the road erupted in a thunder of hooves. Paks leaned forward, her horse fighting for its head with the excitement of running horses before and behind. She edged to the left of the road. She was sure the Clarts were riding up her backbone. She could see the end of the trees, the open slope down to the river, the river itself. They were out. She yanked her horse to the left, and a stream of rose-clad riders poured past. She fought her mount to a bouncing trot, waiting for the archers to pass. Scattered small groups of black and yellow dotted the meadow; a larger cluster lay against the gate of the fort. The fort itself—she squinted to see the banners flying from the lower. Green and gold, the Halverics, and below, the Duke’s maroon and white. From the walls came a high, musical bugling. She looked back at the column for Dorrin or Sejek, and swung her horse into formation as they plunged down the road to the bridge.
There were bodies now along the way, one and two together, some with lance wounds, others sprouting arrows. Ahead the battle clamored, as the Clarts ran headlong into the Honeycat’s massed force by the gate. Horses and men screamed. Dorrin yelled a halt. They dismounted, the left file taking the horses, and formed again, shields and swords ready. Around the southwest corner of the fort came a cavalry unit in black and yellow; it charged, swerving away when Vladi’s spearmen, still mounted, rode between. A section of Clart riders, still shrilling, broke from the melee in front of the gates and rode at the cavalry.
“Forward!” yelled Dorrin; Paks stepped forward with the rest. Directly ahead was a milling mass of horses: their own archers, shooting into the enemy. Dorrin and Sejek rode ahead, swearing at them. A path opened. Now Paks could see the pikemen, trying to form in their direction and move out from the wall. She heard the wicked thin flick of a crossbow bolt, and the man next to her stumbled. His shield partner moved over and closed in.
Now she could see the faces under the strange helmets: pale or dark, they looked the same to her with their teeth gleaming. She heard above the roar another bugle call from the gate tower, and shrill voices from the wall. She saw stones fall, aimed at the enemy. Then they were too close to see anything but the faces and weapons and bodies in front of them.
“Remember your strokes!” yelled Sergeant Vossik. “Shieldwork! Shieldwork. Get under those pikes.” Paks watched the pikemen thrust and jab; the chopping stroke that made the broad blade so effective against horsemen was no good once you were inside it. They couldn’t jab and chop at the same time.
She thought of Canna and Saben, and felt a wash of anger erase the last nervousness. I’m going to kill you, she thought as her rank reached the pikes. She ducked under a pike to slash at the enemy. One in the second rank chopped at her; she dodged without thinking and darted between the front pikes while he was still off balance. Her sword almost took his head off. She felt without looking that her companions followed her example, felt the first quiver of yielding as the pikemen realized that these swordsmen were not held off by the bitter tips of their weapons.
A terrible crashing and booming from the gate, and a roar of “Halveric! Halveric! The Duke! The Duke!” The defenders had come out. Paks could not see them, but she could feel, as if it were her own body, the shudder that ran through the enemy ranks. The swordsmen pressed forward in response. Suddenly the enemy stiffened again, and began to fight harder. Paks felt a give, a weakening, on her own left flank. Something had happened there; she could not see what. She fought on; it didn’t matter, she was going to kill these scum until she died. She felt the pressure shifting her to the right, foot by foot, cramming the leftward files against her, and her against those to her right. Again. Another bellow added to the din. She could just distinguish the deep chant of Vladi’s spears, somewhere to the left. The pressure against her eased; again she was able to drive forward. The pikemen began to look aside. Through their ranks she could see Halveric green near the gate.
“Now!” bellowed Vossik. “Now! They’re breaking. Hit them!” With an answering roar, Paks and the others found they could move faster, swing harder. The pikes began to melt away. Some were dropped. A few of the soldiers turned to flee. Paks drove forward. Now more dropped their pikes; they were in among the crossbowmen, who had no time to reload and shoot. Many of these had drawn short curved swords, but they were no match for the angry swordsmen of the Duke. Those who did not break and run were killed.
