The Deed of Paksenarrion (38 page)

For awhile she felt cool and remote, as if she were watching herself from a hilltop. Never care, came a whisper in her mind. Never care, never fear. But in the firelight that night, the concern in Vik’s eyes and Arñe’s roused a sudden rush of caring for them. With it came the pain again, but she felt it as a good pain: as wrenching as the surgeon scouring a wound, but necessary. Fear came, too: fear for them. She looked at her own hands, broad and strong, skilled—she could still protect, with those hands. She said nothing, and the tears came again, but somewhere inside a tightness eased.

The city had been silent now for more than a week. No more taunts over the wall, no pots of hot oil, no stones. Heads showed above the battlements occasionally, and the gates were barred, but the enthusiasm of the defenders had gone. Paks wondered if they were going to surrender.

Late one afternoon, a trio of Sorellin militia rode into the siege lines from the north; in minutes messengers came to the Duke. Soon everyone knew that they had found a tunnel from the brigands’ hideout, where Canna and Saben had been found, into Rotengre. A small group of Rotengren soldiers had come out in their midst; now Sorellin controlled the forest end of the passage.

“That must be how the Honeycat meant to relieve the siege,” said Vik.

“And why he wanted live prisoners,” said Paks. “Once he had them in the city—”

“Yes. Ugh. I wonder where the Rotengre end is. If only we could use it.”

“With an attack on the walls at the same time. Yes—or if they’re all trying to escape that way, we could just sit there and take them as they come.”

“I’d rather go in,” Arñe looked eager.

Paks grinned. “So would I. I never heard of a tunnel that long; I wonder who dug it and when.”

“The reputation this city’s got,” said Vik, “it may have been there since the walls were built. It would explain a lot of things about Rotengre.”

As dusk fell, the entire camp bubbled with speculation. They mustered after supper, and the Duke explained their plans. The Phelani would assault the wall, while the Halverics tried their ram on the north gate. Vladi had taken a couple of spear cohorts and joined the Sorellin militia for an assault through the tunnel. The remaining Sorellin militia would attack with their catapult and ladder teams. Cracolnya’s cohort would lead the Phelani assault, followed by Dorrin’s. These instructions were followed by a breathless wait in the dark.

Suddenly the Halveric’s ram battered at the north gate, and an outcry came from the gate tower above. Torches flared along the walls. As heads showed, the Duke’s bowmen let fly. Returning flights came out of the darkness to bristle in rampart and tent. Paks heard not only the regular crash of the battering ram, but the occasional stunning crack of the Sorellin catapult’s stone balls slamming into the wall itself. Horn calls and shouts from inside the city redoubled, loudest from the gate tower. Then Paks heard more distant signals, from the south side. She realized that the south gate, too, must be under attack.

Now, with others of Dorrin’s cohort, she stood at the base of the ladders as the specialists of the mixed cohort led the climbing teams up. These made it to the top before being seen, and secured the ladders as the first fighting teams came up. Paks, below, heard the scream of the Rotengre guard who first saw them, then a body slammed into the ground nearby. Those on the ladder surged upward. As soon as they could get footspace on the rungs, others followed.

“Keep your shields
up,
” yelled Captain Pont. “Cover your heads until you’re up.”

Paks found the ladder harder than she remembered, as she tried to balance with her shield arched over her. By the time she reached the top, the Duke’s men formed two lines across the wall, protecting access for those still climbing. She was surprised to see green-clad Halverics coming off the ladders behind her companions, but had no time to think about it. She jogged up to join the line moving toward the gate tower.

Facing them were two lines of Rotengre guards in blue, and more ran from the direction of the gate tower. The Phelani advanced; the Rotengre lines retreated, even before making contact. When they pursued and engaged, the enemy still retreated, though their swordwork was excellent.

“Keep pressing ‘em!” yelled Vossik. “They’ll break. Keep at ‘em.” Even as he spoke, those on the inside of the wall tried to slip down a stair to the city below. Bowstrings twanged behind Paks; at least two fell from the stairs. Vossik told a party to hold the stairs against any assault.

