The Deed of Paksenarrion (52 page)

“Well—they can fight. They want to fight Siniava. That’s it, I suppose. We’ve had losses—if they’ll fight, that’s what the Duke wants. But they’re not much like us, I can tell you that.”

“Are they spread through the Company, or what?” Paks glanced around, trying to distinguish them.

“No. They’re in their own formation, under their own captain.” Jenits craned his neck to look. “You can’t see them from here; they wear green and purple.”

After marching east from Cha, along the river, they took the same shortcut across the loop, this time moving northeast. But when they rejoined the river, they forded it instead of turning toward Cortes Andres. Atop the rising ground to the east was a thick forest. Paks had heard of this—the haunt of Alured the Black, the sea pirate turned brigand.

As they neared the trees she felt grumpy and nervous at once. She was still unarmed, for the skin of her hand was not tough enough to hold a weapon, the surgeons insisted. She hated marching in back with the other wounded. Once in that cool shade, undergrowth screened the view to either side; the sunlight almost seemed green. Paks had relaxed a little when the horn call for danger rang out ahead. She felt her heart thudding; her hand dropped automatically to the sword that wasn’t there. Halveric fighters moved up from the rear to screen the wounded. Once they were in place, it was quiet but for the rustling leaves overhead. Paks looked at the broad back of the Halveric nearest her. He looked strong, but she still wanted her own sword.

Her first sight of Alured the Black came as the Duke and the other captains escorted him along the column, introducing him to the troops. He looked nothing like the pirate or brigand she had pictured in her mind. He had long black hair in a braid, and a black beard; his face was darkly tanned. Strong bones, strong arched eyebrows, snapping black eyes. He sat his black horse easily, his broad shoulders square and erect, his hands quiet on the reins. As he and the others rode on down the column, she saw that his glossy black braid was bound with green leather and decorated with several bright-colored feathers. Paks thought this looked a little silly, but his longbow and sword were workmanlike enough.

They spent almost four days crossing the forest, camping each night in clearings Alured designated, and closely watched by his men. These wore mottled, drab clothing well-suited for forest work, with a badge on the left breast: a gray tower on a green field. Paks wondered what it meant. Alured’s men provided fresh meat each night: rabbits and other small game, for they would not hunt the red deer in spring.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, they reached the forest edge. On their left, the land dropped steeply to a river they could see but not hear—the eastern branch of the Chaloquay. Ahead were the pastures and fields of Cilwan—three days ahead was Cortes Cilwan, the city. Scattered groves and patches of forest extended some distance from Alured’s domain; they marched to one of these before camping for the night. Paks thought of the band of men she had seen watching the column as it left the forest. She wished she knew what they were thinking.

By this time Jenits’s arm was out of splints; he carried a shield as he marched to strengthen it. Paks had been cleared to return to her cohort. The lump on her head was much smaller, and her hand healed with little scarring. She had to rub and stretch the scars with oil every day, and wear a glove all the time, but she had a sword at her side again.

Cilwan was much lusher country than Andressat or the South Marches. Never a stone showed in the dark soil; flowers edged the garden plots on the farms they passed. Most buildings were well-kept, shutters and doors brightly painted. But the people shunned them, hiding in the fields until the column had passed.

Near noon a day or so later, they passed through a small village. Paks was shocked to see the Pliuni troops in front of her slip from the column to enter houses, emerging with arms full of food and clothing. Hooves pounded up from behind. Arcolin yelled at the Pliunis. They shambled to a halt. Paks could see the resentment in their hunched shoulders as Arcolin argued with their captain. A loose shutter creaked in the breeze.

“No raiding!” Arcolin was still shouting. “These aren’t enemies—we aren’t robbers; we’re soldiers. You have enough food. You don’t need to do this.”

The Pliuni captain had pale red hair; his skin flushed to the same color. “This is silly. Siniava robbed us often enough—these are only peasants—”

“They aren’t even Siniava’s peasants! No. No raiding. You wanted to come with the Duke, and you agreed to obey him—”

“The Duke, yes,” growled the Pliuni captain. “Not a bunch of damned nursemaids!” Paks heard a mutter of agreement from the Pliuni troops near her. Her hand slipped toward her sword; she saw Arcolin’s hand move toward his. The Pliunis seemed to draw together. Paks looked for the sergeants. They both nodded slightly as they moved, one on either side of the column, to the head of the cohort. From the rear came another clatter of hooves. Pont and Dorrin rode up beside Arcolin.

