Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Twenty-two

Siger, the Duke’s old armsmaster, had come south since, as he said, the Duke had left him nothing to do at home.

“You must be some quicker,” he greeted Paks. “Or by what I hear you wouldn’t be alive. Here—take these bandas for your recruits. Who’ve you got?” Paks told him. “Volya’s quick, but not strong enough yet,” he said. “Her shieldwork’s wretched. Keri forgets things. Keep after him. Jenits is the best of those—just needs practice and seasoning. Sim’s very strong, but slow. Not clumsy, exactly—just slow. I’ll check on you later.”

Paks collected her little group in one corner of a yard that grew more crowded every minute. With swords alone, they looked fairly good. Sim hung a fractional beat behind the count, but it hardly showed. She had them pick up shields. Now the drill grew ragged. Sim slowed more, and Keri kept shoving his shield too far to one side. Volya couldn’t seem to get hers high enough. Paks had them pair off, still working on the counted drill. With this stimulus, Volya improved her shieldwork, but Sim stayed slow. Keri made touches he should not have, and Sim failed to take advantage of Keri’s bad shieldwork. Jenits still looked good. Paks moved around them, watching carefully at every stroke, and talking herself hoarse. Finally she stopped them for a water break.

“I suppose,” she said, after a drink had restored her voice, “that Siger told you, Sim, that you are too slow?” He nodded. “And Volya—if your shield is down around your ankles, it won’t do any good, right?” Volya blushed. “And you, Jenits,” she went on. “You may be the best of this group, but you have a long way to go.”

“Siger said I was coming well,” said Jenits. Paks grinned. She’d hoped for a challenge; it would be a welcome change from talking.

“Well, let’s see. Maybe I was fooled by watching you with another recruit. The rest of you: don’t sit; you’ll stiffen in the cold.” Paks drew her sword, took Volya’s shield, and faced Jenits. He did not look as confident as the moment before. “Come on,” said Paks. “Get that shield up where it’ll do you some good. Now start at the beginning.”

Jenits began the drill cautiously, as if he thought his sword would break on contact. She countered the strokes easily, without any flourishes, murmuring the numbers as a reminder. He put more bite in the strokes, and Paks responded by stepping up the pace, and strengthening her own. She did not deviate from the drill, but in a few minutes Jenits was sweating and puffing, and she had tapped his banda half a dozen times. She stopped him.

“Jenits, you have the chance to be very good. But right now you’re about half as fast as you should be—and half as fit. Your speed will come with practice; the way we’re going to drill will take care of the fitness, too. Now walk around and catch your breath while I try the others.” Paks was pleased to see that Jenits no longer looked sulky, just thoughtful. She beckoned to Volya, handed back her shield, and took another. Volya was very quick, and her strokes were firm, but she could not keep her shield high enough.

“Is that arm just weak, or did something happen to it?”

“It was broken once, by a cow. I’ve tried to strengthen it.”

“You’ll have to do better. If you can’t keep that shield up, you won’t survive your first battle. What have you tried?”

“Siger suggested some exercises. I do those—when I remember them.”

“You’ll remember them,” said Paks grimly, “unless you like the idea of dying very young. Right now, while you’re resting, raise and lower your shield fifty times—and go this high—” She pushed the shield until it was as high as she wanted it. “Go on, now. Sim, come here.”

Sim, a ruddy young boy with a husky build, moved flat-footed. Paks pointed this out, and he tried to stand on his toes instead, moving even more stiffly and slowly. “No, Sim. Not standing on your toes. Just lift your heels a little. Did you ever skip?” She knew as she asked that he had never skipped in his life, and he shook his round head. “Let’s try again, then.” Sim had a powerful stroke, but so slow that Paks could easily hit twice for each of his. Nothing she said or did made him faster, and she gave up in a few minutes. At least he was strong and tireless.

Keri was the last, and his main problems were sloppy shieldwork and a very short memory. At least, he kept getting the sequence of drill wrong. Several times Paks had to pull her stroke to keep from hurting him badly; he moved exactly the wrong way. She led him through the tricky parts again and again, then turned him over to Jenits. “No variations,” she said. “He’s got to do this right first.” Paks returned to Volya and Sim, and had them pair up without shields. When they started, she began her own exercises while watching them. All around her she heard the clatter of blades and shields, the busy voices of instructors.

“What do you think of them, Paks?” It was Siger, buckling on a sword belt. “Planning to take my job?”

Paks grinned. “I didn’t know it was so hard to teach—my voice gave out. But they’re about what you said. Sim’s impossibly slow; he’s dead if he doesn’t improve.”

“True. Want to go a round?”

“Gladly,” said Paks. “Swords only, or shields?”

“Both. Clear your group and give us room.” Paks told her recruits to break, and they stepped away.

“Ready?” asked Siger.

Paks nodded. They began with the same drill the recruits knew, but they picked up the tempo smoothly, until it was much faster. Siger began hitting harder; Paks followed suit. Then Siger left the drill sequence, skipping in for a thrust, but Paks countered it, and drove him back. Paks circled, looking for an opening. She tried to force Siger’s shield, and took a smart blow on the shoulder. In the next exchange, she tapped his chest. They circled and reversed like a pair of dancers.

