The Deed of Paksenarrion (173 page)

So they rode off, in the turning hours of night. Paks, looking back for an instant at the gate, saw two small heads at one window, and wondered if they would remember, in older years, the night they saw a paladin ride away, light glittering on the snow.

Dawn found them far north and west of Aliam Halveric’s steading. Paks had chosen the direction, which took them across a low rolling ridge of forest toward the Tsaian border. As they rode, she tried to think which path north would bring them to Vérella with the least interference. She thought of going through Brewersbridge again—the Kuakgan might know more of the Duke than he’d said, might know if he could be healed. But Achrya knew she had been there before, knew where her friends were. She could not bring that danger to Brewersbridge. There would be blood in plenty before this was done; she would not start there. In first light, with the low sun throwing long blue shadows across the snow, she turned north.

“Lady?” Garris turned to her. “Are you sure? Where are we bound?”

She rode on some little time before answering. No one hurried her. Finally she halted; they formed a close group around her. “You all saw what we faced last night,” she began. They nodded. “It will have occurred to you that evil powers prefer that the true prince not be found. I had hoped we would be further with the quest before they noticed us; but paladins are not the spies of the gods, but their champions. I do not bring peace with me.”

“I understand,” said Suriya quickly, then blushed as the others looked at her. Paks smiled.

“Suriya, I believe you. I, too, before this—I would have said the same. Now let me go on. I have not told you all I know—nor will I. Believe that it is not my lack of trust in you, but the command of the gods I serve, that prevents me.”

“But—if you’re hurt—” Garris looked worried.

“Garris, if need comes, I will tell you. But for now, if you will come with me, you will ride into uncertainty.”

“We will come,” said Esceriel, looking around at the others. All nodded. “We trust you.”

“Trust the gods, rather,” said Paks. “You follow Falk; I honor him.” She looked at the lightening day. “Now,” she said, “the Webspinner is a creature of darkness; she toils in secret to plot the downfall of good. I think we will not have much trouble with her as long as we keep close watch by night, and travel swiftly. She does not much like forests, especially not these, where the elves and rangers have sung the taig so often. It is another I worry about more. How many of you know of Liart, the Master of Torments?”

“I do,” said Garris, shuddering. “In Aarenis—” Paks looked at each in turn.

“We were told, in the knight’s training,” said Lieth, “that he was evil, but not much more. No one follows him in Lyonya; I didn’t pay much mind.”

“I thought he came only where there was slavery,” said Suriya.

“No,” said Paks. “His followers may be anywhere. Liart sometimes allies with Achrya, in large plots. He’s hastier. More active. I fear that we have attracted notice in that direction. Liart’s followers practice torture as a ceremony; he delights in the fear of those victims. I say this not to frighten you, but to warn. If through some mischance we are separated and any of you is taken, your only shield is prayer. Do not despair; the High Lord will protect your soul, if only you can keep your mind on him.”

Their faces were set; none of them asked how she knew. Paks looked at them for a moment. Then she stretched, feeling the return of strength with the morning sun.

“In the meantime,” she said more cheerfully, “we have a clear day and far to ride. Gods grant they miss us after all—it’s likely enough. And together—well, they’d have a hard fight. Ride for an hour, companions—then it will be warm enough to stop for a meal.” And she legged the red horse into a spurt of speed, the snow flying up in cakes and lumps from his feet. Behind her she heard the other horses whinny and run. In a few minutes they slowed again, but everyone was in a lighter mood. The horses jogged on, snorting. Paks started humming “Cedars of the Valley,” and Suriya broke in, singing the words.

“Cedars of the valley, oh— 

firtrees on the hill 
 

where’s the lad I used to love 
 

and does he love me still—" 
 

The others came in on the chorus:

"Cedars of the valley, oh,  
 

cedars in the wind." 
 

Paks sang the second verse.

"Cedars of the valley, say,  
 

if I wander far,  
 

will I see my home again,  
 

or die in lands afar?”
 

Again the chorus. Garris went next.

"Cedars of the valley, sing— 
 

tell us all a tale—" 
 

“That’s almost as bad as the lo-pipe, Garris,” commented Esceriel, grinning.

