“No,” said Stammel behind them. “It’s not fair. There’s luck in it too. You have to accept that, to stay a soldier. Skill and courage go just so far, and then there’s luck.”
“Or the gods’ will,” said Saben.
Stammel shrugged. “You can call it that—it may be that. From what I’ve seen it could be either.”
Paks was still dissatisfied. “But it still seems to me that the better ones should have more chance—”
“Paks, think. The better ones do have more chance—but no guarantee. Look how close you came to being killed. Three of those we lost were among the least skilled. Ilvin stood up on the wall even after Bosk yelled a warning about crossbows: that was stupid. Coben—I know he was your friend, and he was a good, honest, middling fighter—but he never learned to handle himself against a left-handed opponent, and a left-handed man knocked his shield aside and spitted him. Suli, too, was not as skillful as any of you four—just not fast enough.”
“But she was as fast as I am.”
“She was back north. Paks, you’ve been training hard; you’ve improved. You hadn’t gone against her lately because Hofrin knew it wouldn’t be any work for you. I know it’s hard losing friends. It always hurts. If you stay in, you’ll have that hurt every year—I have. D’you think I like seeing youngsters I trained get hurt and die? I won’t try to tell you how to take it; you’ll have to figure out your own way. The Company mourning, when we get back to Valdaire, will help. But wishing it were fair is no help at all.” Stammel walked away, and left them to their thoughts.
For a long time they were silent.
There was more to come. The other two cohorts met them two days out of Valdaire, and they heard the tale of the campaign against the Wolf Prince.
“It was bad enough,” said Barranyi, with a toss of her black hair. “We marched for days through the woods west of here, up into the foothills, before we came to his stronghold.”
“Don’t forget what happened in the woods that night, Barra,” added Natzlin. She had a bandage around her left arm, and a healing gash on her forehead.
“Oh—yes. One night—I think it was the second—during the first watch, we heard a wild screeching and flights of arrows started falling in the camp. Red Jori—you don’t know him; he’s a seven-year veteran in our cohort—he was hit in the leg. Others were hit too. We couldn’t see anyone, and we were rushing around, with the sergeants bellowing and swearing—and then the Duke himself yelled something I didn’t understand. A voice answered him from the trees, and they talked back and forth a bit—still in words I didn’t know—and then the Duke told us that it was all over. And I still don’t know what that was about, and no one will say!” Barranyi shook her head, glowering.
“Never mind, Barra; tell them the rest of it.” Natzlin, as usual, could soothe Barra out of her sulks.
“And how many others were with you?” asked Paks. “We heard other companies were sending troops —”
Barra nodded briskly. “Yes, they did. And that was exciting, meeting those others. Let me think. Reim Company sent about twenty—they’re small, Dorrin says. Halveric Company sent a whole cohort of foot, and twenty horse. Golden Company sent—what was it, Natz?”
“Near a cohort, I think.”
“And we had some boundsmen from Valdaire; the city’s angry that its neutrality was breached, or that’s what I heard. Anyway, when we got near the Wolf Prince, we were attacked by horsemen, again and again. If we hadn’t had horsemen with us, we’d have been in worse trouble. And Paks, I did see a black and white spotted horse off to one side; I’d bet that was one of his captains.”
Paks nodded. “Could have been. Was it smaller than the others?”
“Yes. Then we got to the stronghold itself. Much better designed than those forts we’d been holding. If the Wolf Prince had pulled all his men inside, I don’t think we could have broken the place.”
“Never regret the stupidity of enemies,” said Vik, who had been polishing his helmet as he listened. “There’s no gift to compare with it.”
Barra glared at him. “I wasn’t suggesting that—”
“Please tell us the rest, Barra,” said Arne quickly, “before we die of curiosity.”
