Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Thirty

Early the next morning they were marching again. All around the rich farmland showed scars of war: fields unsown, orchards hacked and burned, bloated corpses of cattle and sheep. Now and again they saw little bands of ragged peasants who fled into the woods and hedges at their approach. On the third day of the march, the Duke turned sharp south, and told them why.

“Our scouts report that Siniava’s holed up in a ruined city between Koury and Immervale on the river. They’ve seen his personal banner and troops in his colors. The Sorellin militia should be coming south to meet us. I’m telling them to come ahead. We’ll assault if we can, or siege until they arrive—but I don’t want to let him get loose again.”

By afternoon of the next day, they could see the old city. From a distance it looked more like a low hill of broken stone than a fortification, but as they drew closer, they saw that the city wall still held its shape around most of the mound. Where it had been breached, fresh piles of earth and brush blocked entry. Above the highest half-crumbled tower Siniava’s banner waved in the afternoon sun. Paks could not see any sentries; she had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing.

While the commanders positioned their companies on the north and west of the ruins, archers tried to ignite the brush with fire arrows, but it was still too green. No arrows returned, and nothing showed on the walls.

“They want us to charge up there carelessly,” said Vik. Paks paused beside him for a moment.

“Yes—I think so too. The Duke’s smarter than that.”

“I hope Siniava doesn’t have something like that priest at Sibili. Or a wizard.”

“If he had something that powerful, surely he’d have used it before now.”

“Yes—unless it was here. Something lurking in the ruins that he knew about.”

Paks shivered. “Don’t say that, Vik. It’s enough to spook anyone.”

“Surely not you?”

“Huh. I don’t think I’ll answer that.” Paks waved and went on. Nothing happened that night, and in the morning they prepared to assault the walls. Halveric Company would try the southern wall; Vladi’s spears, the west; and the Duke’s Company, a breach in the northwest angle of the wall. East of Phelan’s forces, the old ruins ran apparently unbroken to the river, some distance away.

After several attempts at climbing the earthworks filling the broken wall, they gave up; the outer face was slippery and sticky. An assault force could not climb that unstable slope while being pelted with stones and harried with arrows. While the main attack group stayed visible at the foot of the slope, Paks and Dorrin’s junior corporal, Malek, each took a squad and found a climbable place on the walls out of sight, around a square jutting corner.

This was easier than it might have been. Over the years stones had shifted, giving hand and foot holds; bushes had grown in the gaps. At the top of the wall, Paks peeked over cautiously. She saw the backs of a small group at the edge of the earthworks, some yards to her left, and nothing else. She passed a hand signal to those following, and eased up onto the wall. She heard the rasp and scrape of others coming over the rim as she drew her sword. Another quick glance showed few enemy soldiers anywhere: some on the far side of the earthworks, but equally intent on the action below. As soon as her squad was on the wall, Paks gave a last look to Vossik, below with reserves, and waved. He returned the gesture. She headed toward the enemy, counting on surprise to make up for numbers.

One of the soldiers across the earthwork gap saw them just before she reached the rear of those on her side and yelled a warning. As the first soldiers turned, Paks drove her sword into the back of the rearmost. They had not had their swords out; she killed another before facing a useful weapon. Across the gap an archer let fly. Paks heard a yelp and a curse behind her. She drove on; in minutes they had killed those on their side of the gap. Paks looked down and across. Crude steps had been cut into the fill, leading to a walkway a few feet below the rim; similar steps led up to the wall on the far side.

“Let’s get across that,” she said to Malek. He glanced back; Vossik was on the wall with their reserves.

“Good idea.”

Paks waved to her squad and started down the steps as fast as she could. She heard bowstrings twang both before and behind as Vossik’s archers tried to drive the enemy away, and the enemy tried to shoot her. An arrow sank into wet clay near her foot. Another. She held her shield before her face as she ran across the walkway. She could hear her squad coming close behind. At the foot of the steps, she took a deep breath and surged upward, yelling encouragement to those following.

