Yet they were surrounded now by a force three times or more their size. With the Marshals’ healing aid, their losses that afternoon were not as severe as might have been expected, but even so too many defenders lay stiffening on the hill. In the center of the square, Paks urged the king to rest while he could. They had made an inner square of the horses, and knights, leaving an open space where it was possible to lie, out of sight of archers (though not, of course, out of range.)
With dark came new troubles. First was the Verrakai commander, who came forward under a parley flag lit by torches. He accused Phelan of invading Verrakai lands, and refused to accept the royal pass Dorrin carried.
“That princeling has no right to give passes—only the Council can. These are Verrakai lands, and Verrakai’s road, and you have no right to invade on behalf of that northern bastard.”
“Hold your tongue!” bellowed High Marshal Seklis. “He’s the rightful king of Lyonya, and no bastard.”
“And who are you?” asked the commander.
“High Marshal Seklis, of the court at Tsaia, and you’ll have the Fellowship of Gird on you for this cowardly attack, sir.”
The commander laughed. “The Fellowship of Gird is far away, Marshal; if you insist on sharing this dukeling’s fate, it will never know what happened.”
“Share his fate—Gird’s blood, sir, I’d rather share his fate than yours.”
“Besides,” the commander went on, raising his voice, “I’ve heard he sacrificed a Gird’s paladin to save his own skin. What kind of a king is that? What kind of commander, for that matter? If you had any honor at all, you’d turn on him now.”
Paks called her light and stood forward. “Sir, you know not what you speak of. This king never sacrificed a paladin—I am the paladin involved, and I know.”
In her light, the commander’s eyes were wide, white-rimmed. “You! But I heard—”
“You heard lies, commander.” She saw a ripple of alarm pass through the commander’s escort, and her light extended in response. “Would you risk your life—and more than your life, your soul—against a paladin as well as these Marshals and Lyonya’s king?”
“It is my command.”
“Indeed. Despite the commands of your rightful liege lord, the crown prince—”
“He hasn’t been crowned yet—not until Summereve—”
Paks laughed. “Sir, you argue like a judicar, not like a soldier. Unless some treachery falls on him, as this has fallen on the king of Lyonya, he will be your ruler, and acts now as such. You must know that the Council and prince together gave Lyonya’s king not only passage but also royal escort—have you never see the Tsaian Royal Guard before?”
“He might have hired them,” said the man sulkily. At that even the Royal Guard laughed scornfully.
“He did not—and you know it. You know it is the Council’s will that he pass safely into Lyonya and be crowned there; it is the prince’s wish as well.”
“Not Lord Verrakai’s,” said the man. “And he’s my lord, and gives my orders.”
“Then he’s rebelling against the House of Mahieran?” asked Paks. Again that uneasy movement. “Forming alliance with Pargun?”
“No—not that—but he takes no orders from a stripling boy—”
“Who is his king. That sounds like rebellion to me,” said the High Marshal, “and I shall report it so when I return.”
“You are not like to return,” answered the commander tartly, “unless you agree to disown this so-called king. We’ve heard enough of him, we have—a bloody mercenary, that’s all he is, whatever lies he tells of his birth.”
“And is this a lie?” The king had come close behind Paks and the High Marshal. He drew the elven blade; its brilliant light outshone even Paks’s for a moment. “This blade is like none you have seen, and no other hand can hold it. It was made for Lyonya’s prince, and lost, and when I first drew it, proclaimed me its master. Could that be a lie, commander?”
The man bit his lip, looking from one to another. But finally he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re Phelan, I suppose. My orders are that you must not pass; you and all your soldiers’ lives are forfeit for treason and trespass. As for these others, if they forswear your cause, they will be spared as our prisoners. If they fight on, all will be slain.”
Bitter amusement edged the king’s voice. “Your terms offer little gain, commander.”
“Your situation offers less.” The commander’s voice sharpened in turn. “You are outnumbered, on bad ground, without food or water or shelter for your wounded—”
“Whom you plan to kill anyway,” the king pointed out. “By the gods, commander, if we are to die, we need no supplies, and I think you care little what happens to our wounded. Since you say I and my soldiers must die anyway, we shall see how many of yours we can take with us.”
