"It's only three," hissed Macenion. "We can take them easily."
Paks hoped so. The argument outside grew even louder. At least they could surprise the orcs. She took a deep breath and crouched. Now!
Her first blow caught the third orc low, in the thigh. His leg was harder than she'd expected, but she got her sword back, and he went down, bellowing. Macenion had gone for the spear carrier, and missed; the other sword bearer took one wild swipe at Macenion's head, then turned to Paks. The orc she had wounded flung its whip at her sword, and she dropped the tip just in time. The orcs moved faster than she'd expected. She parried the curved blade on one side, and danced back from the wounded orc's whip. Macenion was trying to get past the guard of the spear carrier. She didn't envy him.
Once out of reach of the wounded orc, she found fencing with the other one strange but not as hard as she'd feared. Its reach was almost as long as hers, but low; it couldn't match her height. She had little trouble defending herself. Attack was harder. Her overhead blows fell on heavy armor. Paks abandoned that tactic, and tested its quickness. Perhaps she could get behind it. She heard a yelp from Macenion, then a guttural command from the fallen orc. When she looked, Macenion was fencing left-handed, shaking blood from his right hand. That was the second wound to that arm. She attacked her own orc with sudden ferocity, and made a lucky stab under the right shoulder. The orc fell, snarling, and stabbed at her legs. Paks skipped back and ran to Macenion's opponent. He could not use a spear in two directions at once. Paks ran him through when he thrust at Macenion. But before they could do anything about the first orc she had wounded, it was bellowing even louder.
"Gods above!" gasped Macenion. "There's more of them!"
Paks heard the clamor almost as he spoke. "Which way?"
"I don't know! I—" He stared wildly around.
"Here!" Paks ripped a length of cloth from his cloak, and wrapped it around his arm. "If we've got more to fight, you don't need to be dripping like that." She still could not tell where the sound came from; the corridor echoed confusingly.
"We'll go down," said Macenion suddenly.
"Down! But—"
"Come on!" He whirled away from her and strode down the corridor; the noise was much louder. Paks looked after him an instant, and ran to catch up.
"How do you know they're not—" But Macenion wasn't listening. He hurried ahead, and again she had to stretch her legs to catch him. "Macenion!" She caught at his arm as he neared the next turn.
It was too late. From around the turn erupted a wild band of orcs, stinking and dressed in filthy leather armor. Before she could guess how many they faced, she was engulfed in a deadly lacework of iron: swords, knives, and axes swung around her. The harsh clamor of their voices and the ring of blades filled her ears; all she could see was weapons and armor. Then she realized that Macenion was nearby, fencing with skill she had not suspected. That slender blade he bore had more strength than she'd thought.
"This way, Paks!" he yelled. He seemed to be edging ahead, still, and downward. Paks grunted and lunged toward him, taking a solid blow in one side as she came away from the wall. She felt the rings of her chainmail shirt dig in to the same place she's been hit earlier, but it held whatever blade that was. She caught one orc under the chin, and dodged another. The place swarmed—she saw a doorway, now, and another doorway, and orcs in both. She slipped on something underfoot, and staggered. Luckily they couldn't all reach her at once, and she hacked on, grimly determined to kill as many as she could before they killed her. She couldn't see Macenion.
Suddenly the orcs gave way in front of her, and she plunged through them to find herself in a circular chamber. In front of her, Macenion lay face down as he had fallen, an axe standing out of his back. Beyond his body was a focus of light that changed color as she looked. She whirled to face the orcs. They blocked the doorway, grinning and muttering. One at the rear of the mass yelled out, and they started toward her. She gave one quick glance to the chamber—no other door. And entirely too many orcs: no hope of winning through them all. She took a deep breath and laughed, at peace with her fate.
