“You!” he yelled. “Paladin, are you? You come here and tell us to fight, and then you’ll go away, and it will start again. What do you know about that, eh?” He looked her up and down. “Fancy armor, fancy horse, fancy sword. You never lay bound on Liart’s altar! It’s easy for you!”
In one swift gesture, Paks jerked off her helmet. Into the shocked silence that followed, with every eye riveted on her scarred shaven head, she said quietly, “You’re wrong. And this is the proof of it. I carried Liart’s brand: look now, and see Gird’s power.”
The man’s mouth opened and shut without a word. One of the foresters blushed, and looked away. Paks scanned the square, noting others who had crept in and peered from doorways. She raised her voice again.
“Yeomen of Gird, I have known what you fear. I have been captive—aye, by Liart’s priests, as well as others. I have been unarmed, hungry, frightened, cold, naked—all that you have feared, I have known. If it were not a winter’s day—” Her voice warmed to the chuckle she felt, “—you could see all my scars, and judge for yourself. But let this—” she gestured at her head, “be enough proof for you. I know Liart and his altars, and Achrya and her webs, and I know the only cure for them. I call on you, yeomen of Gird. Follow Gird; come with me; together we will destroy the evils you fear, or die cleanly in battle. No more bloody altars of Liart, yeomen. Blood on our own blades now.” She raised her sword; a shout followed. The faces watching her came alive.
“But—” The old man raised an arm and the shouts died.
Paks broke in. “No, elder Joriam. The time for ‘but’ and ‘maybe’ is long past. You have suffered evil; I am sorry for it. Now the yeomen of Gird must take heart and take weapons, and save themselves from more evil. Come!” The red horse danced sideways, clearing a space which filled with men, suddenly swarming from doorways and side streets. “Is it true?” asked the baker, wiping his hands again. “Is it really true that you can find it, and we can fight?”
Paks grinned at them all. “Yeomen, we shall fight indeed.” She watched them run to the Grange, bringing back stored weapons, and form themselves into a ragged square before her. Then she heard the drumming hooves of Dorrin’s cohort coming into the village, and turned to meet her.
Chapter Thirty
Dorrin looked at the small group of yeomen with distaste. She managed not to look at Paks’s head. The rest of the cohort were not as careful.
“What’s this?”
Paks met her eyes steadily. “This is the yeomanry of Darkon Edge; they will march with us to meet the enemy.”
Dorrin’s eyebrows rose. “This?” She said it quietly, but Paks saw one of the foresters redden. She wrapped the scarf around her head, stuffed the helmet back over it, and nodded.
“We will need them,” she said. “Gird has called them.”
“I see.” Dorrin’s eyes dropped to her hand on the reins. “Then I suppose—”
“That it’s settled. Yes.” Paks turned to the Marshal. “Sir Marshal, will you lead your yeomen, or shall I?”
A spark of interest had returned to his eyes; now it kindled into pride. “I will, paladin of Gird. Do we go by the road?”
“For a time.” Paks nodded to Dorrin. “Captain, I would recommend battle order, with forward scouts in sight of the cohort. For now I will ride with the yeomen.” Dorrin’s quick commands soon had the cohort moving at a brisk trot. Paks waited until the Marshal had brought out his own shaggy mount and they rode together at the head of the yeomen. Before he could say anything, she was asking about the road ahead, and the shape of the land around.
Just out of town, the road entered a section of broken, rough land, more heavily forested than that on either side. Already some of the springs had broken; the road surface was a rough mass of frost-heave and mud. The red horse slowed, picking his way around the soggy places and slippery refrozen ice. The yeomen marched strongly, but in a loose, ungainly formation. Paks wondered how they would fight—but anything would be better than the blank apathy of Darkon Edge. The Marshal began to explain some of what had happened in the past several years. She realized that some powerful force had harried his grange, and the next to the south, picking off the strongest and bravest of the yeomen. Only a few had been found, alive or dead. The old man’s nephew had returned a cripple, and half-mad from torture. Another, terribly mutilated, had managed to kill himself. She shook her head as he fell silent.
