Sheepfarmers Daughter (39 page)

Paks watched as the mailed figure rode away from the wall. Paladin or not, she had never seen such a warrior. Every bit of metal glittered like polished jewels, and the horse — it moved lightly as wind-blown down, yet gave the impression of strength and power. For an instant she pictured herself in that mail — on that horse — but that was ridiculous. She leaned her weight on the rope.

By the next afternoon, they were fighting their way through the citadel streets, upward and inward toward Siniava's palace. At last Paks could see an open space behind the defenders. Foot by foot they pushed Siniava's men back toward a broad paved court or square. Directly across from them, enemy troops poured from a high arched doorway in a tall building ornamented with balconies and turrets. Paks assumed it was Siniava's palace. To the left she could just see a massive edifice with a pillared porch above the wide flight of steps.

Then their own reserves managed to force themselves to the front, and Paks and the others in front edged back. She leaned on a wall and caught her breath, watching. More reserves passed her. With them were two Swordmasters of Tir, in their black armor, and a High Marshal of Gird in chainmail under a blue mantle. Beside the Marshal strode a man in glittering chainmail under a flaming red surcoat embroidered with the crescent of Gird. The paladin, thought Paks. She had not seen him so close before. Without thinking, she pushed herself away from the wall to follow him.

By this time, the attackers had forced the enemy most of the way across the square, where they battled fiercely before the palace doors. Paks and the clerics had almost reached the rear of that melee when an ill-armed rabble poured out of the pillared porch on their left to take the attackers on the flank. Quickly the unengaged rear ranks swung to meet them; Paks thought the newcomers looked too scared to be really dangerous, having lost surprise. Behind them, she saw a small group of mailed figures poised at the top of the steps. Even as she parried the unskilled blows, and killed the first of those attacking, a strange sound shook the air, and sent a tremor through her. The sunlight dimmed. Someone beside her shrieked and dropped his sword, scrambling backwards. The attackers screamed too, flailing ahead with even less skill.

From behind her a loud voice shouted a word Paks had never heard and could not afterwards remember. A crackling bolt of light shot past her ear toward the group on the porch. She gaped, a cold chill rippling down her spine, and nearly fell when someone slammed into her leg. She looked back at the attackers barely in time to dodge a sword thrust at her neck. Light flickered over her in blues and yellows, but she paid it no mind. The frantic crowd in front of her demanded all her attention.

Then they were gone — dead, wounded, or runaway — and she looked around. A knot of struggling fighters still contended in front of the palace. Some of her own cohort stood near, watching her. She realized they were waiting for her to tell them where to go next; she had no idea what to tell them. The Swordmasters, High Marshal, and paladin stood just behind the battle; they seemed intent on the group on the stairs, but Paks could not tell what they were doing. She glanced again at the enemy on the stairs, and stopped, fascinated.

The tallest one wore a blood-red surcoat over dead-black mail. On its head was a horned and spiked helmet; the visor was beaked. It carried an immense curved jagged blade with one hand, and a many-thonged whip in the other. A length of black chain clasped its red cloak, and chain belted the surcoat and scabbard. The others also wore black armor, and tunics of red and black plaid. All their weapons were spiked or jagged. Paks shivered. She wondered if she should offer to guard the clerics. Did they know what they faced?

Suddenly the black-armored figures moved, racing down the steps and screaming strange words. Something stung Paks's chest; she thought at once of Canna's medallion. The light dimmed; the enemy fighters brought a cloud of darkness with them. One of the clerics spoke: golden light lay over them all, bright enough for Paks to see the glitter of eyes within the visored helmets. Then the two groups crashed together. Eerie howls, blasts of wind both hot and cold, sizzlings, cracklings, flashing lights — she fought to keep her attention on the fight.

