Sheepfarmers Daughter (3 page)

"We don't use polearms often," said Stammel. "We're a fast-moving, flexible infantry, and swords are better for that. But we do train with 'em and we use them sometimes. So. First you'll learn to carry something that long without getting all tangled up in it. Remember those reeds we gathered last week you were so curious about? Well, they've been drying in the storelofts, and you'll each take one."

Soon they were back in formation, each with a twelve-foot reed in hand. Stammel had shown them how to hold the mock spears upright; now he gave the command to move forward. Five of the reeds tipped backwards. The butt on one tripped the recruit in front of the careless carrier. When he stumbled, his reed swung out of control and hit the file leader on the head.

"Pick 'em up—don't stop, come on! You've got to hold them firmly—don't let 'em waver. Keep in formation, there. Stay in step or you'll trip each other."

The reeds dipped and wavered as if in a windstorm as Stammel led the unit to the far side of the parade grounds. By the time he called a halt, most faces were red.

"Now you see what I meant. The only easy thing about spear work is how easy it is to mess up the whole formation. If you ever see one of the heavy polearm companies, like Count Vladi's, you'll see how it should be done. Now — you've got to learn how to shift those things about. Together, or you'll all be tangled together. So just holding them upright, we'll practice turning in place." He called for a right face. Two recruits let their reeds lag behind the turn, and the tips bumped neighboring reeds. "No! Hold them absolutely steady when you turn. Keep 'em straight. Try it again."

After a dizzying few minutes of facing left, right, and about, the unit could turn in place without any wavering of the reeds. Stammel wiped his face and glanced at the corporals. They were trying not to grin. Far across the parade grounds, he could see another unit practicing. It looked worse than his, he thought.

"Next step is the slope," he said. "Don't move anything until I've explained. First, you'll put the butt a handspan behind the right foot of the man in front of you; file leaders, that's an armspan in front of you. Then slowly tilt the reed back over your shoulder — you have to be careful not to let the butt slip forward. Then your left hand grips two spans below the right, and you lift it onto your shoulder. That gives enough clearance in front for marching. Don't let it swing free; use your grip to hold the butt end down. Bosk, show them how to do it."

Bosk came forward and took Paksenarrion's reed from her hands. He held it upright, and demonstrated the facing movements they had practiced: the end of the reed, far over his head, scarcely quivered when he turned. Then he loosened his grip and let the butt end slide toward the ground, tilting the reed as it slid so that it grounded an armspan in front of him. While his right hand steadied the shaft, his left hand reached below and lifted; the reed rose, keeping the same steep slant. When his left hand reached his right, he shifted the right quickly to the lower grip.

"That's the position you want," said Stammel. "Now, show 'em how to move with it."

Bosk strode forward, the reed steady on his shoulder, not waving or dipping with his stride. When he turned, they could hear the whirr as the end of the reed sliced the air. He made a square, then returned the reed to an upright position and handed it back to Paks.

"Ready — " said Stammel. "Ground the butts — " Paksenarrion felt the length of reed quivering as she tried to let it slide slowly through her hands, aiming the butt somewhat ahead of her right foot. It bumped the ground.

"It's too close to you," said Bosk. "Slide it out further." Paks slid the butt along the ground until Bosk nodded.

"Now tilt 'em back along your shoulders," said Stammel. Paks let the top of the reed fall back slowly. The butt came off the ground, but she pushed it back before anyone said anything. Some were not so lucky. Stammel and the corporals were yelling at those who let the reeds get out of control. At last all were in the correct position.

"Left hands down," said Stammel. "And lift, but keep it under control. NO!" he roared. Paks heard a smack and a yelp of pain as someone's reed landed on someone's head. Her own wavered as she tried to shift the grip of her left hand. "Steady!" Paks let her eyes slide sideways to see how others in the front rank were doing. Everyone seemed to be in the right position. "Now — bring them back vertical again. That's right. Now slope 'em back — no — No! Control it, don't let it get away from you."

They repeated this exercise again and again until the whole unit could shift the reeds from vertical to sloped position without getting out of position. Paksenarrion's arms ached, and her palms tingled unpleasantly where the reed slid back and forth.

"We're going to march back with them at slope," said Stammel. "And you'd best not look as foolish as the other units, either. Anyone who drops a reed — " he scowled at them.

