Arcolin had been, where camp discipline was concerned. The Duke’s surgeons frowned constantly, and swept through the camp inspecting everything.
Muggy midsummer faded to the blinding heat and cloudless days that ripened grain for harvest. Paks thought longingly of the cool north. Food began to taste odd; she thought it was the terrible smell from the ditch under the wall. Dzerdya’s orders to get ready for a long march were more than welcome.
“Where?” asked Paks.
Dzerdya glared at her, then answered. “North. Sorellin Council wants us to garrison a frontier fort, and let the militia up there come home for harvest. They’ve had a big crop this year. It’s up in the foothills.” She smiled, then, at Paks. “Hurry; we march tomorrow.”
“Is everyone going?”
“No; it doesn’t take the whole company to garrison one little fort. We could probably do it with half of you— it’s only a matter of taking tolls if anyone crosses Dwarfwatch—but no one will, this late.”
They started before dawn the next day, taking a road that led directly north, rather than northwest to Sorellin. After a day’s march through the forest near Rotengre, they entered a rolling land of farms and woodlots, checkered with hedges. They crossed a small river on a stone bridge, and then the main caravan route, the same broad stone way they had been on before. Ferrault, reverting to his usual cheerful demeanor, pointed out the carved stone sign for Sorellin, shears in a circle on top of a pillar. The road they followed swung a little right. With every day, the ground rose in gentle waves. They saw more forest and less farmland. They crossed another road, not so well-made: the north route to Merinath, Ferrault said. The hills ahead were higher, blocking their view of the mountains they’d hoped to see. From that last crossroad to the fort was just under a day’s march, a day pleasantly cool after lowland heat, through thick forest and over low ridges.
Just south of the fort they cleared the forest and saw mountains looming north, much higher than near Valdaire. Snow streaked their peaks. Dwarfwatch itself was a well-built stone keep with comfortable quarters around the inner court, and roomy stable in the outer. Its only fault was its lack of water; a rapid mountain stream rushed nearby, but inside the walls was neither spring nor well. Beyond the fort, a high and difficult track crossed the mountains, but as they had been told, no one used it. All the traffic they saw was grain wagons rolling up the road from Sorellin to collect harvest from the foothill farms, and rolling south again. Paks found it a delightful interlude: cool air, clean water, fresh food from nearby farmers happy to get hard cash for their produce. South of the river, backed up on the forest, Paks discovered an enormous tangle of brambles, loaded with berries just turning color. She kept a close watch on them.
One hazy afternoon, she and Saben were taking in the washing they’d spread on rocks near the river. She heard a yell from the wall behind them, then the staccato horn signal of alarm. They snatched their clothes and scrambled up the rocky bank, racing for the gate around the corner. Paks saw others running too. She slowed for a moment to look back to the road. The front rank of a column marched out of the forest.
“Paks! Come on!” As Paks darted under the gate tower, Dzerdya caught her arm and swung her around. “Don’t
The barracks was noisy chaos as all the off-duty people scrambled to arm. Still fumbling at the buckles of her corselet, Paks ran back out and puffed up the stairs to the wall. Whatever and whoever the approaching force was, it clearly outnumbered them. She counted three units of foot, each the size of their own cohort, and a troop of cavalry. And—
“What’s that?” she asked a veteran.
He grimaced. “Siege engines. Now we’re in for it.”
“But—who’d be sieging us?” He didn’t answer, and Paks moved along the wall to her assigned position near the gate tower. The foremost troops were almost at the river; they wore dark green tunics. It reminded her of some she’d seen in Valdaire during the winter.
“Halverics,” breathed Donag beside her. “Now what’d they be doing up here? Could the Duke have sent—no, surely not.” Paks glanced at him; he seemed more puzzled than worried. She relaxed, then jumped as the portcullis clanged the last few inches into the stone. Donag gave her a wry grin. “We’re in a pickle now. I won’t hide it,” he said. “If Halveric Company wants this fort, they’ll get it in the end. Might be better if the captain decides to yield.”
Paks stared at him, open-mouthed. “But we can’t. It’s—”
Donag nodded at the siege engines rolling down the slope toward the bridge. “We will sooner or later. We can hold it a week, maybe, if we’ve water enough. But we’d take heavy losses, and they’d break through in the end. Tir’s guts, I wasn’t looking forward to being a captive again.”
Paks choked down what she wanted to say, and peered over the wall. A rider in green waved a truce flag, she saw Captain Ferrault’s helmet slip from the postern beside the main gate, then his foreshortened form moving forward to meet the rider. She could not hear what they said. She could not have heard it if they’d been beside her; blood pounded in her ears. She watched as they walked back. Her stomach churned. She was sure they could hold —but when she tried to think how long, she thought of the water barrels. How long would it take the Duke to come north, and how could they send word? Her mouth felt dry already.
Even so, she was not resigned when Bosk brought his word. Nor was she the only one who cried, “But we can’t quit—just quit. We can’t.”
“Oh yes, you can.” His face looked more wrinkled than before. “We follow orders, remember? When the captain tells us to lay down our arms, we do it. And I don’t want any nonsense, either, from any of you.”
“Arcolin wouldn’t have—” began someone.
“Enough! Arcolin’s not here; Ferrault is. And for my money, Arcolin would have done the same.”
“But—what will happen?” Vik sounded as worried as Paks felt.
“They’ll collect our weapons, and assign us an area. Usually it takes a day or so to list all the equipment and men, and then they’ll send a ransom request to the Duke. Then a few weeks to settle terms and collect the ransom, and we’ll be released. Usually less than a month, altogether.”
“But what do we
“What we’re told—that’s what prisoners always do. Halveric Company is one of the best; we’ve fought beside them, now and again. They won’t make it hard if we don’t. I expect they’ll pass their commands down through Captain Ferrault; it’ll be much as usual. No drill, of course, and no weapons practice. We may work the harvest, or some such.”
“I’m no farmer,” said Canna, tossing her head. “I’m a fighter.”
Bosk glared at her. “You’re about to be a prisoner. Unless you want me on your back as well as those—” he nodded at the wall, “you’ll do what you’re told. You worked on the road during training.”
“Aye, but—”
“No buts. There’s rules for this, the same as for everything else. We agree to behave until we’re ransomed; if there’s any trouble, it’s handled by the officers. Don’t talk about the Company to them—mostly they won’t ask; it’s bad manners. And don’t ask about theirs. No one’s to run off, or anything of that sort. No brawling, of course. No bedding with them; it lacks dignity. I expect this will be the usual terms, which means they won’t confiscate your belongings except weapons, but I’d keep any jewels out of sight just in case.”
Paks could tell that most of the cohort was as miserable as she was, coming out the gate onto the fields by the river. They had been allowed to march out wearing their swords, but the familiar weight at her side did not make up for the knowledge that she would draw it only to give it up. She stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the green-clad troops lining the road. At last they halted between two cohorts. She let her gaze wander to Captain Ferrault, who was met by a dark bearded man in plate mail. After a few words, the captain turned to them, his usually cheerful face expressionless.
“Sergeant Dzerdya. Disarm the troops.”
“Sir.” Dzerdya turned. Paks was glad it was not Stammel; she could not believe Stammel would do it. “Draw