When she topped the steps, no one was there. Four crumpled bodies sprawled on the wall; the rest of the enemy were many strides away, running as fast as they could. She started to pursue, then looked back at Vossik. His hand signal was emphatic: wait. She looked back at her squad. Only Arñe was missing; she had taken an arrow in her arm, and Vossik had held her back. Paks looked down the outer face of the wall. Some were already climbing the wall, and others followed Volya, who was cutting steps in the clay earthwork.

No enemy soldiers showed on the wall, now. Paks explored eastward, finding a narrow break with a worn footpath climbing tumbled stones from inside the wall, then winding down the slope of broken rock below the gap on the outside. Stammel posted a guard here, and another at the river end of the wall. Then they moved into the ruins themselves.

It was hard to tell what the ruins had been. Both walls and buildings had crumbled into mounds of stone that angled into other mounds. Grass, bushes, and even twisted trees grew over all. Old streets made ravines, partly blocked by fallen stone and tangles of vines and brambles; they could not see more than a few yards. They found no direct route to the tower where Siniava’s banner still flew. As the afternoon drew on toward evening, the intricate maze became even more confusing. Paks hated the thought of prowling there in the dark. Despite herself, she could not forget Vik’s remarks about demons or wizards.

Before dark, the mercenaries linked into a protected perimeter. Although the guard posts were closely set, the brooding ruins and Siniava’s presence nearby made everyone edgy. And the night had its troubles: poisoned arrows killed two in Vladi’s Company, rocks heaved out of darkness bruised several sentries.

As dawnlight spread through the ruins, the companies began to move, drawing their ring tighter about the central tower. Paks looked for Siniava’s banner. She could not see it. Almost at once others noticed that it was gone, and a shout rose. Then they heard the staccato alarm call from the northern wall.

As quickly as they could, they made for the north wall, boots clattering through the twisting, cluttered streets. Paks could hear the noise of other companies behind them. More horn signals ahead. She dodged blocks of stone, and crashed through bushes, went over a place she remembered as a direct line to another street. The wall should be close. She caught a glimpse of black and yellow darting through a gap ahead of her, and yelled. Something hit her helmet hard, and she staggered. Vik grabbed her arm and steadied her. She shook her head to clear it. A shower of rocks came from the gap. Paks looked back and saw a squad of Cracolnya’s archers moving into position behind her. They poured arrows into the gap; all heard the sharp cry from within. Paks jogged forward and stuck her head cautiously around the corner. Then she led her squad past a body bristling with arrows.

Now only an open space lay between them and the outer wall. A little to one side was the narrow breach where Stammel had posted a guard. The guards were gone. Clearly some force had come this way and overwhelmed them. Paks could not understand how they’d gotten through the closely guarded perimeter. She clambered up the steep path over the broken stone until she could see out. There they were—marching rapidly away along the river toward the forest that lay a few miles upstream. She turned to call Stammel or Kefer, and saw the Duke himself climbing the path, his squires behind him.

“Do you see them?” he called.

“Yes, my lord. They’re retreating to the forest.”

“I wish I knew how in blazes they got through our lines,” he said. “Not that it’ll help them. We’ll harry them now—they don’t have a chance.” He squinted at the retreating force. “Hmm. Looks like no more than five hundred or so. What do you think, Selfer?”

“The same, my lord. Do you think the rest of his army has just fallen apart?”

The Duke grunted. “I don’t know. I wish I did. But we’ll be after them. Kessim!”

“Yes, my lord.” The Duke’s junior squire, lean and dark, seemed afire with eagerness.

“Get back to the outer camp. Make sure the quartermaster gets everyone moving in a hurry, and knows where to go. He’s to stay far enough back that the wounded are safe, but not out of touch. And Jori—”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring all the horses we’ll need—Kessim can help—for the captains, too.”

Kessim and Jori scrambled down the outer face of the breach and jogged toward the camp. Paks could see mounted men approaching; the Duke smiled.