“And you?” asked the commander of the Marshals and Ammerlin.
“It is my pleasure and honor,” said Ammerlin stiffly, “to serve the king of Lyonya as I have served my prince. You will find the Royal Guard a worthy opponent, Verrakaien scum.”
“And you will find Gird’s Marshals a hard mouthful to swallow,” said High Marshal Seklis grimly. “Since you claim to have the stomach for it, you may gnaw our steel before our flesh.”
The Verrakai commander stared at them a long moment, as if waiting for another answer. Then he made a stiff bow and turned away. They heard a flurry of sound as he returned to his own men, and a rough cry in a strange tongue from another enemy unit.
The king’s head turned sharply. “That’s Pargunese. Something about the Sagon’s orders. As we thought, Verrakai and the Sagon have moved together. I dare say, Marshals, they intend none to tell the tale later.”
“So I would judge,” said Seklis, still angry.
“I would hope for no mercy from them,” added Ammerlin. Then he turned to the king. “My lord, I am sorry—I should have foundered every horse in the troop before landing you in this trap.”
The king touched his shoulder. “The trap was planned, Ammerlin, before we left Vérella. Without your knights, this afternoon, we could never have come so close to breaking free—nor would we still be standing here, I think. Don’t waste your strength regretting it now.”
“You do not blame—”
The king laughed. “Blame? Who should I blame but the Verrakai and Pargunese, and Liart and Achrya, who planned all this? By the gods, Ammerlin, if we come out of this, you will hear such praise of the Guard as will redden your ears for the next fifty years. Do you believe me now?”
“Yes, my lord.” Ammerlin’s eyes glittered in Paks’s light. “We will ward you, my lord, until the end.”
“Hmmph. I admit, Ammerlin, I see no easy way out of this, but the end I intend is my own throne in Lyonya, and not death in this valley.” The king turned to Paks. “You, I know, have seen worse than this, and come out alive and whole—do you despair?”
“No, sir king.” Paks smiled at him. “The wolves must come within reach before the spear can touch them. We are in peril, yes—but if we withstand despair, the gods will aid us.”
“As they already have, with your return,” said the king. “Ah, Paks—I had feared greatly for you.”
Paks smiled. “And I for you, as well. Now—in the hours of darkness, they will try what evil they can, sir king. I feel it near—”
“I also,” said Seklis. “We have healed what we can of the wounded, my lord. For this night, we Marshals and Paksenarrion must ward your defenders.”
The priests of Liart began their assault with loud jeers from their followers: they had brought the bodies of slain defenders down the hill to mutilate them in front of the rest. It was all Paks and the Marshals could do to keep the yeomen in line when they saw their friends’ bodies hacked in pieces; the seasoned troops glared, but knew better than to move. That display was followed by others. These ended when the king authorized a single volley from the Royal Guard archers; Paks extended her lig
ht, and the front rank of capering Liartians was abruptly cut down.
After that, and a single thrust of fear from the Liartian priests, the enemy camp settled down as if for sleep. Everything was quiet for a time. Then shouts and bellows rang out in the forest to the east.
“What—?”
Paks could hear shouts in the enemy’s camp; the turmoil of troops roused from sleep.
“Whatever it is, they didn’t expect it either.”
“Trouble for them—good for us?” Seklis stretched; he’d napped briefly.
“We can hope.” The king, too, had rested, but Paks could hear the fatigue in his voice. He pushed himself upright, and made his way across the square. Paks extended her light again. They could see dimly as far as the forest edge. Something moved between the trees.
“Whatever it is, it’s big,” muttered Dorrin.
“And not alone.” The king sighed. “I was hoping for a cohort of Lyonyans, perhaps—just to make things interesting.”
In a sudden flurry, a tumbling mass of creatures burst from the edge of the woods. Paks recognized several of them as the same monster that had lived in the robber’s lair near Brewersbridge: huge, hairy, man-like shapes.
“Falk’s oath in gold,” muttered Garris, “that’s a gibba.”
“I thought they were hools,” said Paks.
“No—hools live in water, and aren’t so hairy, nor so broad. These are gibbas. And those others—”
Orcs she had seen before, but not the high-shouldered dark beasts that ran with them, like hounds with a hunting party.
