The Deed of Paksenarrion (117 page)

Paks growled, then stumbled over the words. “Can free myself. Can fight.”

The iynisi smiled. “Yes, that’s right. You can fight. You can free yourself. We will let you fight, Paksenarrion. Just one more fight, and you will be free. You will be with your friends.”

Suddenly Paks’s mind cleared for an instant; she seemed to see Amberion, Ardhiel, and the Marshals before her. Those were her friends. Were they here? Mingled worry and hope rose in her. She glared at the iynisi: what did he mean, fight herself free?

“Ah—some memory coming back. That is well. Now listen to me. You must fight once more, fight your way through some of our lesser servants, to reach your friends. If you can do this, you may go free. Otherwise, you will die, and so will they. We will arm you in what you have won.”

Before she could reply, he waved into the cell several iynisin carrying a suit of black plate armor, a black helmet crested in black horsehair, and a handsome longsword with a curious design at the crosshilts. Paks had no time to examine it. The iynisin began to fit the armor on her; she found, as always, that she could not move when the caped one commanded her to stand still. The armor had a strange feel; it made her uneasy. The helmet was even worse. As it neared her head, she felt a sudden loathing for it, and tried to duck aside. The effort was hopeless. Down over her head came the helmet, close-fitting around her ears and cheeks. She felt breathless. Someone pulled the visor down. She squinted through the eyeslit, but found that everything wavered as if seen through a blowing mist.

“I can’t see!” she said.

“That’s all right,” the iynisi answered. His voice echoed unpleasantly in the helmet. “All down here are your enemies, yes? All are enemies. Here—take the sword.” She felt the sword hilt pressed into her right hand. She hefted the blade. It felt good. “All enemies—” said the iynisi’s voice, now behind her. “Go—fight—fight for your rights, Paksenarrion. Fight your enemies. Fight—”

She hardly needed that encouragement. She was walking down the corridor, away from the cell, walking alone and unguarded for the first time. At first she could barely see well enough to stay away from the walls, but then her vision cleared a little. She saw iynisin ahead of her, all running somewhere. Those who looked at her screamed, and ran faster. Behind the visor, she smiled. Soon. Soon she would show them. She was no longer helpless; now she had the power she had longed for all those dark hours. She wondered which way to go, heard a confused clangor from a wide cross passage, and turned to see what it was. A fight. A big fight. She saw the passage choked with armed figures: iynisin, orcs, others. She drew breath and stalked forward, sword ready.

She struck the back of a confused mass, hating the black-clad iynisin who had laughed at her. Wide sweeps of her sword parted heads from shoulders, and cleared a space around her. Those in front turned to face her; she leveled the great blade and swiped from side to side, laughing. The black cloaks melted away. Beyond them were greater ones, huge to her eyes. Hatred and anger flared together in her mind. You too, she thought. I will fight. I will fight through all of you, whatever you are. Fight through to my friends. By Gird—the name leapt into her mind, and she opened her mouth to yell it out loud. This time, at last, the sound passed her lips: not as a yell, little louder than a whisper: “In the name of Gird.”

A vast space opened in her mind, and out of it a voice like stone said, “Stop!” She froze. One arm held the sword up for another swing, one foot had nearly left the ground. At once she was bereft of vision and hearing, and plunged into darkness.

Paks woke to darkness. She lay a moment, feeling cool air—living air—wash over her face. She lay wrapped in something soft, on something more yielding than stone. She blinked. She could see something glittering overhead. Stars. The current of air quickened; it smelled of pine and horses and woodsmoke. She could not think where she was. Her mouth was dry. She tried to clear her throat, but made a strange croaking noise. At once a voice—a human voice—spoke out of the darkness.

“Paks? Do you want something?”

Tears filled her eyes, and ran down her face. She could not speak. She heard a rustle of clothing, then a hand came out of darkness and touched her face.

“Paks? Are you crying? Here—” The hand withdrew, and after a sharp scratching noise, a light flared near her and steadied. She thought: lamp. Her tears blurred everything to wavering points of light and blackness. The hand returned, a gentle touch, stroking her head. “There, Paks, it’s all right. You’re safe now; you’re free.”

She could not stop the tears that kept flowing. She began to tremble with the effort, and the person beside her called softly to someone else. Another person loomed beside her. “The spell’s going, I think,” said the first voice.

