Sheepfarmers Daughter (13 page)

The pass itself was easier than it looked. For hundreds of years that road had been worked and reworked; it wound between hills and around them, taking the easiest way up, and only at the last did it lift itself from beside a streambed and crawl over one rocky knob. At once, having crossed, it returned to the easy path, winding along as it must, among hills now green with spring.

For it was full spring in the south, a lush spring. The Vale of Valdaire lay lovely and green before them, a vast bowl with snowy mountains in the background, green pastures on the uplands, and darker green forests below. From the top of the pass, it took two days to reach the city, but every step of the way was pleasant.

Valdaire, as they saw it gleaming beside the laughing waters of its little rivers, looked far more welcoming than Verella. Its walls seemed more apt to hold up the backs of shops than to form a defense. As they neared it, great inns lined the road, each with a huge walled court for the caravan wagons and draft animals. Across the river from the road, on rising ground not far from the city, they saw what looked like a small stone village. Bosk pointed it out.

"That's Halveric Company's winter quarters," he said. Someone bolder than Paks asked what "Halveric Company" was. "Mercenaries, like us. They usually contract with the Sier of Westland, these last few years. A good company, all things considered."

"Where's ours?" someone asked.

"East of the city. We'll go through, just to show you. Now keep it sharp."

Valdaire swarmed with people, and not only merchants and craftsmen, as in Verella: it swarmed with troops of all sorts. They had been told it was the truce city, but they had not expected so many different colors and badges. Green tunics much like their own, red tunics over black or gray trousers, green leather over brown wool, brown tunics over red — it was bewildering. Riders in chain mail on slender, quick—stepping horses, riders in plate on massive chargers, crossbowmen on mules. Now and again one of them spoke to Captain Pont or Stammel, commenting freely on the recruits' appearance. Paks noticed the strange accents, and the gods they swore by — she had no idea who or what Ashto and Senneth were.

At last they were through the city. On the right was a last inn,
The White Dragon
. A row of men in leather armor lounged outside it, and stared as the column went by.

"Phelan's new recruits," she heard one of them say.

"Wish they were ours," said another. "That load of blockheads we got this year — "

"Think these are better?"

"They march better, that's something. By Tir, I hope we don't close that contract with — "

"Hssh!" Then the column was past, and she heard no more.

They turned from the road into a lane. Ahead clustered whitewashed stone buildings, most long and low but three of them two—storied. Paks took a deep breath. This had to be the Duke's winter quarters — in a few minutes they would see the veterans for the first time, would find their places in the full Company. They marched closer. She could see people walking around between buildings. No one seemed to pay them any attention. Paks tried not to let her eyes wander as they came between the buildings. The veterans looked incredibly tough. They came to an open space, and Stammel halted them. Almost at once, a voice she did not know bellowed a command, and the Company formed so fast it seemed the bodies snapped into place. Instead of men and women casually walking about or standing in doorways, now there was a compact, precise formation of hard—eyed soldiers. Paks blinked; several behind her gasped. She could feel the veterans' eyes scanning the column. It made her uneasy, like an itch. Then the Duke rode out, and greeted Captain Pont, and within moments the column was dispersing to the three cohorts of the Company.

All in Stammel's unit went into Arcolin's cohort. He was a tall, stern—faced man with dark hair and bright gray eyes. Arcolin's junior captain was Ferrault, who had ridden with them as far as Verella: sandy—haired, bearded, both shorter and slighter than Arcolin. Barra and Natzlin and the rest of Kefer's unit were assigned to Dorrin's cohort. Paks was startled to find that Dorrin was a woman. Sejek was her junior captain — and Stephi, then, was in another cohort. Paks was relieved.

The next few hours were even more chaotic than her first as a new recruit. Each novice was assigned to a veteran, and the veterans made it clear that they would have to prove themselves all over again — if they could. Donag, a heavy—set file leader with dour dark brows, gave Paks an unfriendly look.

