The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Very well, Master Simmitt, and thank you.” The surgeon left the room; the Duke turned back to Ferrault. “Captain—”

  “My lord. Did I tell you—the seals—”

  “Yes. You broke them.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. You did the right thing. Don’t worry.”

  “But—my lord—I lost the cohort—and then the seals—and—”

  “Shh. Ferrault, it’s all right. It’s not your fault. You did well—you’ve always done well. Your patron Gird will be pleased with you, when you come to him. I don’t know many captains who could have held off so many with a tiny mixed force.”

  “But our losses—what will you do?”

  “Do?” The Duke stared at the wall a moment, then smiled at Ferrault. “Ferrault, when I’m done with him, neither Siniava nor his friends nor his followers will have a hut to live in or a stone to mark where they died. I’m going to destroy him, Ferrault, for what he did to you and the Company. We’ve already destroyed the army he brought north this year, and that’s only the beginning.”

  “Can you—do all that—my lord?”

  “With help. Clart Company rode with us. Vladi sent a cohort of spears. I expect Aliam Halveric to arrive any day to avenge his son. So you take your rest, Ferrault, and tell Gird we’d be glad of a little assistance.”

  Ferrault smiled faintly. His eyelids sagged as he whispered, “Yes, my lord.”

  The Duke looked up at Paks, now leaning against the wall. “And you, Paks, know nothing of my plans, is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You may go. Send my captains to me, please, and see if you can find the Halveric sergeant; I want to speak to him.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Paks tried not to limp as she left the room, but her leg had stiffened again.

  “Are you hurt?” came the Duke’s voice behind her. She turned.

  “No, sir, just bruised.”

  “Well, see the surgeon after you’ve given my messages. Don’t forget.”

  “No, sir, I won’t.” The same squire was standing outside the room; he scowled at her and went to the door as she started for the stairs. Paks ignored him. In the courtyard she asked Vik where the Halveric sergeant might be, and he jerked his head at a group of Halveric soldiers in one corner. Paks knew a few of the faces, but was not sure of the sergeant until he stepped forward.

  “I’m Sunnot,” he said. “The sergeant. Were you looking for someone?”

  “Yes,” said Paks. “The Duke asked me to find you; he’d like to speak to you.”

  Sunnot grimaced. “I’ll bet he would. What a mess. Where is he?”

  “Up those stairs, third room on the left.”

  “Oh. He’s with the captain, then. How is he?” Paks shook her head. Sunnot sighed. “I thought maybe your surgeons could do something. Well—I hope your Duke’s not too angry—”

  “He is, but not with you.”

  “Umm. You’re the one who got through, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Paks turned away. “I’ve got to find the captains; go on up.”

  “I will.”

  Paks limped into the outer yard, looking for the captains, and found them busy. Pont was in the barracks where the wounded had been moved. Cracolnya was preparing the pyre of enemy bodies, and Dorrin was in the enemy camp, supervising the looting. Sejek was dead, of a crossbow bolt through one eye. When Paks had finally delivered her messages, she struggled back to the fort. Erial, one of Cracolnya’s sergeants, was waiting for her at the gate.

  “You need to see the surgeon,” she said gruffly. “The Duke’s called assembly after we eat, and we want all you walking wounded there.” Paks did not argue. Between her leg and her ribs, she was not sure she was still walking wounded.

  Master Visanior looked up as she came into the barracks. “You again. Though I told you to stay out of trouble.” Paks said nothing. How could she fight and stay out of trouble? “Hmmph,” the surgeon went on. “Stubborn as a fighter always is. Well, let’s see the damage.” She fumbled at the thongs fastening her greaves, and he helped draw them off, and the boot beneath. A large, hard, dark-blue swelling throbbed insistently. The surgeon poked it; Paks clenched her jaw. “Not broken, I don’t think, but it’s taken damage. What was it?”

  “Pike butt.”

  “And you’ve that broken rib, too. Anything else?”

  “No—nothing like that, anyway.”

