Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Thirteen

It was a long three days’ march to Fossnir, down the river from Valdaire, with a baggage train much larger than the year before. Peach and apricot orchards were still pink, though the plum blossom had passed. Paks missed the more delicate pink and white of apples, and the white plumes of pear. When she mentioned this to a veteran, he said that apples were grown only in the foothills of the Dwarfmounts, or far to the west. Pears did not grow in Aarenis at all.

The road they marched on was wide and hard: great stone slabs laid with a careful camber for drainage into ditches on either side. To one side was a soft road, for use in good weather when the road was crowded. Northbound caravans passed them, one made up of pack animals instead of wagons. They had a nod and smile from the caravaners. The last guard on one of them looked back and yelled, “I hope you get those bastards!”

“How did he know?” asked Donag, startled, then answered himself. “It’ll be those militia talking, I suppose. Can’t keep any quieter than a landlord.”

The next day after Fossnir, they made Foss, oldest city in Foss Council. Here they left the river, following the Guild League caravan road to Pler Vonja. Villages were spaced a few hours apart along the way, and great walled courtyards for caravans to use were never more than a day’s easy journey apart. Wheelwrights, harnessmakers, and blacksmiths had their places at each caravan halt; the villages offered fresh food and local crafts.

As they crossed the Foss Council border, they found a large unit of militia ready to go with them, Paks was happy to find that the militia would march behind; she liked her forward view.

Pler Vonja, next in line, was stone-walled, but most of its buildings were wood above the first story: a great forest bordered the city on the north. It had fortified bridges across its little river. The city militia wore orange and black, and carried pikes. Paks noticed a nasal twang in the local accent that made some words hard to understand. The march from Pler Vonja to Ambela took six days; rain and a crowded road slowed them down.

Ambela was built, like Pler Vonja, across a small branch of the Immer, but it had a different look. Its gray stone walls were livened by the red and white banners that stirred above every tower and gate. Some low flower made a bright gold carpet along the water meadows. Farm cottages were whitewashed, brilliant in the green fields. The two hundred foot and fifty horse of Ambela militia that joined the column all wore bright red and white.

Four days later, they came to Sorellin. Much larger than Ambela, it had double walls, the inner one defining the old city. They marched through the west gate, under a white banner with great yellow shears centered on it. The guards wore yellow surcoats. Paks thought it looked as clean and prosperous as the best parts of Vérella and Valdaire; she wondered if it had a poor quarter. Below the bridge she saw two flatboats, loaded with plump sacks, being hauled upstream by mules. Outside the city again, on the southeast, they found a large contingent of Sorellin militia waiting for them.

After two days in a camp outside the city, they marched again on a very different road. It had never been part of the Guild League system; narrow, rough, and partly overgrown, it had to be practically rebuilt to allow the wagons to pass. Six days later they came out on the gentler slopes that lay around Rotengre and its branch of the Immer.

Even from a distance, Rotengre looked more formidable than the other cities, more like an overgrown fort: high, steep walls, massive towers, all out of proportion to the breadth. It was shaped somewhat like a rectangle with the corners bitten off; its long axis ran north and south, with the only two gates on the short ends. Paks decided that the tales must be true—it was a city built for trouble, not for honest trade.

As the head of their column cleared the forest and started across a wide belt of pasture toward the walls, trumpets blared from the city. A troop of men-at-arms in dark uniforms, their helmets winking in the sun, came out the north gate. The Duke’s Company marched on, angling left toward the gate. The Rotengrens halted, and began to withdraw, as more and more of the attacking column snaked from the forest. Ahead, to the northeast, another column came into sight. These wore black, and carried spears in a bristling mass. Paks caught her breath and started to reach for her sword.

“That’s Vladi’s Company—don’t worry about them,” called Dzerdya. “We’re on the same side.”

“I hope so,” muttered Donag, just loud enough for Paks to hear.

The compact mass of spearmen kept pouring from the forest, cohort by cohort—five in all, with a smaller body of horse. They turned south, to march along the east side of the city. After them came a troop of cavalry whose rose and white colors were bright even at that distance. Most of the horses were gray; a few were white. Paks thought they looked more like figures from a song than real fighters, but she had heard of Clart Company.

