“What did you do?” asked Seli. “Coat yourself with one of those glowing mushrooms?”
“No. Better than that, I thought. We’d had a rich haul of treasure from the last campaign, and I’d noticed something—or thought I had. The quartermaster then was a friend of mine, and as corporal I could go through the stuff. I told him what I wanted, and he laughed and agreed, as long as I brought it back by morning. I’d told my troublemaker to meet me at midwatch of the second. This was late summer, and what would be rising?”
“Torre’s Necklace—by all the gods, Dev, what did you do?”
“Don’t be hasty, Seli; it’s not good for your wound. Well, he was there, and I was, and I’d told the watch to leave us be. I think they thought that if we wanted to fight on the walls they’d rather not know. I told the old boy that my proof was this: as I saluted the Necklace of Torre, her grace would give light to my blade—only briefly, of course, unless he was one of the evil ones.”
“It’s a wonder you weren’t blasted out of the sky.”
“The gods love the brave.” Devlin stretched and went on. “When the whole Necklace was above the hills and clear to see, I drew the blade I’d borrowed, and made some kind of invocation. Sure enough, it flared as blue as could be, and my—friend—nearly fell onto his knees. I sheathed it quickly, before the glow died, and had a time keeping quiet. The thing stung my hand when it lit up, and left blisters that lasted two weeks.”
“I thought something would happen,” said Seli. “The gods may love the brave, but some of them wouldn’t like your wit. I assume the man gave you no more trouble?”
“Right, he didn’t. But there was trouble nonetheless—one of the captains was up for some reason, and saw the flash. Next thing I knew I was explaining it to her—”
“Dorrin’s sword!” exclaimed Paks.
“Yes. It wasn’t hers at the time; she took it in the captain’s draw a few days later. She did about chew my hide off for mocking the gods. When I showed her my hand, though, she said they’d taken their revenge, and all she wanted was the sword.”
“It is a magic sword, then?” asked Paks. “I thought I saw it glowing last year in Rotengre, when we’d killed the webspinner’s cleric.”
“Yes, it’s magic. Good magic, too. She doesn’t show it off—swords like that attract thieves like honey brings bees.”
“Why doesn’t it glow all the time?”
Devlin shrugged. “I don’t know—I suppose it was made that way.”
Chapter Thirty
Early the next morning they were marching again. All around the rich farmland showed scars of war: fields unsown, orchards hacked and burned, bloated corpses of cattle and sheep. Now and again they saw little bands of ragged peasants who fled into the woods and hedges at their approach. On the third day of the march, the Duke turned sharp south, and told them why.
“Our scouts report that Siniava’s holed up in a ruined city between Koury and Immervale on the river. They’ve seen his personal banner and troops in his colors. The Sorellin militia should be coming south to meet us. I’m telling them to come ahead. We’ll assault if we can, or siege until they arrive—but I don’t want to let him get loose again.”
By afternoon of the next day, they could see the old city. From a distance it looked more like a low hill of broken stone than a fortification, but as they drew closer, they saw that the city wall still held its shape around most of the mound. Where it had been breached, fresh piles of earth and brush blocked entry. Above the highest half-crumbled tower Siniava’s banner waved in the afternoon sun. Paks could not see any sentries; she had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing.
While the commanders positioned their companies on the north and west of the ruins, archers tried to ignite the brush with fire arrows, but it was still too green. No arrows returned, and nothing showed on the walls.
“They want us to charge up there carelessly,” said Vik. Paks paused beside him for a moment.
“Yes—I think so too. The Duke’s smarter than that.”
“I hope Siniava doesn’t have something like that priest at Sibili. Or a wizard.”
“If he had something that powerful, surely he’d have used it before now.”
“Yes—unless it was here. Something lurking in the ruins that he knew about.”
Paks shivered. “Don’t say that, Vik. It’s enough to spook anyone.”
“Surely not you?”
