Even so, she was not resigned when Bosk brought his word. Nor was she the only one who cried, “But we can’t quit—just quit. We can’t.”
“Oh yes, you can.” His face looked more wrinkled than before. “We follow orders, remember? When the captain tells us to lay down our arms, we do it. And I don’t want any nonsense, either, from any of you.”
“Arcolin wouldn’t have—” began someone.
“Enough! Arcolin’s not here; Ferrault is. And for my money, Arcolin would have done the same.”
“But—what will happen?” Vik sounded as worried as Paks felt.
“They’ll collect our weapons, and assign us an area. Usually it takes a day or so to list all the equipment and men, and then they’ll send a ransom request to the Duke. Then a few weeks to settle terms and collect the ransom, and we’ll be released. Usually less than a month, altogether.”
“But what do we do?’ Paks imagined a month in the cells under the fort.
“What we’re told—that’s what prisoners always do. Halveric Company is one of the best; we’ve fought beside them, now and again. They won’t make it hard if we don’t. I expect they’ll pass their commands down through Captain Ferrault; it’ll be much as usual. No drill, of course, and no weapons practice. We may work the harvest, or some such.”
“I’m no farmer,” said Canna, tossing her head. “I’m a fighter.”
Bosk glared at her. “You’re about to be a prisoner. Unless you want me on your back as well as those—” he nodded at the wall, “you’ll do what you’re told. You worked on the road during training.”
“Aye, but—”
“No buts. There’s rules for this, the same as for everything else. We agree to behave until we’re ransomed; if there’s any trouble, it’s handled by the officers. Don’t talk about the Company to them—mostly they won’t ask; it’s bad manners. And don’t ask about theirs. No one’s to run off, or anything of that sort. No brawling, of course. No bedding with them; it lacks dignity. I expect this will be the usual terms, which means they won’t confiscate your belongings except weapons, but I’d keep any jewels out of sight just in case.”
* * *
Paks could tell that most of the cohort was as miserable as she was, coming out the gate onto the fields by the river. They had been allowed to march out wearing their swords, but the familiar weight at her side did not make up for the knowledge that she would draw it only to give it up. She stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the green-clad troops lining the road. At last they halted between two cohorts. She let her gaze wander to Captain Ferrault, who was met by a dark bearded man in plate mail. After a few words, the captain turned to them, his usually cheerful face expressionless.
“Sergeant Dzerdya. Disarm the troops.”
“Sir.” Dzerdya turned. Paks was glad it was not Stammel; she could not believe Stammel would do it. “Draw your swords and drop them.” Paks felt tears sting her eyes as she reached for the hilt of her sword. She blinked them back. The sword slid as easily as ever from its scabbard; she could hear the rustle of all the others. It was impossible that they should drop them. Surely—
“No!” bellowed Coben from behind, breaking into her musing. “No nonsense. Drop them!” Even now, Paks could not drop a sword to its hurt; she knelt to lay hers gently on the ground. She did not know who had prompted Cohen’s rebuke, but she was glad of it. At least the Halverics would know they were not afraid.
Around them now the Halveric cohorts stood with drawn swords, waiting. Ferrault was talking to the Halveric commander again, who shook his head: once, then again, more emphatically. Ferrault turned back to them. “It seems,” he said in a hard light voice, “that our reputation has preceded us. We should take it as an honor that we are required to yield daggers as well as swords. Sergeant, see to it.”
Before Dzerdya could say anything, the Halveric commander grinned and spoke; his voice was deep, and his accent made a musical complement to his speech. “It is indeed an honor. For so long as we have respected your noble Duke, so long have we known his soldiers to be spirited as well as brave and skilled. We would not have lives and blood lost where no need is: your men or ours, captain. These will be returned, when each has given parole.” He bowed to the captain, and more slightly to the cohort itself.
“All right now,” said Dzerdya. Her voice was flat. “Daggers the same; drop them.”
