Sheepfarmers Daughter (38 page)

"Wait until you see this," he said, dropping in on the ground. It clinked. He worked at the knot one-handed. Keri reached to help. "Thanks. There: look at that." They looked at a miscellaneous collection of bracelets, rings, coins, and little carved disks of ivory or shell. Jenits grinned. "That's what I get for being one-armed right now — not strong enough for the heavy stuff. Refer had me working through the goldsmithies and jewelers' shops with him, and he said to take this much — and to share it with my friends, if I wanted to keep any. I knew that you, Paks, were stuck in those warehouses, and Keri and Volya hadn't found anything better than a stray silver, so here I am. Take your pick."

"Is it really gold?" asked Volya doubtfully.

"I think so. It's soft, like gold, and it doesn't look like copper. It's heavy."

Keri reached over and picked up a ring with a pale green stone. "I wonder what this is."

"I don't know. But let's split it up, before I lose my generous impulses. Paks, you choose first; you're the veteran."

Paks looked over the small pile. "I could take this bracelet for my sister," she said tentatively. It was made in a pattern of linked leaves, with tiny blue stones between them. "We'll take turns," she went on.

"Go on, then. Keri?"

"I'll take this ring."

"I like this," said Volya. She had found a little gold fish, arched as if it were leaping, with a loop formed by the dorsal fin to hold a chain.

Jenits held out his left hand, with a heavy gold ring set with onyx on the first finger. "I cheated," he said. "I took my favorite out first." They laughed and went on choosing. When they'd finished, Jenits folded the square of silk and tucked it into his tunic. "I feel much safer now," he said. "I was afraid I'd have a greedy fit, and you've done all the fighting. By the way, Paks — "

"Hmm?"

"My arm doesn't hurt any more—when can I come back to regular duty?"

"What did the surgeons tell you?"

"Oh —well — six weeks altogether. But it's been three, and it doesn't hurt. I don't want to miss Sibili, and I feel well enough. I thought you could say something to the sergeants."

Paks looked up from Volya's sword and shook her head. 'Jenits, it's up to the surgeons. You won't do us any good if you try to fight and it's not healed. Likely it'd come apart at the first stroke, and you'd be worse off than ever. You can ask the surgeon — "

Jenits scowled. "The last time I asked him, he said to quit pestering. Bones heal at their speed, he said, and not for wishing."

"That sounds like Master Simmitt. He's the sharp-tongued one. You won't miss Sibili anyway. We're all marching — "

"But I'll miss the fighting. And if Siniava's there — "

"You wouldn't have a chance at him anyway. You'll see enough fighting, if you stay whole."

"I hope so. To break an arm, my very first — " Jenits broke off as Stammel came up; he squatted beside them with a sigh.

"Well, Jenits, is your arm holding up?"

"Yes, sir. I was just wondering — "

"No, you can't fight with us at Sibili. Not unless we're longer taking that city than I expect. Paks, the Duke's enrolled a few men from Cha —Andressat's faction, of course — and we'll have six of'em in our cohort. You've gotten these well broken in. I'd like you to take on one of the new men."

Paks thought of several questions, but when she met Stammel's brown eyes she was guided by their wary expression. "Yes, sir. When?"

"Now." Paks rose when he did, and left the rest where they were. When they were out of earshot, Stammel had more to say. "This is new, Paks, taking new men during a campaign. The captain said it's because he wants us at full strength. I suppose that means he'll be recruiting all season. These men, now — the Count vouched for them, and they look like fighters, but of course we don't know anything about them. If you start having doubts, let me know at once." He shot her a hard glance, and waited until she nodded. "Another thing — down here they don't have many women fighters. You heard what the Count said. Well, I thought if we take these men, they'll have to get used to our ways. That's one reason I wanted you to help. Clear enough?"