Afterwards she was never sure how she came to move into the light. As the orcs came forward, she ran to fight them over Macenion's body. They were too many, and pressed her back, and back again. Someone or something was calling her—wanted her to do something—but she had no time, no hands, for anything but the fight. As in a dream she felt one ragged blade catch her arm, and another stabbed deep into her leg. Orc stench choked her nose; she gasped for breath, with a sudden memory of the young soldier in her first battle, a wry grin for the girl who would never get home. Back, and back again, a step at a time. She kept expecting a blow from behind, but it never came. Her arm felt heavy and clumsy; her sword slid off an orc helmet as the dagger in her left hand parried another blade. She took a deep breath—her last, she thought—and lunged hard at the orc in front of her.
She could not reach him. He stood as close as her own arm, but his sword, thrusting at her, jabbing wildly, touched her not at all, nor hers, him. And a pressure filled her head, as if a river poured itself in one side and found no outlet. She felt herself falling under that pressure, her hand loosening, losing its grip on the dagger.
—Take—It was more picture than word: a hand, grasping.
Paks stared at her own hand, open as if it were reaching for something.
—Take . . . this . . . thing—The pressure moved her eyes; she looked as it directed, and saw a blue egg-shaped object. She could not tell how far away it was, or how big, or even what it was. She tried to frame a question. Instead, the command returned, and filled her whole head; she felt it would burst—TAKE IT—
She reached toward the object, and felt an unpleasant oily sensation on the insides of her fingers, as if they were sinking slightly into it. But her hand closed around the object firmly. It felt disgusting, in ways she could not describe, and had never imagined. She would have dropped it, thrown it far away, but it clung to her hand. When she tried to open her fingers, they wouldn't move. All at once she felt the pain of all her wounds, the exhaustion of all the fighting, a great heaving wave of sickness that seemed to cut her legs from under her. She tried to raise her sword for one last blow.
And the pressure within suddenly burst out in a vast roar, a vibration so deep she felt it in her bones and hardly at all in her ears. The light was gone—darkness churned around her—she caught a last confused glimpse of orcs screaming, falling stones, Macenion's body glowing blue as fire—then a deafening, whirling confusion.
And silence.
Chapter Six
When she managed to lift her head, she was lying on the turf near the well. The building they had entered had collapsed in a heap of stones. It was broad daylight, with the sun's warmth filtered through high clouds. Paks took a breath, and sneezed. She felt stiff and sore, and it was hard to think what had happened. Her head felt empty; her ears rang like a bucket. She looked at her hands—the one still cramped around the hilt of her sword, and the other empty, but with the feel of something filthy on it. She scrubbed it in the grass. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them clumsily, with her sword hand.
She knew she should get up, but she wished she could lie there and rest forever. After a moment, sighing, she forced herself up: elbows, knees—she rested there for a bit. Her legs felt shaky and uncertain. She looked at her sword; blood and dirt were caked on it. She shuffled on her knees to the well, and took a handful of water to clean it. After a mouthful or two of that clear water, she began to feel more alert. The sword slid back in its scabbard sweetly—it feared nothing near. She looked around for the horses. Macenion's had disappeared; that seemed right. Star grazed unconcernedly across the well from her. There were the packs, lying open outside the ruins of the little building. Whatever had happened, there below, was over. She could do nothing for Macenion now. She must go on.
Even so she might have sat beside the well for the rest of the day if something had no
t moved her. The pressure she had felt before seeped back into her mind. This time it was more delicate: she was aware of it as a separate being. There were thanks, for her and Macenion. There were directions, specific and detailed. Slowly she rose to her feet, and slowly she gathered up her belongings. She wondered what to do with Macenion's things, and the being told her. This to the well, and that under a stone, and those to lie open on the grass, for the wind and sun to play with. Star came to her quietly, and she tied her pack to the frame.
Before she left, the being demanded one thing more. She was tired and found it hard to think, but the pressure gave her no ease until she obeyed. In that mound, through that gap—and take those things. She packed, vaguely aware that much of it was treasure: weapons decorated with gold and jewels, coins, rings and baubles. But why the scrolls? She didn't understand, but she obeyed, picking up what she was bid, and stowing it away in Star's pack. As she worked, the clouds thickened overhead, and a chill wind rolled down from the mountains. She didn't notice. She felt no triumph, only a great tiredness.