At first both sides ignored her, and they were so closely engaged that she could not find a good opening. Then she saw that the paladin was fending off two: one with both sword and whip, and the other with an axe. The spikes on the whip were catching in the paladin's mail, little jerks that might catch him off balance. Just as Paks reached the paladin's side, the whip fouled his shield-arm, and the axeman aimed a sweeping stroke at it. Paks threw herself forward, trying to block it with her sword.

When the blades met, a flare of blinding light sprang up, and her blade shattered. The hilts burned through her glove before she could drop the broken blade. She staggered into the axeman, seeing nothing but spots from the flash. Pain shot up her arm. She couldn't seem to draw her dagger. She blinked furiously to clear her vision, and felt herself being hoisted by shoulder and hip. She kicked out strongly, and hit something. Then she fell, hard, onto the stone, and had just time to see a black-booted foot swing back before the kick landed.

She woke to the muted light in the surgeons' tent. She had no idea why she was there until she tried to move her right arm. Her hand and wrist throbbed. When she looked, a bulky bandage swathed her arm to the elbow. She was thirsty. She looked around, and saw only other wounded on pallets. A low murmur of voices came from the next room. The curtain between the rooms billowed and the surgeon came through, a man in Girdish blue behind him.

"Ah — Paks," said the surgeon softly, coming to her. "You did wake up finally. How do you feel?"

"Thirsty," she said.

"No wonder." He poured a mug from the tall jug in the corner, and offered it. Paks reached, but when she lifted her head to drink pain stabbed her head and darkened her vision. The surgeon moved quickly to help her. "Blast it. I hoped you would be over that. Go on, now — drink as much as you can." She managed five or six swallows. "Is it just your head?"

"Yes — that is, my sword hand hurts some. What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"No. The last I remember is — is pulling a siege tower. And there was a cloud coming over the wall, and someone stopped it."

"Hmm. You've lost some time. You got a knock on your head some days ago, and then another one that left you flat out. And you've got a burned hand, though it will heal. You can thank High Marshal Kereth that it's no worse."

Paks looked at the Girdsman, now squatting on his heels beside her pallet. She had never been so close to any cleric. He had thick dark hair cropped below his ears, and the short—trimmed beard of one who fought in a visored helmet. Even out of armor and relaxed, he conveyed power and authority.

"They tell me," he began, "that you are not a follower of St. Gird. Is that so?"

Paks started to nod, but the pain lanced through her head again. "Yes, sir; it's true."

"But you wear his holy symbol. It was given to you, I understand, by a Girdsman?"

"Yes, sir. A friend — Canna."

"Ah. Did she tell you why she gave it to you? Had she been trying to convert you?"

"No, sir. I — I wasn't there when she died. The Duke told me she had left it to me. He — he said it would be right to keep it."

The High Marshal pursed his lips. "It's unusual. Most Girdsmen, if they die in battle or from wounds, want their symbols returned to the barton or grange where they joined. A friend might be asked to take it there, to tell the story of a brave death. Sometimes it's left to a family member. But to give it to a non—believer, out of the Fellowship of Gird — that's not common at all."

"Should I give it to you, then? To give to the — the barton?"

"Now, you mean?" His brows raised; he sounded surprised at the offer. Paks wondered why.

"Yes, sir."

"No." His head shake was emphatic, certain. "I don't think so. A dying friend's wish deserves respect; if she said you were to keep it, I think you should. But tell me, what do you know about St. Gird and his followers?"

Paks thought a long moment. "Well — Canna and Effa both said that Gird was a fighter. So good a fighter that he turned into a god or something, and now fighters can pray to him for courage and victory. And his clerics — Marshals — can heal wounds. Girdsmen are supposed to be honest and brave and never refuse to fight — but not cruel or unfair."

"Hmm." The High Marshal's mouth twitched in a brief smile. "And this doesn't appeal to you?"

"Well — sir — " Paks tried to think how to say it politely. "I don't quite see how a fighter could become a god."

She thought he might explain, but he said merely, "Anything else?"

