Oath of Gold

30

Dorrin looked at the small group of yeomen with distaste. She managed not to look at Paks’s head. The rest of the cohort were not as careful.

“What’s this?”

Paks met her eyes steadily. “This is the yeomanry of Darkon Edge; they will march with us to meet the enemy.”

Dorrin’s eyebrows rose. “This?” She said it quietly, but Paks saw one of the foresters redden. She wrapped the scarf around her head, stuffed the helmet back over it, and nodded.

“We will need them,” she said. “Gird has called them.”

“I see.” Dorrin’s eyes dropped to her hand on the reins. “Then I suppose—”

“That it’s settled. Yes.” Paks turned to the Marshal. “Sir Marshal, will you lead your yeomen, or shall I?”

A spark of interest had returned to his eyes; now it kindled into pride. “I will, paladin of Gird. Do we go by the road?”

“For a time.” Paks nodded to Dorrin. “Captain, I would recommend battle order, with forward scouts in sight of the cohort. For now I will ride with the yeomen.” Dorrin’s quick commands soon had the cohort moving at a brisk trot. Paks waited until the Marshal had brought out his own shaggy mount and they rode together at the head of the yeomen. Before he could say anything, she was asking about the road ahead, and the shape of the land around.

Just out of town, the road entered a section of broken, rough land, more heavily forested than that on either side. Already some of the springs had broken; the road surface was a rough mass of frost-heave and mud. The red horse slowed, picking his way around the soggy places and slippery refrozen ice. The yeomen marched strongly, but in a loose, ungainly formation. Paks wondered how they would fight—but anything would be better than the blank apathy of Darkon Edge. The Marshal began to explain some of what had happened in the past several years. She realized that some powerful force had harried his grange, and the next to the south, picking off the strongest and bravest of the yeomen. Only a few had been found, alive or dead. The old man’s nephew had returned a cripple, and half-mad from torture. Another, terribly mutilated, had managed to kill himself. She shook her head as he fell silent.

“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-marshal: 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.”

“Sir king,” Paks bowed in the saddle. “How do you find that blade in battle?”

“Eager,” he said. “You schooled it well in your service.”

Paks laughed. “Not I, sir king. From its forging it has waited its chance to serve you. What is your command?”

“Advance,” he said, looking to be sure Ammerlin and Dorrin could both hear him. “We’ll use Dorrin’s cohort, and your yeomen, with the heavy horse ready to charge and break them.”

“But—my lord—the supplies—” Ammerlin hesitated, looking back.

Paks remembered the king’s gesture from her years in his Company, but his voice stayed calm. “Ammerlin, we know they have reserves. All that we had behind us is now with us. Our hopes lie before us—and only there. If we can fight through—”

“But—” Paks saw the indecision in his face, and rode toward him. His face turned to her. “And—and that—”

“Paksenarrion,” said the king quietly. “A paladin of Gird.”

“Ammerlin,” said Paks, “take courage. Gird is with us.” Ammerlin nodded, his eyes bright. She turned to the king. “My lord king—”

“To Lyonya,” he said. And with a few quick commands to Dorrin and the Marshals, the defenders were ready to move.

At first it seemed they might break through to the higher ground along the east road. The priests of Liart commanded a motley crowd of ill-armed peasantry; these could not stand against disciplined troops. The enemy cohorts—Pargunese by their speech, though they showed no standard—put up more resistance, but gave way step by step. Paks could see something back in the trees—brigands, or perhaps orcs—waiting for a chance, but unwilling to fight in close formation.

The Tsaian heavy horse charged again and again, breaking open the enemy formation and letting the foot soldiers advance a few strides with ease. But once on the slope up the next ridge, they could not break through; the enemy still had the higher ground, and outnumbered the defenders two to one. Paks looked around for more of Liart’s priests; she was sure more were nearby, but they kept out of sight, only occasionally showing themselves in the midst of their fighters.

They had gained perhaps half the upward slope, when Paks heard a battle-horn’s cry above the clamor. At once the enemy attacked in full force, slamming into the defender’s lines and forcing them back down the hill. It was all they could do to keep their formation in this retreat; one after another staggered and fell, to be trampled underfoot. Paks sent the red horse directly at the enemy; those in front of her melted away, but on either side they drove on. She found herself surrounded, fought her way back through to stiffen the defense. When she looked up again, the eastward road was full of men: two full cohorts of heavy infantry, in Verrakai blue and silver that gleamed in the afternoon sun. A half-cohort of archers in rose and dark green halted above them and shot down the hill into the defenders. As the Verrakaien infantry charged downhill, the enemy opened to let them through, the force of their charge undamped.