  “Good. If this hasn’t damaged the bone, it’ll hurt for ten days or so, but it’ll heal. Try not to hit it again. Stay off it as much as you can—keep your leg up. I’ll tell the sergeants. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No, sir.” Paks had not even thought of food, or mealtimes; now she wondered how late it was.

  “Then you’ll stay here until you do. Just lie down over there—” he pointed. “Someone will bring you food.”

  Paks thought of trying to leave, but the surgeon’s sharp eye was on her until she stretched out on a pallet. Her leg throbbed. She closed her eyes for a moment. Someone touched her shoulder and she jerked awake. Surely she hadn’t been asleep—but it was almost dark. Torches burned in the yard; lamps, in the stable itself. A private in black and white held a steaming bowl and mug toward her. She tried to gather her wits as she reached for them; he grinned and turned away.

  The stew was hot and savory. Paks ate hungrily. As she finished, she saw the surgeon making his rounds of the wounded. She had not realized before how many there were. He came to her at last.

  “You’re to stay down. I told the sergeants.”

  “But the Duke—”

  “Not until morning. He’s staying with Captain Ferrault for now. I’ll have someone help you clean up; then sleep. We don’t want a relapse.”

  Paks thought she should argue to be allowed up, but she truly did not want to move. She was asleep within the hour.

  When the Duke’s summons came the next morning, all who could walk or be moved assembled in the inner court. They formed into the original three cohorts, not near filling the space they would have crowded two weeks before. In Paks’s cohort, only twenty-two were left; all had been wounded. The other two cohorts mustered one hundred forty survivors of the two hundred eight they had had. Three of the six sergeants and four of the six corporals were dead or dying: all in Paks’s cohort, Juris and Kalek of Dorrin’s, and Saer of Cracolnya’s. And two captains were dead: Ferrault and Sejek. Paks slid her eyes from side to side, meeting other worried glances. How could the Duke go on after such a loss? His words to Ferrault seemed sheer bravado.

  The Duke came out, trailed by his squires. He was bareheaded, the chill breeze ruffling his hair and lifting his cloak away from his mail. The captains greeted him. He smiled and nodded, then paced along the ranks, looking at each soldier as if it were any other inspection. At last he walked back to the front of the Company, and turned to face them. The silence had a life of its own.

  “Sergeant Vossik.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Close the gates, please. We don’t want to be disturbed for awhile.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Vossik beckoned to his remaining corporal, and they closed the courtyard gates, then stood in front of them.

  The Duke raked the Company with his gaze. “You have all,” he began softly, so softly that Paks had to listen closely, “you have all won such glory in these few days that I have no words for it: you still alive, and our friends we have lost. You have defeated an army more than twice your size—not with clever tactics, but with hard and determined fighting. Each one of you has won this victory. I knew, companions, that you were the best company in Aarenis, but even I never knew, until now, how good you were.” His gesture evoked the two battles, the fort held against Siniava’s men, Paks’s journey. He nodded to them, and his voice warmed.

  “Now you look from side to side and think how many friends are lost forever. Your ranks are thin. You know that no plunder can repay the losses we have taken. You want to avenge the treach
ery and the murders and the torture—and you wonder how.” A long pause.

  “I’ll tell you,” he went on. “You and I are going to destroy the Honeycat, and his cities, and his allies, and everything else he claims. When we are through, his name will be spoken—not in fear or hatred, as now, but in contempt and ridicule. He thought he could gut this Company. He thought he could scare us, chase us away—” a low growl from the Company interrupted for a moment. The Duke raised his hand, and silence returned. “No. I know he was wrong. You know it. Nothing scares you, my friends; no southern scum can chase you away. And he has not come close to destroying us—but, companions, we are going to destroy him.” The Duke rocked back on his heels and surveyed each face again.

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “We can do that, and we will. You already know other companies are with us: the Clarts, the Halverics, Vladi’s spears. More will join us. I pledge you, sword-brethren, that until this vengeance is complete, I will consider no other contract, and all I have will support this campaign.” The Duke drew his sword and raised it in salute to the Company. “To their memory,” he said. “To vengeance.” And the Company growled in response: vengeance.

