Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Nineteen

Their return to the north was swift and direct. Mounted, with no pack train, they made the northern crossroad in two days. A fast unit of Clart Cavalry had rounded up the “huntsmen” camped on the hill over the crossroad; they thought no warning had been passed on. The Duke, Paks knew, hoped the Halverics were coming from the east, but they might be a day or so away. She wondered if he would wait for them.

That night she woke to the clatter of a single galloping horse, and slept again when no alarm sounded. They moved at dawn. Paks and the others who had been north before were assigned the forward and flank sweeps. Now it was her turn to ride through the cold woods, looking for enemy strays. For the first hour, they moved at a brisk trot. Paks found herself reaching for her sword again and again. Not yet, she told herself. After that, they slowed to a walk. Paks looked for the farmers’ clearing. When it finally opened on her left, she felt a cold thrill down her back. Close. She waved the forward group to a halt, and looked over the clearing. The Duke rode up to them.

“Trouble?”

“No, my lord,” said Paks. “But we’re close now, and I know they came out this far. Do you want us to leave the road here?”

“No. Riders off the road mean trouble. Let them think we’re friendly—or at least neutral—if they hear the horses. With the north wind, they shouldn’t. How far to the last cover?”

Paks thought a moment. “I’m not sure, my lord, but there’s a ridge just before the trees end, and a double curve in the road.”

“If they’ve gotten sloppy, we might make the edge before they notice. I’ll ride with you, Paks, and you point out that ridge.” He turned to his captains. “I want the Clarts ready to split into two columns, just as we did before; I expect a force near the gate. Archers next; they’ve got crossbows. I want the swords and spears dismounted this time, and in the usual formation. If our friends are alive, and can make a sally, so much the better. After the first shock, unless things change, Clarts hit cavalry first, then sweep up and harry stragglers. There’s a small chance still that we could meet them on the road—remember our plans, if we do.” They nodded. “Very well. Let’s go.” He wheeled his horse and started up the road. Paks legged her horse up beside him, and the column followed.

That last stretch seemed the longest. Paks felt her heart hammering in her chest. A sour taste came into her mouth. Her horse began to jig and toss its head. She thought about what they might find. Perhaps the Honeycat’s men had already taken the fort—killed the defenders—gone away. Or they held the fort—or the defenders had killed them at last—Ahead the road swung left to climb a steeper ridge. Paks recognized it, and waved to the Duke. At his signal, the rest halted while he, Paks, his squires, and two others rode ahead. They reached the ridgetop; Paks reached for her sword, but the Duke gestured: no.

Here the road swung right; through the wind-torn foliage they could see the open meadows below. The Duke sent one man back to bring up the column. A cold wind out of the northwest roared through the trees; Paks felt her skin stiffen under it, and never heard the column come up behind her. The Clart riders had lances in hand, tossing and twirling them; the leaders grinned as they rode up. Behind them, the Duke’s men were grim-faced. Paks could see nothing of Vladi’s spears but the tips bristling above the riders between.

The captains came forward, and all shook hands with the Duke and each other. The Duke gestured to the standard bearers, and they unrolled the banners: his own maroon and white, with the crest of Tsaia and the fox mask; Clart Company’s white horse on rose, under a spear; Vladi’s black and silver, a mailed fist over the eastern rune for ice. The Duke beckoned to Paks, and she moved her horse near him.

“When we break cover,” he said, “shift left at once, and let the Clarts through. Then drop back to Dorrin’s cohort.”

“Yes, sir.” Paks found it hard to speak; her throat was tight.

“Let’s go.” He lifted his reins and his horse moved forward. Paks saw his hand rise to his forehead; his visor dropped in place. Without checking his horse, he drew his sword. Paks glanced at his squires; they rode on either side, swords ready, grim-faced. She looked at the road ahead. Somewhere they must have sentries. A horn cry rang out to one side of the road. There, she thought. She heard a faint shout from somewhere ahead.