“Problems?” asked Dorrin.

“They were raiding,” said Arcolin, with a nod toward the Pliunis.

The Pliuni captain’s face was now beet-red. “And we will raid, Duke’s man, when I say so. Your Duke isn’t paying us anything for our help, after all.” Again a mutter of agreement from the Pliuni troops. Dorrin frowned.

“If you march with us, you follow our rules,” said Arcolin.

“Not
yours
,” sneered the Pliuni. “Your Duke’s maybe—if it suits us.”

Arcolin was white with rage. Dorrin spoke before he could say anything. “Are you not aware of the Duke’s policy on raiding?”

The captain glowered at her. “Oh, he says there’s to be none—and that keeps the peasants quiet—but of course he knows we must do
some.
”

“Perhaps you’d like to hear the Duke’s opinion in person?” Arcolin’s voice was cold.

“Perhaps I’d like you to mind your own business!” The Pliuni captain glanced back at his men. “You think you’re so special, Captain—just because you mercenaries fight for money instead of honor—” At the word, Arcolin’s hand signal passed to the sergeants. Every blade in the cohort slipped from its sheath. Paks saw the Pliuni captain’s eyes slide sideways to see what had happened. Arcolin’s eyes never moved.

“Captain Pont, ask the Duke to attend us, please,” said Arcolin. Pont nodded, and legged his horse to a hard gallop toward the front of the column. Paks grinned as she saw the Pliuni captain’s shoulders twitch. Men in the rear Pliuni ranks glanced back at Arcolin’s cohort, paling as they saw the naked blades. Their own hands twitched; those who had taken bundles from the houses dropped them.

“You can’t attack us,” began the Pliuni captain. “We’re your allies. You shouldn’t draw sword against us—”

“Against you?” asked Dorrin. “The captain has not moved his troops an inch—are you afraid to see swords inspected?”

“Inspected! It’s not—he was—”

“You,” said Arcolin firmly, “were insulting us. I saw a dozen hands on sword among your troops. So I thought we’d best be sure ours were clean—ready for any—difficulty.” He looked at Stammel. “They are, aren’t they?”

Stammel grinned broadly. “Certainly, Captain. Any time.”

The Pliuni captain turned even paler. “It’s—it’s treason—a trap—you’re looking for some excuse to kill us all.” His men shifted in their ranks, murmuring.

“Tir’s gut, Captain, if we’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now. Don’t be ridiculous.” Dorrin’s scornful voice caught all their attention. “We—and you, I hope—want to kill the Honeycat. That’s why we’re here. That’s why you asked to march with us. Isn’t that right—that you hate Siniava?”

“Yes.” Most of the Pliuni troops were looking at her now.

“Then concentrate on that, and not on making trouble. Plunder Siniava’s camp, not some poor peasants who hardly have a spare tunic.”

The Pliuni captain was still disgruntled, and looked ready to argue, but they heard the beat of many galloping hooves. Duke Phelan, Aliam Halveric, Captain Pont, and the senior Halveric captain halted beside Arcolin and Dorrin.

“Do I understand, Captain, that you have a problem?” Duke Phelan was angry, his voice icy. The Pliuni captain looked around but found no support.

“My lord Duke, we—we were but—”

“Plundering,” said the Duke. “
Stealing.
And from peasants we hope are still loyal to their count, who is our ally.”

“No one’s paying
us
,” said the Pliuni, unwisely. “We have to have something—”

“No one’s paying me, either,” said the Duke. “I have no contract to defeat Siniava, only the vow I made to our dead. If you want plunder, Captain, you can wait until you take it from Siniava—or you can march alone. I won’t have thieves under my protection.” The captain flushed again, but the Duke went on before he could speak. “Either you control your men, and obey my commands as given through my captains, or you march away, right now, and stay clear. And if you leave, you’d best not use my name, or that of my allies: we’ll consider you as any other band of brigands. Is that clear?”

The man turned to the Halverics, but both of them gave him a tight-lipped stare that promised no softening of the Duke’s position. His shoulders sagged.

“Yes—it’s clear.”

“Well, then?”

“Well—” He looked around at his men. “We’ll march with you.”

“And obey? That means at once, without question.”

“Yes—my lord.”

