The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  She looked around. Arvid Semminson was wiping the blade of his narrow sword; it was stained to the hilt. One of the merchants nursed an wounded arm; his bowman stood guard over him, dagger drawn. Mal had one brigand down, and was tying his arms; two of the other yeomen were guarding the few who could stand. Ten of the brigands were down, dead or dying of serious wounds. In the distance, Paks thought she saw two or three huddled forms limping away. None of her own force seemed badly hurt, barring the merchant. Paks walked over to look. He had a long, deep gash on the arm, not a killing wound, though he seemed dazed. She hadn’t expected much from him anyway.

  “What now, Paks?” asked Mal. “Do we kill them, or take them back, or what?”

  Paks glared at him, before she remembered the agreement. For an instant she had thought he might seriously mean to kill the prisoners. In that moment, the other merchant spoke.

  “We ought to kill them.”

  “No.” Paks shook her head for emphasis. “We’ll take them to Sir Felis. He’s the Count’s representative.”

  “But they killed—”

  “We’ve killed enough. How many do you want?” Paks turned away, and squatted beside Mal’s prisoner. She recognized the man who had led the others up the hill. He was bleeding from a cut on his head that had split the leather helm, and from a deep gash in one leg. “Better bandage that,” she said to Mal, who nodded. She wiped the blood off her own sword and sheathed it. The prisoner watched her, dark eyes alert. He flinched when Mal touched his leg, then held still as it was bandaged. Paks said nothing, looking around at the others as she caught her breath. Then she met the prisoner’s eyes.

  “Your name?” she asked.

  “Why should I tell you? We’re just going to be killed—”

  “Probably,” said Paks. “Any reason why not?”

  “Reasons!” His mouth worked and he spat blood. “Being poor’s reason enough—that and going looking for work. That’ll get you killed, that will—going along, trying to find a place, and nothing—nothing.” He twisted his neck, wincing, to look around.

  Paks felt an obscure sympathy she had not expected with this weatherworn robber. He did not look as if he’d enjoyed his life. For that matter, he didn’t look as if he’d profited by it. “How many of you were there?”

  “They’re the lucky ones,” he said sourly. “Dead and over with. Gods above, what chance did we have—”

  “Chance?” rumbled Mal, coming back to confront him. “About the chance you gave Eris at her farm, I suppose. Poor, eh? You think we’re all rich?”

  The prisoner closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t—dammit, man, I never thought to be a robber. Not back when I—I had land once myself. A few cattle, enough. If I hadn’t come here—”

  “What about ‘here’?” asked Arvid, who had come up softly behind Paks. “What’s so special here?”

  “I—” The man seemed to choke, shook his head, and said no more. Paks pushed herself up. All of her group could travel as they were; of the brigands, four that might live could not walk. Those whose wounds were mortal she despatched herself, not trusting the others to give a clean deathstroke. But she told the others to gather the weaponry, such as it was: she had always hated stripping bodies, and had avoided it most of the time. She had the yeomen supervise the prisoners in making litters for those who could not walk.

  “Paks, what about those that got away?” Mal swung his bloody axe slowly in his hand.

  “We’ll have to track them. They’re all wounded.” Paks sighed. “I don’t know how many—”

  “I thought four or five. There’s a couple down there still—” He jerked his head toward the slope.

  “I’d better go—”

  “No. You stay here—I’ll take Doryan. You don’t need him here.” Paks started to protest, but thought better of it. She was sure Mal was trustworthy.

  He had just started down the hill when five horsemen broke from the woods on the south side of the keep. Paks saw a flurry of motion in the bushes near them, and then four of the horsemen charged, driving out the remnant of the robbers. That was over in a few seconds. Zinthys rode across the slope to greet her.

  “Well done, Lady Paksenarrion,” he said cheerfully. “Sir Felis will be pleased.”

  “You too. That was a real show, that—” Paks stopped short, wondering if she should reveal his work as illusion. Zinthys grinned at her confusion, and spoke up.

