Sheepfarmer's Dauther

light?

As her sword came down toward a furry back, the animal shape rippled, and she faced a man in black armor inlaid with gold. The first blow of his broadsword snapped the tip of her blade. Paks yelled a warning to the others, yanking her dagger from its sheath, as she tried to parry another of his strokes. This time her sword shattered in her hand.

“Phelan’s bitch!” snarled the man. “This time you’ve gone too far—touch me with a blade, will you!” He lunged; Paks jerked aside. The thrust barely missed her. She tried to stab with her dagger, but it was too short. His blade sliced into her corselet; the force of the blow staggered her, though she felt no cut. He whirled and ran for the trees. Paks launched herself after him and managed to grapple his legs. They fell sprawling together. Before she could get loose, she felt him heave up and start to swing his sword.

The next instant he gave a loud screech, and writhed away.

“Hang onto him!” said a brisk voice. Paks clung to the kicking, squirming legs, and tried to see who had spoken. Against the light of the torches, her helper was only a dark shape. She heard boots running toward them. In moments, six or eight soldiers were holding the black-armored man down. Paks pushed herself up, panting. Her elbows hurt, where she’d fallen, and she had a stitch in her side.

The Duke strode into the light. “Got him, have we?”

“I think so, my lord.” Now Paks recognized the paladin’s voice. “We’ll get his helmet off—”

“Allow me.” The Duke knelt beside the man and slipped the tip of his dagger into the visor to lift it. Paks stared. The face inside was pale and angry. Dark eyes, a lock of dark hair showing, and a small tattoo between thick eyebrows.

“Well,” said the Duke cheerfully. “What a surprise, Lord Siniava, to find the commander of a besieged citadel wandering the woods at night.” Paks could not hear what Siniava said in answer, but the Duke’s shoulders stiffened. The paladin growled. Paks looked around, suddenly remembering the other man and woman. What had they been, and who were they? She saw a circle of mercenaries, and walked over to see two captives, bound hand and foot.

“Kieri!” No mistaking that call; the Halverics had arrived, both bareheaded.

“It’s Siniava,” said the Duke. “We’ll have to get his armor off before you can have what you’re looking for.”

“We can manage that, can’t we, Cal?” The Halveric looked eager.

Cal was grinning too. “How badly is he hurt?”

“Nothing much,” said Fenith. “Paksenarrion caught him, and I disarmed him. He’s got a slashed wrist; that’s all.” He paused a moment. “What are you planning?”

“Don’t be silly,” snapped the Duke. “We’re going to kill him.”

“I know that,” said the paladin, equally shortly. “Go on and do it.”

The Duke gave him a long stare. Paks felt her belly clench. “Do you know,” he asked softly, “what he did to my men? And to Aliam’s sons?” Fenith nodded. “Then don’t ask mercy for him,” the Duke growled.

“You’re a warrior,” said Fenith implacably. “A warrior, not a torturer. Don’t cheapen yourself.”

“Cheapen myself?” Paks had never seen the Duke so angry, not even the day he’d held Ferrault’s dying hand. “Sir paladin, you’re the one with divine guidance. You’re the one who can walk away when the battle’s over. I do the dirty work, paladin, and I would more than cheapen myself, I would beggar myself for the honor of my men.” All around the clearing the Duke’s soldiers were frozen, listening; the Halverics hardly knew where to look. Paks felt choked with horror. The Duke’s face was strange, utterly unlike himself. She was more frightened than she’d been facing the Honeycat with a broken sword.

She hardly knew it when she moved. The Duke’s head swung to her. She could feel the stares of the paladin and the Halverics.

“Ask her, paladin,” the Duke said more quietly. “Ask her, if she has forgotten her dead friends and how they died. Ask her if Siniava deserves a clean and easy death.”

“And then?” asked the paladin, equally quietly.

The Duke shrugged. “She captured him, you say. I’ll abide by her word on it.” The Halverics stirred, but said nothing.

Paks felt a wave of horror and panic even before the paladin asked, “Well, Paksenarrion—how should this man die?” She met the Duke’s angry gaze, and that of the Halverics: Aliam’s dark, enigmatic; his son’s bleak with remembered pain. The shades of her friends seemed to crowd the air—Saben, Canna—Tears choked her throat; she fought for speech.

“My lord, I have not—I cannot—forget those friends. And he had them killed, and hurt—I want him dead, my lord—” The Duke nodded, looking more like the Duke she knew, and she gathered courage. “But we don’t—we are not like him, my lord. That’s why we fought. Afterwards—but if it were me, my lord, I’d kill him now. But I have no right to say.” The Duke gave her a look she could not read.

“So be it. Aliam?”

The Halveric sighed. “She’s probably right, Kieri, gods blast it. I’ll abide. But I was looking forward to it.”

“It was my agreement. You can give the stroke.” The Duke heaved himself up from beside Siniava.

“My thanks.” Aliam Halveric drew his sword. “Cal, take that helmet off.” Cal wrestled the helmet from Siniava’s head, and tossed it aside. With a quick powerful stroke the Halveric buried his sword in Siniava’s neck. The watching soldiers cheered, and in a few minutes the armor and body were hacked into many pieces. Paks watched silently, thinking of the many bodies she’d seen in the past year.

It had happened so fast at the end. She could scarcely believe it was over, and turned away, still frightened and sick. She did not realize she had fallen until a hand touched her shoulder. She flinched, fighting nausea.

“Paks?” Vik sounded worried. She nodded, unable to speak. “What’s wrong? Were you hurt? Let me see.” Approaching torchlight glared through her closed eyelids. She felt his hands touching her, heard the hiss when he found the gash in her armor. Other hands were about her now, supporting her. Voices. Someone swearing as he worked at the fastenings of her corselet. She forced her eyes open, squinting against the torchlight. She saw someone walking away with Siniava’s head on a pole. Then the paladin’s face filled her vision.

“Paksenarrion. We think it is poison. Be still.” She felt an emptiness as others moved away. The paladin’s hands on her were hard. A glow seemed to rise around them. She felt a streak of pain across her chest, then a wave of comfort, palpable as a handful of clover. She took a breath and it came easy. Her vision cleared.

“My apologies,” said Fenith. “You moved so well I did not think to be sure you weren’t hurt. How is it now?”

Paks had not felt so well for days—even months, she thought. “I’m fine, sir; thank you.” She started to sit up. Around them was a circle of her friends, looking worried.

“Here,” said Vik. “Have a cloak.”

“I’m fine.” Paks took the cloak anyway. The paladin helped her stand. She felt steady and secure.

“Paksenarrion.” That was Aliam Halveric, watching her with a puzzled frown.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you know where Sunnot is? Did he go to bring us word?”

Memory of the mysterious cold and sleep came back to her. “No, my lord. I think he must have been overcome by the sleep—”

“Sleep! What was he—?”

A clamor of voices broke out, explaining.

“We were all asleep—”

“Magic or something—”

“—and Paks woke me up, and they—”

“Silence!” Paks had not noticed the Duke still standing nearby. “Vik, look for him. Paks, tell us about this sleep—how were you awake?”

“My lord, I don’t know. Sunnot and I had doubled the guards; we had just met and parted over there—” Paks pointed “—when it seemed cold suddenly. I remember a cold breeze, and wrapping my cloak. Then I woke, and I was on the ground, beside a tree—”

“What woke you?” asked the paladin. The Duke shot him a look.

“I don’t know exactly—it felt like a thorn pricking my chest—”