The Rotengren troops had withdrawn completely, and they heard the portcullis crash down long before they could have reached the gate. A small party of riders galloped away downstream, pursued by a squad of Foss Council cavalry, but they were clearly drawing away.

Setting up and maintaining a siege camp was every bit as hard and boring as Donag had said it would be. The Duke’s Company had a position west of Sorellin’s militia, just west of the north gate, and around the angle of wall to the west. On their right flank the Ambela militia covered the west wall. Vonja militia had the south wall and gate, and Vladi’s Company and the Foss Council troops divided the west wall. Clart Company patrolled between the siege lines and the forest.

The Duke and his surgeons had definite and inconvenient ideas about siting the camp’s necessities, from the bank and palisade between Rotengre’s wall and their camp, to the placement of jacks trenches. All that work—dull and unnecessary as it seemed to Paks and the others—was better than the boring routine of the siege itself, when nothing happened day after day. Spring warmed into summer, and the summer grew steamy. Rotengre troops threw filth off the walls; its stench pervaded the camp. When it rained, a warm unrefreshing rain, dirty brown water overflowed the ditch under the walls and spread the stinking filth closer. No one complained about hauling wood or water, or cutting hay in distant meadows: any break in routine was welcome. Tempers frayed. Barra and Natzlin got in a fight with two militiamen from Vonja, and even Paks agreed it was Barra’s fault. Rumor swept the camps that two cohorts of Vonja militia were down with fever from swimming in the river. Paks’s captain, Arcolin, rode off to Valdaire on some errand for the Duke, leaving Ferrault in command. The cohort found that Ferrault was as strict as Arcolin had been, where camp discipline was concerned. The Duke’s surgeons frowned constantly, and swept through the camp inspecting everything.

Muggy midsummer faded to the blinding heat and cloudless days that ripened grain for harvest. Paks thought longingly of the cool north. Food began to taste odd; she thought it was the terrible smell from the ditch under the wall. Dzerdya’s orders to get ready for a long march were more than welcome.

“Where?” asked Paks.

Dzerdya glared at her, then answered. “North. Sorellin Council wants us to garrison a frontier fort, and let the militia up there come home for harvest. They’ve had a big crop this year. It’s up in the foothills.” She smiled, then, at Paks. “Hurry; we march tomorrow.”

“Is everyone going?”

“No; it doesn’t take the whole company to garrison one little fort. We could probably do it with half of you—it’s only a matter of taking tolls if anyone crosses Dwarfwatch—but no one will, this late.”

They started before dawn the next day, taking a road that led directly north, rather than northwest to Sorellin. After a day’s march through the forest near Rotengre, they entered a rolling land of farms and woodlots, checkered with hedges. They crossed a small river on a stone bridge, and then the main caravan route, the same broad stone way they had been on before. Ferrault, reverting to his usual cheerful demeanor, pointed out the carved stone sign for Sorellin, shears in a circle on top of a pillar. The road they followed swung a little right. With every day, the ground rose in gentle waves. They saw more forest and less farmland. They crossed another road, not so well-made: the north route to Merinath, Ferrault said. The hills ahead were higher, blocking their view of the mountains they’d hoped to see. From that last crossroad to the fort was just under a day’s march, a day pleasantly cool after lowland heat, through thick forest and over low ridges.

Just south of the fort they cleared the forest and saw mountains looming north, much higher than near Valdaire. Snow streaked their peaks. Dwarfwatch itself was a well-built stone keep with comfortable quarters around the inner court, and roomy stable in the outer. Its only fault was its lack of water; a rapid mountain stream rushed nearby, but inside the walls was neither spring nor well. Beyond the fort, a high and difficult track crossed the mountains, but as they had been told, no one used it. All the traffic they saw was grain wagons rolling up the road from Sorellin to collect harvest from the foothill farms, and rolling south again. Paks found it a delightful interlude: cool air, clean water, fresh food from nearby farmers happy to get hard cash for their produce. South of the river, backed up on the forest, Paks discovered an enormous tangle of brambles, loaded with berries just turning color. She kept a close watch on them.

