Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Twelve

Two months later, as Paks leaned against the wall of the courtyard in a border fort south of Kodaly, she felt well content with her position.

“I agree,” said Saben, who was mending a tear in his cloak while she sharpened her weapons, “that it’s easier than farming. I’ve no desire to go back to mucking out barns. But don’t forget your first battle just because it’s gone so well since.”

“I know. That could have ended it—like Effa. But that’s the chance we take, as fighters. I wish we could see other good companies too. See how they do things, how they fight. We never can see anything but what’s in front of us. It’s hard to keep the idea of what we’re doing—I mean as a whole—in all that confusion.”

Saben shrugged. “I just go for what’s in front of me. It makes sense when Stammel shows us with sticks and things, but I can’t see it with real people. You can’t tell what they’ll do. All we can do is follow commands.”

“But those who give the commands have to know what they’re doing,” said Paks.

“We’re a long way from that,” said Saben dryly. “Or are you planning to leave and start your own company?”

Paks stopped a moment, and squinted up at the sky. “No. Or—I don’t know. I can’t say. No, I suppose not—it’s a silly thought. I just—just keep thinking about it. I can’t stop. Why the captains put us there, or why their commander never used his archers on the flank, like the Duke did. That was stupid, Saben, that last time. They had the archers, but they held them back where they couldn’t see. If they’d been in that wood on the right—”

“I’m glad their commander didn’t think of it.” Saben looked at his mending and tugged the cloth to test it. “Ah. One more chore done. Are you nearly finished?”

“Sword’s done. I notched the dagger yesterday.”

“I told you you’d honed it too fine. We’re on in less than a glass.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I just want to smooth this—one—spot. No, I’ll tell you, Saben, what I’d like. I’d like to make sergeant someday. Years away, I know, and only six in the Company, but—I’d like that.”

“Well, if you don’t lose an arm or leg somewhere, or get killed outright, you ought to do it. You don’t get drunk, or lose things, or brawl, or cause any sort of trouble. And you fight well. Now me—”

“Saben, you’re as good as I am. Better, even—”

He shook his head. “No, and you know it. I wasn’t practicing all morning. I do what I’m told, but I don’t care enough to learn every weapon in sight and practice every spare minute. You do.”

“You don’t need much practice; you’re already quicker.” Paks took a last stroke with her whetstone, wiped the dagger blade carefully with a scrap of soft hareskin, and sheathed it.

“Maybe. I used to be faster than you—but you’ve gotten better. The thing is, I’ve got what I want. A life I like, good friends, enough pay for the extras I want. The only other thing would be—” he slid a glance at Paks. When she met his eyes, she reddened and looked down.

“Saben, you know I—”

“You don’t want it. I know. Not from me or anyone. Well, I’m not asking: just if you did ever change. If it was just Korryn, I mean.”

Paks ducked her head lower and stared at the ground. “No. Even before. I just don’t feel that way.”

He sighed. “I’m glad it wasn’t Korryn. Don’t worry; I won’t bother you.”

She looked up. “You never have.”

“Good. I still want to be friends. Besides that, you are—Paks if you ever did have a company, you would be a good commander. I would follow you. I don’t think you’ll stop at sergeant, if you want more.”

Paks blushed, then grinned sheepishly. “Even a warhorse?”

Saben nodded. “Lady Paksenarrion, in shining armor on a great war-horse, with a magic sword—don’t laugh at me, companion! Here I’m giving you a good-luck prophecy and you laugh at me. Ha! See if I ever warn you about overhoning your blades again.”

“No, but really, Saben—a sheepfarmer’s daughter? That’s ridiculous!” But her eyes danced to think of it.

“So laugh. Would you rather a bad-luck prophecy? Let’s see—”

“No! Don’t ill-wish! Let’s go; I’ve got to get ready for guard.”

The fort’s wall, high above the village, was quiet in the late afternoon. Paks and Saben reported to the sergeant, an Ifoss militiaman, and took their station. West of the fort lay the hay meadows, striped with light and dark green as the second cutting dried in swathes. They walked back and forth, watching the road and tracks that converged on the fort, and looking along the rooftops and lanes below. The sun dropped, touching the woodland beyond the hay meadows.

“Good weather—it’s nice up here when it’s dry,” said Paks.