“Now!” yelled the Duke, and spurred to a gallop. Behind her, the Clart riders began their shrill battle cry, and the road erupted in a thunder of hooves. Paks leaned forward, her horse fighting for its head with the excitement of running horses before and behind. She edged to the left of the road. She was sure the Clarts were riding up her backbone. She could see the end of the trees, the open slope down to the river, the river itself. They were out. She yanked her horse to the left, and a stream of rose-clad riders poured past. She fought her mount to a bouncing trot, waiting for the archers to pass. Scattered small groups of black and yellow dotted the meadow; a larger cluster lay against the gate of the fort. The fort itself—she squinted to see the banners flying from the lower. Green and gold, the Halverics, and below, the Duke’s maroon and white. From the walls came a high, musical bugling. She looked back at the column for Dorrin or Sejek, and swung her horse into formation as they plunged down the road to the bridge.

There were bodies now along the way, one and two together, some with lance wounds, others sprouting arrows. Ahead the battle clamored, as the Clarts ran headlong into the Honeycat’s massed force by the gate. Horses and men screamed. Dorrin yelled a halt. They dismounted, the left file taking the horses, and formed again, shields and swords ready. Around the southwest corner of the fort came a cavalry unit in black and yellow; it charged, swerving away when Vladi’s spearmen, still mounted, rode between. A section of Clart riders, still shrilling, broke from the melee in front of the gates and rode at the cavalry.

“Forward!” yelled Dorrin; Paks stepped forward with the rest. Directly ahead was a milling mass of horses: their own archers, shooting into the enemy. Dorrin and Sejek rode ahead, swearing at them. A path opened. Now Paks could see the pikemen, trying to form in their direction and move out from the wall. She heard the wicked thin flick of a crossbow bolt, and the man next to her stumbled. His shield partner moved over and closed in.

Now she could see the faces under the strange helmets: pale or dark, they looked the same to her with their teeth gleaming. She heard above the roar another bugle call from the gate tower, and shrill voices from the wall. She saw stones fall, aimed at the enemy. Then they were too close to see anything but the faces and weapons and bodies in front of them.

“Remember your strokes!” yelled Sergeant Vossik. “Shieldwork! Shieldwork. Get under those pikes.” Paks watched the pikemen thrust and jab; the chopping stroke that made the broad blade so effective against horsemen was no good once you were inside it. They couldn’t jab and chop at the same time.

She thought of Canna and Saben, and felt a wash of anger erase the last nervousness. I’m going to kill you, she thought as her rank reached the pikes. She ducked under a pike to slash at the enemy. One in the second rank chopped at her; she dodged without thinking and darted between the front pikes while he was still off balance. Her sword almost took his head off. She felt without looking that her companions followed her example, felt the first quiver of yielding as the pikemen realized that these swordsmen were not held off by the bitter tips of their weapons.

A terrible crashing and booming from the gate, and a roar of “Halveric! Halveric! The Duke! The Duke!” The defenders had come out. Paks could not see them, but she could feel, as if it were her own body, the shudder that ran through the enemy ranks. The swordsmen pressed forward in response. Suddenly the enemy stiffened again, and began to fight harder. Paks felt a give, a weakening, on her own left flank. Something had happened there; she could not see what. She fought on; it didn’t matter, she was going to kill these scum until she died. She felt the pressure shifting her to the right, foot by foot, cramming the leftward files against her, and her against those to her right. Again. Another bellow added to the din. She could just distinguish the deep chant of Vladi’s spears, somewhere to the left. The pressure against her eased; again she was able to drive forward. The pikemen began to look aside. Through their ranks she could see Halveric green near the gate.

“Now!” bellowed Vossik. “Now! They’re breaking. Hit them!” With an answering roar, Paks and the others found they could move faster, swing harder. The pikes began to melt away. Some were dropped. A few of the soldiers turned to flee. Paks drove forward. Now more dropped their pikes; they were in among the crossbowmen, who had no time to reload and shoot. Many of these had drawn short curved swords, but they were no match for the angry swordsmen of the Duke. Those who did not break and run were killed.

They were through. The little group of Halverics and Phelani in front of the gate met Paks and the others with hugs as they broke through the last of the pikes. Paks looked anxiously for her friends, but Vossik and Kalek were yelling at them.

“No talking now, you fools! Reform! Come on, there’s still a battle going on!” Paks tore her eyes away from the few Phelani and finally obeyed the sergeants.