One hazy afternoon, she and Saben were taking in the washing they’d spread on rocks near the river. She heard a yell from the wall behind them, then the staccato horn signal of alarm. They snatched their clothes and scrambled up the rocky bank, racing for the gate around the corner. Paks saw others running too. She slowed for a moment to look back to the road. The front rank of a column marched out of the forest.

“Paks! Come on!” As Paks darted under the gate tower, Dzerdya caught her arm and swung her around. “Don’t ever slow like that! D’you want us to drop the portcullis and leave you outside? Go on—hurry and get armed.”

The barracks was noisy chaos as all the off-duty people scrambled to arm. Still fumbling at the buckles of her corselet, Paks ran back out and puffed up the stairs to the wall. Whatever and whoever the approaching force was, it clearly outnumbered them. She counted three units of foot, each the size of their own cohort, and a troop of cavalry. And—

“What’s that?” she asked a veteran.

He grimaced. “Siege engines. Now we’re in for it.”

“But—who’d be sieging us?” He didn’t answer, and Paks moved along the wall to her assigned position near the gate tower. The foremost troops were almost at the river; they wore dark green tunics. It reminded her of some she’d seen in Valdaire during the winter.

“Halverics,” breathed Donag beside her. “Now what’d they be doing up here? Could the Duke have sent—no, surely not.” Paks glanced at him; he seemed more puzzled than worried. She relaxed, then jumped as the portcullis clanged the last few inches into the stone. Donag gave her a wry grin. “We’re in a pickle now. I won’t hide it,” he said. “If Halveric Company wants this fort, they’ll get it in the end. Might be better if the captain decides to yield.”

Paks stared at him, open-mouthed. “But we can’t. It’s—”

Donag nodded at the siege engines rolling down the slope toward the bridge. “We will sooner or later. We can hold it a week, maybe, if we’ve water enough. But we’d take heavy losses, and they’d break through in the end. Tir’s guts, I wasn’t looking forward to being a captive again.”

Paks choked down what she wanted to say, and peered over the wall. A rider in green waved a truce flag, she saw Captain Ferrault’s helmet slip from the postern beside the main gate, then his foreshortened form moving forward to meet the rider. She could not hear what they said. She could not have heard it if they’d been beside her; blood pounded in her ears. She watched as they walked back. Her stomach churned. She was sure they could hold—but when she tried to think how long, she thought of the water barrels. How long would it take the Duke to come north, and how could they send word? Her mouth felt dry already.

Even so, she was not resigned when Bosk brought his word. Nor was she the only one who cried, “But we can’t quit—just quit. We can’t.”

“Oh yes, you can.” His face looked more wrinkled than before. “We follow orders, remember? When the captain tells us to lay down our arms, we do it. And I don’t want any nonsense, either, from any of you.”

“Arcolin wouldn’t have—” began someone.

“Enough! Arcolin’s not here; Ferrault is. And for my money, Arcolin would have done the same.”

“But—what will happen?” Vik sounded as worried as Paks felt.

“They’ll collect our weapons, and assign us an area. Usually it takes a day or so to list all the equipment and men, and then they’ll send a ransom request to the Duke. Then a few weeks to settle terms and collect the ransom, and we’ll be released. Usually less than a month, altogether.”

“But what do we do?’ Paks imagined a month in the cells under the fort.

“What we’re told—that’s what prisoners always do. Halveric Company is one of the best; we’ve fought beside them, now and again. They won’t make it hard if we don’t. I expect they’ll pass their commands down through Captain Ferrault; it’ll be much as usual. No drill, of course, and no weapons practice. We may work the harvest, or some such.”

“I’m no farmer,” said Canna, tossing her head. “I’m a fighter.”

Bosk glared at her. “You’re about to be a prisoner. Unless you want me on your back as well as those—” he nodded at the wall, “you’ll do what you’re told. You worked on the road during training.”

