Sheepfarmers Daughter (14 page)

Paks woke to darkness and the sounds of pain. Far away to her left was a bobbing yellow glow. She felt light and crisp except for her injured leg, a cold weight dragging at her. The glow came closer, paused, came closer. She realized it was a lantern — in someone's hand — someone coming near. She felt very clever — she knew what was happening, someone was visiting the wounded. Then she realized she could not find her dagger. Had she been captured? She tried to think as the lantern came nearer. Her leg began to throb, but it didn't bother her. She had just decided that it wasn't really attached at all when the lantern paused beside her. She squinted up, trying to see past the light to the person who held it. "Hmm," said a voice she thought she should remember. "Looks a bit feverish, this one."

"How do you feel?" another voice asked.

Paks worked her tongue around in her dry mouth until she could speak. "I'm — all right."

"Do you feel hot?" asked the second voice.

At the question Paks realized that she was cold, cold from the bones out. She started to answer, but a violent chill racked her body; her teeth rattled like stones in a sack. Abroad hand touched her forehead.

"Fever, all right," said the first voice. "Best dose her now, and be sure she's checked on. We'll use what we have to on this one."

"She needs to drink," said the second voice. "She's dry. Here, now — " he said to Paks. "We'll lift you up, then I want you to drink all of this."

One of them lifted her shoulders and steadied her head; ajug came to her lips. Paks sipped; it was water. Despite the shaking chill and rattling teeth, she managed to empty the jug.

"Now then," said the voice. "Swallow this." Paks had half—drained the cup before the taste reached her; she gagged and tried to spit it out, but hands restrained her. "Finish it!" said the voice, and she choked down the rest of that bitter brew. "Now a swallow of numbwine." Paks swallowed that, and the arm behind her eased her back to the straw.

"Sleep well, warrior," said the first voice. Paks felt a hand grip her shoulder, and the lantern moved away to her right; three shadowy forms moved with it.

When next she woke, a lantern was on the ground beside her, and someone was peeling off her sweat—sodden clothes. She grumbled a weak protest, but the person went on, drying her with a rough towel and then easing her into a long linen shirt. "It's fever sweat," a woman's voice said. "You need dry things so you won't chill again." A warm dry blanket covered her, then the woman held a flask to her lips. "Go on — drink this." Paks gulped it down and was asleep almost before her head hit the straw.

A hand on her shoulder and a voice calling her name roused her to sunlight dappling through green leaves. She felt solid to herself, aches and all. Stammel squatted beside her. "Come on," he said. "You've slept long enough."

Paks found her mouth too dry for speech. He offered a jug of water, and helped her raise her head to drink. She tried again; her voice was thinner than usual. "I — forgot the right strokes."

Stammel grinned. "I was going to mention that. Tir's bones, girl, a battle is no place to show off. Why do you think we teach you what strokes work?"

"I'm sorry — " she began.

"Never mind; more weapons drill for you, until you can't forget it. We don't want to lose a good private — "

"What!"

"Well, you did it in a backwards, idiotic way, but you hardly fit the 'recruit' category any more. I hope you realize you very nearly got yourself killed — and why didn't you get that wound bound up before you nearly bled out?"

"I — I didn't know it was that bad."

"Hmm. You don't come of berserker blood, do you? No? Probably just first battle fever. Vanza, by the way, is sorry he told you to advance when you were already wounded. He says he didn't see it."

"That's all right," said Paks.

"Not with me, it isn't. It's his job to keep track of you novices and get you back if you're hurt. Do you remember how many you killed?"

"I killed? No — " Paks thought a long moment. "No. There's — a lot I don't remember. It's all confused."

"Likely enough. You did well, Paks, wrong strokes and all. Now — you'll be going back with the other wounded to Valdaire in a day or so. The Duke expects we'll take out the rest of the Czardians tomorrow or the next day; they've gotten in among those hills southwest of here. Vanza will stay to help with our wounded — "

"Do I have to go back to Valdaire? Couldn't I stay here — "

Stammel shook his head. "No. The surgeons say you won't be up to a route march for several weeks. You lost a lot of blood, and the fever might come back. Don't worry, though — you'll be with us again soon." He gave her a reassuring grin as he stood up. "I'll see you again before you go. Do what they tell you, and heal fast."