“That’s a smart man,” he commented. “He saw something going on, and knew I’d need mounts. Paks, tell the captains I want them to form the cohorts below the wall, and wait for me.”

“Yes, my lord.” The Duke turned and started down the path, followed by Selfer. Paks watched them go. Then she saw a flicker of movement, of yellow, among the tumbled rocks to one side of the path. She yelled just as a man rose from the rocks and leaped toward the Duke. Selfer dove between them, clawing at his sword. Paks charged recklessly down the path. Another enemy, this one in black, leaped from cover on the opposite side of the path to strike at the Duke, who had his sword out by this time, and was fencing with the first attacker. Selfer was down, but struggling to rise.

The Duke parried the strokes of both attackers for a moment. Then Paks was beside him, thrusting at the man in black. When he turned to meet her attack, she saw a face dark with tattoos. He had a long, narrow sword and a long dagger; the tips of both were stained brown. Paks took a slash of the dagger on her shield. She could not reach him with her short blade, but she could make sure he didn’t touch the Duke. She heard yells from above, and the clatter of many boots on stone. Beside her was the almost musical jingling of the Duke’s mail, and the clang of blades. Her own opponent kept trying to force her to one side, exposing the Duke, but she kept her place despite the attack of both blades. She heard a yelp from the Duke’s opponent, then a grunt as the Duke lunged.

Suddenly the man in black dropped his dagger, leaped forward, and grabbed her shield with one hand, fending off her thrust with his other blade. As his weight jerked forward on the shield, Paks staggered and fell. She saw his sword dart past her, and tried desperately to deflect it with her own. The blades scraped together. She heard him gasp, then he rolled onto her, and she felt hard hands gripping her throat. She couldn’t free her shield arm.

“You—you northern bitch—” he growled, then his hands went slack, and many arms pulled his heavy body off her. Stammel, grim-faced, offered a hand, and Paks pulled herself up. Volya helped her reset her shield. The Duke stood cleaning his sword. Selfer lay propped against Arcolin, his shoulder soaked in blood. Both attackers were dead.

“My lord—” Stammel held out the blades Paks had faced.

“Yes?” The Duke glanced at the weapons; his face froze. “Poison!”

“I thought so, my lord. Did these touch you, my lord, or your squire?”

“No. That one—” The Duke pointed to the sword dropped by the first attacker, and Arcolin reached out to examine it. “But Paks—is she—”

“I’m not hurt, my lord,” she said quickly.

Stammel looked closely at her. “Are you sure? The least scratch—”

Paks shook her head. “No, sir. He came close, but he didn’t touch. I couldn’t disarm him—”

The Duke snorted. “You did well enough to hold him off with that short sword. Arcolin, what about that one?”

“I don’t think so, my lord. Selfer, how is it?”

“It—hurts.” Selfer was breathing in short gasps. “But—it feels—much like any wound.”

The Duke knelt beside him. “Selfer, that was well done; without you, I’d have had no chance. Let’s see now—” He drew his dagger and widened the slit in Selfer’s tunic. “Ahh—you’ll need stitching, and some quiet days with the surgeons, but it’s not as bad as I’d feared. Any other injury?”

“I think not, my lord.”

“Good. The surgeons are coming.” The Duke opened a pouch at his belt and wadded up the length of cloth in it to press against the wound. “Arcolin, stay with him until he’s settled. I must speak to the Count and Aliam.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Dorrin, get everyone in marching order below the wall.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Paksenarrion.” He turned to look at her.

“My lord?”

“My thanks for your warning and assistance. You have a quick eye; I hope it will be as quick to find Siniava.” He grinned at her, suddenly relaxing. “You’re better than a shield; I wasn’t even worried.”

Paks felt herself blushing. “Thank you, my lord.” As the Duke turned away, Paks looked to the north. The fight seemed to have taken a long time, but she could still see the dust of the retreating force.

All that day they trailed Siniava’s army, first along across the plain and then in thick forest. Little air moved under the trees. Their scouts reported that they were gaining, but they had not closed the gap by night. Very early the next day they went on again. It was even hotter, a heavy breathless heat, but Paks had no desire to slow down. The scouts had reported the enemy to be close ahead, and moving slowly.

