Paks shook her head fiercely. “Sun’s in our eyes. They’ve got the better light. Think: how far can you see a shepherd’s breakfast firesmoke? There could be a dozen eyes looking out of that gap, from the shadow, and we’d never know it. Be still.”
Someone cursed, but softly, and they rested as best they could in the positions Paks had chosen for them. The sun rose higher. Paks had to force herself to stay still. She wanted to walk back and forth, from post to post. Was this why the captains had so often walked the line before battle? She could hardly believe that she, the same old Paks, was commanding a group like this—a group of strangers.
She looked again at the keep, which seemed a different shape as the shadows shifted with the sun, and wondered if the magician who built it had, indeed, left a curse. A light wind sifted through the trees, shuffling the leaves and making the shadows dance. She wondered if the militia had left Brewersbridge on time. They were supposed to have left just enough time for her to get her group into position. It had been too long. She squinted at the sun, feeling the sweat spring out on her neck, chill as it was. She swallowed against the fear, and glared around at the others. Someone had shifted carelessly, and a rock clattered. She turned back to the keep. Nothing moved there but a cloud of midges over the moat, a shimmer in the sun.
At last she heard the rhythmic noise of marching men and horses. She eased forward to the edge of the wood, trying to see the north side of the keep, where the forest left a wider opening. The sound came louder, eddying in the uncertain wind. Now she could hear it distinctly. A movement in the distance caught her eye. A horn call swam through the air, mellow and long. She looked back at the keep. There: a flicker, quick as a lizard’s tail, on the highest part of the ruin. The horn call came again, louder. She could hear a bellowed command from the oncoming force. She looked back at her group; they were all alert. Mal grinned at her, shifting his broad shoulders. She realized that he had moved forward, coming between her and the others. But she had no time to think of that.
The front of the captain’s “show of force” was out of the trees now. She could not tell from this distance how many of them were illusion. Nor could she tell which was Zinthys. None of them wore the kind of robes she had seen on him so far.
“There’s one,” said Mal, so softly she almost missed hearing it. Then she, too, saw the brown-clad man peering from a low gap in the keep wall. He passed through, carrying a plank, and laid it on the edge of the moat. It extended to one of the fallen blocks farther out. He moved out onto the plank, and at once another came, this one in a heavy mailed shirt, dragging another plank. The second plank bridged the moat from the stone to the near shore. A third man appeared, carrying bows, and the three slipped across the bridge and spread to cover it. After a glance upslope, they concentrated on the corners of the keep.
Noise from the north side increased. Paks could not tell if it was a fight, or just noise. Suddenly a gout of flame rose up, and a thunderous boom echoed across the woods. Birds flew up screaming. The bowmen below did not flee, though one of them half-stood, to be pulled back by the others. Another gout of flame, and another, followed. The noise was appalling, even though Zinthys had warned them. A deer broke cover and bounded through the woods, crashing and snorting. A hurrying file of men slipped from the gap and teetered across the bridge. Paks saw the glint of mail on most of them; they had their swords out, and bows slung to their backs. She counted as they came, hoping that Sir Felis’s estimate was right.
She knew the last had come when the bowmen moved. The entire group—just over a score—started up the hill, as she had expected. The archers stayed in the rear, and two swordsmen took the lead, several strides ahead of the rest. Paks frowned. With that spread, some of them could escape, if they were quick. She thought they would be quick.
She turned to the stocky bowman. “Shoot low. Just in front of ’em.”
“Why?” But he complied. Two arrows thudded into the ground, and the two brigands in front slowed and peered up the slope.
“So they’ll bunch up,” said Paks. “As they are now.”
He gave her a quick look. “Hunh. That’s quite a trick. Where’d you learn—?” But they were all together now, and Paks called for another volley, from this man and the Girdish archers as well. Four of the brigands fell; Paks saw one of them struggle up and begin to crawl away along the slope. The others, furious and frightened, charged up the slope.
The bowmen shot as fast as they could, hitting seven more of the brigands before Paks led the rest of her group to break the charge. Some of those fell; others turned aside, limping, or jerked the arrows free and kept with the main group. She hardly noticed; in the lead, full of the old excitement, she met the first brigand with a sweeping blow that broke his sword at the hilt. He jerked out his dagger and thrust, but she was past him, the sword carving into another man’s side. A blade she didn’t see caught her in the ribs; she felt the blow, but rolled off it to take another brigand in the neck. She heard the yeomen of Gird call on their patron as they followed her. But compared to the battles she’d been in with the Duke’s Company, this was short and easy. Almost before she knew it, the clash of weapons ceased.
She looked around. Arvid Semminson was wiping the blade of his narrow sword; it was stained to the hilt. One of the merchants nursed an wounded arm; his bowman stood guard over him, dagger drawn. Mal had one brigand down, and was tying his arms; two of the other yeomen were guarding the few who could stand. Ten of the brigands were down, dead or dying of serious wounds. In the distance, Paks thought she saw two or three huddled forms limping away. None of her own force seemed badly hurt, barring the merchant. Paks walked over to look. He had a long, deep gash on the arm, not a killing wound, though he seemed dazed. She hadn’t expected much from him anyway.
“What now, Paks?” asked Mal. “Do we kill them, or take them back, or what?”
Paks glared at him, before she remembered the agreement. For an instant she had thought he might seriously mean to kill the prisoners. In that moment, the other merchant spoke.
“We ought to kill them.”
“No.” Paks shook her head for emphasis. “We’ll take them to Sir Felis. He’s the Count’s representative.”
“But they killed—”
“We’ve killed enough. How many do you want?” Paks turned away, and squatted beside Mal’s prisoner. She recognized the man who had led the others up the hill. He was bleeding from a cut on his head that had split the leather helm, and from a deep gash in one leg. “Better bandage that,” she said to Mal, who nodded. She wiped the blood off her own sword and sheathed it. The prisoner watched her, dark eyes alert. He flinched when Mal touched his leg, then held still as it was bandaged. Paks said nothing, looking around at the others as she caught her breath. Then she met the prisoner’s eyes.
“Your name?” she asked.
“Why should I tell you? We’re just going to be killed—”
“Probably,” said Paks. “Any reason why not?”
“Reasons!” His mouth worked and he spat blood. “Being poor’s reason enough—that and going looking for work. That’ll get you killed, that will—going along, trying to find a place, and nothing—nothing.” He twisted his neck, wincing, to look around.
Paks felt an obscure sympathy she had not expected with this weatherworn robber. He did not look as if he’d enjoyed his life. For that matter, he didn’t look as if he’d profited by it. “How many of you were there?”
“They’re the lucky ones,” he said sourly. “Dead and over with. Gods above, what chance did we have—”
“Chance?” rumbled Mal, coming back to confront him. “About the chance you gave Eris at her farm, I suppose. Poor, eh? You think we’re all rich?”