Barra shrugged, gave Vik a last hard look, and went on. “We had a battle outside the walls, that’s all. Fought most of the day. It was hard fighting, but finally they broke and ran for the gate. We got most of ’em outside, but enough were left to make the assault a real fight too. Black Sim, of Cracolnya’s, was trying to set a ladder when he was crushed by a rock they dropped. Oh—and Paks, Corporal Stephi was killed too. It was on the wall, after we’d gotten up. Two of our men were down, and he was trying to protect them from a rush; he got a spear through the body.” Barranyi looked closely at Paks, who felt a strange mixture of relief and regret.
“And then,” said Natzlin, picking up the tale, “we fairly took the place apart. It was ugly. Ringbolts set into the courtyard and on the walls—with that spacing we didn’t have to guess what for. Dungeons: nasty, stinking, wet holes—like a nightmare. Bones—human bones. And the servants—” Her voice faded away as her eyes clouded.
Barra nodded soberly. “They were pitiful. Not one without old scars and new welts. So we killed ’em all —”
“The servants?” asked Arne, startled.
“No, of course not. The Wolf Prince and his men. And the Duke searched his rooms for a reason why he’d attack our caravan and the others—I hear he found nothing. And then we came back, and that’s all.” She stood abruptly and stretched. Natzlin rose more slowly, tucking back a strand of brown hair. “We’d better go back,” said Barra. “We’re on watch tonight.” The two walked toward their own cohort.
“By all the gods, that one’s prickly,” said Vik. No one had to ask what he meant.
“She’s a good fighter,” said Paks, temporizing.
Vik snorted. “Paks, sometimes I think you’d forgive the Webmistress herself if she was a good fighter. That’s not all that matters.”
Paks felt her face growing hot. “I know that, Vik. But being touchy isn’t all that matters, either—Barra’s good at heart.”
Vik gave her a long green stare, one of the few serious looks she’d had from him. “Paks, for once let a city- born runt give you a bit of advice. It’s possible to like bad people, but liking them doesn’t make them good.” Paks opened her mouth, but he held up his hand and went on. “I’m not saying Barra’s bad, exactly, but I am saying you think she’s good at heart because you like her and want her to be good at heart. It doesn’t work that way. If you don’t learn to see people as they are, you’ll get hurt someday.”
Paks felt confused and angry. “I don’t understand. It certainly sounds like you’re saying Barra’s bad, and she’s not.”
“No. I’m not really talking about Barra, but about you. Paks, my father was a harper. Harpers have to learn about people, or they can’t sing with power. Even though I can’t harp or sing, I learned a lot about people from him. They’re complicated—being good at one thing doesn’t make them good at something else: a good fighter can be treacherous, or cruel, or a liar. Do you see that?”
“Yes, but Barra—”
“I’m not talking about Barra. Listen to me. You’ve told us you always wanted to be a fighter, a fighter for good, right?” He waited for her nod before going on. “Well, you’re so intent on that—you don’t see other things. You see people as good or bad, not in between; as fighters or not, and not in between. And since you’re basically a good person, you see most people as good—but most people, Paks, are in between—both as fighters, and as good or bad. And they’re different. If you don’t learn to see them straight—just as you’d look at a sword, knowing all swords aren’t alike—you’ll depend on them for what they don’t have.”
Paks nodded slowly. “I think I see. But what about Barra?”
Vik threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Paks! Barra’s all right; she’s just prickly, as I said.” Arne and Saben were both chuckling, and Paks finally grinned, still unsure of the joke.
Their winter quarters in Valdaire felt like home now. Familiar buildings, familiar people. No longer novices, after their first campaign year, the newest members of the Company found themselves accepted by the veterans. Among these friends, the Company mourning ceremony honoring all who had died that year brought more comfort than Paks expected. Canna was now an “old veteran,” being past her required two years of service, but, like most such, she elected to stay in.
Their winter routine was much like training: drill, weapons practice, barracks chores. Paks spent hours in the smithy and armory, fetching and carrying, and doing what the unskilled could do. Some work always awaited them.
