The Deed of Paksenarrion (12 page)

“No—you’re right about that. But things are different.” Paks saw his head shake, far below, then he peered up to see that she was working. She wondered if the mysterious Tamarrion had been a sergeant—even a captain—but something in their tone kept her from asking.

As fall turned to winter, the recruits honed their weapons skills, now learning to use a shield with their swords. They began drilling in groups, one line against another, learning to work together with their weapons. They were allowed to stand guard, first with the regulars, then alone. On guard duty on the wall, with her sword hanging heavy at her side, Paks felt very much the professional. One gray, sleety day, she was on duty when a traveler came up the road from Duke’s West, and called the challenge herself. She thought he did not notice that her tunic was recruit brown instead of maroon.

Along with all this, they were introduced to tactics. Paks had thought that after mastering the intricacies of drill, nothing remained to learn about engaging the enemy. She was wrong.

“But I thought we just ran at them and started fighting,” said Vik, echoing her thought.

“No. That’s the way to get killed, and quickly. None of you will make these decisions now, but you all need to know something of tactics. You can do your job better if you know what you’re trying to accomplish.” They were gathered around Stammel in the mess hall between meals; he began to set out apples on the table. “Now suppose this—here—is the Duke’s Company. And this over here is the enemy. Look at the length of lines.”

“Theirs is longer,” said Saben, stating the obvious. “But we—”

“Listen. Now suppose we engage just as we are. What happens on each end of our line, on the flanks?”

“They can hit the side, too,” said Vik.

“If they have enough, they can go all around,” Paks put in.

“Yes. That looks bad, doesn’t it? But it depends on why their line is so long, and what they’re fighting with.” He added more apples to the array. “Suppose they’ve only as many men as we have, so their line is long and thin. We form the square, and we engage one-on-one all the way around. With our depth, we actually have them outnumbered
at each position.
If they’re fighting with swords, they won’t have a chance. We have concentrated our strength on their weakness—or rather, they have stupidly chosen to make themselves weak all over.”

Effa frowned at the table. “So it’s better to make the square?”

“Not always. We can’t move fast or far in the square—you remember—” They nodded. “Mobility is important, too. So is terrain—where is the good ground?” Quickly he showed them how slope, water, and such hazards as swamp and loose rock could change the choice of tactics. “It’s the commander’s responsibility to choose the best ground—for our side, of course. The Duke’s famous for it. But you need to know how it’s done, so you’ll know what to watch out for, and which way to move—”

“But we’re under orders, aren’t we? We just do what we’re told—”

“Yes. But sergeants and corporals get killed—even captains. In battle, there’s no time to send questions to the Duke. If the regulars don’t know what to do and why, the cohort will fall apart. Be captured at best. That’s what Kolya Ministiera did—took over her cohort, kept ‘em moving together, the right way. That’s why she made corporal so young. If she hadn’t lost an arm at Cortes Cilwan, she’d have been the youngest sergeant in the Company, I don’t doubt. But when she went down, someone else took over—that’s what we train for.”

They looked at each other, wondering. Paks hoped she would do as well—without losing an arm. The only thing that frightened her was the thought of ending her career as a young cripple, with nothing left to do.

Soon the lessons in tactics had gone beyond table demonstrations to live practice fields. Each recruit unit made a mock cohort, and they practiced engagements, disengagements, squaring, flanking, and other maneuvers: first without weapons, and then with wooden swords and shields. In smaller groups they learned to fight in confined areas: stairs, passages, stables. They made ladders and scaled the walls of the stronghold in mock assaults, then learned to hold the wall against assaults. And since the Duke sometimes hired mounts when he wanted to move his troops rapidly, they learned to ride.

“This is a mule,” said Corporal Bosk. Paks thought that was unnecessary. The mule flicked one long ear. On the ground beside it were saddle, saddlecloth, and bridle. “A mule is not a horse,” he went on. That also was obvious. Long ears, mealy muzzle, heavy head, small hooves. Paks suppressed a yawn. Maybe some of the city people didn’t know the difference. She glanced around for Vik. “How many of you,” Bosk was asking, “have ever worked with mules?” Several hands went up. “You—” he said, pointing. “What’s the big difference between mules and horses?”