“Indeed, Marshal, you have had hard times. You say you tried to find the source of this?”
“Of course I did!” Now he was angry again. “Gird’s blood, paladin, when I came I was as full of flame as you are now. But year by year—one after another they died, and I could find nothing. How can they trust me, when I can’t find a center of evil like that, eh? How can I trust myself?”
“And the other Marshals nearby, they did nothing?”
“Garin tried—until he got the lung fever so bad. His yeoman-marshal was taken, too, and that—well, it was bad to see, paladin. I know Berris, east of me, has had trouble too, but we neither of us had much time to meet—it’s more than a day’s journey across by the road. I’ve got six bartons outlying, as well as the grange, and always something gone wrong.”
“And you quit hoping—”
“Hoping! Hoping for what? What’s left? Half the yeomanry I had when I came—Gird’s blood, I don’t doubt this day will see the half of that half gone. But as you said, a clean death. I don’t fear death itself—Gird knows I’ve tried these years, but—”
“Marshal, I swear to you, this coming battle will see your grange—and granges around—freed of great evil. Some will die—yes, but die as Gird’s yeomen should die. That man you call a mercenary will be Lyonya’s king—as honest and just a ruler as any land could have—and if you and I live to see it, we will call it well bought, at whatever cost.”
“I hope so.” He chewed his lip. Then he lowered his voice and rode close to her. “It isn’t what I thought of, when I was a young yeoman-marshal: I thought to be a Marshal whose grange increased, spreading justice all around. Instead—”
“You have fought a hard battle, in hard conditions, and held a position until help came. Think of it like that.”
His face changed. “Is it?”
“Well,” said Paks, grinning at him, “paladins are usually considered help. So is a cohort of Phelani infantry—you could have a worse broom to sweep your dirty corners.”
He flushed, but finally smiled, straightening in his saddle with a new expression on his face. Paks looked back at the yeomen. They were settling to the march, beginning to look more like possible fighters.
They worked their way up and over one ridge, then another. The tracks of the king’s party and the cohort were clear: massive broad hooves of the heavy war horses, the neater rounded hooves of the cohort’s lighter mounts. Paks even recognized the slightly angled print of the off hind on Lieth’s horse. Then she heard the swift clatter of a galloping horse and looked up to see Selfer riding toward her.
He pulled his mount to a halt. “Paks! Dorrin wants you—there’s trouble ahead.”
Paks looked at the Marshal. “Keep coming, but be careful. How far is it, Selfer?”
He looked at the yeomen. “Oh—a half-glass’s walk, I suppose. Just over the far side of this ridge.”
“Come up to the rear of Phelan’s cohort,” said Paks. “I’ll have word for you there.” The Marshal nodded, and she rode after Selfer, who had already wheeled his horse to ride back.
The red horse caught his in a few lengths; they rode together out of sight of the yeomen. Over the ridge, Paks could see down the slope to a clearing at the bottom. The road angled down the slope into a narrow valley which widened to the left, then forded a broad but shallow stream, and climbed along the flank of the next ridge. Forest pressed on the right margin; to the left, a meadow opened from just above the ford downstream to the width of the valley. Fresh snow whitened the slopes between the trees, but the valley floor was churne
d to dark mud by hundreds of feet.
The clamor of battle carried clearly through the cold air. There were the rose-and-silver colors of Tsaia, a ring around the green knot of the Lyonyan King’s Squires. Kieri Phelan lived and fought; the elf-blade in its master’s hand blazed with light that flashed with every stroke. But around them surged a mass of darker figures. A trail of horses and men lay dead on the road: the supply animals and servants, cut off from the others in the ambush. Paks did not recognize any standards, but the group of red-cloaked spike-helmed fighters at the edge of the conflict was obviously Liartian. They were unmounted: Paks suspected that they were using some arcane power that would frighten horses.
Clumped on the road only a few lengths ahead was Dorrin’s cohort, still mounted but unmoving. Paks drew her sword and rode quickly to the head of the column, to find Dorrin bent over her saddle.
“Captain—what is it?”