The fleeing enemy had turned south, away from Vladi’s spears. Now the Clarts had cut them off. Vossik called his cohort away from that easy bait to a block of pikes still intact, near the northwest corner of the fort. These had engaged Vladi’s spears on one side, but were holding together. They fought desperately, seeing they would receive no quarter. Paks was breathless and aching all over when the last ones fell. She looked around. Nothing remained of the enemy but crumpled bodies piled in rows, and scattered across the open ground between the fort and the river. The Clarts, reunited, were riding around the perimeter of the open ground—almost to the brambles, Paks noticed.

Paks wiped her sword on the dry grass of the meadow, but the blood on it had hardened. She started toward the river, limping slightly and noticing the limp before the pain that caused it. When she thought, she could recall a pike-butt slamming into her leg. Her ribs hurt, too. She pulled a handful of grass before stepping down the rocks to the water’s edge to dip it in the icy flow and scour her sword. She cupped a handful and drank. When she stood, the others were already stripping the enemy bodies and hauling them to a pile. Paks sheathed her sword and walked toward the gate. She could see the Duke’s horse just inside. Vossik yelled something at her, but she shook her head and pointed inside. She didn’t want to be part of that, not this time.

Inside the fort, no one had much to say. Vik was alive, hobbling toward her on bandaged legs. When they met, he hugged her fiercely.

“Was it you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Paks found her eyes filling with tears. She knew his next question.

“Saben? Canna?” She shook her head, tasting salt, unable to answer. She could not say she had left them, that no one knew where they were, if they were alive. Vik hugged her again. “At least you made it—I don’t know how. By all the gods, Paks, it did me good to look down and see you marching up from the bridge. We were sure you’d been killed in the woods. Pernoth—he’s one of the Halverics—thought he’d seen you three in the brambles just when the trouble started, but nothing after that. You’ll have some tales to tell, when we get the chance. But you’ll want to see who’s left, and the Duke told us to gather in the main courtyard.”

Together they limped across the outer court. Vik told her how many had been inside, and how many were left; about the two abortive attempts to break the siege and send word south. The Halverics, he said, had accepted Ferrault as commander after their captain was killed. Within minutes, the Phelani were armed, and together they withstood the shock of the Honeycat’s assault.

“It’s a good thing he had only scaling ladders, though,” said Vik. “They outnumbered us, but couldn’t get enough of them up the walls at once.”

“What about water?”

“It rained the day after they came. That helped; it got slippery down below. And it made his fire-arrows useless. And the next day—that’s when he pulled out. We were collecting it in everything we could find. Then several days later it rained again for a day and a half.”

As they came into the main court, Paks saw that almost everyone there was from her own cohort—perhaps twenty. She glanced at Vik. He nodded. As they came to speak to her, she realized that every one was bandaged somewhere.

“I hear you’re the hero of this tale,” said Rauf, a twenty-year veteran.

Paks blushed. “Not me. Canna and Saben—I’d never have made it without them.” He didn’t ask about them, but went on.

“But you did. Heh, you’ll be working up to sergeant at this rate. We’ll be calling you ’Lucky Paks,’ or ’Paks Longlegs.’” Rauf displayed his wide, gap-toothed grin. Paks could think of nothing to answer; she felt a great desire to fall down and sleep somewhere warm. Hands patted her back and shoulders as they all came together for a few moments.

“Paks!” It was the youngest squire’s shrill call. She looked and saw him beckon from the door to the keep. “The Duke wants you.” She pushed herself away from her friends, and limped stiffly toward the door. “Are you hurt?” asked the squire, frowning.

She shook her head. “No. Not bad, anyway. Just stiff.” The squire was younger than she had been when she left home. But he, if he survived his time, would be an officer—maybe a knight. She flicked an appraising glance at his thin face, still with the unformed curves of a boy despite its leanness. She felt much older than that. The squire reddened under that brief look; she wondered if he had expected her to answer with sir. Not for you, yet, she thought. Not for you yet awhile.

The room he led her to overlooked the courtyard; two narrow windows let in the cold afternoon light. Inside were the Duke, one of the surgeons, and a man on a narrow bed. Paks wrinkled her nose at the smell. The Duke looked up.

