berries, when they heard a signal from the Halverics’ bugler. They stopped to listen.
“Not for us, whatever it is,” said Canna. The signal for their return was four long notes, three rising and the fourth the same as the first.
“Could be a messenger from the Duke,” suggested Saben, standing to peer through the tops of the brambles. They were south of the fort, even with the southeast corner of the wall; they could see only a short stretch of the road leading west from the gate.
“I think it’s too soon,” said Canna.
“What can you see?” asked Paks. She was pouring berries from her pail into a sack they’d brought along.
“Not much. But—wait—do you hear that?”
They did not so much hear it as feel it, a growing rumbling along the road to the south. They could see nothing, because of the angle of the woods, but as Paks stood, she could see sentries moving on the fort walls. Other work details, nearer the fort, were turning to look back down the road. The sound began to separate into rhythmic components that sounded like horses and marching feet. A deep-toned horn called from somewhere on the road. The Halverics’ bugle rang out again. A horseman came in sight around the angle of wall, riding out from the fort; Paks could see something glittering on his shoulders, and his green cloak. She thought it was the captain’s horse, and told Canna.
“Maybe we should go back,” said Canna. She bounced up and down on tiptoe, trying to see over the brambles. Paks and Saben could just see through the upper thorny branches.
“Let’s wait,” said Paks. “Whatever it is—it’s odd. And they haven’t called us. Look, Saben; isn’t that—”
“Troops. Yes. Lots.” Out of the trees came a column of men-at-arms behind twenty or so horsemen. “Not the Duke,” added Saben. “Whose colors are those, I wonder?”
“What colors?” demanded Canna.
“Just a second; the wind’s wrong. Yellow field—something on it in black, but I can’t tell what it is. The horsemen—some in chain—one in plate—yellow surcoats. Tir’s bones, those men are carrying pikes!”
“Pikes? No one around here uses pikes,” said Canna. “Yellow and black, and uses pikes—I can’t think of anyone within range—”
“He’s right, though,” said Paks. “It is pikes; I can see the heads glinting in the sun.”
“What are they doing?” Canna had given up the attempt to see for herself.
“Marching—no, they’re halting. Whoever it was that came from the fort is riding up to the head of the column—I’m sure it’s the captain. Let’s see—” For a few moments, Paks fell silent as she watched. Nothing moved. “I guess he’s talking to someone—passing something across or taking—Now he’s backing up. I wonder what—No!” She turned to Saben. “He’s down. He fell off his horse. Saben, look!”
“I see,” said Saben grimly. “I don’t like this.”
“Tell me,” said Canna, “before I—”
“I think they shot him; they’re carrying crossbows. They’re moving off the road—going after the work details—”
“But they’re unarmed!”
“But they are—and look at the rest—they’re marching on the fort. It must be an enemy—”
“But whose?” Canna’s face wrinkled in a puzzled frown.
“I don’t know. Halveric’s, I suppose, but—Oh, no! They’re—the devils! The murdering devils—” Paks started to thrash forward through the brambles.
“Paks, get down!” Saben wrestled Paks to the ground. “Be quiet, you fool! It won’t help for us to go out there.”
“What happened? What is it?” Canna tried again to see.
“Some of our men tried to run. They’re down—arrows, I’d guess.”
“By St. Gird! We have to—”
“Not you too! Think, Canna! Paks, listen. Be still. What can we do with three daggers? We don’t have any armor—they’d shoot us down before we could kill one of them.”
“You’re right,” said Paks reluctantly. “Let me up, Saben; I won’t do anything. But we can’t just—just run away and let them be killed.”
“What about the fort?” asked Canna quietly. “Surely the Halverics will come out—”
“Not if they’re smart,” said Paks. “That’s a big force; I don’t think we’ve seen all of it yet. They’ll be lucky if they can hold against assault, let alone mount a sally.” Even as she spoke, they heard the bugler again, and the crash of the portcullis rang across the river meadows.
“We can’t get back in now,” said Saben. “Even supposing we wanted to.”
Paks started to look toward the fort, to see how it was manned, but drew back sharply. “They’re closer,” she said softly. “On this side of the river.” They all flattened under the brambles as best they could. They could hear the squeak and rattle of harness as armed men came nearer, but they could see nothing. Paks hoped this was true for the men outside as well.
“Ho, there!” cried a harsh voice. “We see you. Come out or be shot!” They did not move. Paks heard a rustling crackle as an arrow went into the bramble some yards away. “Come on out, cowards!” cried another voice. Another arrow and another, closer. Suddenly an arrow pinned Canna’s shoulder. She made no sound. The rattle of arrows passed on, was farther away with each shot. “By the Master, I told you nothing was up here,” said the second voice, complaining.
“Take it up with the lord, then: it was his orders,” growled the other.
“Nay—I’ll do what he says—only those prisoners are more to my liking—did you see that redheaded girl?” The voices, still bickering, moved away to their right. Still they lay unmoving, without a sound. Paks met Saben’s eyes; his face was white with anger. She looked over at Canna. Canna blinked back tears; her jaw was clenched. They waited. A blue fly buzzed around the spilled berries, then settled on Canna’s shoulder. They heard shouts from the fort, from the men below. A scream. More shouts. Paks glanced at Saben again, and raised an eyebrow. He nodded.
With great care they both moved to Canna’s side. The arrow did not seem to be in very deep. “Hope it’s no worse than it looks,” murmured Saben. Paks offered Canna a wad of her cloak to bite, then steadied the shaft as Saben cut her tunic away from it. The long barbs of the head were still outside her skin; the head itself seemed to be lodged in the big muscle between neck and shoulder. When Paks pulled, the head slid out easily, followed by a rush of blood. It was both longer and wider than those used by their own Company. Saben clapped his hand over the wound, squeezing it shut. Paks emptied the berries from the sack, and looked doubtfully at the coarse fabric.
Canna spat out the wad of cloth in her mouth. “Go ahead—it’ll do.”
“Not too rough?”
“No. Go on.”
“Wait a bit,” murmured Saben. “Let the bleeding slow. We can’t move now anyway.” Paks folded the sack into a thick pad after cutting a strip for a tie with her dagger. They heard more confusion of noise from the fort, but nothing closer. Paks wondered how long they should wait before moving. The attackers might send scouts through the woods to pick up stragglers. She spent the time packing her belt pouch with fallen berries. Finally Saben let up the pressure he’d kept on Canna’s shoulder. The wound gaped, but the bleeding had nearly stopped.
“Stopped it,” he said. “Let’s have that pad, Paks.”
“It’ll start when I move,” said Canna ruefully. “By St. Gird, it was plain bad luck being hit at all, when they couldn’t see.” She winced as Paks pressed the folded sack onto her shoulder. “Eh—how are you—”
“Like this,” said Paks softly. “Keep pressure on it, and help her sit, Saben.” With Saben’s help, Canna rolled to her side and sat up. Her face was pale. “Now,” said Paks. “Under this arm, and up and around—and again here. There. Don’t move that arm if you can help it.”
“Good job. Thanks.”
“Now what will we do?” asked Saben.
“We’ve got to get away from here before they make a proper search,” said Canna. “And then we’ve got to get to the Duke.”
Paks nodded. “I agree. But Rotengre’s a long way—do you know how to find it?”
“I think so,” said Canna. “As long as I’m with you—but what about you?”