  “Most people find a fireblast alarming,” he said casually. “I sent the rest of the troops back when we found the main keep empty—you seemed to have everything well in hand back here.”

  Paks wondered what he would have said if she’d blurted out the truth, but merely smiled. “I’m glad you thought to send a few around back for the stragglers.”

  “Oh, of course. I see you have quite a few prisoners—how about transport?”

  “If you could have someone send a cart or wagon out from town—and Master Travannen is wounded. It would be better for him to ride—”

  “Certainly. Why don’t I see to moving your mounts back along the road—then you can come out the way we came in. It’s easier traveling.”

  “Fine.” Paks looked around. The prisoners had rough litters ready, covered with their cloaks. They loaded the wounded, and prepared to march out. Zinthys rode off with a wave of his hand; the soldiers from Sir Felis’s command joined her, flanking the party. One of them offered his horse.

  “No, thank you,” said Paks. “I’ll walk to the road.” He shrugged and moved back into position. She wondered if she should have taken his offer.

  “I wonder,” said Arvid quietly at her side, “that you are unhurt. Didn’t you know that a sword broke on your armor?”

  Paks thought back to the fight—it hardly deserved the name of battle. “I don’t—oh—I remember a blow in the side—”

  “Yes. I was just behind you then. It was a fair blow, and the man was as heavy as you, or more. I thought you’d get a broken rib out of it, at the least.”

  Paks took a deep breath, feeling nothing. “No,” she said. “It must have caught at an angle.”

  Arvid shook his head. “I saw it. Either you’re a good bit tougher than I thought—which is unlikely—or your armor has great virtue. Where did you get it?”

  Paks gave him a straight look. “I found it,” she said. “In a ruin.”

  “Hmm. That’s a good sword, too.”

  “Yes.” Paks looked around. Everything seemed to be secure. Mal was moving up beside her. He had wiped the axe blade on something; it was clean.

  “The others are dead,” he said. “Too bad hurt to make it; the riders trampled some of ‘em. I did it quick.” He looked past Paks at Arvid. “You fight good, for a city man.”

  Arvid laughed easily. “Do you think all soldiers begin in a farmyard?”

  Mal’s forehead creased. “Nay, not that, sir. But the ones I know all did, and the city men I know are mostly merchants. This lady, now, says she comes from a farm. Isn’t that so?”

  Paks nodded.

  “Many good things come from cities,” said Arvid.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean any different. I know that. Fine clothes, and jewels, and that. But there’s more thieves in cities, too. My brother always said that wealth draws thieves like honey draws bees.”

  “I suppose.” Arvid didn’t sound interested; he turned to Paks. “What are you going to do now?”

  Paks shrugged. “First things first. Get the prisoners to Sir Felis. Then he can find out how they’ve been operating, and if they’ve had contacts in town.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sir Felis met the party coming into town. Ambros was with him, as were several other yeomen. Some of the townspeople cheered; Paks felt her face redden. She was glad she had the black horse; at least she didn’t have to look up at Sir Felis.

  “You’ve done well,” he said, after a quick look at the group. “None of your men killed—or even badly hurt—”

  “My arm—” began the m
erchant. Sir Felis gave Paks a quick look of amusement, soldier to soldier, before speaking to the man.

  “I’m sorry, sir; I didn’t see. The surgeon has been alerted; he’s at the inn.”

  “Good. It was a terrible fight—”

  Paks saw one of Sir Felis’s men roll his eyes. She choked down a laugh. Her knees felt shaky. In the stir around them, the black horse began to fidget. She met Ambros’s gaze.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  “Went well.” She worked the black horse over to the side of the road near him. “They all came out the bolthole, just as we thought. Your yeomen are good fighters—steady.”

  Ambros smiled. “I know. The Marshal’s trained them well. I’m glad they were willing to go with you.”

  “What now?”

  “Well—Sir Felis will take them to the keep. I suppose he’ll ask you along. The Council’s heard; of course they’re happy about it. Do you think you got them all?”

  “Twenty-one came out; we left eleven dead and have ten prisoners. Unless some stayed in the keep—and I wouldn’t have, with what Zinthys did.” Mindful of spies, Paks did not elaborate on that.