“Folokai,” said Lieth quietly. “Fast, strong, and mean.”
“I’ll believe that,” said Paks. “Any weaknesses?”
“Not gibbas. The folokai are night-hunters; they don’t like fire or bright light. But they’re smart, as smart as wolves at least. The best sword stroke is for the heart, from in front, or the base of the neck.”
In moments the dire creatures were charging across the open space. Paks called in her light and rolled onto the red horse’s back, where she could see. The enemy ranks seemed as concerned as their own; she heard shouts in Pargunese and Tsaian both, and screeches from the orcs, who hesitated for a moment between the defenders and one of the Verrakai cohorts. A priest of Liart strode into the Verrakai torchlight, and snapped an order to the orcs. Paks saw heads turn toward them, saw one of the folokai crouch for a spring. She urged the red horse forward, to the lines.
The orcs swung their short spears around, and ran at the defenders. The folokai jumped high, soaring over the first rank to fall ravening on the secondary. But Paks was there, the red horse neatly avoiding the defenders. She plunged her sword into a heavy muscled neck; the folokai’s head swung up, quick as light, and long fangs raked her mail. The red horse pivoted, catching the beast with one foreleg and tossing it away. It reared, threatening the horse with long claws on its forefeet. Paks swung the horse sideways, and thrust deep between foreleg and breast. For a moment the heavy jaws gnashed around her helmet, then its dead weight almost pulled her from the saddle. She wrestled her sword free. Two gibbas had hit the defending line together, and driven a wedge into it. At the point, Lieth and Marshal Sulinarrion fought almost as one, their swords swinging in long strokes that hardly seemed to slow the gibbas at all. Remembering Mal, Paks looked around for someone with an axe. A hefty yeoman in the secondary stood nearby, bellowing encouragement to the front rank, but otherwise free. She tapped his shoulder with her sword, and he swung round, axe ready.
“Come on! Follow me!” She waited for his nod, then forced the red horse through the fight to a point just behind the gibbas. “Get the backbone!” she yelled at the forester, sinking her own sword into the angle of neck and shoulder—a level stroke, she noted, for a mounted fighter. But this maneuver had put her outside the square, and the yeoman as well. She covered his retreat back into the line, then whirled the red horse in a flat spin, sweeping her sword at the orcs who tried to take advantage of the gibbas’ position. Dorrin’s cohort snapped back into position, straightening the line, and Paks was back inside with the king.
The king, meanwhile, was fighting another folokai that had jumped the lines. Garris had fallen behind him; High Marshal Seklis tried to flank the beast, but it was too fast, whirling and snapping at him, then returning to the king. The king’s sword blazed, its color shifting from blue to white with each change of direction. Before Paks could intervene, the king sank his blade into the folokai’s heart, and it fell, still snapping.
More orcs poured out of the forest, this time attacking without hesitation. Now the east flank of the defender’s block was fully engaged. In the darkness beyond the Verrakai front ranks, Paks saw torches moving.
“The Pargunese,” said the king quietly, beside her. “They’ll attack now too.”
“In the dark?” asked Ammerlin.
“Yes—they’ve got torchbearers.”
“How long—?” began Ammerlin.
“Paks,” the king interrupted. “Can you sustain your light for long?”
“I don’t know,” said Paks. “I haven’t tried to hold it and fight both.”
“We’ll fight,” he said grimly. “Give us light, and we’ll fight.”
Even before she asked, her light came, brighter than before. For an instant, she remembered the golden light that hung above Sibili the night they took the wall. Now her own light, unshadowed, lit the narrow valley. The Pargunese cohorts stopped abruptly, then wheeled into position. Verrakaien shaded their eyes, then looked down. She saw the orcs pause at the wood’s edge, throw up their shields, and keep coming: a dark wave. Her light flashed from shifting eyes, from the edges of swords and the tips of spears. She saw a folokai’s teeth glint, then it turned and loped away to the west and north. The red horse wheeled beneath her as her eyes swept the scene. The enemy pressed close, compressing the square into a tight mass. The remaining cavalry mounts shifted nervously, ears back and tails clamped down.
