the swirling dust she could see struggling figures—even the colors. Green, there—black and yellow—and more green. The tower loomed higher as they neared, its parapet above the dust, and Paks saw blue-clad archers.
The Duke put a light hunting horn to his lips and blew a rapid five-note signal. At once it was answered by a call that Paks recognized as Halveric; the battle surged toward them as the green-clad soldiers retreated. Their opponents roared in triumph—a sound that stopped abruptly as they saw behind the fleeing Halverics the solid ranks of Phelani. Another horn-call, and the Halverics slipped left. The enemy fighters crashed into the Phelan’s lines. Arcolin’s cohort, nearly in the center of the arc formed by Clarts, Phelani, and Halverics, took the brunt of that charge. Paks had no time for a last encouraging word to her recruits; she was tightly engaged.
Despite the hours of practice, Paks found the curved blade strokes of the enemy hard to counter. She took several minor cuts before killing her first opponent, and was just in time to help Keri with the one who had shattered his shield. She fought on, trying to keep an eye on her recruits when she could. The cohort had nearly halted under the enemy rush, but they had not faltered, and the front ranks still held a good line.
“Arcolin’s cohort! Drive ’em!” It was the Duke’s voice, from behind them; the cohort surged forward, flattening the arc as they came. The enemy softened, rolling left away from their pressure. Still the fighting raged; Paks had no time to wonder how the battle was going. Jenits went down in front of her; she lunged across him to strike the enemy who was about to kill him. Jenits screamed as she stepped on his arm; she shifted a pace and hoped someone would get him away safely. His attacker fought wildly; she finally dropped him with a thrust to the neck. She spared a glance for Jenits and didn’t see him. Good, she thought, and thrust at the oncoming soldiers.
The enemy in front melted away, though by the noise the left flank was busy enough. Paks looked around and spotted Volya and Keri. Volya was bleeding from a bad slash to her right arm; Keri’s shield had fallen apart, though he still clutched the grip.
“Keri! Pick up a good shield—drop that—” He looked at her in surprise, then at his arm; she watched until he stripped off the broken one and picked up an enemy shield nearby. “Volya, get that wound tied up—drop back—one of the sergeants will tell you where to go.” Other wounded were shifting to the rear, and those still sound drew together.
Paks looked for Arcolin or the Duke; she spotted Arcolin on their left front. Stammel was with him. Arcolin waved a signal to Cracolnya, who sent his cohort forward. The Clarts, having rearmed, rode up on the far right, and the right wing wheeled, compressing the enemy against Dorrin’s cohort and the Halverics. Paks still could not tell how many they faced. They fought on; the enemy lines, though wavering, hardly seemed to diminish. The sun edged down; as light faded out of the sky, the enemy made one more frantic attempt to break through. Favored by the downward slope, they penetrated between the Halverics and Dorrin’s cohort, pouring away downhill in the darkness. Paks heard curses from the Clarts, who spurred after them recklessly. Paks hoped the Duke would not command a foot pursuit. She was suddenly almost too tired to move.
Arcolin rode back to them, talking to a Clart captain. Then he turned to Stammel. “Take them to the enemy camp; the Clarts hold it. Set up a strong perimeter. I think Dorrin’s cohort is pursuing, but some of them may circle back. I’ll be near the tower entrance if you need me.” He rode toward the tower; light spilled from its narrow windows. Paks wondered who held it.
The enemy camp was full of supplies. The Clarts had overridden some of the tents, but most were still standing. Cattle roasted over a long trenchfire. Paks’s mouth watered. She and the other veterans stood guard while uninjured recruits helped the surgeons and set up camp. She wished she knew how her recruits were, and her friends. She had seen Vik and Arne only at a distance.
It seemed long before Stammel returned to the perimeter. Paks cleaned her sword and sheathed it, then slipped off her shield and stretched. Her shoulders were stiff where the pack straps had dug in; she hadn’t fought in a pack except in drill. Reluctantly she picked up the shield, yawning. Now she could feel every cut and bruise. The wind blew the smell of roasting meat past her nose, and her stomach knotted. At last a recruit came, grease still streaking his chin, to relieve her post. Stammel met her as she turned away.