As Paks slipped her dagger from its sheath, she felt a heavy cold weight dragging at her. She was not even tempted to use the dagger. It seemed that nothing could ever be right again. To stand unarmed in the midst of armed troops, defeated without a fight, was the worst thing she could imagine. But with the others she marched back, under guard, to await events.
Several days later, Paks had admitted that Bosk was right. Though they slept in the stables instead of the barracks, the change brought no hardship: they ate the same food, obeyed the same sergeants, and suffered only from the boredom of confinement. That would change when they had all given their paroles. Bosk explained that, too: each one would come before Aliam Halveric, the commander, and agree to abide by the rules for captives—or risk being put under guard while the others went free within bounds.
Now Paks was waiting her turn. She felt her heart speeding up, and tried to breathe slowly. Only one man between her and the door. Her hands were sweaty. Vanza came out and winked at her; she was face to face with the door. She stared at the grain of the wood, finding pictures in its twists and curves. Should she give her parole? This wasn’t anything like the old songs, where heroes always fought to the death if they did not win, and captivity and defiance went together like sword and scabbard. The door opened. Rauf came out, and the guard beckoned. She took a deep breath and walked in.
Behind a wide desk sat the dark bearded man who had accepted their surrender. Without his helmet and mail he seemed smaller: almost bald, with a fringe of graying dark hair, a round weathered face, broad muscular hands. He gave her a long look from dark eyes.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I noticed you—you didn’t want to chance damaging your blade, did you?”
Paks blushed. “No—sir.”
“Sign of a good warrior,” he said briskly. “Name, please?” He held a pen, poised over the desk.
Bosk had said they should give their names. “Paks, sir.”
He ran his finger down the parchment roll on the desk. “Ah—there. You’re a first-term, I see.” He looked back up at her. “It’s harder, the first time you’re captured. I daresay it’s bothered you.”
Paks relaxed a bit. “Yes, sir.”
“You signed on to be a warrior, not to surrender,” he went on. “Still, it does happen, and it’s no shame to know when you’re overmatched. We don’t think worse of your captain for seeing the obvious. To be honest, we’re glad not to have to fight it out, knowing what we know of your Company.” He paused; a slight smile moved his lips. “I imagine you’ve been wondering whether it’s honorable to give your parole—” Paks nodded. His smile broadened, not mocking, but friendly. “I thought so. Well, I won’t argue against your conscience. I’ve given mine on occasion—if that matters. It’s only until you’re ransomed. You may match swords against us another season at the command of your Duke, or quarrel with my men in Valdaire next winter. They haven’t been teasing you, have they?”
“No, sir. They haven’t bothered us at all.”
“That’s good. They know, you see, that it might be the other way next time. Now—” he went on more briskly. “I’ll need your answer. Can you swear to remain a prisoner under command of my company until ransomed, without rebellion or escape so long as you’re honorably treated?”
Paks paused a moment, but she trusted him in spite of herself. “Yes, sir, I agree.”
“Very well.” His voice held more warmth. “And I and my commanders give our word that you and your companions will be honorably treated, well fed and housed, and be subject to the authority of your captain, under my designated representative only. Now what that m
eans,” he continued, less formally, “is that we won’t suddenly sell you to slavers, or turn you over to another company of mercenaries. We agree to be fully responsible for your welfare, just as your Duke would be.”
“Yes, sir,” said Paks. She found this confusing. It seemed like an extra trouble to both sides.
“I’m telling you this because you youngsters need to understand how we northern mercenaries deal with one another under the compact. We are often rivals, and sometimes hired enemies, but we have our own code, which we will not change for any employer. Your Duke and I and Aesil M’dierra started it years ago, and now most good companies abide by it. The others—well, they can be paid to do anything. If we are to stay honorable, the newest members of our companies must understand—and that means you, in your first term. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paks. She met his eyes and surprised a puzzled look on his face.
“You need not answer if you prefer,” he said slowly, “but would you tell me where you’re from?”
“Three Firs,” said Paks promptly.
He looked blank. “Where is that?”
