Sheepfarmer's Dauther

“—what they thought they’d get out of it—”

“—and coffin wood—”

“—forward to Valdaire, too, but we can’t spare another—”

Paks sank into unconsciousness.

Her next waking was a confused struggle through dark corridors with shadowy opponents who faded away as she came near. Far ahead was a blur of light and a clamor of sound; she came to it in bursts of random motion. Finally her vision cleared. She was lying on the ground under a tree. The surgeon knelt by her injured leg, shaking his head.

“—don’t think I can do more, my lord,” he was saying. “Too much blood loss, and this additional bruising —”

Paks felt a cold twinge of fear. Was that her leg about which he had no hope?

“Very well,” said a voice from above and behind her. “We’ll try a healing. Master Vetrifuge?”

“At once, my lord.” A gray-bearded man in black and green robes stooped beside the surgeon and laid his hands on Paks’s leg. A warming tingle ran from his touch through the wound; it did not hurt. The surgeon bent to look.

“That’s better.” He looked at her face and found her watching. “She’s awake, my lord. We might try the potion.”

“Go ahead,” said the voice behind her. The surgeon took a small flask from his robes and brought it to Paks. He slipped an arm behind her shoulders and lifted her head until she could drink.

The lip of the flask was icy cold, and the two swallows of liquid in it burned her throat, but gave her the same warming tingle as Vetrifuge’s hands. Her leg did not hurt any more, nor the bruises where she’d hit the footboard. Her nausea had gone too. The surgeon’s face, watching her, was clear in every line; she could see the dust on his eyelashes. He turned to look at her leg.

“Ah—that’s more like it. Rest and food will be enough now. Thank you, Master Vetrifuge.”

“My pleasure, Master Simmitt,” said Vetrifuge, with a mocking smile. “Glad to know there are yet a few things in which wizardry can aid the science of surgery.” The surgeon reddened, and seemed to swell in the neck.

“Others need your skills,” said the third voice, with enough bite that both men froze an instant.

“Yes, my lord; right away.”

As Paks watched them stand and walk off, a mail-clad figure moved to her side and sat. When she looked back, she was face to face with the Duke himself. Paks gulped. This close she could see a few silver hairs in his fox-red beard; his nose was sunburnt and peeling; his eyes were the gray of sword-steel, just barely blue. Her eyes dropped. His cloak was fastened with a silver medallion; it was dusty. His gloves were gray kid, sweat-stained.

“First,” said the Duke, “you need to drink this, and eat a little; then I want to know what happened. What you saw.” Paks dragged her eyes back up and saw once more the gold-tooled wineskin she’d seen the night of the battle. “Try to sit up.” Paks found she was weak, but able to rise on one elbow. She took the wineskin. “It’s watered,” said the Duke. “It shouldn’t knock you out. Here—have some bread.” He bit the end off a loaf and handed her the rest. Paks tore off a hunk and took a swallow of wine. She wondered how long she’d slept, and when the Duke had arrived, but under his eye she ate as he directed.

“Now,” said the Duke, when she had choked down most of the bread. “Take your time, but tell it all, from the beginning. I want to know everything you can remember about the attack.”

Paks blushed. “Well—sir—my lord—I was asleep. Then someone screamed, and the wagon bumped. I saw Vanza jumping out the back, and out the front were riders in red, with a black wolf’s head on the front—”

“On the back as well?”

Paks thought a moment. “No—I don’t think so. Just the front. Then I saw our driver’d been shot, so I tried to get the reins. The mules were scared. Varne helped me pull the driver into the wagon. One of the attackers tried to grab the lead mules’ reins, but they swerved away—”

“Were you driving, or—”

“Yes, sir, I was—but I wasn’t sure which reins were which. It seemed like a lot—I jerked the ones that were tightest, and the mules veered—”

“Go on.”

“Then the rider turned and came at the wagon, so I pulled the other reins, and the wagon ran into his horse—”

“What did he look like?”

“The rider? He had a mask on.”

“A mask? Not a—wait—have you seen anything but open helmets? Have you seen a knight’s helmet, with the visor down?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Stammel showed us that in training. This was different. He had an open helmet over chain mail, but a mask over his face—it was some kind of cloth; I saw it ripple.”

“Aha!” The Duke slammed his fist onto his thigh. “Very good. Go on—what else?”

“He seemed heavy—broad in the shoulders. Taller than Sergeant Stammel, I think. He had something on the shoulder of his tunic that glittered. The horse had no barding, but it was a war saddle, and the blanket was black with a red stripe.

“What color was the horse?”

“Light brown, dappled, with a pale mane and tail. All the others were dark, but for the spotted one.”

“Spotted?”

“Yes, sir. One was black and white spotted. Now that I think of it, that one was smaller—we went by it in the trees.”

“What sort of rider on the spotted one?”

Paks shook her head. “I’m sorry—I don’t remember—”

“But you’re sure of the horses?”

“Yes, sir—though I don’t know that I saw all of them. We were moving too fast, and I was trying to steer around things, but I didn’t see the stream until we were almost into it. So I broke the wagon—” Paks faltered, remembering Stammel’s lectures on damaged equipment.

“Hmm.” The Duke’s eyes crinkled. “Are you an experienced teamster?”

Paks looked down. “No, sir—my lord.”

“That’s all right then. Not your equipment.” Paks looked up, still worried. “Tir’s bones, girl, that wagon’s the least of my concerns. I’ve lost fighters here. A wagon’s nothing—you did well. But I want to know who—” he bounced his fist on his thigh for emphasis, “—and why and how anyone would attack a caravan of wounded. No treasure—no ranking prisoners to ransom—and they must know this’ll bring my Company down on them. It’s costing me now, but it’ll cost them—” his voice trailed off, and Paks almost flinched at the look in his eyes. He glanced back at her and half-smiled. “You were just promoted, right? Paks, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, Paks, you’ve had the most expensive healing I hope you’ll ever need, and you should be ready to fight in a day or so. The next time you see those red tunics, you’ll have a weapon in hand. I’ll expect you to fight as well as you did in your first battle.” The Duke stood. “No—don’t try to get up yet. The surgeon will clear you for that.” Paks watched as he strode away, cloak swirling around his tall boots.

Paks looked at her leg, no longer wound in bandages. A red scar showed the line of the wound, but it looked nothing like the deep gash it had been. She wondered what they had done—how it had healed so fast—and why they hadn’t healed it that way in the first place. She looked around. The makeshift camp was bigger than she’d supposed. Smoke rose from a fire near the stream crossing; loud clangs revealed a smith at work. Across the clearing, the Duke was talking to a short man in plate armor. They headed for a tent, maroon and white striped. A man in green livery led a big warhorse still lathered in sweat. Another led three lighter mounts. On the track away from the stream, the remains of the caravan clogged the way. Two burnt-out wagons, one unburned, but missing a wheel, dead mules. As she watched, a group of soldiers dragged a mule into the forest. She wondered what had happened to the other wounded; she didn’t see any of them. Had they all died? Callexon hadn’t looked that bad— She saw the surgeon and Vanza approaching.

“How do you feel?” asked the surgeon.

“Fine,” said Paks. “Can I get up?”