In early afternoon, they saw ahead of them a large forested rise, and remembered the forest near Rotengre. They pushed on as fast as they could, hoping to be well into the trees by nightfall; these last few hours the land behind them had been open, with scanty hedges. Again and again they had to cross open ground, all too visible if the wrong eyes were looking.
Thicker than the little woodlots they’d been in for the past few days, here the trees were tall, with leaves just falling from elm and oak and hornbeam. Scattered clumps of evergreens made gloomy shadows within the forest shade. The ground was more broken, with outcrops of pitted gray rock as they climbed away from the farmland. Canna took a long look at the angle of the sun before they lost sight of it. It would be hard to keep a straight course in the forest.
It was also, they found, impossible to keep going as late. Trees dimmed the starlight; they stumbled into rocks and hollows. Finally they stopped in a clump of cedar. They ate another loaf of bread, and thick slices of ham. If they reached the Duke the next day, or even the one after, they need not worry about food. Paks took first watch, a silent space of darkness in which nothing happened, and went to sleep feeling sure that the next night would see them safely warm around the campfire of the Company.
She woke to a thin cold rain falling out of thick clouds. Canna looked gloomier than the weather. “We can’t find our way in this,” she said. “We need the sun for directions. Unless you have another trick, Paks—”
Paks shook her head. “No. All I know about this forest is that it’s big, and the farmers near Rotengre said it was full of brigands.”
“That’s all we need,” said Saben. “Brigands. Brrr, it’s cold. And wet. We can’t sit here and do nothing, Canna. We’ll have to find our directions somehow.”
Canna spread her hands. “And if we get lost? We could get farther from Rotengre than we are now, if we wander around.”
They ate an ample but damp breakfast, huddling under their cloaks. Paks looked back the way they’d come, seeing nothing but rain-wet trees. Any brigands, she thought, would be holed up in a dry cave or fort. She shifted restlessly and a trickle of icy water ran down her back. She looked at the others. Saben, for the first time, looked sulky. Canna was staring glumly at the ground.
“Could we—” she began slowly. Canna looked up. “Could we try to find the road again and follow that? We must be far ahead of the column, and the wagons will slow in this wet. Or if you think we can’t find the road by cutting through the forest, we could backtrack to the edge and go that way.”
Saben smiled at her. “Good idea. Canna, we can do that, can’t we?”
“I suppose. I still worry about getting lost, and if we backtrack, we’ll be closer to Siniava.”
“If we stay here, he’s coming closer to us. At least that gives us a chance—and they can’t see far in the rain.”
“True. I’d be glad to be moving, myself—the Duke needs to know.” Canna looked around. “Let me think. The road was off to our right, and we were headed that way—I remember that holly tree. I think we should go this way—” she pointed. “Do you agree, Paks?”
“Yes.” Paks rose, and the others followed her.
Sopping undergrowth slapped against their legs; they were soon much wetter, though warmer for the walking. Rain fell out of the sky with quiet intensity: never hard enough to force a halt, but never stopping. Paks thought of her first long march, the wet days on the road south of Vérella. She glanced at Saben, wondering if he remembered; his face was thoughtful and remote.
After some time, they saw that the ground was rising in a rocky hummock. They paused to consider which way to take. Paks was not tempted to suggest a trip to the top of it.
“If we bear right,” said Canna, “we’ll come to the road sooner, but closer to the column. If we bear left, we could swing too far from the road.”
“Let’s toss,” said Saben. He pulled a copper from his pouch.
Canna took the coin and tossed it. “St. Gird, guide our way,” she said as it spun over and over. Paks caught it and slapped it on her arm.
“Shears, we go right,” said Saben. She uncovered it, and the shears of Sorellin were uppermost.
“Right it is,” she said.
Circling the hill led them back sharply right at first, but after awhile Paks felt they were back to their original heading. She wondered how close the road was; her stomach clenched in anticipation. What if the column was already there? She looked at Canna. Canna’s face was set and grim. At last they came to a gap in the trees. This time Canna moved forward while the others waited. When she came back, she was grinning.