“Huh. I don’t think I’ll answer that.” Paks waved and went on. Nothing happened that night, and in the morning they prepared to assault the walls. Halveric Company would try the southern wall; Vladi’s spears, the west; and the Duke’s Company, a breach in the northwest angle of the wall. East of Phelan’s forces, the old ruins ran apparently unbroken to the river, some distance away.
After several attempts at climbing the earthworks filling the broken wall, they gave up; the outer face was slippery and sticky. An assault force could not climb that unstable slope while being pelted with stones and harried with arrows. While the main attack group stayed visible at the foot of the slope, Paks and Dorrin’s junior corporal, Malek, each took a squad and found a climbable place on the walls out of sight, around a square jutting corner.
This was easier than it might have been. Over the years stones had shifted, giving hand and foot holds; bushes had grown in the gaps. At the top of the wall, Paks peeked over cautiously. She saw the backs of a small group at the edge of the earthworks, some yards to her left, and nothing else. She passed a hand signal to those following, and eased up onto the wall. She heard the rasp and scrape of others coming over the rim as she drew her sword. Another quick glance showed few enemy soldiers anywhere: some on the far side of the earthworks, but equally intent on the action below. As soon as her squad was on the wall, Paks gave a last look to Vossik, below with reserves, and waved. He returned the gesture. She headed toward the enemy, counting on surprise to make up for numbers.
One of the soldiers across the earthwork gap saw them just before she reached the rear of those on her side and yelled a warning. As the first soldiers turned, Paks drove her sword into the back of the rearmost. They had not had their swords out; she killed another before facing a useful weapon. Across the gap an archer let fly. Paks heard a yelp and a curse behind her. She drove on; in minutes they had killed those on their side of the gap. Paks looked down and across. Crude steps had been cut into the fill, leading to a walkway a few feet below the rim; similar steps led up to the wall on the far side.
“Let’s get across that,” she said to Malek. He glanced back; Vossik was on the wall with their reserves.
“Good idea.”
Paks waved to her squad and started down the steps as fast as she could. She heard bowstrings twang both before and behind as Vossik’s archers tried to drive the enemy away, and the enemy tried to shoot her. An arrow sank into wet clay near her foot. Another. She held her shield before her face as she ran across the walkway. She could hear her squad coming close behind. At the foot of the steps, she took a deep breath and surged upward, yelling encouragement to those following.
When she topped the steps, no one was there. Four crumpled bodies sprawled on the wall; the rest of the enemy were many strides away, running as fast as they could. She started to pursue, then looked back at Vossik. His hand signal was emphatic: wait. She looked back at her squad. Only Arñe was missing; she had taken an arrow in her arm, and Vossik had held her back. Paks looked down the outer face of the wall. Some were already climbing the wall, and others followed Volya, who was cutting steps in the clay earthwork.
No enemy soldiers showed on the wall, now. Paks explored eastward, finding a narrow break with a worn footpath climbing tumbled stones from inside the wall, then winding down the slope of broken rock below the gap on the outside. Stammel posted a guard here, and another at the river end of the wall. Then they moved into the ruins themselves.
It was hard to tell what the ruins had been. Both walls and buildings had crumbled into mo
unds of stone that angled into other mounds. Grass, bushes, and even twisted trees grew over all. Old streets made ravines, partly blocked by fallen stone and tangles of vines and brambles; they could not see more than a few yards. They found no direct route to the tower where Siniava’s banner still flew. As the afternoon drew on toward evening, the intricate maze became even more confusing. Paks hated the thought of prowling there in the dark. Despite herself, she could not forget Vik’s remarks about demons or wizards.
Before dark, the mercenaries linked into a protected perimeter. Although the guard posts were closely set, the brooding ruins and Siniava’s presence nearby made everyone edgy. And the night had its troubles: poisoned arrows killed two in Vladi’s Company, rocks heaved out of darkness bruised several sentries.
As dawnlight spread through the ruins, the companies began to move, drawing their ring tighter about the central tower. Paks looked for Siniava’s banner. She could not see it. Almost at once others noticed that it was gone, and a shout rose. Then they heard the staccato alarm call from the northern wall.