"Are you the one that got Stephi in such trouble?" Paks froze; she had relaxed too soon. Donag interpreted her silence to suit himself. "I thought so. You ought to be ashamed enough to keep quiet. A good friend he's been to me, Stephi — cause more trouble, and you won't see the north again." He glowered at her a moment longer. "They say you can fight; it had best be true." He led her to her assigned bunk without another word. Paks felt a smoldering anger. She had not gotten Stephi in trouble; it had been his fault. She glared at Donag's back.

The next several days were uncomfortable. They drilled every day, marching and weapons, and it was obvious how much they had yet to learn. Paks had been coasting, as one of the best recruits. Despite Siger's nagging about speed, she had thought she was as fast as she needed to be. The slower veterans were faster. The best — and Donag was one of these — seemed inhumanly fast. She acquired a lot of new bruises, and the only time Donag smiled at her was when he dealt them.

"He's down on you, isn't he?" asked Saben one evening on the way back from supper. Paks nodded. She didn't want to talk about it. She had heard, through the grapevine, what had happened to Stephi, and had decided Donag would just have to wear out his resentment. Barra, of course, had noticed and urged Paks to complain. "It's not your fault," Saben went on. "He shouldn't be like that." Paks shrugged.

"I can't stop him."

"No, but Stammel could. Or the captain." That was what Barra had said, too.

"No. It wouldn't work. Just — don't say any more, Saben, please."

"All right. But I'm on your side, remember." He looked worried, and Paks managed a smile, her first in several days, to reassure him.

Later that evening, Stephi showed up in their barracks. Donag smiled at him, and gave Paks a warning glare. She went on with her work, polishing her helmet. To her surprise, Stephi greeted her first.

"Paks — how do you like the south?"

She looked up, startled. "It's very different. It's so hot already."

Stephi smiled. "That surprised me, my first year south. Wait until full summer; you'll think you're melting into your armor. Are you settling in all right?"

Her eyes flicked toward Donag and back. "Yes, very well."

"Good. I expect, though, you've found it a change from being a top recruit — it's usually a shock."

Paks found herself relaxing a bit. Stephi did not sound angry with her, not nearly as hostile as Donag. "It is a change — you're all so much faster."

"If we weren't, we wouldn't be here to teach you," said Donag gruffly. He had walked over while they were talking, and now turned to Stephi. "Have you heard about the contract yet?"

Stephi shook his head. "No. We were out all day in the hills. Have you?"

Donag looked at Paks.

"Don't mind her," said Stephi. "They have to learn about contracts sometime."

Donag frowned, but went on. "I saw Foss Council messengers today, and two of them rode outjust after lunch with a squad of guards. And in the city they're saying that Foss Council and Czardas are squabbling over boundaries."

"Huh," grunted Stephi. "Czardas. Let's see—that's a count, isn't it? All he's got is local militia, unless he hires someone — or if Andressat joins him."

"I don't really know yet," said Donag, but he was grinning.

Stephi grinned too. "But it was one of your — umm — good sources?"

Donagjust grinned, shaking his head. Paks watched him in surprise. When he wasn't scowling, he had a pleasant face: rough and weathered, but humorous. He caught her look, made a wry face, and went back to his grin. "I'm not always a grouch, no — if that's what you were thinking. And perhaps you're not as bad as I thought — if you behave."

"I'm going down to the
Dragon
," said Stephi. "Why don't you come, Donag? I'd like to see what other rumors you can pick up."

"Well — I'm on late watch. But if we don't stay long — " He looked at Paks, then back at Stephi. "I'll come. But you, Paks, don't be blabbing all I told Stephi, and be sure you're ready for watch on time."

"Yes, sir." Paks watched the two men leave with mingled relief and astonishment.

From that time on, she had little trouble with Donag, though he still thumped her during drill until she found speed she had never thought to reach. In those weeks, a few of the younger veterans made cautious overtures of friendship. Paks was glad to spend time with Canna Arendts, whose tales of her first year's battles were much more exciting than Donag's dry instruction. Canna's best friend had died, and she enjoyed having someone to tell her stories to, someone who would listen by the hour. Saben liked her too, and Vik said he liked having a woman around who was not taller than he was — which made them all laugh wildly, the last night in Valdaire, as he craned his neck pretending that Paks and Arñe were seven feet tall. Canna laughed too, dark eyes dancing. She was lean and quick, and Paks felt clumsy and huge beside her.