Dorrin turned. Paks could see nothing but her eyes through the visor. “It’s—can’t you feel it? We can’t move, Paks—he’s being torn up down there, and we can’t move!”
Paks reined the red horse forward; she could feel a pressure like blowing wind in her mind, but nothing worse. She looked back. “What does it feel like, Captain? Fear, or pain, or what?”
“Fear,” said Dorrin shortly. “Don’t you—?”
Paks threw back her head. “That I can deal with. Dismount them, and stay close behind me. Selfer, bring the yeomen down when they top the ridge—be sure they stay together.” She called her light, and rode forward; she could feel the pressure veering away on either hand. She glanced back once, to find that they all followed, watching her with wide eyes.
She heard the yell when their advance was spotted; one block of enemy soldiers broke away and moved toward them in formation. Paks turned to Dorrin. “You know best how to maneuver here, Captain; I have a debt to pay those priests.” She closed her legs; the red horse leaped forward, charging the Liartian priests. There were five she could see; her heightened senses told her that more fought elsewhere. She felt the pressure of their attack on the cohort lift; a crackling bolt of light shot past her head. Paks laughed, swinging her sword.
“Gird!” she yelled, as the red horse trampled one of them, breaking the cluster apart. Paks sliced deep into one neck; the priest crumpled. On the backswing, she caught another in the arm. He screamed, cursing her. The other two were already backing away, weapons ready, to join a mob of their followers. Paks laughed again, and her horse trumpeted. Again she charged, this time against a spear-carrier, who poked at her horse to hold her away. But she caught the barbs of the spear on her sword, and leaned from the saddle to grab the haft with her other hand. She reeled him in; he was too astonished to let go, until her sword sank in his throat. The fifth had escaped into the mob, and screamed curses at her from that safety.
Paks looked around quickly. Loosed from the spell, Dorrin’s cohort was advancing steadily against the enemy, edging toward the main combat. The yeomen were starting down the ridge. The defenders around the king, harried as they were, had seen her; she heard the king’s cry above them all, and raised her sword in answer.
Then she turned to the road. A ragged band of rabble—peasants or brigands—had broken from the forest to strike the yeomen, who faltered. Paks rode into them, the red horse rearing and trampling, and drove her sword into one neck after another. “Yeomen of Gird!” she yelled. “Follow me!” They cheered, then, and charged through the rest of the band. Their Marshal’s eyes blazed, and he gave Paks an incredulous grin.
“They did it!” he cried. “They—”
“They’re Girdsmen,” said Paks loudly, so they could hear. “They’re fighters, as Gird was. Come on, Girdsmen!” And she led them quickly to link with Dorrin’s cohort. Together the two groups outnumbered the enemy cohort, and it withdrew and reformed. Paks looked for Dorrin; she had found what she thought was a weak point in the attacker’s ring, and was shifting the cohort to strike there.
The attackers, finding themselves struck from behind, wavered and shifted. Dorrin’s disciplined swordsmen sliced through the layers of fighters like a knife through an onion. Cheers met them, cheers cut off abruptly by renewed assaults on other flanks. Phelan’s tensquad merged with the cohort instantly, as if they had never been apart. Even in the midst of battle, Paks saw that the Marshals noticed this. The yeomen, flanked now on either side by seasoned fighters, looked as solid as the others. The attackers wavered again, drawing back a little. Paks moved the red horse quickly to the king’s side. His eyes gleamed through the visor of his helmet. “Well met, paladin of Gird. It lifts my heart to see you here.”
“Sir king,” Paks bowed in the saddle. “How do you find that blade in battle?”
“Eager,” he said. “You schooled it well in your service.”
Paks laughed. “Not I, sir king. From its forging it has waited its chance to serve you. What is your command?”
“Advance,” he said, looking to be sure Ammerlin and Dorrin could both hear him. “We’ll use Dorrin’s cohort, and your yeomen, with the heavy horse ready to charge and break them.”
“But—my lord—the supplies—” Ammerlin hesitated, looking back.