Then the enemy cohorts attacked. Paks ignored the screams, the arrows that flashed by her head, the clangor of arms. With all her might she prayed, holding light above them.
Chapter Thirty-one
How long she might have sustained the light, Paks never knew. All at once the piercing sweet call of an elvenhorn lifted her heart, the sound she had heard in Kolobia, and never forgotten. She looked east. A wave of silver light rolled down the forested slope, as if the starlight had taken form. Out of the trees rode what none there had ever seen. Tall, fair, mounted on horses as pale as starlit foam, they cried aloud in ringing voices that made music of battle. Rank after rank they came, bringing with them the scent of spring, and the light of elvenhome kingdoms that is neither sun nor star.
The orcs nearest them faltered, looked back, and broke. Before the orcs could run, the first rank of elven knights was on them, trampling them. The flank of the Verrakaien cohort on that side panicked and scattered. One group of elves peeled away, harrying the fugitives; the others advanced in order. At their center rode one not in armor. Paks stared, hardly believing her eyes. She looked away, to see that the Pargunese, deserted by the Verrakaien, were withdrawing in order. Another group of elven knights rode by the far side of the square. The light enclosed the defenders, walling them off from their enemies.
The sounds of flight came clearly through the air—the quick thunder of the elven knights’ horses, the cries, the distant skirmishes. But all around the king a pool of silence widened, broken less and less by voices and movement, and coming at last to completion. Without a word, the front ranks of the square, Dorrin’s cohort, opened a lane for the elven riders. Without a word, the king came forward to greet them.
With the great elven sword still glowing in his hand, he looked a king out of legend. The Lady on her horse bowed to him. He slipped off his helmet, and handed it to Lieth, who had followed him that far. Then he set the sword point down before him, and bent his knee to her.
“Lady,” he said, in a voice Paks had n
ot heard him use. “You honor us.”
“Sir king,” she said, and Paks had to believe now who she was. “You honor us, both our kindred and our land.”
He lifted his head. “You consent to this?”
“Rise, sir king.” She gestured to the sword. “I have seen my daughter’s son defend his own with his own sword. I have heard and seen how that sword answers his need. We came here to greet you in all joy, and we rejoice to greet you in time.”
He had climbed to his feet; now he brought the sword to her side. She leaned from her tall mount to touch his head: one light touch, with a hand that glowed like silver fire. Her voice chimed with amusement.
“Were I minded differently, son of my daughter, the enemies you make would be good witnesses for you. No wicked man could contrive to have all these assault him at once; he would ally with one or another of them.”
The king laughed. “Lady, I thank you for your faith. Surely a stupid man might blunder into this?”
“I think not. Stupid men are too cautious. But, sir king, I have drawn you from a battle unfinished. Perhaps you would be free to finish it? My knights are at your disposal.”
The king glanced back at the defenders. “With your permission, Lady, we will cleanse this valley of such perils for the future.” She bowed, and he returned to them.
Suddenly Paks realized that she was not sustaining her own light. Whether it failed from weakness or surprise she did not know; they stood under the elflight alone. But the king, coming back into the square, commanded her attention. Still bareheaded, his face conveyed a majesty that even Paks had not imagined.
“We will not harry the Pargunese,” he said. “I suspect they were lured here, and the Verrakaien intended to blame them for the massacre. But the priests of Liart, the orcs, and the Verrakaien—these must be accounted for.”
“And you, my lord?” asked Dorrin.
“I will stay, and speak with the Lady, if she will.”
* * *
That night the enemy found themselves penned by the forest taig, which would not let them pass, while a line of elven knights swept the valley from side to side. Elflight lay over them, leaving no place to hide. The three Marshals and Paks rode with them, hunting the priests of Liart. By dawn, which added a golden glow to the radiance around, Paks had killed two more of them; the Marshals each had killed one, and the elves found one dead of wounds. A score of gibbas lay dead, and more than a hundred orcs, and a score of folokai. The Pargunese cohorts stood in a sullen lump at the far end of the valley, where trees closed off the escape. The Verrakaien had broken into several groups, all now under guard. The Konhalt archers, having lost more than half their number, huddled together not far from the king’s company. As for the followers of Liart, they had fled pell-mell, and most had been ridden down in the last of the fighting.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 153