The adventures of Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter began in novel Sheepfarmer’s Daughter (1988). Over the course of three books the peasant girl escapes marriage to a pig farmer to become a mercenary, then a paladin of Gird. She must work, fight, and sacrifice herself to insure a rightful king gains the throne despite various evil forces. Beyond this first trilogy, Elizabeth Moon (1945– ) explores Paksenarrion’s universe in two prequels, five sequels, and a dozen or so short stories. Moon’s novels are epic military fantasy that balances gender and the role of women. There’s much more “sword” than sorcery and heroism requires discipline, honor, and self-sacrifice more than derring-do. In “First Blood,” set in the Paksenarrion universe, a young squire finds himself riding toward his first battle.
Luden Fall, great-nephew of the Duke of Fall, had not won the spurs he strapped to his boots the morning he left home for the first time. War had come to Fallo, so Luden, three years too young for knighthood, had been give the honor of accompanying a cohort of Sofi Ganarrion’s company to represent the family.
The cohort’s captain, Madrelar, a lean, angular man with a weathered, sun-browned face, eyed him up and down and then shrugged. “We march in a ladyglass,” Madrelar said. “There’s your horse. Get your gear tied on and be at my side when we mount up.”
The mounted troop moved quickly, riding longer and faster than Luden had before, into territory he had never seen, ever closer to the Dwarfmounts that divided the Eight Kingdoms of the North from Aarenis. His duties were minimal. When he first attempted to help the way he’d been taught at home, picking up and putting in place everything the captain put down, carrying dishes to and from a serving table, Madrelar told him to quit fussing about. Luden obeyed, as squires were supposed to do.
He had hoped to learn much from a mercenary captain, a man who had fought against Siniava and might have seen the Duke of Immer when he was still Alured the Black and an ally, but Madrelar said little to him beyond simple orders and discouraged questions by not answering them. Pastak, the cohort sergeant, said less. The troopers themselves ignored him, though he heard mutters and chuckles he assumed were at his expense.
Finally one evening, when the sentries were out walking the bounds, the captain called Luden into his tent. “You should know where we are and why,” Madrelar said. He had maps spread on a folding table. “We guard the North Trade Road, where the road from Rotengre meets it, so Immer cannot outflank the duke’s force. It’s unlikely he’ll try, but just in case. Do you understand?”
Luden looked at the map, at the captain’s finger pointing to a crossroads. Back there was Fallo, where he had lived all his life until now. “Yes,” he said. “I understand outflanking, and I can see . . . ” He traced the line with his finger. “They could come this way, along the north road. But could they not also follow the route we took here, only bypassing us to the south?”
“They are unlikely to know the way,” Madrelar said.
“What force might they bring?” Luden asked.
Madrelar shrugged. “Anything from nothing to five hundred. If they are too large, we retreat, sending word back for reinforcements. If they are small enough, we destroy them. In the middle . . . ” He tipped his hand back and forth. “We fight and see who wins.” He gave Luden a sharp glance out of frosty blue eyes. “Are you scared, boy?”
“Not really.” Luden’s skin prickled, but he knew it for excitement, not fear.
Madrelar grinned. “That will change.”
The next day they stayed in camp. Madrelar told him to take all three of the captain’s mounts to be checked for loose shoes. Luden waited his turn for the farrier, listening to the men talk, hoping to hear stories of Siniava’s War. Instead, the men talked of drinking, dicing, money, women, and when they would be back in “a real city.”
“Sorellin?” Luden asked, having seen that it was nearest on the map.
They all stopped and looked at him, then at one another. Finally one of them said, “No, young lord. Valdaire. Have you heard of it?”
“Of course—it’s in the west, near the caravan pass to the north.”
“It’s our city,” the man said. “Any other place we go, we’re on hire. But in Valdaire, we’re free.”
“The girls in Valdaire . . . ” another man said, making shapes with his hands. “They love us, for we bring money.”
Luden felt his ears getting hot. His own interest in girls was new, and his father’s lectures on deportment both clear and stringent.
“Don’t embarrass the lad,” the first trooper said. “He’ll find out in time.” His glance quieted the others. “You ride well, young lord. It is an honor to have a member of your family along.”
“Thank you,” Luden said. He knew the other men were amused, but this one seemed polite. “My name is Luden. This is the first time I have been so far.”
Silence for a moment, then the man said, “I am Esker.” He gestured. “These are Trongar, Vesk, and Hrondar. We all came south from Kostandan with Ganarrion.”
