The Deed of Paksenarrion (96 page)

“Certainly so,” said Arvid.

“Then, when he knows we’ve killed it but have gone away, he may be careless for a space. A short space, in which we must strike.”

Arvid looked at him curiously. “Are you angry, yeoman-marshal, that I bade you stay back with the light?”

“I was,” said Ambros frankly. “Then I realized that you had to have light to fight. This time we’ll let another carry the flint—and another be prepared to light candle or torch for us as it’s needed. Now—to plans.”

This time, the stench from the open door nearly turned Paks’s stomach. The dead creature already swarmed with vermin—in the light of the candles, a flurry of rats scuttered away, squeaking. Beyond, the open doorway gaped. Again, Paks and Arvid were in the lead. Ambros had found six yeomen to come with them, including Mal. Two of them carried lighted candles. Suli followed Paks closely.

Beyond the empty doorway, a passage sloped downhill, its rough stone floor heavy with dust churned by many feet. Paks could see and hear nothing. She glanced at Arvid.

“Let me lead,” he said quietly. “Stay close, but don’t pass me, and be ready to stop on my signal. It’s the very place for some trap.” He stepped forward. Paks waited until he was three paces ahead, and then followed. The passage went on for twenty paces—twenty more—then Arvid stopped. Paks caught his hand signal and froze in her tracks. Suli bumped her from behind. The others’ footsteps seemed loud. Then silence, as they all stood still. Arvid was touching the side walls lightly. He looked back at Paks, and gestured her forward—one step. She took it. He pointed at the floor. She could see nothing, until he pointed again. A slight ridge in the dust, a ripple she would never have noticed. Where the feet had passed it, she could see an edge of stone.

“It’s the trigger,” he said softly. “If someone steps on that, then—” he pointed up. “That will fall.” In the dimness overhead, Paks could make out a dark slit, and shining points. “A portcullis. It probably makes a noise, as well. There should be a safety block on one side, though, if they carry heavy goods through here. Ah-h.” Paks could not see what he did, but a small block of stone suddenly slid out of the wall a handsbreadth. “That should do it. We might want to come out this way in a hurry. Meanwhile, make sure no one steps on the trigger stone.”

Paks passed this information along, and everyone stepped carefully over the ridge. Arvid had gone on. He disarmed another such trap thirty paces farther on. “I expect,” he said quietly to Paks, “that both would close together, and open arrow-slits in the walls as well. But we shall hope not to find out.” After that, Paks kept her eyes roving on all sides, trying to spot traps—but she missed the next, after the passage turned and dipped steeply. Arvid halted at the top of the steepening ramp.

“Now this,” he said, “may be a chute trap.”

“What?”

“If you step on the trigger of a chute trap,” he said, “it tips up and dumps you in someone’s pot—or prison cell. It’s the same. We’re meant to go on—but you don’t see footprints in that dust, do you?”

“No—but it’s been disturbed—”

“Umm. More like something’s been dragged on it. They may use it for the caravan goods—saves carrying. I’d rather arrive on my feet. We need another door.”

Paks could see nothing but stone-walled passage. Arvid went over every stone with his long fingertips. The others fidgeted; Paks shushed them. Finally he tapped one section of wall and smiled. “This is the entrance. The trouble is that I don’t know what’s on the other side. They may have a guard right there—in which case, we’re in trouble. It may be trapped to sound an alarm—I can’t tell. But I judge it’s a safer way down than that—” He nodded at the chute.

“Well—we have to try something,” said Paks. “Can you tell which way it opens?”

“No. I don’t think it will rotate, like an ordinary door. It should either come forward or sink in, and then slide sideways. I can’t tell which.” He looked at her, challenging. Paks was determined to figure it out for herself.

“Well, then—you’re the one who can open it. I’ll cover you, on your left side. The rest of you move three paces back and stay flat against this wall—you won’t be hit by arrows, if there’s an archer, and you can see how it works. Shield the candles with your hands, in case of a strong draft. Anything else?” She looked at Arvid. He shook his head.

“You’ve a feel for this, lady,” he said.

She heard a click as he worked the mechanism. The stone before him sank back; faint light came through the gap. Soundlessly the stone slid to the left. Behind it was a landing; stairs went down to the left, where the light brightened, and up to the right. Across the landing was an alcove; four cross-bows hung from pegs. Paks moved quickly through the opening, and looked both ways. Nothing. She signed to Arvid, who nodded and motioned the others in. He did something to the touchstone lock, and murmured that he hoped he’d jammed it open. His eyes slid to the crossbows. Paks quickly cut their strings. The two quivers of bolts she simply took and tied to her belt.

