“It might be the Guard,” said the Marshal slowly, echoing her thought.
“Liart,” said Paks. “They let me go, all right, and now they’re after the king in force.”
“Six—seven—days late?”
“It must be. What else?”
He shook his head, but said nothing for a moment. The early light, still faint, showed the front of the mass of riders moving steadily toward them.
“You won’t try to hold them.” It was half question. Paks estimated the size of the troop and shook her head.
“I couldn’t, not here. I’ll try to reach the king first, and then see what I can do.”
“They won’t catch you on that horse,” said the Marshal. “But I’ll see if I can delay them.”
Paks nodded, and reined the red horse around. He shook his head, fighting the rein as he never had, and moved out stiffly when she nudged him. In a few lengths he tried to sidle back toward the Marshal. Paks bumped him harder with her heels, and wondered what he thought he was doing. Then a horn signal floated across the air, and she froze. It couldn’t be. In a single motion, she reined the horse around yet again, and galloped toward the oncoming riders. She heard the Marshal yell her name as she rode by, but did not stop or reply.
Again the horn call: incredibly, the call she knew so well. She rode on; the red horse slid to a stop just in front of the cohort’s commander, who was already braced for an attack.
“You!” Dorrin’s voice was hardly recognizable.
“I don’t believe it,” said Paks, believing it. The horn spoke again, and ninety swords slipped back into their scabbards.
Dorrin reached out to grip her arm. “It is really you? The Duke said—”
“It is. And this is you, and how—”
Dorrin pushed up her visor. “We,” she said, “are not the Tsaian Royal Guard. It doesn’t take my cohort two days to pack and ride.”
“I thought he left that night.”
“He did, but I nearly had to pack every Tir-damned mule myself. And a third of their heavy horses needed new shoes, and so on. It’s a wonder I have a voice left.”
“And?” Paks had turned the red horse, and they were jogging together at the head of the column.
“And as soon as he got back, he sent Selfer north, to pick up my cohort.”
“All the way to the stronghold?”
“No-o. Not quite. In case of any difficulty, he’d stationed them along the southern line.”
They were riding through Westbells now, and Paks waved to Marshal Torin, who stood watching with an uncertain expression. She pulled the red horse out of line, and went to him.
“It’s Dorrin’s cohort of Phelan’s company,” she said quickly. “They’ve come to help.”
“I gathered it was his, from the pennant,” he said. “By Gird, they move fast. When did they leave the north?”
“I don’t have the whole story yet,” said Paks. “Someday—” And she turned again and rode after them, for the column was past already. Again at the head of it, riding into the rising sun, Paks felt at home.
Dorrin reined her horse close to Paks’s. “Paks, I never expected to see you again, let alone riding at my side this day. And you look—I have never seen you looking better. How did you get free of them? And that mark—”
“Gird’s grace,” said Paks. “I can’t explain it all, but they kept their bargain, at least to leaving me alive. Then the gods gave healing: that mark began as Liart’s brand. I presume,” she said with a sidelong glance, “that they had more for me to do. Something is stirring the Thieves Guild; they had a part in it.”
Dorrin nodded. “The Duke—the king—blast, I must get that straight in my mind—anyway, he said something about the Thieves Guild. They wouldn’t let the Liartians kill him there, he said. But how did that help you?”
“Oh—a couple of years ago, after I left the Company, I met a thief in Brewersbridge.” Dorrin grunted, and Paks went on. “A priest of Achrya had set up a band of robbers in a ruined keep near there, and the town hired me to find and take them. This thief—he said he was after the commander, because they hadn’t been paying their dues to the Guild.”
Dorrin shook her head. “I have a hard time imagining a paladin of Gird with a thief for a friend.”
Paks thought of Arvid. “Well—he’s not a thief—exactly. Or my friend, exactly, either.” Dorrin looked even more dubious; Paks went on. “So he says. Obviously he’s high in the Guild, but he’s never said exactly what he does do. He’s not like any thief I ever heard of. But in this instance, he saved my life. He’s the one who arranged to have me taken outside the city, alive or dead, when the time was up. And he killed someone who had bargained to kill me.”