They were through. The little group of Halverics and Phelani in front of the gate met Paks and the others with hugs as they broke through the last of the pikes. Paks looked anxiously for her friends, but Vossik and Kalek were yelling at them.
“No talking now, you fools! Reform! Come on, there’s still a battle going on!” Paks tore her eyes away from the few Phelani and finally obeyed the sergeants.
The fleeing enemy had turned south, away from Vladi’s spears. Now the Clarts had cut them off. Vossik called his cohort away from that easy bait to a block of pikes still intact, near the northwest corner of the fort. These had engaged Vladi’s spears on one side, but were holding together. They fought desperately, seeing they would receive no quarter. Paks was breathless and aching all over when the last ones fell. She looked around. Nothing remained of the enemy but crumpled bodies piled in rows, and scattered across the open ground between the fort and the river. The Clarts, reunited, were riding around the perimeter of the open ground—almost to the brambles, Paks noticed.
Paks wiped her sword on the dry grass of the meadow, but the blood on it had hardened. She started toward the river, limping slightly and noticing the limp before the pain that caused it. When she thought, she could recall a pike-butt slamming into her leg. Her ribs hurt, too. She pulled a handful of grass before stepping down the rocks to the water’s edge to dip it in the icy flow and scour her sword. She cupped a handful and drank. When she stood, the others were already stripping the enemy bodies and hauling them to a pile. Paks sheathed her sword and walked toward the gate. She could see the Duke’s horse just inside. Vossik yelled something at her, but she shook her head and pointed inside. She didn’t want to be part of that, not this time.
Inside the fort, no one had much to say. Vik was alive, hobbling toward her on bandaged legs. When they met, he hugged her fiercely.
“Was it you?” he asked.
“Yes.” Paks found her eyes filling with tears. She knew his next question.
“Saben? Canna?” She shook her head, tasting salt, unable to answer. She could not say she had left them, that no one knew where they were, if they were alive. Vik hugged her again. “At least you made it—I don’t know how. By all the gods, Paks, it did me good to look down and see you marching up from the bridge. We were sure you’d been killed in the woods. Pernoth—he’s one of the Halverics—thought he’d seen you three in the brambles just when the trouble started, but nothing after that. You’ll have some tales to tell, when we get the chance. But you’ll want to see who’s left, and the Duke told us to gather in the main courtyard.”
Together they limped across the outer court. Vik told her how many had been inside, and how many were left; about the two abortive attempts to break the siege and send word south. The Halverics, he said, had accepted Ferrault as commander after their captain was killed. Within minutes, the Phelani were armed, and together they withstood the shock of the Honeycat’s assault.
“It’s a good thing he had only scaling ladders, though,” said Vik. “They outnumbered us, but couldn’t get enough of them up the walls at once.”
“What about water?”
“It rained the day after they came. That helped; it got slippery down below. And it made his fire-arrows useless. And the next day—that’s when he pulled out. We were collecting it in everything we could find. Then several days later it rained again for a day and a half.”
As they came into the main court, Paks saw that almost everyone there was from her own cohort—perhaps twenty. She glanced at Vik. He nodded. As they came to speak to her, she realized that every one was bandaged somewhere.
“I hear you’re the hero of this tale,” said Rauf, a twenty-year veteran.
Paks blushed. “Not me. Canna and Saben—I’d never have made it without them.” He didn’t ask about them, but went on.
“But you did. Heh, you’ll be working up to sergeant at this rate. We’ll be calling you ’Lucky Paks,’ or ’Paks Longlegs.’” Rauf displayed his wide, gap-toothed grin. Paks could think of nothing to answer; she felt a great desire to fall down and sleep somewhere warm. Hands patted her back and shoulders as they all came together for a few moments.
“Paks!” It was the youngest squire’s shrill call. She looked and saw him beckon from the door to the keep. “The Duke wants you.” She pushed herself away from her friends, and limped stiffly toward the door. “Are you hurt?” asked the squire, frowning.
She shook her head. “No. Not bad, anyway. Just stiff.” The squire was younger than she had been when she