“You are quicker,” said Siger. “You’re doing well. But do you know this—” and with a peculiar stroke Paks had never seen he trapped her blade and flicked it away. Someone laughed. Their encounter had attracted more watchers than her recruits. Paks glared at Siger, who was bouncing toward her again. She had her dagger out now, and the watchers were very quiet. With good shieldwork and her long reach, she kept him from touching her, but she couldn’t reach him. She thought hard, catching stroke after stroke on her shield until she remembered something she’d seen a Blue Rider do. Suddenly she pivoted to his shield side, jammed the edge of her shield behind his, and threw her weight toward him. Siger staggered to the side, and her dagger stroke was square in the back of his banda.

“Ha!” he cried. “Enough! And where did you learn that little trick?”

Paks grinned at him. “Here and there, you might say.” She was breathless and glad for the rest.

“Here’s your sword, Paks,” said Rauf. She looked at the respectful faces around them and took the sword, checking it for damage. Siger drove the others away and came back, patting her arm.

“That was good. Very good. Show me slowly, please.” He stood in front of her, and Paks demonstrated the pivot again. She did not explain that she had seen it used on horseback, and had coaxed the Blue Rider to show her on foot.

“It works best if you have the reach of your opponent,” she said. “You have to get your shield up above his shoulder, and then as the pivot continues, you’ve got it here—” she locked the shields together, “—and your right hand is free for the backstroke. And it’s hard for him to strike over the shields.”

“Is there a counter?”

“Yes—it’s easy. Just step back; don’t follow the pivot. Thing is, it works best against someone who thinks he’s got more weapon. The start of the turn looks like a retreat; if he follows it, you’ve got him. But if he stays back, you can’t lock shields.”

“Very good. Very good. Come this afternoon and I’ll show you that little twist that cost you your blade. A favor for a favor.”

“Thank you,” said Paks. She turned to her recruits as Siger moved away. They looked at her with more awe than before.

“Do we have to be that fast?” asked Jenits.

“It helps,” said Paks. “Suppose your opponent is. You need every scrap of speed and strength you can build. I’m faster than I was, and I hope I’ll keep improving.”

“I’ll never do it,” said Sim. “I’m strong. I know I’m strong, and I thought that would be enough. I could beat up anyone in my village. But I never was fast.”

“You’ll get faster,” said Paks firmly. “When I was a recruit, Siger thumped my ribs and yelled ’faster, faster’ at me every day—and finally I got faster. You will too, unless your ribs are tougher than mine were.” They laughed, a little nervously.

From across the yard came a shout: “Hey—Saben. Come here.” Paks stiffened, her head swinging automatically to look before she caught herself. She felt tears sting her eyes, and blinked fiercely. Saben was a common enough name; she’d have to get used to it.

“Paks?” They all looked concerned. Volya went on. “Did you know him before? Saben, I mean?”

Paks shook her head, and took a deep steadying breath. “No. A different Saben—a good friend. We’d been together since we came in, and he was with me on—on the trip you heard about. But he died.”

“Oh.”

“Well, it happens. We’re soldiers, after all. It’s just—there wasn’t another Saben in the Company, so when I hear the name, I think—I’ll get used to it. I suppose. Now, let’s get back to work. Sim, you and Jenits this time, and Keri and Volya.” They started again and Paks kept after them until time for the midday meal.

Within a week, Paks lost Sim to Cracolnya’s cohort. She was glad; a slow archer might live longer than a slow swordsman. Less welcome was the change in cohort position resulting from the number of recruits. Normally, recruits were kept to the rear, except for a few who had showed promise. But Arcolin decided that they should be close to their veteran instructors, which meant that Paks ended up as file sixth. She understood the reasons, but didn’t like it even so.

There were other changes. Horse-faced Pont was now Arcolin’s junior captain, and Valichi took Font’s place with Cracolnya. The Duke had hired a captain to replace Sejek: Peska, a dark, dour man who had been a watch captain at court in Pargun. He spoke Common with a curious accent that Paks had never heard; she was glad her cohort had Pont instead, though Barra had no complaints about him.

This year Paks could not ask Donag for advance information—and no one in the cohort seemed to know what the Duke planned, except trouble for Siniava. When they marched out of Valdaire on the southern road, the one to Czardas that Paks remembered, she expected to see Halverics—but instead they met the Golden Company a few miles from the city. Aesil M’dierra, mounted on a chestnut horse and armored in gold-washed mail, rode beside the Duke; her company fell in behind. Paks eyed her: the only woman in Aarenis to command her own mercenary company. What would that be like? What could she be like?

But the next day they turned aside, through Baron Kodaly’s lands, and Golden Company stayed on the road south. Through a steady rain they marched easily, guided by a wiry dark man who had come with the Baron. Paks thought he looked like a juggler, but Stammel laughed when she said it.

“Juggler! Tir, no. I’ll admit the jugglers you see in Valdaire are his subjects, more than likely. That’s one of the woods tribes—their king, or prince, or whatever.”

