The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Macenion reddened. “You don’t know what I might have—” he began.

  “If you had any abilities I need worry about, you’d not have walked into this trap. You sensed nothing, at the last turn—you said so.”

  Macenion glared, and slid his hand stealthily under his cloak.

  The elf nodded. “Go ahead—try your little spells if you wish. It won’t do any good. Nor will that wand. But try it, if you like—” He laughed. “Do you not even wish to know who it is that you face, little mage? Are you in the habit of loosing spells on chance-met strangers?”

  “We are not chance-met, I fear,” said Macenion. He came forward a short distance, then stopped. “And if I cannot put a name to you, still I have a good idea what you are.”

  “What and not who? What erudition! And what makes you think I cannot charm you to obedience, as I did your—delightful—companion, here?”

  Macenion smiled in his turn. “Charm a mage? You well know what that would get you. If you would use me as a mage, you need my mind unclouded—”

  “But not unbroken, little one. Remember that.”

  Macenion bowed, as arrogantly as Paks had ever seen him. “Yet a pebble,” he said, “may be harder to break than a pine, though insignificant beside it.”

  “Are you to quote dwarvish proverbs to me?” The elf sounded slightly less amused than before. Paks, listening to all this, could scarcely pay attention to it; her mind seemed to float at a slight distance.

  Macenion bowed again, even more elaborately; as he rose, he made a complicated movement of his right hand, and said a few words Paks did not understand. But she heard the hiss of breath indrawn beside her as the elf gasped. Before he could move, she felt a wave of nausea and fear. She whirled, sword at ready, before she even knew she could move. Where she had seen elven beauty, she now saw the ruin of it, and the stench stung her nose.

  “Paks!” shouted Macenion. He was cut off by a great shout from the elf. A blast of energy poured down the chamber. Paks thrust at the elf, but her sword met another in his hand.

  “Cross blades with me, will you?” The green eyes blazed. Paks tore her gaze from them to watch the sword hand. “No human has skill to match an elf—and I am no common elf.” Indeed, the first ringing strokes revealed his ability. Paks fought on a rising wave of anger. Elves were never evil, ha! She avoided a quick trapping ploy, and thrust again. The tip of her blade seemed to hesitate an instant—an instant that let the enemy escape. She pressed on, furiously. Macenion had probably been killed by the blast, or disabled, but he had won her freedom from whatever spell had bound her. She would fight to the end, and show this creature what human skill could do.

  Again and again she managed to slip aside from a deadly blow, and just as often her own attacks fell short. Sweat rolled down her ribs, and she heard herself grunting with every stroke. The elf did not seem to tire. The same smile curved his lips; the same arrogance arched his brows. Now her wrist began to ache, as he used every advantage of height and reach. She was usually taller that those she drilled with; she was not accustomed to adjusting to a longer reach. One of his blows fell true; the force of it drove her to one knee. She felt the links of mail sink into her flesh; she barely ducked the next blow and staggered back. She wanted to look for Macenion, but dared not. The elf’s smile widened.

  “You are outclassed, human fighter,” he said lightly. “You are quite good, for a human, but not good enough. But look at my eyes, and acknowledge me your lord, and this can end.”

  Paks shook her head, as much to clear it as to refuse. Was that a movement behind the elf? She lunged again; her blade struck, but she narrowly avoided his. He seemed not to notice her blow. Suddenly a bit of hot wax fell on her face. As quick as the thought that followed, almost before she knew what she meant to do, Paks leaped high, grabbing the framework the candles were set on with one hand, and jerking her legs away from the elf’s astonished stroke. The frame swung wildly, spattering them both with wax. With one arm over the ring, Paks swung at the elf from above. He grabbed at her leg and missed as she kicked out. She heard a squeal from above and glanced up to see the ringbolt slipping from the ceiling. She threw herself to one side, trying to clear the frame as it fell. The elf, pursuing, was struck. Before he could free himself from the ring, Paks attacked. Hampered by the framework and the candles, which caught his robe afire, he parried her blows weakly.