“It’s the road. And it’s muddy, so they’ll be slowed down.”
“Are you sure it’s the right road?” asked Paks.
“Yes—that’s the best part. Remember that place where a pine on the bank had been struck by lightning, and a bush was growing out of the dead limb? There couldn’t be two such, just alike. This must be the right road. We’ve a long march in this weather, but at least we can’t get lost. I think—I really think we’re going to make it. By Holy Gird, I think we are. Let’s go.” It was now nearly noon; they ate as they marched, moving back from the road, but keeping it in sight. They stretched their legs, making the best time possible. Canna was smiling, and Saben hummed softly, his stolen blade bouncing slightly where he’d tied it atop the pack. With every stride Paks felt safer from the menace behind; she let herself think of hot food, a dry bed, clean clothes. The hill they had circled fell away behind them; other hummocks rose ahead. Still they kept the rhythm of their strides, not stumbling now or weary, with their goal so close.
Chapter Eighteen
They missed the armed band until they were face to face. Eight heavily armed brigands in scale and chain mail, with good swords at their sides, seemed to spring from the trees to surround them. Two had shields. Paks clawed for the blade slung over her shoulder. Canna had no time to string the bow; she was grabbed from behind and wrestled to the ground. Paks found herself facing three men, who circled to get behind her. Her longsword gave her a better chance than Saben’s curved one, but not much. She backed a step, glancing around. Canna was heaving and pitching under two of the men, and Saben fenced frantically with three opponents. She parried thrusts of two blades at once, and dodged the third. One man tried to get behind her again; she backed quickly, unable even to look behind.
Paks heard a hoarse cry from Saben, then Canna: “By St. Gird!” Again she retreated, and again. Canna yelled, “Paks! Run! Run for it!” just as Paks backed another step and the ground gave way beneath her. She tucked her head and tried to roll as she tumbled down a high bank of earth and leaves into a shallow stream. Above her was a roar of laughter, voices, and the squelch of wet leaves as someone started to follow her down. She forced herself up, stumbling on a loose stone, and fell again. But her vision had cleared, and she saw the single pursuer, picking his way carefully down the slope. He was only halfway, and testing his footholds.
Paks gathered her legs under her, then realized she had dropped the sword in her fall. No wonder he wasn’t in a hurry. Then she remembered Canna’s words. She looked around; above her, the ruffian chuckled at her evident fright. That way, she decided, upstream. Taking two quick breaths, she hurled herself into a run along the creek bed. The brigand shouted and threw his sword at her; it missed by a foot, but she did not stop to grab it. Behind her came other shouts. She ran as fast as she could, watching her footing. After fifty yards or so, the creek banks were not so steep, and she scrambled up the south bank and set off through the woods. She heard arrows thunking into the trees around her, but none touched her.
After the first frantic spurt, she settled into a steady run, wondering if the brigands had horses. She was not sure of her direction. Darkness closed in around her. She slowed to a jog after several falls, but kept going. She could not stop. She swung right, back toward the road. When she could not run any more, she slowed to a walk, gulping for air. Wet ferns
whipped her legs; vines tripped her. Somewhere she lost her cloak, and she was wet through. Keep moving, she thought. Keep going.
When she came to the road at last, it surprised her. For a moment she could not think what it was, or why she had wanted to find it. The rain had stopped; the road was just visible against the solid dark of the trees. Paks turned and walked beside it, just out of the mud. She got her breath back, and began running again. Canna’s cry rang in her head. And Saben. What had happened to Saben? She found herself running faster, and sobbing as she ran.
* * *
After some time she realized she was no longer running beside trees: the forest was behind her. She stumbled into a brimming ditch beside the road, and scrambled out on the wrong side. It didn’t matter; she settled back to a jog and went on. The fields were soft with rain; she staggered when she hit the deeper mud of plowland. Her thighs ached. She slowed to a walk; the night grew lighter. She hoped for dawn, but looked up to see the clouds blowing away and stars shining between them.
