“It’s not lost time, exactly,” said Saben. “Now we know how many of them, and what equipment—”
“Too many,” said Canna. “Over three hundred foot and a hundred horse. If the whole Company was here, it wouldn’t be an easy fight.”
“At least he’s obvious,” said Paks. “A force that size will be seen—someone’s bound to tell the Duke even if we fail.”
“Don’t forget those farmers—he may be killing everyone he sees.”
“Come on, Canna; he can’t kill everyone on the road between here and Rotengre. Traders come this way, and—”
“Saben, from what I’ve heard of him, he’ll kill anyone who stands in his way.”
They had turned east across the fields, and come to the caravan road well beyond the patrol’s position. Besides, they had seen the riders turn back. Even so, they took no chances. Canna scouted the road, and they crossed one by one, as before. The night was cold and clearer than the day had been; the stars gave just enough light for them to walk on open ground. They went on until they saw the fires of the encamped column.
“Here,” said Canna, stopping them in a little triangular wood. “This will do. Paks, how’s your side?”
Paks leaned against a tree. She felt that if she sat down she would never make it back up. “Stiff,” she said finally. “A night’s rest will help.”
Canna handed around a meager measure of the remaining meat and bread. They had eaten it almost before they tasted it. “It has to last,” said Canna. “I don’t know where we can get any more—we’ll do better spacing it out—” She did not sound convinced. Paks clenched her jaw to keep from asking for more. She knew Canna was right, but her belly disagreed. Saben gave a gusty sigh out of the darkness.
“My old grandmother used to tell me, when I wouldn’t stop begging for sweets on market day, that someday I’d want ’em worse than I did then, and because I’d begged I wouldn’t have any. What I don’t understand is how the food would be here now if I hadn’t begged then. Do you suppose there’s some magic—?”
Paks found herself chuckling. “Only if learning not to ask meant learning not to want. It’s an idea, though: things you want and don’t ask for coming when you need them.”
“I don’t think it works like that,” said Saben. “So much the worse. Canna, if we wait until the column has passed that village, can we go and buy food?”
“No. I expect Siniava will have spies there.”
“What a suspicious old crow,” grumbled Saben.
“If he weren’t, he wouldn’t be that powerful. I’ll take first watch tonight, Saben; you and Paks get to sleep.”
Paks was tired, but her side hurt so that she found it hard to get comfortable. She would have sworn the ground was covered with cobbles, yet Saben was snoring lightly in minutes. She tried rolling onto her back. Her legs stuck out into the cold. Her stomach growled loudly, and she found herself thinking of stew, and hot bread, and roast mutton—I’m as bad as Saben at the market, she thought. She turned on her left side. At last she fell asleep, to be wakened by Saben on a clear frosty dawn.
As they chewed their scant breakfast, trying to make it last, they watched the distant fields. The sun rose and glinted on the enemy helmets as they assembled. Thin streams of smoke from their fires rose straight into an unclouded sky, to bend southward above the trees. The column began to move. Suddenly a puff of blacker smoke billowed up, then another and another. In a minute they could see the red leaping flames.
“They’re torching the village,” said Canna. “I daresay they’ve killed the villagers, or taken them prisoner.” They watched as yet another billow of smoke stained the sky. Paks thought of the friendly folk who had waved at them on their way north.
“Why burn it?” she asked.
Canna shrugged and sighed. “I don’t know. To hide the murders as wildfire? Who can imagine what that filth would be thinking.”
As the tail of the column disappeared, they set off across the fields, angling toward the burning village. They could see the dry grass near the huts burning, flames spreading toward stubbled fields and woods beyond. A light breeze came with the morning, moving the fire south, a pall of smoke with it. Soon they were up with the smoke, paralleling the fire. The smoke set them coughing. Paks felt a stabbing pain when she coughed. She was uneasily aware of the flames creeping along the ground or rising in crackling leaps when they found more fuel than stubble. But the wind never strengthened nor shifted direction, and soon they had passed the fire by.
All that day they dodged and darted from hedge to hedge to thicket, keeping the column in distant view. As the day wore on, they worried more about farmers. They feared that Siniava had offered a rich reward for reports of stragglers. Paks moved more easily, despite continuing pain; by late afternoon what really mattered was the gnawing hole in her belly. They had scarcely spoken to each other all day, but she could see the same hunger on the others’ drawn faces.
Despite the clear sky, it was still colder; Paks dreaded the night to come. The column halted; the smoke of their watchfires stained the evening sky. Canna kept moving, and they edged past at a respectful distance. Paks wondered why, but she was too breathless to ask. At last Canna stopped, well beyond the head of the column, and explained her reasoning.
“We’re sure now where they’re going, and by what road,” she said. “Now’s the time to separate. We’ve found no food; if one takes all we have, that’s enough to make the Duke’s camp—I think three days’ travel. They’ll take at least five, with those wagons. But without food, all three of us can’t make it. The Duke must know—”
“But Canna, you said yesterday we should stay together,” said Saben. “One person could be stopped by anything. And what about food for the two left behind?”
“We’d find something,” said Canna.
Saben snorted. “You with an arrow wound, and Paks with a broken rib? I suppose you meant me to go?” Canna nodded, and Saben shook his head. “No. I won’t leave two wounded companions and take all the food—not if there’s any other way.”
“Why don’t we stay ahead tomorrow?” suggested Paks. “Maybe we’ll find something to eat—and if there’s a chance to stay together—”
“I suppose so,” said Canna, sighing. “I wish we dared have a fire; those redroots would be good.”
Paks felt her mouth water. “You ate raw eggs; why not raw redroots?”
“Tastes awful,” said Saben. “But it might fill the holes.”
They gnawed on the raw roots, bitter and dry, and ate a slice of bread each. Paks offered to take first watch, but the other two insisted that she sleep. By morning the ground was frozen, white hoarfrost over the stubble.
Chapter Seventeen
About midmorning, they were striding through a small wood when they startled a sounder of swine; the boar swung to face them with a wheezing snort. Paks froze. Beside her Canna and Saben were as still. The boar’s little eyes, set in wrinkled skin, were golden hazel; the bristles up its back were rusty brown. Paks watched as the pink nose twitched in their direction. One of the sows squealed. Two others minced away on nimble hooves. The boar whuffled, and swung its head to watch the rest of the pigs. Now they were all moving, drifting along a thread of path.
“Roast pig?” said Saben plaintively. The boar looked at him and grunted.
“Not with daggers,” said Paks, remembering the butchering at Amboi’s farm. The boar grunted again, backed a few steps, and swung to follow the others. Paks relaxed and took a deep breath. “I hope we don’t meet more of those,” she said.
“Right,” said Canna. “We’d have a—” she stopped abruptly as a boy dressed in rough shirt and trousers jogged into their view and stopped short. His eyes widened.
“Soldiers,” he breathed. He backed up a step, fumbling for his dagger.
“We won’t hurt you,” said Paks. “Don’t be afraid.”
He was poised to run. “Ye—ye’re a girl, an’t ye?”
Paks and Canna both grinned. Paks answered. “I am. Were those your swine?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why’d ye ask—ye’ll not take ’em, will ye?”