Now they were close to the gate tower; the rear ranks of defenders turned and raced for the tower doors as a heavy fire of arrows struck the Duke’s men from an upper level. Several fell. Paks and the others threw up their shields and charged, trying to make the tower door before it was slammed against them. The remaining defenders went down under the charge; Paks raced through a gap to hit the closing door with all her strength. Instantly several of her companions were there to help, and together they forced the door open, battling past the defenders. More of the Duke’s men poured into the opening.

They had entered a small chamber that ran along the west side of the gate tower; two doors opened into a larger room where Paks caught a glimpse of the gate machinery before the doors slammed.

“We’ll need to get those doors down,” said Vossik. He had come limping in after the others, having taken a crossbow bolt in the leg. “And those plaguey bowmen are somewhere overhead, too.” They looked around, but saw no access to the upper level. They could feel the concussion when the Halveric ram hit the gates.

“How about that door we just took?” asked Vik.

“Good,” said Vossik. “Take it apart and see if it won’t make us some rams.” With four stout lengths of oak from the first door, they began smashing at the inner doors, a squad for each. All at once one of them splintered between the bars that held it, and they smashed the rest of the wood free and poured through. The expected line of crossbowmen met them; the first flight bristled in their shields. Before the bowmen could reload, the Duke’s men were on them, and they fell in a welter of blood that made the floor slippery. The remaining defenders, some two score, had no chance. As they darted toward the stair that led to ground level, the attackers cut them down. Vossik stopped them from following the few survivors downstairs.

“Wait. We need to get these gates open.”

“Here, sir.” It was a mixed-cohort man. “Just let me get to those pulleys.”

“Need any help?”

“Just a moment. Yes—here. Two of you do this—” he demonstrated. “And two over here, on this one.” They pushed on the windlass spokes; chains tightened and slid through great pulleys above and below. Beneath them, the heavy gate creaked open; they heard wild cheers from the Halverics. Meanwhile someone had identified the portcullis mechanism, and several were at work to raise the massive grate. Paks looked out the window that looked into the city. She could see torches in the street below and gleams of steel.

“Paks.” It was Artfiel, one of the new corporals Dorrin had named. She turned. “Take a squad and make sure the gate tower is secure on the east. I expect they’ve all fled into the city, but I’d hate to be surprised.”

Paks collected a tensquad and found a long narrow room on the east side: twin to the one they’d broken into on the west, except that here a narrow ladder led through a hole in the ceiling to the higher level. One of the bowmen scampered up this, to report no enemy above, and no one visible on the wall. Paks went back to Artfiel and he assigned a squad of archers to keep watch from the upper level; she took her own squad out onto the east wall.

From the streets below rose a confused clamor, and the deep chant of the Halveric foot. Paks found a stair going down, and positioned her squad to guard it. They could see very little, but she was not tempted to light a torch. They peered into darkness, with its confusing patches of wavering torchlight, and tried to interpret the noise.

Coming out from under the gate tower now were mounted troops, the horses’ hooves ringing on stone, and behind that the Sorellin foot. Far across the city Paks saw a bright blur of flame atop a tower. Now they heard shrieks from below, and again the clash and clang of weapons. Paks yearned to go down the stair and be part of it, but she knew Artfiel was right: a desperate or cunning enemy might try to climb the wall and retake the gate tower—or escape.

Gradually the noise receded toward the center of the city. There it intensified, a harsh uneven roar punctuated by occasional high-pitched outbursts. It was cold on the wall. Paks huddled into her cloak, cursing the orders that kept her idle and cold when a good fight raged. The tower door opened. Paks glanced toward it to see a tall figure stepping out on the wall. She stood, stamping her feet, as the Duke came up.

“Any trouble?”

“No, my lord.”

“Good. Foss Council militia are going to take over the wall. Bring your squad—I daresay you’d like to be in at the finish.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very well. We’ll go back through the tower.” The Duke led them, nodding at the Foss Council captain as they passed into the tower. At the foot of the stairs, a squire held the Duke’s charger; the others who had been in the tower bunched nearby. He mounted and rode slowly up the wide street toward the battle. Paks and her squad marched on his left; two squires rode in front with torches. The street was ominously silent. Paks feared that hidden archers might shoot the Duke, but nothing happened.