“Good.” The Duke swept his eyes over the Pliuni contingent. “Have your men return whatever they took to the correct houses, at once.” The captain turned to his sergeants and gave the orders. Those who had taken bundles picked them up and moved reluctantly toward the houses. “Hurry up!” called the Duke sharply. “We’ve wasted enough time on this nonsense.”

In a few minutes the men were back in formation and the march resumed. Paks wondered how good the Pliuni troops would be in a fight—and how loyal.

The next morning they met Vladi’s Company in a narrow wood. They were grim and weathered-looking; soon the stories of their campaign spread through the troops. Vladi’s men had reached Cortes Cilwan before Siniava, but had found the city divided in allegiance. The city militia, so the tavern gossip ran, was half for Siniava already. The Count of Cilwan would not risk rebellion on the eve of war, and refused to arrest even known traitors—some said because his dead wife’s brother was chief among them. Although it had been planned otherwise, the Vonja militia had not joined Vladi’s men, wanting to be sure which way trouble was coming before moving. So although messages were sent as soon as Siniava’s presence in the Immer valley was certain, the Vonja troops were several days’ march away.

“And that left us,” said the burly sergeant talking to Stammel. “We marched out to meet his whole army. Just us. Those damned militia wouldn’t leave the city walls, and Vladi refused to take the Count’s Guard—said they were loyal, and he had too few who were.” He hawked and spat “You can imagine—outnumbered about five to one—all we could do was slow ‘em.”

“Did you get the Count out?” asked Stammel, as he offered the other man a skin of wine.

“Mmm. That’s good; we haven’t had anything but water these last weeks. No, their fool Count wouldn’t come. He said he was Count of Cilwan, and he was staying where he belonged.” He swallowed again. “They killed him when they broke in, a couple of days later. Hung his corpse on the gate, and that. He did let us get his heir out. Boy of eleven or so. Nice lad. I suppose now, with the news you brought about the south, they’ll send him to Andressat. The old Count’s daughter married the Viscount of Andressat; he’ll be safe enough there.”

“I imagine so. We don’t need a child with us on this campaign.” Stammel shook his head. “Well, did they pursue you when you came here?”

“Pursue! Ha! We tried to attack their rear, before they broke the citadel, and they drove us back—pretty bad, that time; we lost too many. Then we moved south, toward Immervale, and harried their supply line. We kept hoping those Vonja militia would show up in time to save the citadel. Finally Vladi took us around north of the city. We finally found the militia, a day’s march out,
after
the citadel fell. We were all well chewed up by this time, and Vladi gave their captains a few choice words. About took the bark off the trees, he did, and so they said they’d get Siniava themselves if we’d guard the Andressat approaches. That’s when we moved over this way and tried to get back in shape. But you can imagine what they did.”

“No, what?”

“Well, our spies said Siniava had garrisoned Cortes Cilwan and was moving toward Koury. We thought even Vonja should be able to trap him there, with Ambela and Sorellin coming down from the north. But that fell apart because Siniava’s factions in Cortes Vonja and Pler Vonja revolted, and as soon as the militia heard, they hared off home to join in the fight. Sorellin never moved, so Koury fell easily, and Siniava had fresh troops. He went for Ambela next, and held off the Sorellin militia long enough to breach the wall and loot. In fact, I hear he routed both the Sorellin militia and a group from Pler Vonja. The last I heard, he was actually marching on Pler Vonja, and Foss Council had finally decided to send someone like they promised. Of course, they’re on the road somewhere, and Tir knows if they’ll come up in time to fight. Or if they’ll fight. Militia!”

Stammel nodded his agreement. “Has it been quiet over here, then?”

“Not really. You’ll find out. He must have a small army of agents in Cilwan; they can take out sentries without a sound. You’ll lose a man or so every night if you don’t double your guardposts. And all you ever get back is pieces—hands and feet lying in the trail, or an arm tacked up on a barn.”

“And you’ve never caught them at it?”

“No, not since we left the city. We lost three men in Cortes Cilwan, but we caught those bastards who did it in the same house with the bodies. Out here, no.”

A shout from the captains ended this conversation, and the army was soon marching again, enlarged by Vladi’s Company. The rest of that day and the next they marched north and west, angling toward Cortes Vonja. By nightfall the first day, they had reached the south bank of the Immerest, the great western arm of the Immer River. They passed no bridges, and the river was too deep to ford, so the commanders decided to march upstream another day rather than risk a boat crossing. The Halverics thought they remembered a ford somewhere south of Cortes Vonja.