They managed to make it back to the courtyard before the others, without dropping anything but sweat. By the time the other units were in and halted, their own reeds were safely on the ground.

Gradually their weapons skills improved. They took fewer — but never no — thumps from Siger, and the spears seemed more manageable. After Paks took the skin off the inside of her left arm during archery practice, she learned to keep her elbow braced correctly. They all suffered a variety of lumps, cuts and scrapes, but the only serious injury in Paks's unit was Mikel Falsson, who fell from the wall while working on repairs and broke both legs. He recovered, but with a bad limp, and eventually went to work in the armory.

"He was lucky not to lose either leg," said Devlin. "That was as nasty a break as I've seen." Paks shuddered, remembering the white ends of bone sticking out.

"If there'd been a Marshal here — " began Effa. Devlin interrupted.

"No. Don't say that. Not here. Not in this Company."

Effa looked puzzled. "But I thought Phelan's Company recruited mostly Girdsmen — doesn't it?"

"Once it did, but not now."

"But when I joined, and said I was a yeoman, Stammel said it was good."

"Sergeant Stammel, to you. Oh yes, we're glad to get Girdsmen—the more the better. But there'll be no Marshals here, and no grange or barton."

"But why — ?"

"Effa, leave be." Arñe tapped her arm. "It's not our concern."

It was not in Effa's nature to leave be. She worried the question any time the corporals and Stammel were not around, wondering why and why not, and trying to convert those (such as Paksenarrion, Saben and Arñe) who seemed to her virtuous but unenlightened. Paks found these attempts at conversion annoying.

"I've got my own gods," she said finally. "And that's enough for me. My family has followed the same gods for generations, and I won't change. Besides, however good a fighter Gird was, he can't have turned into a god. That's not where gods come from." And she turned her back on Effa and walked off.

Meanwhile, she and Saben and Vik discussed religions in a very different way, fascinated by each other's background.

"Now my family," said Saben. "We were horse nomads once — my father's father's grandfather. Now we raise cattle, but we still carry a bit of hoof with us, and dance under the forelock and tail at weddings and funerals."

"Do you worship — uh — horses?" asked Vik.

"No, of course not. We worship Thunder-of-horses, the north wind, and the dark-eyed Mare of Plenty, though my father says that's really the same as Alyanya, the Lady of Peace. Then my uncle's family — I've seen them dance to Guthlac — "

"The Hunter?"

"Yes. My father always goes home then. He doesn't approve."

"I should think not." Vik shivered.

"City boy," teased Paks. "We gather the sheep in from the wild hunt, but we know Guthlac has great power."

"I know that. It's
what
power — brrr. Now in my family, we worship the High Lord, Alyanya, and Sertig and Adyan — "

"Who are they?" asked Paks.

"Sertig's the Maker, surely you know that. Craftsmen follow him. Adyan is the Namer —
true
- Namer — of all things. My father's a harper, and harpers deal much with names."

"You're a harper's son?" asked Saben. Vik nodded. "But you've no voice at all!"

"True enough," said Vik, shrugging. "And no skill with a harp either, though I had one in my hands as soon as I could pluck a string. My father tried to make a scribe of me, and I wrote as badly as I played. And got into trouble, liking to fight. So — " he looked at his hands. "So it became — wise — for me to move away, and make use of the skill I did have."

"Which is?" asked Saben slyly.

In an instant Vik had turned, gotten his hold, and flipped Saben onto his back. "Throwing down great lummoxes of cattle farmers, for one." Saben laughed and rolled back up to a sitting position.

"I see your point," he said cheerfully. "But will it work against a thousand southern spearmen?"

"It won't have to. You and Paks will be up front, you lucky tall ones, and you can protect me."

After several weeks of switching places in formation, they received their permanent assignments. "Permanent until you do something stupid," Bosk said. Paks, to her delight, was made file leader. She still had problems with Korryn, who teased and pestered her whenever the corporals weren't around, but aside from that she had returned to her earlier pleasure in being in an army. She did wish that brawling were not forbidden. She was sure she could flatten Korryn, and ached for a chance. But after the formal punishment of three recruits from Kefer's unit who had livened a dull rainy afternoon by starting a fight, she was determined to keep her temper. She did not want to lose her new position.

