The Deed of Paksenarrion (151 page)

As they came up the bank, effortlessly, Paks slashed at their heads. One sprang sideways, evading her. The one in front reared back, head out of danger, and raked at her with a foreleg. Paks dodged and drove in, striking for the vulnerable neck. Tamarrion’s sword swung easily, and parted the black carapace as if it were butter. The head flew off, and the legs jerked. Paks jumped back to the top of the bank, looking for the other spider. It had disappeared: one of the militia waved an arm and Paks saw behind their lines a glossy humped back moving swiftly toward the center of the village.

“Look out!” yelled another man, and Paks whirled to face the first orcs. Swords rang on her blade; beside her the militia had climbed the bank too, and the clash and clatter of swords filled the night air. Paks killed the orc in front of her, and wounded another, but more filled the gaps. The pressure of them forced her back over the top of the bank. Here, for a moment, it was easier—as the orcs came over the top, the defenders could strike from below, where they were more vulnerable. But again, the orc numbers overwhelmed them, and they began to fall back toward the square. They could not even take their dead along, for the orcs poured over the bank in black waves, and they were almost driven out of line as it was.

Then from the left came a harsh blast of sound, and the roar of the Duke’s Company’s charge. Both cohorts struck the flank of the orcish advance. With the first flurry in the orcs’ attack, Paks called the militia around her to fall into double lines. She and the others managed to thrust forward until one end of the line was anchored on the bank again. Beyond her, the line doubled back sharply along a lane, but the defenders had only a short stretch from the bank to the first building with no sort of parapet. While the Duke’s charge pulled the orcish interest, they threw up a weak protection of furniture and barrels from that house, and stones from a garden wall. Beyond this, the orcs were pushed aside to stream past, on through the village.

The orcs had clearly not expected this kind of resistance. Once the line was in place, the militia felt at once the lessening pressure and orcs shifted to the right and beyond. Paks held the point until it was clear that the orcs no longer meant to dispute it. Then she called for reinforcements.

“But where are you—?”

“That other spider—I must find it.” The innkeeper—for he had come at her call—grunted.

“You’d go for that? Go on, then. Gods go with you.”

Paks made her way through the remains of the militia toward the square. Even with all the torches lit, it was hard to see clearly; black shadows leaped and twisted everywhere. She looked for the gleam of a hard carapace, or the telltale eyes.

Wagons had been overturned in the gaps between buildings in the square, but this protection had not been enough. Orcs had thrust them aside, and Paks found the square itself full of bodies, orc and human both. Two wagons burned in the middle of the square, lighting it well enough, but she saw no sign of the giant spider.

“Paks!” Kolya’s voice came from a high window in one of the houses.

Paks squinted up. “What?”

“Are they gone?”

“Not all—I’m looking for that spider.”

“It came over the wagon there—and left that way—” Kolya pointed. Paks waved and started to follow her directions. “Paks! No! Don’t go by yourself!”

Paks looked back up at her, and something—a shadowy movement—caught her eye on the roof above the window. She tried to make it out, then realized what it must be. “Kolya! It’s on the roof!” As she yelled, the thing dropped suddenly, its anchoring line gleaming. Two legs caught the sill of the window where Kolya had been, and it swung to crawl in. Paks yelled “Someone drop me a bow!”

But Kolya or someone else inside rammed a torch toward the crouching form before it could get through the window, and it retreated, dropping swiftly to the ground. Paks ran to meet it, hoping to strike a blow before the legs found purchase on the cobbles, but the spider pushed off the wall to meet her.

Paks dodged the first leap, swinging at its head, but missed. It leaped again, sideways, and she followed. Quickly it scuttled sideways, turning so that the light of the burning wagon was in her eyes. Paks grinned, and ran wide herself, to snatch a burning length of wood from the fire. It retreated, still poised to leap. Paks moved in slowly, arms wide, ready to strike with torch or sword. She heard an arrow strike the stones, as someone in one of the houses tried to shoot the thing, and missed. The spider leaped at her, forelegs spanning wider than her arms, and tried to clutch. Paks dove toward the belly, thrusting higher with torch and lower with sword. She saw the spinnerets facing her, and the pulsations that would drive out the poisoned silk. Then the spider flipped away from her, the head crisping already from the torch, and the abdomen gaping open. A single gout of grayish fluid struck her hand, burning through the glove; she gasped with the pain of it, but struck again, until the head and body were separated. By then the Duke’s men were coming into the square.