Dorrin turned to look at her. “A thief?”
“Yes.” Paks wondered whether to tell Dorrin that Gird had as much interest in thieves as kings, but decided against it. A knight of Falk, born into a noble family, had certain limitations of vision, even after a lifelong career as a mercenary captain.
“Hmmph. I may have to change my mind about thieves.” From Dorrin’s tone, that wasn’t likely. Paks laughed.
“You needn’t. Arvid’s uncommon.”
“He’s never robbed your pocket,” said Dorrin shrewdly.
“No. That’s true. Just the same, he took no advantage when he might have, in Brewersbridge, and he served me here.” She rode a moment in silence, squinting against the level rays of the rising sun. “What does the king expect, that he called your cohort in? And what did the Council think of it?”
Dorrin frowned. “He said they would never have released him if they hadn’t thought they could take him before the coronation. That they thought, with you out of the way, to attack somewhere on the road. The crown prince would have given him a larger escort, but he refused it . . . said it might be needed even in Vérella.”
“What does he have?”
“I suppose near seventy fighters altogether: a half-cohort of Royal Guards, the ten-squad out of this cohort, those King’s Squires, the High Marshal and another Marshal. Plus supply and servants—an incredible amount, the Royal Guard insists on. It’s easy to see they don’t travel much.”
“Umm. I wish we had the whole Company.”
“So do I. But he said he couldn’t strip the north bare, not after the other troubles this winter. And Pargun might move, knowing him so far away. He did tell Arcolin to move the two veteran cohorts to the east and south limits, just in case. Val’s got the recruit cohort at the stronghold. He’s afraid that the evil powers will move with all violence.”
“And we have one cohort,” said Paks quietly. Dorrin smiled at her.
“And a paladin they didn’t expect us to have.”
“And two Marshals—perhaps more, if we’re near a grange. That is, if we can catch up to them.”
“We will,” said Dorrin. “Those heavy warhorses won’t make a third the distance we’re making. And I daresay that red horse of yours could go even faster. Will you go ahead, then, or stay with us?”
Paks thought about it. “For now, I’ll stay with you. He has the Marshals with him; they will know, as I would know, if great evil is near. For all you are a Knight of Falk, Captain, I might be useful to you.”
“You know you are. I tell you, Paks, I was never so surprised—and relieved—as when you rode up. It harrowed all our hearts to go without trying to free you. But he said no one must do anything for five days.”
Paks nodded. “That was necessary.”
“But when I thought of it—” Dorrin shook her head. “Falk’s oath in gold! For anyone to be in their hands five days—and you—”
“It was necessary.” Paks looked over to Selfer, who had said nothing during all this. “How’s your leg?”
“It’s well enough,” said Selfer. “The Marshal took care of it, before I rode north.”
“How long did that take?”
“I left—let me think—well before midnight, and by dawn the third day I wa
s with the cohort. We marched the next dawn—they were ready, but let me sleep until dark, and the Duke—the king—had said to march by day only, to Vérella.”
“He didn’t want the cohort too tired to fight,” said Dorrin. “We were to march out again at once. Selfer brought them in good shape—remarkable, considering the weather and all.”
Selfer grinned and flushed. “At least we didn’t get a thaw on that bad stretch,” he said. “I was worried, when it turned foggy.”
“You see, Selfer,” said Dorrin, “all those things you must worry about if you’re a captain? Do you still want it?”
He nodded, shyly. “Yes, Captain, I do. The more I do, the more I like it.”
