As the enemy charged, the Clarts spurred toward them. They slowed, but could not stop, the onslaught. Horses and men went down, screaming. The enemy pikemen slammed into the square, hacking over the first rank and the second, while their second rank jabbed at the first. Paks, on the corner, could have used four arms. She could barely fend off the enemy pikes; she had no chance to dart under the shafts. Surrounded as they were, their only chance was the tight formation. She had no time even to wonder where the Duke was, or whether the other companies had been trapped as well.
A flash of nearby lightning lit the scene with a blue glare as the storm broke over their heads. Rain blasted down on them; wind lashed the trees overhead. Paks squinted, blinking rain out of her eyes. The enemy pikemen were not withdrawing, but they pressed a little less. Between reverberations of thunder that trembled in the ground, Paks heard the Duke shouting, then Arcolin. She could not distinguish the words. Then Stammel, close behind her.
“Left flank—right by half—slow—march.” With the others Paks shifted a pace forward and right, as the second rank came up into the gaps, lengthening their line. The pike in front of her wavered; she took a chance, ducking under it for one quick thrust at the pikeman. He fell, clutching his belly. “Don’t charge yet,” admonished Stammel. “Steady.” Another long roll of thunder and gust of rain. Paks could hardly see the soldiers a pike-length away. A ripping sound, like cloth tearing overhead, and a blinding blue-white flash, followed by thunder that jarred the teeth in her head—she fought the desire to flatten herself on the ground. When a gust of wind lifted the rain like a curtain, she saw the enemy: a dark wavering mass, just out of reach. The rain came back, blinding. The enemy force wasn’t attacking, but it wasn’t running, either.
So the situation stayed until dark and after. In the confusion of the storm, the mercenaries could do no better than hold their formation. The enemy, though clearly outnumbering them, was curiously unwilling to press the attack. Paks, like the others, was wet, chilled, and tired. It was going to be a long night. The only good news came after dark, when word was passed that the Halverics, escorting supplies and wounded, were outside the enemy ring and still intact.
Morning dawned bleak. It had rained—though less heavily—all night. All were wet; even though the worst wounded had been covered with cloaks, in the protected center of the square, they were damp and miserable. The last of their rations had gone the previous day; they were all hungry. Paks, stamping her feet to warm up, glared through the last drizzle at the enemy lines. She could see they stretched all around the Company in the woods.
Despite this, morale was higher than Paks expected. She heard someone wonder whether they would move forward, toward Sorellin, or back, to link with the Halverics. No one answered. In the center of the square, the Duke conferred with his captains and Vladi. She turned to face the enemy. Those lines stirred, as men in mail, with long cloaks, went up and down. She heard a bowstring twang, and one of them staggered. Good. Cracolnya’s archers had kept their strings dry. A ragged yell came from the enemy, and a section of their line moved forward.
“Steady,” said Stammel. “Wait—” The enemy advance wavered to a halt. Paks opened her mouth to lead a derisive yell, and decided to save her breath. She’d have a chance later.
In a few moments, a ragged flight of crossbow bolts thudded into the soft ground between the lines. Paks heard Stammel laugh, behind her. “Rain’s a lot harder on those than on longbows,” he said. “They’ll have to come closer to do damage, and I don’t see any eagerness—”
“Good,” said Arcolin. “It was a neat trap; I’m as glad they haven’t the stomach to profit by it. In fact, I wouldn’t mind if they decided to back out of here when we advance.”
Stammel grunted. “I could stand to know where the Sorellin militia is.”
“Keeping warm and dry somewhere,” said Kefer. “Like all militia.”
Arcolin laughed shortly. “Probably. Now: we’re going to advance west, away from the river. We think that’ll pull those on the river side after us, and the Vladi’s spears will hit their flank. Vladi says they’ve weakened the ones between them and the river.”
“What about our rear?”