“Paks. Good. Come on in.” She stepped into the room. “Captain Ferrault would like to speak with you,” said the Duke formally. Paks had not recognized the captain. He was pale, his face gaunt, his usually mobile mouth fixed in a grimace. The Duke, Paks saw, held one slack hand. The surgeon bent over him, gently removing bandages with a pot of sharp-smelling liquid. Paks came to the head of the bed.

“Yes, sir,” she said to the Duke. She had seen enough to know that Ferrault was dying. She knelt beside the bed. “Captain—? It’s Paks, sir.”

For a moment he seemed to stare through her, then his eyes focussed. “Paks. You—did—well. To go. I told—the Duke.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry we weren’t faster, sir, for the rest of you.”

His head rolled in a slow shake. “No matter. Did enough. I hoped—” He broke off with a gasp. Paks saw his knuckles whiten on the Duke’s hand. She heard a curse from both the surgeon and the Duke.

“Sorry, my lord,” said the surgeon. “Sorry, captain. Just—one more—layer. There.” Paks saw sweat film the captain’s face. “Umm,” said the surgeon. Paks glanced down Ferrault’s body to the wound now exposed. No doubt where the stench came from; she swallowed hard to keep from retching. Ferrault’s face was grayer now, and wet.

“You—can’t do—anything,” whispered Ferrault. It was not a question.

The surgeon sighed. “Not to cure it, no. Not so late, with that—a pike, they said? Yes. It’s gone bad, but you knew that, with the fever. But I can—” He turned to rummage in his bag. “I can make you more comfortable. If you drink much, you’ll vomit, so—” He rose and came to the head of the bed. Paks moved back.

“Will it be—?”

“Long? No, Captain. And this should make it easier. No wine; it’ll taste bad, but drink it all.” The surgeon held a tiny flask to Ferrault’s lips as he swallowed. Then he stepped back and returned to the pile of bandages. He took a clean one, dipped it in the pot, and laid it gently over Ferrault’s wound, then gathered up the soiled bandages with his bag. “My lord, that dose should ease him for some hours. I’ll be back in time to give him another, or if you have need of me I’ll be with the others.”

“Very well, Master Simmitt, and thank you.” The surgeon left the room; the Duke turned back to Ferrault. “Captain—”

“My lord. Did I tell you—the seals—”

“Yes. You broke them.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. You did the right thing. Don’t worry.”

“But—my lord—I lost the cohort—and then the seals—and—”

“Shh. Ferrault, it’s all right. It’s not your fault. You did well—you’ve always done well. Your patron Gird will be pleased with you, when you come to him. I don’t know many captains who could have held off so many with a tiny mixed force.”

“But our losses—what will you do?”

“Do?” The Duke stared at the wall a moment, then smiled at Ferrault. “Ferrault, when I’m done with him, neither Siniava nor his friends nor his followers will have a hut to live in or a stone to mark where they died. I’m going to destroy him, Ferrault, for what he did to you and the Company. We’ve already destroyed the army he brought north this year, and that’s only the beginning.”

“Can you—do all that—my lord?”

“With help. Clart Company rode with us. Vladi sent a cohort of spears. I expect Aliam Halveric to arrive any day to avenge his son. So you take your rest, Ferrault, and tell Gird we’d be glad of a little assistance.”

Ferrault smiled faintly. His eyelids sagged as he whispered, “Yes, my lord.”

The Duke looked up at Paks, now leaning against the wall. “And you, Paks, know nothing of my plans, is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You may go. Send my captains to me, please, and see if you can find the Halveric sergeant; I want to speak to him.”

“Yes, my lord.” Paks tried not to limp as she left the room, but her leg had stiffened again.

“Are you hurt?” came the Duke’s voice behind her. She turned.

“No, sir, just bruised.”

“Well, see the surgeon after you’ve given my messages. Don’t forget.”

“No, sir, I won’t.” The same squire was standing outside the room; he scowled at her and went to the door as she started for the stairs. Paks ignored him. In the courtyard she asked Vik where the Halveric sergeant might be, and he jerked his head at a group of Halveric soldiers in one corner. Paks knew a few of the faces, but was not sure of the sergeant until he stepped forward.

“I’m Sunnot,” he said. “The sergeant. Were you looking for someone?”

“Yes,” said Paks. “The Duke asked me to find you; he’d like to speak to you.”