Luden fizzed with questions he wanted to ask—was the north really all forest? Was it true that elves walked there? Esker tipped his head toward the fire. “Janits waits you and the captain’s horses. Best go, or someone will take your place in line.”
“Thank you,” Luden said, and led the horses forward.
When he returned the horses to the hitch-line strung between trees, it was still broad daylight. He glanced in the captain’s tent—orderly and empty. The men were busy with camp chores, with horse care, cleaning tack, mending anything that needed it. Luden’s own small possessions were new enough to need nothing.
Luden spoke to the nearest sentry. “Would it be all right if I went for a walk?”
The man’s brows rose. “You think that’s a good idea? You do realize there might be an enemy army not a day’s march away?”
“I thought . . . nothing’s happening . . . I could just look at things.”
The sentry heaved a dramatic sigh. “All right. Don’t go far, don’t get hurt, if you see strangers, come back and tell me. All right? Back in one sun-hand, no more.”
“Thank you,” Luden said. He looked around for a moment, thinking which way to go. Little red dots on a bush a stone’s throw away caught his eye.
The dots were indeed berries, some ripened to purple, but most still red and sour. Luden ate some of the ripe ones, and brought a neck-cloth full back to the camp. At home, the cooks were always happy to get berries, however few. Here, too, the camp cook nodded when Luden offered them. “Can you get more?”
“I think so,” Luden said.
“Take this bowl. Be back in . . . ” he glanced up at the sun, “a sun-hand, and I’ll be able to use these for dinner.”
Luden showed the sentry the bowl. “Cook wants more of those berries.”
“Good,” the sentry said.
Near the first bush were others; Luden filled the bowl and took it back to the cook. After that—still no sign of the captain—Luden wandered about the camp until he found Esker, the man who had been friendly before, replacing a strap on a saddle.
“If you’ve nothing to do, you can punch some holes in this strap,” Esker said.
Luden sat down at once. Esker handed him another strap and the punching tools, and told him how to space the holes. Luden soon made a row of neat holes. “Good job, lad—Luden, wasn’t it? Have you checked all your own tack?”
“It’s almost new,” Luden said. “I didn’t see anything wrong.”
“Bring it here. We’ll give you a lesson in field maintenance of cavalry tack.”
Luden brought his saddle, bridle, and rigging over to Esker where he sat amid a group of busy troopers. Luden had cleaned his tack, but—as Esker pointed out—he hadn’t gone over every finger-width of every strap.
“You might think this doesn’t matter as much,” Hrondar said. Esker’s friends had now joined in the instruction. Hrondar pointed to the strap that held a water bottle on his own saddle. “If that gives way and you have no water on a long march, you’ll be less alert. Everything we carry is needed. Every strap should be checked daily to see it’s not cracked, drying out, stretching too much.”
Other men shared their ideas for keeping tack in perfect condition—including arguments about the best oils and waxes for different weather. Luden drank it in, fascinated by details his father’s riding master had never mentioned.
Captain Madrelar found him there, two sun-hands later. “So this is where you are! I’ve been searching the camp, squire.” The emphasis he put on “squire” would have sliced wood. “I need you in my quarters.”
Luden scrambled to his feet, threw the rigging over his shoulder, put his arm through the bridle, and hitched his saddle onto his hip. The captain had turned away; Esker got up and tucked the trailing reins into the rigging on his shoulder. Luden nodded his thanks and followed the captain back to his tent.
There he endured a blistering scold for his venture out to pick berries and his interfering with the troopers at their tasks. Finally, the captain ran down and left the tent, with a last order to “Put that mess away, eat your dinner without saying a word, and be ready to ride in the morning.”
Luden put his tack on the rack next to the captain’s, shivering with reaction. He’d been scolded plenty of times, but always he’d understood what he’d done wrong. What was so bad about gathering food for others and learning more that soldiers needed to know? He hadn’t been gossiping or gambling.
He looked around the tent for something useful to do. A scattering of maps, message tubes, and papers covered the table. He heard the clang of the dinner gong; he could clear the table before the cook’s assistant brought the captain’s meal. He’d done that before; the captain never minded.