“Here.” He handed her a slab of beef on a split loaf. “I meant to get to you earlier. You’ll want to see Jenits; his arm’s broken. Volya needed stitching, but she’s up and around. Keri’s fine; hardly scratched.” Paks mumbled her thanks past a mouthful of food.
“Whose tower?” she asked, after swallowing a huge lump of beef.
“Andressat’s. Their colors are blue and gold. You’ll see tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t they come out? I thought they hated Siniava.”
“They do. But they’ve only got forty or fifty in there. They don’t want to lose the tower to anyone: not even us.”
Paks nodded as she ate, and walked on to the surgeons’ tent. It had evidently belonged to an enemy officer; it was large and divided by yellow hanging panels into several rooms. Jenits lay on a straw pallet with his shoulders propped up on a frame, his left arm bound in splints. Volya sat beside him with a flask; they both looked pale, but well enough.
“Have you had any food yet?” asked Paks. They both nodded. “Good. I’ll finish my supper.” She squatted beside Jenits. “Did they give you numbwine?”
“Yes—they did.” His voice was slightly blurred.
“I’m sorry I stepped on you,” said Paks. “But that—”
“That’s all right. It was—broken already. That’s why—I fell.”
“It’s a good thing it was your shield arm,” said Paks. “You won’t be fighting for weeks, but it won’t be as hard to retrain. You did well, Jenits. I suppose Stammel told you that—”
“Yes. But I—I forgot which strokes, after awhile—and it was so fast—”
“I forgot too, in my first battle; that’s when I got the big scar on my leg. As Stammel said to me, we’ll just drill you more until you can’t forget.” Jenits managed a shaky grin. Paks turned to Volya. “Volya, you did well too. What I could see of your shieldwork was much better. Now—did the surgeons tell you to stay with Jenits?”
“Yes. They said give him more numbwine if he needed it.”
“I can do that, and let you get some sleep. We’ll all be pulling watch tonight, and fighting again tomorrow, I expect.”
“Oh, I couldn’t sleep. I’m still too excited.” Volya’s eyes were very bright.
Paks sighed. “Volya, you’re tired, whether you know it or not. Go roll up in your cloak, and if you aren’t asleep in a half glass, you can come back and take over for me.” Volya got up reluctantly, and handed Paks the flask of numbwine. “And don’t start talking to anyone; that
“Is that your blood, or theirs?”
Paks looked at her arm. “Both, I think. Nothing serious, though.”
“But you’ve been on guard, and haven’t had time to clean them. I know the story. Let me see.” With painful thoroughness the surgeon scrubbed the various cuts she’d taken, grumbling the while. “If I could just convince you heroes that cleaning these things out does as much good—no,
“Ouch!” said Paks, as the cleaning solution stung in a slice across her hand.
“Hold still. I have to see if that got into the joint—no—lucky. Maybe we need thicker gloves.”
“I didn’t have mine on,” muttered Paks. The surgeon snorted and went on.
“Are you sure you aren’t hiding something else?” he asked when he had finished wrapping bandages around her hand.
“Nothing else.” She looked down and found that Jenits had followed the whole proceeding with interest. So had others in the room.
“Are you staying with him?” asked the surgeon.
“Do you need me to? I can.”
“Yes. Please. We’ve got Clart and Halveric wounded coming in, and there’ll be more later. You can give him enough numbwine to make him sleep. Three or four swallows more should do it. Same for the others—call if anything goes wrong.” The surgeon passed on to the next room, and Paks lifted Jenits’s head so he could drink more easily. In a few minutes, he was snoring. She glanced around at the others; they all seemed to be dozing. Paks propped the flask nearby and took off her pack to get her cloak. She wrapped it around her shoulders. From the other end of the tent came a sudden flurry that subsided after a few minutes.