  And then Macenion came up, panting and pale, and threw the whole of their oil supply on the elf. Paks jumped back as the candle flames flared on this fuel. A foul stench filled the chamber, and a black cloud swirled up from the fire, denser than smoke. Paks felt a wave of cold enmity that sent her staggering to her knees. The flames roared, now more blue than any fire of oil could be. Air rushed into the chamber, whistling round the corners. Paks realized that Macenion was tugging at her arms, pulling her away. She could hardly move. She managed to look around, and saw that the others in the room, the servants, were shuffling out a door in one corner as fast as they could.

  When the flames died down, Paks still crouched helplessly where Macenion had dragged her. The elf’s body had not been consumed in the fire, though it was horribly blackened, and all the clothing was gone. Macenion stood by it, frowning.

  Paks tried several times before she could speak. “What’s—wrong? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I wish I knew. That kind of power—it was some spirit of evil, Paks, that took over the body of an elf. Of an elf lord. And the body is here still. I wonder if he is dead—truly. I’ve heard tales of such—”

  Paks didn’t want to move. Every muscle hurt. She managed to flex her hand, and found she still held her sword. She took a deep breath, which also hurt, and forced herself to her feet. She felt as if her legs and body were only loosely connected. Another deep breath. It was hard to believe that she and Macenion were still alive, and the elf was dead. Or dead in some way. She walked over to see.

  “Your magic has done well so far, Macenion. We wouldn’t be here without it. Can’t you do something to make sure he stays dead?”

  For once Macenion did not seem complacent. “No,” he said soberly. “That’s beyond my abilities. I wish my old master were here. We are fortunate that he chose a simple spell to bind you. Perhaps he wanted to have plenty left for me, or perhaps he had more in use than we know. But now—”

  “Couldn’t we put a stake through his heart?”

  “What do you think he is, a kuerin-witch? Are you thinking of dragging his corpse to a crossroads, too?”

  Paks flushed. “I don’t know. I just remembered some old stories . . .”

  “That won’t work for him. Whatever took him over won’t be withheld by any simple measures.”

  “We could—” Paks swallowed hard, then went on. “We could cut—dismember him.”

  “You? I? I know what you would think of such. As for me, I tell you, Paksenarrion, I don’t even wish to touch that corpse, if corpse it is. Nor should you. That power may still dwell in it, and could reach out to us. You see that the body was not consumed by the fire as it should have been; the skin is blackened but unblistered.”

  “Well, then? Do we wait to see what comes of it, or what?”

  Macenion shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I knew a spell to free this body from whatever power holds it so.”

  “But since elves are immortal, do their bodies burn or decay?”

  “Elves do not die of age alone, but they can, as you saw, be killed. And yes, their bodies can burn or decay or return to earth in many ways.”

  Paks shifted her shoulders, easing the stiffness. Suddenly she was hungry—and thirsty. She put up her sword and fumbled to unhook her water flask. After a couple of swallows, she felt much better. “It’s too bad,” she said, “that you don’t know what’s in that fancy scroll you’re so proud of.”

  Macenion scowled and opened his mouth for a quick retort, then paused. “I never thought of that,” he said. “I wonder if—” and he rummaged aroun
d inside his tunic until he came out with the tooled scroll case Paks had commented on. “It’s difficult—” he went on, as he flicked off the lid and slid the scroll out. “You remember I told you how expensive it was?” Paks nodded. “Thing is, a magical scroll—one that has on it a workable spell—can be written only by a magician who can cast the spell without it. I don’t know why; it seems a silly rule, and it certainly gives far too much power to men who do nothing but study, but there it is. Usually a scroll belongs to the man who wrote it, or to someone he trusts: his journeyman, say, or a brother mage. He knows which scroll is which—or he sets his private mark on each—and all’s well. But for someone who comes across one of these scrolls—far away from the person who wrote it—it’s difficult to tell what it is without reading it.”

  “Then read it,” said Paks, gnawing on a slab of dried meat. It was delicious. “You can read—?”

  “Of course, I can read! That’s not the point. That’s how it’s used—by reading it. If I read it, whatever it is happens.”

  “Oh. So there’s no way to—to peek?”