“But why—?”

Stammel shrugged. “I don’t know. They have a lot of power in the forests of Aarenis, I’ve heard. The Duke’s always made friends with them. Maybe he wants safe passage through some forest.”

Whatever he was, he led them by ways that avoided all hazards of bog and mud. Three days later he was gone, but they marched easily beside a larger stream with a village in sight.

They were met, in the fields above the village, by an old man in a long robe and a fat man in helmet and breastplate commanding ten unarmored youths with scythes and pikes. Paks could not hear what the Duke said to them, but the youths suddenly trailed their weapons in the mud and turned away. The village had a cobbled square, and a group of taller buildings around it. Paks looked for an inn, hoping for ale. She saw a battered sign with a picture of a tower by a river; the sign read Inzing Paksnor. The inn yard was large, but part of the building had been torn down to build a stable. They marched through, to camp on the far side where one stream joined another.

Across the stream was a rising slope of farmland, and on the southern horizon a long stony escarpment running roughly west to east. It reminded Paks of the high moors behind Three Firs, and looked like nothing else she had seen in the south.

“That’s the Middle Marches,” said Devlin to a curious recruit. “Once you’re up on those heights, it’s sheepfarming land. And downstream maybe a day’s march from here is Ifoss.”

“Who claims the Middle Marches?” asked someone else.

“Whoever can.” Devlin turned to look at the fire. “There’s petty barons enough, near the river—like Kodaly. Ifoss claims some of it. More barons downstream until Vonja. Up on the high ground it’s hard to say. There was a Count Somebody, when I first came south, but he died. I heard he left no heir of the body—a nephew or something in Pliuni. The Honeycat tries to claim it, as he claims everything else. I think—I think when he took Pliuni, he captured the nephew, or married him to a daughter or niece. Or maybe that was another place.”

“What’s beyond it?” asked Paks.

“Straight south?” She nodded. “Well, Andressat. That’s ruled by a count, if I remember. An old family, anyway, and very powerful. I think the Duke hired to Andressat once, before I joined. They’ve got only one city: Cortes Andres. They say its inner fortifications have never been broken.”

“Does the Honeycat control Andressat?”

“Tir, no! The count—Jeddrin, I think his name is—he hates him. Then south of Andressat are the South Marches. The Honeycat claims that, and for all I know he may have a right to it. He also claims the cities along the Chaloquay, and the Horn Bay ports on the Immerhoft. That’s Sibili and Cha, on the river, and Confaer, Korran, and Sul, on the coast.”

“How did he ever claim Pliuni?” asked Paks.

“Just took it. Waited until the Sier of Westland was fighting up in the western mountains, and marched up and took it. Pliuni was a free city, but had always looked to the Sier for protection.”

“What about the rest of the port cities?” asked Arñe.

“I don’t know. I’ve heard the names, but I don’t know exactly where they are or who controls them. Seafang, that’s a pirate city, and Immerdzan, at the mouth of the Immer. Let’s see: Zith, Aliuna, Sur-vret, Anzal, and Immer-something. No, Ka-Immer. Some are pirate cities, and some are legitimate traders—so they say.”

Ifoss, when they came to it the next day, seemed small and dingy after Valdaire. A walled city of no more than eight or nine thousand, surrounded by plowland and orchards, it was bleak in winter. They camped outside the city on a long field sloping to the river, and wagons rolled out with provisions. With the wagons came Guildmasters to confer with the Duke; recruits and veterans alike gaped at their distinctive dress, the short-pointed, fur-edged hats, long pointed sleeves, and oddly cut jackets trimmed in elaborate braid.

They stayed at Ifoss several days. On the second night, Paks took advantage of her seniority to enter the city. Stammel had told them of a good new inn near the east gate, The Laughing Fox, so they ignored The Falcon, The Golden Ladder, and The Juggler to work their way across town to Stammel’s choice.

It was new, clean, and the landlord seemed friendly. The ale was good, too, and not expensive. Paks ordered a fried fruit pie, and Vik decided on a slab of spicebread; soon they were enjoying an impromptu party. When Paks decided to leave, two of the group weren’t ready to come and stayed behind—“just to finish the jug,” they said.

“Don’t come back too late,” teased Vik, “and expect us to take your slot on guard, because I’m going to get my beauty sleep.”

“Beauty sleep, or sleep with a beauty?” asked a townsman at the next table, emboldened by his flask of wine as he eyed Paks.

“Sleep,” replied Vik cheerfully. “She’s on guard before I am.” Which was not true, but made a good exit. Paks had already turned away, trusting Vik to find a good answer. He always did, with everyone. They got back to camp shortly before the watch change; Stammel was not pleased to find that two had stayed behind.

“Do you think they’ll be back on time, or had I better go roust ’em out?”

“Sif’s not on until late watch,” said Paks. “He’s got a strong head, and I don’t think he’ll be late. I don’t know Tarn that well—he’s Dorrin’s—but surely Sif will keep an eye on him.”

“I hope. It seems a clean enough place, but it is on the far side of town. If they’re not back by midwatch, let me know; I’ll want to find ’em.”

