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 out just 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?”
Donag just 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
“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 Arne 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 Arne. “I can’t keep my eyes shut an instant, I know.”
“The followers of Gird—” began Effa. Arne 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.
Chapter Ten
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