  “They don’t—they don’t look so bad,” said Ambros thoughtfully.

  “Who, the brigands?”

  “Yes. I thought—”

  Paks glanced at him. “They’d all look like orcs?”

  He flushed. “I know I don’t have your experience—”

  “Don’t be silly. I didn’t mean that.” Paks found herself annoyed with his sensitivity. “I was surprised myself, if you want to know. The only brigands I’d seen, in Aarenis, looked as vicious as they were. These men look like any poor farmer or soldier. The leader—that one in the litter there—he said something about not wanting to be a robber—”

  “Eh, once he’s caught, what’d you expect him to say?” The uninjured merchant had pressed close to Paks’s side. “He’s not likely to admit he’s been a thief from birth.”

  “He hasn’t been,” said Arvid, with a certainty that made Paks wonder.

  “How do you know?”

  “Lady, I, like Master Zinthys, prefer not to reveal all the sources of my knowledge. But I will tell you that had he been a thief from birth, he would not have been in that keep.”

  “But how do you know?” Both Paks and Ambros stared at Arvid. He smiled, bowed, and passed on toward the inn.

  “That one,” muttered the merchant, idly putting his hand on the black horse’s neck. It jerked aside; by the time Paks had it calm again, the merchant and most of the group had passed. Sir Felis beckoned; Paks moved the black horse beside his at the tail of the procession.

  “Come on out with me to the keep, will you?” he asked. “I’d like to hear what happened. My cook should have something ready, too.”

  Paks nodded. She realized that Sir Felis might want her to be present when he questioned the prisoners. She wondered what the customs were.

  “And you too, yeoman marshal, if your duties permit,” said Sir Felis smoothly. “Since the Marshal is not here, I would like a representative from the grange to be present.”

  “The grange’s honor, Sir Felis,” said Ambros. “May I ask how long this might take? It is customary for the yeomen of Gird to give thanks in the grange for the success of such a mission; I would like to tell them when—”

  Sir Felis pursed his lips. “I am not certain, yeoman-marshal, but surely by dark. These men do not look so desperate as I thought.”

  * * *

  Paks had feared that Sir Felis might, like Alured the Black of Aarenis, torture his prisoners; he did not need to. By the time Sir Felis, trailed by Paks and Ambros, came down the stairs to question them, the brigand leader had decided to tell what he knew.

  “We was all honest men once, sir,” he said weakly. “I was a farmer, myself. Some of the others was trade or craft, but most was farmers. But that bad drought three years ago, in Verrakai lands—that’s what drove me out. The taxes—and then no grass, and the cows dying—so my lord Verrakai put me out, and I went wandering. No one had honest work, sir, and that’s the truth of it.” He closed his eyes a moment; Paks looked around at the other brigands. The wounded lay quietly; the rest squatted against the dungeon wall, heads down. “I suppose Elam and I were the first,” the man went on after a long pause. “He and I’d known each other back home—we traveled together. We come on this place in a storm—went in to get dry—and then—seems we couldn’t leave.”

  “What stopped you?” asked Ambros.

  “I don’t know. Something. It—it called, like. We stayed there a couple of days—shot a bird for food, Elam was a good bowman. I stuck one of those things in the moat, but we couldn’t eat that.”

  “What thing?” asked Sir Felis.

  “You know. One of them—big things, like a frog only near man-sized. Smell rotten. They have teeth, too. Anyway we stayed there. Took a goose from a farm nearby—I’d asked for work, and they drove us off. Called us robbers, they did, and we hadn’t robbed before that. Made me mad.” He stopped again, and rubbed his nose. “Elam wanted to go on somewheres else, but when we got an hour or so away, we both got the cramps bad. Had to come back. Then the others came.” He nodded toward the other men. “One or two at a time, every week or so. Soon we’d hunted out all the woods around. If we took from the farms—well, most of us had farmed. We didn’t want to.”