“You made me lose my place,” said Garris. He started again, where he’d left off, and finished the verse:

"—and dressed in shining mail." 
 

Paks listened with one ear to the singing, as the song wound on through its many verses (for it had been a marching song a long time), and with the other to whatever set the red horse’s left ear twitching sideways. Finally she held up her hand, and Lieth stopped in the middle of a word. Nothing now but the crunching of snow, the jingle of harness and breathing of the animals. They halted. Paks could still hear nothing, but the red horse stared at the woods to their left as if he could do better. He blew, rattling his breath; Paks felt the tension beneath her. Esceriel raised his brows.

“I don’t know.” Paks answered the look. “But with such a horse, I don’t ignore the warning, either.” She drew the elf-blade; its blue flash was a warning in daylight. She heard the scrape of scabbards as the squires drew their own weapons. The red horse snorted. Paks looked around. They were in a wide glade, with a frozen stream to their left and forest beyond it, and on their right. They moved on again, more slowly, the pack horses on short reins.

If the red horse had not kept watching to the left, Paks might have decided that nothing menaced them, for they rode a good distance without any sign of trouble. Then the forest closed in on their right, and the streambed plunged into a rocky hollow. Paks slowed, looking for a safe way down through the drifted snow. Ahead and below seemed rougher country, with the tops of boulders showing above piles of snow. She peered into the forest on their right. It was thick here, heavy with undergrowth even in winter, and she could see little but a tangle of leafless stalks and stems. Still, it looked like the way down was gentler off to the right. She reined the red horse toward the forest edge.

“Paks!” Garris’s shout brought her head around. Three huge white wolf-like creatures hurtled across the frozen stream, roaring. They were pony-high at the shoulder, with pale green eyes. The pack horses plunged wildly, and Suriya fought to control them. Lieth charged between the creatures and Suriya, striking at one. Garris and Esceriel too were trying to attack, but the creatures were as fast as they were big.

The red horse wheeled; Paks leaned low from the saddle and plunged the elf-blade into one of them. Its howl turned to a scream; she had severed its spine. Another had hamstrung a pack horse, and was fastened to its throat. The third raced in and out, slashing at the horses with its long teeth. Esceriel forced his horse close to the dying pack animal, and stabbed that one. It turned, with a terrifying howl, and flung itself upward against the sword. Lieth buried her sword in its back, just as the third creature attacked her mount. Her horse bucked wildly, and Lieth flew off, landing in a shower of snow.

Paks legged the red horse into a standing leap; they came down beside Lieth, who was just scrambling up. She caught Paks’s hand and swung up behind the saddle. Garris had finished the one that attacked Esceriel, but the third was racing after Lieth’s horse. Lieth whistled, but her mount kept going.

“Get down, Lieth—get up with Suriya. I’ll try to catch—” As she spoke, Paks sheathed the sword, and pulled her longbow from its case to string it.

“Not alone, Lady,” said Garris. “That may be what they want.”

“But we need the horse—” said Paks. She closed her legs; the red horse surged forward, back down their trail. Garris and Esceriel followed her. She could see the loose horse running flat-out beside the stream; the beast was hardly a length behind. Paks slid an arrow from its case, sparing a thought of thanks to the gods that she’d brought her bow along. Despite her weight, the red horse gained on the other, racing over the snow as if it were a smooth track. Paks drew and released. Her arrow sank into the beast’s hindquarters; she saw it flinch and slow. As she set another arrow to the string, the red horse gained still more. Her next shot was easier; they were nearly abreast of it, and she placed her arrow in its ribs. The beast howled, slowed more, running partly sideways now. Blood spattered the snow. She heard Garris and Esceriel yelling, and looked back.

Cutting her off from them were four riders, all in gray armor, with the spiked helms she remembered from Aarenis. One of the riders faced her, a leashed beast at his side; the others attacked her squires. Paks sent a last arrow at the beast she’d been chasing, and tossed her bow aside into a tree. The elf-blade flashed as she drew it again; she leaned from her saddle to behead the wounded beast, then sent the red horse charging at the gray riders.

