Paks shivered again, but made no sound. The iynisi nodded. “So there is something warrior-like in you after all. That is well. We should lose our amusement were you entirely craven. Come along, now.” The iynisi turned to leave; Paks felt a tug at her wrists, now bound closely together. For an instant she thought of resistance to the pull, but the other attendants showed the long knives in their hands, and she knew it would be futile.
“Excellent,” said the iynisi, as she took the first step to follow. “We had heard you were capable of thought and planning. It is so important for a warrior to know when fighting is hopeless.”
No, thought Paks; it is never hopeless. You can always die. But she was already walking down a stone passage as she thought this, between the first iynisi and a torchbearer in front, and the other torchbearer and attendant behind. She thought of lunging at the one in front, tried to gather herself for it, but her body ignored the thought and kept walking. They passed a branching passage, then another. She tried to look around her, tried to pick out directions and openings, and orient herself, but the speed at which she was led, and the peculiar green light, made this impossible.
They turned into a wider corridor, dimly lit by a greenish blur along the angle of wall and ceiling. Paks could not see what it was, but it gave off a sour smell different from the rank stench of the green torches. Here were other iynisin, that hissed as they saw her. All wore black, but not the cape and hood of her escort, or the great spider emblem. They melted from her path—or from the iynisi with her. As they went on, she thought she heard more and more following behind.
Her escort turned into a narrow passage that sloped downward to the right, falling away from the roof. Ahead of the iynisi, Paks could see a wider opening, and brighter light. She was led through it into a wide flat area, slightly oval. Surrounding it were tiers of stone seats, already half-full, and filling with more iynisin. On one side, a dark gaping maw replaced the first two tiers. As the torchbearers of her escort moved around the oval lighting torches set on brackets, she realized that the dark space was not empty. Eight eyes as big as fists reflected chips of green light. A vast bloated body hung in the web that stretched across the opening. Each of the eight legs, Paks saw, was as long as she was tall.
Paks was hardly aware of the chill that spread over her as she stared at the great spider in horror. Was this Achrya herself? Beside her the iynisi chuckled. “I see you have noticed our ally. No, that is not our lady—merely one of her representatives, you might say. But do not let fear of her make you less nimble. While you wear her symbol, she will not pursue you.” By this time the torchbearers had finished lighting the whole circuit; now more green light flared from above. Paks looked up to see a great hanging framework, also made in the likeness of a spider with legs outspread on a web, holding more torches. By this light she could see that the seats were almost filled, and not alone with iynisin. Hunchbacked orcs clustered in one section; grotesque dog-faced beings in another. All stared down at her, eyes glittering in the flickering light.
“Your reputation has preceded you, Paksenarrion,” said the iynisi, with a mocking smile. “You were involved in the loss of our friend and ally Jamarrin, in Brewersbridge.” His voice rang out, now, and the rest of the chamber was silent but for the sputtering torches. “We would see for ourselves what skill in arms, what brilliance of strategy, defeated so fair a servant of our lady.” Paks did not answer. She tried to think what this was leading up to, besides a miserable and public execution.
“We could, of course, simply kill you here,” he said, echoing her thought. “Our lady would be pleased to see the—inventiveness—of our methods, and the torment of one who destroyed her servant Jamarrin. But such sport lasts briefly, with you human folk. Perhaps, also, you have been used by those you think your friends. Certainly the elves have not treated you fairly, stealing from you and clouding your memory.” He reached out quickly and laid a cold, dry hand along her brow. As suddenly as light springs into a dark closet, she remembered the Halveric’s scroll that she had sworn to take to his wife in Lyonya—and remembered the elves who had sent her instead to Brewersbridge, to take their messages, while they took the scroll. The iynisi smiled and nodded.