Sunnot grimaced. “I’ll bet he would. What a mess. Where is he?”

“Up those stairs, third room on the left.”

“Oh. He’s with the captain, then. How is he?” Paks shook her head. Sunnot sighed. “I thought maybe your surgeons could do something. Well—I hope your Duke’s not too angry—”

“He is, but not with you.”

“Umm. You’re the one who got through, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Paks turned away. “I’ve got to find the captains; go on up.”

“I will.”

Paks limped into the outer yard, looking for the captains, and found them busy. Pont was in the barracks where the wounded had been moved. Cracolnya was preparing the pyre of enemy bodies, and Dorrin was in the enemy camp, supervising the looting. Sejek was dead, of a crossbow bolt through one eye. When Paks had finally delivered her messages, she struggled back to the fort. Erial, one of Cracolnya’s sergeants, was waiting for her at the gate.

“You need to see the surgeon,” she said gruffly. “The Duke’s called assembly after we eat, and we want all you walking wounded there.” Paks did not argue. Between her leg and her ribs, she was not sure she was still walking wounded.

Master Visanior looked up as she came into the barracks. “You again. Though I told you to stay out of trouble.” Paks said nothing. How could she fight and stay out of trouble? “Hmmph,” the surgeon went on. “Stubborn as a fighter always is. Well, let’s see the damage.” She fumbled at the thongs fastening her greaves, and he helped draw them off, and the boot beneath. A large, hard, dark-blue swelling throbbed insistently. The surgeon poked it; Paks clenched her jaw. “Not broken, I don’t think, but it’s taken damage. What was it?”

“Pike butt.”

“And you’ve that broken rib, too. Anything else?”

“No—nothing like that, anyway.”

“Good. If this hasn’t damaged the bone, it’ll hurt for ten days or so, but it’ll heal. Try not to hit it again. Stay off it as much as you can—keep your leg up. I’ll tell the sergeants. Have you eaten yet?”

“No, sir.” Paks had not even thought of food, or mealtimes; now she wondered how late it was.

“Then you’ll stay here until you do. Just lie down over there—” he pointed. “Someone will bring you food.”

Paks thought of trying to leave, but the surgeon’s sharp eye was on her until she stretched out on a pallet. Her leg throbbed. She closed her eyes for a moment. Someone touched her shoulder and she jerked awake. Surely she hadn’t been asleep—but it was almost dark. Torches burned in the yard; lamps, in the stable itself. A private in black and white held a steaming bowl and mug toward her. She tried to gather her wits as she reached for them; he grinned and turned away.

The stew was hot and savory. Paks ate hungrily. As she finished, she saw the surgeon making his rounds of the wounded. She had not realized before how many there were. He came to her at last.

“You’re to stay down. I told the sergeants.”

“But the Duke—”

“Not until morning. He’s staying with Captain Ferrault for now. I’ll have someone help you clean up; then sleep. We don’t want a relapse.”

Paks thought she should argue to be allowed up, but she truly did not want to move. She was asleep within the hour.

When the Duke’s summons came the next morning, all who could walk or be moved assembled in the inner court. They formed into the original three cohorts, not near filling the space they would have crowded two weeks before. In Paks’s cohort, only twenty-two were left; all had been wounded. The other two cohorts mustered one hundred forty survivors of the two hundred eight they had had. Three of the six sergeants and four of the six corporals were dead or dying: all in Paks’s cohort, Juris and Kalek of Dorrin’s, and Saer of Cracolnya’s. And two captains were dead: Ferrault and Sejek. Paks slid her eyes from side to side, meeting other worried glances. How could the Duke go on after such a loss? His words to Ferrault seemed sheer bravado.

The Duke came out, trailed by his squires. He was bareheaded, the chill breeze ruffling his hair and lifting his cloak away from his mail. The captains greeted him. He smiled and nodded, then paced along the ranks, looking at each soldier as if it were any other inspection. At last he walked back to the front of the Company, and turned to face them. The silence had a life of its own.

“Sergeant Vossik.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Close the gates, please. We don’t want to be disturbed for awhile.”

“Yes, my lord.” Vossik beckoned to his remaining corporal, and they closed the courtyard gates, then stood in front of them.

