“Things are different in this Company,” she said firmly.
“I can see that.” He walked on a few paces in silence. “But—I don’t see how—why—a woman would want to be a fighter. It’s hard work—dirty—you can get killed—” He sounded genuinely puzzled.
Paks found herself suppressing a laugh. “Hard work? Were you ever on a farm? Working? No, I thought not. This is no harder than farmwork I was doing at home, and it’s no dirtier than butchering sheep. As for getting killed—women die having babies, if it comes to that.” She glanced at him to see his reaction; his face was furrowed in a frown. “Besides,” she went on, “I like fighting. I’m good at it, and I enjoy it, and I get paid for it. I’d make a very bad farmer’s wife.”
“Well, but—aren’t you going to marry someday?”
Paks shook her head. “No. Some do, but not me. I never wanted to.”
“I just can’t—are there many women like you in the north?”
Paks shrugged. “I don’t know. Some. You saw Captain Dorrin, and Arne at lunch. Maybe a fourth of us in this Company are women.”
“I see.” He still looked puzzled.
Chapter Twenty-five
Early the next morning they set out for Sibili, marching along the north bank of the Chaloqueel on a wide stone road. Those three days came back to Paks later as a kind of dream—the rich valley farmlands, with fruit trees in full bloom, clouds of pale pink flowers that strewed their petals on every gust of wind, leaving the hollows of the road drifted with delicate color. On the slopes, grapevines had sprouted tufts of furry greenish-white leaflets. Rows of vegetables, plots of grain like green velvet—but all empty and quiet.
The sun had just set on the third day when they saw Sibili’s walls dark against the glowing western sky. Rain began again that night; the next day they picked up what news they could while settling into camp and readying for the assault. Sapping teams had already started work; Cracolnya’s cohort joined a small group of men in rust-colored tunics who supervised the construction of more siege towers and catapults.
“Who’s that?” asked Keri, of the rust-uniformed men. Paks shrugged.
“I don’t know. I never saw them before.” She stopped Devlin and asked him.
“That’s Plas Group—Marki Plas. They’re a special company—all they do is siege machines. A section of them came down with Aesil M’dierra.”
Despite heavier rain the following day, the assault began, with Andressat and Westland troops in two siege towers. Mercenary archers scoured the wall. The Phelani and Halverics stayed back as reserves; Paks could not see much through the rain, but watched Plas Group specialists operating the two catapults, winding down the arm, loading stones into the cup. She noticed that they adjusted the ropes with each shot, to compensate for dampness. But neither the catapults nor the assault succeeded, and the attackers straggled back that evening in no mood to explain what had gone wrong.
During the night the rain stopped. The Phelani and Halverics struggled to move a third siege tower to the walls under cover of darkness. With the others, Paks cursed angrily as its wheels sank into the mud again and again; by dawn they were still some distance from the walls, in easy range of enemy bowmen. The Duke ordered them back; Paks was glad to leave the unwieldy tower where it had stuck fast. Once out of bowshot, she finally had a chance to see what Sibili looked like. Built on a hump of ground near the river, its inner citadel stood higher than the rest; the walls were well built of buff colored stone. Although the city did not look as formidable as Cortes Andres, Paks though it would be harder to take than Cha. Overall it reminded her of a larger Rotengre, long and narrow, with heavy gates pinched between massive towers.
During that day, both sides used fire weapons. The defenders poured oil on one of the siege towers and lit it, with a cohort of Pliuni on the way up inside. The Pliuni fled, not without casualties. Plas Group lobbed stones smeared with burning pitch over the walls. The defenders fired the second tower; Andressat and Phelani troops rushed to drag it away from the walls and managed to keep the fire from burning the lower framework, but it was too damaged to use until rebuilt.
That night Paks helped drag the remaining siege tower into place while the sappers fired their tunnels. She heard a deep rumble off to her right, and shrill cries from the wall. Had the wall come down?
“Don’t stop!” said Captain Pont. “Move this thing!” Over the pounding blood in her ears, Paks heard horn signals and the clamor of combat. At last the tower reached the wall. A body of men they could not see— supposedly the Halverics—jingled past and started up the tower stairs.
“Get armed and ready,” said Devlin. Paks wiped the sweat from her face and stretched before slipping her arm into her shield grip. They crowded into the base of the tower, blind in that sheltered darkness.
Suddenly a crash from the top of the tower and a cry from the wall signalled the start of their own assault. The troops on the stairs surged upward. Pont held them back until the first group was halfway to the next level, then sent them on. In the blackness, Paks fell up the first two steps; someone else stumbled into her, cursing. She found her balance and went on. As she neared the top, dim light filtered in. She saw torches on the wall, and fires in the city itself. As she crossed the bridge to the wall, she tried not to think of the many feet of empty air below.
“There!” Vossik of Dorrin’s cohort waved an arm to the right; Paks came up behind a line of Halverics slowly pushing enemy pikemen away from the bridge. Where were the rest of them? she wondered. She had no time to think about it; the enemy pressed hard, and the man in front of her fell. She leaped forward over him, taking his place in the Halveric line. She could feel behind her the growing pressure of her own comrades. Slowly, step by step, they forced their way along the wall.
In the dancing torchlight she found it hard to see the enemy’s thrusts; she hoped they had the same problem. Paks ducked under one pike and slashed at a man in their front line. She got a hit, then another, then something— what she didn’t know—hit her helmet and almost knocked her down. The enemy yelled, as she staggered, and Halverics closed around her. Then she was up, and fighting again. Someone yelled in her ear, and she shook her head, trying to understand. What did they mean, “almost there”?
Suddenly a horrible howling stunned her, followed by a blinding blue flash that lit up the entire city. For just an instant, Paks could see the breach in the wall, just behind the enemy she faced. Then came blackness, utter and thick. Screams and bellows filled the air. The lines crashed together; Paks was crushed in a welter of bodies, all struggling. Something raked her sword arm. She could not get free for a swing, but drove the tip of her sword into what she hoped was an enemy. Someone fell into her. She lost her balance and fell sprawling under a pile of men and weapons, the stink of blood and sweat strong in her nostrils.
All at once light returned: not torchlight, but a mellow golden light over the city itself. In an instant the pile of fighters separated into warring factions, struggling to kill and get free. Paks felt a stabbing pain in her leg, as she wrenched her shield free of a wounded man’s shoulder and parried an enemy thrust. She made it to one knee. Someone grabbed her shield arm and pulled. She tried to pivot, but a man on the wall thrust up at her; she had to counter that. The pull steadied her; she got her legs under her again, and whoever had grabbed her let go. She was in a ragged line with several Halverics and some from her own cohort. Most of the enemy were down, some crawling away. They waded into the rest, and cleared the wall as far as the breach before the golden light faded. Paks looked for the source, but could not see it.
“Are you all right?” It was a Halveric private beside her.
Paks nodded; pain shot through her head. “Yes—just winded, I think.”
“Your arm’s bleeding a lot. Sorry I grabbed you like that—”
“Was that you? It helped. I thought you were one of them, at first.”
“I know. You seemed dazed, and those scum were moving—”
“Paks.” Devlin had come along the wall. “What besides this arm?”
Paks shifted her weight as Devlin took her arm, and the pain in her leg reminded her. “Left leg—something, I haven’t looked. And something hit my head hard; it feels like the helmet’s too tight.”
“You’d better go back—”
“No, I’m fine, Now that I’ve got my breath—”
“Go back. This isn’t over yet. Get that arm tied up, at least. We’ll need you later.” He shoved her toward the