The guard assignment had Paks partnered with Jenits; they had a short stretch on the east side of camp, from the horse lines to the entrance. It was nearly midwatch when she heard a wavering song from the lane that led to Ifoss. As the noise came closer, she could hear two voices. The guards at the camp entrance snickered. Paks hoped it was Sif and Tarn, but they did sound drunk.

“Like the bee-e-e, so swift to anger… but her honey’s… rich and swee-eet—” one of the two stopped to cough, then picked up the song again. “I don’t fe-ear her painful stinger… but the honey-y… I will—”

“Quiet, there!” Dorrin, the watch captain, had heard the noise. Paks heard a hiccup and indistinct mutters from the pair. “Come up to the light,” said Dorrin, “and give the password.” Paks saw two shadowy figures approach the torches at the camp entrance, and heard them stumble over the password.

“You’re a disgrace,” snapped Dorrin. “Veterans who don’t know their limit—why do you think we didn’t let the others into town, eh? This is no campaign for getting drunk and blabbing in taverns. And what happened to your cloak, Tarn?” Paks could not hear the answer, if he made any. Dorrin cleared her throat and spat. “Your sergeants will see to you,” she said. “Wait here.” She strode off.

“Is it that bad to get drunk?” asked Jenits softly. “I used to—”

“It depends,” said Paks. They turned back toward the horse lines. “Anything you say in a tavern will travel—if you get drunk and talk about the Company, where we’re marching, or when—that’s bad.”

“I see,” said Jenits.

“And then if you’re drunk,” said Paks, “you’re more likely to be taken by slavers, or attacked by thieves. Or if it makes you mean, you might brawl, and that makes trouble for the Company. Of course if it’s a cohort or Company banquet, that’s different.”

Next day Paks saw Sif grooming mules under the sarcastic guidance of the muleskinner. She was sure that Dorrin’s sergeant had found something equally unpleasant for Tarn.

When they left Ifoss, they angled across pastures toward the Middle Marches. By nightfall they were camped under the ridge. Sheep trails led up it. The next day they spent climbing, winding back and forth along the face of the slope. To the north their view broadened: they could see Ifoss with its wall, and downstream another wall and tower that Stammel said was Foss Fort. A cold wind scoured the height. They passed outcrops of gray stone splashed with orange and brown lichens. The outcrops grew rougher, formed into long lines like low walls. They passed through a gap in one, shoulder high on either side; it ran along the slope as far as Paks could see. Above it, the rocks disappeared once more under thick turf, still winter-tawny. The slope eased. They camped that night near that natural stone wall.

They reached the broad top of the ridge in less than an hour of marching the next morning. Paks looked at the vast and empty land to the south. The great ridge seemed to fall slightly to the southwest, cleft here and there by steep watercourses furred with trees. The sky arched blue and nearly cloudless; they could see for miles—could see, for instance, a galloping horseman far ahead. None of the officers seemed concerned, so Paks thought it must be one of their own messengers.

Although they crossed many winding sheep trails, they saw neither sheep nor shepherds. Paks realized that they were more visible than a flock of stone-gray sheep—of course any shepherd would move out of their path. That afternoon they camped where a pool had formed below several springs; a small clear stream ran away from the low end of the pool and dropped into a narrow cleft in the rock.

It was just after lunch on the next day when Paks heard horns blowing in the south; the sound trembled in the still air. She peered south, trying to see something. Far down the slope was a knot of horsemen, but the horn calls had come from farther away than that. The thunder of hooves began to shake the ground. Stammel called them into fighting formation; other sergeants were yelling. They unslung shields, and drew their swords. Paks watched her recruits. Volya looked pale, but eager. Keri was frowning, and waggling his blade a little as if reminding himself of the drill. The back of Jenits’s neck had reddened. She eased her own shoulders and took a deep breath as the riders neared. They wore brown and gray tunics, oddly loose and flapping, and carried lances with no decoration.

The leading horses slowed, and the foremost rider hailed the Duke. Arcolin rode forward with him. Once more, Paks could not hear what was said. She looked at her recruits again; they were too stiff.

“Easy,” she said. “Breathe slowly.” Keri’s eyes slid toward hers, and he drew a shaky breath. Arcolin turned to the column and signalled the sergeants.

“Sheathe your blades,” said Stammel; Paks eased her sword back in place. Some of the recruits were so tense it took them two tries. They waited. Paks glanced down and saw a fresh green blade poking up through the mat of frost-burned turf. Ahead, almost under Jenits’s left foot, was a flat rosette of leaves with two tiny white flowers on top. Almost spring, thought Paks. She looked around for other flowers, but saw none. The riders were turning their horses away. The captains came back to their commands, but the Duke and his squires moved up beside the leading rider.

“We’ve a fast march to make,” said Arcolin, “with a fight at the end of it. Take a drink now, and re-sling your shields but be ready to shift position at any time.” No one had much to say as they started south again at a faster pace. An arc of riders went before them, and others rode on their flanks. Paks looked hard at the drab tunics; when one rider bent to untwist a rein, she caught a glimpse of rose through the loose sleeve. So. They were Clarts after all.