As they came to the center of the city, they could see more torchlight and fires set against the walls of the old keep. This keep, the Duke had said, formed an interior defense completely separate from the outer walls. The Halveric ram battered this inner gate. Defenders crowded the wall. Fire arrows flew in both directions. Something inside the keep was burning; heavy smoke blew away on the north wind.

They had just reached the rear of the attacking lines when shrill screams broke out inside, and the men on the wall turned to look. At once the attackers flung up ladders and swarmed up the wall. Paks, waiting beside the Duke, found herself dancing from foot to foot. The gates opened, and the ram crew surged forward, followed by everyone who could cram into that narrow space. The Duke rode on, forcing a passage with his horse; Paks shoved her way alongside.

Within the gates all was confusion. Several small buildings were on fire, lighting the court with dancing yellow that glinted off weapons and armor. It was hard to tell defenders from attackers, Rotengre blue from Halveric green or Foss Council gray. Paks started yelling the Phelani battle-cry after nearly being spitted by one of Vladi’s spearmen.

The fight raged until every defender lay dead in the court or passages of the keep. Even then the noise and confusion continued, for the attackers turned to plunder. Paks had never seen anything like this, or imagined it. She expected the captains to call them all to order, but instead they urged on their troops or ignored them.

Fights broke out between militia and mercenaries over bales of silk, caskets of jewels, kegs of wine and ale—only then did the officers step in to restore peace. At first, Paks stayed out of the way, carrying water to some of the Duke’s wounded until wagons came to take them back to camp. But when Vossik found her standing in an angle of the inner wall, he took her arm and led her upstairs.

“This is where we make our stakes,” he said laughing. “Don’t worry—the Duke said we could sack the keep. Try not to get in fights, is all. Look—here’s a good place to start.” He shoved open the door of a small room that had been a study. Scrolls littered the floor around an overturned desk, its drawers scattered. “These things always have secret compartments,” said Vossik. “And militia are hasty. Watch—” He wrenched a leg off a chair and smashed the desk apart. A handful of loose jewels bounced across the floor. “That’s what I meant,” he said. “Go on. Take ‘em.”

Paks scooped up the little chips of blue, red, and yellow: the first jewels she had ever held. Vossik looked at them critically.

“I’ll take this—” he picked out a red one and a blue one, “as my share for showing you how. Get busy now, or these damned lazy militia will get all the good loot.” He left Paks alone in the room. She put the stones in her pouch, and looked at the smashed desk. Was there another compartment? She picked up the chair leg.

By dawn, Paks had prowled through most of the rooms in the keep. Her pouch bulged with coins and jewels. She had a strip of embroidered silk wrapped around her neck, and a jewel-hilted dagger thrust into one boot. She could not bring herself to destroy furniture, so most of her finds were bits and pieces that had rolled out of sight of earlier plunderers. Now she headed downstairs, hoping to find something to eat. Along the way she passed drunken, sleeping fighters snoring beside the dead. Paks wrinkled her nose at the stench of blood, sour wine, vomit, and smoke. In the courtyard, a circle of soldiers were cooking over the remnants of a burning shed. Every one seemed to be draped in stolen finery: velvet and fur cloaks, bits of lace and silk that might have been shawls, gold and silver chains and bracelets. Paks looked around for someone she knew. These were all militiamen from Sorellin and Vonja.

“Where’s Duke Phelan’s Company?” she asked one of them.

His mouth was full of sausage, but he pointed toward the keep gates. Paks made her way out into the streets.

“There you are,” said Vik. He had a green velvet cap with a feather atop his helmet. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No.” Paks yawned. “Have you? I wish I could sleep.”

“Here—” Vik handed her a roll and a hunk of cheese. “I tried some of the food from their kitchen, but this is better. What’d you find in there—anything good?”

Paks nodded, her mouth full of bread.

“We’re supposed to clear the northwest quadrant today, but what we find goes to the common store, worse luck.” Vic shook his head, then grinned. “Though I’ve as much as I can carry now.”

Paks swallowed noisily. “I’ve got some jewels, and money, and this—” She indicated the strip of silk. “Did you see those militia?”