At last she saw the twinkling watchfires ahead. She forced herself into a run again, terrified that something, even now, would come upon her before she reached the Duke. By the time she hit the outer guard perimeter, she was staggering with weariness.
“Halt!” came a shout from before her. Paks stopped and stood, swaying slightly as she gasped for breath. She heard the squelch of footsteps approaching. “Who’s there?” demanded the guard. “Give the password.”
She could not recall what the password had been weeks ago when they left for Dwarfwatch; surely it had changed by now. Besides, she had no breath for speech. A hard hand gripped her arm and shook her.
“Speak up, there. Who are you?”
“Duke Phelan’s Company,” she managed. “Must see the Duke.”
“At this time of night? Sober up, soldier—what’d you do, go off on a tear and get lost?” Someone brought a torch near; she could see the polished armor of the guard who held her. “Tir’s gut, you’re a disgrace,” he said disgustedly. “Duke Phelan’s Company—I don’t believe that. His people don’t wallow in filth.”
“Is that a bandage, Sim, on the left arm?” asked another voice.
“Who can tell?” grumbled the first. “Are you hurt?” he bawled at Paks.
“Just a cut,” she said. Her voice shook. “Please—I must get to the Duke now—it’s important.”
“You’ve missed roll call, if that’s what you mean,” said the first guard. “That was hours ago. They won’t thank you for showing up now.”
“Well, but Sim—we don’t want this mess in our area, either. Let the Phelani take care of it, if it’s theirs.”
“I don’t know what it is—d’you think that was ever his uniform?”
“It might have been. We’ll be in trouble if it is, and we don’t—”
“All right, all right. You take it—her—over then, if it concerns you so. Tir’s bones, I hate to be seen near such a ragbag. If it is the Duke’s, I don’t know what he’s coming to.”
“Please,” said Paks. Her legs were trembling under her, and she was afraid she might faint. “Please, we must hurry. It is important, and the Duke must know—”
The second guard grabbed her arm and swung her ahead of him. “Don’t tell me what I ’must,’ not when I don’t know who in thunder you are. We’ll go, but at my pace.”
Paks found even that hard to sustain as they threaded their way between tents toward the Duke’s perimeter. At last they were challenged by a voice she knew. She started forward, but the guard pulled her back. “Not so fast,” he said. He raised his voice. “It’s me, Arvor of the Sorellin militia, with someone who claims to be one of yours. Came in on our north perimeter, dirty as a miner and no good tale to tell.”
“Let’s see, then.” It was Barranyi holding a torch. “Who are you?”
“P-Paks,” she stammered. “Barra, I’ve got to see the Duke. Now.”
Barranyi held the torch closer. “Paks? Tir’s bones, it is you! But you were with—” she flicked a glance at the Sorellin guard.
“Well now,” he said. “Seeing as you know her, I suppose it’s all right—”
“Yes, Arvor—thanks—” said Barranyi in a rush. “Paks. Come on. What happened?”
Paks heard the guard leave, and tried to muster her thoughts. “C-call the sergeant, Barra. I must see the Duke tonight. I—I can’t explain to anyone but the Duke.”
“This late? He’s long abed; you can’t see him now. Why do you—you’re wet through!” She took Paks by the arm; Paks winced. “What’s this—a wound?” Paks nodded, suddenly too tired to speak. “You might trust me,” said Barranyi, her voice sharpening. “We trained together, after all.” She paused but Paks said nothing. “Very well, then; I’ll take you, but—”
“Sorry,” murmured Paks. “Can—can I sit down?”
“Wait. Malek!” she called back toward camp.
“Yo.”
“Mal, take over here; I have to take someone to the sergeant.”
“Sure thing.”
