“Indeed, Marshal, you have had hard times. You say you tried to find the source of this?”
“Of course I did!” Now he was angry again. “Gird’s blood, paladin, when I came I was as full of flame as you are now. But year by year—one after another they died, and I could find nothing. How can they trust me, when I can’t find a center of evil like that, eh? How can I trust myself?”
“And the other Marshals nearby, they did nothing?”
“Garin tried—until he got the lung fever so bad. His yeoman-marshal was taken, too, and that—well, it was bad to see, paladin. I know Berris, east of me, has had trouble too, but we neither of us had much time to meet—it’s more than a day’s journey across by the road. I’ve got six bartons outlying, as well as the grange, and always something gone wrong.”
“And you quit hoping—”
“Hoping! Hoping for what? What’s left? Half the yeomanry I had when I came—Gird’s blood, I don’t doubt this day will see the half of that half gone. But as you said, a clean death. I don’t fear death itself—Gird knows I’ve tried these years, but—”
“Marshal, I swear to you, this coming battle will see your grange—and granges around—freed of great evil. Some will die—yes, but die as Gird’s yeomen should die. That man you call a mercenary will be Lyonya’s king—as honest and just a ruler as any land could have—and if you and I live to see it, we will call it well bought, at whatever cost.”
“I hope so.” He chewed his lip. Then he lowered his voice and rode close to her. “It isn’t what I thought of, when I was a young yeoman-marshaclass="underline" I thought to be a Marshal whose grange increased, spreading justice all around. Instead—”
“You have fought a hard battle, in hard conditions, and held a position until help came. Think of it like that.”
His face changed. “Is it?”
“Well,” said Paks, grinning at him, “paladins are usually considered help. So is a cohort of Phelani infantry—you could have a worse broom to sweep your dirty corners.”
He flushed, but finally smiled, straightening in his saddle with a new expression on his face. Paks looked back at the yeomen. They were settling to the march, beginning to look more like possible fighters.
They worked their way up and over one ridge, then another. The tracks of the king’s party and the cohort were clear: massive broad hooves of the heavy war horses, the neater rounded hooves of the cohort’s lighter mounts. Paks even recognized the slightly angled print of the off hind on Lieth’s horse. Then she heard the swift clatter of a galloping horse and looked up to see Selfer riding toward her.
He pulled his mount to a halt. “Paks! Dorrin wants you—there’s trouble ahead.”
Paks looked at the Marshal. “Keep coming, but be careful. How far is it, Selfer?”
He looked at the yeomen. “Oh—a half-glass’s walk, I suppose. Just over the far side of this ridge.”
“Come up to the rear of Phelan’s cohort,” said Paks. “I’ll have word for you there.” The Marshal nodded, and she rode after Selfer, who had already wheeled his horse to ride back.
The red horse caught his in a few lengths; they rode together out of sight of the yeomen. Over the ridge, Paks could see down the slope to a clearing at the bottom. The road angled down the slope into a narrow valley which widened to the left, then forded a broad but shallow stream, and climbed along the flank of the next ridge. Forest pressed on the right margin; to the left, a meadow opened from just above the ford downstream to the width of the valley. Fresh snow whitened the slopes between the trees, but the valley floor was churned to dark mud by hundreds of feet.
The clamor of battle carried clearly through the cold air. There were the rose—and-silver colors of Tsaia, a ring around the green knot of the Lyonyan King’s Squires. Kieri Phelan lived and fought; the elf-blade in its master’s hand blazed with light that flashed with every stroke. But around them surged a mass of darker figures. A trail of horses and men lay dead on the road: the supply animals and servants, cut off from the others in the ambush. Paks did not recognize any standards, but the group of red-cloaked spike-helmed fighters at the edge of the conflict was obviously Liartian. They were unmounted: Paks suspected that they were using some arcane power that would frighten horses.
Clumped on the road only a few lengths ahead was Dorrin’s cohort, still mounted but unmoving. Paks drew her sword and rode quickly to the head of the column, to find Dorrin bent over her saddle.
“Captain—what is it?”
Dorrin turned. Paks could see nothing but her eyes through the visor. “It’s—can’t you feel it? We can’t move, Paks—he’s being torn up down there, and we can’t move!”
Paks reined the red horse forward; she could feel a pressure like blowing wind in her mind, but nothing worse. She looked back. “What does it feel like, Captain? Fear, or pain, or what?”
“Fear,” said Dorrin shortly. “Don’t you—?”
Paks threw back her head. “That I can deal with. Dismount them, and stay close behind me. Selfer, bring the yeomen down when they top the ridge—be sure they stay together.” She called her light, and rode forward; she could feel the pressure veering away on either hand. She glanced back once, to find that they all followed, watching her with wide eyes.
She heard the yell when their advance was spotted; one block of enemy soldiers broke away and moved toward them in formation. Paks turned to Dorrin. “You know best how to maneuver here, Captain; I have a debt to pay those priests.” She closed her legs; the red horse leaped forward, charging the Liartian priests. There were five she could see; her heightened senses told her that more fought elsewhere. She felt the pressure of their attack on the cohort lift; a crackling bolt of light shot past her head. Paks laughed, swinging her sword.
“Gird!” she yelled, as the red horse trampled one of them, breaking the cluster apart. Paks sliced deep into one neck; the priest crumpled. On the backswing, she caught another in the arm. He screamed, cursing her. The other two were already backing away, weapons ready, to join a mob of their followers. Paks laughed again, and her horse trumpeted. Again she charged, this time against a spear-carrier, who poked at her horse to hold her away. But she caught the barbs of the spear on her sword, and leaned from the saddle to grab the haft with her other hand. She reeled him in; he was too astonished to let go, until her sword sank in his throat. The fifth had escaped into the mob, and screamed curses at her from that safety.
Paks looked around quickly. Loosed from the spell, Dorrin’s cohort was advancing steadily against the enemy, edging toward the main combat. The yeomen were starting down the ridge. The defenders around the king, harried as they were, had seen her; she heard the king’s cry above them all, and raised her sword in answer.
Then she turned to the road. A ragged band of rabble—peasants or brigands—had broken from the forest to strike the yeomen, who faltered. Paks rode into them, the red horse rearing and trampling, and drove her sword into one neck after another. “Yeomen of Gird!” she yelled. “Follow me!” They cheered, then, and charged through the rest of the band. Their Marshal’s eyes blazed, and he gave Paks an incredulous grin.
“They did it!” he cried. “They—”
“They’re Girdsmen,” said Paks loudly, so they could hear. “They’re fighters, as Gird was. Come on, Girdsmen!” And she led them quickly to link with Dorrin’s cohort. Together the two groups outnumbered the enemy cohort, and it withdrew and reformed. Paks looked for Dorrin; she had found what she thought was a weak point in the attacker’s ring, and was shifting the cohort to strike there.
The attackers, finding themselves struck from behind, wavered and shifted. Dorrin’s disciplined swordsmen sliced through the layers of fighters like a knife through an onion. Cheers met them, cheers cut off abruptly by renewed assaults on other flanks. Phelan’s tensquad merged with the cohort instantly, as if they had never been apart. Even in the midst of battle, Paks saw that the Marshals noticed this. The yeomen, flanked now on either side by seasoned fighters, looked as solid as the others. The attackers wavered again, drawing back a little. Paks moved the red horse quickly to the king’s side. His eyes gleamed through the visor of his helmet. “Well met, paladin of Gird. It lifts my heart to see you here.”