nodded. “Then don’t ask mercy for him,” the Duke growled.

“You’re a warrior,” said Fenith implacably. “A warrior, not a torturer. Don’t cheapen yourself.”

“Cheapen myself?” Paks had never seen the Duke so angry, not even the day he’d held Ferrault’s dying hand. “Sir paladin, you’re the one with divine guidance. You’re the one who can walk away when the battle’s over. I do the dirty work, paladin, and I would more than cheapen myself, I would beggar myself for the honor of my men.” All around the clearing the Duke’s soldiers were frozen, listening; the Halverics hardly knew where to look. Paks felt choked with horror. The Duke’s face was strange, utterly unlike himself. She was more frightened than she’d been facing the Honeycat with a broken sword.

She hardly knew it when she moved. The Duke’s head swung to her. She could feel the stares of the paladin and the Halverics.

“Ask her, paladin,” the Duke said more quietly. “Ask her, if she has forgotten her dead friends and how they died. Ask her if Siniava deserves a clean and easy death.”

“And then?” asked the paladin, equally quietly.

The Duke shrugged. “She captured him, you say. I’ll abide by her word on it.” The Halverics stirred, but said nothing.

Paks felt a wave of horror and panic even before the paladin asked, “Well, Paksenarrion—how should this man die?” She met the Duke’s angry gaze, and that of the Halverics: Aliam’s dark, enigmatic; his son’s bleak with remembered pain. The shades of her friends seemed to crowd the air—Saben, Canna—Tears choked her throat; she fought for speech.

“My lord, I have not—I cannot—forget those friends. And he had them killed, and hurt—I want him dead, my lord—” The Duke nodded, looking more like the Duke she knew, and she gathered courage. “But we don’t—we are not like him, my lord. That’s why we fought. Afterwards—but if it were me, my lord, I’d kill him now. But I have no right to say.” The Duke gave her a look she could not read.

“So be it. Aliam?”

The Halveric sighed. “She’s probably right, Kieri, gods blast it. I’ll abide. But I was looking forward to it.”

“It was my agreement. You can give the stroke.” The Duke heaved himself up from beside Siniava.

“My thanks.” Aliam Halveric drew his sword. “Cal, take that helmet off.” Cal wrestled the helmet from Siniava’s head, and tossed it aside. With a quick powerful stroke the Halveric buried his sword in Siniava’s neck. The watching soldiers cheered, and in a few minutes the armor and body were hacked into many pieces. Paks watched silently, thinking of the many bodies she’d seen in the past year.

It had happened so fast at the end. She could scarcely believe it was over, and turned away, still frightened and sick. She did not realize she had fallen until a hand touched her shoulder. She flinched, fighting nausea.

“Paks?” Vik sounded worried. She nodded, unable to speak. “What’s wrong? Were you hurt? Let me see.” Approaching torchlight glared through her closed eyelids. She felt his hands touching her, heard the hiss when he found the gash in her armor. Other hands were about her now, supporting her. Voices. Someone swearing as he worked at the fastenings of her corselet. She forced her eyes open, squinting against the torchlight. She saw someone walking away with Siniava’s head on a pole. Then the paladin’s face filled her vision.

“Paksenarrion. We think it is poison. Be still.” She felt an emptiness as others moved away. The paladin’s hands on her were hard. A glow seemed to rise around them. She felt a streak of pain across her chest, then a wave of comfort, palpable as a handful of clover. She took a breath and it came easy. Her vision cleared.

“My apologies,” said Fenith. “You moved so well I did not think to be sure you weren’t hurt. How is it now?”

Paks had not felt so well for days—even months, she thought. “I’m fine, sir; thank you.” She started to sit up. Around them was a circle of her friends, looking worried.

“Here,” said Vik. “Have a cloak.”

“I’m fine.” Paks took the cloak anyway. The paladin helped her stand. She felt steady and secure.

“Paksenarrion.” That was Aliam Halveric, watching her with a puzzled frown.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you know where Sunnot is? Did he go to bring us word?”

Memory of the mysterious cold and sleep came back to her. “No, my lord. I think he must have been overcome by the sleep—”

“Sleep! What was he—?”

A clamor of voices broke out, explaining.

