All at once a sharp prick, like a thorn, stung her chest. She jerked her eyes open, realizing in that instant that she’d been almost asleep. She looked quickly around and saw nothing. She started to relax, and realized that she should have seen at least one guard, even in the gloom. She pushed herself up. The nearest guard had slumped to the ground. Paks felt a trickle of fear, like icewater, down her spine. The hairs rose on her arms. She shook the guard—a Halveric, she remembered—and the woman grunted.
Paks pinched her arm and muttered, “Wake up! Trouble.” The woman stiffened, grabbed Paks’s arm, and started to rise.
“What happened?”
“Magic, I think.” Paks drew her sword as she spoke. “Pray we’re not too late. Draw your blade.”
“The others?”
“Wait—we’ll have to wake them, but—” She peered toward the tunnel mouth again. A dark shadow seemed to flow out of it. “There—see?”
“Falk’s oath in gold! But what do we—?”
“Wake the others on this side; I’ll go across. If they think we’re all asleep, maybe they’ll be careless. Watch—don’t sit down—be sure the torchlighters are ready.”
A glimmer of starlight lit the rockface, as Paks edged around in the trees to find the other guards. She could see another shadow, and another, emerge from the tunnel. She found a pair of guards and woke them, then another pair. Where was Sunnot? More shadows emerged, to cluster a few yards from the entrance. Paks had most of the guards awake; she could only hope they would stay so. She wished she knew which of those shadows was the wizard, and which the Honeycat.
The shadows took up a blunt arrowhead formation, and Paks tensed. Which way would they move? Her left hand fumbled for Canna’s medallion without her thought, and it seemed to twitch left. She moved from the trees along the rockface, where she could cut off a retreat to the tunnel.
A last cloaked figure emerged, and the entire group moved slowly westward toward the trees. Paks took a deep breath and yelled, a wordless cry of mingled anger and triumph. Torches flared around the perimeter; guards stepped forward. She spared a thought of relief, that the guards had stayed awake, as she charged the group of fugitives. They turned, forming a hollow ring, blades whistling in the air as they drew them.
These were the Honeycat’s bodyguard: faces tattooed in garish patterns, bladetips dark with poison even in dancing torchlight. In seconds the woods rang with the clash of swords, and the cries of the fighters. Paks swept her blade in joyful strokes across the enemy blades, exultant. Trick me, will you, she thought. Ha! She glanced past her opponents to those sheltered by the ring. One was a man with a narrow dark beard—surely a wizard. The other must be Siniava. Except—Paks nearly missed a parry—except that it was a woman. Very obviously a woman, in a thin silk gown. Shapechange, thought Paks, astonished, and pressed her attack.
The fighter in front of her went down: one of the guards had gotten a lateral stroke. More were down. The mercenaries surged forward, overrunning the rest, to grapple with the two in the center. They went down in a heap of bodies, each eager to grab hold. Paks, an instant too late, stood panting beside them. She rubbed her corselet absently; her chest itched. A tingle ran down her left arm, as if someone had jabbed her elbow. She whirled, searching the shadows, and stiffened as she caught a movement along the base of the rockface. She relaxed: only an animal. An instant later she charged, sword high. What animal would be out in the open with all that noise and light?
As her sword came down toward a furry back, the animal shape rippled, and she faced a man in black armor inlaid with gold. The first blow of his broadsword snapped the tip of her blade. Paks yelled a warning to the others, yanking her dagger from its sheath, as she tried to parry another of his strokes. This time her sword shattered in her hand.
“Phelan’s bitch!” snarled the man. “This time you’ve gone too far—touch me with a blade, will you!” He lunged; Paks jerked aside. The thrust barely missed her. She tried to stab with her dagger, but it was too short. His blade sliced into her corselet; the force of the blow staggered her, though she felt no cut. He whirled and ran for the trees. Paks launched herself after him and managed to grapple his legs. They fell sprawling together. Before she could get loose, she felt him heave up and start to swing his sword.
The next instant he gave a loud screech, and writhed away.
“Hang onto him!” said a brisk voice. Paks clung to the kicking, squirming legs, and tried to see who had spoken. Against the light of the torches, her helper was only a dark shape. She heard boots running toward them. In moments, six or eight soldiers were holding the black-armored man down. Paks pushed herself up, panting. Her elbows hurt, where she’d fallen, and she had a stitch in her side.
The Duke strode into the light. “Got him, have we?”
“I think so, my lord.” Now Paks recognized the paladin’s voice. “We’ll get his helmet off—”
“Allow me.” The Duke knelt beside the man and slipped the tip of his dagger into the visor to lift it. Paks stared. The face inside was pale and angry. Dark eyes, a lock of dark hair showing, and a small tattoo between thick eyebrows.
“Well,” said the Duke cheerfully. “What a surprise, Lord Siniava, to find the commander of a besieged citadel wandering the woods at night.” Paks could not hear what Siniava said in answer, but the Duke’s shoulders stiffened. The paladin growled. Paks looked around, suddenly remembering the other man and woman. What had they been, and who were they? She saw a circle of mercenaries, and walked over to see two captives, bound hand and foot.
“Kieri!” No mistaking that call; the Halverics had arrived, both bareheaded.
“It’s Siniava,” said the Duke. “We’ll have to get his armor off before you can have what you’re looking for.”
“We can manage that, can’t we, Cal?” The Halveric looked eager.
Cal was grinning too. “How badly is he hurt?”
“Nothing much,” said Fenith. “Paksenarrion caught him, and I disarmed him. He’s got a slashed wrist; that’s all.” He paused a moment. “What are you planning?”
“Don’t be silly,” snapped the Duke. “We’re going to kill him.”
“I know that,” said the paladin, equally shortly. “Go on and do it.”
The Duke gave him a long stare. Paks felt her belly clench. “Do you know,” he asked softly, “what he did to my men? And to Aliam’s sons?” Fenith nodded. “Then don’t ask mercy for him,” the Duke growled.
“You’re a warrior,” said Fenith implacably. “A warrior, not a torturer. Don’t cheapen yourself.”
“Cheapen myself?” Paks had never seen the Duke so angry, not even the day he’d held Ferrault’s dying hand. “Sir paladin, you’re the one with divine guidance. You’re the one who can walk away when the battle’s over. I do the dirty work, paladin, and I would more than cheapen myself, I would beggar myself for the honor of my men.” All around the clearing the Duke’s soldiers were frozen, listening; the Halverics hardly knew where to look. Paks felt choked with horror. The Duke’s face was strange, utterly unlike himself. She was more frightened than she’d been facing the Honeycat with a broken sword.
She hardly knew it when she moved. The Duke’s head swung to her. She could feel the stares of the paladin and the Halverics.
“Ask her, paladin,” the Duke said more quietly. “Ask her, if she has forgotten her dead friends and how they died. Ask her if Siniava deserves a clean and easy death.”
“And then?” asked the paladin, equally quietly.
The Duke shrugged. “She captured him, you say. I’ll abide by her word on it.” The Halverics stirred, but said nothing.