“Not by them,” said Paks. “At their command, by orcs.” The elf tensed, frowning, and looked away.
“We had heard that they dealt with the thriband, but I had never believed it. I would think even iynisin would call them enemy.”
Paks shook her head, surprised that she was able to talk about it without distress. “Where I was, the kuaknom—iynisin, I mean—commanded orcs as their servants and common warriors. When I was captured, in a night raid on our camp, the iynisin made their orcs and other captives fight with me. Unarmed. I mean, I was unarmed, at first.”
The elf looked at her with a strange expression. “You fought unarmed against the thriband?”
“At first. Then they gave me the weapon of one I killed, to fight the next battle with. Only then there were more of them. And the next—”
“How many times?” he interrupted. “How many battles did you fight?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember that. If you count by scars, it must have been many.”
“And you lived.” The elf sat down abruptly, and met her gaze. “I would not have thought any human could live through their captivity, and such injuries, and still be sane. Perhaps I should admit I have more to learn of humans. Who cleansed the poison from your wounds?”
“The Kuakgan. Others had tried healing spells, but though that eased the pain for awhile, the wounds never fully healed. He knew another way.”
“Hmm. Well, take your rest. I think you will do well enough in Lyonya.”
Paks lay for a few minutes watching the leaves overhead take shape and color as the dawnlight brightened, then she slept. When she woke, it was warm afternoon, and sunlight had slanted under the tree to strike her face. The elf had disappeared. She looked around, shrugged, and made her way to the brook to drink and wash her face and feet. She felt stiff and unwieldy, but after stretching and drinking again she could think of the night’s march without dismay. When she came up from the brook, the elf was standing under the tree, watching the way they had come.
“Trouble?” asked Paks. She could see nothing but trees and grass, and the flicker of wings as a bird passed from tree to tree.
“No. I merely look to see. It is beautiful here, where no building mars the shapes. We will not be disturbed on this journey. I have—I don’t think you will understand this—I have cast a glamour on us. No mortal eye could see us, although other elves might.”
“Oh.” Paks looked around for some revealing sign—flickering light, or something odd. But everything looked normal.
“Are you hungry? We should leave in a few hours. It’s easier to blur our passage when we cast no sharp shadows.”
Paks was hungry indeed; her stomach seemed to be clenched to her backbone. She nodded, and the elf rummaged in the small pack he wore. He pulled out a flat packet and unwrapped it.
“It’s our waybread. Try it.”
Paks took a piece; it looked much like the flat hard bread the Duke’s Company carried on long marches. She bit into it, expected that toughness, and her teeth clashed: this bread was crisp and light. It tasted like nothing else she had eaten, but was good. One piece filled her, and she could feel its virtue in her body.
That night they crossed into Lyonya. The trees loomed taller as they went on, and by dawn they were walking through deep forest, following a narrow trail through heavy undergrowth. When they stopped, the elf pointed out berries she could eat. “It’s a good time for travelers in the forest,” the elf said. “From now until late summer it would be hard to starve in the deepest wood, did you know one plant from another.”
“I know little of forests,” said Paks. “Where I grew up we had few trees. They called the town Three Firs because it had them.”
“Ah, yes, the northwest marches. I was near Three Firs once, but that was long ago for you. I had been to the Kingsforest, far west of there, and coming back found an incursion of thriband—orcs as you call them. The farmers there had fought them off, but with heavy losses.”
“There were orcs in my grandfather’s time. Or maybe it was my greatgrandfather.”
“And no war since, that I’ve heard of. What made you think of becoming a soldier?”
“Oh—tales and songs, I suppose. I had a cousin who ran away and joined a mercenary company. When he came home and told us all about it, I knew I had to go.”
“And did you like it?”
Paks found herself grinning. “Yes. Even as a recruit, though we none of us liked some of the work. But the day I first held a sword—I can remember the joy of it. Of course there were things, later—I didn’t like the wars in the south—”
“Were you in the campaign against Siniava?” Paks nodded. The elf sighed. “Bitter trouble returned to a bitter land. When we lived in the south—”
“Elves lived there?” Paks remembered being told that elves lived only in the north.