On the road again, marching south, Paks could think only of the fighting to come. She had thought herself close to fighting before, but this time she was. This was real, marching with battle—scarred veterans around her, and soon the fighting would be real. No more drills, no more instruction. In the back of her head the vision rose of herself with a great sword, leading a charge. She knew it was nonsense, yet — this was a long way from Three Firs. Anything could happen. Almost anything. She was marching as file second to Donag — that had been a surprise. Most of the recruits were slotted further back in the column.

After several days of marching, they came to the fields where the first battle would be fought. Across a wide space was a dark mass: the enemy army.

"Militia," muttered Donag contemptuously. "We won't have much trouble with them, unless they've a surprise for us." Paks did not dare ask how he knew. She said nothing at all. 'Just remember that even militia can kill you if you're stupid," he told her. "Stay in formation — remember the strokes — and listen for orders."

To her surprise, they set up camp that afternoon as if it were any other day on the road — except for the surgeons' area. Paks eyed the rows of straw pallets and the neatly arranged tents with distaste. She had heard stories about the surgeons, too. The recruits got another lecture, from the captains, and then a final one from their own sergeants.

"And after that they expect us to sleep?" asked Arñe. "I can't keep my eyes shut an instant, I know."

"The followers of Gird — " began Effa. Arñe interrupted.

"Effa, you Girdsmen may be all you say — brave, wise, and everything else — but I'm not one of you. If you can sleep, fine. Do it. As for me, if the gods guide my strokes tomorrow, and bring me safe through, then I'll sleep — "

"And I." Saben's face was more serious than usual. "I find I'm thinking how peaceful it is in the cowbyres, on a summer's evening."

Paks thought of sheep, fanned wide on a slope and coming together at the foot. The quick light clatter of their hooves, the anxious baaing, and the wide silence over all.

The next morning they were wakened before dawn, and barely managed to choke down breakfast.

"Eat, fools," said Donag, scowling again. "You can't fight empty. You'll wear out. And be sure your flasks are full, and drink so you slosh. Hurry now."

And before the sun cleared the low hills east of them, they were standing in formation, swords drawn, waiting.

As the sun rose higher, Paks felt sweat crawling through her hair under her helmet. The dust cloud ahead came closer as the Czardians advanced. Somewhere off on the right wing, a confused clamor began: crashing, metallic, and a deep roar that seemed to shake the earth. Her heart pounded; her sword grip felt slippery. She opened her mouth for air. Surely Stammel would tell them if they were supposed to do anything. She watched his unhurried stroll back and forth in front of their ranks. Behind him the mass of enemy came closer and closer. Someone in the ranks let out a sobbing groan.

"Take it easy, now," came Stammel's rough growl. "Remember your drill. I'll tell you when to worry, recruits. And you veterans, stop acting up to scare the new ones. I'll dock you a day's pay, if anyone else tries to unsettle "em." Paks took a deep breath and tried to relax, flexing her hand on the sword. The noise and the dust came closer. One of the captains trotted along the front of their line and paused to speak to Stammel. Paks saw him nod. Stammel swung round to face them; Paks felt him capture and release her gaze before giving the expected order. At his command they began to march forward, the corporals chanting a ritual encouragement and reminder.

"Stay in formation now, file two; keep your swords up; keep your shields up and ready; steady march, slow march, count y'r cadence, slow march; file three, pick it up; steady march; no crowding there, third and four! Remember your shields, up and out — " And then the front rank was engaged with the enemy, and the noise of battle drowned out their voices. Paks suddenly found enemy swords thrust at her as the first rank moved into the enemy formation.

She blocked one with her shield, and hacked awkwardly at another with her sword. Only her longer reach kept her alive as her more dexterous opponent disengaged and thrust again. She remembered the correct move, this time, and slashed his sword away. The attacker on her left was now fully engaged with her shield partner, so she could use her own shield for protection against the man in front. She blocked another thrust, and tried an overhand swing. Her opponent's shield caught her blade; for a terrifying instant she could not wrench it free. She was wide open to his sweeping stroke; though she deflected it with her shield, the blade slid down and sliced into her leg through the greaves.