  When he sheathed the sword, he motioned to Dorrin. She came near. He seemed more relaxed. “You are all worthy of praise,” he began. “And we will raise the mound both here and on the battlefield near Rotengre for our fallen companions. Still, there are a few who deserve praise before the Company, for deeds uncommon even in this uncommon campaign. Captain—?”

  Dorrin began. “My lord Duke, I have four soldiers to recognize. Simisi Kanasson, who held off three guards from the prisoners, though his horse had been cut down. Sim was wounded then, and again today when fighting the pikes. Kirwania Fastonsdotter, who led her file against the pikes both north of Rotengre and here, and accounted for eight dead by her own sword. Teriam Selfit, who rallied his squad after Kalek was killed, and prevented a breakout. Jostin Semmeth, who accounted for two of the mounted guard, was hit by a crossbow bolt, and went on to slay three bowmen and a pikeman before falling himself.”

  “Come forward, then,” said the Duke. As they stepped out of line, he took from a casket held by one of the squires a ring for each of them. As they went back to their places, the Duke gestured to Cracolnya. He too had several soldiers to honor, and the ceremony proceeded. When the last of Cracolnya’s men had stepped back, the Duke turned to Paks’s cohort.

  “You have no captain to speak for you,” he said. “Nor sergeants, nor corporals. Yet your deeds speak aloud without their aid. I cannot pick and choose among you; I will have made for each of you, from these spoils, a ring to commemorate your deeds. But those to whom you owe your lives, who brought me word of your peril: even among such honor, they deserve honor. Three started: Canna Arendts, Saben Kanasson, and Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. When they were attacked by brigands near Rotengre, only Paks was able to win free. We do not know the fate of the others; be assured that the search will continue until we know. But now—Paksenarrion, come forward.”

  Paks felt herself blushing, and could hardly tear her eyes from the ground. She limped forward.

  “Here is a ring,” he said, “that I think best represents your deed. Three strands, for the three who started together, braided into one: the one who succeeded, the message, for returning to the place you began. And imperishable gold, for loyalty.” Paks took the gold ring he held out, and stammered her thanks. This was not the way she had dreamed of winning glory, when she was still herding sheep. It felt indecent to be praised so, when her friends were captive or dead.

  When the blood quit roaring in her ears, the Duke was still speaking to her cohort. “I want you to stay together,” he said. “You are still Arcolin’s cohort; you’ll remain so. When I bring the recruits down, you’ll be brought up to strength. In the meantime, until Valdaire, you’ll form a squad in Dorrin’s cohort. She will recommend temporary corporals. We will stay here until we raise the mound for our friends, when the Halveric arrives.” He turned to the captains. “You may dismiss your cohorts when you’re ready.”

  “My lord.” The captains bowed. The Duke gave them all a last grim smile and returned to the keep. In a few minutes, the muster was over, and Paks had limped back to the stables with Vik. She spent me day doing such chores as she could manage without standing. Someone brought a pile of swords for her to clean and sharpen; she found her own, now notched, as she worked.

  Sometime in the afternoon, they were startled by a horn cry from the gate tower. Paks stiffened, her hand clenched on the hilt of the sword she was cleaning. The fort erupted into action and noise. A squad of Clarts came boiling out of the inner court, their horses striking sparks off the stone paving. Through the open gate Paks could hear shouts from outside. These ceased, and she heard the drumming of a single galloping horse coming nearer. She glanced around the stableyard, then toward the inner gate. The Duke, armed and mounted, sat his horse in the space between the walls, his squires behind him.

  The hoofbeats outside slowed, then halted. The Duke raised his hand. Into Paks’s view rode a mailed figure in Halveric green on a lathered chestnut horse. He pushed up his visor; Paks thought she recognized Aliam Halveric. He rode forward until his horse was beside the Duke’s and they were face to face. They clasped arms.

  “I have much to say to you,” said the Duke.

