The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “They tell me,” he began, “that you are not a follower of St. Gird. Is that so?”

  Paks started to nod, but the pain lanced through her head again. “Yes, sir; it’s true.”

  “But you wear his holy symbol. It was given to you, I understand, by a Girdsman?”

  “Yes, sir. A friend—Canna.”

  “Ah. Did she tell you why she gave it to you? Had she been trying to convert you?”

  “No, sir. I—I wasn’t there when she died. The Duke told me she had left it to me. He—he said it would be right to keep it.”

  The High Marshal pursed his lips. “It’s unusual. Most Girdsmen, if they die in battle or from wounds, want their symbols returned to the barton or grange where they joined. A friend might be asked to take it there, to tell the story of a brave death. Sometimes it’s left to a family member. But to give it to a non-believer, out of the Fellowship of Gird—that’s not common at all.”

  “Should I give it to you, then? To give to the—the barton?”

  “Now, you mean?” His brows raised; he sounded surprised at the offer. Paks wondered why.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No.” His head shake was emphatic, certain. “I don’t think so. A dying friend’s wish deserves respect; if she said you were to keep it, I think you should. But tell me, what do you know about St. Gird and his followers?”

  Paks thought a long moment. “Well—Canna and Effa both said that Gird was a fighter. So good a fighter that he turned into a god or something, and now fighters can pray to him for courage and victory. And his clerics—Marshals—can heal wounds. Girdsmen are supposed to be honest and brave and never refuse to fight—but not cruel or unfair.”

  “Hmm.” The High Marshal’s mouth twitched in a brief smile. “And this doesn’t appeal to you?”

  “Well—sir—” Paks tried to think how to say it politely. “I don’t quite see how a fighter could become a god.”

  She thought he might explain, but he said merely, “Anything else?”

  “When I was a recruit, Effa tried to convert all of us. She told us about Gird’s power and protection and all. But it seemed to me that if Gird favored fighting, he wouldn’t be protecting much. Then Effa got a broken back in her first battle, and died a week later. Gird didn’t heal her.” Paks paused and looked at the High Marshal, but he said nothing, only nodded for her to go on. “And Canna—nobody could have been braver than Canna; if Gird cared about his followers at all, he should have saved her. She—she said it takes a Marshal to heal wounds, but if Gird is so powerful, I don’t see why he can’t go on and do it, without any fuss.” Paks found she was glaring at the High Marshal, furious. Her head pounded.

  The High Marshal’s expression was serious, but held no rancor. “Let me explain what we know about Gird. He was a farmer—the sort of big, powerful farmer you see all over Fintha and Tsaia. Tall, strong, hot-headed—” Paks thought of her father. “The rulers in his day were cruel and unjust; Gird found himself leading a rebellion after they harassed his village. Now these were just ordinary farmers—they had no weapons. They made clubs of firewood, and took scythes and plowhandles, and trained in the walled bartons of the village. And with these weapons, and these rough farmers, Gird managed to defeat the rulers with their fine army and its swords and spears.” Paks thought that almost as unlikely as Effa’s version—farmers winning against real soldiers?—but she kept her mouth shut. The High Marshal continued. “That’s why we call our meeting places bartons, and the larger ones granges—that’s where Gird’s followers met and trained, in farmyard and barn.”

  Paks nodded, when the Marshal seemed to be waiting for her reaction, and he went on. “His friends wanted him to be their king, but Gird refused. Instead, he used his military command to change the army into something new—the protector of the helpless and innocent, rather than the tool of the rich. He insisted that his followers be honest, fair, and that they care for the poor. We have records, in our archives, of the peaceful years when Gird was chief among guardians.” Again the Marshal glanced at her before going on.