“Aye, but—”

“No buts. There’s rules for this, the same as for everything else. We agree to behave until we’re ransomed; if there’s any trouble, it’s handled by the officers. Don’t talk about the Company to them—mostly they won’t ask; it’s bad manners. And don’t ask about theirs. No one’s to run off, or anything of that sort. No brawling, of course. No bedding with them; it lacks dignity. I expect this will be the usual terms, which means they won’t confiscate your belongings except weapons, but I’d keep any jewels out of sight just in case.”

Paks could tell that most of the cohort was as miserable as she was, coming out the gate onto the fields by the river. They had been allowed to march out wearing their swords, but the familiar weight at her side did not make up for the knowledge that she would draw it only to give it up. She stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the green-clad troops lining the road. At last they halted between two cohorts. She let her gaze wander to Captain Ferrault, who was met by a dark bearded man in plate mail. After a few words, the captain turned to them, his usually cheerful face expressionless.

“Sergeant Dzerdya. Disarm the troops.”

“Sir.” Dzerdya turned. Paks was glad it was not Stammel; she could not believe Stammel would do it. “Draw your swords and drop them.” Paks felt tears sting her eyes as she reached for the hilt of her sword. She blinked them back. The sword slid as easily as ever from its scabbard; she could hear the rustle of all the others. It was impossible that they should drop them. Surely—

“No!” bellowed Coben from behind, breaking into her musing. “No nonsense. Drop them!” Even now, Paks could not drop a sword to its hurt; she knelt to lay hers gently on the ground. She did not know who had prompted Cohen’s rebuke, but she was glad of it. At least the Halverics would know they were not afraid.

Around them now the Halveric cohorts stood with drawn swords, waiting. Ferrault was talking to the Halveric commander again, who shook his head: once, then again, more emphatically. Ferrault turned back to them. “It seems,” he said in a hard light voice, “that our reputation has preceded us. We should take it as an honor that we are required to yield daggers as well as swords. Sergeant, see to it.”

Before Dzerdya could say anything, the Halveric commander grinned and spoke; his voice was deep, and his accent made a musical complement to his speech. “It is indeed an honor. For so long as we have respected your noble Duke, so long have we known his soldiers to be spirited as well as brave and skilled. We would not have lives and blood lost where no need is: your men or ours, captain. These will be returned, when each has given parole.” He bowed to the captain, and more slightly to the cohort itself.

“All right now,” said Dzerdya. Her voice was flat. “Daggers the same; drop them.”

As Paks slipped her dagger from its sheath, she felt a heavy cold weight dragging at her. She was not even tempted to use the dagger. It seemed that nothing could ever be right again. To stand unarmed in the midst of armed troops, defeated without a fight, was the worst thing she could imagine. But with the others she marched back, under guard, to await events.

Several days later, Paks had admitted that Bosk was right. Though they slept in the stables instead of the barracks, the change brought no hardship: they ate the same food, obeyed the same sergeants, and suffered only from the boredom of confinement. That would change when they had all given their paroles. Bosk explained that, too: each one would come before Aliam Halveric, the commander, and agree to abide by the rules for captives—or risk being put under guard while the others went free within bounds.

Now Paks was waiting her turn. She felt her heart speeding up, and tried to breathe slowly. Only one man between her and the door. Her hands were sweaty. Vanza came out and winked at her; she was face to face with the door. She stared at the grain of the wood, finding pictures in its twists and curves. Should she give her parole? This wasn’t anything like the old songs, where heroes always fought to the death if they did not win, and captivity and defiance went together like sword and scabbard. The door opened. Rauf came out, and the guard beckoned. She took a deep breath and walked in.

Behind a wide desk sat the dark bearded man who had accepted their surrender. Without his helmet and mail he seemed smaller: almost bald, with a fringe of graying dark hair, a round weathered face, broad muscular hands. He gave her a long look from dark eyes.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I noticed you—you didn’t want to chance damaging your blade, did you?”

Paks blushed. “No—sir.”

“Sign of a good warrior,” he said briskly. “Name, please?” He held a pen, poised over the desk.

Bosk had said they should give their names. “Paks, sir.”