  “So then he said take caravans,” put in one of the others, leaning back against the wall and tilting his head up to look at Sir Felis. “He says what’s a caravan to you—them merchants are all rich, and what has rich done for you? That’s what he says. Steal from caravans, and get rich yourself.” The man spat. “Rich! Heh! All we ever see’s enough to eat, and that not all the time. A few coppers now and then—a new cloak—that’s all.”

  “You shouldn’t talk about him,” said the first robber, pushing himself up. “It’s bad luck. He’ll—”

  “He can’t do much here,” said the other. “Teriam, think! It’s listening to him has got us here—in jail, when we were born honest men. Robbers, we are, and it’s him as profits by it.”

  “But you know what he said. He can reach us anywheres—that’s why we couldn’t leave. He could touch us here—right now—and—”

  “And what? Kill us deader than they will, when they’re through talking?” The man gave Sir Felis a bitter grin. “Tell you the truth, sir, if you can kill that devil, you’ll do yourself more good than killing us. And I’ll be glad of it.”

  Paks saw that some of the other brigands seemed very frightened, but they said nothing. The leader had fallen back, and now lay silent with eyes closed and jaw clenched.

  “Who is this man that ordered you to rob?” asked Sir Felis. “Was he captured or killed?”

  “Not him,” said the spokesman angrily. “Not him. He’s got his own place, safe and deep, and all we know’s his orders. I don’t know his name, sir, or who or what he is—and I’m not sure he’s a man, even. Teriam knows, I think—” He glanced at the leader.

  “I don’t.” It came out as a harsh whisper. “I swear I don’t know—I never seen him but the one time, and after that I couldn’t—I couldn’t—” He gripped his head, rocking back and forth. “He—he had black robes, that’s all, and some kind of—of thing on a chain—it—like a hand spread out, only it had too many fingers—”

  Paks felt, rather than saw, Ambros stiffen beside her. “Gird’s arm!” he said softly. Then more loudly, “Like a spider, maybe?”

  The man’s head turned towards him. “It—it might be—if—NO!” He began to flail about on the straw. “No! Don’t let him—not here—!”

  Sir Felis swore, a soldier’s curse Paks had heard many times. She could see nothing but the frightened man, waving his hands at nothing and trying to flee something no one could see. Ambros moved forward before the others shook off their surprise, and caught his arm.

  “Be still, man—Teriam’s your name? Be still; Gird will ward you from that evil.�
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  “No one can—he said he could—”

  “Gird’s grace on you, Teriam. Gird Strongarm will ward you; give him a chance.”

  “You-you’re a Marshal? Of Gird?”

  “I’m the yeoman-marshal of this grange,” said Ambros. “I am sworn to Gird’s service, and known to him. I give you my word that I place your name before Gird.”

  “Please—” The man’s eyes were open now, and fastened on Ambros. “Please, sir—I’m not afraid to die—just not that filth, please, sir—”

  Ambros freed one hand and held out his medallion. Teriam touched it with the tips of his fingers. “You have been spelled by some evil, is that not so?” asked Ambros. “You fear that it will take your soul?”

  Teriam nodded. “He said—he said he could do that. Wherever we tried to run, whatever we did—he would find us, and see us in—” He stopped, and lowered his voice. Paks could not hear what he said to Ambros, but she saw the sudden twitch of Ambros’s shoulders.

  “Well, and do you believe that the High Lord and Gird are stronger than that one?”

  “I—I know I should, sir, but I’m feared—I’m feared they won’t be for me—”

  Ambros looked around at the other robbers. “And you? What do you think of the power of that evil one, when you are here? Do you think the High Lord is weaker?”

  Some shook their heads; some simply stared. The man who had spoken so boldly before pushed himself to his feet. “Sir—yeoman-marshal—I was a yeoman of Gird once. Not a good one, you’ll say, and I won’t argue that. I never thought to find myself bound by such evil—just a drover like me. I don’t know what that black-cape can do, but I will say the High Lord is right, if he kills me for it.”

  Ambros gave him a bleak smile. “Yeoman of Gird, you must face the Count’s judgment, but the High Lord knows his own servants.”