As they went they heard horns again: deep and high, long note and sharp staccato signals. It was hard to keep the pace even; the horns and the steepening downhill slope pulled them forward, ever faster. Paks could see, now, that they were coming to a broad saddle between the high ground behind them and a similar rise ahead. To left and right the land fell steeply into deep gorges. Beyond the saddle, shining in the late afternoon sun, rose a tower; around it writhed a dark mass that Paks realized must be an army. They marched on; Paks wondered if they would make that distance by dark. And whose side were they on?

As they started across the saddle, more drab-clad riders came up from the broken ground to either side. The slope rose under their feet toward the tower. Paks could not see, now, for the riders ahead, but the crash and roar of battle came clearly. Rising excitement swamped the fatigue of the day’s march. The riders pulled their baggy tunics over their heads, and Clart Cavalry rose and white glowed in the slanting sun.

Arcolin leaned to speak to Stammel. He nodded, turning to the cohort. “Shields,” he said; Paks took her own shield, and made sure her recruits had theirs secure. They drew swords. As they advanced, shifting from marching column to battle order, Cracolnya’s cohort moved off to their right flank.

“Slow advance—keep in line, there!” yelled Stammel. Paks heard the Clarts yipping as they spurred to the attack. Dust rose in clouds. A great yell from before them; more horn signals. The Duke appeared out of the dust to ride beside them. His squires clustered around him; Paks wondered if they could see any better from the saddle.

The Duke pointed ahead; one of the squires took off at a gallop. Arcolin jogged up from the rear of the cohort, and rode beside the Duke. Paks could hear nothing but battle sounds. Arcolin dropped back, and in a few moments Dorrin’s cohort came alongside on their left. Paks saw the Duke’s head turn. She looked ahead. Through the swirling dust she could see struggling figures—even the colors. Green, there—black and yellow—and more green. The tower loomed higher as they neared, its parapet above the dust, and Paks saw blue-clad archers.

The Duke put a light hunting horn to his lips and blew a rapid five-note signal. At once it was answered by a call that Paks recognized as Halveric; the battle surged toward them as the green-clad soldiers retreated. Their opponents roared in triumph—a sound that stopped abruptly as they saw behind the fleeing Halverics the solid ranks of Phelani. Another horn-call, and the Halverics slipped left. The enemy fighters crashed into the Phelan’s lines. Arcolin’s cohort, nearly in the center of the arc formed by Clarts, Phelani, and Halverics, took the brunt of that charge. Paks had no time for a last encouraging word to her recruits; she was tightly engaged.

Despite the hours of practice, Paks found the curved blade strokes of the enemy hard to counter. She took several minor cuts before killing her first opponent, and was just in time to help Keri with the one who had shattered his shield. She fought on, trying to keep an eye on her recruits when she could. The cohort had nearly halted under the enemy rush, but they had not faltered, and the front ranks still held a good line.

“Arcolin’s cohort! Drive ’em!” It was the Duke’s voice, from behind them; the cohort surged forward, flattening the arc as they came. The enemy softened, rolling left away from their pressure. Still the fighting raged; Paks had no time to wonder how the battle was going. Jenits went down in front of her; she lunged across him to strike the enemy who was about to kill him. Jenits screamed as she stepped on his arm; she shifted a pace and hoped someone would get him away safely. His attacker fought wildly; she finally dropped him with a thrust to the neck. She spared a glance for Jenits and didn’t see him. Good, she thought, and thrust at the oncoming soldiers.

The enemy in front melted away, though by the noise the left flank was busy enough. Paks looked around and spotted Volya and Keri. Volya was bleeding from a bad slash to her right arm; Keri’s shield had fallen apart, though he still clutched the grip.

“Keri! Pick up a good shield—drop that—” He looked at her in surprise, then at his arm; she watched until he stripped off the broken one and picked up an enemy shield nearby. “Volya, get that wound tied up—drop back—one of the sergeants will tell you where to go.” Other wounded were shifting to the rear, and those still sound drew together.

Paks looked for Arcolin or the Duke; she spotted Arcolin on their left front. Stammel was with him. Arcolin waved a signal to Cracolnya, who sent his cohort forward. The Clarts, having rearmed, rode up on the far right, and the right wing wheeled, compressing the enemy against Dorrin’s cohort and the Halverics. Paks still could not tell how many they faced. They fought on; the enemy lines, though wavering, hardly seemed to diminish. The sun edged down; as light faded out of the sky, the enemy made one more frantic attempt to break through. Favored by the downward slope, they penetrated between the Halverics and Dorrin’s cohort, pouring away downhill in the darkness. Paks heard curses from the Clarts, who spurred after them recklessly. Paks hoped the Duke would not command a foot pursuit. She was suddenly almost too tired to move.

Arcolin rode back to them, talking to a Clart captain. Then he turned to Stammel. “Take them to the enemy camp; the Clarts hold it. Set up a strong perimeter. I think Dorrin’s cohort is pursuing, but some of them may circle back. I’ll be near the tower entrance if you need me.” He rode toward the tower; light spilled from its narrow windows. Paks wondered who held it.