“About time, too. Can she speak yet?”

“No. But she’s aware. I hope we can get her to drink; she’s as dry as old bone.”

“I’ll lift her.” The second person slipped an arm under her shoulders; Paks felt herself shift as she was lifted to lean against a leather tunic. “There now. Paks? You need to drink something. Here—” She felt a cool rim at her lips, and sipped. It was water, cold and clean. She swallowed again and again. “Good,” said the voice. “That’s what you need.”

“I’ll get more,” said the first voice, and she heard the rasp of footsteps. She drank another flask full. Tears still ran from her eyes. She did not know who these people were, or where she was, or what had happened. Only that it was better now. At last she slipped back into sleep, still crying.

She woke in daylight: light blue sky overhead, red rocks against the sky. She turned her head. She lay on a sandbank above a stream. She could see horses across the stream, and men in chainmail grooming them. Nearer was the pale flickering light of a campfire. Around it were three men, a woman, and a dwarf. One of the men and the woman left the campfire and came toward her. They were smiling. She wondered why.

“Paks, are you feeling better this morning?” That was the woman. Paks felt her way along the words, trying to understand. This morning. Did that mean that it was last night, the voices and the crying? Better? She tried to roll up on one elbow, but found she could hardly move. She felt utterly weak, as if she were hollow from the bones out.

“Can you speak at all, Paks?” asked the man. She looked at him. Dark hair with a few silver threads, short dark beard. Chainmail under a yellow tunic. They wanted her to say something. She had nothing to say. They were smiling at her, both of them. She looked from face to face. The man’s smile faded as she watched. “Paks, do you know who I am?” She shook her head. “Mmm. Do you know where you are?” Again the headshake. “Do you know who you are?”

“Paks?” she answered softly, tentatively.

“Do you know your full name?”

Paks thought a long moment. Something seeped into her mind. “Paks. Paks—Paksenarrion, I think.”

The man and woman looked at each other and sighed. “Well,” said the woman, “that’s something. How about breakfast, Paks?”

“Breakfast—” she repeated slowly.

“Are you hungry?”

Again Paks thought her way to the meaning of the words. Hungry? Her stomach rumbled, answering for her. “Food,” she murmured.

“Fine,” said the woman. “I’ll bring it.” She strode off.

Paks looked at the man. “Who is that?” she asked.

“The woman? Pir. She’s a knight.” His voice held slight coolness.

“Should—should I know her?”

“Yes. But don’t worry about that. Do you remember anything of what happened?”

Paks shook her head before answering. “No. I don’t remember anything much. Did I—did I do something bad?”

“Not that I know of. What makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know.” Paks turned her head to look the other way. She was looking up a narrow valley or canyon walled with red rock on both sides. Nothing looked familiar.

The woman returned, carrying a deep bowl that steamed, a mug, and a waterskin slung from one wrist. “Here—stew, bread, and plenty of water. Can you sit up?” Paks tried, but again was too weak. The man propped her against a pack he dragged from a few feet away. The women set the bowl on the sand, poured water into the mug, and offered it. Paks tried to wiggle a hand free from the blanket around her, but the woman had to help her even with that. When she took the mug, her hand shook so that much of the water slopped onto her face and neck; it was icy cold. But what she managed to drink refreshed her.

“I’ll help you with the stew,” said the woman. “You’re too shaky to manage it.” She offered it spoonful by spoonful. Paks ate, at first without much interest, but with increasing relish. She began to feel more alert. A thread of memory returned, though she could not tell if it was recent or remote.

She looked at the man. “Is this Duke Phelan’s camp?”

His face seemed to harden. “No. Do you remember Duke Phelan?”

“I think so. He was—not so tall as you. Red hair. Yes—I thought I was still in his Company. But I’m not. I don’t think so—am I?”

“Not any more, no. But if you remember that, then your memory is coming back. That’s good.”

“But where—? I should—I should know you, shouldn’t I? You asked me that. And I can’t—I don’t know you—any of you—or this—” Her voice began to shake.

“Take it easy, Paks. It will come back to you. You’re safe here.” The man turned away for a moment, and waved to someone Paks could not see.