“Mules can kick anyways,” said Jorti, “and they’re fussier about their ears, and they’re smarter than horses.” Jorti’s father, Paks remembered, had something to do with caravans.

“Right,” said Bosk. “All of that. Those of you that’ve never worked either will have less trouble than you horse-folk. They are
different.
Mules are more ear-shy than any horse, and if you drag a bridle over their ears, they’ll plant a hoof on you. A back hoof. When you’re standing in front of ‘em.” Paks looked at the mule, surprised. It didn’t look like it could kick forward. “And they’re smart,” Bosk went on. “Really smart. A good one’ll go farther on worse ground with less fuss—but a mule looks out for itself above all.” He picked up the bridle and showed them how to put it on.

The mule assigned to Paks flicked its ears nervously as she eased the crownpiece over the top of its head. She talked to it as if it were her father’s plow pony, but kept a respectful eye on the near hind leg. The mule that kicked Sif had made a believer out of her. She laid the saddlecloth on its back, and, after another look at Bosk’s demonstration, set the saddle in place.

“That’s right,” he said, as he walked along the line. “Now fasten the girth.” For that she had to bend down, reaching under its belly. The mule stood as if its feet were bolted to the ground. Paks caught the end of the girth and drew it up. The mule swelled visibly. Paks tugged the girth tight, and pulled again. The mule gave her an inscrutable look out of one amber eye, and shifted its weight minutely. Paks glanced back, and saw the tip of the near hind hoof resting lightly on the ground. Its ears flopped out sideways, swung lazily back and forth. She tugged again at the girth. The mule sighed, without losing an inch of its circumference, and the ears were still. Paks glared at it.

“Dumb mule,” she said.

“That won’t do,” said Bosk behind her. “Mule knows you’re nervous. Like this—” He grabbed the mule’s reins, gave a short jerk, and yelled “Hai!” into one drooping ear. The mule threw up its head with a snort, ears forward. Bosk thumped it hard in the ribs, and jerked the girth four inches tighter with one smooth motion. “Like that,” he said. The mule was back on all four legs, tail swinging gently. “Don’t hurt ‘em,” he went on. “They won’t forget being beaten, say, but you’ve got to get their attention and be firm. Can’t bluff ‘em, like you can horses.”

Eventually they all learned to bridle and saddle the mules, and after hours of painful practice they all learned to ride without damaging the mules or themselves. Paks even grew to enjoy it, trying to see herself on a prancing warhorse instead of a mule. She asked Bosk once if it were the same; his face creased in a grin. “Thinking of that, are you? And you not yet a soldier! Well, Paks, it’s about as much like riding one of these old pack mules as playing soldier with a stick-sword is like real warfare. You’ve a long way to go, girl, if that’s where you’re going.” Paks blushed and kept her dreams to herself after that.

As that cold winter wore on, they began to feel that they were ready to go—ready to face any army anywhere. Some from each unit had left—those frightened or shocked by Korryn’s punishment, those injured too badly to continue, and a few more who decided, as the training came closer and closer to actual combat, that they didn’t want to be soldiers after all. Some of the recruits—Paks and Barra among them—were surprised that these dropouts were let go with so little dispute. Why had they had to sign an agreement to stay two years, if anyone could leave at any time?

“Think about it,” said Stammel when Paks asked. “Your life will depend on the skill and courage of those beside you. Look at Talis: she was warned along with the rest of you, and she got pregnant anyway. Anyone too selfish or stupid to take birthbane when it’s right there on the table at meals isn’t going to make a good soldier. As for courage, do you want to chance your life on someone whose only thought is getting away?”

“No, but—”

“No. And they did not know, until they tried the training, that they would fail, or be so frightened. Neither do you. That’s why no one’s promoted from recruit until
after
we’ve seen them in battle.”

Paks thought about that, and looked at her companions with new intent. Vik—always joking, but quick as a ferret with his blade. Arñe, pleasant and hardworking, never flustered. Saben, good-natured and strong, quick on his feet. Effa, bossy and nosy, but totally honest and fearless. Barra, her nearest rival among the women for size and strength, and Natzlin, her gentler shadow. Quiet Sim, Jorti with his caravan tales, quick-tempered Seli, chill Harbin. Those swords would ward her, or not. Her sword would ward them—or not.