Luden picked up the first papers then stopped, staring at a green and black seal, one he had seen before. Had the captain found it somewhere? It was wrong to read someone else’s papers, but this was Immer’s seal. The enemy’s seal. The hairs rose on his scalp as he read. Captain Madrelar—the name leapt out at him—was to put his troop at the service of the Duke of Immer, by leading them into an ambush, four hundred of Immer’s men, within a half-day’s ride of the crossroads Madrelar had shown him. For this Madrelar would receive the promised reward and a command. If he had been able to talk Fallo into sending one of his nephews or grandsons along, then Madrelar should drug or bind the sprout and send him to Cortes Immer.
Luden dropped the paper as if it were on fire and started shaking. It was the most horrible thing he could imagine. The captain a traitor? Why? And what was he supposed to do? He was only a squire, and how many of these men outside, these hardened mercenaries, were also traitors?
He had not understood fear before. He had thought, those times he climbed high in a tree, or jumped from a wall, that the tightness in his belly was fear, easily overcome for the thrill with it. This was different—fear that hollowed out his mind and body as a spoon scoops out the center of a melon. His bones had gone to water. All he’d heard of Immer—the tortures, the magery, the way Andressat’s son had been flayed alive—came to mind. As soon as the captain came back and saw that he’d moved things on the desk, he might be overpowered, bound, doomed.
He had to get away before then . . . somehow. Even as he thought that, and how impossible it would be, his hands went on working, shuffling several other messages on top of Immer’s, squaring the sheets to a neat stack. He rolled the maps as he usually did, noting even in his haste the marks the captain had made on one of them. They were not two days’ ride from the crossroads, but one: the captain had lied to him. He put the maps in the map-stand as always. What now? He glanced out the tent door. No immediate escape: the cook’s assistant was almost at the tent with a basket of food, and the captain had already started the same way, talking to his sergeant.
Luden took the dinner basket from the cook and had the captain’s supper laid out on the table by the time the captain arrived. When the captain came in, he stood by the table, hoping the captain could not detect his thundering heart. The captain stopped short.
“Who did this?”
“Sir, I laid out your dinner as usual.”
“You touched my papers? When?”
“To have room for the dinner.” Luden gestured at the stack of papers at the end of the table. “It took only a moment, to stack them and put the maps away. Just as usual.”
“Hmph.” The captain sat and pointed to his cup. “Wine. And water.”
Luden poured, his hand shaking. The captain gave him a sharp look.
“What’s this? Still shivering from a scold? I hope you don’t fall off your mount with fright if we do meet the enemy.” The captain stabbed a slab of meat, cut it, and put it in his mouth.
Madrelar said nothing more in the course of the meal, then ordered Luden to take the dishes back to the cook, and eat his own dinner there. “I will be working late tonight,” he said. “It’s dry; sleep outside, and don’t be sitting up late with the men. They need their rest. We ride early.”
Luden could not eat much, not even the berry-speckled dessert. What was the captain up to, besides betrayal? Were the other men, or some of them, also part of it? Was the captain really prepared to sacrifice his own troops? And why? Luden’s background gave him no hint. He tried to think what he might do.
Could he run away? He might escape the sentries set around camp on foot, but the horse lines had a separate guard. He could not sneak away on horseback. And even if he did escape afoot, he might be captured before he reached home—they had ridden hard to get here, and going back would take him longer. Especially since he had no way to carry supplies.
What then could he do? He looked around for Esker, but didn’t see him, and dared not wander around the camp, in case the captain looked for him. Finally, he went back to the captain’s tent. A light inside cast shadows on the wall . . . two people at least were in it.
Outside, near the entrance, he found a folded blanket and a water bottle on top of it. The captain clearly meant for him to stay outside. He picked them up, went around the side of the tent, rolled himself in the blanket, and—sure he could not sleep—dozed off.
He woke from a dream so vivid he thought it was real, and heard his voice saying “Yes, my lord!” He lay a moment, wide awake, chilled by the night air. The dream lay bright as a picture in his mind: his great-uncle, the Duke of Fall, speaking to all the children as he did every Midwinter Feast. It is not for wealth alone, or tradition, that the Dukes of Fall have ruled here for ages past, since first we came from the South. But because we keep faith with our people. Never forget what you owe to those who work our fields, who take up arms to defend us. They deserve the best we have to give them. And then the phrase that had wakened him: Luden, look to your honor.
He was a child of Fallo; he was the only one of that House here, and these men around him—some of them at least, and maybe all but the captain—were being led to slaughter. He still had honor, and the duty that came with honor.