Down toward the light they crept, stair by stair. Halfway down, Paks could see that a passage led away ahead and another to the right. She motioned those behind her to the right-hand wall of the stair. Now she could see a door, closed, at the foot of the stairs to the left. Arvid stayed in the lead, one stair before her. At the foot, he stopped a long moment to scan the passage ahead and the foot of the stair itself. The forward passage ended in another closed door not twenty paces away, heavy wood bound with iron. Neither hinges nor bars showed on this side. The light they had seen came from torches in brackets on both sides of the passage: four ahead, and obviously more to the right. The flame-tips bent toward the left-hand door, and even on the stairs Paks could feel the draft that kept the air fresh.

Arvid put the tip of his sword past the corner. Nothing happened. Very slowly he eased his face to the corner. Paks waited, feeling her heart race. He drew back, and motioned her back a step. Then he spoke softly in her ear. “It goes twenty-thirty paces, then turns left. Wide enough for four fighters. Torch every four paces. Mark on floor, good for bow.”

“Run it,” suggested Paks.

“Only way,” he agreed. “Got to be quiet and fast.” Paks did not see how they could all be fast and silent, but she told the others. Ambros and another yeoman moved up beside her; she told Suli to stay in the second rank.

They started off at a quick jog, as quietly as possible. Paks saw the pale stripes on the floor, four of them, and stepped over the first. Then she heard a noise from somewhere ahead, and leaped into full speed, the others with her. Four crossbowmen appeared at the far end of the passage; the first flight of crossbow bolts whirred by. Paks heard a yelp from behind; something clicked on her helmet. Behind them four more, shooting even as the first four dropped their bows and leaped forward with shortswords in hand. Paks did not hesitate; it would be suicide to stop in that bare passage. She reached the first swordsmen before they were set in position; Arvid and Ambros were hardly behind her, and they forced the line back into the others. Now all eight defenders had dropped their bows.

Paks had never faced a shortsword formation with a longsword. She found herself fighting as if she had her Company weapon. At least they didn’t have shields—she smiled as her sword went home in one of them. He folded over, to lie curled on the floor. The man behind thrust at her, and she raked his arm. She noticed that Arvid, beside her, had downed another. The first man down tried to stab at her legs; Paks edged by, and Suli got him in the throat. Paks and Arvid were one step ahead of Ambros and the yeoman. Paks was beginning to think they might get through without too much trouble when four more men appeared.

“Blast!” said Arvid. “I’d hoped this was the first wave.”

Paks said nothing, fighting her way forward a step at a time. She was beginning to use the longsword more freely, with effect. Another man went down before her, and those behind seemed less eager to engage. But the noise in the passage was considerable. Ambros was yelling Girdish slogans, as was the yeoman; each had now defeated his man, and they were back in line. The clash of steel rang from the walls.

Then the torches went out as if they’d been dipped in water. Paks felt something rake across her torso; the mail held. She thrust hard ahead of her, and heard someone grunt, then sigh. She shook the weight off her blade and thrust again. Nothing.

“Arvid?” she asked.

“Here.” His voice beside her was calm. She wasn’t. Ambros cursed, off to Arvid’s right. Paks could hear heavy breathing in front of them somewhere. She moved forward a step, and her boot landed on something soft and moving. She kicked, hard, and stepped back.

“Light,” said Ambros testily. She could hear the scrape of flint and steel, but saw no spark.

“You want light, servant of Gird?” came a silky voice out of the dark ahead. “I thought you Girdsmen claimed the knowledge of lightspells.”

Paks tried again to move toward the voice, but Arvid grabbed her arm. She froze in place. She could sense that he was fumbling in his cloak. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could tell that somewhere around the bend torches were still burning—vague shapes stood out against that dim glow. She could not tell how many. If they were reloading crossbows—if they had spears—we’re crazy to stand here, she thought, like sheep in a chute. With a wild yell, she jumped forward, a standing leap that took her to the first of the dark shapes. She heard Arvid’s curse, the others jumping after her. Her sword clashed against another, suddenly glowing blue. She heard other weapons striking, and pressed her own opponent hard by instinct, since she could scarcely see. She felt a blow on her shoulder, and another on the ribs. Her own blade flickered, a dancing blue gleam that lit only its target. Something raked her free hand, burning like fire or ice. She shook it, still fencing.