“We were all asleep—”

“Magic or something—”

“—and Paks woke me up, and they—”

“Silence!” Paks had not noticed the Duke still standing nearby. “Vik, look for him. Paks, tell us about this sleep—how were you awake?”

“My lord, I don’t know. Sunnot and I had doubled the guards; we had just met and parted over there—” Paks pointed “—when it seemed cold suddenly. I remember a cold breeze, and wrapping my cloak. Then I woke, and I was on the ground, beside a tree—”

“What woke you?” asked the paladin. The Duke shot him a look.

“I don’t know exactly—it felt like a thorn pricking my chest—”

“Where your holy symbol rests?” Paks nodded. “May I see it again, please?” Paks slipped the chain over her head and handed it to him. As he took it, it flared to a blue glow, instantly extinguished. He held the surface to the torchlight, examining it minutely.

“Then what?” asked the Duke gruffly. Paks looked at him warily, remembering his rage.

“Well, my lord, I looked around, but saw nothing. Then I found the next guard asleep, and thought of magic. I woke her; we saw the first of them coming out. She woke the guards on this side, and I went to the other. I didn’t see Sunnot, but I was going by feel, to the posts we’d set. I could have missed—” A shout from Vik interrupted her. In a moment he reappeared, leading a bewildered Sunnot, who went down on one knee to the Halveric.

“My lord, I—I don’t know what happened—” The Halveric smiled and gestured him up.

“You were magicked, Sunnot; not your fault. I’m sorry you missed it—”

“Did he escape, sir?” Sunnot looked ready to cry.

“No. He’s dead. It’s over.” Sunnot looked around, still worried. Vik spoke softly to him, and he shook his head.

“Go on, Paks,” said the Duke.

She was so glad to see Sunnot alive and well that she’d lost the thread of her story.

“You woke the guards,” the Duke prompted.

“Yes, my lord. More of them had come out by then. When the last one came out I yelled and we attacked.”

“Where was Siniava then?”

“I don’t know. The bodyguard had made a ring, with two inside it—” Paks pointed to the bound prisoners. She explained how she had thought the two were a shapechanged Siniava and a wizard, how she’d noticed what seemed to be an animal moving along the rockface, and the animal’s transformation into Siniava. “When he turned to run,” she said, “I jumped and caught his legs—”

“I saw her jump,” said the paladin. “He was turning to strike at her, and I was just in time to stop him. The rest you know. Here, Paksenarrion, take back your medallion.”

The Duke shook his head thoughtfully. “I hardly feel I know anything. What woke her up? Was it the medallion—when she’s not a Girdsman?”

“What else would you suggest? I know it’s unusual—but what else?”

The Duke shook his head again. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “More mysteries, when I thought we’d be rid of them. Paksenarrion—”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Post a guard on this end of the passage, and come back to camp. How many wounded have we?” Paks looked around.

“My men took them back,” said the Halveric. “With my wounded. Things seemed—busy—around here.”

“My lord, if any are poisoned, I’d be glad to try a healing.”

“Thank you, sir paladin,” said Aliam before the Duke could answer. “You know the way to my surgeons’ tents?”

“Certainly, my lord.” The paladin turned and was gone.

Paks had organized the remaining soldiers and told them to keep close watch until they were relieved.

“Can we have a fire?” asked Rauf. She looked at the Duke.

“Certainly,” he said. “As big as you like. We’ll send a relief down when we get back, and then you can sleep. You’ve earned it. Come along, Paks.” He turned to go, and Paks followed, pausing to pick up the shards of her sword. She could hear the quartermaster now: sword and corselet both.

The Duke and Aliam Halveric walked side by side back to camp, the Duke’s squires before them, and Paks bringing up the rear. They said nothing to her, and she could not hear what they were saying. She didn’t try. She had too much to think about. She rubbed her thumb across the medallion she held—she had not put it back on. She did not understand—did not want to understand. The Duke was angry enough; she did not want him more angry with her than he was already. She thought of Canna and Saben—would they have wanted it this way? Siniava dead so easily? Saben would have—she turned away from his memory to something else. Canna had never told her the medallion had such powers. Was that its function, to warn? And if so, why hadn’t it warned Canna of the brigands?

When they reached the camp, the Duke turned to Paks. “I think you should be the one to tell your cohort that Siniava is dead, and how he died.” His voice was neutral; Paks could not tell if he was still angry.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You have my thanks for a duty faithfully—even more than faithfully—performed.”

