Oath of Gold

4

Paks did not see the rangers before they stepped into the clearing; their soft green and tawny cloaks and tunics, patterned in muted shades of the same colors, hid them well in the woods. Haleron greeted them.

“Here I am back, friends, from Tsaia, with a recruit for you for the summer. This is Paksenarrion, a proven warrior.”

“Greetings to you, lady,” said the tallest of the rangers. “Do you know our tongue?”

“Yes, by the kindness of Ardhiel of the Kierin Vale,” replied Paks, as formally as she could. He nodded to her, with a brief smile, and turned back to Haleron.

“We thank you, Haleron, for your help, though we had hoped for more than one.”

Haleron frowned, and shot a quick glance at Paks. She had the feeling he wished she didn’t speak the language. She started to speak, but could think of nothing to say. The tall one noticed her discomfort, and gave her another smile.

“It is not that we think you are unable, Paksenarrion, but we lost so many to the fever that were you a demigod you might find more than you could do. May I ask what experience you have had? Haleron’s word is enough for your character, but each sword has its own virtue.”

Paks had expected some such question; she hoped her hesitation would be laid to the unfamiliar language. “Sir—”

“My pardon!” he interrupted. “You have not had the courtesy of our names yet. I am Giron, of mixed elf and human parentage, as are most of us. And these are Phaer, Clevis, Ansuli, and Tamar.” The others nodded to Paks, and she nodded back. “Now, if you will?”

The pause had restored her calm. “Yes, sir. I was in Duke Phelan’s Company for three campaign seasons, as an infantry soldier. Then—for a few months—on my own—” She was reluctant to bring up the elfane taig.

Haleron was not. “Do not be modest, Paksenarrion. Giron, she freed our brother and the elfane taig—you know that tale.”

“Indeed! You are that Paksenarrion, then. I had heard that you went from that to the Girdsmen at Fin Panir.”

Paks nodded. “I did. I trained with them for half a year, and then rode with the expedition to Kolobia.”

“And was Luap’s stronghold found?” Giron seemed genuinely interested.

“Yes.” Paks felt her throat tighten; she did not want to tell these strangers all that had happened. Again Haleron broke into the conversation.

“Paksenarrion was staying with the Kuakgan of Brewersbridge when I came there. She had recovered from old wounds under his healing; he recommended her to me.”

“Ah.” Giron looked hard at Paks. “You left the Girdsmen, then. Why?” From his tone and look, she thought he must have heard something, and wondered which tale it had been, and whether false or true.

“I could not fight, for a long time. They—I—thought I might never be able to again. So I left.”

“The Kuakgan healed what the Girdsmen could not?” Paks nodded. “Mmm. You have left a lot unsaid, Paksenarrion. Can you fight now? We need no ailing rangers; we have enough of those.”

“I think so, sir.”

“We have come from Brewersbridge as fast as I would have cared to come alone,” said Haleron.

“That may be, but—” He shook his head, and smiled ruefully. “We need help, yet I must not accept someone who cannot serve our need. People change, as swords weaken and break. I judge that you do not fully trust yourself; how then can I trust you?”

“The Kuakgan—” murmured Haleron softly.

“The Kuakgan! You yourself have no love for the Kuakkganni; shall I let an old man in a distant grove choose my sword-companion? Whose blood will run to the tree-roots if he is wrong? Not his, I daresay!”

For an instant everyone was still as Giron’s anger roiled the glade; the sun seemed to fade slightly. Paks wished desperately for the leap of anger she knew she would have felt a year ago—for the courage to confront him and demand a chance. It did not come. She was aware of the others staring at her, aware of their scorn, only barely withheld. She could almost see herself through their eyes: rumpled, dirty, threadbare clothes, boots worn thin, no weapons at all. Not much of a warrior, to look at. Suddenly she found it almost funny. How was it that nothing of her past had stuck to her—that nothing remained of the armor and weapons she had used, nothing of the skills she had learned?

She found herself smiling at Giron. “Sir, while each warrior wishes to choose a weapon for his hand, it is foolish to choose one by looks alone. The blade with ‘I am a champion’ inscribed down the rib may be a piece of fancy-work done for a prince’s court. Gird himself found that a length of hearth-wood could fell a knight, were it applied to his skull. Perhaps all that’s left to me is to be a rough club: but if you have the skill to use the skills I have left, that would be better than no one at all. However, please yourself. I can walk back to Brewersbridge, even without Haleron’s guidance.”