“Long ago, yes. Some of the southern humans think that the humans from Aare drove us out. They have their dates wrong; we had left long before.”
Paks wanted to ask why, but didn’t. After they had walked another long while, and the sun was well up, he went on.
“Elves are not always wise, or always good. We made mistakes there, in Aarenis as you call it, and brought great evil into the land. Many were killed, and the rest fled.” He began to sing in a form of elvish that Paks could not follow, long rhythmic lines that expressed doom and sorrow. At last the music changed, and lightened, and he finished with a phrase Paks had heard Ardhiel sing. “It is time to rest again,” he said quietly after that. “You have said nothing, but your feet have lost their rhythm.” They had come without Paks noticing it to a little clearing in the undergrowth; a spring gurgled out of the rocks to one side.
“Tell me about Lyonya,” said Paks after drinking deeply from the cold spring. “All I know of it is that Aliam Halveric has a steading in it somewhere. And the King is half-elven, isn’t he?”
His voice shifted again to the rhythms of song and legend, his eyes fixed on something far away. “In days long past the elves moved north, long before humans came to Aarenis, when the towers of Aare still overlooked the deserts of the south. All was forest from the mountains to the Honnorgat, and beyond, to the edge of the great seas of grass, the land of horses. In Dzordanya the forest goes all the way north to the Cold Lands, where nothing grows but moss on the ground. We settled the forests between the mountains and the great river, rarely venturing north of it. The forest was different, over there, alien to us.” He paused, looked at her, and looked away. “Are you by any chance that Paksenarrion who was involved with the elfane taig?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm. You may know that elves do not live, for the most part, in buildings of stone. We have ceremonial places. That—where you were—was one such, a very great one. It centered a whole region of elves; the elfane taig was both powerful and beautiful. But old trouble out of Aarenis came there, and the most powerful of our mages could only delay it long enough for the rest to escape. He paid the price for that delay with the centuries of his enslavement.”
“That was the one we saw? The same?”
The elf nodded. “Yes. He risked that, to save the rest, but he could not save himself. We have no worse to fear than such slavery. A human can always hope for death; you will not live even a hundred years, but for an elf to endure the touch of that filth forever—” He stopped abruptly and stood up, facing away from her.
Paks could not think of anything to say. She had finished her piece of the waybread, and she went to the spring for another drink of water. When she returned, the elf had seated himself again, and seemed calmer. “Do we travel again tonight?” she asked.
“No. We will meet the rangers here, at this spring. If you are not ready to sleep, I could tell you more of Lyonya—”
Paks nodded, and he spread his cloak and reclined on it.
“I told you how the elves came here,” he began. “The land was not empty even before. The rockfolk, both dwarf and gnome, qu
arried the mountains and hills. Orcs harried the forests, in great tribes; we drove them out, foot by foot. Other, smaller people lived here; they all vanished, quite soon, and we never knew them. For long we had the forest to ourselves, and for long we planted and shaped the growing of it, flower and tree and moss. Then men came.” He stopped, frowning, and paused long before going on. “The first to come was a shipload of Seafolk, fleeing enemies up the broad Honnorgat. They cut a clearing on the shore, and planted their grain. We watched from afar. A colony began along the coast, where Bannerlith is now, and another across the river’s mouth. More ships came. We held council, and decided to meet with them.”
“What happened?”
“They were hasty men, used to war. I think they thought they could drive us all away. But one sea-captain’s son, and his crew, befriended an elf trapped by wolves along the shore, and as one note suggests a harmony, one honorable deed suggests the possibility of friendship. After awhile those who wanted to live with us settled on the south shore, and the rest took the north. Elves are not much welcome in Pargun and Kostandan. Then men began coming from the south. These were different, and they moved into Fintha and Tsaia. When we met them, they had friendly words, not blows, for us. Many of them had met elves in the mountains west of the south marches. Here, in Lyonya itself, we made pacts with the humans, and agreed on lands and forests. We had begun to intermarry, very slowly, and when Lyonya grew to become a kingdom, elven blood ran in the royal family, though little enough in the present King.”
