Paks woke to darkness and the sounds of pain. Far away to her left was a bobbing yellow glow. She felt light and crisp except for her injured leg, a cold weight dragging at her. The glow came closer, paused, came closer. She realized it was a lantern—in someone’s hand—someone coming near. She felt very clever—she knew what was happening, someone was visiting the wounded. Then she realized she could not find her dagger. Had she been captured? She tried to think as the lantern came nearer. Her leg began to throb, but it didn’t bother her. She had just decided that it wasn’t really attached at all when the lantern paused beside her. She squinted up, trying to see past the light to the person who held it. “Hmm,” said a voice she thought she should remember. “Looks a bit feverish, this one.”
“How do you feel?” another voice asked.
Paks worked her tongue around in her dry mouth until she could speak. “I’m—all right.”
“Do you feel hot?” asked the second voice.
At the question Paks realized that she was cold, cold from the bones out. She started to answer, but a violent chill racked her body; her teeth rattled like stones in a sack. Abroad hand touched her forehead.
“Fever, all right,” said the first voice. “Best dose her now, and be sure she’s checked on. We’ll use what we have to on this one.”
“She needs to drink,” said the second voice. “She’s dry. Here, now—” he said to Paks. “We’ll lift you up, then I want you to drink all of this.”
One of them lifted her shoulders and steadied her head; a jug came to her lips. Paks sipped; it was water. Despite the shaking chill and rattling teeth, she managed to empty the jug.
“Now then,” said the voice. “Swallow this.” Paks had half-drained the cup before the taste reached her; she gagged and tried to spit it out, but hands restrained her. “Finish it!” said the voice, and she choked down the rest of that bitter brew. “Now a swallow of numbwine.” Paks swallowed that, and the arm behind her eased her back to the straw.
“Sleep well, warrior,” said the first voice. Paks felt a hand grip her shoulder, and the lantern moved away to her right; three shadowy forms moved with it.
When next she woke, a lantern was on the ground beside her, and someone was peeling off her sweat-sodden clothes. She grumbled a weak protest, but the person went on, drying her with a rough towel and then easing her into a long linen shirt. “It’s fever sweat,” a woman’s voice said. “You need dry things so you won’t chill again.” A warm dry blanket covered her, then the woman held a flask to her lips. “Go on—drink this.” Paks gulped it down and was asleep almost before her head hit the straw.
A hand on her shoulder and a voice calling her name roused her to sunlight dappling through green leaves. She felt solid to herself, aches and all. Stammel squatted beside her. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve slept long enough.”
Paks found her mouth too dry for speech. He offered a jug of water, and helped her raise her head to drink. She tried again; her voice was thinner than usual. “I—forgot the right strokes.”
Stammel grinned. “I was going to mention that. Tir’s bones, girl, a battle is no place to show off. Why do you think we teach you what strokes work?”
“I’m sorry—” she began.
“Never mind; more weapons drill for you, until you can’t forget it. We don’t want to lose a good private—”
“What!”
“Well, you did it in a backwards, idiotic way, but you hardly fit the ’recruit’ category any more. I hope you realize you very nearly got yourself killed—and why didn’t you get that wound bound up before you nearly bled out?”
“I—I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“Hmm. You don’t come of berserker blood, do you? No? Probably just first battle fever. Vanza, by the way, is sorry he told you to advance when you were already wounded. He says he didn’t see it.”
“That’s all right,” said Paks.
“Not with me, it isn’t. It’s his job to keep track of you novices and get you back if you’re hurt. Do you remember how many you killed?”
“I killed? No—” Paks thought a long moment. “No. There’s—a lot I don’t remember. It’s all confused.”
“Likely enough. You did well, Paks, wrong strokes and all. Now—you’ll be going back with the other wounded to Valdaire in a day or so. The Duke expects we’ll take out the rest of the Czardians tomorrow or the next day; they’ve gotten in among those hills southwest of here. Vanza will stay to help with our wounded—”
“Do I have to go back to Valdaire? Couldn’t I stay here—”
Stammel shook his head. “No. The surgeons say you won’t be up to a route march for several weeks. You lost a lot of blood, and the fever might come back. Don’t worry, though—you’ll be with us again soon.” He gave her a reassuring grin as he stood up. “I’ll see you again before you go. Do what they tell you, and heal fast.”
Paks had hoped to prove the surgeons wrong, but she could barely hobble a few steps to the wagons when they loaded. She settled into the second of five wagons, bedded deep in straw and braced into a corner against the jolting ride. Four others shared the wagon: Callexon, a recruit in Dorrin’s cohort, with his broken leg bound in splints, a veteran with a huge lump on his head who never woke up, a woman named Varne, from Cracolnya’s cohort, who had been burned by flaming oil, and Effa, who had been trampled by a warhorse and would never walk. Callexon and Paks helped Vanza care for the rest at halts. Paks learned how to feed and clean a helpless person, and how to help with bandaging.
The little caravan had been winding between tall trees, shade cool on the canvas-topped wagons. Paks looked out to see whether it was a road they’d marched over, but she couldn’t tell. The wagon rolled smoothly; she closed her eyes and dozed off.
She was wakened by a scream and a jolt that wrenched her leg. She opened her eyes to see Vanza hurtling out the back of their wagon, sword in hand. Out the front she could see strange horses and masked riders with black wolf’s heads on their red jerkins. Something blocked her view to the right; their wagon’s driver was slumped against the iron bow that held the canvas. Two arrows poked through her tunic. The mules had their ears laid flat. As Paks grabbed for the reins, heaving herself over the front of the box, the lead pair surged forward.
She heard a whirr and a thunk, and saw an arrow stand quivering in the wagon box beside her—but she had the reins. She tried to haul the driver inside with one arm; she couldn’t get any leverage. The wagon lurched as the mules veered from the track. Another arm appeared beside her: the burned woman.
“I’ll get her—you drive!”
“I’m trying!” Paks had driven her father’s pair of plow ponies, but nothing like a hitch of four frightened mules. She had a tangle of reins, all too long, and the mules were picking up speed. Suddenly one of the red-clothed riders swerved beside the lead pair and made a grab for their reins. Paks pulled some of her handful, and the mules veered.
“Now I know what those are,” she muttered, and reached to shorten the others. The rider glanced up and saw her. He wheeled his horse and came at the wagon, sword raised. Paks jerked the other pair of reins as he neared it; the mules swerved back and the wagon slammed into his horse. His sword hit the iron frame and shattered. Paks hardly noticed. The mules had broken into a panicky run. She couldn’t brace herself well enough to pull them in. And her best attempts at steering had the wagon veering wildly from side to side. There were trees everywhere she looked. All around came wild screeches, yells, the whinnying of horses and braying of mules. An arrow struck one of the leaders. It screamed, and lurched ahead faster. Ahead Paks saw a gap in the trees; the mules galloped toward it, flat out. Too late, Paks saw the dip that steepened into a bank of eroded stone over a stream. The wagon bounced from stone to stone, collapsing with a broken axle in the shallow streambed; the mules were jerked to their knees by the shock. Paks, already leaning over the front of the box, flew forward. Her injured leg slammed against the back of the box, all that kept her from going headlong on top of the wheel pair. She banged her chin on the footboard, and hung there dazed.