“Ah, Paks,” said the Duke, as he turned and saw her. “You’re better, I see. Ready to ride?” The surgeon grunted, but Paks grinned.
“Yes, my lord. When?”
“At once. We ride north, to the fort; I expect to meet the Halverics there.” He moved toward the table, and sat, looking up at Paks. “We hit the Honeycat on the road, with Vladi’s spears and Clart Cavalry to help. He and his captains escaped, but the rest didn’t.”
“And our men, my lord? The prisoners?”
The Duke frowned. “Most of ‘em had been killed. We saved some—by Tir, that devil-worshipper has earned a beating—I’ve heard how the others died.” He looked so stern that Paks dared not ask who lived. “Get some food for yourself, and a sword; we’ll have to catch up with the rest on the road.”
Paks left the tent to find the camp almost deserted. She got sword and scabbard from the quartermaster, and filled saddlebags with food at the cooktent. Rassamir, one of the Duke’s senior squires, beckoned her from the horse lines.
“Here—I’ve saddled for you, and you’ll lead a spare. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.” Paks slung the saddlebags over and fastened them.
“Fine. Mount and wait here.” He swung himself onto a rangy bay, and took up the leadline of one of the Duke’s chargers. Paks mounted, wincing at her painful ribs. One of the horseboys handed up the lead rope for a horse much like her own sturdy mount. In a few minutes the Duke and Rassamir rode up beside her; each took another horse to lead.
“If you start feeling bad, Paks,” said the Duke seriously, “I want you to drop back with the wounded that’ll be coming in from yesterday’s battle. You won’t help us any if you can’t fight when we reach Dwarfwatch. The surgeon thinks you shouldn’t go, but—”
“I’m fine, my lord. I’ll be all right.”
He smiled. “I thought you’d say that. Just remember: you’ve already served me and the Company well; I won’t think less of you if you can’t ride and fight so soon.” Paks nodded, but she was determined to find out what had happened to her friends. She knew she would make it to the fort, surgeon or no surgeon.
The surgeon, in fact, was riding north too. “Arbola’s coming back with the wounded,” he said. “He won’t be able to catch up. You’ll have plenty of work for Simmitt and me both.” The Duke merely nodded and they set off.
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 ye
llow; 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.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 28