The Duke raked the Company with his gaze. “You have all,” he began softly, so softly that Paks had to listen closely, “you have all won such glory in these few days that I have no words for it: you still alive, and our friends we have lost. You have defeated an army more than twice your size—not with clever tactics, but with hard and determined fighting. Each one of you has won this victory. I knew, companions, that you were the best company in Aarenis, but even I never knew, until now, how good you were.” His gesture evoked the two battles, the fort held against Siniava’s men, Paks’s journey. He nodded to them, and his voice warmed.

“Now you look from side to side and think how many friends are lost forever. Your ranks are thin. You know that no plunder can repay the losses we have taken. You want to avenge the treachery and the murders and the torture—and you wonder how.” A long pause.

“I’ll tell you,” he went on. “You and I are going to destroy the Honeycat, and his cities, and his allies, and everything else he claims. When we are through, his name will be spoken—not in fear or hatred, as now, but in contempt and ridicule. He thought he could gut this Company. He thought he could scare us, chase us away—” a low growl from the Company interrupted for a moment. The Duke raised his hand, and silence returned. “No. I know he was wrong. You know it. Nothing scares you, my friends; no southern scum can chase you away. And he has not come close to destroying us—but, companions, we are going to destroy him.” The Duke rocked back on his heels and surveyed each face again.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “We can do that, and we will. You already know other companies are with us: the Clarts, the Halverics, Vladi’s spears. More will join us. I pledge you, sword-brethren, that until this vengeance is complete, I will consider no other contract, and all I have will support this campaign.” The Duke drew his sword and raised it in salute to the Company. “To their memory,” he said. “To vengeance.” And the Company growled in response: vengeance.

When he sheathed the sword, he motioned to Dorrin. She came near. He seemed more relaxed. “You are all worthy of praise,” he began. “And we will raise the mound both here and on the battlefield near Rotengre for our fallen companions. Still, there are a few who deserve praise before the Company, for deeds uncommon even in this uncommon campaign. Captain—?”

Dorrin began. “My lord Duke, I have four soldiers to recognize. Simisi Kanasson, who held off three guards from the prisoners, though his horse had been cut down. Sim was wounded then, and again today when fighting the pikes. Kirwania Fastonsdotter, who led her file against the pikes both north of Rotengre and here, and accounted for eight dead by her own sword. Teriam Selfit, who rallied his squad after Kalek was killed, and prevented a breakout. Jostin Semmeth, who accounted for two of the mounted guard, was hit by a crossbow bolt, and went on to slay three bowmen and a pikeman before falling himself.”

“Come forward, then,” said the Duke. As they stepped out of line, he took from a casket held by one of the squires a ring for each of them. As they went back to their places, the Duke gestured to Cracolnya. He too had several soldiers to honor, and the ceremony proceeded. When the last of Cracolnya’s men had stepped back, the Duke turned to Paks’s cohort.

“You have no captain to speak for you,” he said. “Nor sergeants, nor corporals. Yet your deeds speak aloud without their aid. I cannot pick and choose among you; I will have made for each of you, from these spoils, a ring to commemorate your deeds. But those to whom you owe your lives, who brought me word of your peril: even among such honor, they deserve honor. Three started: Canna Arendts, Saben Kanasson, and Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. When they were attacked by brigands near Rotengre, only Paks was able to win free. We do not know the fate of the others; be assured that the search will continue until we know. But now—Paksenarrion, come forward.”

Paks felt herself blushing, and could hardly tear her eyes from the ground. She limped forward.

“Here is a ring,” he said, “that I think best represents your deed. Three strands, for the three who started together, braided into one: the one who succeeded, the message, for returning to the place you began. And imperishable gold, for loyalty.” Paks took the gold ring he held out, and stammered her thanks. This was not the way she had dreamed of winning glory, when she was still herding sheep. It felt indecent to be praised so, when her friends were captive or dead.

When the blood quit roaring in her ears, the Duke was still speaking to her cohort. “I want you to stay together,” he said. “You are still Arcolin’s cohort; you’ll remain so. When I bring the recruits down, you’ll be brought up to strength. In the meantime, until Valdaire, you’ll form a squad in Dorrin’s cohort. She will recommend temporary corporals. We will stay here until we raise the mound for our friends, when the Halveric arrives.” He turned to the captains. “You may dismiss your cohorts when you’re ready.”