  “Then came a new threat. Powers of evil, exactly what we don’t know. Many feared them too much to resist, and fled far away. But Gird went out to face them with his old cudgel. No one saw that battle, but the dark powers fled the land for many years, and Gird was not seen on earth again. Gird’s best friend, who had been away on a journey, had a dream in which he saw Gird ascending to the Court of the High Lord—saw him honored there, and given a cudgel of light to wield. It was after that, when he told his dream, that the priests of the High Lord recognized Gird as a saint. We don’t claim Gird is a god. We say he is a favored servant of the High Lord; he has been given powers to aid his followers and the cause of right.”

  Paks nodded slowly. Except for the bit about farmers winning battles against trained troops, this made more sense than Effa’s explanation. And it had been long ago—maybe the rulers had had no real army, or Gird had had the gods’ help. That much she could believe. “He sounds like a good man—and a good fighter.”

  “So are you, from what I saw yesterday,” said the High Marshal. “Your friend who gave you her symbol must have thought well of you. If you ever do become a Girdsman, you’d be a good one.”

  Paks could not think what to say to this. She wished she could remember just what she’d done the day before, and she had no desire to become a follower of Gird.

  “You don’t remember yesterday at all?” he asked, with a quick sideways glance.

  “No, sir.”

  He sighed. “I wish you did. I’d like to know why it didn’t kill you.”

  “What?”

  “You crossed blades with a priest of Liart, child. That should have been the death of you. It shattered your blade, burned your hand—Fenith could scarcely believe it when he saw you kick at the priest after that. It was bravely done, but foolish, to take on such a foe—and amazing that you survived it.”

  As he spoke, Paks saw a shadowy version of these things in her mind—not yet a memory, but the stirrings of what might become one. “Was there—someone in a red and black tunic, and a helmet with spikes—?”

  “Yes. Are you remembering?”

  “Not exactly. It’s not clear at all. Why should their blades burn my hand?”

  “Because his weapon was no ordinary axe.”

  “You mean magical?” She thought of Dorrin’s sword.

  “If you call a curse magic.” The High Marshal frowned. “Do you know whose priests those were?”

  “No . . . I’d never seen anything like them.”

  “I should hope not. The Master of Torments, or Liart, is an evil deity not worshipped openly in lands where the Fellowship of Gird has any influence. His priests carry weapons of great power. Evil power. No ordinary weapon can turn their strokes; unless a warrior has uncommon aid or protection he dies. Liart desires the fear of those he controls. He delights in causing strife, in murders and massacres, in bloodlust and torture. His weapons cause pain as well as death, and slavery thrives in his dominion.” He smiled at her for a moment. “So you see why I am so interested in your symbol of Gird. I would not expect such a symbol alone to protect an ordinary wearer—even a Girdsman—from certain death. But I cannot think what else saved you—and something surely did. Are you under another deity’s protection?”

  “No, sir. Not that I know of. I—we—where I grew up, we followed the High Lord—the old gods. I’d never heard of Gird until I joined the Company.”

  “I see. Was that in the north?”

  “Yes, sir. Far north—a village called Three Firs.”

  “Which kingdom is it in?”

  “I don’t know, exactly—it’s some way north and west of the Duke’s stronghold.”

  “Fintha, or the borders of it. If you never heard of Gird, you heard heroes’ tales enough, I’ll warrant.”

  “Yes, sir. Many of them: Torre’s Ride, and the Song of Seliast, and the Deed of Cullen Long-arm.”

  “Ah, y
es. Was it those songs made you decide to be a warrior?”

  Paks blushed and looked away. “Well—in a way—when I was very small. I—I did dream about it, the magic swords and winged horses, and all. But then my cousin became a soldier. When he came back he had tales to tell, and he told me the best way would be to join the mercenaries, the good ones. He told me what to look for—not to join any wild band, but an honorable company. The others, he said, were full of thieves and bullies, and cared only for gold.”

  “And that mattered to you? That your companions should be honest and fair?”

  “Of course.” Paks stared at him in surprise.

  “And have you found them so, in this company?” He was looking down at his hands, not at her.

  “Yes, sir. It wasn’t exactly what I expected, but—surely no one could ask better companions. And it is an honorable company; the Duke keeps it so.”

  “How was it not what you expected?”