“Better this watch than the day, though. It’s been hot. I wonder how long we’ll be here.”

“I hadn’t thought. Do you think the Duke will get another contract this year?”

“Mmm. While you were working out this morning—”

“Go on, Saben.”

“A courier came in—from the northwest. Could be Valdaire. Anyway, he went straight to the captain’s chambers, Cully said.”

“Wonder what that’s about. Valdaire.”

“Or anything in between. Maybe one of the others has found where that wolf whatever is.”

“There’s a fight I’d like to be in.”

“And I.”

They turned at the corner tower and headed south again along the wall. A cool breeze had come with the falling sun; it brought the scent of hay. Paks stretched. “Umph. I’ve got a kink in my shoulder.”

“What from, this morning?”

“Yes. Hofrin had us working on unarmed combat, and I thought he’d tear my arm loose at the shoulder. Somehow I can’t get the hang of it. Either I don’t turn the right way, or not fast enough—but I keep ending up on the ground.”

“Best stick to sword fighting, then.”

“I’d rather, really. But Hofrin says—”

“I know what Hofrin says. Everyone should learn every conceivable weapon and unarmed combat, in case you lose your axe, sword, dagger, pike, spear, mace, bow, crossbow—”

Paks chuckled. “It’s not that bad. And I enjoy it—or will, when I’m not spending all my time in the air or on the ground.”

“I think,” said Saben tentatively, “—what I saw when I watched you for awhile, is that you are too direct. You go straight in, just charging ahead, and then—”

“Land in the dust again. You’re right; that’s what he says, too. I keep telling myself, but when I get excited—bam, there I go. Today, at least, I made it through a few minutes of practice without doing that. Maybe I’ll learn.”

“I expect so. When—” Saben broke off as they heard a shout from the north wall. By the time the other guards had manned the walls, a trumpet call rang out. Duke Phelan had come; but even at watch-change, later that night, no one knew why. More than a day later Bosk finally explained.

“Ours wasn’t the only bunch of wounded hit,” he said. “Reim Company—they’re small—lost a wagonful, and the guards for it. A trade caravan was hit, in spite of heavy guard. Golden Company lost some, and they even struck at the Halverics’s camp—stupid of them, whoever they are. Anyway, several mercenary companies have each pledged a unit to go hunting, and—”

“We’re going!” cried Coben.

“No. We’re not.” Over the general groan, he said, “The Duke wanted archers. He’s taking Cracolnya’s cohort, and some of Dorrin’s. The rest of us will spread thinner to cover these forts. Half of us will move to the next, where Dorrin’s half has been.”

Paks, to her disgust, was one of those staying. “Nothing’s happened here so far,” she grumbled to Saben. “And I’ll bet nothing happens now. We’ll stay and walk back and forth on the walls while nothing happens, and they get to go find the Wolf Prince or whoever he is, and do some fighting.”

He nodded. “At least Coben and those get to go to another fort, and see something new. But I doubt they’ll see any fighting there, either.”

Both were wrong. In the weeks that they held the line of forts, brigands tried to strike at the villages they guarded and rob the harvest. Every garrison had at least one good fight, and most had more. When the cohort reunited, before the march back to Valdaire and winter quarters, Paks learned that two more of her recruit unit had been killed: Coben, who had been a friend since her first day as a recruit, and Suli, a cheerful brown-haired girl who was Arñe’s friend. Eight of them, altogether, had died in their first year of fighting.

“If we lose this many every year,” said Paks solemnly, “we’ll all be gone in a few years.”

“The—the veterans don’t lose so many,” said Arñe. Her face was still marked with tears.

“We aren’t as good,” commented Vik. “We’ve all made mistakes this year. If we live, we’ll learn better.”

“But it’s not the worst ones who get killed. Not all of them. Coben was good—and so was Effa, and Suli.” Paks felt a restless anger, and forgot how annoying Effa had been. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” said Stammel behind them. “It’s not fair. There’s luck in it too. You have to accept that, to stay a soldier. Skill and courage go just so far, and then there’s luck.”

“Or the gods’ will,” said Saben.

Stammel shrugged. “You can call it that—it may be that. From what I’ve seen it could be either.”