But the king had seen all this as soon as Paks; in moments Dorrin had swung her cohort and the yeomen off the road just enough that the Verrakaien charge slid along the flank of the defenders rather than hitting it squarely. Now they scrambled downhill to level ground as best they could, losing in seconds ground it had cost hours to gain. By the time they were reorganized in the valley, more than a dozen yeomen, and eight of Dorrin’s veterans, lay dead.

Shadow already streaked me little valley. They had been fighting for hours; Paks herself felt little fatigue, but she saw in the drawn faces around her that they could not keep going without a respite. Meanwhile the Verrakaien, finding stiff resistance, had slowed. As the day turned on toward evening, they eased their attack, and disengaged. Paks could see their supply train coming down the road; Liart’s followers were scavenging in the king’s, pulling packs off the dead horses and mules. The defenders rested as best they could, locked in a tight square, with the king in the center.

When the attackers pulled back, all three Marshals began healing the wounded they could find. By unspoken agreement, Paks stayed alert for any arcane attack of evil. She knew that the Liartian priests were not finished; they would have something else planned. Enemy campfires began to flicker in the fading light. Soon the smell of cooking would come along the wind, tantalizing the defenders. Dorrin edged over to her.

“Paks, my troops have some food—trail bread—and we still have four of our mules. That’s enough for one meal, perhaps.”

“What about the yeomen?” Paks remembered seeing them stuff food into pockets and sacks.

“I didn’t think they’d have any—I’ll ask.”

In the end, only the Tsaian Royal Guard had nothing; when the rest was shared out, all had an almost normal ration: cold, but strengthening. Water was a harder problem, but one of the yeomen solved it for them. They had been driven back nearly to the ford, but one unit of enemy troops had cut them off from the water. The yeoman, however, knew this stream, and said that its water came near the surface some distance from the stream itself. So it proved: a hole scarcely knee-deep filled with fresh water. They widened the hole until several could fill their helmets at once; the water sufficed for both men and horses. Before full dark, all had drunk their fill, and had eaten enough to feel refreshed.

Yet they were surrounded now by a force three times or more their size. With the Marshals’ healing aid, their losses that afternoon were not as severe as might have been expected, but even so too many defenders lay stiffening on the hill. In the center of the square, Paks urged the king to rest while he could. They had made an inner square of the horses, and knights, leaving an open space where it was possible to lie, out of sight of archers (though not, of course, out of range.)

With dark came new troubles. First was the Verrakai commander, who came forward under a parley flag lit by torches. He accused Phelan of invading Verrakai lands, and refused to accept the royal pass Dorrin carried.

“That princeling has no right to give passes—only the Council can. These are Verrakai lands, and Verrakai’s road, and you have no right to invade on behalf of that northern bastard.”

“Hold your tongue!” bellowed High Marshal Seklis. “He’s the rightful king of Lyonya, and no bastard.”

“And who are you?” asked the commander.

“High Marshal Seklis, of the court at Tsaia, and you’ll have the Fellowship of Gird on you for this cowardly attack, sir.”

The commander laughed. “The Fellowship of Gird is far away, Marshal; if you insist on sharing this dukeling’s fate, it will never know what happened.”

“Share his fate—Gird’s blood, sir, I’d rather share his fate than yours.”

“Besides,” the commander went on, raising his voice, “I’ve heard he sacrificed a Gird’s paladin to save his own skin. What kind of a king is that? What kind of commander, for that matter? If you had any honor at all, you’d turn on him now.”

Paks called her light and stood forward. “Sir, you know not what you speak of. This king never sacrificed a paladin—I am the paladin involved, and I know.”

In her light, the commander’s eyes were wide, white-rimmed. “You! But I heard—”

“You heard lies, commander.” She saw a ripple of alarm pass through the commander’s escort, and her light extended in response. “Would you risk your life—and more than your life, your soul—against a paladin as well as these Marshals and Lyonya’s king?”

“It is my command.”

“Indeed. Despite the commands of your rightful liege lord, the crown prince—”

“He hasn’t been crowned yet—not until Summereve—”

Paks laughed. “Sir, you argue like a judicar, not like a soldier. Unless some treachery falls on him, as this has fallen on the king of Lyonya, he will be your ruler, and acts now as such. You must know that the Council and prince together gave Lyonya’s king not only passage but also royal escort—have you never see the Tsaian Royal Guard before?”

“He might have hired them,” said the man sulkily. At that even the Royal Guard laughed scornfully.

“He did not—and you know it. You know it is the Council’s will that he pass safely into Lyonya and be crowned there; it is the prince’s wish as well.”

“Not Lord Verrakai’s,” said the man. “And he’s my lord, and gives my orders.”

“Then he’s rebelling against the House of Mahieran?” asked Paks. Again that uneasy movement. “Forming alliance with Pargun?”

“No—not that—but he takes no orders from a stripling boy—”

“Who is his king. That sounds like rebellion to me,” said the High Marshal, “and I shall report it so when I return.”