After a brief stop for food, they moved on, swords drawn. A scout rode to meet them. “They’re set up across the road, around the next turn and on a little rise.” The Duke, riding just in front of Paks, nodded and turned to the Company. Every eye was on him. Paks noticed that the air had become very still; it seemed darker. Almost as she thought, a mutter of thunder troubled the air. She felt the hairs rise on her skin. Canna’s medallion hung heavy as stone around her neck. They marched faster; she heard the horses’ hooves crashing in the leaves on either side of the track. She glanced sideways to see them, then beyond.

The gleam of weapons in the underbrush beyond the Clart riders shocked her so she nearly stumbled. She could not say anything, for a horrified instant, then blurted “Trap! Left flank!”

“What!” Stammel swung left and peered past the riders. “Halt!” he bellowed. From the corner of her eye, Paks saw the Duke jerk his horse to a halt and turn. “Company square!” Arcolin was yelling. The Clarts slowed, looking first at the column and then at their own flanks. The Duke spun his horse on its hocks. “Both sides!” he called. “Dorrin! Square ’em!” Now the Clarts had found the enemy, and spun to face them, lances lowered. The enemy charged, roaring.

“Get in the square!” Stammel yelled at Paks. She realized she’d been standing frozen. She’d never been in square as a corporal. She backed into the lines. “On the corner,” said Stammel. “Right—there, yes. Tighten it up!” he yelled to the cohort as a whole. “Link with Dorrin’s and tighten it.”

As the enemy charged, the Clarts spurred toward them. They slowed, but could not stop, the onslaught. Horses and men went down, screaming. The enemy pikemen slammed into the square, hacking over the first rank and the second, while their second rank jabbed at the first. Paks, on the corner, could have used four arms. She could barely fend off the enemy pikes; she had no chance to dart under the shafts. Surrounded as they were, their only chance was the tight formation. She had no time even to wonder where the Duke was, or whether the other companies had been trapped as well.

A flash of nearby lightning lit the scene with a blue glare as the storm broke over their heads. Rain blasted down on them; wind lashed the trees overhead. Paks squinted, blinking rain out of her eyes. The enemy pikemen were not withdrawing, but they pressed a little less. Between reverberations of thunder that trembled in the ground, Paks heard the Duke shouting, then Arcolin. She could not distinguish the words. Then Stammel, close behind her.

“Left flank—right by half—slow—march.” With the others Paks shifted a pace forward and right, as the second rank came up into the gaps, lengthening their line. The pike in front of her wavered; she took a chance, ducking under it for one quick thrust at the pikeman. He fell, clutching his belly. “Don’t charge yet,” admonished Stammel. “Steady.” Another long roll of thunder and gust of rain. Paks could hardly see the soldiers a pike-length away. A ripping sound, like cloth tearing overhead, and a blinding blue-white flash, followed by thunder that jarred the teeth in her head—she fought the desire to flatten herself on the ground. When a gust of wind lifted the rain like a curtain, she saw the enemy: a dark wavering mass, just out of reach. The rain came back, blinding. The enemy force wasn’t attacking, but it wasn’t running, either.

So the situation stayed until dark and after. In the confusion of the storm, the mercenaries could do no better than hold their formation. The enemy, though clearly outnumbering them, was curiously unwilling to press the attack. Paks, like the others, was wet, chilled, and tired. It was going to be a long night. The only good news came after dark, when word was passed that the Halverics, escorting supplies and wounded, were outside the enemy ring and still intact.

Morning dawned bleak. It had rained—though less heavily—all night. All were wet; even though the worst wounded had been covered with cloaks, in the protected center of the square, they were damp and miserable. The last of their rations had gone the previous day; they were all hungry. Paks, stamping her feet to warm up, glared through the last drizzle at the enemy lines. She could see they stretched all around the Company in the woods.