“My lord.” The captains bowed. The Duke gave them all a last grim smile and returned to the keep. In a few minutes, the muster was over, and Paks had limped back to the stables with Vik. She spent me day doing such chores as she could manage without standing. Someone brought a pile of swords for her to clean and sharpen; she found her own, now notched, as she worked.

Sometime in the afternoon, they were startled by a horn cry from the gate tower. Paks stiffened, her hand clenched on the hilt of the sword she was cleaning. The fort erupted into action and noise. A squad of Clarts came boiling out of the inner court, their horses striking sparks off the stone paving. Through the open gate Paks could hear shouts from outside. These ceased, and she heard the drumming of a single galloping horse coming nearer. She glanced around the stableyard, then toward the inner gate. The Duke, armed and mounted, sat his horse in the space between the walls, his squires behind him.

The hoofbeats outside slowed, then halted. The Duke raised his hand. Into Paks’s view rode a mailed figure in Halveric green on a lathered chestnut horse. He pushed up his visor; Paks thought she recognized Aliam Halveric. He rode forward until his horse was beside the Duke’s and they were face to face. They clasped arms.

“I have much to say to you,” said the Duke.

“And I to you,” replied the Halveric.

“I fear we are crowded within,” said the Duke. “Though I would welcome you and your captains to the keep, we have many wounded and I have brought them all inside the walls.”

“We came prepared to camp,” said the Halveric. “For a long time, if need be. I am only sorry we missed the battle. I would be glad, however, to accept your generous offer of a roof for myself and my captains. Where would you prefer I place my company?”

Paks thought she saw a smile flicker across the Duke’s face. “Old friend,” he said, and the Halveric relaxed visibly. “I will answer what you are too courteous to ask. Your men within these walls are at your disposition, to stay or go as you direct. Between us now there can be no question of captives. Your men acted in all ways honorably and bravely. I would suggest you leave the wounded inside the walls. Now—will you see them first, or come with me?”

The Halveric spoke in a softer voice, and Paks could not hear. The Duke nodded, and beckoned a squire forward. The Halveric spoke to him, and he rode out the gate. The other squires dismounted, one taking all the horses, and the other holding the reins for the Duke and the Halveric to dismount. The two men stood talking while the horses were led away. In a short time Sunnot, the Halveric sergeant, came from the inner court and went down on one knee before the Halveric, who raised him up at once. Some command was given; Sunnot bowed slightly and turned away, leading the Halveric toward the barracks with the worst wounded. He was smiling, clearly relieved to have his own commander there at last.

When the great burial mound was finished, all the companies assembled there for a final leave-taking. The names of the fallen were called aloud one last time. Vladi’s spearmen sang “The Dance of Frostbreath” and tossed their spears over the mound. The Clarts performed a wild dance mimicking combat on horseback; the thunder of hooves, one of them had explained to Paks, would carry their fallen comrades to the endless fields of the afterworld, where horses never tire, nor riders fall. Aliam Halveric and his captains sang to his harper’s playing, the old “Fair Were the Towers Whose Stones Lie Scattered” that Paks had heard even in Three Firs—but instead of the name of the Prince and his nobles, they sang the names of the Halveric dead. Then the Duke signalled his piper, and a tune Paks had never heard before seemed to drag all the sorrow and anger out of her heart with its own bitterness. It was the “Ar hi Tammarion,” the lament written for the death of the Duke’s lady by the half-elven harper at the Court of Tsaia, and not since then played openly. Paks did not know the history of the song, but felt its power, as the rough wind dried tears she had shed without knowing it.

Their journey back to Rotengre passed quickly and uneventfully; five days after leaving the north they were back in position. The horses they had ridden had to be returned; most had been borrowed from one or another militia. Paks led half a dozen back to the horselines of Sorellin. Coming back, she was hailed by a burly sergeant. His voice was vaguely familiar.

“Hey! Duke’s sword! Aren’t you the one who came across the lines that night?”

Paks looked at him, not sure of his face. “Yes. Why?”