“You are not like to return,” answered the commander tartly, “unless you agree to disown this so-called king. We’ve heard enough of him, we have—a bloody mercenary, that’s all he is, whatever lies he tells of his birth.”

“And is this a lie?” The king had come close behind Paks and the High Marshal. He drew the elven blade; its brilliant light outshone even Paks’s for a moment. “This blade is like none you have seen, and no other hand can hold it. It was made for Lyonya’s prince, and lost, and when I first drew it, proclaimed me its master. Could that be a lie, commander?”

The man bit his lip, looking from one to another. But finally he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re Phelan, I suppose. My orders are that you must not pass; you and all your soldiers’ lives are forfeit for treason and trespass. As for these others, if they forswear your cause, they will be spared as our prisoners. If they fight on, all will be slain.”

Bitter amusement edged the king’s voice. “Your terms offer little gain, commander.”

“Your situation offers less.” The commander’s voice sharpened in turn. “You are outnumbered, on bad ground, without food or water or shelter for your wounded—”

“Whom you plan to kill anyway,” the king pointed out. “By the gods, commander, if we are to die, we need no supplies, and I think you care little what happens to our wounded. Since you say I and my soldiers must die anyway, we shall see how many of yours we can take with us.”

“And you?” asked the commander of the Marshals and Ammerlin.

“It is my pleasure and honor,” said Ammerlin stiffly, “to serve the king of Lyonya as I have served my prince. You will find the Royal Guard a worthy opponent, Verrakaien scum.”

“And you will find Gird’s Marshals a hard mouthful to swallow,” said High Marshal Seklis grimly. “Since you claim to have the stomach for it, you may gnaw our steel before our flesh.”

The Verrakai commander stared at them a long moment, as if waiting for another answer. Then he made a stiff bow and turned away. They heard a flurry of sound as he returned to his own men, and a rough cry in a strange tongue from another enemy unit.

The king’s head turned sharply. “That’s Pargunese. Something about the Sagon’s orders. As we thought, Verrakai and the Sagon have moved together. I dare say, Marshals, they intend none to tell the tale later.”

“So I would judge,” said Seklis, still angry.

“I would hope for no mercy from them,” added Ammerlin. Then he turned to the king. “My lord, I am sorry—I should have foundered every horse in the troop before landing you in this trap.”

The king touched his shoulder. “The trap was planned, Ammerlin, before we left Vérella. Without your knights, this afternoon, we could never have come so close to breaking free—nor would we still be standing here, I think. Don’t waste your strength regretting it now.”

“You do not blame—”

The king laughed. “Blame? Who should I blame but the Verrakai and Pargunese, and Liart and Achrya, who planned all this? By the gods, Ammerlin, if we come out of this, you will hear such praise of the Guard as will redden your ears for the next fifty years. Do you believe me now?”

“Yes, my lord.” Ammerlin’s eyes glittered in Paks’s light. “We will ward you, my lord, until the end.”

“Hmmph. I admit, Ammerlin, I see no easy way out of this, but the end I intend is my own throne in Lyonya, and not death in this valley.” The king turned to Paks. “You, I know, have seen worse than this, and come out alive and whole—do you despair?”

“No, sir king.” Paks smiled at him. “The wolves must come within reach before the spear can touch them. We are in peril, yes—but if we withstand despair, the gods will aid us.”

“As they already have, with your return,” said the king. “Ah, Paks—I had feared greatly for you.”

Paks smiled. “And I for you, as well. Now—in the hours of darkness, they will try what evil they can, sir king. I feel it near—”

“I also,” said Seklis. “We have healed what we can of the wounded, my lord. For this night, we Marshals and Paksenarrion must ward your defenders.”

The priests of Liart began their assault with loud jeers from their followers: they had brought the bodies of slain defenders down the hill to mutilate them in front of the rest. It was all Paks and the Marshals could do to keep the yeomen in line when they saw their friends’ bodies hacked in pieces; the seasoned troops glared, but knew better than to move. That display was followed by others. These ended when the king authorized a single volley from the Royal Guard archers; Paks extended her light, and the front rank of capering Liartians was abruptly cut down.

After that, and a single thrust of fear from the Liartian priests, the enemy camp settled down as if for sleep. Everything was quiet for a time. Then shouts and bellows rang out in the forest to the east.

“What—?”

Paks could hear shouts in the enemy’s camp; the turmoil of troops roused from sleep.

“Whatever it is, they didn’t expect it either.”

“Trouble for them—good for us?” Seklis stretched; he’d napped briefly.

“We can hope.” The king, too, had rested, but Paks could hear the fatigue in his voice. He pushed himself upright, and made his way across the square. Paks extended her light again. They could see dimly as far as the forest edge. Something moved between the trees.

“Whatever it is, it’s big,” muttered Dorrin.