As she stumbled away on the narrow track she had been nudged to follow, the first dancing flakes of snow fell from the thickening clouds behind her. Soon a light dusting whitened the tops of the mounds in the valley, outlined the limbs of trees and clung to the cedars in little furry clumps. The clouds reached out, northwards, and gathered in the trail Paks had taken. Snow hung in the air around her, filling her lungs with its damp clean smell. She hardly noticed. It was harder and harder to walk. Every step seemed to take the last of her strength, as if she were pulling her legs out of the ground. Her left hand still felt dirty, and she rubbed it on her trousers as she walked, without realizing it. Uphill—it was all uphill, trying to clear the ridge on the far side of the valley. Paks caught at Star's pack, clung to it, and the sturdy pony plowed on, through the deepening snow, ears flat and tail clamped down. Her left side caught the blast of wind off the mountains. Soon it was numb, and she stumbled, lurching into Star, and then back, to fall face-down in the snow. A wave of nausea swept over her, but she had nothing to heave. Her stomach cramped. She couldn't push herself up; she felt the snow on the back of her neck, and then nothing.
* * *
In the darkness the first elf mistook her snow-covered body for a drift of snow, and stumbled over it. His muffled curse disturbed the pony, huddled in a thicket nearby, and she snorted.
Quickly the next elves found the pony and soothed her, whisking the snow from her back, and running deft hands over the pack straps. Meanwhile the first elf felt what was under the drift, and called for more light. Torches flared in the windy darkness.
"A human." Contempt laced the silver voice.
"A robber by the look of it—her," said another, holding out the patched cloak.
"Robber indeed," said one of the elves near Star. "This little one is loaded with such treasure that she can hardly walk. And more than that, it comes from the banast taig."
"Mother of Trees! I had not thought even the humans bold enough to rob there. Or skilled enough to escape." The leader of the group looked at a dagger and sheath from the pack and shook his head. "With such to carry, it must not be escape, but something worse."
"She is alive," said the first elf, after finding a pulse.
"Not for long," said the leader. "We may not be able to challenge that evil, but we can deal with its minions. We can leave—"
"Look at this," said one of those going through the pack. He held out to the leader the sealed message from the Halveric. "Is this stolen as well?"
"We must know what we have here, before we decide what to do," added the one at Paks's side. "I feel no great evil in her." He had brushed the snow off her, and now caught his breath as he saw the rings on her hand. He worked off the one with the Duke's seal, and read the inscription inside. "This is no common robber, cousins. Here is a ring given for honor to a soldier of the Duke Phelan—Halveric's friend, and—"
"And we all know of Kieri Phelan. Yes. If she did not steal that as well. We shall wake her, then, and see what she says. I doubt that any fair tale can be told resulting in such as this bringing treasure out of the banast taig. But we shall see."
Paks was vaguely aware of voices talking over her head before she woke fully. They were strange-sounding voices, musical and light but carrying power nonetheless. Light glowed through her eyelids. She struggled toward it, and finally managed to raise her heavy lids.
"You waken at last," said one of the strange beings before her. He turned to speak to another, and Paks saw torchlight play over the planes of his face. It was clearly unhuman, and in it she saw full strength the strangeness that Macenion had shared. These must be elves. He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. "You were very cold. Can you speak now?"
Paks worked her jaw around, and finally managed to say yes, weakly.
"Very well. We have many questions for you, human warrior. It would be well for you to answer truthfully. Do you understand?"
"Who—are you?" Paks had no idea of elven politics, if any.
"Do you not know elves, human, when you see them?"
"I thought—elves—but who?"
Arched eyebrows rose up his forehead. "Do humans now concern themselves with the genealogy of elves, having so little themselves? If you would know, then, I am of the family of Sialinn—do you know what that means?" Paks shook her head. "Then you need know no more of my family. Who are you, and what lineage gives you the right to question elves?"