Paks remembered the king’s gesture from her years in his Company, but his voice stayed calm. “Ammerlin, we know they have reserves. All that we had behind us is now with us. Our hopes lie before us—and only there. If we can fight through—”
“But—” Paks saw the indecision in his face, and rode toward him. His face turned to her. “And—and that—”
“Paksenarrion,” said the king quietly. “A paladin of Gird.”
“Ammerlin,” said Paks, “take courage. Gird is with us.” Ammerlin nodded, his eyes bright. She turned to the king. “My lord king—”
“To Lyonya,” he said. And with a few quick commands to Dorrin and the Marshals, the defenders were ready to move.
At first it seemed they might break through to the higher ground along the east road. The priests of Liart commanded a motley crowd of ill-armed peasantry; these could not stand against disciplined troops. The enemy cohorts—Pargunese by their speech, though they showed no standard—put up more resistance, but gave way step by step. Paks could see something back in the trees—brigands, or perhaps orcs—waiting for a chance, but unwilling to fight in close formation.
The Tsaian heavy horse charged again and again, breaking open the enemy formation and letting the foot soldiers advance a few strides with ease. But once on the slope up the next ridge, they could not break through; the enemy still had the higher ground, and outnumbered the defenders two to one. Paks looked around for more of Liart’s priests; she was sure more were nearby, but they kept out of sight, only occasionally showing themselves in the midst of their fighters.
They had gained perhaps half the upward slope, when Paks heard a battle-horn’s cry above the clamor. At once the enemy attacked in full force, slamming into the defender’s lines and forcing them back down the hill. It was all they could do to keep their formation in this retreat; one after another staggered and fell, to be trampled underfoot. Paks sent the red horse directly at the enemy; those in front of her melted away, but on either side they drove on. She found herself surrounded, fought her way back through to stiffen the defense. When she looked up again, the eastward road was full of men: two full cohorts of heavy infantry, in Verrakai blue and silver that gleamed in the afternoon sun. A half-cohort of archers in rose and dark green halted above them and shot down the hill into the defenders. As the Verrakaien infantry charged downhill, the enemy opened to let them through, the force of their charge undamped.
But the king had seen all this as soon as Paks; in moments Dorrin had swung her cohort and the yeomen off the road just enough that the Verrakaien charge slid along the flank of the defenders rather than hitting it squarely. Now they scrambled downhill to level ground as best they could, losing in seconds ground it had cost hours to gain. By the time they were reorganized in the valley,
more than a dozen yeomen, and eight of Dorrin’s veterans, lay dead.
Shadow already streaked me little valley. They had been fighting for hours; Paks herself felt little fatigue, but she saw in the drawn faces around her that they could not keep going without a respite. Meanwhile the Verrakaien, finding stiff resistance, had slowed. As the day turned on toward evening, they eased their attack, and disengaged. Paks could see their supply train coming down the road; Liart’s followers were scavenging in the king’s, pulling packs off the dead horses and mules. The defenders rested as best they could, locked in a tight square, with the king in the center.
When the attackers pulled back, all three Marshals began healing the wounded they could find. By unspoken agreement, Paks stayed alert for any arcane attack of evil. She knew that the Liartian priests were not finished; they would have something else planned. Enemy campfires began to flicker in the fading light. Soon the smell of cooking would come along the wind, tantalizing the defenders. Dorrin edged over to her.
“Paks, my troops have some food—trail bread—and we still have four of our mules. That’s enough for one meal, perhaps.”
“What about the yeomen?” Paks remembered seeing them stuff food into pockets and sacks.
“I didn’t think they’d have any—I’ll ask.”
In the end, only the Tsaian Royal Guard had nothing; when the rest was shared out, all had an almost normal ration: cold, but strengthening. Water was a harder problem, but one of the yeomen solved it for them. They had been driven back nearly to the ford, but one unit of enemy troops had cut them off from the water. The yeoman, however, knew this stream, and said that its water came near the surface some distance from the stream itself. So it proved: a hole scarcely knee-deep filled with fresh water. They widened the hole until several could fill their helmets at once; the water sufficed for both men and horses. Before full dark, all had drunk their fill, and had eaten enough to feel refreshed.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 152