“And it’s now shared by elves and men?”
“Yes—as much as immortal and mortal can share anything. Those that will meet us here are both elven and human—most of mixed blood.”
“Aren’t you one of them?”
“I?” He laughed softly. “No. I wander too much. Master Oakhallow knew of the need, and used me for a messenger and guide. He is, as all the Kuakkganni are, one to make use of any chance that comes.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“Like him? What has that to do? The Kuakkganni are alien to elves, though they know us as well as any, and we are alien to them. They took our place with the First Tree; some of us have never forgiven that, and none of us have forgotten it. I neither like nor dislike a Kuakgan. I respect him.”
Paks stretched her legs, then her arms. She was glad they would not have to travel that night.
“You had best sleep,” the elf said. “I will watch.”
Chapter Four
Paks did not see the rangers before they stepped into the clearing; their soft green and tawny cloaks and tunics, patterned in muted shades of the same colors, hid them well in the woods. Haleron greeted them.
“Here I am back, friends, from Tsaia, with a recruit for you for the summer. This is Paksenarrion, a proven warrior.”
“Greetings to you, lady,” said the tallest of the rangers. “Do you know our tongue?”
“Yes, by the kindness of Ardhiel of the Kierin Vale,” replied Paks, as formally as she could. He nodded to her, with a brief smile, and turned back to Haleron.
“We thank you, Haleron, for your help, though we had hoped for more than one.”
Haleron frowned, and shot a quick glance at Paks. She had the feeling he wished she didn’t speak the language. She started to speak, but could think of nothing to say. The tall one noticed her discomfort, and gave her another smile.
“It is not that we think you are unable, Paksenarrion, but we lost so many to the fever that were you a demigod you might find more than you could do. May I ask what experience you have had? Haleron’s word is enough for your character, but each sword has its own virtue.”
Paks had expected some such question; she hoped her hesitation would be laid to the unfamiliar language. “Sir—”
“My pardon!” he interrupted. “You have not had the courtesy of our names yet. I am Giron, of mixed elf and human parentage, as are most of us. And these are Phaer, Clevis, Ansuli, and Tamar.” The others nodded to Paks, and she nodded back. “Now, if you will?”
The pause had restored her calm. “Yes, sir. I was in Duke Phelan’s Company for three campaign seasons, as an infantry soldier. Then—for a few months—on my own—” She was reluctant to bring up the elfane taig.
Haleron was not. “Do not be modest, Paksenarrion. Giron, she freed our brother and the elfane taig—you know that tale.”
“Indeed! You are that Paksenarrion, then. I had heard that you went from that to the Girdsmen at Fin Panir.”
Paks nodded. “I did. I trained with them for half a year, and then rode with the expedition to Kolobia.”
“And was Luap’s stronghold found?” Giron seemed genuinely interested.
“Yes.” Paks felt her throat tighten; she did not want to tell these strangers all that had happened. Again Haleron broke into the conversation.
“Paksenarrion was staying with the Kuakgan of Brewersbridge when I came there. She had recovered from old wounds under his healing; he recommended her to me.”
“Ah.” Giron looked hard at Paks. “You left the Girdsmen, then. Why?” From his tone and look, she thought he must have heard something, and wondered which tale it had been, and whether false or true.
“I could not fight, for a long time. They—I—thought I might never be able to again. So I left.”
“The Kuakgan healed what the Girdsmen could not?” Paks nodded. “Mmm. You have left a lot unsaid, Paksenarrion. Can you fight now? We need no ailing rangers; we have enough of those.”
“I think so, sir.”
“We have come from Brewersbridge as fast as I would have cared to come alone,” said Haleron.