  “Oh—” Paks grinned sheepishly. “I hadn’t known about the camp work—cooking, cleaning, digging, all that. Jornoth left that out. Then I had thought I’d be fighting robbers and evil things—even orcs, maybe—as in the tales. But most of our fighting is against other mercenaries or militia—whoever we’re hired to fight. This year’s different, of course.”

  The Marshal nodded. “And would you feel better if you were fighting for such a purpose all the time?”

  Paks thought about it. “I don’t know. I like to fight—the Duke is very good, and fair. I’m glad to serve him. It’s hard to imagine anything else. And this year, we’re fighting a great evil. I like that. Siniava killed my friends last year, and tortured, too.”

  “Yes, this campaign is clearly one of good against evil, and that suits you. But ordinarily—?”

  She frowned, choosing her words. “Sir, I—I serve our Duke. That was my oath, when I joined. He is worthy of my service; he has never asked any dishonorable thing. I have no right to question—judge—the contracts he takes.”

  The High Marshal looked at her thoughtfully. “I see. Yes, your Duke is a good man; I won’t argue that. And you are loyal, which is good. But something is moving you, which I do not understand, and I think you hardly realize. You may be called to leave your Duke, at least for a time. If so, I hope you will understand the need. Now I can see that you are tiring, and need your rest. Would you like anything to eat, or just more water?”

  Paks was puzzling her way through what the High Marshal said; his final question caught her by surprise. “No sir,” she said. “Just—just water, if it’s near.”

  He chuckled. “Your surgeon left a bottle here. Can you manage?” He passed it, and this time nothing happened when she lifted her head to drink. The water was cold; she shivered as she drank. The Marshal rose and brought another blanket from the pile. “Rest now,” he said. “I would like to speak to you again, if you don’t mind—” She shook her head. “Good. May Gird’s care be with you.” He moved away; Paks stared, still confused.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When the sentry ushered the High Marshal into the tent, Duke Phelan and his senior captains were seated around his map table in conference. They looked up. Dorrin smiled, but the rest looked wary.

  “I wanted to thank you, my lord, for permission to talk with Paksenarrion.”

  “Have a seat,” offered the Duke. “Did you find out what you wanted?”

  The High Marshal gathered his robes and sat down. “Not precisely, my lord. She is still dazed, and does not remember anything of the fighting. I did not wish to tire her. But what I learned confirmed my opinion that something is happening to her—and now I am reassured that it is more likely good than evil.”

  “Evil!” Arcolin straightened and looked angry. “Were you thinking that Paks was evil? Why, she’s the best—”

  “Enough.” The Duke’s voice was calm, but his eyes were flinty. “The High Marshal will no doubt explain himself.”

  “Gladly. I had no wish to anger you, Captain, or to insult your soldier. All I had heard of Paksenarrion before I saw her was good. But one reason why a blow from such a weapon of evil might not kill is that the person hit is a servant of that same deity. If—”

  “Not Paksenarrion!” interrupted Arcolin.

  “No. I agree. But I had to be sure; I had to see her myself. Even with what you and others had said of her service last year. There have been a few cases of Gird’s symbol being worn as a mockery by those who hate him. And there are more cases of evil pretending to be good, for a long purpose.”

  “I’d have thought,” said the Duke, pouring another mug of wine, and passing it to the High Marshal, “that you could have told that yesterday, when you found the medallion. Or—what’s his name? Fenith?—the paladin. Don’t paladins claim to know good from evil?”

  “Yes, my lord, but only if the being is aware, which she was not.” He took a sip of wine and sighed. “And I’ll say again—we did not think it likely that she served evil knowingly, not in this Company, not when a Girdsman had left her the medallion. But we had to know. That leaves us, however, with the same puzzle. If she were Girdish, and his symbol saved her life, it would mean she had received special aid from Gird. We would consider that such a one might have a call from Gird himself—should go to Fin Panir, say, and train as a Marshal or paladin. But she is not Girdish; she has never considered becoming Girdish.” He paused, and a smile moved his face. “In fact, she had quite—primitive, I suppose I’d say—ideas about Gird. The recruit she met—Effa, I think she said—who told her about Gird, seems to have been highly enthusiastic and quite ignorant.”