“By the sword, you look so much better I’d not have known you but for your size and yellow hair. Why? Because we’ve heard about you—and I’m sorry we gave you such trouble that night.”

Paks thought back to that black wet night and shivered, though it was daylight. “That’s all right.”

He sucked a tooth for a moment. “Well—I came close enough to tossing you in our guard cell. It was a lesson to me. Anyway, I’m glad you survived it all. I’m Sim, by the way—Sim Plarrist—and I’d be glad to stand you a tankard of ale—”

Paks shook her head. “Not until the city yields. May it be short—but until then we’re to stay strictly with our Company. But thank you.”

“No hard feelings, then?”

“No.” He waved her on, and Paks threaded her way to her own lines in the fading light. There, in another echo of the earlier event, was Barra on guard.

“Paks, the Duke wants to see you.”

“Do you know what about?” Her stomach clenched, expecting bad news.

“I think he’s heard about Saben and Canna.”

“Bad?”

Barra shrugged. “I don’t know anything. When I asked, I was told to mind my own business and see you got the Duke’s message. But if it was good news, I think we’d know.”

“I suppose.” Tears stung her eyes, and Barra’s face seemed to waver before her. Barra squeezed her arm, and Paks went on to the Duke’s tent.

The lamps inside were already lit, and a brazier warmed the room. The Duke moved to his work table; Paks glanced at it, and saw on its uncluttered surface a little red stone horse strung on a thong, and a Girdish medallion on a chain. She knew them at once, and felt the blood drain from her face.

“You recognize them.” Paks looked up to meet the Duke’s steady gaze. She nodded. “Paks, I’m sorry. I had hoped they would be found sooner. The surgeon says Saben had taken a hard blow to the head, and probably never woke up. He died soon after they were found. Canna was not badly wounded in the fight, but when the brigands realized their hideout had been found, they tried to kill all their prisoners before they fled. Though she was still alive when the militia got in, she died several days later, here in camp. She knew you had made it, and that we’d defeated Siniava’s army on the road and gone on north. The surgeon said she wanted you to have her medallion, and wanted you to know you did the right thing. She was glad you made it through; he said she died satisfied.” The Duke paused. Paks was trying to blink back tears, but she could feel them trickling down her face. “Paks, are you a Girdsman?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm. Girdsmen usually want their holy symbol returned to their home grange, with an account of their deeds. I wonder why Canna wanted you to have it, if you aren’t Girdish.”

Paks shook her head, unable to think why or answer. She had hoped so that they would be found alive, unlikely as it had been. Even now she could scarcely believe she would never see Saben again.

“Paks—you were Saben’s closest friend, as far as I know. Did he ever say what he wanted done with his things?”

Paks tried to remember. “No—sir. He had family, that he sent things to. But he—he—”

“He didn’t make plans. I see. We’ll be sending them word, and his pay, of course, and—do you think they’ll want his sword, or were they against his choice?”

“No, my lord; they favored it. He had five brothers at home, and six sisters. They were proud of him, he said; they’d be glad of the sword.”

“And this pendant—was that from his family?”

“No—my lord. It was—was—my gift, sir. It—it was a joke between us.”

“Then you should take it, for his memory, as well as Canna’s medallion.” The Duke scooped them up from his table and held them out. Paks stared at him helplessly.

“Sir, I—I cannot—”

“You must take Canna’s, at least; she wanted it so. And I think your friend Saben would be happy to know you have the other.”

Paks took them from his hand, and as her hand closed around them the reality of her loss stabbed her like a sword. She fumbled at the flap of her belt-pouch and pushed them in.

“Here,” said the Duke; when she looked up, he was offering a cup of wine. “Drink this. When you are calmer, you may go; I am joining the Halveric for dinner.” Paks took the cup, and the Duke caught up a fur-edged cloak from its hook and went out. The wine was sweet, and eased the roughness of her throat, but she could not finish it. After wiping her face on her sleeve, she returned to her own cohort. Vik knew already, she saw, and he told her that the Duke had released word as soon as he had told her himself.

“We miss them too,” said Vik fiercely, hugging her again. “But you, Paks—”

“We were so close,” she whispered, as tears ran down her face. “Only a few more miles, and they—” She could not go on. Arñe got up and put an arm around her shoulders; they all sat together a long time in silence.