“That may be, but—” He shook his head, and smiled ruefully. “We need help, yet I must not accept someone who cannot serve our need. People change, as swords weaken and break. I judge that you do not fully trust yourself; how then can I trust you?”
“The Kuakgan—” murmured Haleron softly.
“The Kuakgan! You yourself have no love for the Kuakkganni; shall I let an old man in a distant grove choose my sword-companion? Whose blood will run to the tree-roots if he is wrong? Not his, I daresay!”
For an instant everyone was still as Giron’s anger roiled the glade; the sun seemed to fade slightly. Paks wished desperately for the leap of anger she knew she would have felt a year ago—for the courage to confront him and demand a chance. It did not come. She was aware of the others staring at her, aware of their scorn, only barely withheld. She could almost see herself through their eyes: rumpled, dirty, threadbare clothes, boots worn thin, no weapons at all. Not much of a warrior, to look at. Suddenly she found it almost funny. How was it that nothing of her past had stuck to her—that nothing remained of the armor and weapons she had used, nothing of the skills she had learned?
She found herself smiling at Giron. “Sir, while each warrior wishes to choose a weapon for his hand, it is foolish to choose one by looks alone. The blade with ‘I am a champion’ inscribed down the rib may be a piece of fancy-work done for a prince’s court. Gird himself found that a length of hearth-wood could fell a knight, were it applied to his skull. Perhaps all that’s left to me is to be a rough club: but if you have the skill to use the skills I have left, that would be better than no one at all. However, please yourself. I can walk back to Brewersbridge, even without Haleron’s guidance.”
The others were smiling now; Tamar, the only other woman, grinned widely. Giron shook his head again, but relaxed. “I see you have wit enough, at least. And you are brave, if you would walk back alone. How would you eat?”
Paks grinned. “Well, sir—if I could not forage something, I must go hungry, but that’s nothing new.”
“Hmmph. Can you use a longbow?”
“I have used one. I would not claim to be an expert in it.”
“You were a swordfighter, I heard.”
“Yes.”
“How long since you last fought?”
“Something more than half a year.”
�
�Tamar, lend her your blade; it’s the lightest we have here.” Tamar came forward, and drew her sword for Paks to take. She offered it over her wrist, in the elven way.
Paks felt her heart pounding. Could she? She wrapped her hand around the hilt, and sent a mental cry to Gird: Protector of warriors, help me now, or never. After so long, the sword felt strange as she hefted it. She turned her hand minutely, and felt it settle into her palm. There. At least she would not drop it. She heard the soft ringing of steel as Giron drew his own blade. When she looked up, he was eyeing her.
“I would see your skill, before deciding,” he said. “I will not speak of rumor, but I must know what you are.” He took a step forward. For an instant, Paks was sure she would bolt. Her vision wavered, and her breath stuck in her throat. She clamped her hand on the sword, and tried to think of Gird. The Kuakgan’s voice came instead: courage is going on. She nodded abruptly, and came to meet Giron.
With the clash of the blades her mind seemed to clear a little. Her arm moved of itself, countering his first slow strokes. She could tell they were slow, could tell that he intended to probe no more than he had to. He moved a little faster. She watched the play of his wrist, remembering slowly what it meant. If this, then that. The elbow bent so allows the angle here—she met each stroke squarely. It felt as if she were learning all over again: she had to think about almost every move. More came back to her; she tried a thrust past his guard. Blocked: but he looked surprised. So was she. Her body moved less stiffly, the sword began to feel natural in her hand again. He circled; she turned to meet him. Her feet shifted without her thought. Again he circled, and speeded his attack. She was frightened now, but pushed the panic down, and blocked each thrust with a grunt of effort. Only think of the strokes, she told herself. Only that. Her left foot came down on a stone, and she lost her rhythm momentarily. His blade raked her arm, leaving a narrow line of blood. She caught his next thrust on her blade and blocked it. He stepped back.
“Enough.” He looked at her with new respect. “You need practice, but you have plenty of skill to draw on. We use the sword little; bows are more use in the woods. But you are welcome to stay with us.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 108