And he badly needed the jacks. He threw off his blanket and stood up. Overhead, stars burned bright in the clear mountain air; he could see the tips of the tallest mountains, snow at their peaks even in summer, pale against the night sky, and enough silvery light glimmered over the camp to show him the way.
He had taken but ten steps toward the jacks when someone grabbed his arm and swung him round.
“And where d’you think you’re going?”
It was Sergeant Pastak. Had the captain set a watch over him? Of course: he would need to, just in case. And so the sergeant was in on it, also a traitor.
“To the jacks,” Luden said, glad his voice sounded slightly annoyed.
“To be sure, the jacks,” the sergeant said, with a sneer. “Young lads . . . always eager to go to war until they get closer to it. Thinking of that, are you?”
“I’m thinking I ate too many of those berries before I gave the rest to the cook,” Luden said. “And I need the jacks.”
The sergeant shook his arm; Luden stumbled. “Just know, lad, you’re with a fighting troop, not some fancy-boy’s personal guards. You’re not running off home.”
That was clear enough. He stiffened against the sergeant’s arm and adopted a tone he’d heard from his elders. “I am not one to run away, Sergeant. But I would prefer not to mark my clothes with berry juice and have someone like you think it was fear.”
The sergeant let go of his arm as if it had burned him. “Well,” he said. “The young cock will crow, will he? We’ll see how you crow when the time comes—if it does.” He gestured, the starlight running down his mail shirt like molten silver. “Go on then. To the jacks with you, and if you mark your clothes red and not yellow, I’ll call you worthy.”
Red could mean blood and not berry juice. Luden held himself stiffly and stalked off to the jacks as if he hadn’t thought of that. He was not the only one at the jacks trench, though he was glad to see he had room to himself. He did have a cramp, and what he had eaten the previous day, berries and all he was sure, came out in a rush. He waited a moment, two, and then, as he stood, saw another man nearby.
“All right, Luden?” It was Esker. “The berries were good, but I think they woke me up.”
“I ate handfuls raw,” Luden said.
“That can do it. These mountain berries—they look like the ones back in the lowlands, but they clear the system, even cooked.”
Could he trust Esker? He had to do something, and Esker was the only one he had really talked to. “Esker, I have to tell—”
“I thought I told you to leave the soldiers alone, sprout!” It was the captain. No doubt the sergeant had told him where Luden was. “No chatter. Get to your blanket and stay there. And no more berries on the morrow.” Luden turned to go. Behind him, he heard the captain. “Well, Esker? Sucking up to the old man’s brat?”
“He had the gripe, captain, same as me. You know those mountain berries. I’d have sent him back in a moment.”
Then murmurs he could not hear. Back near the tent, a torch burned; the sergeant stood beside it. Luden returned to his blanket and lay down, feigning sleep. He knew they would not leave him unwatched. Once again, sleep overtook him.
He woke to a boot prodding his ribs. “Hurry up. It’s almost daylight.”
Stars had faded; the sky glowed, the deep blue called Esea’s Cloak, and the camp stirred. Horses whinnied, men were talking, laughing, he smelled something cooking. As he rolled his blanket, the captain stood by, watching. Luden yanked the thongs snug around it, and stood with it on his shoulder.
“Don’t forget your water,” the captain said. “You’ll be thirsty later.”
Luden bent to pick up the water bottle.
“Your tack’s over there.” The captain pointed to a pile on the ground; two men were already taking down the captain’s tent.
Luden picked up his tack and headed for the horse lines.
“If you’ve no stomach for breakfast,” the captain said, “put some bread in your saddlebags; you’ll want it later.”
He saddled his mount, put the water bottle into one saddlebag and then carried the bags to the cook for bread. Troopers were taking a loaf each from a pile on a table.
“Captain thought you’d like this,” the cook said, handing him a spiced roll. “Gave me the spice for it special, and said put plenty of honey in it.”
Luden’s stomach turned. “It’ll be too sweet if it’s all I have. Could I have some plain bread, as well?”
The cook grinned. “You’re more grown up than that, you’re saying? Not just a child, to eat all the sweets he can beg?” He handed Luden a small plain loaf from the pile. “There. Eat troops’ rations if you’d rather, but don’t tell the captain; he only thought to please you.”
“Thank you,” Luden said. The sweetened roll felt sticky. He put both rolls in the other saddlebag, and then went to the jacks trench a last time. It was busy now; Luden went to one end, squatted, fished in the saddlebag for the roll, sticky with honey, that he was sure had some drug in it. He dropped it in the trench, then stood and grabbed the shovel, and covered it quickly.