“Dorrin and Cracolnya will shift when we do. We’ll have to string it a bit more open while the shift is going on—listen for me.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Pont’ll be directing the archers on this flank. If I fall, Stammel, take over until Dorrin can.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they moved, Paks was glad to be on the forward side of the square. Stammel moved them slowly, so the right flank could stay together. Paks saw the pikes lower ahead of her. The enemy started yelling, a raucous blast of noise. Horns blared behind their lines. The enemy lines moved as slowly as their own. Mist lay along the ground; they all seemed to be wading. Paks stumbled over something she could not see, and cursed as she caught her balance. Foot by slow foot they went on. Part of the enemy lines to her left broke toward them; Paks heard the crash of weapons. Directly in front of her, the foremost rank of pikemen suddenly lifted their pikes and heaved them like lances. Paks yelled and threw up her shield. The pikes were ill-balanced for throwing; most fell short. Those soldiers drew curved blades and ran forward.
Shieldless, the enemy swordsmen could not stand against the Duke’s men, who cut their way forward. Paks heard shouts and cries from behind but spared no glance for that. The troops in front gave back slowly. The third rank still had their pikes, and showed no inclination to throw these effective weapons away. A deeper roar from the rear: the cry of Vladi’s spearmen charging the enemy flank. Paks found herself grinning. Despite the numbers facing her, she began to think they’d get out of this mess alive.
Suddenly the ground trembled. Another storm? Paks spared an instant’s look at the sky, but saw nothing. The noise grew, was joined by high-pitched trumpet calls. Now she could hear the rolling rhythm of hoofbeats. If Siniava had cavalry—she set her jaw and lunged at the man before her, catching him in the throat.
Horsemen erupted into sight on the right: in blue, in red and black—the Blue Riders and Sobanai Company. They were in the enemy rear, busy with lance and sword, before the enemy realized who and what they were. The lines wavered.
“Now!” yelled Arcolin. “Forward on the left!”
“Go on!” bellowed Stammel and Kefer almost together. Paks was already yelling joyously, leaping at the enemy lines. She could feel the others with her. The enemy stiffened a moment, as the first impetus of the cavalry charge dissipated, but fell back before the Phelani charge. Then Paks heard, on the right, the battle cry of the Sorellin militia, as they came around the bend and ran forward. The enemy lines disintegrated, turning almost in an instant into clumps and individuals in headlong flight. She could see horses and riders twisting among the trees, foot soldiers dodging, fallen men and horses on the ground. She pursued, fighting fiercely for a short time, until she and her friends found themselves grinning at each other over a pile of bodies.
But that was the end of fighting for them. Vik was pale and unsteady on his feet; he fainted as she watched. When Paks turned back to find help, she found it an effort to walk; her legs felt like they had an extra joint. Kefer was not as worried about poisoned blades as she had been.
“It’s fighting without food,” he said. “That and cold. They’ll be all right.” And some hours later, fed and rested, they were. Arñe was ready to return to the cohort, and Seli was already back.
“I’m not limping,” he said. “And if I can fight beside the wagons—which I was—then I can fight here.”
“What did the surgeons say?” asked Arcolin.
“Turned up their noses like they do. By Tir, Captain, you can leave Paks as corporal, but I’m staying here.” But Paks was more than willing to return to her place as file leader. What she wanted more than anything else was sleep.
They heard from the Sorellin militia—disgustingly smug at having rescued mercenaries—
that the remnants of Siniava’s army had fled south, and were trying to cross the Immer at a ford. Fewer than a thousand were left to him.
“So they say,” said Arñe sourly. “I thought he was supposed to be down to five hundred two days ago.”
“True.” Paks yawned. “How I could sleep! But they’ve scoured the woods, Arñe—no more of them there. And surely he’d have used all he had in that trap.”
“I hope so. We were afraid you’d all be cut to pieces up here.”
Paks yawned again. “We could have been. It was near enough.”
That night the talk around the camp was how the Sobanai Company horse had linked with Sorellin’s foot to reach them in time. A long, lanky Sobanai hirstar was more than willing to explain.