  Macenion allowed himself to look amused. “No. Not that I ever heard of. There are a lot of teaching tales for young apprentice magicians that tell of attempts to peek and what happened afterwards. No, I must decide, by examining all the marks on the outside of the scroll and by my own abilities, whether it’s worth chancing that the spell or spells on it will do us any good.” He peered at the scroll itself, then at the case, and then back at the scroll.

  “I might just take a look into the corridors,” said Paks casually. “In case someone is coming—”

  “Good idea. Then you’ll be out of range if something does happen.” Paks had not realized that Macenion would find her motive so obvious. She said nothing, but looked into the corridor diagonally opposite that from which she’d entered the chamber. This was the way the “servants” had left. She could see no one before the corridor turned, some twenty paces away. She looked back at Macenion. He was still examining the scroll, but he looked up at her and nodded. “Go on—not too far. I think I’ll try one of these; for what I paid for them, they should be fairly powerful.” Paks went on as far as the turn.

  It seemed a long time before he called, a high excited yell. Paks swept out her sword and ran back to the chamber. She was just in time to see a blue flare lance to the ceiling from the elf’s body. A dry clatter brought her eyes back to the floor; bones lay scattered there, and as she watched, they crumbled to dust. A draft scattered the dust. She looked up to meet Macenion’s eyes. He was pale and trembling.

  “It worked,” she said unnecessarily.

  “Yes. It—by Orphin, I’m tired. That—even reading it—that was beyond my powers—” He reeled, and Paks moved quickly to catch him before he fell. He lay some time unmoving. She could feel a pulse beating in his neck, so she folded her cloak under his head and let him rest. Some time later he opened his eyes and blinked. “What—? Oh yes. That.” Silently Paks offered him water and food. He took a long drink, and shook his head at the food. After another swallow, he rolled up to a sitting position and shook his head sharply.

  “Do you think, Macenion, that that creature was what we came here to fight?” Paks had been worrying about this; if it were the servant of some greater evil, she had little hope of escape.

  “I think so. That—was a considerable power. If it had chosen a better spell for you, or been more practiced at sword play—we wouldn’t be here.

  “Then what were we to free? The elf’s body? That couldn’t have called us. What else is there?”

  Macenion rubbed his face with both hands. “No. You’re right. We haven’t been greeted with cries of joy and armfuls of reward, have we? Something still to be done—by Orphin, I don’t know if I can manage any more spells today.”

  “Maybe you won’t need to. If whatever it was is trapped somewhere, all we need to do now is find it.”

  “I hope it’s that easy.” Macenion stood up, swaying slightly at first. “I just had a thought. I hope whatever it is wasn’t trapped in a jewel or something worn by the elf. Some magicians do that sort of thing. If so, we’re out of luck.”

  “If only we get out of this,” said Paks, “we’ll be in luck.”

  “True. Did you see anything down that corridor?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  * * *

  Paks was never afterwards sure what had guided their choice, with so many ways to go, and no knowledge. At first, as they walked the bare stone corridor, Macenion continued to eat, reaching out now and again to touch the walls as if for balance. Then the corridor sloped down, and he paused.

  “Wait—” Macenion’s face, when Paks turned, was grim. He pulled out his own sword, and tested the balance. “I sense something—”

  “Not that thing in the Winter Hall!”

  Macenion shook his head. “No. Not so dire as that. But it’s as if my blood tingled—some enemy is below, and coming nearer.”

  Paks looked around for a good place to fight. The corridor was slightly too wide for two to hold. “We’d better go on, then, and hope for something we can use.”

  Macenion nodded, and came up beside her as they started off again.

  “Don’t you want to stay back and prepare your spells?”

  “I told you—I can’t do that again today. I’d never be able to cast a simple fire spell, let alone anything useful.”

  The corridor turned right, and continued downward. Paks felt edgy; she was increasingly aware of the weight of stone and earth above her. She found herself whispering words from a Phelani marching song. Macenion looked at her curiously, and she blushed and fell silent.

  Suddenly Paks caught a foul whiff that stopped her short. “What’s that?”