Their surprise attack brought them around the turn of the passage, over bodies now crumpled beneath the fighters. Ahead was a short hall with a door to the right. Against the golden glow from that door stood a tall, slender robed figure. They were within four paces of it, when that same smooth voice spoke, a word Paks had not heard before. Her muscles slackened, as if she had been hit in the head; she nearly dropped her sword. Arvid fell back a pace. Even Ambros stopped where he was, and dropped the tip of his blade. The defenders leaped forward.

“Gird!” cried Ambros, in that instant. Paks felt her body come alive again; she covered Arvid’s side with a desperate lunge, and took a glancing blow on her helmet. Suli pushed past Arvid, throwing a quick glance at Paks, and lunged at the man before her. Paks had time to notice that she was indeed quick, and quite good. Then the defenders retreated past the door, and turned to run. Paks faced the doorway. It was empty.

Within, the steady glow of lamplight revealed a chamber hung with rich tapestries in brilliant colors. In the center of the chamber stood a handsome young man in long black velvet robes edged with black fur. He smiled at them, and held out empty hands.

“Don’t you think you’re being discourteous?” he asked. His voice was mellow as old ale. “It is friendlier to announce oneself, don’t you think?”

“You—!” began Ambros. Paks noticed Suli edging forward and plucked at her sleeve. Suli turned, frowning, but obeyed when Paks gestured her back. “Spawn of Achrya,” Ambros went on. The man laughed easily.

“Alas, young sir yeoman-marshal of Gird, I am not Achrya’s spawn—if I were, you might have found another welcome. ‘Tis true I have done her some service, but—what is that to thee?”

“I am the yeoman-marshal—”

“Yes, of Brewersbridge. This is not Brewersbridge. This is my keep, and you have broken in, attacking and killing my men—and you are not even the Marshal. It’s not your grange.”

“It is. It was left in my care. And you—corrupting men, robbing caravans, killing and looting—Gird’s teeth, it’s my business!” Ambros took a step forward, toward the doorway.

“So you really think a yeoman-marshal of Gird is a match for me? Or are you relying on your muscle-bound women for protection?” Suli lunged forward, and Paks caught her in the midriff with a stiff elbow. Suli gasped, and Paks spoke over her shoulder.

“Don’t be a fool, he’s trying to anger us. Stay back.”

The man looked directly at her. Something about his gaze warned her, and she dropped her eyes to his neck. “My,” he said sweetly, “a wise head rules that magic sword. Perhaps you are not what you seem, eh? I had heard of a strange lady swordfighter in Brewersbridge—a veteran of Phelan’s company, they said, who left because she would not see evil done. Is that you, then?” Paks fought back a surge of rage that roared in her ears and threatened to haze her vision. “Defeated that elven mage, and freed the elfane taig, that’s what I heard. Near enough a paladin, I should think—not a Girdsman yet, what a shame—if, that is, you defeat me. Do you think to defeat me, pretty one?”

This too Paks ignored, keeping her attention on his neck. She thought how she would like to sink her sword in it. But she heard what he said. Near enough a paladin? The thought beckoned, like a finger in the mist. But Arvid spoke up, having regained his position beside her.

“You, sir, seem to have some power of enchantment, or why do we stand here speaking to you? For me, I would see your blood on that handsome rug, and put an end to such delay.” He moved forward a handsbreadth and stopped, as if he’d hit a wall.

“Enchantments? Yes, indeed. And, since you’ve robbed me of robbers and guards alike, I’m in need of servants. You, I believe, will do nicely. And the women; Achrya will be pleased if I interfere in the growth of a paladin of Gird. I hope, indeed, to convert all of you. How pleasant it will be to have spies in the grange of Brewersbridge.”

“No! By Gird!” Ambros leaped forward, sword high. Paks shook herself, suddenly alert to her musings, and followed him. She was not surprised to see a sword appear in the man’s hand, a dagger in the other. Ambros met the sword with his own, narrowly missing a dagger thrust. Paks came in on the Achryan’s sword side. She turned his blade and thrust. Her blade seemed to stick in his robes; she jerked it free with an effort. Meanwhile his blade had raked her shoulder. She could feel the links of mail along that track.