"When I was a recruit, Effa tried to convert all of us. She told us about Gird's power and protection and all. But it seemed to me that if Gird favored fighting, he wouldn't be protecting much. Then Effa got a broken back in her first battle, and died a week later. Gird didn't heal her." Paks paused and looked at the High Marshal, but he said nothing, only nodded for her to go on. "And Canna — nobody could have been braver than Canna; if Gird cared about his followers at all, he should have saved her. She — she said it takes a Marshal to heal wounds, but if Gird is so powerful, I don't see why he can't go on and do it, without any fuss." Paks found she was glaring at the High Marshal, furious. Her head pounded.

The High Marshal's expression was serious, but held no rancor. "Let me explain what we know about Gird. He was a farmer — the sort of big, powerful farmer you see all over Fintha and Tsaia. Tall, strong, hot-headed — " Paks thought of her father. "The rulers in his day were cruel and unjust; Gird found himself leading a rebellion after they harrassed his village. Now these were just ordinary farmers — they had no weapons. They made clubs of firewood, and took scythes and plowhandles, and trained in the walled bartons of the village. And with these weapons, and these rough farmers, Gird managed to defeat the rulers with their fine army and its swords and spears." Paks thought that almost as unlikely as Effa's version — farmers winning against real soldiers? — but she kept her mouth shut. The High Marshal continued. "That's why we call our meeting places bartons, and the larger ones granges — that's where Gird's followers met and trained, in farmyard and barn."

Paks nodded, when the Marshal seemed to be waiting for her reaction, and he went on. "His friends wanted him to be their king, but Gird refused. Instead, he used his military command to change the army into something new — the protector of the helpless and innocent, rather than the tool of the rich. He insisted that his followers be honest, fair, and that they care for the poor. We have records, in our archives, of the peaceful years when Gird was chief among guardians." Again the Marshal glanced at her before going on.

"Then came a new threat. Powers of evil, exactly what we don't know. Many feared them too much to resist, and fled far away. But Gird went out to face them with his old cudgel. No one saw that battle, but the dark powers fled the land for many years, and Gird was not seen on earth again. Gird's best friend, who had been away on a journey, had a dream in which he saw Gird ascending to the Court of the High Lord — saw him honored there, and given a cudgel of light to wield. It was after that, when he told his dream, that the priests of the High Lord recognized Gird as a saint. We don't claim Gird is a god. We say he is a favored servant of the High Lord; he has been given powers to aid his followers and the cause of right."

Paks nodded slowly. Except for the bit about farmers winning battles against trained troops, this made more sense than Effa's explanation. And it had been long ago — maybe the rulers had had no real army, or Gird had had the gods' help. That much she could believe. "He sounds like a good man — and a good fighter."

"So are you, from what I saw yesterday," said the High Marshal. "Your friend who gave you her symbol must have thought well of you. If you ever do become a Girdsman, you'd be a good one."

Paks could not think what to say to this. She wished she could remember just what she'd done the day before, and she had no desire to become a follower of Gird.

"You don't remember yesterday at all?" he asked, with a quick sideways glance.

"No, sir."

He sighed. "I wish you did. I'd like to know why it didn't kill you."

"What?"

"You crossed blades with a priest of Liart, child. That should have been the death of you. It shattered your blade, burned your hand — Fenith could scarcely believe it when he saw you kick at the priest after that. It was bravely done, but foolish, to take on such a foe — and amazing that you survived it."

As he spoke, Paks saw a shadowy version of these things in her mind — not yet a memory, but the stirrings of what might become one. "Was there — someone in a red and black tunic, and a helmet with spikes — ?"

"Yes. Are you remembering?"

"Not exactly. It's not clear at all. Why should their blades burn my hand?"

"Because his weapon was no ordinary axe."

"You mean magical?" She thought of Dorrin's sword.

"If you call a curse magic." The High Marshal frowned. "Do you know whose priests those were?"