Paks nodded, though she still felt confused. It was hard to imagine strangers — outsiders —
southerners
as part of the Company. But she could see that Stammel had no answers, and possibly even more questions, so she asked nothing. He sighed again and led her to a group of about twenty men standing with the captains. Three of them had mail shirts, and four had bronze breastplates. The rest wore leather armor. They were all muscular and looked fit enough. Several of Paks's friends stood nearby: Barra, Vik, and Arñe. Vik raised his expressive eyebrow but said nothing. Stammel turned away, and came back in a few minutes with three more of Paks's cohort. He spoke to Arcolin, who pointed out six of the strangers. They followed Stammel.

"Paks, this is Halek," Stammel said. Halek was a several fingers shorter than Paks, with sandy hair and mustache, and pale eyes. Stammel went on. "Halek, she'll show you where to eat and sleep, and what you're expected to do—"

"She?" Halek's tone was derisive. Paks felt a prickle of anger. "What do you think I am, some little boy to take orders from a nursemaid?" Paks clamped her jaw shut. Stammel gave the man a cold stare.

"Either you follow orders, Halek, or you go explain to the captain that you don't want to join us — and why." The man opened his mouth, but Stammel gave him no chance to speak. "No argument. Obey, or leave."

Halek glanced sideways at Paks and flushed. "Yes — sir."

"Come along," said Paks, and walked off without looking at him. She felt his resistance, then a slackening as he gave in and followed her. She was glad she was taller. When they had walked some strides she spoke over her shoulder.

"Our cohort — Arcolin's our captain — is loading today. When did you eat last?"

"This morning. Early." He sounded grumpy.

"Then we'll eat now." Paks angled toward the cooks' tent. "What weapons do you use?"

"Sword," he said. "Not like yours — longer, and not so wide. Or the curved blade Siniava's men carry."

"Are you used to formation fighting? Can you use polearms?"

"No. Where would I learn that? The only organized units around here are Siniava's, and I wouldn't fight for that." The man spat, then lengthened his stride to come up with her. "Listen — are you really a soldier, not a cook or something?"

Paks glared down at him and he reddened. "Yes, I'm a soldier — as you'll find out soon enough. More of one than you, I daresay, if all you've done is play around with a dueller's weapon. I hope you can learn formation fighting, or you won't be any use to us at all."

"Your tongue's sharp, anyway," he said.

"You can test my blade later," said Paks. She led Halek through the serving line, then to a loading crew. He was strong and willing to work; Paks tried to think better of him. By midafternoon the loading was done; they went in search of the armsmasters. Siger was already working with two of the other newcomers, these assigned to Dorrin's cohort. A number of the Duke's men stood around watching. It was always a treat to see the wizened little armsmaster drive a much bigger opponent around the practice ring. Finally he called a halt, and the two men, puffing and sweating, moved out of the ring.

"Not enough marching," grumbled Siger to their backs. "More wind's what you want, and then an old man like me couldn't make you lose breath." He turned to the circle of watchers. "Enjoying yourselves, eh? Well, you all need a workout. Suppose you, there — and you — " he pointed, "get busy with swords, and you four with pikes — " The crowds melted away. Paks and the others with new men stayed. "Ah yes," said Siger when he saw them. "What have we here? Let's see your paces." He beckoned to Halek, who stepped into the ring. "Sword?" asked Siger. "Polearms?"

"Sword," said Halek. "But not that short one. I've used a longer one, or the curved — "

Siger grinned at him. "You'll learn. That's what I'm for, and Paks will teach you a lot." He handed Halek a blade. "Now — are you used to a shield?"

"I've used one."

"We'll start without. Go slowly until you get used to the length." They crossed blades and Siger began his usual commentary. "Hmm. I see you've done more fencing than military — that stroke won't work with this blade. You don't have the length. No, and you can't dance about like that in formation, either." He tapped Halek's ribs when an opening came. "When you don't have a shield, your blade must do its work. A little faster now — yes." The clatter of blades speeded up. "No, you're still jigging around too much. Stop now — "As Halek lowered his blade, Siger looked around and motioned to Paks and several others. "Form a line with him," he said. "Paks, come over here and take my shield side. Now — what's your name?"

"Halek."