“That’s not your job,” one of the men said. “Go back to the captain, get your gear tied down tight. Here—give me the shovel.”
“I’ll see him safe,” another said. Esker.
Luden glanced in the trench; no sign of the roll. Unless someone had seen him drop it . . . he looked at Esker. “Thank you,” he said. All at once it occurred to him that the formality of the duke’s house—the relentless schooling in manners, in what his great-uncle called propriety—had a use after all. Underneath, he was still frightened, but now he could play other parts.
“Come on, then,” Esker said. When they were a short distance from the trench, Esker said, “There was something you wanted to tell me last night. Still want to tell me in daylight? Is it that you’re scared?”
As a rabbit before the hounds he wanted to say, but he must not. Instead, in a rush, he said, “The captain’s going to betray you all to Immer’s men; four hundred are coming to meet us.”
Esker caught hold of his shoulder and swung him around. “Boy. Fallo’s kin. That cannot be true, and we do not like liars.”
“I’m not lying,” Luden said. “I saw it—”
“Or sneaking.”
“—a message from Immer, with Immer’s seal.”
Esker chewed his lip a moment. “You’re certain?”
“Immer’s seal, yes.”
“I am an idiot,” Esker said, “if I believe a stripling lad when I have ridden with the captain these eight years and more.” He stopped abruptly, then pulled Luden forward. In a low growl: “Do not argue. There’s no time; I can do nothing now. If it’s true I will do what I can.” Luden saw the captain then, staring at them both. Esker raised his voice. “Here he is, captain. Lad had a hankering to fill a jacks trench; Trongar saw him. I’m bringing him back to you.” He sounded cheerful and unconcerned.
“I saw you head to head like old friends,” the captain said.
“That, captain, was me telling him the second time that he had years enough for filling jacks trenches and you’d be looking for him. He’s just young, that’s all.”
“That he is,” the captain said, looking down at Luden. “Did you saddle that horse?”
“Yes, sir,” Luden said. “And I thank you for that sweet loaf the cook gave me. Cook said you told him to put spice in it as well as honey.”
The captain smiled. “So I did. You can eat it midmorning, when we rest the horses, since I doubt you’ve eaten breakfast after last night’s adventure with berries.”
“That’s so, sir,” Luden said. “It still gripes a bit.”
“Today will take care of that,” the captain said. “Riding a trot’s the best thing for griping belly.” He turned to the trooper. “Very well, Esker, I have him under my eye now; get back to your own place.”
“Yes, Captain,” Esker said. “Not a bad lad, sir. Just eager to help.”
“Too eager,” the captain said, “can be as annoying as lazy.”
“True. So my own granfer told me.”
Both men laughed; Luden’s heart sank. He did not think Esker was a traitor, but clearly the man thought him just a foolish boy.
They were mounted when the first rays of sunlight fired the treetops to either side. When they reached the North Trade Road, their shadows lay long and blue before them. To either side, the forest thickened to a green wall and rose up a hill on the north side. Luden couldn’t see the mountains now, but he could feel the cool air sifting down through the trees, fragrant with pine and spruce. Here and there he saw more bushes covered with berries. The captain pointed out a particularly lush patch.
“Tempted to stop and pick some?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want your belly griping again.” A moment later, “Ready for that sweet bread yet?”
“No, sir,” Luden said. “It’s not settled yet.”
“Ah. Well, you’ll eat it before it spoils, I daresay.”
The sun was high, their shadows shorter, when a man on horseback leading a pair of mules loaded with packs came riding toward them. He wore what looked like merchants’ garb, even to the soft blue cap that slouched to one side. But it was the horse Luden noticed. He knew that horse.
That bay stallion with a white snip, uneven front socks, and a shorter white sock on the near hind had been stolen—along with fifteen mares—from a Fallo pasture the year before. Before that, it had been one of the older chargers used to teach Luden and his cousins mounted battle skills. Luden knew that horse the way he would know his own shirt; he had brushed every inch of its hide, picked dirt out of those massive hooves. And so the man riding him must be Immer’s agent.
“Sir,” he said to the captain. “That man’s a horse thief.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the captain said.
“I know that horse,” Luden said.
“The world is full of bays with three white feet,” the captain said. “It’s just a merchant. Perhaps he’ll tell us if he’s seen any sign of brigands or—unlikely—Immer’s troops.”
“I’m telling you, I know that horse!”