The others were smiling now; Tamar, the only other woman, grinned widely. Giron shook his head again, but relaxed. “I see you have wit enough, at least. And you are brave, if you would walk back alone. How would you eat?”

Paks grinned. “Well, sir—if I could not forage something, I must go hungry, but that’s nothing new.”

“Hmmph. Can you use a longbow?”

“I have used one. I would not claim to be an expert in it.”

“You were a swordfighter, I heard.”

“Yes.”

“How long since you last fought?”

“Something more than half a year.”

“Tamar, lend her your blade; it’s the lightest we have here.” Tamar came forward, and drew her sword for Paks to take. She offered it over her wrist, in the elven way.

Paks felt her heart pounding. Could she? She wrapped her hand around the hilt, and sent a mental cry to Gird: Protector of warriors, help me now, or never. After so long, the sword felt strange as she hefted it. She turned her hand minutely, and felt it settle into her palm. There. At least she would not drop it. She heard the soft ringing of steel as Giron drew his own blade. When she looked up, he was eyeing her.

“I would see your skill, before deciding,” he said. “I will not speak of rumor, but I must know what you are.” He took a step forward. For an instant, Paks was sure she would bolt. Her vision wavered, and her breath stuck in her throat. She clamped her hand on the sword, and tried to think of Gird. The Kuakgan’s voice came instead: courage is going on. She nodded abruptly, and came to meet Giron.

With the clash of the blades her mind seemed to clear a little. Her arm moved of itself, countering his first slow strokes. She could tell they were slow, could tell that he intended to probe no more than he had to. He moved a little faster. She watched the play of his wrist, remembering slowly what it meant. If this, then that. The elbow bent so allows the angle here—she met each stroke squarely. It felt as if she were learning all over again: she had to think about almost every move. More came back to her; she tried a thrust past his guard. Blocked: but he looked surprised. So was she. Her body moved less stiffly, the sword began to feel natural in her hand again. He circled; she turned to meet him. Her feet shifted without her thought. Again he circled, and speeded his attack. She was frightened now, but pushed the panic down, and blocked each thrust with a grunt of effort. Only think of the strokes, she told herself. Only that. Her left foot came down on a stone, and she lost her rhythm momentarily. His blade raked her arm, leaving a narrow line of blood. She caught his next thrust on her blade and blocked it. He stepped back.

“Enough.” He looked at her with new respect. “You need practice, but you have plenty of skill to draw on. We use the sword little; bows are more use in the woods. But you are welcome to stay with us.”

Paks heard, but did not answer at once. She felt dizzy with relief: she had not dropped the sword, had not run away, had not fainted. The slash on her arm stung, but did not bother her; it was not pain she had feared.

“Are you all right?” he asked. She looked up.

“Oh yes. Well enough. It has been a long time, that’s all.” She looked for Tamar, and held out the sword. “I thank you for the use of it; it’s a fine blade, indeed.”

“A family weapon,” said Tamar, smiling. “It was my aunt’s before me, and her mother’s before that.” Paks thought of old Kanas’s sword that hung over her father’s mantle. “Here—” She took out of her pouch a little jar and a roll of cloth. “Clean that scratch and put some of this on it.” Paks thanked her and rolled up her torn sleeve to wipe the blood away.

“You have scars enough,” commented Giron. Paks nodded without speaking, and spread ointment from the jar along the line of the cut. “You’ll need more clothes, too,” he said. “We should make the nearest karrest by nightfall; plenty of stores there. You haven’t asked what pay you’ll get.”

Paks looked up, then handed the jar back to Tamar. “No. I haven’t. Whatever I earn, I expect.”

He laughed, for the first time a natural laugh. “Well enough. It won’t be as much as it might, since we must outfit you with clothes and weapons. But the crown of Lyonya has its honor.”

Within a week, Paks felt at home with the rangers, almost as comfortable as with the Duke’s Company. She wore their green and russet with leaves and crown woven into the pattern, and she was getting the same calluses on her fingers from the great blackwood bow she’d been given. So far she had seen no fighting; she had wandered the woods with the same small band, uncertain just what they were doing or where they were.

“I still don’t understand,” she said one day as they were stretched in the sun resting. “Are we guarding a border, or hunting robbers, or what?”

“Lyonya is not like other kingdoms,” said Giron. Paks had heard that so many times that she was tired of it; it wasn’t the explanation he seemed to think it.

“I know that, but—”

“Impatience!” Tamar laughed gently at her. “You are all human, aren’t you?”

“All but my name. Go on.”