"Halek, good. Now you'll see what I mean about staying in formation — these on either side will protect your flanks, as you protect theirs. If you stay in line with them, you'll be fine. Clear?"

"Yes. But there's three of us, and only two of you — "

Siger glanced at Paks and smiled slightly. "That's no problem to
us
. Paks, put a banda on; we don't want you stiff at Sibili." Paks stepped to the pile of bandas and returned to Siger's side. Facing her was Sif, of Dorrin's cohort, with Halek in the middle and Vik on the far end. She found she could hold her own against him easily, with strokes to spare for Halek. Siger, despite Vik's aggressive attack, had breath and arm to spare, as usual. He continued his commentary on Halek's swordsmanship and found time to correct the rest of them.

Halek kept trying to shift to one side or the other, but found himself locked between his companions and his opponents' swords. Finally he seemed to get the idea, and began working with Vik and Sif. Sif, now that Halek was doing better, pressed harder. Paks was acutely aware of her unprotected shield arm. She found herself countering strokes rather than pressing her own attack. Halek almost made a touch on her. He grinned. That, thought Paks, is a mistake. She slipped the leash on her anger, forcing a startled Sif back, and back again, and giving Halek two good thumps with her blade. Siger moved with her, stroke for stroke, and they pushed the others to the edge of the ring.

"Hold," said Siger. As they lowered their blades, he said, "Halek, you'll need to practice this way every day. Your bladework is fair, considering your experience, but your cross-body strokes are weak; that's why you shift so. Come back here in a half-glass with a shield, and we'll start again." He turned to Paks. "Tell Stammel that Halek needs the time with me, and see if they'll release you, too." Paks nodded.

"Come on, Halek," she said. "We'll get you a shield from the quartermaster."

"What about a sword?"

"Not until I say you're ready," said Siger.

Paks and Halek walked back toward the quartermaster's wagon. Halek was silent for a few yards, then said gruffly. "You're — you're good with a sword."

"I ought to be," said Paks cheerfully. "Siger spent enough yelling and putting bruises on me." She felt good.

"Mmph. Well — I didn't think you would be. I've never seen women fighters before."

"Siniava doesn't use them at all?"

"Oh, I hear he's got a few girls — they duel, and that, at banquets and the like. And of course there's women with his army, but not for fighting." He chuckled. Paks felt herself getting hot again.

"Things are different in this Company," she said firmly.

"I can see that." He walked on a few paces in silence. "But — I don't see how — why — a woman would want to be a fighter. It's hard work — dirty — you can get killed — " He sounded genuinely puzzled.

Paks found herself suppressing a laugh. "Hard work? Were you ever on a farm? Working? No, I thought not. This is no harder than farmwork I was doing at home, and it's no dirtier than butchering sheep. As for getting killed — women die having babies, if it comes to that." She glanced at him to see his reaction; his face was furrowed in a frown. "Besides," she went on, "I like fighting. I'm good at it, and I enjoy it, and I get paid for it. I'd make a very bad farmer's wife."

"Well, but — aren't you going to marry someday?"

Paks shook her head. "No. Some do, but not me. I never wanted to."

"I just can't — are there many women like you in the north?"

Paks shrugged. "I don't know. Some. You saw Captain Dorrin, and Arñe at lunch. Maybe a fourth of us in this Company are women."

"I see." He still looked puzzled.

Early the next morning they set out for Sibili, marching along the north bank of the Chaloqueel on a wide stone road. Those three days came back to Paks later as a kind of dream — the rich valley farmlands, with fruit trees in full bloom, clouds of pale pink flowers that strewed their petals on every gust of wind, leaving the hollows of the road drifted with delicate color. On the slopes, grapevines had sprouted tufts of furry greenish-white leaflets. Rows of vegetables, plots of grain like green velvet — but all empty and quiet.

The sun had just set on the third day when they saw Sibili's walls dark against the glowing western sky. Rain began again that night; the next day they picked up what news they could while settling into camp and readying for the assault. Sapping teams had already started work; Cracolnya's cohort joined a small group of men in rust-colored tunics who supervised the construction of more siege towers and catapults.