One afternoon a troop of soldiers in the Duke's colors rode up from the southeast, and were passed by the gate guards into the courtyard. The fifteen men, under command of a yellow-haired corporal, were immensely impressive to the recruits. And they knew it, and swaggered accordingly.

"Get the quartermaster," the corporal ordered a recruit from another unit, and the recruit scurried away. Paksenarrion, taking her turn at cut-and-thrust practice with Siger, was tempted to turn and look, but the Armsmaster brought her attention back with a thump in the ribs.

"When you're fighting, fight," he said grumpily. "You be gazing around at everything on earth and heaven, and you'll be buzzard-bait soon enough."

Paks concentrated on trying to slash past his defenses, but the old man was more than a match for her, and talked on without a break as she grew more and more breathless. "Eh, now, that's too wide a backswing — what'd I tell you? See, you left your side open again. Somebody'll plant a blade in there when you're careless. Quicker, lass, quicker! You ought to be quicker nor an old man like me. Look now, I gave you an opening wide as a barn door for a thrust, and you used that same wide cut. Stop now — "

Paks lowered her wooden blade, gasping for breath.

"You're strong enough," Siger said. "But strong's not the whole game. You've got to be quick, and you've got to think as fast as you move. Now let's break the thrust stroke down into its parts again." He demonstrated, then had Paks go through the motions several times. "Let's try that again. Don't stand flat-footed: you need to move."

This time practice seemed to go more smoothly, and at last Paks's blade slipped past his to touch his side. "Ah-h," he said. "That's it." Twice more that afternoon she got a touch on him, and was rewarded with one of his rare smiles. "But you still must be quicker!" was his parting comment.

It seemed to Paksenarrion that events had moved with blinding speed. Only that afternoon she had been a file leader, and Siger had praised her. Now she was shivering on the stone sleeping bench of an underground cell, out of sight and sound of everyone, cold, hungry, frightened, and in more trouble that she'd dreamed possible. Even with cold stone under her, and the painful drag of chains on her wrists and ankles, she could hardly believe it had really happened. How could she be in such trouble for something someone else had done? Her head throbbed, and her ears still rang from the fight. Every separate muscle and bone had a distinctive and private pain to add.

It was so quiet that she could clearly hear the blood rushing through her head, and the clink of the chains when she shifted on the bench rang loudly. And the dark! She'd never been afraid of the dark, but this was a different dark: a shut-in, thick, breathless dark. How would she know when dawn came? Her breath quickened, rasping in the silence, as she tried to fight down panic. Surely they wouldn't leave her down here to die? She clamped her teeth against a cry that fought its way up from her chest. It came out as a soft groan. She could not — could
not
— stand this place any longer. Another wave of nausea over-came her, and she felt hastily for the bucket between her feet. She had nothing left to heave into it, but felt better knowing it was there. When the spasm passed, she wiped her mouth on her tattered sleeve.

Her breathing had just begun to ease again, when she thought she heard a sound. She froze. What now? The sound grew louder, but still so muffled by stone walls and thick door that she could not define it. Rhythmic — was it steps? Was the long night already over? She saw a gleam of light above the heavy door; it brightened. Something clinked against the door; it grated open, letting in a flood of yellow torchlight. Paks blinked against it, as the torchbearer set his light in a holder just inside the cell door. Then he pulled the door closed, and turned to face her, leaning on the wall under the torch. It was Stammel: but a Stammel so forbidding that Paks dared not say a word, but stared at him in silence. After a long pause, during which he looked her up and down, he sighed and shook his head.

"I thought you had more sense, Paks," he said heavily. "Whatever he said, you shouldn't have hit him. Surely you — "

"It wasn't what he said, sir — it was what he
did
— "

"The story is that he asked you to bed him, and teased you when you wouldn't. And then you jumped him, and — "

"No, sir! That's not — "

"Paksenarrion, this is serious. You'll be lucky if you aren't turned out
tinisi turin
— you know what
that
is, sheepfarmer's daughter — " Paks nodded, remembering the old term for a clean-shorn lamb, also used for running off undesirables shaved and naked. "Lies won't help."