“And our thanks also,” said Aliam Halveric. His smile was as open as ever, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Whatever power enabled you to resist the spell, it is clear that without you that scum might have escaped.” He looked at the Duke. “That power, too, must have our thanks and praise.”

The Duke’s shoulders shifted. “We can speak of that later. As for now, Aliam, you and I must arrange the taking of that citadel. Paksenarrion has more immediate duties, as well.”

The Halveric was no longer smiling. “Later, perhaps, Kieri—but after this night’s work, we can no longer ignore it.”

The Duke sighed. “No, I suppose not. Go on, Paks, and tell the rest. And get some sleep. If it comes to fighting, we’ll want your blade as well.”

If Stammel had not been awake by one of the watchfires, Paks might have fallen asleep without telling her news. But in telling him, the excitement woke her again, and soon she was the center of a breathless crowd.

“And you’re sure he’s dead,” said someone into the silence that followed her recital.

“They brought his head back on a pole,” said Paks. “I didn’t see it as we came—it must be in the Halveric camp now.”

“But you caught him,” said another voice. “It should be our trophy.”

“The Halveric killed him. And the paladin—Sir Fenith—helped catch him. I didn’t do it alone—”

“Still—” Paks recognized Barranyi’s voice, this time.

“Hush, Barra,” said Natzlin. “It doesn’t bother Paks, and she did it.”

“How did they kill him?” asked Vossik, who had not heard the first of the story. Paks tensed.

“The Halveric killed him,” she said again. “With a sword.”

“Huh. Slowly, I’ll bet, after what he did to his sons.”

“No.” Paks wished she were far away, as she felt the pressure of surprise and curiosity. She stared into the fire. “One stroke,” she said finally. “In the neck.”

Stammel whistled. “That’s—something. To show mercy like that—” He was clearly impressed. Some of the others were frowning, but Paks saw many of the older veterans relax, as if they had feared worse. Barranyi’s voice broke a brief silence.

“But why? After all he’d done—I’d think the Duke would do something! It’s not right, that he should die so easy.” Paks felt almost sick at the venom in Barra’s voice. Before she could gather her words, Vossik interrupted Barra.

“No! That’s what makes us different. Such leaders as that—that you can trust to do the right thing even under pressure. By—” he paused and looked at Stammel. “By Gird and Falk and the High Lord himself, I’m proud we’ve got such men to lead our companies.” Vossik turned to Paks, grinning. “I daresay you weren’t eager for torture, were you now?”

Paks felt herself blushing. “No,” she muttered. She hoped no one would ask what the Duke had actually said.

“I thought not.” Vossik sounded relaxed and happy. “This is an honorable company, and always has been, and always will be. Remember that, Barra.” She made no answer.

Stammel was smiling too. “Well now. Just let us get this citadel taken care of, and we’ll be back to normal. And a lot richer, I don’t doubt. You, too, Paks—you’ll have a bonus for this night’s work.” He stretched. “Now I can sleep. I’d been so worried he’d have some magic and escape again.” He stood, reaching a hand to Paks. “Come on, warrior. Even you need sleep before the assault.” Paks clambered up, meeting the admiring glances of her friends as she moved away. What she had left unsaid cluttered her throat.

No one woke her in the morning; the sun was high when she finally opened her eyes. The tent was almost empty; two others slept at the far end. Paks stretched and yawned. She didn’t want to move. She heard voices outside and got up reluctantly. Outside, the day was fair and warm; it would be hot by noon. She headed for the cooks’ tent.

“There you are.” Stammel came up behind her. “You’ll be glad to know that the troops in the citadel want to surrender.”

Paks pulled her mind back to the present. “Oh. Good.”

“They’re afraid to open the gates, they say. I don’t blame them. They would expect the worst from us.” He waited to say more until no one was near. “Paks—the others are back now. I spoke to Arñe and Vik. There’s a lot you didn’t say last night.”

Paks blushed. She was afraid of his next question. Instead of asking, he went on.

“I’m glad you didn’t. The Duke’s a good man; you know that. I’ve known him a long time; I know why he might lose his temper. But you were right, Paks, however angry he was, or may be still: he’s not the kind to torture. Only he wasn’t himself for a bit.” He went on more briskly. “I don’t think the others will talk about it—I had to pull the truth out of Vik with a rope, nearly. He feared I’d be angry with you.”