“It’s—well—all I really know is it’s a day’s journey from Rocky Ford, and west of Duke Phelan’s stronghold.” Now she was puzzled by his interest.
“Oh. The reason I asked is that you reminded me of someone I once knew; I wondered if you were related. But she came, if I remember, from Blackbone Hill or something like that.”
Paks shook her head. “I never heard of that place, sir. It wasn’t near Three Firs.”
“Well, then—you may go.”
Paks nodded, and turned away, surprised at how much better she felt. That evening their daggers were returned to them—with plenty of warnings about misuse. With her dagger once more at her side, Paks felt much more secure. She found her hand returning to it again and again.
Two days later, Aliam Halveric rode away with two of his cohorts marching behind; the siege engines went with them. His captain allowed the prisoners to practice marching drill in small units, and troops of both companies went out on work details for wood, water, and food. The Halverics hardly seemed to be guarding them, as they worked just as hard as the Phelani. They all bathed in the river, and washed clothes along its banks. At first Paks was very stiff with them, but as she saw her sergeants and corporals chatting with their Halveric colleagues, she began to listen. She knew nothing about Lyonya, where most of the Halverics came from. They spoke of elves as if they’d all seen them and worked with them.
As the days wore on, the Phelani were allowed even more freedom of movement inside the bounds Ferrault received from the Halveric captain. Paks saw Ferrault and the Halveric, who seemed even younger than Ferrault, playing some board game in a sunny part of the court one morning. They were laughing together; the Halveric captain shaking his head.
To Paks’s delight, small groups could go to the river or the bramble patches without an escort. The berries were now ripe, and she enjoyed the hours she spent picking them. Vik didn’t like it—too hot, too prickly, too tedious—but she, Saben, and Canna gathered pail after pail of dark-red berries that both Halverics and Phelani were glad to eat.
t both Halverics and Phelani were glad to eat.
Chapter Fourteen
They were deep in the brambles one afternoon, grousing at thorns as they stuffed themselves with ripe berries, when they heard a signal from the Halverics’ bugler. They stopped to listen.
“Not for us, whatever it is,” said Canna. The signal for their return was four long notes, three rising and the fourth the same as the first.
“Could be a messenger from the Duke,” suggested Saben, standing to peer through the tops of the brambles. They were south of the fort, even with the southeast corner of the wall; they could see only a short stretch of the road leading west from the gate.
“I think it’s too soon,” said Canna.
“What can you see?” asked Paks. She was pouring berries from her pail into a sack they’d brought along.
“Not much. But—wait—do you hear that?”
They did not so much hear it as feel it, a growing rumbling along the road to the south. They could see nothing, because of the angle of the woods, but as Paks stood, she could see sentries moving on the fort walls. Other work details, nearer the fort, were turning to look back down the road. The sound began to separate into rhythmic components that sounded like horses and marching feet. A deep-toned horn called from somewhere on the road. The Halverics’ bugle rang out again. A horseman came in sight around the angle of wall, riding out from the fort; Paks could see something glittering on his shoulders, and his green cloak. She thought it was the captain’s horse, and told Canna.
“Maybe we should go back,” said Canna. She bounced up and down on tiptoe, trying to see over the brambles. Paks and Saben could just see through the upper thorny branches.
“Let’s wait,” said Paks. “Whatever it is—it’s odd. And they haven’t called us. Look, Saben; isn’t that—”
“Troops. Yes. Lots.” Out of the trees came a column of men-at-arms behind twenty or so horsemen. “Not the Duke,” added Saben. “Whose colors are those, I wonder?”
“What colors?” demanded Canna.
“Just a second; the wind’s wrong. Yellow field—something on it in black, but I can’t tell what it is. The horsemen—some in chain—one in plate—yellow surcoats. Tir’s bones, those men are carrying pikes!”
“Pikes? No one around here uses pikes,” said Canna. “Yellow and black, and uses pikes—I can’t think of anyone within range—”
“He’s right, though,” said Paks. “It is pikes; I can see the heads glinting in the sun.”