The enemy camp was full of supplies. The Clarts had overridden some of the tents, but most were still standing. Cattle roasted over a long trenchfire. Paks’s mouth watered. She and the other veterans stood guard while uninjured recruits helped the surgeons and set up camp. She wished she knew how her recruits were, and her friends. She had seen Vik and Arñe only at a distance.

It seemed long before Stammel returned to the perimeter. Paks cleaned her sword and sheathed it, then slipped off her shield and stretched. Her shoulders were stiff where the pack straps had dug in; she hadn’t fought in a pack except in drill. Reluctantly she picked up the shield, yawning. Now she could feel every cut and bruise. The wind blew the smell of roasting meat past her nose, and her stomach knotted. At last a recruit came, grease still streaking his chin, to relieve her post. Stammel met her as she turned away.

“Here.” He handed her a slab of beef on a split loaf. “I meant to get to you earlier. You’ll want to see Jenits; his arm’s broken. Volya needed stitching, but she’s up and around. Keri’s fine; hardly scratched.” Paks mumbled her thanks past a mouthful of food.

“Whose tower?” she asked, after swallowing a huge lump of beef.

“Andressat’s. Their colors are blue and gold. You’ll see tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t they come out? I thought they hated Siniava.”

“They do. But they’ve only got forty or fifty in there. They don’t want to lose the tower to anyone: not even us.”

Paks nodded as she ate, and walked on to the surgeons’ tent. It had evidently belonged to an enemy officer; it was large and divided by yellow hanging panels into several rooms. Jenits lay on a straw pallet with his shoulders propped up on a frame, his left arm bound in splints. Volya sat beside him with a flask; they both looked pale, but well enough.

“Have you had any food yet?” asked Paks. They both nodded. “Good. I’ll finish my supper.” She squatted beside Jenits. “Did they give you numbwine?”

“Yes—they did.” His voice was slightly blurred.

“I’m sorry I stepped on you,” said Paks. “But that—”

“That’s all right. It was—broken already. That’s why—I fell.”

“It’s a good thing it was your shield arm,” said Paks. “You won’t be fighting for weeks, but it won’t be as hard to retrain. You did well, Jenits. I suppose Stammel told you that—”

“Yes. But I—I forgot which strokes, after awhile—and it was so fast—”

“I forgot too, in my first battle; that’s when I got the big scar on my leg. As Stammel said to me, we’ll just drill you more until you can’t forget.” Jenits managed a shaky grin. Paks turned to Volya. “Volya, you did well too. What I could see of your shieldwork was much better. Now—did the surgeons tell you to stay with Jenits?”

“Yes. They said give him more numbwine if he needed it.”

“I can do that, and let you get some sleep. We’ll all be pulling watch tonight, and fighting again tomorrow, I expect.”

“Oh, I couldn’t sleep. I’m still too excited.” Volya’s eyes were very bright.

Paks sighed. “Volya, you’re tired, whether you know it or not. Go roll up in your cloak, and if you aren’t asleep in a half glass, you can come back and take over for me.” Volya got up reluctantly, and handed Paks the flask of numbwine. “And don’t start talking to anyone; that will keep you awake.” Volya nodded and went out. The surgeon came through from another part of the tent and looked at Paks.

“Is that your blood, or theirs?”

Paks looked at her arm. “Both, I think. Nothing serious, though.”

“But you’ve been on guard, and haven’t had time to clean them. I know the story. Let me see.” With painful thoroughness the surgeon scrubbed the various cuts she’d taken, grumbling the while. “If I could just convince you heroes that cleaning these things out does as much good—no, more good—than a healing spell. It’s cheap. It’s easy. They don’t fester and give you fever if they’re clean—”

“Ouch!” said Paks, as the cleaning solution stung in a slice across her hand.

“Hold still. I have to see if that got into the joint—no—lucky. Maybe we need thicker gloves.”

“I didn’t have mine on,” muttered Paks. The surgeon snorted and went on.

“Are you sure you aren’t hiding something else?” he asked when he had finished wrapping bandages around her hand.

“Nothing else.” She looked down and found that Jenits had followed the whole proceeding with interest. So had others in the room.

“Are you staying with him?” asked the surgeon.

“Do you need me to? I can.”

“Yes. Please. We’ve got Clart and Halveric wounded coming in, and there’ll be more later. You can give him enough numbwine to make him sleep. Three or four swallows more should do it. Same for the others—call if anything goes wrong.” The surgeon passed on to the next room, and Paks lifted Jenits’s head so he could drink more easily. In a few minutes, he was snoring. She glanced around at the others; they all seemed to be dozing. Paks propped the flask nearby and took off her pack to get her cloak. She wrapped it around her shoulders. From the other end of the tent came a sudden flurry that subsided after a few minutes.

When she opened her eyes next, she was stiff as a board and the surgeon was laughing at her in the lamplight. “Some watcher,” he said. “If you were going to sleep, you should have found a pallet and stretched out.”

Paks yawned and tried to focus her eyes. “I didn’t know I was going to sleep. Sorry.” She looked at Jenits, but he slept peacefully.