“In Lyonya, we have not only the borders to worry about—the clear borders—but the taig of the forest itself. You met the elfane taig, in the valley, and that was but one taig. Each place has its own, some greater and some lesser. Here the forest is unbroken enough to have a taig—I should rather say, to be a taig.”

“Does it have a name?”

“If it does, I am not the one to know it. The taig of a forest would not speak to me, not directly. It is too mighty for that. Even the kuakgannir would not claim to speak to a taig so vast.”

“I still don’t know just what a taig is.”

They all laughed, but it was friendly laughter. “No. And I don’t know how to explain it. If you live long enough, Paksenarrion, perhaps this understanding will come to you. But you can feel a taig, as you know, even when it does not speak to you: you felt the lure of Ereisbrit.” Ereisbrit, they had told her, was the name of a tiny waterfall only two spans high, that poured itself into a moss-edged slash of blue-gray rock. When she first saw it, she had stood frozen in delighted awe.

“Yes. I remember that.”

“We are to feel the taig of the forest, and tell the King if anything goes amiss in it. We can wander far, listening and feeling for anything wrong. As for robbers, there are few in Lyonya, and the lords have their own guards to hunt them. They may ask our help, and if we have time we give it. Borders—yes, we guard those. But surely you are aware that we have more than mortal borders here.” He looked at Paks sharply. She glanced around the sunny glade where they lay.

“I’m not sure—”

“Lyonya is human and elven. Elves are immortal. Does that tell you nothing?”

Paks thought hard. Haleron had said something about elven magic, about other levels. “Magical borders?” she guessed finally.

He grunted. “Magical—yes. Elves—the true elves, not we mixbreeds—are not wholly in the world humans know. In the elven kingdoms, the borders are so other that unescorted humans never pass them: never know they are there. Here, in a mixed kingdom, we have both kinds of borders. We rangers worry less about the obvious ones. With loyal lords holding close to Tsaia—and Tsaia itself an ally, for the most part—we need not look for armies of that sort. Brigands—if we see them, we deal with them, but the lords of steadings rarely need help. To the south, though, in the high mountains, are remnants of old troubles: these sometimes come down and try to invade. And through both borders. Thus the thriband—what you call orcs, or urchii—and sometimes far worse.”

“Like that—whatever it was that held the elf lord?”

He nodded. “That and others. Some are very subtle. Not all evil desires immediate dominion. The foul weaver of webs—I will not name her—” he glanced at Paks. She shuddered and nodded vigorously. She did not want to hear that name aloud. “Her minions have tried our borders again and again. They insinuate themselves—hiding, perhaps, or feigning to be merchants or farm folk. For years they will bide without action, weaving slow coils of evil about them, plotting in many ways. A little gossip, a little rooting of secrets they can sell. No ordinary guard can detect them. But we are to sense, in the taig of forest and field, that slight unease. The fern knows when it has been trodden by a cruel foot; the sly levets—”

“Levets?” Paks had never heard the word.

“Swift running, long but low. Hunters of mice and such. Dark bright eyes, sharp claws and many teeth. Farmers call them bad, for they will take eggs, and the large ones even hens on the nest. But like all such little creatures they are not truly good or bad but only levets. The levets, though, are much prized by the web-worshippers, and their bodies may be used in evil rites. Also they can be spelled, and forced to serve as messengers. This we can detect, by their behavior and that of their prey.”

“I see. But if you have that ability because of your elven blood, how can I help? Except to fight, if that is necessary.”

“You do feel the taig,” said Tamar quickly. “We saw that at once. And you had contact with the elfane taig before.”

“Besides,” said Giron, “the Kuakgan of Brewersbridge sent you. He would not send someone wholly blind to the taig.”

“You didn’t accept—”

“I didn’t accept his judgment of your ability to fight, Paksenarrion. I had listened to rumors, to my shame. But I knew you would be able to sense evil in the taig.”

A few days later, threading along another forest trail between Tamar and Phaer, Paks felt a strange pressure in her head. She stumbled, suddenly dizzy; Phaer caught her arm before she fell. Tamar whirled, alert.

“What happened?” Phaer looked closely at her face. Paks could feel the sweat springing cold on her neck.

“I—don’t know. Something inside—in my head. It all whirled—” She knew she wasn’t making sense. Her stomach roiled. Pressure crushed her chest; she fought for breath. Out of her past came the image of Siniava’s ambush in the forest, the day of the storm. “Danger—” she managed to gasp.