“What are they doing?” Canna had given up the attempt to see for herself.
“Marching—no, they’re halting. Whoever it was that came from the fort is riding up to the head of the column—I’m sure it’s the captain. Let’s see—” For a few moments, Paks fell silent as she watched. Nothing moved. “I guess he’s talking to someone—passing something across or taking—Now he’s backing up. I wonder what—No!” She turned to Saben. “He’s down. He fell off his horse. Saben, look!”
“I see,” said Saben grimly. “I don’t like this.”
“Tell me,” said Canna, “before I—”
“I think they shot him; they’re carrying crossbows. They’re moving off the road—going after the work details—”
“But they’re unarmed!”
“But they are—and look at the rest—they’re marching on the fort. It must be an enemy—”
“But whose?” Canna’s face wrinkled in a puzzled frown.
“I don’t know. Halveric’s, I suppose, but—Oh, no! They’re—the devils! The murdering devils—” Paks started to thrash forward through the brambles.
“Paks, get down!” Saben wrestled Paks to the ground. “Be quiet, you fool! It won’t help for us to go out there.”
“What happened? What is it?” Canna tried again to see.
“Some of our men tried to run. They’re down—arrows, I’d guess.”
“By St. Gird! We have to—”
“Not you too! Think, Canna! Paks, listen. Be still. What can we do with three daggers? We don’t have any armor—they’d shoot us down before we could kill one of them.”
“You’re right,” said Paks reluctantly. “Let me up, Saben; I won’t do anything. But we can’t just—just run away and let them be killed.”
“What about the fort?” asked Canna quietly. “Surely the Halverics will come out—”
“Not if they’re smart,” said Paks. “That’s a big force; I don’t think we’ve seen all of it yet. They’ll be lucky if they can hold against assault, let alone mount a sally.” Even as she spoke, they heard the bugler again, and the crash of the portcullis rang across the river meadows.
“We can’t get back in now,” said Saben. “Even supposing we wanted to.”
Paks started to look toward the fort, to see how it wa
s manned, but drew back sharply. “They’re closer,” she said softly. “On this side of the river.” They all flattened under the brambles as best they could. They could hear the squeak and rattle of harness as armed men came nearer, but they could see nothing. Paks hoped this was true for the men outside as well.
“Ho, there!” cried a harsh voice. “We see you. Come out or be shot!” They did not move. Paks heard a rustling crackle as an arrow went into the bramble some yards away. “Come on out, cowards!” cried another voice. Another arrow and another, closer. Suddenly an arrow pinned Canna’s shoulder. She made no sound. The rattle of arrows passed on, was farther away with each shot. “By the Master, I told you nothing was up here,” said the second voice, complaining.
“Take it up with the lord, then: it was his orders,” growled the other.
“Nay—I’ll do what he says—only those prisoners are more to my liking—did you see that redheaded girl?” The voices, still bickering, moved away to their right. Still they lay unmoving, without a sound. Paks met Saben’s eyes; his face was white with anger. She looked over at Canna. Canna blinked back tears; her jaw was clenched. They waited. A blue fly buzzed around the spilled berries, then settled on Canna’s shoulder. They heard shouts from the fort, from the men below. A scream. More shouts. Paks glanced at Saben again, and raised an eyebrow. He nodded.
With great care they both moved to Canna’s side. The arrow did not seem to be in very deep. “Hope it’s no worse than it looks,” murmured Saben. Paks offered Canna a wad of her cloak to bite, then steadied the shaft as Saben cut her tunic away from it. The long barbs of the head were still outside her skin; the head itself seemed to be lodged in the big muscle between neck and shoulder. When Paks pulled, the head slid out easily, followed by a rush of blood. It was both longer and wider than those used by their own Company. Saben clapped his hand over the wound, squeezing it shut. Paks emptied the berries from the sack, and looked doubtfully at the coarse fabric.
Canna spat out the wad of cloth in her mouth. “Go ahead—it’ll do.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 20