“No sign of fever,” said the surgeon. “This time get comfortable before you go back to sleep.”

Paks pushed herself up, shaking her head. “I won’t sleep. What watch is it, anyway?”

“Don’t worry. Stammel came by to tell you he wouldn’t need you—”

“And found me asleep.” Paks blushed.

“Well,” said the surgeon, “he didn’t wake you, and told me to let you sleep till dawn. That’s another four hours.”

Paks yawned again. “It’s tempting—” The surgeon turned away. Three years’ experience told her to take sleep when she could find it—but now she was awake, and curiosity kept her so. With a last look at Jenits, she left the tent and headed for the area assigned to her cohort.

Kefer was snoring by the watchfire, but roused when she spoke to the sentry. He confirmed what the surgeon had said, and told her to get what sleep she could.

“We’ll march tomorrow, and if we catch them, we’ll fight.” Kefer yawned. “Clarts got many of ’em, but six hundred or so are loose.”

Paks held her hands to the fire; the night was cold after the surgeons’ tent. “Stammel said our losses weren’t bad—?”

“No—not in our cohort. Three returned veterans. One recruit. Dorrin’s was harder hit—but still not bad, considering. Go on, Paks, get some sleep.” He pointed to a nearby tent; Paks edged in, found an empty space, and slept until day.

Despite Kefer’s prediction, they did not march the next day; instead they dismantled the enemy camp. Several squads went to the battlefield, returning with salvageable weapons and armor. Others cleared the camp itself of supplies: bags of grain and beans, great jars of wine and barrels of ale. One tent held all the gear for a smith’s shop: anvils, hammers, tongs, bellows, and bars and disks of rough iron.

Most of this they carried into the storage cellars of the tower, each load tallied by a scribe from each company. Siger and Hofrin chose weapons to replace those damaged, and reserve supplies to take along. The enemy’s mules were distributed to each company too, along with the feed for them.

From the talk she heard while working, Paks gathered that Siniava’s army had come from the west. Before reaching this tower, they had taken those along the western border, and these were now garrisoned by Siniava’s troops. But a survivor had escaped to warn the commander of the north watch, the Count of Andressat’s son-in-law; when the enemy force arrived, it found the tower sealed and well defended. Clart scouts, riding ahead of the Halverics, had discovered the siege in progress, and the Halverics attacked the besiegers. Though heavily outnumbered, they had held the enemy close under the tower walls, where the Andressat archery could do its worst, until the rest of the Clarts and the Phelani arrived in force.

“They should have got out of here,” said a Halveric corporal as he and Paks dragged sacks of grain across the tower court. “Only they thought they could break us and get rid of us—the fools—and we kept ’em busy enough they didn’t think of anyone else.”

“You had a rough time, then,” said Paks.

“Oh—we fight close order, same as you. We just drew in and let ’em pound. We knew you was comin’. And we had some Clarts, to mess ’em about on the flanks.”

“It’s too bad they broke loose,” muttered a Halveric private. “After what they did last year—”

“Too many of ’em,” said the corporal. “We mauled ’em enough, they’ll be wary of us awhile. Besides, let ’em go tell their master they were beat again. Enough times running away like that, and they won’t be good for anything—nor the ones they tell the story to, neither.”

By that night, the enemy camp was dismantled. Everything else was piled and burned, a great fire that leapt into the dark and told everyone for miles around that the enemy’s camp was gone. Paks had a share marked to her in the account books. Her recruits were recruits no longer; they had all been promoted.

When they marched the next morning, Paks found herself moved up in the column; she was sorry about those whose death and injuries gave her the place, but she liked seeing ahead. All along the way she saw evidence of the enemy’s flight: broken weapons, blood-stained clothing and armor, and bodies. Not all had been killed by Clarts or Halverics, as the wounds showed.

By midafternoon they reached the next tower to the west. A black and yellow banner flew from its peak, and a hail of arrows met them when they ventured closer. Their assault failed, and the two companies camped around the walls. The Clarts had ridden afar ahead, to scout the tower beyond, and returned with the news that it too was held by an enemy force.

At dawn the next day, Paks saw about fifty black-clad fighters come over the wall, barely visible in the dim light. She yelled an alarm and darted forward; an arrow glanced off her helmet. The archers were awake in the tower. She threw up her shield and plunged on with the rest of the sentries, as the camp came awake behind her. For a few desperate minutes, the sentries were outnumbered and hard pressed.

Simultaneously, enemy troops tried a sally from the south entrance, where the Halverics were just taking their positions for an assault. In minutes a howling mass of fighters swayed back and forth in front of the gate. More and more of Siniava’s troops poured out, as Paks heard later from one of the Halveric soldiers.

“We had to give back; they had us outnumbered, but then your Duke brought two of your cohorts around, and it was stand and stick. That went on all morning, near enough. They couldn’t break out, and we couldn’t get in. Then they backed in a step at a time, and got that portcullis down—I’ll say this for Andressat: they know how to build a fort.”

Paks had been on the fringe of that battle, as one of the sentry ring on the other side. She met Barranyi in the cook tent.