Paks was still dissatisfied. “But it still seems to me that the better ones should have more chance—”

“Paks, think. The better ones do have more chance—but no guarantee. Look how close you came to being killed. Three of those we lost were among the least skilled. Ilvin stood up on the wall even after Bosk yelled a warning about crossbows: that was stupid. Coben—I know he was your friend, and he was a good, honest, middling fighter—but he never learned to handle himself against a left-handed opponent, and a left-handed man knocked his shield aside and spitted him. Suli, too, was not as skillful as any of you four—just not fast enough.”

“But she was as fast as I am.”

“She was back north. Paks, you’ve been training hard; you’ve improved. You hadn’t gone against her lately because Hofrin knew it wouldn’t be any work for you. I know it’s hard losing friends. It always hurts. If you stay in, you’ll have that hurt every year—I have. D’you think I like seeing youngsters I trained get hurt and die? I won’t try to tell you how to take it; you’ll have to figure out your own way. The Company mourning, when we get back to Valdaire, will help. But wishing it were fair is no help at all.” Stammel walked away, and left them to their thoughts.

For a long time they were silent.

There was more to come. The other two cohorts met them two days out of Valdaire, and they heard the tale of the campaign against the Wolf Prince.

“It was bad enough,” said Barranyi, with a toss of her black hair. “We marched for days through the woods west of here, up into the foothills, before we came to his stronghold.”

“Don’t forget what happened in the woods that night, Barra,” added Natzlin. She had a bandage around her left arm, and a healing gash on her forehead.

“Oh—yes. One night—I think it was the second—during the first watch, we heard a wild screeching and flights of arrows started falling in the camp. Red Jori—you don’t know him; he’s a seven-year veteran in our cohort—he was hit in the leg. Others were hit too. We couldn’t see anyone, and we were rushing around, with the sergeants bellowing and swearing—and then the Duke himself yelled something I didn’t understand. A voice answered him from the trees, and they talked back and forth a bit—still in words I didn’t know—and then the Duke told us that it was all over. And I still don’t know what that was about, and no one will say!” Barranyi shook her head, glowering.

“Never mind, Barra; tell them the rest of it.” Natzlin, as usual, could soothe Barra out of her sulks.

“And how many others were with you?” asked Paks. “We heard other companies were sending troops—”

Barra nodded briskly. “Yes, they did. And that was exciting, meeting those others. Let me think. Reim Company sent about twenty—they’re small, Dorrin says. Halveric Company sent a whole cohort of foot, and twenty horse. Golden Company sent—what was it, Natz?”

“Near a cohort, I think.”

“And we had some boundsmen from Valdaire; the city’s angry that its neutrality was breached, or that’s what I heard. Anyway, when we got near the Wolf Prince, we were attacked by horsemen, again and again. If we hadn’t had horsemen with us, we’d have been in worse trouble. And Paks, I did see a black and white spotted horse off to one side; I’d bet that was one of his captains.”

Paks nodded. “Could have been. Was it smaller than the others?”

“Yes. Then we got to the stronghold itself. Much better designed than those forts we’d been holding. If the Wolf Prince had pulled all his men inside, I don’t think we could have broken the place.”

“Never regret the stupidity of enemies,” said Vik, who had been polishing his helmet as he listened. “There’s no gift to compare with it.”

Barra glared at him. “I wasn’t suggesting that—”

“Please tell us the rest, Barra,” said Arñe quickly, “before we die of curiosity.”

Barra shrugged, gave Vik a last hard look, and went on. “We had a battle outside the walls, that’s all. Fought most of the day. It was hard fighting, but finally they broke and ran for the gate. We got most of ’em outside, but enough were left to make the assault a real fight too. Black Sim, of Cracolnya’s, was trying to set a ladder when he was crushed by a rock they dropped. Oh—and Paks, Corporal Stephi was killed too. It was on the wall, after we’d gotten up. Two of our men were down, and he was trying to protect them from a rush; he got a spear through the body.” Barranyi looked closely at Paks, who felt a strange mixture of relief and regret.

“And then,” said Natzlin, picking up the tale, “we fairly took the place apart. It was ugly. Ringbolts set into the courtyard and on the walls—with that spacing we didn’t have to guess what for. Dungeons: nasty, stinking, wet holes—like a nightmare. Bones—human bones. And the servants—” Her voice faded away as her eyes clouded.