The captain turned on him, furious. “You know nothing. You are a mere child, foisted on me by your great-uncle, Tir alone knows why, and you will be quiet or I will knock you off that horse and you can walk home alone.”
Luden clamped his jaw on what he wanted to say and stared at the merchant instead. For a merchant, he sat the stallion very much like a cavalry trooper, his feet level in the stirrups, his shoulders square . . . and what was a merchant doing with the glint of mail showing at his neck? What was that combination of straight lines under the man’s cloak? Not a sword . . .
The stallion stood foursquare, neck arched, head vertical, ears pointed forward. Luden checked his memory of the markings. It had to be the same horse.
Luden glanced at the captain, who raised his arm to halt the troop, then rode forward alone. Now was his only chance. Would the horse remember the commands? He held out his hand, opened and closed his fist twice, and called. “Sarky! Nemosh ti!”
At the same moment, a bowstring thrummed; Luden heard the crossbow bolt thunk into the captain’s body, saw the captain stiffen, then slide to one side, even as the bay stallion leapt forward, kicking out behind; its rider lurched, dropped the crossbow and grabbed at the saddle.
“Ambush!” Luden yelled, “Ambush—form up!” He drew his sword and spurred toward Sarky; the stallion landed in a series of bucks that dumped its rider on the ground. Its tack glinted in the sun; instead of saddlebags, a polished round shield hung from one side of the saddle, and a helmet from the other. Bolts hummed past Luden; he heard them hitting behind him and kept going. Horses squealed, men cursed. The captain now hung by one foot from a stirrup, one bolt in his neck, two more bolts in his body; he bled from the mouth, arms dragging as his horse shied this way and that.
Luden had no time wonder why the enemy had shot the captain who’d done what he was hired to do. A crossbow bolt hit his own mount in the neck, then another and another. It staggered and went down. Luden rolled clear as the horse thrashed, but stumbled on a stirrup getting to his feet and fell again. He looked around—the old bay stallion was close beside him, kicking out at the fallen rider who now had a sword out, trying to reach Luden.
“Sarky,” he called. “Vi arthrin dekost.” In the old language, “Lifebringer, aid me.”
The stallion pivoted on his forehand, giving Luden the position he needed to jump, catch the saddlebow, and scramble into the saddle from the off side, still with sword in hand. The man on the ground, quick witted, grabbed the trailing reins and held off the stallion’s lunge with the point of his sword.
“Here he is—Fallo’s whelp—help me, some of you!”
Luden scrambled over the saddlebow, along the horse’s neck, and sliced the bridle between the horse’s ears. The stallion threw his head up; the bridle fell free. The man, off balance, staggered and fell backward. Luden slid back into the saddle just as the horse jumped forward, forefeet landing on the fallen man. He heard the snap and crunch of breaking bones.
Mounted soldiers wearing Immer’s colors swarmed onto the road. Ganarrion’s smaller troop was fully engaged, fighting hard—and he himself was surrounded, separated from them. He fended off the closest attackers as best he could, yanking his dagger from his belt, though he knew it might break against the heavier curved swords the enemy used. The horse pivoted, kicked, reared, giving him a moment to cut the strings of the round shield and get it on his arm.
He took a blow on the shield that drove his arm down, got it back up just in time, parried someone on the other side with his own blade, and with weight and leg aimed his mount in the right direction—toward the remaining Ganarrion troopers. The stallion, unhampered by bit or rein, bullied the other mounts out of his way—taking the ear off one, and biting the crest of another, a maneuver that almost unseated him. Arm’s length by arm’s length they forced their way through the enemy to rejoin the Ganarrion troop—itself proving no easy prey, despite losses of horses and men.
“Tir’s guts, it’s the squire!” someone yelled. “He’s alive.” A noise between a growl and a cheer answered him.
Luden found himself wedged between two of the troopers, then maneuvered into the middle of the group. He saw Esker; the man grinned at him then neatly shoved an enemy off his horse.
“We need to get out of here!” someone yelled.
“How? Which way? They’re all over—!”
“Luden!” Esker shouted over the din. “WHERE?”
He saw other glances flicking to him and away as the fight raged. They were waiting—waiting for him to make a decision. What decision? He was only a squire, he couldn’t—but he had to: he was Fallo here. “BACK!” he yelled. “Take word back—warn them! Follow me!”