Paks remembered now Macenion's pride, and how Bosk had always said elves were haughty and difficult.
"I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," she began. "Of Three Firs, far to the north and west—"
"Far indeed," said one of the other elves. "I have seen that place, though not for many years. Is there a birch wood, a day's ride west of it, in the side of a hill?"
"I don't know, sir; I never traveled so far before leaving to join the Duke's Company. Since then, I have never been home, or near it."
"Whose company was this you joined?"
"Duke Phelan's. He has a stronghold in northern Tsaia, and fights in Aarenis."
"A red-haired man?" Paks nodded, and the elf went on. "This packet sealed by the Halveric, in your baggage: how came you by that?"
"I was given it, by the Halveric, to take to his home." Even as she spoke, Paks felt the cold darkness rolling over her again. One of the elves exclaimed, and she felt an arm under her shoulders. A cold rim touched her lips, and fiery liquid trickled into her mouth. She swallowed. Warmth edged its way along her bones.
"Not too much of that," said the first elf who had spoken to her. "In case we must—" He broke off and looked at her again. "You have come to a strange place, soldier of Duke Phelan and messenger of the Halveric. You have come to a strange place, and you seem—forgive me—weaker than I would expect such a soldier to be. Give us now an account of how you came here, and what you were doing in the valley of the banast taig."
Paks found it difficult to tell a coherent story. Events and places were tangled in her memory, so that she was hard put to distinguish the encounters of the last day or so from those in the Valley of Souls. Still she managed to convey the call she and Macenion had received, and the outline of their adventures underground. The elves listened attentively, interrupting only to ask for clarification. When she finished, they looked at each other in silence. Then a burst of elven; it sounded to her like an argument. The leader turned to her again.
"Well, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you have told an unlikely tale, to be sure. Yet on the chance that it is true, I am sending one of my party into the banast taig to find out. Should he not return, or return in jeopardy, it will go hard with you."
In the snowy darkness, Paks could not tell how long the elf was gone. She lapsed into a doze, hardly aware of her surroundings. She was roused by a hand on her shoulder.
"Awake, warrior. You will need this—" and a hot mug pressed against her lips. She swallowed, still half asleep, and foun
d the taste strange but pleasant. Slowly her drifting mind came back to her. She tried to sit up on her own, but was still too weak. The elves had pitched a shelter over her, and a tiny fire flickered in one corner, under a pot.
"You still need healing," said the elf leader. "I admit surprise, Paksenarrion. I would not have believed such a thing without proof. The banast taig freed to be the elfane taig again, and the pollution gone from its heart! We rejoice to know that. But you have taken more damage from that combat than you know; humans cannot fight evil of that power unscathed. Without healing, you would die before daylight."
Paks could not think what to say. She felt weak, and a little sick, but no worse than that. She had no idea what "banast taig" and "elfane taig" were; the being that had summoned them had never named itself to her. As the elf seemed waiting for something, she finally asked, "Was—did you find out about Macenion?"
"Macenion!" It was very nearly a snort. "That one! The elfane taig buried him cleanly with his orcish murderers; he is well enough."
"But he was an elf—half-elf, I meant. I thought you would—"
"Macenion a half-elf? Did he tell you that?" Paks nodded, and the elf leader frowned. "No, little one, he was not half-elven—not a quarter elven, either. He had so much elven as might your pack pony have of racing blood."
"But he said—" Paks broke off. It was hard to talk, and she realized that Macenion's behavior made more sense the less elven he was.
"He lied. What did he tell you, Paksenarrion, to get you into that valley?"
"That—his elven cousins—denied him his rights to elven things. That he knew of—treasure there—that should be his."
"Did he not warn you of evil at all?"
"Yes—but he said his magical talents could fight that; he needed a warrior for protection against—physical things. Like the orcs."
"I see that you speak truly. I apologize, Paksenarrion, for the untruth of this distant cousin; it shames me that any elven blood could lie so."