As quickly as they could, they made for the north wall, boots clattering through the twisting, cluttered streets. Paks could hear the noise of other companies behind them. More horn signals ahead. She dodged blocks of stone, and crashed through bushes, went over a place she remembered as a direct line to another street. The wall should be close. She caught a glimpse of black and yellow darting through a gap ahead of her, and yelled. Something hit her helmet hard, and she staggered. Vik grabbed her arm and steadied her. She shook her head to clear it. A shower of rocks came from the gap. Paks looked back and saw a squad of Cracolnya’s archers moving into position behind her. They poured arrows into the gap; all heard the sharp cry from within. Paks jogged forward and stuck her head cautiously around the corner. Then she led her squad past a body bristling with arrows.
Now only an open space lay between them and the outer wall. A little to one side was the narrow breach where Stammel had posted a guard. The guards were gone. Clearly some force had come this way and overwhelmed them. Paks could not understand how they’d gotten through the closely guarded perimeter. She clambered up the steep path over the broken stone until she could see out. There they were—marching rapidly away along the river toward the forest that lay a few miles upstream. She turned to call Stammel or Kefer, and saw the Duke himself climbing the path, his squires behind him.
“Do you see them?” he called.
“Yes, my lord. They’re retreating to the forest.”
“I wish I knew how in blazes they got through our lines,” he said. “Not that it’ll help them. We’ll harry them now—they don’t have a chance.” He squinted at the retreating force. “Hmm. Looks like no more than five hundred or so. What do you think, Selfer?”
“The same, my lord. Do you think the rest of his army has just fallen apart?”
The Duke grunted. “I don’t know. I wish I did. But we’ll be after them. Kessim!”
“Yes, my lord.” The Duke’s junior squire, lean and dark, seemed afire with eagerness.
“Get back to the outer camp. Make sure the quartermaster gets everyone moving in a hurry, and knows where to go. He’s to stay far enough back that the wounded are safe, but not out of touch. And Jori—”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Bring all the horses we’ll need—Kessim can help—for the captains, too.”
Kessim and Jori scrambled down the outer face of the breach and jogged toward the camp. Paks could see mounted men approaching; the Duke smiled.
“That’s a smart man,” he commented. “He saw something going on, and knew I’d need mounts. Paks, tell the captains I want them to form the cohorts below the wall, and wait for me.”
“Yes, my lord.” The Duke turned and started down the path, followed by Selfer. Paks watched them go. Then she saw a flicker of movement, of yellow, among the tumbled rocks to one side of the path. She yelled just as a man rose from the rocks and leaped toward the Duke. Selfer dove between them, clawing at his sword. Paks charged recklessly down the path. Another enemy, this one in black, leaped from cover on the opposite side of the path to strike at the Duke, who had his sword out by this time, and was fencing with the first attacker. Selfer was down, but struggling to rise.
The Duke parried the strokes of both attackers for a moment. Then Paks was beside him, thrusting at the man in black. When he turned to meet her attack, she saw a face dark with tattoos. He had a long, narrow sword and a long dagger; the tips of both were stained brown. Paks took a slash of the dagger on her shield. She could not reach him with her short blade, but she could make sure he didn’t touch the Duke. She heard yells from above, and the clatter of many boots on stone. Beside her was the almost musical jingling of the Duke’s mail, and the clang of blades. Her own opponent kept trying to force her to one side, exposing the Duke, but she kept her place despite the attack of both blades. She heard a yelp from the Duke’s opponent, then a grunt as the Duke lunged.
Suddenly the man in black dropped his dagger, leaped forward, and grabbed her shield with one hand, fending off her thrust with his other blade. As his weight jerked forward on the shield, Paks staggered and fell. She saw his sword dart past her, and tried desperately to deflect it with her own. The blades scraped together. She heard him gasp, then he rolled onto her, and she felt hard hands gripping her throat. She couldn’t free her shield arm.