  “And I to you,” replied the Halveric.

  “I fear we are crowded within,” said the Duke. “Though I would welcome you and your captains to the keep, we have many wounded and I have brought them all inside the walls.”

  “We came prepared to camp,” said the Halveric. “For a long time, if need be. I am only sorry we missed the battle. I would be glad, however, to accept your generous offer of a roof for myself and my captains. Where would you prefer I place my company?”

  Paks thought she saw a smile flicker across the Duke’s face. “Old friend,” he said, and the Halveric relaxed visibly. “I will answer what you are too courteous to ask. Your men within these walls are at your disposition, to stay or go as you direct. Between us now there can be no question of captives. Your men acted in all ways honorably and bravely. I would suggest you leave the wounded inside the walls. Now—will you see them first, or come with me?”

  The Halveric spoke in a softer voice, and Paks could not hear. The Duke nodded, and beckoned a squire forward. The Halveric spoke to him, and he rode out the gate. The other squires dismounted, one taking all the horses, and the other holding the reins for the Duke and the Halveric to dismount. The two men stood talking while the horses were led away. In a short time Sunnot, the Halveric sergeant, came from the inner court and went down on one knee before the Halveric, who raised him up at once. Some command was given; Sunnot bowed slightly and turned away, leading the Halveric toward the barracks with the worst wounded. He was smiling, clearly relieved to have his own commander there at last.

  * * *

  When the great burial mound was finished, all the companies assembled there for a final leave-taking. The names of the fallen were called aloud one last time. Vladi’s spearmen sang “The Dance of Frostbreath” and tossed their spears over the mound. The Clarts performed a wild dance mimicking combat on horseback; the thunder of hooves, one of them had explained to Paks, would carry their fallen comrades to the endless fields of the afterworld, where horses never tire, nor riders fall. Aliam Halveric and his captains sang to his harper’s playing, the old “Fair Were the Towers Whose Stones Lie Scattered” that Paks had heard even in Three Firs—but instead of the name of the Prince and his nobles, they sang the names of the Halveric dead. Then the Duke signalled his piper, and a tune Paks had never heard before seemed to drag all the sorrow and anger out of her heart with its own bitterness. It was the “Ar hi Tammarion,” the lament written for the death of the Duke’s lady by the half-elven harper at the Court of Tsaia, and not since then played openly. Paks did not know the history of the song, but felt its power, as the rough wind dried tears she had she
d without knowing it.

  Their journey back to Rotengre passed quickly and uneventfully; five days after leaving the north they were back in position. The horses they had ridden had to be returned; most had been borrowed from one or another militia. Paks led half a dozen back to the horselines of Sorellin. Coming back, she was hailed by a burly sergeant. His voice was vaguely familiar.

  “Hey! Duke’s sword! Aren’t you the one who came across the lines that night?”

  Paks looked at him, not sure of his face. “Yes. Why?”

  “By the sword, you look so much better I’d not have known you but for your size and yellow hair. Why? Because we’ve heard about you—and I’m sorry we gave you such trouble that night.”

  Paks thought back to that black wet night and shivered, though it was daylight. “That’s all right.”

  He sucked a tooth for a moment. “Well—I came close enough to tossing you in our guard cell. It was a lesson to me. Anyway, I’m glad you survived it all. I’m Sim, by the way—Sim Plarrist—and I’d be glad to stand you a tankard of ale—”

  Paks shook her head. “Not until the city yields. May it be short—but until then we’re to stay strictly with our Company. But thank you.”

  “No hard feelings, then?”

  “No.” He waved her on, and Paks threaded her way to her own lines in the fading light. There, in another echo of the earlier event, was Barra on guard.

  “Paks, the Duke wants to see you.”

  “Do you know what about?” Her stomach clenched, expecting bad news.

  “I think he’s heard about Saben and Canna.”

  “Bad?”

  Barra shrugged. “I don’t know anything. When I asked, I was told to mind my own business and see you got the Duke’s message. But if it was good news, I think we’d know.”