“There!” Vossik of Dorrin’s cohort waved an arm to the right; Paks came up behind a line of Halverics slowly pushing enemy pikemen away from the bridge. Where were the rest of them? she wondered. She had no time to think about it; the enemy pressed hard, and the man in front of her fell. She leaped forward over him, taking his place in the Halveric line. She could feel behind her the growing pressure of her own comrades. Slowly, step by step, they forced their way along the wall.
In the dancing torchlight she found it hard to see the enemy’s thrusts; she hoped they had the same problem. Paks ducked under one pike and slashed at a man in their front line. She got a hit, then another, then something—what she didn’t know—hit her helmet and almost knocked her down. The enemy yelled, as she staggered, and Halverics closed around her. Then she was up, and fighting again. Someone yelled in her ear, and she shook her head, trying to understand. What did they mean, “almost there”?
Suddenly a horrible howling stunned her, followed by a blinding blue flash that lit up the entire city. For just an instant, Paks could see the breach in the wall, just behind the enemy she faced. Then came blackness, utter and thick. Screams and bellows filled the air. The lines crashed together; Paks was crushed in a welter of bodies, all struggling. Something raked her sword arm. She could not get free for a swing, but drove the tip of her sword into what she hoped was an enemy. Someone fell into her. She lost her balance and fell sprawling under a pile of men and weapons, the stink of blood and sweat strong in her nostrils.
All at once light returned: not torchlight, but a mellow golden light over the city itself. In an instant the pile of fighters separated into warring factions, struggling to kill and get free. Paks felt a stabbing pain in her leg, as she wrenched her shield free of a wounded man’s shoulder and parried an enemy thrust. She made it to one knee. Someone grabbed her shield arm and pulled. She tried to pivot, but a man on the wall thrust up at her; she had to counter that. The pull steadied her; she got her legs under her again, and whoever had grabbed her let go. She was in a ragged line with several Halverics and some from her own cohort. Most of the enemy were down, some crawling away. They waded into the rest, and cleared the wall as far as the breach before the golden light faded. Paks looked for the source, but could not see it.
“Are you all right?” It was a Halveric private beside her.
Paks nodded; pain shot through her head. “Yes—just winded, I think.”
“Your arm’s bleeding a lot. Sorry I grabbed you like that—”
“Was that you? It helped. I thought you were one of them, at first.”
“I know. You seemed dazed, and those scum were moving—”
“Paks.” Devlin had come along the wall. “What besides this arm?”
Paks shifted her weight as Devlin took her arm, and the pain in her leg reminded her. “Left leg—something, I haven’t looked. And something hit my head hard; it feels like the helmet’s too tight.”
“You’d better go back—”
“No, I’m fine, Now that I’ve got my breath—”
“Go back. This isn’t over yet. Get that arm tied up, at least. We’ll need you later.” He shoved her toward the rear.
As Paks edged her way past those who had just come up, she felt the day’s fatigue like a smothering sack of wool. One of the surgeons stationed near the bridge from the siege tower waved her down next to a group of wounded. Paks sank down and tried to ease her helmet off. It wouldn’t come; she felt a dint in the front.
“Wait,” said the surgeon. “Just sit there—” he turned to one of the others. “We’ll need more torches here.” The man nodded and moved off, and the surgeon tightened the bandage he was applying. “There. Yes. Now let me see that helmet—yes. Quite a dint. Do you know what hit you?” Paks shook her head. “Did you fall down?”
“Not then.”
“Let me get it off.” He pulled it off and touched her head. Paks winced. “Tender, eh? I’m not surprised, with that lump.” Several men came up with torches. “Good,” he told them. “Hold one here. Now look at it,” he told Paks. She squinted at the bright glare. “Not too bad. Let’s see that arm—anything else?”
“Something stuck my leg.” Paks moved her left leg a little. Someone—not the surgeon—took off her boot. It hurt. She tried to see what it looked like.
“Hold still,” scolded the surgeon. “This arm needs work; I’ll see the leg in a moment.” Paks smelled the pungent cleansing solution and braced herself. It felt cold, then burned. Her head throbbed, and she closed her eyes. She felt the surgeon start probing the wound in her leg. She heard him mutter to someone else, and hands steadied her leg as the pain sharpened. She wanted to argue with him, but it was too late. She thought he must be sewing up the hole, whatever it was, but it felt much worse. She wanted to throw up.
“It’s the head, mostly,” said the surgeon; Paks opened her eyes. Kefer was there, staring at her, and Arcolin stood by the tent flap. Tent?
“I thought we were on the wall,” she said. The surgeon turned to her.
“You were. You’d been hit on the head, and you passed out while I was working on your leg.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t remember anything of that, just being on the wall, and fighting, and strange lights.
“Was there a blue light?” she asked doubtfully. “And a yellow one later?”
“Yes.” Arcolin stepped nearer. He was scowling. “That was clerics—theirs first, then ours.”
“Clerics?” Paks felt even more confused. She had never seen any priest or Marshal make strange lights.
“Never mind that now.” He turned to the surgeon. “How long?”
The surgeon shrugged. “A good night’s sleep, I expect. Maybe a day.” He brought Paks a mug. As her vision blurred with numbwine, she saw the surgeon follow Arcolin and Kefer from the tent.
She woke to broad daylight. The surgeon, busy with others, saw her test the tender lump on her head.
“How is it?”
“Fine.”
“Try moving around.” Paks sat up and winced as her bandaged arm and leg twinged. But these were minor pains; she could move easily. “Go on and stand.” She had no trouble with that, either, and he sent her out. “Get a new helmet—size or so too large, and use extra padding for a day or so. If you get dizzy, or your eyes blur, come back at once. And eat before you go back on duty.”
Outside, their camp was in turmoil. Paks could see more troops—Westland men—marching into Sibili through the breached wall. She wondered why they weren’t using the gates. Smoke rose over the city walls. As she headed for the quartermaster, she saw Dorrin’s cohort returning from the city, faces black with soot and grime.
Her new helmet felt unwieldy, even after she wrapped a cloth around her head. She tried again. Still odd-feeling. When she got to the cooks’ tent, she found Barra and Natzlin.
“We heard you were hurt,” said Barra, dishing up stew.
“Something hit my head.”
“Are you going back in?” Paks wondered if she imagined the edge in that tone.
“Of course. Where’s Arcolin—or Pont?”
“They’re inside. It’s a mess in there, too.”
“What about it?”
“They’ve got some kind of wizard or priest and just when you think you’ve got a group on the run, there’ll be a stinking black cloud all around; you can blunder into anything. Walls, a fire, their fighters—you can’t see your own nose.”