Paks had hoped to prove the surgeons wrong, but she could barely hobble a few steps to the wagons when they loaded. She settled into the second of five wagons, bedded deep in straw and braced into a corner against the jolting ride. Four others shared the wagon: Callexon, a recruit in Dorrin's cohort, with his broken leg bound in splints, a veteran with a huge lump on his head who never woke up, a woman named Varne, from Cracolnya's cohort, who had been burned by flaming oil, and Effa, who had been trampled by a warhorse and would never walk. Callexon and Paks helped Vanza care for the rest at halts. Paks learned how to feed and clean a helpless person, and how to help with bandaging.

The little caravan had been winding between tall trees, shade cool on the canvas—topped wagons. Paks looked out to see whether it was a road they'd marched over, but she couldn't tell. The wagon rolled smoothly; she closed her eyes and dozed off.

She was wakened by a scream and a jolt that wrenched her leg. She opened her eyes to see Vanza hurtling out the back of their wagon, sword in hand. Out the front she could see strange horses and masked riders with black wolf's heads on their red jerkins. Something blocked her view to the right; their wagon's driver was slumped against the iron bow that held the canvas. Two arrows poked through her tunic. The mules had their ears laid flat. As Paks grabbed for the reins, heaving herself over the front of the box, the lead pair surged forward.

She heard a whirr and a thunk, and saw an arrow stand quivering in the wagon box beside her — but she had the reins. She tried to haul the driver inside with one arm; she couldn't get any leverage. The wagon lurched as the mules veered from the track. Another arm appeared beside her: the burned woman.

"I'll get her — you drive!"

"I'm trying!" Paks had driven her father's pair of plow ponies, but nothing like a hitch of four frightened mules. She had a tangle of reins, all too long, and the mules were picking up speed. Suddenly one of the red—clothed riders swerved beside the lead pair and made a grab for their reins. Paks pulled some of her handful, and the mules veered.

"Now I know what those are," she muttered, and reached to shorten the others. The rider glanced up and saw her. He wheeled his horse and came at the wagon, sword raised. Paks jerked the other pair of reins as he neared it; the mules swerved back and the wagon slammed into his horse. His sword hit the iron frame and shattered. Paks hardly noticed. The mules had broken into a panicky run. She couldn't brace herself well enough to pull them in. And her best attempts at steering had the wagon veering wildly from side to side. There were trees everywhere she looked. All around came wild screeches, yells, the whinnying of horses and braying of mules. An arrow struck one of the leaders. It screamed, and lurched ahead faster. Ahead Paks saw a gap in the trees; the mules galloped toward it, flat out. Too late, Paks saw the dip that steepened into a bank of eroded stone over a stream. The wagon bounced from stone to stone, collapsing with a broken axle in the shallow streambed; the mules were jerked to their knees by the shock. Paks, already leaning over the front of the box, flew forward. Her injured leg slammed against the back of the box, all that kept her from going headlong on top of the wheel pair. She banged her chin on the footboard, and hung there dazed.

"Quick!" said a voice. Someone pulled at her. "Help with these reins. Don't let 'em take off again."

"Mmph." Paks shortened the reins and blinked heavily. Varne held the reins she'd dropped.

"I've got the nearside reins," the woman went on. "We've got to get them up. Where's the whip?"

Paks looked around and found the whip still in its socket. She slithered over and managed to reach it. She glanced back into the wagon. Most of the hay had bounced forward in their final crash. Callexon still clung to the rear board, bow in hand, his splinted leg apparently straight. He waved at Paks.

"I've got two, so far," he said. "If you can smooth the ride a little — "

Effa and the unconscious man lay tangled in the hay. Paks turned back to the mules. All but one were standing already, quietly enough; she flicked the whip at the arrow—struck mule, and it finally struggled up, not too tangled in harness. Paks looked at Varne. "Do you want me to take those reins?"

The woman gave a wry grin that creased the salve on her blistered face. "Depends — nothing like a little excitement to clear out a dose of numbwine. Maybe I should take all the reins and let you check on the others."

Paks handed over the reins, and slid back into the hay. She found the driver first; she was dead. The veteran with the head injury snored heavily, but Effa was also dead, her stubborn face wiped clean of all expression. Paks tried to straighten the injured man on top of the hay. Her leg hurt a lot; when she looked at it, the bandages were soaked with blood. She burrowed into the hay for the medical supplies, and wrapped more bandages around it. She felt nauseated and faint, and broke into a sweat trying to pull herself back to the driver's seat.

