armor, most likely. But I want to be sure nothing escapes that way. Nothing. And when he comes, I want him alive. Can I trust you for this?”
“Yes, my lord!” came the response. The Duke smiled at them.
“I thought so. Now—you must go by night, so his sentries on the wall see nothing. You’ll have to camp there—but no fires; they’ll see light or smoke. One of us or our squires will be always near, within hail. When someone comes out, try to be sure they’re all out before you attack. Set up your watch schedules so that some from both companies are always on. Paksenarrion—”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I heard good things of you when you took over from Seli. You’ll command our unit and work with the Halveric—sergeant, is it, Aliam?”
“Sergeant Sunnot.” The Halveric looked at her. “You should remember him from last fall.”
“Yes, my lord.” Paks caught Sunnot’s eye; he smiled.
Not long after, they faced the black-in-black maw of the passage, an irregular hole in a rocky outcrop south of the citadel. Paks would not have noticed it, in the darkness, if Alured had not pointed it out. The next morning Paks and Sunnot examined the situation more closely.
The passage entrance faced south; above it a steep rockface, thickly forested on top, blocked their view of the citadel a half-hour’s walk to the north. Below, a gentle slope dipped more west than south, to the Immer; a small clearing gave them a good view of the passage and its surroundings. Paks poked cautiously into the near end of the passage. It crooked sharply left, then right, its rough walls looking like a natural fissure in the stone, but beyond the second turn Paks found smoothly hewn walls and floor, with torch brackets set into the walls. The passage ran straight from there, dipping gently. She backed out and told Sunnot what she’d seen. They decided to pile dry leaves just inside the entrance to give warning of Siniava’s approach. Then they rearranged the guardposts, and decided on the signals to use when something happened.
That evening the Duke came to inspect their arrangements. “How long do you think he’ll wait?” asked Paks.
“He can see us cutting timber for siege towers. I think he’ll go soon, before his own men decide to turn on him. Tonight—tomorrow—tomorrow night. I doubt he’ll wait much longer than that. And I’d say at night—it’s how he’s left every other position this campaign.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But don’t count on it. If he realizes his pattern, he’ll change it. And remember, Paks: take him alive.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Paks and Sunnot walked the posts that night, but nothing happened. No sounds came to them from the citadel. In the dark Paks had time to think back over the campaign. It seemed that nothing could go wrong this time: Siniava was well in the trap. But they had thought the same before, only to face another long march and battle. She sighed, louder than she’d meant to, and Arne spoke her name softly.
“Paks? What’s wrong?”
Paks moved to Arne’s post and leaned on a tree. “Nothing—it seems strange not to be marching somewhere, that’s all. I keep thinking we’ve got him, but I thought that before.”
“I know. For awhile it seemed we’d been marching a year, and would go on forever, but—”
“It hasn’t been that long. We did start early—”
Now Arne sighed. “We did indeed. I tell you, Paks, I don’t feel the same. It’s only our third year, but I feel older—I feel there’s been more than a year between this campaign and last spring. Do you remember when we came to Rotengre?”
“Yes. I know what you mean. We were so glad to be second-years—but we knew we weren’t really veterans. And then Dwarfwatch—”
“Yes. Dwarfwatch. Then Rotengre. Then this.” Arne sighed again.
Paks pushed herself away from the tree. “Well—it’ll be over soon. We’ll feel different when he’s dead, and when we’ve had some rest.”
“I hope so,” said Arne soberly. Paks walked on, still thinking.
The next day was as quiet as the first. No one grumbled about missing the action at the citadel, but Paks knew many shared her fears: what if he doesn’t come this way? What if others make the capture? By nightfall they were edgy and watchful. Paks and Sunnot had both slept during the day, so they’d be on together.
Night chill made Paks shiver suddenly between guardposts. She looked at the tunnel mouth and saw nothing. She felt distinctly colder; she wondered if a weather change was coming. She pulled her cloak closer around her, and leaned into a tree trunk. She felt a breath of cold air drift down the slope, chilling her face. Her cloak was warm. She yawned, suddenly sleepy despite the cold. Her mind wandered.
All at once a sharp prick, like a thorn, stung her chest. She jerked her eyes open, realizing in that instant that she’d been almost asleep. She looked quickly around and saw nothing. She started to relax, and realized that she should have seen at least one guard, even in the gloom. She pushed herself up. The nearest guard had slumped to the ground. Paks felt a trickle of fear, like icewater, down her spine. The hairs rose on her arms. She shook the guard—a Halveric, she remembered—and the woman grunted.
Paks pinched her arm and muttered, “Wake up! Trouble.” The woman stiffened, grabbed Paks’s arm, and started to rise.
“What happened?”
“Magic, I think.” Paks drew her sword as she spoke. “Pray we’re not too late. Draw your blade.”
“The others?”
“Wait—we’ll have to wake them, but—” She peered toward the tunnel mouth again. A dark shadow seemed to flow out of it. “There—see?”
“Falk’s oath in gold! But what do we—?”
“Wake the others on this side; I’ll go across. If they think we’re all asleep, maybe they’ll be careless. Watch —don’t sit down—be sure the torchlighters are ready.”
A glimmer of starlight lit the rockface, as Paks edged around in the trees to find the other guards. She could see another shadow, and another, emerge from the tunnel. She found a pair of guards and woke them, then another pair. Where was Sunnot? More shadows emerged, to cluster a few yards from the entrance. Paks had most of the guards awake; she could only hope they would stay so. She wished she knew which of those shadows was the wizard, and which the Honeycat.
The shadows took up a blunt arrowhead formation, and Paks tensed. Which way would they move? Her left hand fumbled for Canna’s medallion without her thought, and it seemed to twitch left. She moved from the trees along the rockface, where she could cut off a retreat to the tunnel.
A last cloaked figure emerged, and the entire group moved slowly westward toward the trees. Paks took a deep breath and yelled, a wordless cry of mingled anger and triumph. Torches flared around the perimeter; guards stepped forward. She spared a thought of relief, that the guards had stayed awake, as she charged the group of fugitives. They turned, forming a hollow ring, blades whistling in the air as they drew them.
These were the Honeycat’s bodyguard: faces tattooed in garish patterns, bladetips dark with poison even in dancing torchlight. In seconds the woods rang with the clash of swords, and the cries of the fighters. Paks swept her blade in joyful strokes across the enemy blades, exultant. Trick
The fighter in front of her went down: one of the guards had gotten a lateral stroke. More were down. The mercenaries surged forward, overrunning the rest, to grapple with the two in the center. They went down in a heap of bodies, each eager to grab hold. Paks, an instant too late, stood panting beside them. She rubbed her corselet absently; her chest itched. A tingle ran down her left arm, as if someone had jabbed her elbow. She whirled, searching the shadows, and stiffened as she caught a movement along the base of the rockface. She relaxed: only an animal. An instant later she charged, sword high. What animal would be out in the open with all that noise and