Barra nodded soberly. “They were pitiful. Not one without old scars and new welts. So we killed ’em all—”

“The servants?” asked Arñe, startled.

“No, of course not. The Wolf Prince and his men. And the Duke searched his rooms for a reason why he’d attack our caravan and the others—I hear he found nothing. And then we came back, and that’s all.” She stood abruptly and stretched. Natzlin rose more slowly, tucking back a strand of brown hair. “We’d better go back,” said Barra. “We’re on watch tonight.” The two walked toward their own cohort.

“By all the gods, that one’s prickly,” said Vik. No one had to ask what he meant.

“She’s a good fighter,” said Paks, temporizing.

Vik snorted. “Paks, sometimes I think you’d forgive the Webmistress herself if she was a good fighter. That’s not all that matters.”

Paks felt her face growing hot. “I know that, Vik. But being touchy isn’t all that matters, either—Barra’s good at heart.”

Vik gave her a long green stare, one of the few serious looks she’d had from him. “Paks, for once let a city-born runt give you a bit of advice. It’s possible to like bad people, but liking them doesn’t make them good.” Paks opened her mouth, but he held up his hand and went on. “I’m not saying Barra’s bad, exactly, but I am saying you think she’s good at heart because you like her and want her to be good at heart. It doesn’t work that way. If you don’t learn to see people as they are, you’ll get hurt someday.”

Paks felt confused and angry. “I don’t understand. It certainly sounds like you’re saying Barra’s bad, and she’s not.”

“No. I’m not really talking about Barra, but about you. Paks, my father was a harper. Harpers have to learn about people, or they can’t sing with power. Even though I can’t harp or sing, I learned a lot about people from him. They’re complicated—being good at one thing doesn’t make them good at something else: a good fighter can be treacherous, or cruel, or a liar. Do you see that?”

“Yes, but Barra—”

“I’m not talking about Barra. Listen to me. You’ve told us you always wanted to be a fighter, a fighter for good, right?” He waited for her nod before going on. “Well, you’re so intent on that—you don’t see other things. You see people as good or bad, not in between; as fighters or not, and not in between. And since you’re basically a good person, you see most people as good—but most people, Paks, are in between—both as fighters, and as good or bad. And they’re different. If you don’t learn to see them straight—just as you’d look at a sword, knowing all swords aren’t alike—you’ll depend on them for what they don’t have.”

Paks nodded slowly. “I think I see. But what about Barra?”

Vik threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Paks! Barra’s all right; she’s just prickly, as I said.” Arñe and Saben were both chuckling, and Paks finally grinned, still unsure of the joke.

Their winter quarters in Valdaire felt like home now. Familiar buildings, familiar people. No longer novices, after their first campaign year, the newest members of the Company found themselves accepted by the veterans. Among these friends, the Company mourning ceremony honoring all who had died that year brought more comfort than Paks expected. Canna was now an “old veteran,” being past her required two years of service, but, like most such, she elected to stay in.

Their winter routine was much like training: drill, weapons practice, barracks chores. Paks spent hours in the smithy and armory, fetching and carrying, and doing what the unskilled could do. Some work always awaited them. Paks took the opportunity to begin learning longsword, and collected a whole new set of cuts and bruises.

With free time in Valdaire, they found that the salary which seemed so large at first disappeared amazingly fast.

“It’s not that things are so expensive,” said Arñe thoughtfully one evening in The White Dragon, the Company’s favorite inn. “It’s that there are so many things, and all we have to do is buy—”

“I know.” Paks frowned at her linked hands. “I was going to save most of mine to repay my father, but I keep spending it. But except for coming here with you, I’ve needed what I’ve bought—or most of it—”

“We’ve gotten used to spending,” said Saben. “That new dagger I bought—I could have used the Company one. But—I bought it.”

“We might as well enjoy it,” said Vik. “We’re going to spend it one way or another. No use fretting about it.”

Paks snorted. “There speaks a man who dices his way to twice his salary.”

“Not always.” Vik was unruffled. “And if I do, I spend it all. I’ll teach you, if you like. I’ll even let you start with pebbles.”

“No, thank you. I just can’t see taking a chance on losing it.”