“These midnight conferences,” said Arcolin, “are becoming tedious.” Paks wondered if he was making a joke of some kind. Arcolin?

“Will the Duke be here?” Heribert Fontaine, back in his mayoral robes, paused as he set out mugs for ale.

“I doubt it.” Arcolin rubbed the back of his neck. “Simmitt says he’ll be fine, but insists he must rest for a night and a day. The gods know he needs it—”

“But he’s sure—”

“He’s sure the Duke will recover, yes. Flesh wounds and exhaustion—no more than that, he says, and Simmitt wouldn’t lie.”

Valichi came in, shutting the door carefully behind him. “Surprisingly little damage across the river, Mayor Fontaine. They broke into Kolya’s place, but didn’t burn it. Near as we can tell, only two trees were badly torn up. It looks like they panicked and ran on through. We’ve set up a perimeter for the night, including the south bank cottages, but not the outlying farms.”

Paks found the rest as tedious as Arcolin had suggested, for they had to explain the events of the past days in sufficient detail to reassure the Council of Duke’s East, no easy task when they kept breaking in with questions, comments, and reminiscences of past campaigns. The revelation that Venner had been closely involved in Tamarrion’s death aroused a storm of indignation. But discovering that the Duke had sent for a Marshal silenced them at last. Paks could see relief and satisfaction in some of their faces, dismay in none.

Late fall rain had chilled to sleet; from the parapets the sentries could see only a short distance from the walls. The last bonfires were hard to keep alight. Foul smoke whirled away from the orcs’ bodies, but they would hardly burn. Finally the Duke had a barrel of mutton-fat melted and poured on, after all the remains had been dragged to one fire, and the ashes left from that smelled of nothing but ashes.

The next afternoon, a party on horseback came within bowshot of the gates before being seen; fog and sleet together hid them. Paks heard the alarm horn, and met the Duke heading for his stairs. She stayed beside him as he strode across the inner court. By the time they reached the Duke’s Gate, the sentries knew who it was: the Marshal, they sent word.

“Name?” asked the Duke irritably. Paks glanced at him. She knew his wounds must be hurting him, though he wouldn’t admit it. He had refused to let her “waste,” as he put it, a healing attempt on him.

“Connaught, was one, and Amberion, and Arianya—”

“The Marshal-
General
?” The Duke glared at the sentry. “You’re sure?”

“That’s what they said, my lord, them names. I don’t know—”

The Duke silenced him with a gesture and turned to Paks. “Is that likely? And why? Has she come to make mock of me, after all?”

“No, my lord,” said Paks firmly. “It would not be that. If this is the Marshal-General, she has come because of the urgency of your message, and because she feels you may need her help. Mockery is not like her.”

“No.” He rubbed his shoulder, considering. The sentry waited, hunched in the cold. “Blast it! I can’t get used to the idea—Go on, man, and let them in. Fanfare, but don’t keep them out there waiting while the troops parade: it’s too cold.” As the sentry jogged back to the gate tower, the Duke strode across the main court, calling his captains. High overhead the fanfare rang out, the trumpeters’ numb fingers missing some of the triples. The main gate hinges squealed in the cold, and the gates themselves scraped on blown sleet.

Through the gates, as the gap widened, Paks could see a dark clump of horsemen: sleet whitened the horses’ manes, and the riders’ cloaks and helms. They rode forward, ducking against the wind that scoured a flurry of sleet off the court and flung it in their faces. Paks could not recognize any of them, until they were less than a length away. The leading rider halted, and threw back the hood of a blue cloak.

“My lord Duke?” Arianya’s weathered face was pinched with cold.

“Marshal-General, I am honored to receive you in my steading.” Duke Phelan took the last few steps, and reached a hand to her. “By your leave, I suggest we continue our greetings in somewhere warmer.”