He ran his finger down the parchment roll on the desk. “Ah—there. You’re a first-term, I see.” He looked back up at her. “It’s harder, the first time you’re captured. I daresay it’s bothered you.”

Paks relaxed a bit. “Yes, sir.”

“You signed on to be a warrior, not to surrender,” he went on. “Still, it does happen, and it’s no shame to know when you’re overmatched. We don’t think worse of your captain for seeing the obvious. To be honest, we’re glad not to have to fight it out, knowing what we know of your Company.” He paused; a slight smile moved his lips. “I imagine you’ve been wondering whether it’s honorable to give your parole—” Paks nodded. His smile broadened, not mocking, but friendly. “I thought so. Well, I won’t argue against your conscience. I’ve given mine on occasion—if that matters. It’s only until you’re ransomed. You may match swords against us another season at the command of your Duke, or quarrel with my men in Valdaire next winter. They haven’t been teasing you, have they?”

“No, sir. They haven’t bothered us at all.”

“That’s good. They know, you see, that it might be the other way next time. Now—” he went on more briskly. “I’ll need your answer. Can you swear to remain a prisoner under command of my company until ransomed, without rebellion or escape so long as you’re honorably treated?”

Paks paused a moment, but she trusted him in spite of herself. “Yes, sir, I agree.”

“Very well.” His voice held more warmth. “And I and my commanders give our word that you and your companions will be honorably treated, well fed and housed, and be subject to the authority of your captain, under my designated representative only. Now what that means,” he continued, less formally, “is that we won’t suddenly sell you to slavers, or turn you over to another company of mercenaries. We agree to be fully responsible for your welfare, just as your Duke would be.”

“Yes, sir,” said Paks. She found this confusing. It seemed like an extra trouble to both sides.

“I’m telling you this because you youngsters need to understand how we northern mercenaries deal with one another under the compact. We are often rivals, and sometimes hired enemies, but we have our own code, which we will not change for any employer. Your Duke and I and Aesil M’dierra started it years ago, and now most good companies abide by it. The others—well, they can be paid to do anything. If we are to stay honorable, the newest members of our companies must understand—and that means you, in your first term. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Paks. She met his eyes and surprised a puzzled look on his face.

“You need not answer if you prefer,” he said slowly, “but would you tell me where you’re from?”

“Three Firs,” said Paks promptly.

He looked blank. “Where is that?”

“It’s—well—all I really know is it’s a day’s journey from Rocky Ford, and west of Duke Phelan’s stronghold.” Now she was puzzled by his interest.

“Oh. The reason I asked is that you reminded me of someone I once knew; I wondered if you were related. But she came, if I remember, from Blackbone Hill or something like that.”

Paks shook her head. “I never heard of that place, sir. It wasn’t near Three Firs.”

“Well, then—you may go.”

Paks nodded, and turned away, surprised at how much better she felt. That evening their daggers were returned to them—with plenty of warnings about misuse. With her dagger once more at her side, Paks felt much more secure. She found her hand returning to it again and again.

Two days later, Aliam Halveric rode away with two of his cohorts marching behind; the siege engines went with them. His captain allowed the prisoners to practice marching drill in small units, and troops of both companies went out on work details for wood, water, and food. The Halverics hardly seemed to be guarding them, as they worked just as hard as the Phelani. They all bathed in the river, and washed clothes along its banks. At first Paks was very stiff with them, but as she saw her sergeants and corporals chatting with their Halveric colleagues, she began to listen. She knew nothing about Lyonya, where most of the Halverics came from. They spoke of elves as if they’d all seen them and worked with them.

As the days wore on, the Phelani were allowed even more freedom of movement inside the bounds Ferrault received from the Halveric captain. Paks saw Ferrault and the Halveric, who seemed even younger than Ferrault, playing some board game in a sunny part of the court one morning. They were laughing together; the Halveric captain shaking his head.

To Paks’s delight, small groups could go to the river or the bramble patches without an escort. The berries were now ripe, and she enjoyed the hours she spent picking them. Vik didn’t like it—too hot, too prickly, too tedious—but she, Saben, and Canna gathered pail after pail of dark-red berries that both Halverics and Phelani were glad to eat.