“They ‘healed’ you, as you thought—indeed, yes, and cast their glamour on you, to turn an honest soldier into their errand-girl, made oathbreaker and faithless by their enchantment. Was that well done? I see you have doubts of it now, and so you should. How much of what you said and did was their bidding? Perhaps you have never acted of your own will yet. We shall give you a chance, therefore, to earn your next day of life.” Despite herself, Paks felt a leap of hope. If they would let her fight, even outnumbered—even unarmed—that would be a better death. Surely if she fought, Gird would come and help her, would protect her from the worst. She pushed the thought of the elves away: later she could worry about that, if later came. No doubt they had merely meant to save her trouble. But a faint doubt lingered, souring her memory of them.
“There are many here who would be glad to prove your reputation unfounded,” the iynisi continued. “I myself think you do have some skill. We shall see. For your first trial you will face but a single opponent. Hardly a test of your ability, but he will be armed, and you not. If you dispute the fairness of it, you may always forbear to fight, and be cut down without resistance.” The other attendants had gone away while he was speaking; Paks looked around as the iynisi stepped back. With a swift stroke of his knife, he cut the strands that tethered her wrists, and stepped farther back, bowing. Then he turned to the surrounding seats, one arm upraised. “Let the sport begin!” he cried. The spectators rose in their ranks and cheered. The caped iynisi ran lightly to the web across the arena, bowed to the huge spider, and swarmed up the web to the seats above.
Paks, alone now on the floor of the arena, looked about for her opponent. She tried again to call on Gird or the High Lord, but could feel nothing when the words passed through her mind. It was like calling in an empty room. For the first time she wondered whether Gird would even listen. Surely if he could hear, he would help—in something like this—but the words she’d been taught echoed in her head, unanswered. She heard the scrape of boots from the passage by which she had come, and turned to see an orc stride into the lighted space. He wore leather body-armor and helmet, as well as the boots, and carried a short-thonged whip in one hand, and a curved knife in the other. Paks took a deep steadying breath and rocked from heel to toe, loosening her muscles. With her own weapons, such an opponent would have been no problem at all; without even a dagger, she was at a severe disadvantage. Still, she could fight—she reached for the spark of battle anger, and welcomed it.
The orc came to her slowly, with a low, smooth gait unexpected in such a bent shape. Paks crouched slightly, up on her toes, ready to shift any direction as chance offered. The orc grinned at her, and screeched something which the watching iynisin understood, for they laughed. She supposed it was a challenge of some sort. She felt a rising excitement, hot and joyous. Perhaps this was Gird’s gift, instead of his presence?
“Come on, then,” she said to the orc in Common. “Many of your kind have I killed; come join them.”
Closing abruptly, the orc swung the whip at her head; Paks ducked to save her eyes, watching its knife hand. Sure enough, as the knotted thongs bit into her neck and shoulders, the knife thrust toward her belly. She pivoted away from the thrust and caught the orc’s wrist with one hand, jerking him forward. He went to his knees, and she tried to make it to his back. But he rolled as he fell, and she met another slash of the whip. This time the thongs wrapped her legs, and she fell heavily, narrowly missing another thrust of the knife as she twisted away from his hand. He was on his feet an instant before her, aiming another blow of the whip. She scrambled away from it; the iynisin above her tittered.
"Sso . . . we . . . teach . . . to . . . humnss . . . what . . . iss . . . mannerss,” said the orc in barely understandable Common. He grinned again. “For
thiss one . . . no sswordss . . . jusst whipss enough.” He swung the whip around his head; the thongs hummed. Paks kept her eye on the knife blade. He edged toward her again. Paks took a deep breath, from the belly, summoned up all the anger she could rouse, and charged an instant before he did. The whip was still in backstroke; she threw all her weight on him, both hands on the wrist of his knife hand. To her delight he sprawled backwards. She tucked as they hit the stone floor and rolled on, still digging her thumbs into his wrist. The knife clattered to the stone. He had already recognized the danger, and dropped the whip to grab for it with his free hand. Paks kicked it away; it skittered across the arena. The orc squealed and grabbed her leg, then sank its teeth in her ankle. Paks let go of the wrist, and reached for the whip. Again the orc anticipated her, and snatched it up an instant before she reached it. She rolled away, taking another hard lash of the whip before she was scrambling for the fallen knife.