“You—you northern bitch—” he growled, then his hands went slack, and many arms pulled his heavy body off her. Stammel, grim-faced, offered a hand, and Paks pulled herself up. Volya helped her reset her shield. The Duke stood cleaning his sword. Selfer lay propped against Arcolin, his shoulder soaked in blood. Both attackers were dead.
“My lord—” Stammel held out the blades Paks had faced.
“Yes?” The Duke glanced at the weapons; his face froze. “Poison!”
“I thought so, my lord. Did these touch you, my lord, or your squire?”
“No. That one—” The Duke pointed to the sword dropped by the first attacker, and Arcolin reached out to examine it. “But Paks—is she—”
“I’m not hurt, my lord,” she said quickly.
Stammel looked closely at her. “Are you sure? The least scratch—”
Paks shook her head. “No, sir. He came close, but he didn’t touch. I couldn’t disarm him—”
The Duke snorted. “You did well enough to hold him off with that short sword. Arcolin, what about that one?”
“I don’t think so, my lord. Selfer, how is it?”
“It—hurts.” Selfer was breathing in short gasps. “But—it feels—much like any wound.”
The Duke knelt beside him. “Selfer, that was well done; without you, I’d have had no chance. Let’s see now—” He drew his dagger and widened the slit in Selfer’s tunic. “Ahh—you’ll need stitching, and some quiet days with the surgeons, but it’s not as bad as I’d feared. Any other injury?”
“I think not, my lord.”
“Good. The surgeons are coming.” The Duke opened a pouch at his belt and wadded up the length of cloth in it to press against the wound. “Arcolin, stay with him until he’s settled. I must speak to the Count and Aliam.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Dorrin, get everyone in marching order below the wall.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Paksenarrion.” He turned to look at her.
“My lord?”
“My thanks for your warning and assistance. You have a quick eye; I hope it will be as quick to find Siniava.” He grinned at her, suddenly relaxing. “You’re better than a shield; I wasn’t even worried.”
Paks felt herself blushing. “Thank you, my lord.” As the Duke turned away, Paks looked to the north. The fight seemed to have taken a long time, but she could still see the dust of the retreating force.
All that day they trailed Siniava’s army, first along across the plain and then in thick forest. Little air moved under the trees. Their scouts reported that they
were gaining, but they had not closed the gap by night. Very early the next day they went on again. It was even hotter, a heavy breathless heat, but Paks had no desire to slow down. The scouts had reported the enemy to be close ahead, and moving slowly.
After a brief stop for food, they moved on, swords drawn. A scout rode to meet them. “They’re set up across the road, around the next turn and on a little rise.” The Duke, riding just in front of Paks, nodded and turned to the Company. Every eye was on him. Paks noticed that the air had become very still; it seemed darker. Almost as she thought, a mutter of thunder troubled the air. She felt the hairs rise on her skin. Canna’s medallion hung heavy as stone around her neck. They marched faster; she heard the horses’ hooves crashing in the leaves on either side of the track. She glanced sideways to see them, then beyond.
The gleam of weapons in the underbrush beyond the Clart riders shocked her so she nearly stumbled. She could not say anything, for a horrified instant, then blurted “Trap! Left flank!”
“What!” Stammel swung left and peered past the riders. “Halt!” he bellowed. From the corner of her eye, Paks saw the Duke jerk his horse to a halt and turn. “Company square!” Arcolin was yelling. The Clarts slowed, looking first at the column and then at their own flanks. The Duke spun his horse on its hocks. “Both sides!” he called. “Dorrin! Square ’em!” Now the Clarts had found the enemy, and spun to face them, lances lowered. The enemy charged, roaring.
“Get in the square!” Stammel yelled at Paks. She realized she’d been standing frozen. She’d never been in square as a corporal. She backed into the lines. “On the corner,” said Stammel. “Right—there, yes. Tighten it up!” he yelled to the cohort as a whole. “Link with Dorrin’s and tighten it.”
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