"Who's that?" asked Keri, of the rust-uniformed men. Paks shrugged.

"I don't know. I never saw them before." She stopped Devlin and asked him.

"That's Plas Group — Marki Plas. They're a special company — all they do is siege machines. A section of them came down with Aesil M'dierra."

Despite heavier rain the following day, the assault began, with Andressat and Westland troops in two siege towers. Mercenary archers scoured the wall. The Phelani and Halverics stayed back as reserves; Paks could not see much through the rain, but watched Plas Group specialists operating the two catapults, winding down the arm, loading stones into the cup. She noticed that they adjusted the ropes with each shot, to compensate for dampness. But neither the catapults nor the assault succeeded, and the attackers straggled back that evening in no mood to explain what had gone wrong.

During the night the rain stopped. The Phelani and Halverics struggled to move a third siege tower to the walls under cover of darkness. With the others, Paks cursed angrily as its wheels sank into the mud again and again; by dawn they were still some distance from the walls, in easy range of enemy bowmen. The Duke ordered them back; Paks was glad to leave the unwieldy tower where it had stuck fast. Once out of bowshot, she finally had a chance to see what Sibili looked like. Built on a hump of ground near the river, its inner citadel stood higher than the rest; the walls were well built of buff colored stone. Although the city did not look as formidable as Cortes Andres, Paks though it would be harder to take than Cha. Overall it reminded her of a larger Rotengre, long and narrow, with heavy gates pinched between massive towers.

During that day, both sides used fire weapons. The defenders poured oil on one of the siege towers and lit it, with a cohort of Pliuni on the way up inside. The Pliuni fled, not without casualties. Plas Group lobbed stones smeared with burning pitch over the walls. The defenders fired the second tower; Andressat and Phelani troops rushed to drag it away from the walls and managed to keep the fire from burning the lower framework, but it was too damaged to use until rebuilt.

That night Paks helped drag the remaining siege tower into place while the sappers fired their tunnels. She heard a deep rumble off to her right, and shrill cries from the wall. Had the wall come down?

"Don't stop!" said Captain Pont. "Move this thing!" Over the pounding blood in her ears, Paks heard horn signals and the clamor of combat. At last the tower reached the wall. A body of men they could not see — supposedly the Halverics —jingled past and started up the tower stairs.

"Get armed and ready," said Devlin. Paks wiped the sweat from her face and stretched before slipping her arm into her shield grip. They crowded into the base of the tower, blind in that sheltered darkness.

Suddenly a crash from the top of the tower and a cry from the wall signalled the start of their own assault. The troops on the stairs surged upward. Pont held them back until the first group was halfway to the next level, then sent them on. In the blackness, Paks fell up the first two steps; someone else stumbled into her, cursing. She found her balance and went on. As she neared the top, dim light filtered in. She saw torches on the wall, and fires in the city itself. As she crossed the bridge to the wall, she tried not to think of the many feet of empty air below.

"There!" Vossik of Dorrin's cohort waved an arm to the right; Paks came up behind a line of Halverics slowly pushing enemy pikemen away from the bridge. Where were the rest of them? she wondered. She had no time to think about it; the enemy pressed hard, and the man in front of her fell. She leaped forward over him, taking his place in the Halveric line. She could feel behind her the growing pressure of her own comrades. Slowly, step by step, they forced their way along the wall.

In the dancing torchlight she found it hard to see the enemy's thrusts; she hoped they had the same problem. Paks ducked under one pike and slashed at a man in their front line. She got a hit, then another, then something — what she didn't know — hit her helmet and almost knocked her down. The enemy yelled, as she staggered, and Halverics closed around her. Then she was up, and fighting again. Someone yelled in her ear, and she shook her head, trying to understand. What did they mean, "almost there"?