Dorrin grinned at Paks. “He’s been acting as junior captain to Arcolin and me both this past year—and he’s good.” Selfer turned even redder; Paks remembered when she used to blush like that, and wondered how long it had been. She looked back along the cohort, at faces she knew almost as well as those in Arcolin’s cohort. All at once she felt like racing the red horse along the road and singing. They were six days behind the king’s party. They asked word at every grange, and at each the news was good: they had passed without trouble. Curious eyes followed them; Phelan’s colors had not marched that way before. Paks saw the worried glances. Dorrin carried a royal pass, which she showed in every town, but the local farmers were clearly uncertain. That night the cohort stayed in Blackhedge, sleeping a few hours in safety, but they were on the road again before daybreak. The towns rolled past. Now they said the king had passed only five days before. At Piery, they heard that his party had stayed over a day, because some of the Royal Guard mounts were lame. Dorrin muttered a curse, and Paks laughed, pointing out that they could catch them sooner. They had left three mornings ago.
That night they pressed on, passing the grange at Dorton in the falling dark, and camping in a rough pasture far from any village. Paks would have ridden on after only a few hours sleep, but felt she should stay with the cohort. She had spoken to most of them, uncomfortable only with Natzlin, who did not ask about Barranyi. Paks did not tell her. The next day the red horse pulled away from the road; Paks thought she remembered that the Honnorgat made a wide bend. Paks urged Dorrin to leave the road. The captain’s face creased in a frown.
“I’m worried about causing trouble,” she said. “My pass is for the road to Harway, on the border—unless we’re attacked, I can’t justify leaving it.”
“We won’t be attacked,” said Paks. “Not yet—but we can save several hours, at least, by cutting the bend.”
“Can you tell if the king is in need?”
Paks shook her head. “I do not know if I could tell—and I feel nothing now but an urge to hurry. It may be that he will be in need.”
“Paks—are the gods telling you to leave the road? Is it that sure?”
“If I were riding alone, Captain, I would go across country. If you cannot go that way, perhaps I should leave you now and go on. But I never expected to be here at all—and certainly not with a cohort behind me—so I cannot give you orders.”
Dorrin gnawed her lip. Everyone waited a for her decision. Selfer opened his mouth and closed it again, catching Paks’s eye. Then she sat back on her horse, easing her back, and sighed. “Well—wars aren’t won by coming late to the battle.” She grinned at Paks. “I hope, Gird’s paladin, that your saint will cover us while we follow you. I would hate to raise new enemies for the king by this.”
“Captain, the gods have led me into peril, but not without cause.”
“So be it. We’ll take your way.”
Paks led them over fallow fields and through woods, the red horse moving as quickly on rough ground as on the road. No one challenged them; in fact, the country seemed empty under a cold sun. They met the road again at Swiftin. Here the yeoman-marshal said the the king’s party had passed only the day before. They paused to feed and rest the horses before they left. Again they rode most of the night, sleeping beside their horses for a few hours in turn. Dorrin seemed almost as anxious as Paks to catch the king’s party. A thin cold drizzle began late in the night; Paks pulled her cloak over her mail when she mounted.
By dawn the drizzle had turned to sleet, and then fine snow. Sometime later, it ceased. The clouds blew away to the east, and the sun blazed on the fresh snowfall. Paks decided to scout ahead of the cohort. The red horse cantered steadily onward, flinging up sprays of glittering snow. She passed through one village too small for a grange, then came to a larger town. She barely remembered passing through it in a hurry on the way to Vérella. The Marshal stared at her when she gave her name, but said the king’s party was only an hour or so ahead; they had stopped there overnight. They had had no trouble so far, he said. Paks explained about the cohort following her; his eyebrows shot up his forehead.
“You’re bringing Phelan’s soldiers through here? Through Verrakai lands?”
Paks had known that the Verrakaien held lands in the east end of Tsaia, but not precisely where. “His captain has a royal pass,” she said slowly. “Signed by the crown prince himself—”
The Marshal snorted. “For all the good that’ll do. Gird grant they don’t notice—though I don’t suppose they’ll miss a cohort of Phelan’s troops. Why did he do something like that?”
Paks controlled her temper. “He expected trouble,” she said crisply. “He wanted his own troops—trained as he knew—in case of it.”
“Well, he’ll get trouble enough, stirring an ant’s nest with a stick. Why couldn’t he ride peacefully to his kingdom without all this pomp?”