Paks found herself grinning at Stammel’s tone. When she looked up, his brown eyes were twinkling.

“You’d best watch yourself, though,” he said. “If things keep happening around you, and you keep siding with paladins, it’ll rub off, and we’ll only see you from far away, as you ride past on your fancy charger.” His tone was only half joking.

For an instant the thought made Paks’s heart leap, but she forced the image away. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m staying here, in the Company, with my friends. If the Duke isn’t too angry—” For she remembered the icy glare he’d given her.

“He’s fair; he won’t hold it against you. But Paks, it’s not that bad an idea,” said Stammel more earnestly. “If you have the chance, I’d say take it. You’ve got the fighting skills, and you care about the right and wrong of things. You’d make friends elsewhere—” Paks shook her head. Stammel sighed. “Have you thought,” he asked, “that your two years is up these many months? You’re due a leave—you could go north and see your family—look around—”

Paks was startled. She had forgotten all about the “two years beyond training” in her first contract. “I hadn’t thought,” she said. As she mused on it, the sights and smells of Three Firs came back to her. The baker’s shop, the well, the striped awnings that hung out on market day. And beyond the town the great rolling lift of the moors, and the first sight of the dark slate roof of her father’s house. Tears stung her eyes. “I could—I could take my dowry back—” she said.

“So you could. Your share this campaign should do it. Think about it. The Duke will be granting us all leave unless he takes us back north.”

“And I wouldn’t be leaving the Company.”

“No. Not unless you wanted to.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, and Stammel nodded and left her.

Siniava’s troops surrendered that day, but not to the Duke: to the combined city militia. Paks did not even see the prisoners; she heard that they’d been taken away toward Vonja. The Duke’s Company entered the citadel only for plunder; they found the only treasure at the inside opening of the secret passage. Several chests of gold, Stammel said, would pay for the entire campaign, leaving aside their share of Cha and Sibili. Paks heard from Arñe that Siniava’s bodyguards had all been carrying jewels and gold. “That’s what slowed them down in the fight,” she joked.

“Did you find out who the others were?”

“Yes. The man’s some high rank in the moneylender’s guild. He’s got a bad wound; he may not live. The woman’s his sister or niece or something.” Arñe stopped and looked at Paks. “Do you know what happened with Canna’s medallion? Was it really St. Gird who woke you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand.” Paks could hardly convey her confusion. “Something happened, I know that. But—I keep wondering and wondering about it, and nothing comes clear.”

Three days later, as she watched the city militias march north from the bridge, she was still wondering. The High Marshal had talked to her again, and the paladin; the Duke had apparently talked to both of them. Dorrin had told of the incident in Rotengre, and Paks finally admitted that she’d tried to use the medallion to heal Canna. She could have had, if she’d wanted it, hours of instruction about Gird. She didn’t want it.

“I want to stay with you,” she’d told the Duke, while the High Marshal listened. “I joined your company; I gave you my oath. And my friends are here.”

The Duke nodded. “You may stay, Paksenarrion, as long as you’re willing. But I must agree with the High Marshal in this: some force—we need not agree on what—is moving you as well. The time may come when you should leave. I will not hold you to your oath then.”

“My lord—” the paladin had begun, but the Duke interrupted.

“Don’t bully her. If she’s to leave, she’ll leave, in her own time. You’ve seen she’s no fool.”

“That’s not what I meant, my lord.”

“No. I’m sorry.” The Duke had sighed, looking tired. “Paks, think about it. I know it’s not easy—but think. Talk to Arcolin or Dorrin, if you’d like; talk to Stammel. This company is not the only place you can be a fighter.”

But she had been determined. From a sheepfarmer’s daughter in Three Firs to a respected veteran in the Duke’s Company, with friends who would die for her, or she for them—that was enough. Those childhood dreams were only dreams: this place, these friends, were real. It was all she wanted, and all she ever would.

She waved, nonetheless, to Sir Fenith the paladin, as he rode out. Canna’s medallion was safe in her belt-pouch now. She would let it stay there. No more of those strange warnings to deal with, no more mysteries. And if she died, for lack of its warning—she grinned, not worried. Saben’s red horse would bear her to the Afterfields.