“I’ll tell you what, Paks,” said Barra. “He’s no fool, their captain. They came near breaking through more than once, and if they pick the right time, they might yet.”

Paks mopped up the last of her beans with a crust of bread. “Not with the Halveric and the Duke. He won’t surprise them. What I wonder about is how many more there are—at the next tower, and the next. We can hold these—but more?”

“Andressat has troops somewhere—”

“What—sixty or so in the first tower, and maybe as many in the next one or two? And they won’t leave the towers unguarded.”

“No, more than that. I heard Dorrin say something to Val about it this morning. Troops on the way, she said, and could be here this afternoon or tomorrow.”

“I’ll believe that, Barra, when I see it. Did you hear whether the Honeycat was in there?” she cocked her head at the tower.

“No. They all say not. And I haven’t seen the banner his bodyguard carried last fall.”

“I hope we don’t waste too much time here, then. I wonder where that scum is.”

“And what troops he has. All we can do is hope the Clarts don’t miss anything.”

“If he’s clear off east—back toward Sorellin or those other cities—we could wander around here all season and never catch him.”

Barra shrugged. “That’s the Duke’s business. Not yours.” Paks stood up, and Barra eyed her. “Are you upset about anything in particular? More than Canna and Saben?”

“That, and—Barra, you know what he did to some of the prisoners last year—?” Barra nodded. “We found a set of tools in one of the tents. I just want to be sure we do kill him.”

“But his army’d still be—”

Paks shook her head. “No, I don’t think they’ll be the same, even if there’s much army left. I think it’s his doing.”

“Maybe.” Barra turned to greet Natzlin, coming from the serving line, and Paks waved and went back to her station.

The rest of that day the two forces did not change their positions. The Andressat troops arrived midmorning the next day. Paks thought they looked much more professional than the city militia she’d seen. They numbered just over a thousand, organized into four cohorts, each with two hundred foot and fifty horse. Paks watched as the Duke and the Halveric rode out to meet them. The Andressat troops moved into siege positions, and the mercenaries withdrew a space.

“I heard we march in the morning,” said Vik, as he and Paks lugged tent poles from one camp to another.

“I hope so,” said Paks. “That group can handle the tower without us.”

“They do look good,” conceded Vik. “But why d’you suppose they make their cohorts so big? They can’t be as flexible.”

“Huh. If we had that many men, we might find four units easier to move than—” Paks wrinkled her brows, trying to think how many it would be.

“Ten,” said Vik smugly. “I wish we had—then nobody could stand against us.”

“Nobody’s going to.” Paks grunted as they heaved the poles up in their new holes. “I hope we don’t have to raise all the tents for only one night.”

“I don’t think so.” Vik rubbed his sunburnt nose. “I’d like to know how many troops Siniava has—altogether.”

“Not enough to stop us,” said Paks grimly.

“I hope not. But look, Paks—if he could send eight hundred or a thousand up here—and he’s not with them—he must have another army someplace. And his cities garrisoned. He could have a much bigger army than the Duke’s put together.”

“That’s true.” Paks frowned. “Well—if it is—”

“We’ll do like the man with the barrel of ale,” said Vik with a grin.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell me you never heard that! It’s old, Paks.”

“I never did. Tell me.”

“Well, there was a man famous for what he could down at one swallow. At a market fair, he won lots of free ale by betting that he could drink this jug or that, or a skin of wine, at one draught. Soon he was famous for miles around, and no one would bet. Then he went on a journey with a brother of his, and they stopped at an inn. His brother started bragging on what he could do, and the long and short of it is that the innkeeper asked him to wager. Well, he looked around the room, and saw no pot or jug he couldn’t drain. He agreed to take but one swallow to empty any alepot in the room, or give up all his silver.

“But the innkeeper had his own tricks, and pulled aside a curtain by the bar, and there was a barrel half full of ale. Of course the man said it was no pot, but the others around said it was, and there were more of them, and they were armed.

“The man knew he was trapped, and he was angry besides. So he walked over and tried to lift it, and of course it was too heavy. The innkeeper told him to kneel down and drink from the bunghole—actually he said worse than that—laughing all the while, and the man was so angry he could nearly fly. So: No, he said, and I drink my ale standing, as any man may, he said, and he rammed a hole in the bottom and let the ale run out until he could lift it and drink the rest—in one swallow. His brother held the innkeeper off in the meantime with a sword off the wall. And when he had finished, he said: A pot’s what you can lift in your hand, innkeeper, and any fool who can’t tell a pot from a barrel might sell a barrel of ale for the price of a pot. Then the townsmen laughed, and not just because of his strong arm, and made the innkeeper pay up. And he and his brother made their way on the road alive and no poorer. So now, where I grew up, if anyone takes on too much, we say he must be like the man with the barrel of ale: cut the trouble down to his size before swallowing it.”

Paks nodded, laughing, and Vik went on. “This is letting some of the ale out of Siniava’s barrel—he lost more than six hundred men last fall, and he’ll lose these, and the rest in Andressat—say eight hundred or more. You can’t pull that many well-trained troops out of a hat, you know. However many he’s got, this will hurt.”

“I hope so,” said Paks.