Paks staggered as the blade bit in, and that jerk freed her own sword. She lunged straight ahead, thrusting at the man's belly. Her longer reach worked; her sword slid into him. Before she could follow up her thrust, someone ran into her from behind, and knocked her off balance. She fell among the stamping feet and swinging blades, confused by dust and noise. The man she'd stabbed was also down — she saw his face, barely a foot from her own, and the dagger in his hand. She dropped her sword and grappled with his knife hand, trying to free her left arm from the shield so she could draw her own.

Suddenly his arm went limp; she saw another blade deep in his body. She could not see who had done it. She could not see anything but shadowy legs in the dust. She groped about for her own sword, found it, and tried to get to her feet. Bodies shoved at her from all directions. Her eyes were clogged with sweat and dirt; she blinked furiously, then realized she was surrounded by fighters in the Duke's colors. She tried to pick out where she was in formation — or anyone she knew — but nothing looked familiar. Out of the whirling dust came more fighters in blue and yellow; around her rose screams and bellows of rage. She found as she thrust at one of the enemy that her own throat was raw with yelling — and still she yelled. Her shield arm ached. Her sword weighed as much as a full—grown sheep. Her left leg was on fire. She kept thrusting, countering with shield, thrusting — her head splitting with the noise and dust. She took in great gulps of air, but found herself choking on dust, coughing, sobbing against the coughs. She nearly went down again, slipping on something underfoot, but someone grabbed her arm and kept her upright.

"Go on! Forward!" yelled someone in her ear, and she went on, squinting through the dust for yellow and blue to strike at, her sword and shield work now mechanical, as in drill.

At last there seemed to be less dust in front of her, and no blue and yellow. Someone grabbed her arm; she raised her sword to strike, but Stammel's voice penetrated the din. "Paks. Stop! Paks!" Her sword arm fell as if someone had cut the tendons. She stood, half—blinded by dust, gasping for breath, shaking — at last she could see Stammel, and met his eyes. "All right, Paks," he said, more quietly. "You're wounded; go to the rear." She could not move. The light failed, as if clouds had come over the sun. She heard Stammel's voice, now urgent, but could not follow what he said.

Someone's shoulder was under her arm, supporting her; someone's hands fumbled at the buckles of her shield. She tried to stop them, but could not seem to move well. Voices talked back and forth across her hearing. Nothing made sense. Suddenly someone shoved what felt like a length of wood into the wound on her leg; she tried to push them away from her, all of them, but found herself lying flat on the ground with no memory of how she'd gotten there. One of the veterans held her shoulders down; sweat dripped off his nose onto her face. When he saw her watching him, he said "Sorry," but kept his weight on her. Someone else was holding her legs. Her injured leg throbbed fiercely. A surgeon in his dark robes bent over it. A hand appeared out of nowhere, with a kerchief dripping water.

"Here," said a voice. "Chew on this." She opened her mouth, and he stuffed the wet rag in. At once something — she thought the same length of wood — bored into her leg. She twisted against the hands that held her, to no avail. The pain went on, and when it finally stopped was replaced by a bath of liquid fire. Paks closed her eyes, grinding the rag with her teeth. Something tugged at her leg — would tear it off, she thought — but ceased before it came loose. She opened her eyes. Tears blurred her vision until she blinked them away. Her leg still throbbed, but farther away — a spear—length or so, maybe. The veteran released her shoulders; the surgeon was already walking away. She gagged on the wet lump of cloth in her mouth, and a hand came to pull it out.

"There," said the voice. "That's over." Paks tried to twist her head to find the speaker, but it was too much effort. "You need some wine," the voice went on. "That will ease the pain." She tried to speak up, to refuse, but a strong arm heaved her head and shoulders up, and a wineskin pressed against her lips. When she opened her mouth to protest, a squirt of wine filled her mouth; she had to swallow. The wineskin was tooled in gold, she noticed, as another squirt of wine filled her mouth — then another. The pain receded farther, and a dark haze spread across her vision.