  Macenion looked eager. “Ah. I might have known. Orcs, that’s what. They would move in when the elves were driven away.”

  “Orcs?” Paks had heard of orcs; they had raided Three Firs in her greatgrandfather’s day, but she had not expected to meet any.

  “Ugly but cowardly,” said Macenion briskly. “If that was their master, they’ll want nothing better than escape. They won’t be looking for experienced fighters like us—”

  “If they want to escape, we can let them,” suggested Paks.

  “Let orcs loose? Are you crazy? They’re disgusting. Vermin, killers, filthy—”

  “How many are likely to be in a group?” Paks didn’t care how disgusting they were; enough orcs could kill them.

  “Oh—not more than seven or eight. We can handle that many. I killed three by myself one time.”

  “But, Macenion—”

  “Paksenarrion, I’ve seen you fight, remember? We have nothing to worry about. If we can handle that thing up there—” he jerked his head back where they’d been, “—we can handle a few orcs. Trust me. Haven’t I been right on this so far?”

  “I still think we should wait until we know how many there are. What if there’s twenty? Let’s find a hiding place, and—”

  “Where?”

  Paks looked around. Ahead, the corridor turned again twenty paces away, still going down. They had passed no doors for the last two hundred paces. She shrugged, and went on.

  Around that corner the stench was stronger. Trash littered the floor. Paks looked for someplace to hide. Halfway to the next turn a doorway shadowed one wall. They had nearly reached it when they heard a harsh voice from somewhere ahead. Paks darted forward. The doorway was an empty gap opening into a tiny bare room. She grabbed Macenion’s arm and pulled him in.

  He glared at her, but said nothing as the voice came nearer in the corridor.

  The first orcs were uglier than Paks had imagined. Greasy leather armor covered their hunched torsos; long arms banded with spiked leather hung nearly to the floor. The first carried a curved blade, badly nicked along the inner curve, and the second dragged a spear short enough to use in the corridor. Paks noted the spare knives in sheaths on both hips, and helmets that came low over the nose
. Behind the first pair came another, whose voice they had heard. It wore a filthy fur cloak over its armor, and carried a spiked whip as well as a sword. Whatever it was saying to the others must have been unpleasant, for the spear carrier turned suddenly and growled back at it. Paks flattened herself into the angle of wall away from the door, and hoped the orcs would quit arguing and go on. Macenion, however, leaned toward the door. She realized suddenly that he was about to go out and attack. He looked back at her and cocked his head at the door.

  If he attacked them and was killed, they’d be sure to look in the room. Paks cursed the stupidity of all magicians, and moved to the other side of the door, sword ready.

  “It’s only three,” hissed Macenion. “We can take them easily.”

  Paks hoped so. The argument outside grew even louder. At least they could surprise the orcs. She took a deep breath and crouched. Now!

  Her first blow caught the third orc low, in the thigh. His leg was harder than she’d expected, but she got her sword back, and he went down, bellowing. Macenion had gone for the spear carrier, and missed; the other sword bearer took one wild swipe at Macenion’s head, then turned to Paks. The orc she had wounded flung its whip at her sword, and she dropped the tip just in time. The orcs moved faster than she’d expected. She parried the curved blade on one side, and danced back from the wounded orc’s whip. Macenion was trying to get past the guard of the spear carrier. She didn’t envy him.

  Once out of reach of the wounded orc, she found fencing with the other one strange but not as hard as she’d feared. Its reach was almost as long as hers, but low; it couldn’t match her height. She had little trouble defending herself. Attack was harder. Her overhead blows fell on heavy armor. Paks abandoned that tactic, and tested its quickness. Perhaps she could get behind it. She heard a yelp from Macenion, then a guttural command from the fallen orc. When she looked, Macenion was fencing left-handed, shaking blood from his right hand. That was the second wound to that arm. She attacked her own orc with sudden ferocity, and made a lucky stab under the right shoulder. The orc fell, snarling, and stabbed at her legs. Paks skipped back and ran to Macenion’s opponent. He could not use a spear in two directions at once. Paks ran him through when he thrust at Macenion. But before they could do anything about the first orc she had wounded, it was bellowing even louder.