"But, sir — "

"Let me finish. If what he says is true, the best you can hope for — the very best — is three months with the quarriers, and one more chance with a new recruit unit, since
I
haven't taught you what you should know. If you say he's lying, you'll have to convince us that a veteran of five campaign seasons, a man with a good reputation in the Company, would be so stupid in the first place, and lie about it in the second. Why should we believe you? I've known you — what? Nine weeks? Ten? I've known him nearly six years. Now if your story is true, and if you can prove it some way, tell me. I'll tell the captain tomorrow, and we'll see. If not, just be quiet, and pray the captain will count your bruises into your punishment."

"Yes, sir." Paks glanced up at Stammel's stern face. It was even worse than she'd thought, if Stammel thought she could be lying.

"Well? Which is it to be?"

Paks looked down at her bruised hands. "Sir, he asked me to come to the back of the room — he didn't say why, but he was a corporal, so I went. And then he took my arm — " she faltered and her right arm quivered. "And tried to get me to bed him. And I said no, and he wouldn't let go, but went on — " She glanced at Stammel again. His expression did not change; her eyes dropped. "He said he was sure I wasn't a virgin, not with my looks, and that I must've bedded — someone — to be a file leader — "

"Say that again! He said what?"

"That I must have — earned that position — on my back, he said."

"Did he say with whom?" asked Stammel, his voice grimmer than before.

"No, sir."

Stammel grunted. "Go on, then."

"I — I was angry — about that — "

"So you hit him."

"No, sir." Paks shook her head for emphasis, but the nausea took her again, and she heaved repeatedly into the bucket. Finally she looked up, trembling with the aftermath. "I didn't hit him, but I did get angry because that's not how I got it, and I started to - to say bad things — " She heaved again." — that I learned from my cousin," she finished.

"Drink this," said Stammel, handing her a flask. "If you're going to heave so much, you need something down, ban or no."

Paks swallowed the cold water gratefully. "Then, sir, he was angry for what I said — "

"It couldn't have been
that
bad — what did you say?"

"Pargsli spakin i tokko — "

"D'you know what that means, girl?"

"No - my cousin said it was bad."

A flicker of amusement relaxed Stammel's face for a moment. "It is. I suggest you learn what curses mean before you say them. Then what?"

"He clapped a hand over my mouth, and tried to push me down on the bunk." She took another swallow of water.

"Yes?"

"So I bit his hand, to make him let go, and he did and I got free. But he was between me and the door, and he took off his belt — "

"Did he say anything?"

"Yes, sir. He threatened to beat me, to tame me, and then he swung the belt, and I ran at him, trying to get away. I thought I could push past him, maybe, the way I did with my father. But he grabbed my throat — " her hand rose, unconsciously, " — and hit my face, and - and I couldn't breathe. I thought he would kill me, and I
had
to fight. I had to breathe — "

"Hmmph. That sounds more like the recruit I thought I had. Tell the rest of it."

"I - it's hard to remember. I broke the throat hold, but I couldn't get away, he was so fast and strong. We were on the floor, mostly, and he was yelling at me — hitting — I remember feeling weaker, and then someone was holding my arms, and someone was hitting me. I suppose that was after you came, though wasn't it?"

Stammel's face wore a puzzled frown. "No one hit you after I got there. When I came in Korryn was hanging onto you, Stephi was lying on the floor, and Korryn said he'd just then been able to pull you off. Captain Sejek wanted to hit you, all right, but he didn't." Stammel sighed. "If you're telling the truth, girl, I can see why you fought. But Korryn was there, or says he was, and his story is against yours, as well as Stephi."

"He was there, at the beginning, but he just laughed. I - I am telling the truth, sir, really I am." Paks swallowed noisily. "But I can see why you wouldn't believe me, if you've known him — Stephi? — so long. Only, that's what really happened, sir, no matter what Korryn says."

"If it were only your word against Korryn's — " Stammel paused and stretched, then shifted his weight to the other leg. "Paks have you bedded anyone here?"

"No, sir."

"You've been asked, surely?"

"Yes, sir, but I haven't. I don't want to. And I asked Maia — "

"Maia?"

"The quartermaster's assistant. I asked her if I had to, and she said no, but not to make a fuss about being asked, like I might at home."

"Has Korryn bothered you about it?" Paks began to tremble, remembering Korryn's constant teasing, taunting attempts to force her into bed with him. "He's asked me," she whispered.

"Paks, look at me." She looked up. "Has he done more than ask?"