“You take chances when you fight—that trick you pulled on Canna today—”

“That’s different.” She blushed when Vik laughed. “No, it is. I know what chances I’m taking, in fighting. But with money—”

“You’re still a country girl, Paks. That’s exactly the difference between city and country—”

“I’m the same way,” said Saben mildly. “I can’t see throwing money away—or anything else, for that matter.” Vik laughed, shaking his red head.

The Duke left, to ride north; they realized that he was going to inspect another group of recruits. Paks was distressed to find that Stammel was going with him.

“What did you expect?” he asked. “It’s my year to recruit and train; I saw you through your first year. I’ll be back a year from now.” His brown eyes twinkled. “And you’d better be here to lick my recruits into shape, you and the rest. Take care—I want to hear good things of you.”

“Is Bosk going too?” Paks felt like crying.

“No. He’s staying down another year. Devlin wanted to stay north; his wife’s had another baby.”

Paks had never thought of any of them being married; she eyed Stammel but lacked the nerve to ask him.

While waiting for the new recruits to come down, they had more time off. Paks met a corporal in the Valdaire city militia who had grown up near Rocky Ford—the first person she’d met in the south who knew where Three Firs was. A bowman from Golden Company bought them all ale one night—he was celebrating his retirement, he said—he’d saved enough to buy a farm. Spring came earlier and quicker in the Vale of Valdaire than in the north. As the fields greened, grass ran like green flame up the slopes toward retreating snow. Rivers boiled with snowmelt, roaring and tumbling the rocks in their beds. Tiny yellow and white flowers starred the grass. New lambs scampered among the flocks, flipping their ridiculous tails. Paks was almost homesick when she saw the lambs. Buds swelled on the trees; wild plums flowered by every rivulet. The first caravans clogged the city with wagons and pack beasts, waiting for the pass to open.

Paks had not realized, the year before, that someone left the recruit column to warn the Company camp while the column went through the city. This year, when the courier came, the older veterans explained what to do.

“Just hang about as if you didn’t know they were coming,” said Donag, grinning. “Keep close to the yard. When the captain yells, throw yourself into position, fast. Whoever’s closest, go for the front; never mind your usual position. What counts is speed. They don’t know where we’re supposed to be, and they’ll be too scared to notice. Be sure to keep a straight face—they’ll be funny, but don’t laugh.”

Paks saw the column coming up the lane; she strolled back to the yard, her heart hammering. What would the new recruits be like? Were they as frightened as she had been? And what about the sergeant who would replace Stammel? She watched as they came into the yard and halted, and tensed, waiting for the captain’s shout. When it came, she was moving before it ended. Donag, still quicker, made his usual position before anyone else had a chance at it. It was all over in a moment. They stood silent and motionless, and the recruits’ eyes widened.

Stammel’s replacement was a black-haired, green-eyed woman named Dzerdya; Paks thought she looked forbidding. The other cohorts each had a new sergeant, and Bond, senior corporal in Cracolnya’s cohort, was replaced by Jori. They had twenty-nine new recruits in Arcolin’s cohort alone. Paks was glad to find that she was not assigned a recruit; she wouldn’t know what to say to the bright-eyed youngsters who filled the empty bunks.

In the next few days, Paks found Dzerdya nothing like Stammel or easygoing Coben, their junior sergeant. She seemed to have a mind as quick as her bladework, and she demanded instant attention and obedience. Paks was surprised to find that her recruits actually liked her.

“She was my sergeant,” said Canna. “Isn’t she amazing?”

That had not been Paks’s first thought. Terrifying, quick-tempered, hasty, impossible—but not amazing. But Canna went on, not noticing her reaction.

“Wait until you see her in battle. She’s so fast you can hardly see her blade. You ought to drill with her sometime.”

“She seems kind of—kind of—angry a lot,” said Paks lamely.

“Oh, that. She’s quick to bite, true, but she doesn’t brood on things. Don’t worry about it. I don’t think she knows, sometimes, when she’s scared someone half to death.”

In another week, Paks had begun to agree. Dzerdya was strict, and had a tongue like a handful of razors, but she was fair. She obviously cared a great deal for her troops.