“But if I—when I was with the Duke, I was a soldier. I must have been. And you’re wearing mail. What happened?” Paks tried again to push herself up; this time she got both arms out of the blanket around her. She had on a loose linen shirt; below its sleeves her arms were seamed with the swollen purple lines of healing wounds. Her wrists were bandaged with strips of linen. She stared at them, and then at the man. “What is this place? Did you—”

He reached out and took her hand; his grip was firm but gentle. “No, Paks, I did not deal those injuries. We brought you out of the place where that happened.” He turned to another man who had just walked up to them. “She’s awake, and making sense, but her memory hasn’t returned. Paks, do you know this man?”

Paks stared at the lean face framed in iron-gray hair and beard. He looked stern and even grim, but honest. She wanted to trust him. She could not remember him at all. “No, sir,” she said slowly. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said the second man. “I wonder,” he said to the first, “whether we should try to tell her what we know.”

“Names, at least,” said the dark man. “Or she’ll be completely confused. Paks, my name is Amberion; I’m a paladin of Gird. And this is Marshal Fallis, of the Order of the Cudgel.”

The names meant nothing to Paks, and the men looked no more familiar with strange names attached. She looked from one to the other. “Amberion. Marshal Fallis.” They looked at her, glanced at each other, then back at her.

“Do you remember who Gird is, Paks?” asked Marshal Fallis.

Paks wrinkled her brow, trying to think. The name woke a distant uneasiness. “Gird. I—I know I should. Something—it’s—what to do—to call—when—” she stopped, breathing hard, and tried again. “When you start to fight—only—I couldn’t say it aloud! I tried—and it wouldn’t—something on my neck, choking—No!” Paks shouted this last loud enough to startle the entire camp. She had shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head, her body rigid. “No,” she said more softly. “No. By—by Holy Gird, I will fight. I will—not—stop. I will
fight
!”

She felt both men’s hands on her shoulders, steadying her. Amberion spoke. “Paks. Listen to me. You’re out of that. You’re safe.” Then, more quietly, to Fallis. “And what do you suppose that was about. Surely she wasn’t free to fight them?”

“I don’t know,” was Fallis’s grim reply. “But I suspect we’d better find out. Considering how we found her—”

“I won’t believe it,” said Amberion, but his voice had thinned.

Paks opened her eyes. For a moment she stared blankly at the sky, then shifted her eyes to look at Amberion. She could feel patches of memory coming back, unconnected still, but broadening. “Amberion? What—”

“You were injured, Paks. You don’t remember much.”

“I feel—strange. Will you tell me what happened?”

“We don’t know all that happened. And it might be better to let you remember it for yourself.”

Paks looked around. “I don’t recognize this place. But the color of the rocks—something—is familiar.”

“We moved the camp after you—after the fight.”

“Are we in Kolobia yet?” Paks saw Amberion’s face relax a little.

“Good. You are remembering. Yes, we’re in Kolobia. How much do you remember of the trip here?”

“Some of it—we were in a caravan, for a long way. We saw the horse nomads, didn’t we?” Amberion nodded. “And I remember a bald-faced red horse, bucking—”

“That’s my warhorse,” said Fallis. “Do you remember why we were coming to Kolobia?”

Paks shook her head. “No. I wish I didn’t feel so peculiar. Did something hit my head? Was it a battle?”

Fallis smiled at her. “You’ve been in several battles. Both on the caravan, and here as well. I think you’ll remember them on your own when you’ve rested more. Your wounds are healing well. Do you need anything more?”

“Water, if there’s enough.”

“Certainly.” The Marshal walked away and returned with a full waterskin. He set it beside Paks, then he and Amberion walked upstream, looking at the cliffs on the far side. Paks managed to get the waterskin to her mouth. She took a long drink, then looked around again. The dwarf was looking her way, talking to the woman. When he caught her eye, he rose and came toward her. She tried to think of his name.

“Good morning, Lady Paksenarrion,” said the dwarf. His voice was higher and sweeter than she’d expected. She wondered how she knew what to expect. “How fare you this day?”

“I’m all right. A little—confused.”

“That is no wonder. Perhaps even names have escaped you. I am Balkon of the House of Goldenaxe.”

The name fit; Paks could almost think she remembered it. As she looked at the dwarf, the distant silent scraps of memory came nearer and seemed to fuse in his face. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Master Balkon. You came with us from Fin Panir. You know about rock, where it will be solid or weak. You are a cousin of the Goldenaxe himself, aren’t you?”