“I hope that is not weakness we see,” came the silvery voice. “Surely such a champion does not think the trial is over after a trifling skirmish like that? No, no . . . we must see more of your far-famed skills. Even now your opponents approach; do not disappoint us.”
Paks ran her tongue around her dry mouth. How could she fight again without water or rest? She forced herself to straighten, to look toward the entrance tunnel. Get out in the open, she told herself. You’ve got to have room. She had stiffened, even with that brief respite, and now she limped on the bitten leg. I have to keep fighting, she thought. I have to.
Out of the dark entrance came two orcs, this time armed with short swords and shields. Holy Gird, she repeated to herself. I can’t fight two of them, two swords, with only a notched knife! But Siger’s words, spoken long ago in Aarenis, trickled into her memory: the enemy’s weapon is your weapon if you can take it. Two swords—if I can get one, then it’s one to one. Even a shield will help—
As the orcs came forward, she edged back to the wall. Until she got one of them down or disarmed, she wanted something at her back. She noticed that these two did not seem as eager as the first. One of them held its sword awkwardly. A trick? She waited, and let them come to her, heedless of the iynisin catcalls.
The taller, more skillful orc came in on her right hand, her knife hand. The other edged to her left. Again she noticed that this one held the sword like a stick. The tall one thrust at her. She parried the thrust with the knife, thankful for her long arms. From the corner of her eye, she saw the small orc rush, sword extended stiffly. Paks leaped back to the wall, slamming against it, and grabbed the awkward one’s wrist. The orc fell forward as Paks jerked, and she caught a glimpse of a terrified face under the helmet. This one’s no fighter, she thought. She dug her thumb into the pressure point, and the orc’s sword hand opened. Paks reached for the sword as the taller orc aimed a slash at her over the struggling body of its partner. She ducked. The orc she was fighting tried to slam the edge of its shield into her arm, but she had the sword hilt, as well as her knife, in her right fist. She kicked the orc, hard, and danced back to the wall, switching the knife to her left hand. A surge of triumph gave her momentary strength—that would show them!
The tall orc howled at her and charged, trying to force her sideways into the other one. The shorter orc tried to move in, staying low. Paks slid sideways along the wall, countering the furious thrusts and slashes as well as she could. She felt herself slowing; exhaustion clouded her vision. Only the reflexes developed under hours of Siger’s instruction kept her blade between the orc’s sword and her body. She had the reach of him, but she could not get past his shield. She tried to force him back, with quick thrusts of her own, but failed. The other orc closed in again, this time grabbing at her knife hand. Paks aimed a kick at the orc’s knee, but it snatched at her foot and threw her off balance.
Paks fell heavily on her side, trapped close under the wall. Just over her, the taller orc’s blade clanged into the wall. She stabbed at his feet with her knife, rolling toward him to get inside his stroke. Again he missed her. This time his blade landed on the shoulder of the smaller orc, who was trying to grapple with Paks’s legs. The little orc screeched and sat back. Paks jerked her legs into a curl and launched herself straight up at the tall orc. She had both blades inside his shield; the sword rammed through his body armor into his belly, and the knife slid into his neck.
Before Paks could free the blades, she felt a weight hit her back, and a strong arm wrapped around her neck. Then the smaller orc’s teeth met in her shoulder. Paks threw herself backwards. The orc grunted as it hit the ground, but did not lose its grip with hand or teeth. Paks saw its other hand groping toward the sword the tall orc had dropped. She swiveled, pushing hard with her legs, to get the orc out of reach of that blade. Her own knife was free, but the sword stuck fast in the dead orc’s belly. She felt herself weakening, her left arm useless with that grip on her shoulder. The orc began to heave up from underneath; if it once got on top, she would have no chance.
Paks shifted her grip on the knife and struck back over her shoulder, feeling for the orc’s eyes. She felt its jaws loosen even before the screams, and stabbed again. Then she raked the knife along the arm around her throat, feeling for the tendons. The grip softened. Paks worked the knife deep into the orc’s elbow and twisted. The grip was gone. She rolled quickly and thrust into the orc’s throat, trying not to look at its face.
She tried to push herself up from the dead orc. I must get that sword, she thought. I must be ready. But her breath came in great gasps, and she could not see. She felt herself slipping into nothingness, and fell back across the orc’s body. With her last scrap of consciousness, she tried to call on Gird, but the name rang in her head, empty of meaning.
She woke in a cell, whether the first or another like it she could not have said. A torch burned in a corner bracket; by its light she saw a pitcher, mug, and platter near her. Her wounds smarted as if they’d been salted, but the bleeding had stopped, and she felt much stronger. She reached for the pitcher, then paused. Someone had said something about the danger of taking any food or drink from the iynisin—or was that something from a child’s tale she’d heard long ago? She tried to lick her dry lips, but her tongue was swollen and sore. If she had to fight again, she would have to drink something. And if they poisoned her, she would not have to worry. She shook her head, and winced at the pain. Was she thinking straight? But she had to be able to fight. Gird honored fighters. She was going to die here, almost certainly, but she had to fight.
She took the pitcher and looked into it, but in that green light she could not tell what the liquid was. She poured it out, her hands shaking. Whatever it was, she thought, it was still liquid. She raised the mug to her lips, sniffing, but the torch stank so much she could smell nothing else. She took a swallow. It burned her throat all the way down, but she wanted more of it. She drained the mug. On the platter was a slab of some dried meat and a hunk of bread. Her stomach knotted, reminding her of the hours since she’d eaten. The bread was hard, and tasted salty and sour. The meat was salty too; not until she’d eaten most of it did she think what the salt would do. Thirst swamped all other sensation; she drained the pitcher at one draught, only to find that it gave strength without easing her thirst. She felt the burning liquid work its way along her body, stinging it awake. She was afire all over, with thirst and the wounds and that terrible itching she had felt since the first.
She found herself growling softly. Fight, she thought. Oh, I will fight—by holy Gird, I will fight exceedingly. She thought of the combat past, the unfairness of it, the knotted whip, the orc’s teeth in her leg, her strokes, the orcs’ strokes. For a moment she grimaced at the thought of the last encounter, when she had stabbed the orc’s eyes, but she forced the revulsion down. I had to, she thought. It wasn’t fair; I was outnumbered, I had to do—whatever. She drew grimness around her like a cloak. Gird of the Cudgel, she thought. If that’s what you want, putting me in a place like this, that’s what I’ll do—I’ll fight. Protector of the helpless, strong arm of the High Lord: I will be true. I will fight.
But a moment of doubt had her frowning. Gird was not for fighting only—she thought she remembered that. Fairness—truth—she shook her head, trying to think. She seemed to see Stammel’s face, telling the recruits not to brawl, then the look he had given her in the cell when Sejek had banned her. Something was wrong; she should know something better. But of course something’s wrong, she thought irritably. I’ve been taken by iynisin; I had to fight three orcs unarmed; the stuff they gave me was poisoned—