He put his spurs to Sarky, forcing his way between the others to the east end of the group. Twice he fended off attacks, and once he pushed past a wounded trooper to run his sword into one of the enemy. When he reached the far end of the group, he yelled “Follow me!” again and charged ahead, into a line three deep of enemy riders. Sarky crashed into one of the horses; it slipped, fell, and opened a gap.
For a terrifying time that seemed to last forever, Luden found himself fending off swords, daggers, a short lance, hands grabbing for him, trying to keep himself and his mount alive. He felt blows on his back, his arms, his legs; he could not think but only fight, hitting as hard as he could anything—man or horse—that came close enough. The noise—he had never imagined such noise—the screaming of men and horses, the clash of swords. Someone grabbed his shield, tried to pull him off the saddle; he hacked at the man’s wrist with his sword; blood spurted out as the man’s hand dropped away.
Always, the stallion pushed on, biting and striking, and behind him now he heard the Ganarrion troopers. One last horseman stood in his way; he felt Sarky’s sides swell, and the stallion let out a challenging scream; that rider’s mount whirled and bolted.
“Kerestra!” Luden said. Home. Despite his wounds, the stallion surged into a gallop. Behind, more yells and screams and a thunder of hooves that shook the ground. Luden dared a glance back. Behind him were the red and gray surcoats of Ganarrion’s troop—more than half of them—and behind them the green and black of Immer’s. How far could they run, how far could Sarky run, with blood flowing from a gash on his shoulder, with thick curds of sweat on his neck?
Ganarrion’s troops had the faster horses, and opened a lead, but Sarky slowed, laboring. Esker rode up beside Luden. “Only a little farther, and we can give your mount a rest. Were you wounded?”
“I don’t think so,” Luden said. “I was hit, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“We’ll see when we stop. Where do we go from here?”
“Straight back to Fallo. Tell the first troops we see that Immer’s on the way.”
“I thank you for the warning,” Esker said. “And more, for getting us out of that.”
“It was mostly Sarky,” Luden said. The stallion flicked an ear back at his name.
One of the troopers in the rear yelled something Luden did not understand; Esker did. “They’ve halted and turned away,” he said. “They may come on later, but it’s safe to slow now as soon as they’re out of sight. But it’s your command.”
“Mine?” Luden looked at Esker.
“Of course, sir—young lord—I mean. Captain and sergeant are dead; you’re the only person of rank. And you got us out of that.”
“Then . . . can we slow down now?”
Esker looked ahead and behind. “I’d say up there, young lord, just over that rise. Shall I post a lookout there?”
“Yes,” Luden said, wishing he’d thought of that. By the time they cleared the rise, the old stallion had slowed to an uneven trot. The troop surrounded them as the stallion stood, sides heaving.
“By all the gods, young lord, I thought we were done for!” said one of the men. “Esker told me what you said. I didn’t believe it until it happened.”
“Kellin, see to his horse. That’s a nasty shoulder wound. Hrondar, we need a watch over the rise,” Esker said.
Luden slid off the stallion; his legs almost gave way. The smell of blood, the sight of it on so many, men and horses both. Several of the men were already binding up wounds.
“You are bleeding,” Esker said to him. “Here, let me see.” He slit Luden’s sleeve with his dagger, and there was a gash. Luden looked at it then looked away. “That needs a battle-surgeon,” Esker said. “But we can stop the bleeding at least. Sit down. Yes, right down on the ground.”
He called one of the other men over; for a few moments, Luden struggled to keep from making a noise. Now that he was sitting down, his arm throbbing, he felt other injuries. Esker looked him over, pronounced most of them minor, though two would need a surgeon’s care, and offered a water bottle. Luden remembered that his was on the saddle of the horse that had fallen under him. Also that he’d had no breakfast and the loaf in his saddlebag was as distant and unobtainable as his own water bottle. Around him now, the troopers were eating.
“Here,” Esker said, tearing off a piece of his own. “Eat this—too bad you lost the one the captain gave you—honey would be good for you about now.”
“It was poisoned,” Luden said. He bit off a hunk of roll.
“How do you know that?”
“The letter I saw, with Immer’s seal. It wasn’t just the ambush. He was also supposed to bring a member of Fall’s family for them to take back to Cortes Immer.”
“You—but he said you were a nuisance he had to bring along.”
Luden shrugged. That hurt; he took another bite of bread. The longer he sat, the more he hurt, though bread and water cleared his head. He looked around. Kellin had smeared some greenish salve on Sarky’s wounds. “Give me a hand,” he said, reaching up.
