wall to follow him.
By this time, the attackers had forced the enemy most of the way across the square, where they battled fiercely before the palace doors. Paks and the clerics had almost reached the rear of that melee when an ill-armed rabble poured out of the pillared porch on their left to take the attackers on the flank. Quickly the unengaged rear ranks swung to meet them; Paks thought the newcomers looked too scared to be really dangerous, having lost surprise. Behind them, she saw a small group of mailed figures poised at the top of the steps. Even as she parried the unskilled blows, and killed the first of those attacking, a strange sound shook the air, and sent a tremor through her. The sunlight dimmed. Someone beside her shrieked and dropped his sword, scrambling backwards. The attackers screamed too, flailing ahead with even less skill.
From behind her a loud voice shouted a word Paks had never heard and could not afterwards remember. A crackling bolt of light shot past her ear toward the group on the porch. She gaped, a cold chill rippling down her spine, and nearly fell when someone slammed into her leg. She looked back at the attackers barely in time to dodge a sword thrust at her neck. Light flickered over her in blues and yellows, but she paid it no mind. The frantic crowd in front of her demanded all her attention.
Then they were gone—dead, wounded, or run away—and she looked around. A knot of struggling fighters still contended in front of the palace. Some of her own cohort stood near, watching her. She realized they were waiting for her to tell them where to go next; she had no idea what to tell them. The Swordmasters, High Marshal, and paladin stood just behind the battle; they seemed intent on the group on the stairs, but Paks could not tell what they were doing. She glanced again at the enemy on the stairs, and stopped, fascinated.
The tallest one wore a blood-red surcoat over dead-black mail. On its head was a horned and spiked helmet; the visor was beaked. It carried an immense curved jagged blade with one hand, and a many-thonged whip in the other. A length of black chain clasped its red cloak, and chain belted the surcoat and scabbard. The others also wore black armor, and tunics of red and black plaid. All their weapons were spiked or jagged. Paks shivered. She wondered if she should offer to guard the clerics. Did they know what they faced?
Suddenly the black-armored figures moved, racing down the steps and screaming strange words. Something stung Paks’s chest; she thought at once of Canna’s medallion. The light dimmed; the enemy fighters brought a cloud of darkness with them. One of the clerics spoke: golden light lay over them all, bright enough for Paks to see the glitter of eyes within the visored helmets. Then the two groups crashed together. Eerie howls, blasts of wind both hot and cold, sizzlings, cracklings, flashing lights—she fought to keep her attention on the fight.
At first both sides ignored her, and they were so closely engaged that she could not find a good opening. Then she saw that the paladin was fending off two: one with both sword and whip, and the other with an axe. The spikes on the whip were catching in the paladin’s mail, little jerks that might catch him off balance. Just as Paks reached the paladin’s side, the whip fouled his shield-arm, and the axeman aimed a sweeping stroke at it. Paks threw herself forward, trying to block it with her sword.
When the blades met, a flare of blinding light sprang up, and her blade shattered. The hilts burned through her glove before she could drop the broken blade. She staggered into the axeman, seeing nothing but spots from the flash. Pain shot up her arm. She couldn’t seem to draw her dagger. She blinked furiously to clear her vision, and felt herself being hoisted by shoulder and hip. She kicked out strongly, and hit something. Then she fell, hard, onto the stone, and had just time to see a black-booted foot swing back before the kick landed.
She woke to the muted light in the surgeons’ tent. She had no idea why she was there until she tried to move her right arm. Her hand and wrist throbbed. When she looked, a bulky bandage swathed her arm to the elbow. She was thirsty. She looked around, and saw only other wounded on pallets. A low murmur of voices came from the next room. The curtain between the rooms billowed and the surgeon came through, a man in Girdish blue behind him.
“Ah—Paks,” said the surgeon softly, coming to her. “You did wake up finally. How do you feel?”
“Thirsty,” she said.
“No wonder.” He poured a mug from the tall jug in the corner, and offered it. Paks reached, but when she lifted her head to drink pain stabbed her head and darkened her vision. The surgeon moved quickly to help her. “Blast it. I hoped you would be over that. Go on, now—drink as much as you can.” She managed five or six swallows. “Is it just your head?”
“Yes—that is, my sword hand hurts some. What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No. The last I remember is—is pulling a siege tower. And there was a cloud coming over the wall, and someone stopped it.”
“Hmm. You’ve lost some time. You got a knock on your head some days ago, and then another one that left you flat out. And you’ve got a burned hand, though it will heal. You can thank High Marshal Kereth that it’s no worse.”
Paks looked at the Girdsman, now squatting on his heels beside her pallet. She had never been so close to any cleric. He had thick dark hair cropped below his ears, and the short-trimmed beard of one who fought in a visored helmet. Even out of armor and relaxed, he conveyed power and authority.
“They tell me,” he began, “that you are not a follower of St. Gird. Is that so?”
Paks started to nod, but the pain lanced through her head again. “Yes, sir; it’s true.”
“But you wear his holy symbol. It was given to you, I understand, by a Girdsman?”
“Yes, sir. A friend—Canna.”
“Ah. Did she tell you why she gave it to you? Had she been trying to convert you?”
“No, sir. I—I wasn’t there when she died. The Duke told me she had left it to me. He—he said it would be right to keep it.”
The High Marshal pursed his lips. “It’s unusual. Most Girdsmen, if they die in battle or from wounds, want their symbols returned to the barton or grange where they joined. A friend might be asked to take it there, to tell the story of a brave death. Sometimes it’s left to a family member. But to give it to a non-believer, out of the Fellowship of Gird—that’s not common at all.”
“Should I give it to you, then? To give to the—the barton?”
“Now, you mean?” His brows raised; he sounded surprised at the offer. Paks wondered why.
“Yes, sir.”
“No.” His head shake was emphatic, certain. “I don’t think so. A dying friend’s wish deserves respect; if she said you were to keep it, I think you should. But tell me, what do you know about St. Gird and his followers?”
Paks thought a long moment. “Well—Canna and Effa both said that Gird was a fighter. So good a fighter that he turned into a god or something, and now fighters can pray to him for courage and victory. And his clerics— Marshals—can heal wounds. Girdsmen are supposed to be honest and brave and never refuse to fight—but not cruel or unfair.”
“Hmm.” The High Marshal’s mouth twitched in a brief smile. “And this doesn’t appeal to you?”
“Well—sir—” Paks tried to think how to say it politely. “I don’t quite see how a fighter could become a god.”
She thought he might explain, but he said merely, “Anything else?”
“When I was a recruit, Effa tried to convert all of us. She told us about Gird’s power and protection and all. But it seemed to me that if Gird favored fighting, he wouldn’t be protecting much. Then Effa got a broken back in her first battle, and died a week later. Gird didn’t heal her.” Paks paused and looked at the High Marshal, but he said nothing, only nodded for her to go on. “And Canna—nobody could have been braver than Canna; if Gird cared about his followers at all, he should have saved her. She—she said it takes a Marshal to heal wounds, but if Gird is so powerful, I don’t see why he can’t go on and do it, without any fuss.” Paks found she was glaring at the High Marshal, furious. Her head pounded.
The High Marshal’s expression was serious, but held no rancor. “Let me explain what we know about Gird. He was a farmer—the sort of big, powerful farmer you see all over Fintha and Tsaia. Tall, strong, hot-headed—” Paks thought of her father. “The rulers in his day were cruel and unjust; Gird found himself leading a rebellion after they harassed his village. Now these were just ordinary farmers—they had no weapons. They made clubs of firewood, and took scythes and plowhandles, and trained in the walled bartons of the village. And with these weapons, and