"I see someone," called Callexon.

"We aren't going anywhere," muttered Varne. "Blast! Not even a sword among us."

Paks took out her dagger. "Calle's got the bow, and I have a dagger — "

"With those, it's not enough. I wonder how many — "

"It's ours!" yelled Callexon. "Hey — Arvid!"

Paks looked back. A limping figure in maroon and white stood at the top of the bank. "Any more alive?" he called.

"Yes — but the wagon's broken."

"So I see." The man limped down the bank, chest heaving. "What about them?" asked Callexon.

"Driven off for now. Tir's gut, I never thought even the outlaw companies would attack a sick train." He clambered up to peer in the wagon. "Hmmph. We'll have to clear you out before we can mend this. Can any of you walk?"

"I can," said Varne. Callexon shook his head.

"Let's see." Arvid climbed in and worked his way forward, checking the bodies first, then Paks's leg. "We'd best deal with that." He tore off another length of bandage and tied it tighter than Paks had managed. "Now you," he said to Varne.

"I'm no worse than I was."

"No? Let me have the reins, and see your hands." He tied the reins to the wagon frame, and looked her over. "You'll do — after a dose of numbwine. Now — " he climbed down. " — to get these mules unhitched." Paks sank back in the hay and her eyes fluttered shut. She roused to find Vanza beside her, calling her name. "Yes — what—"

"Paks, we have to move you out of this wagon. We're going to carry you in a blanket — don't struggle."

She felt the blanket tighten around her, then a swooping sensation that made her want to fight her way to her feet. Instead she lay still. Above her were voices, Vanza's among them.

"We'd better send word to the Duke — "

" — that's the fastest. And isn't there a Baron Kodaly or something near here?"

"Yes — offcast a bit; he claims this forest. Don't forget — " " — wheelwright, and a smith, and supplies — " " — never heard of anything like this in all the years — " " — Marshals or priests or something, if you can — " " — what they thought they'd get out of it — " " — and coffinwood — "

" — forward to Valdaire, too, but we can't spare another — " Paks sank into unconsciousness.

Her next waking was a confused struggle through dark corridors with shadowy opponents who faded away as she came near. Far ahead was a blur of light and a clamor of sound; she came to it in bursts of random motion. Finally her vision cleared. She was lying on the ground under a tree. The surgeon knelt by her injured leg, shaking his head.

" — don't think I can do more, my lord," he was saying. "Too much blood loss, and this additional bruising — "

Paks felt a cold twinge of fear. Was that
her
leg about which he had no hope?

"Very well," said a voice from above and behind her. "We'll try a healing. Master Vetrifuge?"

"At once, my lord." A gray—bearded man in black and green robes stooped beside the surgeon and laid his hands on Paks's leg. A warming tingle ran from his touch through the wound; it did not hurt. The surgeon bent to look.

"That's better." He looked at her face and found her watching. "She's awake, my lord. We might try the potion."

"Go ahead," said the voice behind her. The surgeon took a small flask from his robes and brought it to Paks. He slipped an arm behind her shoulders and lifted her head until she could drink.

The lip of the flask was icy cold, and the two swallows of liquid in it burned her throat, but gave her the same warming tingle as Vetrifuge's hands. Her leg did not hurt any more, nor the bruises where she'd hit the footboard. Her nausea had gone too. The surgeon's face, watching her, was clear in every line; she could see the dust on his eyelashes. He turned to look at her leg.

"Ah — that's more like it. Rest and food will be enough now. Thank you, Master Vetrifuge."

"My pleasure, Master Simmitt," said Vetrifuge, with a mocking smile. "Glad to know there are yet a few things in which wizardry can aid the science of surgery." The surgeon reddened, and seemed to swell in the neck.

"Others need your skills," said the third voice, with enough bite that both men froze an instant.

"Yes, my lord; right away."

As Paks watched them stand and walk off, a mail—clad figure moved to her side and sat. When she looked back, she was face to face with the Duke himself. Paks gulped. This close she could see a few silver hairs in his fox—red beard; his nose was sunburnt and peeling; his eyes were the gray of sword—steel, just barely blue. Her eyes dropped. His cloak was fastened with a silver medallion; it was dusty. His gloves were gray kid, sweat—stained.