Paks looked at him. She knew that Marshals varied in ability and personality, but she did not like his sour, half-defeated expression.
“Sir Marshal,” she said, “surely High Marshal Seklis told you that evil powers had already attacked the king—he had no chance to go peacefully.”
“Seklis!” The Marshal spat. “It’s easy for him—living in Vérella, at court and all. He won’t have to keep a broken grange together out here—who’s going to help me, when half my yeomen are taken by something in the forest?”
“Gird,” said Paks quietly, but with force enough to change his expression. “Tell me your problem, Marshal, and we’ll see what can be done. Your yeomen have been taken?”
He glowered at her, but answered straightly enough. “They disappear. We search, and find nothing. I’ve told them back at Vérella, again and again. There’s something out there, and I can’t find it. But they don’t listen.”
Paks nodded, and he went on.
“Then they tell me to keep watch for Phelan—that he’ll be coming through and may need help—that fox! And now I understand he’s supposed to be a king, or something. In Lyonya, of all places: just what we need, a mercenary king next door, when it’s all I can do to keep things quiet as it is.”
“I think, Marshal, that you’ve kept things too quiet.” Paks sat back in her saddle and watched him. He flushed, but still met her eye. “Gird did not value quietness over right.”
“Gird is not here,” muttered the Marshal. “No—I know they say you’re a paladin, but it’s not the same as being here, year after year, with the yeomen more frightened, more reluctant—”
“Well,” said Paks, “you don’t have to stay here. Come along and see what we’re talking about.” He shook his head. Her voice sharpened. “Marshal, you can’t hide forever. I suspect we’re about to have as splendid a battle as you’ve ever seen—don’t you think your yeomen will expect their Marshal to be in it?”
“They won’t care.”
“I do.” Paks straightened, and called her light for the first time since Vérella. He stepped back, startled. She saw faces turn toward her, in the town square, and reined the red horse into the middle of it. Children scurried in and out of doorways; faces appeared at windows. “What’s this town?” she asked the Marshal, who had followed her slowly into the square.
“Darkon Edge,” he said. “What—”
“I’l
l show you,” said Paks. She drew her sword and laid it crossways on the saddle bow. “Yeomen of Gird!” Her yell brought heads around, and drew a flurry of movement. “Yeomen of Gird, hear me!” A few men hurried into the square: an obvious baker, dusting flour from his hands, a forester with his axe, several more. When perhaps a dozen had clustered around her, she pointed at the baker. “Is this all the yeomen in Darkon Edge?”
“No—why—what is it?”
“I am Paksenarrion,” she said, “a paladin of Gird, on quest. Do you know of it?” They shook their heads. “You know who stayed here last night?” One nodded; the others merely stared. “The rightful king of Lyonya,” said Paks loudly. “The king who was stolen into slavery as a young child, and lost all memory of his family. He was taken, yeomen of Gird, to weaken Lyonya, to open a way for the powers of evil to assail both Lyonya and Tsaia.”
“So?” asked one of the men.
“So in the end, the powers of Liart and Achrya failed, and he is going to his throne. If he gains it, peace and freedom will have a chance here. Do you think Liart and Achrya like that?”
“But he’s a mercenary,” yelled someone from a window across the square. Paks faced it and yelled back.
“He was a mercenary, yes—to earn his way, when he knew nothing of his birth. But he’s more than a mercenary. Gird knows Lyonya needs a soldier on the throne, with those against her.”
“It won’t do any good,” said the same voice. “Nothing does. Gird: that’s an old tale. The real power’s in the dark woods, where—”
“Come out here and say that,” said Paks. “Is this light I carry an old tale? Will you face it and say that Gird has no power?”
“Not against Liart.” The face at the window disappeared, and the yeomen muttered.
“Who is that?” asked Paks quickly.
“Joriam. He’s an elder here,” said the forester. “His son’s gone, and his nephew’s crippled by that there—” But a powerful gray-haired man had come out the door, and strode angrily across the square to Paks.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 151