Despite this, morale was higher than Paks expected. She heard someone wonder whether they would move forward, toward Sorellin, or back, to link with the Halverics. No one answered. In the center of the square, the Duke conferred with his captains and Vladi. She turned to face the enemy. Those lines stirred, as men in mail, with long cloaks, went up and down. She heard a bowstring twang, and one of them staggered. Good. Cracolnya’s archers had kept their strings dry. A ragged yell came from the enemy, and a section of their line moved forward.

“Steady,” said Stammel. “Wait—” The enemy advance wavered to a halt. Paks opened her mouth to lead a derisive yell, and decided to save her breath. She’d have a chance later.

In a few moments, a ragged flight of crossbow bolts thudded into the soft ground between the lines. Paks heard Stammel laugh, behind her. “Rain’s a lot harder on those than on longbows,” he said. “They’ll have to come closer to do damage, and I don’t see any eagerness—”

“Good,” said Arcolin. “It was a neat trap; I’m as glad they haven’t the stomach to profit by it. In fact, I wouldn’t mind if they decided to back out of here when we advance.”

Stammel grunted. “I could stand to know where the Sorellin militia is.”

“Keeping warm and dry somewhere,” said Kefer. “Like all militia.”

Arcolin laughed shortly. “Probably. Now: we’re going to advance west, away from the river. We think that’ll pull those on the river side after us, and the Vladi’s spears will hit their flank. Vladi says they’ve weakened the ones between them and the river.”

“What about our rear?”

“Dorrin and Cracolnya will shift when we do. We’ll have to string it a bit more open while the shift is going on—listen for me.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Pont’ll be directing the archers on this flank. If I fall, Stammel, take over until Dorrin can.”

“Yes, sir.”

As they moved, Paks was glad to be on the forward side of the square. Stammel moved them slowly, so the right flank could stay together. Paks saw the pikes lower ahead of her. The enemy started yelling, a raucous blast of noise. Horns blared behind their lines. The enemy lines moved as slowly as their own. Mist lay along the ground; they all seemed to be wading. Paks stumbled over something she could not see, and cursed as she caught her balance. Foot by slow foot they went on. Part of the enemy lines to her left broke toward them; Paks heard the crash of weapons. Directly in front of her, the foremost rank of pikemen suddenly lifted their pikes and heaved them like lances. Paks yelled and threw up her shield. The pikes were ill-balanced for throwing; most fell short. Those soldiers drew curved blades and ran forward.

Shieldless, the enemy swordsmen could not stand against the Duke’s men, who cut their way forward. Paks heard shouts and cries from behind but spared no glance for that. The troops in front gave back slowly. The third rank still had their pikes, and showed no inclination to throw these effective weapons away. A deeper roar from the rear: the cry of Vladi’s spearmen charging the enemy flank. Paks found herself grinning. Despite the numbers facing her, she began to think they’d get out of this mess alive.

Suddenly the ground trembled. Another storm? Paks spared an instant’s look at the sky, but saw nothing. The noise grew, was joined by high-pitched trumpet calls. Now she could hear the rolling rhythm of hoofbeats. If Siniava had cavalry—she set her jaw and lunged at the man before her, catching him in the throat.

Horsemen erupted into sight on the right: in blue, in red and black—the Blue Riders and Sobanai Company. They were in the enemy rear, busy with lance and sword, before the enemy realized who and what they were. The lines wavered.

“Now!” yelled Arcolin. “Forward on the left!”

“Go on!” bellowed Stammel and Kefer almost together. Paks was already yelling joyously, leaping at the enemy lines. She could feel the others with her. The enemy stiffened a moment, as the first impetus of the cavalry charge dissipated, but fell back before the Phelani charge. Then Paks heard, on the right, the battle cry of the Sorellin militia, as they came around the bend and ran forward. The enemy lines disintegrated, turning almost in an instant into clumps and individuals in headlong flight. She could see horses and riders twisting among the trees, foot soldiers dodging, fallen men and horses on the ground. She pursued, fighting fiercely for a short time, until she and her friends found themselves grinning at each other over a pile of bodies.