This time she reached the prize first; she turned to face the orc with a weapon in her hand. She scarcely felt the whip welts or the bite. She grinned back at the orc as he came. Even now it would not be easy—the blade was short, and the orc’s armor tough—but she, at least, was sure of the outcome. The orc paused, and screeched again in its unknown tongue. The iynisin were silent, except for one voice that by its tone denied a request.
“Did you wish to quit, orc?” asked Paks. “Have I endangered your soft hide too much?” It was the worst insult she knew, for Ardhiel had told her that the orcs’ name for themselves meant iron-skins.
The orc glared at her, baring its fangs and running a tongue around its mouth which was stained with her own blood. Paks spared a quick glance to see where she was. Nearly in front of the spider’s web—not where she wanted to be at all. She slid sideways in a crouching glide. The orc turned to follow her, more slowly this time. She led it around the arena until its back was to the spider. By then the orc was beginning to grin again. She watched how it moved, decided where to strike.
Suddenly she stood at full height and stretched her arms upward, like someone just arising from a comfortable sleep. As she expected, the orc darted in and aimed a vicious slash at her exposed torso. She sidestepped left, taking the force of the blow without pausing, and rammed her suddenly lowered right arm into the orc’s neck. She had shifted the knife blade in that instant to a side-hold, and it slashed his throat from side to side, catching edge-on in the neckbone. The orc fell, blood pouring over her arm as she tried to free the blade. Above her the silvery voices clamored for an instant and were still. Paks rolled the dead orc on his back, and levered the knife free. It had a notch, where the bone had chipped it. She crouched, looking up at the circle effaces, as she tried to catch her breath.
“Well enough,” called the caped iynisi from above the spider’s lair. “It might have been done with more artistry, but the final stroke was admirable. Continue to amuse us so, and you may yet survive. For your next trial, you may keep the knife you have earned. For now, stand against the wall—” he gestured to the wall behind her.
Already the entrance to the arena was filled with heavily armed iynisin. They fanned out around her and forced her back with their pikes. She could not have touched them with the knife, and did not resist. She watched as two of them dragged the orc’s body across the the spider’s web, and bowed as they placed it just beneath the lowest strands. With horrible quickness the vast bloated body came down and grasped the corpse, the huge abdomen bending around it so that Paks could see cords of silk from the spinnerets twisting around and around. Soon the orc was a neatly cased packet hanging in the web. Paks swallowed against a surge of nausea. So that’s what would happen if she failed—she thrust that thought aside hurriedly. Holy Gird, she thought, just help me fight.
As the battle anger left her, she began to tremble. She was terribly thirsty; the orc-bite on her leg throbbed; the whip welts spread a cloak of pain about her. She wondered again how long she had been underground. Surely they knew she was gone—surely Amberion would come looking for her. Her vision blurred, and she leaned on the wall behind her. She had not noticed that the pike-bearing iynisin were gone until the caped one spoke again.
“I hope that is not weakness we see,” came the silvery voice. “Surely such a champion does not think the trial is over after a trifling skirmish like that? No, no . . . we must see more of your far-famed skills. Even now your opponents approach; do not disappoint us.”
Paks ran her tongue around her dry mouth. How could she fight again without water or rest? She forced herself to straighten, to look toward the entrance tunnel. Get out in the open, she told herself. You’ve got to have room. She had stiffened, even with that brief respite, and now she limped on the bitten leg. I have to keep fighting, she thought. I have to.
Out of the dark entrance came two orcs, this time armed with short swords and shields. Holy Gird, she repeated to herself. I can’t fight two of them, two swords, with only a notched knife! But Siger’s words, spoken long ago in Aarenis, trickled into her memory: the enemy’s weapon is your weapon if you can take it. Two swords—if I can get one, then it’s one to one. Even a shield will help—
As the orcs came forward, she edged back to the wall. Until she got one of them down or disarmed, she wanted something at her back. She noticed that these two did not seem as eager as the first. One of them held its sword awkwardly. A trick? She waited, and let them come to her, heedless of the iynisin catcalls.