“Indeed yes.” But she sat her mount a moment longer, looking around the court as if memorizing the location of every door and window. Then she looked back at him. “Gird’s blessing on this place, and all within it, and on you, my lord Duke.” The Duke stiffened slightly, but bowed. Then she dismounted, as did the other riders, and one came forward to take her horse. “I hope it will not inconvenience you—we brought some along to care for the gear and horses—”

“Not at all. Arcolin, find room for these, and the animals. If you’ll come with me, Marshal-General—”

“To a fire, I hope. By the lost scrolls, this last day’s ride seemed straight into the wind, no matter which way the road turned.” Then she caught sight of Paks. “Paksenarrion! Is this where you—?” She broke off in confusion, and looked from the Duke to Paks and back again.

“Is that Paks?” Amberion, now, had come to stand beside her. “Gird’s grace, Paksenarrion, I’m glad to see you looking so well.” She saw that his glance did not miss the sword at her side. “Are you—?”

But Paks did not mean to discuss everything standing out in the cold. She knew the Duke was in pain, and needed to get back inside. “Sir Amberion,” she said, nodding. “My lord’s right, sir; we should get within.”

The Duke led the way to the dining hall, and sent a guard to the kitchen for hot food. The visitors stood around the fireplace, their wet clothes already steaming. Within minutes, kettles of sib were on the table, and bowls of soup. Servants had taken away wet cloaks, and brought dry stockings for those whose feet were wet.

“I’m getting old for this,” said the Marshal-General frankly. “It’s been far too long since I left Fin Panir in wintertime. Ah! Hot soup. I may survive.” She smiled at the Duke, then her gaze sharpened. “My lord, you are ill—or wounded. Why did you come out in that cold?”

“I’m not a child!” snapped the Duke. Paks looked at him, worried, but he had already taken a long breath. “I’m sorry, Marshal-General. I was wounded a few days ago—it’s painful, but not dangerous. I would be shamed did I not welcome such visitors myself.”

“And you want no advice on it. Very well. But, my lord, we came to help, and if you spend your strength on hospitality, we are a burden, not help at all.” She took another spoonful of soup. “I would eat cobbles, were they hot like this, but this is good soup. You wonder, you say, why, in asking for a Marshal’s aid, you got the Marshal-General. I was in Vérella, having been called to a meeting with the prince and regency council.” She drank some more soup, and poured herself a mug of sib. “Then your message came, mentioning Achrya, and traitors, and a possible invasion of orcs. It seemed enough—the council was concerned already about your holdings here. I don’t know why.” She looked at the Duke, who sipped his own mug of sib and said nothing. “I did not, of course, read them your message, but I thought it would ease their minds to know I was coming.”

Arcolin came into the room, followed by the other captains. The Duke looked up. “Marshal-General,” Arcolin said, “we have stabled all your mounts, and assigned the rest of your party room in the barracks. Is that satisfactory?”

“Entirely,” she said. “Two of them are new with us, and it will be well for them to see barracks life; they’re nobles’ sons, and convinced we stint them by assigning only single rooms, rather than suites.”

Arcolin grinned. “Two of them did try to tell me something about their birth, but I didn’t have time to listen.”

“Good. Don’t. While I’m glad to see the fellowship of Gird expand, and as Marshal-General I can’t pass up a single blade, I often wish the nobly born would spend a few years of their youth where no one knew their birth. We do our best to knock some of it out of them, but as Paks knows, we don’t entirely succeed.”

Paks found herself laughing. She had wondered what it would be like to see the Marshal-General again, and had not looked forward to it. Even though she knew she was cured, she anticipated an awkward meeting and difficult explanations. But this was easy. The Marshal-General looked at her, as did the others.

“Paksenarrion, I find it hard to believe what I see, yet by Gird’s gift you are more than merely healed. Will you tell us, someday, how this happened?”

“Indeed, I would be glad to,” said Paks. “But parts of it I don’t clearly understand myself.”

“I sense great gifts awakening in you, if not already come,” said Amberion. “Are you still a follower of Gird?”

Paks nodded. “I am not forsworn, sir paladin. I gave my oath to Gird in the Hall of Fin Panir, and by that oath I stand. But much has happened that I did not anticipate, or you, I think, foresee.”

The Marshal-General’s eyes glittered with tears. “Paksenarrion, however you were healed, and by what power of good, matters not to me. We are all glad to see you so; we had all grieved over your loss. Gird witness that if you had turned to Falk or Camwyn and received healing there, I would be as glad, and would not condemn you for changing your allegiance. It was my error—not Gird’s—that led you into great peril, and in the end near killed you. I am not mean enough to begrudge any healing.”