Suddenly a horrible howling stunned her, followed by a blinding blue flash that lit up the entire city. For just an instant, Paks could see the breach in the wall, just behind the enemy she faced. Then came blackness, utter and thick. Screams and bellows filled the air. The lines crashed together; Paks was crushed in a welter of bodies, all struggling. Something raked her sword arm. She could not get free for a swing, but drove the tip of her sword into what she hoped was an enemy. Someone fell into her. She lost her balance and fell sprawling under a pile of men and weapons, the stink ofblood and sweat strong in her nostrils.

All at once light returned: not torchlight, but a mellow golden light over the city itself. In an instant the pile of fighters separated into warring factions, struggling to kill and get free. Paks felt a stabbing pain in her leg, as she wrenched her shield free of a wounded man's shoulder and parried an enemy thrust. She made it to one knee. Someone grabbed her shield arm and pulled. She tried to pivot, but a man on the wall thrust up at her; she had to counter that. The pull steadied her; she got her legs under her again, and whoever had grabbed her let go. She was in a ragged line with several Halverics and some from her own cohort. Most of the enemy were down, some crawling away. They waded into the rest, and cleared the wall as far as the breach before the golden light faded. Paks looked for the source, but could not see it.

"Are you all right?" It was a Halveric private beside her. Paks nodded; pain shot through her head. "Yes —just winded, I think."

"Your arm's bleeding a lot. Sorry I grabbed you like that — "

"Was that you? It helped. I thought you were one of them, at first."

"I know. You seemed dazed, and those scum were moving — "

"Paks." Devlin had come along the wall. "What besides this arm?" Paks shifted her weight as Devlin took her arm, and the pain in her leg reminded her.

"Left leg — something, I haven't looked. And something hit my head hard; it feels like the helmet's too tight."

"You'd better go back — "

"No, I'm fine. Now that I've got my breath — "

"Go back. This isn't over yet. Get that arm tied up, at least. We'll need you later." He shoved her toward the rear.

As Paks edged her way past those who had just come up, she felt the day's fatigue like a smothering sack of wool. One of the surgeons stationed near the bridge from the siege tower waved her down next to a group of wounded. Paks sank down and tried to ease her helmet off. It wouldn't come; she felt a dint in the front.

"Wait," said the surgeon. "Just sit there — " he turned to one of the others. "We'll need more torches here." The man nodded and moved off, and the surgeon tightened the bandage he was applying. "There. Yes. Now let me see that helmet — yes. Quite a dint. Do you know what hit you?" Paks shook her head. "Did you fall down?" "Not then."

"Let me get it off." He pulled it off and touched her head. Paks winced. "Tender, eh? I'm not surprised, with that lump." Several men came up with torches. "Good," he told them. "Hold one here. Now look at it," he told Paks. She squinted at the bright glare. "Not too bad. Let's see that arm — anything else?"

"Something stuck my leg." Paks moved her left leg a little. Someone — not the surgeon—took off her boot. It hurt. She tried to see what it looked like.

"Hold still," scolded the surgeon. "This arm needs work; I'll see the leg in a moment." Paks smelled the pungent cleansing solution and braced herself. It felt cold, then burned. Her head throbbed, and she closed her eyes. She felt the surgeon start probing the wound in her leg. She heard him mutter to someone else, and hands steadied her leg as the pain sharpened. She wanted to argue with him, but it was too late. She thought he must be sewing up the hole, whatever it was, but it felt much worse. She wanted to throw up.

"It's the head, mostly," said the surgeon; Paks opened her eyes. Refer was there, staring at her, and Arcolin stood by the tent flap. Tent?

"I thought we were on the wall," she said. The surgeon turned to her. "You were. You'd been hit on the head, and you passed out while I was working on your leg."

"Oh." She couldn't remember anything of that, just being on the wall, and fighting, and strange lights.

"Was there a blue light?" she asked doubtfully. "And a yellow one later?"

"Yes." Arcolin stepped nearer. He was scowling. "That was clerics — theirs first, then ours."

"Clerics?" Paks felt even more confused. She had never seen any priest or Marshal make strange lights.