But time to think was short, with the rush of training, and soon the year turned toward spring. The first brief thaw made mush out of the snow on the drill fields; the ground below was still frozen. And then the hints began.

The Duke is coming. The Duke will be here next week—no, two weeks—no, three days. Rumors swarmed over the stronghold like hornets, stinging all the recruits with excitement and curiosity. Every square foot of the stronghold was scrubbed, and what the working parties thought clean enough was scrubbed again—and again. They cleaned the stables, oiled every scrap of leather, polished every bit of metal on all the tack. The pits that served the jacks were dug out and limed, and the stinking refuse hauled away in carts to be spread on the hayfields of Duke’s West. Along the road from Duke’s East, fifty recruits filled holes and ruts and cleaned out the side-ditches. They rolled the surface with a heavy stone cylinder drawn by oxen, using strings and a notched stick to make sure the crown had an even camber. Siger had a group busy oiling the wooden practice blades and scouring all metal weapons; he would not tolerate so much as a fingerprint.

None of the recruits were allowed in the Duke’s Court, but from all the bustling in and out it was obvious that the same rigorous preparation was going on there as well. Messengers jogged back and forth between the two villages and the stronghold, staying off the newly worked road to avoid the curses of the road crew.

It had been raining several days, a cold thin drizzle that penetrated without cleansing, but after a shift of wind in the night, the sky cleared. Paks, on duty as recruit guard in the night watch, had spent several miserable hours pacing back and forth on the battlements before the rain quit. She and Coben had complained every time they met at the southeast corner of the wall. The windshift brought drier and colder air; they agreed the exchange was for the better. Now, as the Necklace of Torre, the winter watch-stars, sank to the west, the eastern sky began to glow. Paks looked toward the mess hall chimneys—yes, a thin column of smoke, thickening as she watched, oozed from one of them. She thought of the asar, the hot sweet drink the night guards were given as soon as it could be brewed, and blew on her cold hands, looking outward again.

The land around was still a dark featureless blur, but she could see the ridge to the northeast, black against a sky now showing deep blue. It seemed much colder; she stamped as she walked back and forth from the gate tower to the corner. Light seeped into the sky, moment by moment. She could see the planks she walked on, and the remaining puddles, now frozen hard. She could see the paler blur of the road to Duke’s East trailing away from the gate. She glanced back at the courtyard, at the mess hall chimneys, both smoking now, the smoke torn away in tatters from the tops of the stacks. She looked eastward. A white band showed beneath the broadening blue; only Silba, the dawn star, still shone in the lightening sky. She dropped her eyes to the land, emerging slowly to sight as if it rose from under dark water: the ridge to the east, and the mountains beyond it—the broad reach of the drill fields, sodden with rainwater that reflected the brightening sky. Southward, the road stood out more clearly, swerving to avoid a marshy area, lifting over a hummock of ground between the stronghold and Duke’s East.

Sometimes, she remembered, you could see the smoke from Duke’s East: the low buildings were out of sight in trees, behind the hummock, but she knew which clumps of trees to watch. It was still too dark. Her legs felt brittle with cold; she did a little jig at the corner, waiting for Coben to finish his circuit so they could talk.

“Gah—it’s cold!” he gasped, shivering, as he came close enough.

Paks nodded, dancing from foot to foot, both of them numb. “N-not long,” she said. “Did—did you see the smoke? Soon.”

Coben grinned. “B-better be soon. Better go on; it’s colder to stop.”

Paks turned away. It was light enough to see colors now, muted though they were. There was the dark blur of trees along the river—the larger blur of the trees near and beyond Duke’s East. When she got to the gate tower, the guard sergeant opened the tower door and beckoned her in.

“Here’s something to warm you,” he said. “Just came up from the kitchens.”

Paks nodded gratefully, too cold to speak, and took the mug he offered. Even in the tower it was cold; steam rose from both mug and pitcher on the table. She sipped the scalding liquid; it burned her tongue. Her hands around the mug began to ache with cold, then warmed enough to tingle. She felt a warm glow inside, and drained her mug. “Shall I take some to Coben?”