“Where?” Giron, now, stood before her. Paks felt, rather than saw, his concern. She leaned against Phaer, unable to speak, sick and shaking with fear and the unbearable touch of some evil. She heard Giron say “Stay with her, Phaer. The rest of you—”

She was huddled on the ground; beneath her nose the soil had a faint sour tang. At last she managed to draw a full breath, then another. Whatever it was had not disappeared—she could still feel that loathsome pressure—but it seemed to be concentrating elsewhere. Paks pushed herself up on hands and knees. Above her, Phaer’s voice: “Are you better?”

She nodded. She didn’t trust her voice. Slowly, feeling at every moment that she might fall into separate pieces, she sat back on her heels, managed to rise to her feet. Deliberately she took the great bow from her shoulder, and braced her leg to string it. With the bow strung, she pulled an arrow from her quiver, checked the fletching, then took another, to hold as she had been taught. She looked around. The others had disappeared into the trees; only Phaer was visible, standing beside her now, his own bow strung and ready.

“Can you speak? Are you spelled?” She knew instantly that one of his arrows would be for her, if she were.

“No.” Her voice surprised her; clear and low, it held none of the unease she felt. “No, it’s looking elsewhere. It is very close, but I can’t tell where—too close.”

Phaer nodded. “After you fell, we all could feel something wrong. Did it attack you, or—”

Paks shook her head. “I don’t think it did. Somehow I must be sensitive to it—whatever it is—as night creatures are to a flash of light.”

“It is rare for a human to be more sensitive to anything than an elf or part-elf.” Phaer sounded faintly affronted. “Do you have a god, perhaps, enlightening your mind?”

Paks did not want to discuss it. The sense of wrong and danger was as strong as ever, though it didn’t center on her. Now that the sickness was past, she tried to feel her way toward its location. She turned her head from side to side, eyes half shut. A slight tingle, there. She could see nothing openly. Phaer was watching her, still alert.

“I think—that way—” Paks nodded to the uphill side of the trail.

“I still don’t feel any direction.” He looked worried. “Perhaps we should wait until Giron comes.”

“No. If we move, we have a chance of surprising it, whatever it is. If we wait here—” Paks took a cautious step off the trail. The tingle intensified: a sort of mental itch. She shivered, and moved on. She looked at each tree and stone as the rangers had taught her: she knew the names, now, of nearly all the trees and herbs. When she glanced back at Phaer, he was following in her tracks, his bow already drawn.

A fir, another fir, a spruce. A massive stone ledge, high enough to break the forest roof and let in more light, lay just uphill. Paks went forward, one slow step after another. She felt a wave of vileness roll down from above.

“Now I can tell,” murmured Phaer from behind her. “Don’t move, Paks; I’ll call—”

But the ledge itself heaved and shuddered, lifting in stinking coils. Without thought, Paks flipped her first arrow into position, drew, and saw it fly across that short sunlit space to shatter on rock-hard scales. She had the second arrow already nocked to the string.

“Daskdraudigs!” yelled Phaer. This meant nothing to Paks. The menace, too large to conceive, reared above them, tree tall, and yet the ledge still shifted, as if the stone itself were moulting into a serpent. Paks breathed a quick prayer to Gird, and loosed her second arrow at the underside of a lifted coil. It seemed to catch between two scales, but did not penetrate. She hardly noticed. Great waves of hatred and disgust rolled over her mind. She struggled to keep her eyes fixed on the thing, tried to fumble another arrow out of her quiver. Suddenly something slammed into her back and knocked her flat. “Daskdraudigs, I told you!” Phaer growled in her ear. “Stay down, human; this is elf work.” Through the noise in her head she yet managed to hear the other rangers: Giron shouting in elvish; Tamar’s higher voice rising like a stormwind’s howl. She turned her head where she lay and saw Phaer fitting an arrow to his bowstring.

“Why can’t I—”

“Special arrow. You don’t have these.” Paks noticed now that the fletching looked like stone; the arrowhead certainly was a single piece of chipped crystal. Phaer stood, drawing the bow. Above them more and more coils had risen, and the front of the creature was moving downslope to their left. He stepped forward, looking along the monster’s length (she could not tell for what purpose), then shot quickly and threw himself down.

The arrow flew true, and sank into the monster’s scales as if they were cheese. As Paks watched, that coil seemed to stiffen, to return to the stone she had first seen. Already Phaer had pulled out another of the special arrows. This time he aimed for the next coil ahead of his first target. Again his aim was true. But the unbound coils of the monster’s trailing end whipped and writhed, rolling down upon them. Before Paks could leap up to run, the trees they sheltered in were crushed, broken off like straws. Coils as heavy and hard as stone rolled over them.