The one facing her sent a piercing cry across the distance. It meant nothing to Paks, but she saw her squires wince and stagger. That rider unleashed his beast, and the white wolf-like thing flew toward her. But Paks had expected that; she had already gathered her horse, and when the wolf was a length away, they leaped high over it. By the time the beast reversed to follow them, Paks had attacked the first rider.

This close she could see that the gray armor was black, daubed with white paint or stain. He carried a jagged sword in one hand; Paks met that with the elf-blade, which rang to the blow, but held. Her mount shifted suddenly; she glanced down just long enough to see that the other horse had hooked barbs on its harness. The rider struck again, laughing. Paks laughed too, a different sound, as she met it, then slipped her blade under his, and thrust it into his side, where the armor jointed. Just then the red horse leaped, a sideways jump of some feet, and Paks nearly lost her grip on her sword. The white beast, which had leaped across its master’s mount, fell to the snow, off-balance for an instant. In that moment the red horse jumped again, coming down with all four hooves on top of it, then jumped away. Broken, it screamed at them, helpless.

But Paks had no time to kill it. Her squires were driven back, into a knot around the dead pack horse. Lieth fought on foot; Suriya’s horse was lame, hobbling on three legs. Esceriel and Garris tried to protect them, but one of the other riders carried a hooked lance, long enough to reach past their guard. She saw blood on all of them, and had no time to worry whether it was theirs or the horses’.

The rider she had wounded could still fight, but Paks went on to the others. She had to get that lance away. Before she could attack, two of them turned, leaving the lance-bearer to immobilize her squires. Both of them howled at her, screams of threat meant to terrify.

“Gird the Protector!” Paks yelled back. “The High Lord’s power is with us!” She charged one of the two directly, knowing that opened her quarter to the other, but trusting the red horse to jump when necessary. The one she charged fell back, luring her away from the squires. She knew better than that. She spun the red horse on his hocks, and caught the second a solid blow across the chest as he tried to attack from behind. His armor rang, and he rocked in the saddle. His horse rushed by.

Paks spun again, to meet the first rider blade to blade. Her horse reared, driving onto the other horse’s neck with both front hooves. Paks deflected a blow that would have severed tendons, and stabbed for the rider’s neck. He flinched and parried wildly. Under the pointed chin of his face-guard was a gap above the body-armor. As the horses squealed and fought, the weight of the red bearing the other down, Paks stabbed again for this gap. The rider tried to lean away, just as his horse staggered, backing away from the red but falling to one side. The rider lost his seat and fell half under his mount.

But as the red horse reared away, Paks felt a heavy blow on her back that nearly unseated her. Her left arm fell from the reins, useless, and she felt the pain tingle in her fingers. Just in time she got her sword in place, and met the first rider. He was a skillful swordsman, and strong; Paks felt every exchange all the way to her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she saw the rider she had wounded ride up slowly; he sagged to one side, but still held his weapon.

“Ward of Falk!” she heard from one of the squires.

“Gird!” she called in reply. “Gird and Falk, the High Lord’s champions!” Her blade rang on the other’s, again and again. The red horse shifted; Paks thrust at the wounded rider, opening a gash on his leg. Now the other; she aimed a slash at his neck. He jerked aside, swinging for her face. Suddenly Esceriel was there, swinging hard at the rider’s back. When he turned on Esceriel with that voice of fear, Paks thrust deep in his side. He slid from the saddle; his own horse trampled him. Paks slammed into the wounded rider again, blow after blow, until he, too, lay in the blood-stained snow.

Now the lance-bearer was alone. But he did not flee. He backed his horse a few steps, and swung down his lance, facing Esceriel.

“Get back,” said Paks urgently. “Pray, and get back.” He stared at her.

A bolt of light shot from the lance, catching Esceriel full in the chest; he fell without a cry. Quick as a snake’s tongue, the rider turned the lance on the others, standing in shocked stillness. Paks had already sent the red horse forward in great bounds, but she could not intercept the bolt that struck Garris from the saddle. The lance swung toward her; the rider mouthed the same dread words. Paks called out, and a light sprang from her sword to meet the other; the noise of that meeting shook her ears. Then she was close enough to strike directly.