“It was his last year,” he said. “He got his little bit of land two years ago, and he was going to retire last year, only this came up. It’s a shame—” Piter spat. “His oldest boy is old enough to farm that land, but he’s always been wild to join the Company. Effa, that’s his wife, is a hard-working woman. Those scum—one more year, and he’d have been home, working his own bit of land.”
Paks felt a pang of guilt—they had come so close, to help Cal Halveric, and had done nothing for their own companions. The rest of that day she marched with deepening anger, anger reflected in the eyes around her.
The next day they found the Vonja and Foss Council militia at last, drawn up facing Siniava’s lines. In the hours of daylight that remained, Paks looked over their allies. Units from all three Foss Council cities were there, distinguished by the color of their trousers and the trim on their gray tunics: red for Foss, green for Ifoss, and yellow for Fossnir. Like the Vonjans, they wore trousers tucked into soft-topped boots in the field, though at home they went bare-legged. Vonjan militia wore russet-orange tunics over black trousers. Those from Cortes Vonja had orange helmet-plumes as well, and a leaping cat in black on their tunics. In comparison, those who had come with the Duke looked shabby and travel-worn—but, Paks noted, equally ready to fight.
Across a shallow valley, Siniava’s camp was set on rising ground. In the late slanting sunlight, Paks could see troops in the familiar black and yellow, and other colors: light green, blue, and many in rough brown leather. She wondered if they would attack that afternoon; her heart leaped to think how soon Siniava might be dead, and the war over.
But overnight Siniava slipped away eastward, eluding the militia scouts who should have alerted them. The Duke came back from the council of commanders in tight-lipped fury; the militia commanders were arguing about the order of march. It was some hours before the army moved at all. They finally caught up with Siniava again at nightfall. His position was even stronger than before: rising ground sheltered from flank assaults by hummocks of broken rock.
“He’ll have bowmen in there, I don’t doubt,” said Stammel, frowning. “We can’t see ’em, and they’ll have a lovely view of us. Sun behind ’em, too. Blast those militia! Why wouldn’t they move?”
“For that matter, why didn’t they notice when he moved in the night? They said they had their scouts out and didn’t need ours.” Kefer glared across the space as if his gaze could strike a blow.
“Militia—” began Paks and stopped short. What she knew of some Vonja militia was not to be talked about.
“Well—” Stammel stretched and sighed. “The Duke won’t let ’em slip away again. We’ll have a day’s work tomorrow. Paks, make sure everyone in your file has rechecked their weapons. Vik, the same for you. And tell the other file leaders. We don’t want any more surprises than he gives us.”
By first light they stood arrayed in battle formation, watching the sky lighten behind the slope Siniava held. Paks flexed her hand on the shield grip, tested one more time the balance of her sword. She glanced down the line. At the far end, barely visible in the dimness, were the Pliunis and two cohorts of Vladi’s spears. Next a solid block of Foss Council militia—a thousand pikemen—then the Vonja militia, half pikes and half swords. The right flank was Arcolin’s and Dorrin’s cohorts, and beyond them two cohorts of Halverics. Vonja archers stood behind the left flank, and Cracolnya’s cohort and Halveric archers behind the right. Clart Cavalry, the rest of Vladi’s spears, and some five hundred mixed militia waited in reserve.
When their advance began, Paks wanted to run, wanted to charge into the enemy lines like an arrow in flight.
“Steady now!” bellowed Stammel. “Keep the lines, Tir blast you! You’ll need that strength later.” Paks forced herself to slow, shortening stride slightly and keeping the drum cadence. She willed the strength she saved to flow into her sword arm. She could feel Canna’s medallion and Saben’s stone horse on her chest. Soon, she told them. Soon. They were halfway to the enemy lines where lowered pikes awaited them. She heard the whirr of a crossbow bolt. Someone yelped, behind her. Directly ahead, the enemy wore dark blue tunics bordered in scarlet. Paks wondered where they were from. Then she heard screams from the rocks to her right, and a roar of sound as Siniava sent his army forward. The men in blue charged, keeping no formation; the lines crashed together into chaos. Paks thrust her sword into the first blue-clad body, blocked another’s slash with her shield, and drove forward.
The rest of that day the armies struggled on, hour after hour, unable to win or withdraw. The lines swayed back and forth, dissolved, reformed squad by squad. Dust choked the fighters and hid the action from their commanders—and the noise drowned out their commands. At times allies who could hardly see each other for the dust fought desperately for some minutes before they realized the error. Paks fought pikemen in blue, pikemen in black and yellow, swordsmen in brown—and nearly found herself battling a squad of green-clad swordsmen until they cried “Halverics!” She fought until she could hardly lift her sword, and still fought on, with the memory of Harek and Canna and Saben filling her mind.
At last both armies faltered. Fighters stepped back when they could, and quit driving forward. A gap opened between them; the dust settled slowly. When Paks looked up, she saw it was long past noon. She was thirsty and hungry and ached in every bone. She tried to gather her wits and help reform the cohort, but she could not see them at first. She heard the Duke’s horn call and looked around—there. Still alert and wary, she picked her way across the battlefield, littered as it was with dead and wounded fighters, to join them. Stammel was checking over her cohort as she came up. Their faces were gray with dust, sweat-streaked, with eyes like dark pits of exhaustion.
“There you are,” said Stammel, as she found her place. “Seli’s with the surgeons; he’ll be out some time. Take over for him, junior to Devlin.”
“Yes, sir.” Paks was too tired to feel any elation at the promotion.
“Take whoever you need—we’ll need water up here, and bandages—food if you can find it.”
“Yes, sir.” In the next hour, she had supplied the cohort with water and food. Other companies began to regroup; the Halverics looked almost ready to fight again. But militia wandered around in apparent confusion. She could not see the Pliunis at all, and wondered if they’d deserted. Across the field, the enemy army slowly condensed into formation. Paks’s bones ached as she thought about another battle. But it was late afternoon before the field was cleared, and neither army moved from its position. As the sun slipped westward, Paks began to feel chilled in her sweat-damp tunic. Her nose itched; she rubbed it on the rim of her shield. She saw Arcolin ride to meet and speak with a messenger in Foss Council gray, then he rode back. The trees behind them threw long shadows that crept across the field; their own shadows loomed tall as giants. Still nothing happened, and it was dusk.
That night Paks wondered if corporals and sergeants ever slept; she was busy until her turn on guard with things she had never noticed corporals doing. Checking on the wounded, counting weapons retrieved from the field, issuing new weapons or clothes to those who’d lost theirs in battle… an endless list of chores awaited her. That night, too, assassins slipped through the lines, trying to kill both the Duke and the Halveric. They succeeded with the captain-general of the Foss Council militia. Paks and Jenits captured an enemy trying to sneak through the lines in the confusion of the assassins’ attack; she turned him over to the watch captain, and never heard what happened to him.