"He - he has sometimes."

"Why didn't you say something to me or Bosk?"

Paks shook her head. "I thought I wasn't supposed to — to make a fuss. I thought I was supposed to take care of it — "

"You aren't supposed to act like a new wench in an alehouse, no. But no fighter should have to put up with that sort of thing from a companion. When you refuse, they're supposed to drop it; there's plenty enough that are willing. I wish I'd known; we'd have put a stop to that." He paused briefly. "Are you a sisli?"

"I - I don't know what that is. He — the corporal — asked me that too."

"Like Barranyi and Natzlin in Kefer's unit. A woman who beds women. Are you?"

"No, sir. Not that I know of. Does it matter?"

"Not really." Stammel shifted his weight again and sighed. "Paks, I want to believe you. You've been a good recruit so far. But I just don't know — and even if I believe you, there's the captain. Sejek is — umph. You're in more trouble than most people find in a whole enlistment."

Paks felt tears sting her eyes. It was hopeless. If Stammel still thought she could be lying, no one else would believe her. She thought briefly of Saben, who had left before the fight broke out — why hadn't he stayed? Her belly turned again, and she heaved the water she'd drunk into the bucket. She hurt all over, and tomorrow could only be worse. A sob shook her body, then another one. She tried to choke them back.

"Wishing you were back on the farm, Paks?" Stammel's voice was almost gentle.

Her head came up in surprise. "No, sir. I just wish - I wish it hadn't happened, or that you'd been there to see it all."

"Still want to be a soldier, even after this?"

"Of course! It's what I've always wanted, but - but if everyone thinks I'm lying— I'll never have the chance." She retched again.

"Paks, is all this heaving from being in trouble, or what?"

"I - I think it's from being hit, here — " She gestured at her midriff. "It hurts there."

"I thought you just had a black eye and a bloody nose — let's see, can you sit up straighter?" Stammel moved away from the light to her side. "No, keep looking toward the light. Hmm — that whole side of your face is swollen. I can't even see your eyelashes. Your nose is broken, certainly." He touched the swelling very gently. Paks winced. "That
could
be from more than one blow. Do your ears ring?"

"Yes, sir — but it comes and goes."

"What's this gash on your shoulder? He didn't have a blade, did he?"

"No. I think that was the belt buckle. My father's used to do that."

"I wish this torchlight was brighter and steadier," grumbled Stammel. "Lift your chin. Looks like your throat is bruised, too. Does it hurt to breathe?"

"Just a little."

"Well, where else are you hurt?"

"In - in front. It all hurts. And my legs."

"Stand up, then. I'll want a look at the damage."

Paksenarrion tried to stand, but her legs had stiffened after hours of sitting on the cold stone. At first she could not move at all, but when Stammel gave her an arm to pull up on, she staggered up, still unable to straighten. She could not repress a short cry of pain.

"Here — lean against the wall if you aren't steady." Stammel swung her around and braced her against the wall opposite the torch. "Tir's bones, I don't see how you could have half-killed him in the shape you're in." Then he paused, glancing down at his arm and then at the stone bench. "It
is
blood. What did they — "

Paks felt herself slipping down the wall; she could not seem to hold herself up.

"Here, now — don't fall," said Stammel. The warning came too late. Paks lay curled on her side, heaving helplessly.

"I'm - I'm sorry — " she gasped finally.

"Lie still then. Let me look — " Stammel raised her tunic. Even in the flickering torchlight he could see the welts and dried blood on her thighs. Her tunic was ripped in several places. Stammel swore suddenly, words Paks had heard from her cousin. Then his voice softened. "Paks, I'm going to talk to the captain. We'll get this straightened out somehow. You can't be faking these injuries, and their story doesn't hold up when you're too weak to stand." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Now, let's get you back on the bench. I'll try to get the captain to let me have Maia see you, but don't count on it." He half-lifted her. "Come on — help me. You're too big for me to lift alone."

Paks struggled up and finally made it onto the bench with Stammel's help.

"I'll be back to check again tonight, and of course in the morning. You'll be all right, though miserable. Try not to move around — that may help the heaves — and don't panic. We won't forget you." With that Stammel took down the torch, opened the door, and left, taking the light with him. Paks lay in the darkness, not quite sure whether she felt better or worse about her prospects.