“And not alone.” The king sighed. “I was hoping for a cohort of Lyonyans, perhaps—just to make things interesting.”

In a sudden flurry, a tumbling mass of creatures burst from the edge of the woods. Paks recognized several of them as the same monster that had lived in the robber’s lair near Brewersbridge: huge, hairy, man-like shapes.

“Falk’s oath in gold,” muttered Garris, “that’s a gibba.”

“I thought they were hools,” said Paks.

“No—hools live in water, and aren’t so hairy, nor so broad. These are gibbas. And those others—”

Orcs she had seen before, but not the high-shouldered dark beasts that ran with them, like hounds with a hunting party.

“Folokai,” said Lieth quietly. “Fast, strong, and mean.”

“I’ll believe that,” said Paks. “Any weaknesses?”

“Not gibbas. The folokai are night-hunters; they don’t like fire or bright light. But they’re smart, as smart as wolves at least. The best sword stroke is for the heart, from in front, or the base of the neck.”

In moments the dire creatures were charging across the open space. Paks called in her light and rolled onto the red horse’s back, where she could see. The enemy ranks seemed as concerned as their own; she heard shouts in Pargunese and Tsaian both, and screeches from the orcs, who hesitated for a moment between the defenders and one of the Verrakai cohorts. A priest of Liart strode into the Verrakai torchlight, and snapped an order to the orcs. Paks saw heads turn toward them, saw one of the folokai crouch for a spring. She urged the red horse forward, to the lines.

The orcs swung their short spears around, and ran at the defenders. The folokai jumped high, soaring over the first rank to fall ravening on the secondary. But Paks was there, the red horse neatly avoiding the defenders. She plunged her sword into a heavy muscled neck; the folokai’s head swung up, quick as light, and long fangs raked her mail. The red horse pivoted, catching the beast with one foreleg and tossing it away. It reared, threatening the horse with long claws on its forefeet. Paks swung the horse sideways, and thrust deep between foreleg and breast. For a moment the heavy jaws gnashed around her helmet, then its dead weight almost pulled her from the saddle. She wrestled her sword free. Two gibbas had hit the defending line together, and driven a wedge into it. At the point, Lieth and Marshal Sulinarrion fought almost as one, their swords swinging in long strokes that hardly seemed to slow the gibbas at all. Remembering Mal, Paks looked around for someone with an axe. A hefty yeoman in the secondary stood nearby, bellowing encouragement to the front rank, but otherwise free. She tapped his shoulder with her sword, and he swung round, axe ready.

“Come on! Follow me!” She waited for his nod, then forced the red horse through the fight to a point just behind the gibbas. “Get the backbone!” she yelled at the forester, sinking her own sword into the angle of neck and shoulder—a level stroke, she noted, for a mounted fighter. But this maneuver had put her outside the square, and the yeoman as well. She covered his retreat back into the line, then whirled the red horse in a flat spin, sweeping her sword at the orcs who tried to take advantage of the gibbas’ position. Dorrin’s cohort snapped back into position, straightening the line, and Paks was back inside with the king.

The king, meanwhile, was fighting another folokai that had jumped the lines. Garris had fallen behind him; High Marshal Seklis tried to flank the beast, but it was too fast, whirling and snapping at him, then returning to the king. The king’s sword blazed, its color shifting from blue to white with each change of direction. Before Paks could intervene, the king sank his blade into the folokai’s heart, and it fell, still snapping.

More orcs poured out of the forest, this time attacking without hesitation. Now the east flank of the defender’s block was fully engaged. In the darkness beyond the Verrakai front ranks, Paks saw torches moving.

“The Pargunese,” said the king quietly, beside her. “They’ll attack now too.”

“In the dark?” asked Ammerlin.

“Yes—they’ve got torchbearers.”

“How long—?” began Ammerlin.

“Paks,” the king interrupted. “Can you sustain your light for long?”

“I don’t know,” said Paks. “I haven’t tried to hold it and fight both.”

“We’ll fight,” he said grimly. “Give us light, and we’ll fight.”

Even before she asked, her light came, brighter than before. For an instant, she remembered the golden light that hung above Sibili the night they took the wall. Now her own light, unshadowed, lit the narrow valley. The Pargunese cohorts stopped abruptly, then wheeled into position. Verrakaien shaded their eyes, then looked down. She saw the orcs pause at the wood’s edge, throw up their shields, and keep coming: a dark wave. Her light flashed from shifting eyes, from the edges of swords and the tips of spears. She saw a folokai’s teeth glint, then it turned and loped away to the west and north. The red horse wheeled beneath her as her eyes swept the scene. The enemy pressed close, compressing the square into a tight mass. The remaining cavalry mounts shifted nervously, ears back and tails clamped down.

Then the enemy cohorts attacked. Paks ignored the screams, the arrows that flashed by her head, the clangor of arms. With all her might she prayed, holding light above them.