On the fourth day, they sighted a large mass of troops moving slowly northeast, and followed them for several days until they found what they’d begun to suspect: these were the Falsith and Semnath reinforcements, already headed home. The Duke turned them south, toward Fallo. The next day they intercepted a courier; within an hour the news ran through the column. Fallo had closed its gates to the Honeycat, and Ganarrion was chasing him down the Imefal. He had fewer than seven hundred men left, and those were lean and travelworn.
“He’ll cut through the forest,” said Vik, “and head for the coast. What else can he do?”
“Try to get to the Immer and go downriver; that might work.”
“Does he have any troops left at Immervale?” asked Paks.
“He won’t have any troops anywhere after they hear about the last few weeks.”
They were marching as they talked, angling south and west to block any move to Immervale.
“But what if he crosses the Imefal and gets into the forest?” Paks did not want to trail Siniava into another forest trap.
Arcolin, riding beside them, grinned down. “He won’t.”
“But—”
“You remember Alured?” said Arcolin. Heads nodded. “He’s why Siniava can’t cut through the forest. He’d need Alured’s permission and guidance. And Alured—well, he’s finding it profitable to oppose Siniava.”
“But, sir, he’s a pirate,” objected Rauf. “He could be playing both sides.”
“He could. But he’s smart. He can see that Siniava’s beaten—he’ll choose the winning side, I expect. Especially since our Duke offered something he wants.”
“What’s that, sir?”
Arcolin laughed. “I can’t tell you that now. But it’s what he left the sea for, and he thinks we have it to give. Perhaps we do.”
Day after day they marched toward Immervale as their couriers kept contact with Ganarrion’s horsemen. Two days running rain slowed them—the Sobanai hirstar had been right about the roads—and finally they gave up and traveled the fields and pastures. Paks felt she had a permanent crick in her neck from staring off to the south all the time.
Paks had lost track of the days they’d marched when they came over a rise to see a small, straggling body of troops off to their left. And ahead, on top of a low ridge in front of them, were the banners of Vonja and Foss Council. They were squarely between the enemy and Immervale. The enemy army turned sharp south, and drew together.
“Now where’s he going?” asked Paks.
“The river. There’s nothing down there, but—” Stammel stopped and looked thoughtful.
“What?”
“I’ll ask the captain—I thought I remembered something.”
By nightfall it was obvious what Siniava had been making for: an old and partly ruined citadel reminiscent of Cortes Andres, built high on a rock bluff where the Imefal met the Immer. A great stone bridge spanned the Imefal below the citadel walls. Siniava had posted a rear guard here, but as the combined mercenary and militia forces came nearer, they withdrew before the archers were in range. Arcolin led his cohort across the bridge first, and swung right around the citadel, up a slope of broken rock to the forest that lay beyond its massive walls on the south side.
There they found their advance scouts talking to a company of archers in russet leather. Alured the Black, teeth flashing in his dark face as he grinned at Arcolin, waved the captain over.
“So—he’s well in the trap, eh? Where’s your Duke?”
“Coming,” said Arcolin. “How has it gone here?”
“Easily. He wanted nothing but to put a wall between himself and trouble.”
“You could not keep him out?”
“Out? But, Captain, your Duke wants him alive. I’d have had to kill him to hold him—if I could.”
“I see.” Arcolin looked up at the walls. “Well, he’s caught now, and if we have a stiff fight to get in, still—”
“It is about that, Captain, that I must speak to your Duke.”
Paks heard no more before Stammel moved them farther around the citadel, to meet the troops coming the other way. Soon a solid line circled the walls, and camps were laid out at a little distance.
Paks was waiting in line to eat when she caught sight of a tall man in Marshal’s robes coming along the lines from the Vonja position. With him was another in bright red over shining mail—the paladin, thought Paks. They were chatting with different soldiers as they moved along. Paks didn’t know if she wanted to talk with them or not. What little she remembered about her conversation with the High Marshal was unsettling. She saw Stammel smile as they spoke to him and looked away.
“Ah—Paksenarrion.” They were in front of her. It would be rude to ignore them. Paks met the High Marshal’s eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir Fenith, here wanted to meet you—awake, that is. He is the paladin you fought beside in Sibili.”
Fenith had dark hair and wide brown eyes. He grinned at Paks. “I’ve been wanting to thank you. Your help came at the right time.”
Paks felt herself blushing. She wished she could remember what had happened. Without the memory, she could not feel she had done anything.
“But tell us,” Fenith went on, “how has the fighting been, where you were?”
They listened closely, and encouraged her to continue when she faltered, as she told about the weeks of pursuit and fighting. Not until then, telling it, did Paks realize how short the time had been. She felt they’d been marching forever, yet the spring green of the trees was just darkening. She had seen newborn calves even this past week. Paks wondered where the High Marshal and paladin had been. She did not dare to ask.
“I’ll be glad to see the end of this,” said Fenith, when she had finished. “It was necessary, but these realms will suffer for it.”
“Yes.” The High Marshal’s face settled into grim lines. “Evil has been wakened that will take much work to lay. And not only by Siniava.” Paks felt a threat she did not understand. He looked at her, and smiled. “Does it seem strange to you that a High Marshal of Gird and a paladin should be regretting a war?”
“A little—yes—”
“Remember what I told you, in Sibili. Gird fought as a protector, to ward his people against evil, both natural and supernatural. Not for plunder or pay—” Paks felt a flicker of anger. “No, I’m not insulting your Duke or you; I know his cause in this. But you’ve seen the ruined farms and homeless wandering folk. That will take long years to heal, that and the breach of law and trust that lets brigands roam as they will. That’s what we want to see an end of.” Paks slid her gaze to the paladin; he smiled at her.
“High Marshal, Paksenarrion is our ally—not a novice yeoman in the barton. She fights for honor in this—as do we.” Paks relaxed a little. The paladin, she thought, was much friendlier than the High Marshal. “Tell me,” he asked, “have you had any help from the medallion you carry? Do you still wear it?”
“Yes, sir, I do wear it. I’m uncertain what the help would be like. I remember the High Marshal telling me it saved my life, but I don’t remember that day at all.”
“Do you ever feel anything—warmth, or cold, or such?”
Paks considered telling him about the first time she’d handled it, when Canna was wounded, but decided against it. Not in front of the High Marshal. Nothing had happened recently. She forced down the memory of that weight on her chest before the ambush—she’d been very tired. She shook her head.