  Arcolin glanced at him. “Effa—yes. She was. She was crippled in her first battle, and died soon after.”

  “So Paksenarrion said. She considers that reason enough for doubting either Gird’s power or his interest, I’m not sure which. But back to my point: since Paksenarrion is not Girdish, it’s hard to see why—or even how—the symbol could have saved her. I asked her about other deities, but as far as she’s aware, she’s under no special protection.”

  “Did you consider Falk or Camwyn?” asked Dorrin. The High Marshal smiled and nodded.

  “Indeed yes, captain. But she’s from the northwest—Fintha or its borders—and had never heard of Gird before she joined your Company. Falk and Camwyn are better known to the south and east.” He shook his head. “I cannot say who or what saved Paksenarrion, but something most assuredly did.” He took a sip of wine; the others nodded slowly. “My lord Duke,” he began again. “I know you have no love for the Fellowship of Gird, but you are known to be a fair and just leader. Paksenarrion has told me that she cannot imagine following anyone else. But consider, my lord: some force is moving in her life, something which may call her away from this Company. Not me,” he added quickly, to the scowls around him. “I did not even suggest to her that she should join our granges or leave you. I would not dare, not knowing what the High Lord may have planned for her—”

  “What do you think?” asked the Duke abruptly.

  “Think?” The High Marshal leaned back in his chair. “I think you have as fine a young warrior as I’ve seen. That’s what I hear, as well, from all who have mentioned her. Too impulsive, perhaps, like most young fighters, but that comes as much from generosity as anything else. I think she’ll go beyond a hired fighter in the ranks, if nothing breaks that will or that honesty.” He sipped again at his mug. Arcolin frowned at his hands locked together on the table. Dorrin fiddled with a link of the fine chain that clasped her cloak. Cracolnya, head cocked on one side, traced a river on the map. Only the Duke locked eyes with the High Marshal.

  “You think this Company would do that—would harm her?”

  “No, my lord. If she is what she may be, she could not have found a better training ground than your Company. But she may grow beyond it, and if she does, her loyalty may hold her anyway. She will grow cramped, my lord, like a hawk always caged.”

  “All companies are cages,” said the Duke.


  “True. I wish, though—I hope that if she seems to be—if she needs freeing, that you will free her.”

  “I’m no slavemaster!” growled the Duke. “By—by Tir, you know me better than that! She’s served her first enlistment; she can go when she will. But I’ll not, High Marshal of Gird, toss her out for no good reason except that you worthy people and interpreters of the gods’ will think she’s trapped here. You’ll not get what you want that way!”

  “What we want?”

  “Aye, what you always want. Every good fighter should be Girdish, to fight at your Marshal-General’s command. Ha! You’ll find, High Marshal, that there are worthy battles never sanctioned by your fellowship—helpless victims you never see that depend on others for rescue—fighters just as honest and kind and brave as your paladins who don’t get the glory of it—” The Duke paused, breathing hard, his face pale. The High Marshal did not move, and the two men stared at each other in silence. At last the High Marshal set his mug on the table.

  “My lord, you know we have never claimed that only in our service is a warrior warring well. There are other saints than Gird, and gods above saints. And you know I did not lie to you: I would be glad to see that girl a Girdsman, but I did not and will not try to talk her into it.”

  “She could surprise you and end up a loyal servant of Tir,” said Arcolin.

  “That may be. As long as she serves good—and not my good, my lord, or yours—I wish her all joy. We are not quite so narrow as you think us, Duke Phelan.”

  “Perhaps.” The Duke shifted in his seat. “I hope not. And, after all, in this campaign we are allies once more.” He poured more wine in his own mug and offered the jug to the High Marshal, who refused it. “I told the captains to let the Girdsmen in their cohorts know you’d be in camp this afternoon—have you seen them?”