Esker put a hand down, and Luden stood.
“How long do the horses need to rest?” Luden asked.
Esker stared at him a moment. “You don’t want to camp here?”
“We don’t know where they are. They could be circling round, out of our sight. We need to move—” He stopped. Sarky’s head had come up, ears pricked toward the east. Other horses stared the same way.
“Tir’s gut, we didn’t need this,” Esker said.
A shrill whistle from the west, from the lookout on the rise; Luden tensed. Esker grinned. “It’s our folk,” he said.
“Our folk?”
“Ganarrion.” He leaned closer. “Your command, young lord, but we’d look better mounted and moving. Even slowly.”
“I’ll need a leg up,” Luden said, then, “Mount up! We’ll go to meet them.” Esker helped him into the saddle; the others mounted, and the lookout in the rear trotted up to join them. Luden’s head swam for a moment, but he nudged Sarky into a walk; the troop formed up behind him.
In moments, he could see the banner, larger than the one his own cohort carried: Ganarrion himself was with them. Behind Ganarrion’s company came another, Count Vladi’s black banner in the lead. Ganarrion rode directly to Luden.
“Boy! What happened? Where’s Captain Madrelar?”
Luden stiffened at the tone. “Madrelar’s dead. He led us into ambush.”
“WHAT?” Ganarrion’s bellow echoed off the nearest hill.
“We were led into ambush; the enemy shot Madrelar, and we’re all that fought free.”
Ganarrion sat his horse as if stunned, then turned to his own company. “Sergeant Daesk, scouts out all sides, expect enemy contact. Cargin, fetch the surgeon; we have wounded.” Then, to Luden he said, “You’re Luden Fall, is that right? Prosso’s son?”
“Yes, sir,” Luden said.
“The duke told me to look for you. And that horse—if I’m not mistaken, that’s one of the duke’s horses, stolen a while back. And, no bridle? How did you—or I suppose the troop surrounded you?”
“No, my lord,” Esker said. “Lord Fall warned us of the ambush then led us out, fighting all the way.”
Lord Fall? He was no lord; he was barely a squire.
“Barely a squire,” Esker continued, echoing Luden’s thought, “but he took command when Madrelar and Pastak died, and led the charge that broke us out.”
“And it was treachery?”
“Yes.”
Ganarrion chewed his mustache for a long moment, staring at Luden then nodded. “Thank you, Esker.” He gave a short bow. “Lord Fall, with your permission, I will relieve you of command. You and your mount are both in need of a surgeon’s care, and I have need of those of your troop who are still fit to fight. Will you release them to me?”
Luden bowed in his turn; his vision darkened as he pushed himself erect again. “Certainly, Lord Ganarrion. As you wish.” Then the dark closed in.
He woke in a tent with lamps already lit. When he tried to move, he could scarcely shift one limb, and he hurt all over. The memory of Immer’s letter came first, and for one terrifying moment he thought he lay bound, already on his way to the dungeons of Cortes Immer. Then he heard voices he knew—Sofi Ganarrion, Count Vladi, Esker. The events of the day reappeared in memory, hazy as if seen through smoke.
“It’s unusual, certainly,” Count Vladi was saying. “But I remember a certain young squire dancing with death when I was a captain in Kostandan . . . ”
Ganarrion grunted. “I was young and foolish then.”
“And brave and more capable than anyone expected. This lad was not foolish, for what other choices did he have? We shall have much to tell Duke Fall when we return.”
Luden stood before the Duke of Fall, when he was again fit to ride and fight. Behind him were the men of Ganarrion’s company; Sofi Ganarrion stood on his sword-side and his own father on his heart-side.
“Victory is sweet,” the old man said, “but honor is bread and meat to the soul. Those who have both, even once in their lives, are fortunate beyond all riches. You won your spurs, Luden; I cannot give them to you. Let us say I found something of mine that I am too old to use, that might be of service to you.”
He opened the box on the table between them and turned it around to show Luden. The spurs within were old, the straps burnished with wear. Luden’s breath caught. The duke’s own spurs? He didn’t deserve—
“Men died, my lord,” is what came out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Life was enough reward.”
Duke Fall nodded. “You are right, nephew. And it is as much for your understanding as for your courage that these spurs are now yours. We will speak more later; for now, let your sponsors perform their duties.”
His father and Sofi Ganarrion stepped forward, each taking a spur, then knelt beside him, fastening them to his boots.