“We’d been in the Eastmarches,” he said. “Keeping an eye on the trouble in Semnath and Falsith—just in case you wondered why Siniava got no reinforcements from the east. Then Sorellin came to Sir Seti, and asked for cavalry aid: they were marching to meet you, and the Blue Riders were out of touch. Sir Seti spared a cohort to come, and when we met with Sorellin’s troops, above Koury, we heard such that we thought haste wise. Only Sorellin was on foot and slow. We kept after them, and wouldn’t let them stop to celebrate their restday, or whatever it was. Then we met the Blue Riders, but came on anyway. Yesterday, came a big storm after midday; they wanted to halt. So did we—the horses were jumpy. But after the worst had passed, we saw riders ahead—Clarts. So then we heard of the trap, and they led us here, a hard march. We stopped last night only when no one could see, and moved again at first light.”
Paks realized she’d hardly seen a Clart rider all day. “How many of the Clarts got through?”
“I don’t know myself. Not many, I think. They were hit hard, they said, and those who could stayed to harry the rear of Siniava’s lines.”
“What’s going on in the east?” asked Stammel. “Does Siniava have guild support as in Cilwan?”
“Some. Cloth merchants, and such. He had strong factions in the east, even in Falsith. Probably a thousand to fifteen hundred left the East-marches to fight with him. There aren’t that many left, of course.” He grinned around the circle of listeners.
“And where’s Sofi Gannarrion in all this?” asked Kefer. “I thought he was supposed to help.”
The Sobanai rider laughed. “Surely you know—? No? He’s in Fallo, with the Duke. The Duke of Fall’s second son, Amade, is betrothed to Ganarrion’s eldest daughter. He’s not about to stir out of there and risk his bride-gift being damaged.”
“Well, I’ll be—”
“Besides, he wants the Duke’s support when he makes his bid for the throne.”
“Sofi? He’s serious about that?”
“So I hear. You know he’s always claimed to be a prince. Allied with the Duke of Fall, he’s planning to take his throne back.”
“Huh. I’d always thought it was just talk. He’s no use to us then—”
“Unless Siniava tried to march in Fallo. I daresay old Sofi will come out of the keep then.”
“I hope so. What’s it like over there? And what about crossing the Immer?”
“Rich land, good open farmland. Hardly any forest: Siniava can’t hide that way. Mud’s your main concern. The roads are soup when it rains. As for crossing the Immer, the nearest bridge is Koury; otherwise, ford it.”
Chapter Thirty-one
The next day they crossed the Immer at the same ford Siniava had used. The Duke’s column spent two days crossing, but started the pursuit well-fed and rested. Siniava’s trace was clear, bearing almost due east: discarded equipment and dying men littered the way. For three days they followed the trampled trail, but saw no enemy. The Sobanai riders returned to the northeast; the Clarts and a half-cohort of Blue Riders stayed with them.
On the fourth day, they sighted a large mass of troops moving slowly northeast, and followed them for several days until they found what they’d begun to suspect: these were the Falsith and Semnath reinforcements, already headed home. The Duke turned them south, toward Fallo. The next day they intercepted a courier; within an hour the news ran through the column. Fallo had closed its gates to the Honeycat, and Ganarrion was chasing him down the Imefal. He had fewer than seven hundred men left, and those were lean and travelworn.
“He’ll cut through the forest,” said Vik, “and head for the coast. What else can he do?”
“Try to get to the Immer and go downriver; that might work.”
“Does he have any troops left at Immervale?” asked Paks.
“He won’t have any troops anywhere after they hear about the last few weeks.”
They were marching as they talked, angling south and west to block any move to Immervale.
“But what if he crosses the Imefal and gets into the forest?” Paks did not want to trail Siniava into another forest trap.
Arcolin, riding beside them, grinned down. “He won’t.”
“But—”
“You remember Alured?” said Arcolin. Heads nodded. “He’s why Siniava can’t cut through the forest. He’d need Alured’s permission and guidance. And Alured—well, he’s finding it profitable to oppose Siniava.”
“But, sir, he’s a pirate,” objected Rauf. “He could be playing both sides.”