But that was the end of fighting for them. Vik was pale and unsteady on his feet; he fainted as she watched. When Paks turned back to find help, she found it an effort to walk; her legs felt like they had an extra joint. Kefer was not as worried about poisoned blades as she had been.

“It’s fighting without food,” he said. “That and cold. They’ll be all right.” And some hours later, fed and rested, they were. Arñe was ready to return to the cohort, and Seli was already back.

“I’m not limping,” he said. “And if I can fight beside the wagons—which I was—then I can fight here.”

“What did the surgeons say?” asked Arcolin.

“Turned up their noses like they do. By Tir, Captain, you can leave Paks as corporal, but I’m staying here.” But Paks was more than willing to return to her place as file leader. What she wanted more than anything else was sleep.

They heard from the Sorellin militia—disgustingly smug at having rescued mercenaries—that the remnants of Siniava’s army had fled south, and were trying to cross the Immer at a ford. Fewer than a thousand were left to him.

“So they say,” said Arñe sourly. “I thought he was supposed to be down to five hundred two days ago.”

“True.” Paks yawned. “How I could sleep! But they’ve scoured the woods, Arñe—no more of them there. And surely he’d have used all he had in that trap.”

“I hope so. We were afraid you’d all be cut to pieces up here.”

Paks yawned again. “We could have been. It was near enough.”

That night the talk around the camp was how the Sobanai Company horse had linked with Sorellin’s foot to reach them in time. A long, lanky Sobanai hirstar was more than willing to explain.

“We’d been in the Eastmarches,” he said. “Keeping an eye on the trouble in Semnath and Falsith—just in case you wondered why Siniava got no reinforcements from the east. Then Sorellin came to Sir Seti, and asked for cavalry aid: they were marching to meet you, and the Blue Riders were out of touch. Sir Seti spared a cohort to come, and when we met with Sorellin’s troops, above Koury, we heard such that we thought haste wise. Only Sorellin was on foot and slow. We kept after them, and wouldn’t let them stop to celebrate their restday, or whatever it was. Then we met the Blue Riders, but came on anyway. Yesterday, came a big storm after midday; they wanted to halt. So did we—the horses were jumpy. But after the worst had passed, we saw riders ahead—Clarts. So then we heard of the trap, and they led us here, a hard march. We stopped last night only when no one could see, and moved again at first light.”

Paks realized she’d hardly seen a Clart rider all day. “How many of the Clarts got through?”

“I don’t know myself. Not many, I think. They were hit hard, they said, and those who could stayed to harry the rear of Siniava’s lines.”

“What’s going on in the east?” asked Stammel. “Does Siniava have guild support as in Cilwan?”

“Some. Cloth merchants, and such. He had strong factions in the east, even in Falsith. Probably a thousand to fifteen hundred left the East-marches to fight with him. There aren’t that many left, of course.” He grinned around the circle of listeners.

“And where’s Sofi Gannarrion in all this?” asked Kefer. “I thought he was supposed to help.”

The Sobanai rider laughed. “Surely you know—? No? He’s in Fallo, with the Duke. The Duke of Fall’s second son, Amade, is betrothed to Ganarrion’s eldest daughter. He’s not about to stir out of there and risk his bride-gift being damaged.”

“Well, I’ll be—”

“Besides, he wants the Duke’s support when he makes his bid for the throne.”

“Sofi? He’s serious about that?”

“So I hear. You know he’s always claimed to be a prince. Allied with the Duke of Fall, he’s planning to take his throne back.”

“Huh. I’d always thought it was just talk. He’s no use to us then—”

“Unless Siniava tried to march in Fallo. I daresay old Sofi will come out of the keep then.”

“I hope so. What’s it like over there? And what about crossing the Immer?”

“Rich land, good open farmland. Hardly any forest: Siniava can’t hide that way. Mud’s your main concern. The roads are soup when it rains. As for crossing the Immer, the nearest bridge is Koury; otherwise, ford it.”