The taller, more skillful orc came in on her right hand, her knife hand. The other edged to her left. Again she noticed that this one held the sword like a stick. The tall one thrust at her. She parried the thrust with the knife, thankful for her long arms. From the corner of her eye, she saw the small orc rush, sword extended stiffly. Paks leaped back to the wall, slamming against it, and grabbed the awkward one’s wrist. The orc fell forward as Paks jerked, and she caught a glimpse of a terrified face under the helmet. This one’s no fighter, she thought. She dug her thumb into the pressure point, and the orc’s sword hand opened. Paks reached for the sword as the taller orc aimed a slash at her over the struggling body of its partner. She ducked. The orc she was fighting tried to slam the edge of its shield into her arm, but she had the sword hilt, as well as her knife, in her right fist. She kicked the orc, hard, and danced back to the wall, switching the knife to her left hand. A surge of triumph gave her momentary strength—that would show them!
The tall orc howled at her and charged, trying to force her sideways into the other one. The shorter orc tried to move in, staying low. Paks slid sideways along the wall, countering the furious thrusts and slashes as well as she could. She felt herself slowing; exhaustion clouded her vision. Only the reflexes developed under hours of Siger’s instruction kept her blade between the orc’s sword and her body. She had the reach of him, but she could not get past his shield. She tried to force him back, with quick thrusts of her own, but failed. The other orc closed in again, this time grabbing at her knife hand. Paks aimed a kick at the orc’s knee, but it snatched at her foot and threw her off balance.
Paks fell heavily on her side, trapped close under the wall. Just over her, the taller orc’s blade clanged into the wall. She stabbed at his feet with her knife, rolling toward him to get inside his stroke. Again he missed her. This time his blade landed on the shoulder of the smaller orc, who was trying to grapple with Paks’s legs. The little orc screeched and sat back. Paks jerked her legs into a curl and launched herself straight up at the tall orc. She had both blades inside his shield; the sword rammed through his body armor into his belly, and the knife slid into his neck.
Before Paks could free the blades, she felt a weight hit her back, and a strong arm wrapped around her neck. Then the smaller orc’s teeth met in her shoulder. Paks threw herself backwards. The orc grunted as it hit the ground, but did not lose its grip with hand or teeth. Paks saw its other hand groping toward the sword the tall orc had dropped. She swiveled, pushing hard with her legs, to get the orc out of reach of
that blade. Her own knife was free, but the sword stuck fast in the dead orc’s belly. She felt herself weakening, her left arm useless with that grip on her shoulder. The orc began to heave up from underneath; if it once got on top, she would have no chance.
Paks shifted her grip on the knife and struck back over her shoulder, feeling for the orc’s eyes. She felt its jaws loosen even before the screams, and stabbed again. Then she raked the knife along the arm around her throat, feeling for the tendons. The grip softened. Paks worked the knife deep into the orc’s elbow and twisted. The grip was gone. She rolled quickly and thrust into the orc’s throat, trying not to look at its face.
She tried to push herself up from the dead orc. I must get that sword, she thought. I must be ready. But her breath came in great gasps, and she could not see. She felt herself slipping into nothingness, and fell back across the orc’s body. With her last scrap of consciousness, she tried to call on Gird, but the name rang in her head, empty of meaning.
* * *
She woke in a cell, whether the first or another like it she could not have said. A torch burned in a corner bracket; by its light she saw a pitcher, mug, and platter near her. Her wounds smarted as if they’d been salted, but the bleeding had stopped, and she felt much stronger. She reached for the pitcher, then paused. Someone had said something about the danger of taking any food or drink from the iynisin—or was that something from a child’s tale she’d heard long ago? She tried to lick her dry lips, but her tongue was swollen and sore. If she had to fight again, she would have to drink something. And if they poisoned her, she would not have to worry. She shook her head, and winced at the pain. Was she thinking straight? But she had to be able to fight. Gird honored fighters. She was going to die here, almost certainly, but she had to fight.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 92