This year’s contract was very different. “It’s a siege,” explained Donag, who had used his own mysterious contacts to find out. “The Guild League cities are joining to siege and assault another city, halfway across Aarenis. They’re hiring several companies as well as their own militia. I think our contract’s with Sorellin, but the others are supporting it.”

“What city?” asked Canna.

“Rotengre. Have you heard of it?”

“I think so. Wasn’t there a caravan raid near there, last year?”

“Yes. The Guild League thinks that Rotengre harbors brigands—in fact, they suspect the city lives by preying on the northern caravan route between Merinath and Sorellin. Three or four years ago—before your time, Canna—five caravans were totally destroyed. That was the worst, so far as I know, but for the past ten or twelve years the loss has been enormous. Almost as bad as what Alured’s done to the Immer River shipping.”

“But why do they think it’s Rotengre?” asked Paks. “Do the caravans go through there?”

“Look.” Donag began to scratch a rough map on the table with the burnt end of a stick. “Here’s Valdaire, in the northwest. Now here’s the river. It’s like a tree, sprouting from the Immerhoft Sea in the south, with branches northwest, north, and northeast. Downstream from Valdaire you come to Foss, Fossnir, Cortes Vonja, Cortes Cilwan, and Immervale, where the branches meet. On the north branch, up from Immervale, you’ve got Koury, Ambela, and Sorellin. The other branch, to the east, has Rotengre. Then off in the far northeast, Merinath and Semnath. And the Copper Hills—”

“Have you been to all those places?” asked Paks, awed.

“Most of ’em. The Copper Hills, now, that’s where caravans come north from the coast—”

“Why don’t they come up the Immer?” asked Vik. “That other’s a long way out of their way, isn’t it?”

“You haven’t heard yet of Alured the Black?” asked Donag, brows rising. They shook their heads. “Well—that’s a tale in itself. Used to be a searover he did—a pirate—and somehow decided to come ashore. He controls a belt of forest near the coast, and he’s pirated so much of the river trade that there isn’t any. It’s cheaper to go the long way around than pay his tolls.” Donag rubbed his face with one meaty hand, then went on. “Like I was saying, the caravan route is north along the Copper Hills, then west: Semnath, Merinath, Sorellin, Ambela, Pler Vonja, then Fossnir and Foss and upriver to Valdaire. The road they’ve built is something to see.

“The stretch between Merinath and Sorellin is long—comes fairly close to Rotengre—and that’s just where the caravans have been attacked. A lot of that’s forest, so it’s easy enough for brigands to throw off pursuit, and for Rotengre to claim they live in the forest. But they trade somewhere, and Rotengre is the obvious place. Besides, what else can the city live on? It never was part of the river trade—that branch is too shallow. No good farmland, no mines.”

They nodded, staring at the blurred smears of black on the table. Paks wondered what the country looked like.

“What is a siege like?” asked Vik.

“Boring,” said Donag. “Unless the first assault works, and we take the city at once, we camp outside and keep anyone from going in or out. It takes months, and it’s nothing but standing watch and camp work and drill. A long wait until they get hungry, that’s all.”

“That sounds easy enough,” muttered Saben.

Donag shot him a hard glance. “It’s not. They’ll have archers on the walls, and stone-throwers. You can get killed walking too close, but if you’re too far away they have time to climb down the walls and get out. And it’s hard to keep the camp like the Duke wants it for that long. If you don’t, you have camp fever taking out half your troops. It’s better than a fight every day, but it’s not easy.”

Canna had been looking thoughtful, tracing the smeared lines with one brown finger. “Does Rotengre have any allies?”

“Ah. That’s a question.” Donag frowned and rubbed his nose. “Probably yes; somebody must be buying the stolen goods. My guess is they ship it downriver. Koury, for example: it isn’t a Guild League city, but it’s gotten rich in the past few years—how else? Or cities passed by on the old river route: Immervale, Cortes Cilwan. Or if you want to reach far enough, there’s always the Honeycat. Siniava. He wants to rule all Aarenis, they say; it takes money to hire the troops for that. If all this flows back to him—”

“Well, what if they attack us while we’re sieging?” Vik looked almost eager.

“Then we’ll have a fight. That’s why the siege force is so large—just in case. But their allies may not want to come out of cover.”

It all seemed very complicated to Paks. The only thing clear was the route they would travel. She thought of lands and cities she had never seen.