“Come on, Paks. Sergeant Vossik is by the fire; you need to warm up, I’ll warrant.” Paks followed Barra’s stiff back to a fire some yards away. She was shivering hard now, and stumbled repeatedly. She barely heard what Barra said about her. Vossik’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, and she had to puzzle out the meaning of his words before she could answer.
“But did you break your parole?” he insisted.
“She must have come all that way afoot,” said another voice.
“But why? Paks, tell us—”
“The Duke—” she said again. She felt herself sagging, heard a gasp from Barra, then a grunt as Barra caught her and eased her down. Her eyes closed in spite of herself. “The Duke,” she repeated. “Must see the Duke.”
“She’s wet through and cold,” said Vossik. “Not making sense. Get warm blankets, Barra. Seli, fetch a pot of sib.”
Paks tried to struggle up again; Vossik held her shoulders. “Please,” she said. “Please, sir—take me to the Duke. He has to know—right away.”
“Know what? And we’ll get you warm and dry before we—”
Paks shook her head and tried to free herself. “No—sir—must know now.” She felt tears burn her eyes.
“Know what? If it’s important, tell me—”
“Honeycat,” said Paks. “Tell the Duke—”
“What!” Vossik lowered his voice after the first bellow. “What about the Honeycat? Is that your message? Have you seen—?”
“Tell the Duke,” repeated Paks. She felt herself hauled to her feet.
“All right,” said Vossik grimly. “For that you’ll see the Duke. If this is some game, Paks—”
“No, sir. Im-important.” She shivered violently as Vossik supported her. He wrapped his dry cloak around her and called someone to help as he took her to the Duke’s tent.
The sentries there were reluctant, but Vossik overrode them. “Either you call him now, or I’ll raise a shout that’ll have half the camp up.” One of them ducked inside. The other stared curiously at Paks. A light flared inside the tent; dark shapes moved against the lighted walls. The sentry reappeared at the door and took up his post. One of the Duke’s servants peered out the opening. “He says come in,” said the man softly. Vossik pushed Paks forward into the tent’s main room. Another servant was lighting oil lamps around the room, but there was already enough light to see the Duke standing by his work table with a fur-lined robe thrown about his shoulders. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were cold.
“This had better be important, Vossik. Have you a good reason not to go through your captain?”
“Yes, my lord, I believe so.” Vossik cleared his throat. “This is Paks, my lord, of Ferrault’s cohort. She insisted she had to speak to you at once—and, sir, she mentioned the Honeycat.”
The Duke crossed the room in two strides to stare closely at Paks. “Honeycat! What do you know about the Honeycat? Why did you leave the fort?
What’s happened?”
Paks tried to focus on his face. “Sir—my lord Duke—he’s coming. On the road. He has—he has a large force, sir, and—”
“Did Ferrault send you?” asked the Duke abruptly.
“No, sir. He—he’s been taken, I think.”
“Taken! Who? Not the Honeycat; the Halverics wouldn’t turn prisoners over to him.”
“Sir, they took—took the—we think they took the fort. They killed the Halverics, and took prisoners, and—”
“The Honeycat? How do you know? Did you see it? Did you escape?” Paks tried to nod, but felt herself starting to fall.
“Sir, we—we weren’t taken—we saw—” She could not get the words out. Her legs were limp. Vossik let her down gently on the carpets that overlay the tent floor. She heard the voices above her, but could not muster the energy to answer.
“Is she wounded?” asked the Duke.
“I don’t know, my lord. I know she’s wet and cold and filthy, but when she said Honeycat, I brought her straight to you.”
“Very well. Vossik, I want you to send the captains here at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And alert the perimeter, but don’t say why. And send the surgeon, and tell the cooks I want something hot at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You may go.”
Paks was hardly aware of it when the Duke’s servants stripped off her wet and filthy tunic and wrapped her in warm furs. She roused, coughing, only when the surgeon spooned a bit of fiery liquid into her mouth.
“I hate to do this,” the Duke was saying, “but we must know what message she brings. Can you tell how badly she’s hurt?”
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