"No... I'd never seen anything like them."

"I should hope not. The Master of Torments, or Liart, is an evil deity not worshipped openly in lands where the Fellowship of Gird has any influence. His priests carry weapons of great power. Evil power. No ordinary weapon can turn their strokes; unless a warrior has uncommon aid or protection he dies. Liart desires the fear of those he controls. He delights in causing strife, in murders and massacres, in bloodlust and torture. His weapons cause pain as well as death, and slavery thrives in his dominion." He smiled at her for a moment. "So you see why I am so interested in your symbol of Gird. I would not expect such a symbol alone to protect an ordinary wearer — even a Girdsman — from certain death. But I cannot think what else saved you — and something surely did. Are you under another deity's protection?"

"No, sir. Not that I know of. I — we — where I grew up, we followed the High Lord — the old gods. I'd never heard of Gird until I joined the Company."

"I see. Was that in the north?"

"Yes, sir. Far north — a village called Three Firs."

"Which kingdom is it in?"

"I don't know, exactly — it's some way north and west of the Duke's stronghold."

"Fintha, or the borders of it. If you never heard of Gird, you heard heroes' tales enough, I'll warrant."

"Yes, sir. Many of them: Torre's Ride, and the Song of Seliast, and the Deed of Cullen Long-arm."

"Ah, yes. Was it those songs made you decide to be a warrior?"

Paks blushed and looked away. "Well — in a way — when I was very small. I — I did dream about it, the magic swords and winged horses, and all. But then my cousin became a soldier. When he came back he had tales to tell, and he told me the best way would be to join the mercenaries, the good ones. He told me what to look for — not to join any wild band, but an honorable company. The others, he said, were full of thieves and bullies, and cared only for gold."

"And that mattered to you? That your companions should be honest and fair?"

"Of course." Paks stared at him in surprise.

"And have you found them so, in this company?" He was looking down at his hands, not at her.

"Yes, sir. It wasn't exactly what I expected, but — surely no one could ask better companions. And it is an honorable company; the Duke keeps it so."

"How was it not what you expected?"

"Oh — " Paks grinned sheepishly. "I hadn't known about the camp work — cooking, cleaning, digging, all that. Jornoth left that out. Then I had thought I'd be fighting robbers and evil things — even Orcs, maybe — as in the tales. But most of our fighting is against other mercenaries or militia — whoever we're hired to fight. This year's different, of course."

The Marshal nodded. "And would you feel better if you were fighting for such a purpose all the time?"

Paks thought about it. "I don't know. I like to fight — the Duke is very good, and fair. I'm glad to serve him. It's hard to imagine anything else. And this year, we're fighting a great evil. I like that. Siniava killed my friends last year, and tortured, too."

"Yes, this campaign is clearly one of good against evil, and that suits you. But ordinarily —?"

She frowned, choosing her words. "Sir, I — I serve our Duke. That was my oath, when I joined. He is worthy of my service; he has never asked any dishonorable thing. I have no right to question —judge — the contracts he takes."

The High Marshal looked at her thoughtfully. "I see. Yes, your Duke is a good man; I won't argue that. And you are loyal, which is good. But something is moving you, which I do not understand, and I think you hardly realize. You may be called to leave your Duke, at least for a time. If so, I hope you will understand the need. Now I can see that you are tiring, and need your rest. Would you like anything to eat, or just more water?"

Paks was puzzling her way through what the High Marshal said; his final question caught her by surprise. "No sir," she said. 'Just —just water, if it's near."

He chuckled. "Your surgeon left a bottle here. Can you manage?" He passed it, and this time nothing happened when she lifted her head to drink. The water was cold; she shivered as she drank. The Marshal rose and brought another blanket from the pile. "Rest now," he said. "I would like to speak to you again, if you don't mind — " She shook her head. "Good. May Gird's care be with you." He moved away; Paks stared, still confused.