“He could. But he’s smart. He can see that Siniava’s beaten—he’ll choose the winning side, I expect. Especially since our Duke offered something he wants.”
“What’s that, sir?”
Arcolin laughed. “I can’t tell you that now. But it’s what he left the sea for, and he thinks we have it to give. Perhaps we do.”
Day after day they marched toward Immervale as their couriers kept contact with Ganarrion’s horsemen. Two days running rain slowed them—the Sobanai hirstar had been right about the roads—and finally they gave up and traveled the fields and pastures. Paks felt she had a permanent crick in her neck from staring off to the south all the time.
Paks had lost track of the days they’d marched when they came over a rise to see a small, straggling body of troops off to their left. And ahead, on top of a low ridge in front of them, were the banners of Vonja and Foss Council. They were squarely between the enemy and Immervale. The enemy army turned sharp south, and drew together.
“Now where’s he going?” asked Paks.
“The river. There’s nothing down there, but—” Stammel stopped and looked thoughtful.
“What?”
“I’ll ask the captain—I thought I remembered something.”
* * *
By nightfall it was obvious what Siniava had been making for: an old and partly ruined citadel reminiscent of Cortes Andres, built high on a rock bluff where the Imefal met the Immer. A great stone bridge spanned the Imefal below the citadel walls. Siniava had posted a rear guard here, but as the combined mercenary and militia forces came nearer, they withdrew before the archers were in range. Arcolin led his cohort across the bridge first, and swung right around the citadel, up a slope of broken rock to the forest that lay beyond its massive walls on the south side.
There they found their advance scouts talking to a company of archers in russet leather. Alured the Black, teeth flashing in his dark face as he grinned at Arcolin, waved the captain over.
“So—he’s well in the trap, eh? Where’s your Duke?”
“Coming,” said Arcolin. “How has it gone here?”
“Easily. He wanted nothing but to put a wall between himself and trouble.”
“You could not keep him out?”
“Out? But, Captain, your Duke wants him alive. I’d have had to kill him to hold him—if I could.”
“I see.” Arcolin looked up at the walls. “Well, he’s caught now, and if we have a stiff fight to get in, still—”
“It is about that, Captain, that I must speak to your Duke.”
Paks heard no more before Stammel moved them farther around the citadel, to meet the troops coming the other way. Soon a solid line circled the walls, and ca
mps were laid out at a little distance.
Paks was waiting in line to eat when she caught sight of a tall man in Marshal’s robes coming along the lines from the Vonja position. With him was another in bright red over shining mail—the paladin, thought Paks. They were chatting with different soldiers as they moved along. Paks didn’t know if she wanted to talk with them or not. What little she remembered about her conversation with the High Marshal was unsettling. She saw Stammel smile as they spoke to him and looked away.
“Ah—Paksenarrion.” They were in front of her. It would be rude to ignore them. Paks met the High Marshal’s eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir Fenith, here wanted to meet you—awake, that is. He is the paladin you fought beside in Sibili.”
Fenith had dark hair and wide brown eyes. He grinned at Paks. “I’ve been wanting to thank you. Your help came at the right time.”
Paks felt herself blushing. She wished she could remember what had happened. Without the memory, she could not feel she had done anything.
“But tell us,” Fenith went on, “how has the fighting been, where you were?”
They listened closely, and encouraged her to continue when she faltered, as she told about the weeks of pursuit and fighting. Not until then, telling it, did Paks realize how short the time had been. She felt they’d been marching forever, yet the spring green of the trees was just darkening. She had seen newborn calves even this past week. Paks wondered where the High Marshal and paladin had been. She did not dare to ask.
“I’ll be glad to see the end of this,” said Fenith, when she had finished. “It was necessary, but these realms will suffer for it.”
“Yes.” The High Marshal’s face settled into grim lines. “Evil has been wakened that will take much work to lay. And not only by Siniava.” Paks felt a threat she did not understand. He looked at her, and smiled. “Does it seem strange to you that a High Marshal of Gird and a paladin should be regretting a war?”
“A little—yes—”
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