"Never mind that now." He turned to the surgeon. "How long?" The surgeon shrugged. "A good night's sleep, I expect. Maybe a day." He brought Paks a mug. As her vision blurred with numbwine, she saw the surgeon follow Arcolin and Refer from the tent.

She woke to broad daylight. The surgeon, busy with others, saw her test the tender lump on her head. "How is it?"

"Fine."

"Try moving around." Paks sat up and winced as her bandaged arm and leg twinged. But these were minor pains; she could move easily. "Go on and stand." She had no trouble with that, either, and he sent her out. "Get a new helmet — size or so too large, and use extra padding for a day or so. If you get dizzy, or your eyes blur, come back at once. And eat before you go back on duty."

Outside, their camp was in turmoil. Paks could see more troops — Westland men — marching into Sibili through the breached wall. She wondered why they weren't using the gates. Smoke rose over the city walls. As she headed for the quartermaster, she saw Dorrin's cohort returning from the city, faces black with soot and grime.

Her new helmet felt unwieldy, even after she wrapped a cloth around her head. She tried again. Still odd-feeling. When she got to the cooks' tent, she found Barra and Natzlin.

"We heard you were hurt," said Barra, dishing up stew.

"Something hit my head."

"Are you going back in?" Paks wondered if she imagined the edge in that tone.

"Of course. Where's Arcolin — or Pont?"

"They're inside. It's a mess in there, too."

"What about it?"

"They've got some kind of wizard or priest and just when you think you've got a group on the run, there'll be a stinking black cloud all around; you can blunder into anything. Walls, a fire, their fighters — you can't see your own nose."

"And look out for the ones that don't look armed," added Natzlin. "They dress like rich folk, but they carry throwing knives." She gestured to a cut on her cheekbone. "They're good with them, too. You could lose an eye."

"Who've we lost?" asked Paks.

"In Arcolin's? I heard that Suri fell from the tower last night, and someone — who was it, Natz? — took a crossbow bolt in the eye."

"Gan, that was — Gannarrion. And Halek — "

"Halek? What happened to him?"

"Sword thrust in the gut, on the wall."

Paks finished her stew in silence. She had not liked Halek, not at all. But she wished she knew it had not been her sword, there in the darkness. She found her cohort; by the end of that day, the gate tower had fallen, and the attacking troops moved freely through the twisting streets of the lower city. Paks hardly noticed; she marched with the others back to camp, aware only of great weariness.

She woke early, just at daybreak, and was startled to find Volya beside her.

"You were acting strange, yesterday," said Volya. "We thought someone should keep an eye on you."

"I was?" Paks had only the haziest memory of the previous day. There'd been fighting on a wall or a gate or something like that. "I'm fine, now."

"That's what you told Barra yesterday." Volya looked stubborn.

"It's true now, anyway." Paks combed her hair and rebraided it; the lump still hurt when she ran the comb over it. She was very hungry and wondered if she'd eaten the night before.

Although the outer part of the city had fallen, the inner citadel still resisted. Sapping teams were busy at those walls, now. Plas Group had repaired the damaged siege tower; Paks found herself once more hauling on a rope with others, and cursing the ungainly monster that lurched from sStone to stone. Suddenly a shout made her look up. A black cloud rolled over the citadel wall and flowed down toward the sapper's shelter. A man in glittering mail spurred his horse toward that part of the wall, raising a mailed fist over his head. Light streaked from his fist to form a web between the cloud and the sappers. When the blackness reached it, green flames sprang up and the cloud disappeared.

Vik nudged her in the ribs. "I heard that's a paladin of Gird."

Paks stared. "That?" She had never believed she would see one.

"Yes. There's a High Marshal here too, and two Swordmasters of Tir, and more — I don't know what — from Pliuni and Westland."

Paks felt ignorant again; she didn't know what a High Marshal was. "What have they got inside?"

"I heard it's a temple to the Master of Torments — some southern god, I suppose. But their priest or whatever they call him has power enough. That's what that blue flash and darkness was, the night we broke the wall. And these black clouds."