About this Book . . .
* * *
The Deed of Paksenarrion
* * *
Complete at Last in a Single Hardcover Volume—the Finest Trilogy of Epic Fantasy in a Decade
Paksenarrion, a simple sheepfarmer’s daughter, yearns for a life of adventure and glory, such as was known to heroes in songs and story. At age seventeen she runs away from home to join a mercenary company and begins her epic life . . . Book One: Paks is trained as a mercenary, blooded, and introduced to the life of a soldier . . . and to the followers of Gird, the soldier’s god. Book Two: Paks leaves the Duke’s company to follow the path of Gird alone—and on her lonely quests encounters the other sentient races of her world. Book Three: Paks the warrior must learn to live with Paks the human. She undertakes a holy quest for a lost elven prince that brings the gods’ wrath down on her and tests her very limits.
“Engrossing . . .” —Anne McCaffrey
“A tour de force . . .” —Jack McDevitt
“Worldbuilding in the grand tradition, background thought out to the last detail.” —Judith Tarr
“Superlative . . .” —Booklist
“Brilliant . . . the excitement of high heroic adventure . . . will enchant the reader.” —Bookwatch
The Deed of Paksenarrion
Elizabeth Moon
THE DEED OF PAKSENARRION
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
The Deed of Paksenarrion has been published in slightly different form as Sheepfarmer's Daughter, copyright © 1988, Divided Allegiance, copyright © 1988, and Oath of Gold, copyright © 1989.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 0-7434-7160-1
Cover art by Keith Parkinson
First printing, October 2003
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Typeset by Windhaven Press,
Auburn, N.H.
www.webwrights.com
Printed in the United States of America
[12 jul 2004 - converted from html for .lit
Note: Since Readerworks 2.0 don't show
spine pics, I put it here too!
— EvilRich]
Map:
Prologue:
In a sheepfarmer’s low stone house, high in the hills above Three Firs, two swords hang now above the mantelpiece. One is very old and slightly bent, a sword more iron than steel, dark as a pot: forged, so the tale runs, by the smith in Rocky Ford—yet it is a sword, for all that, and belonged to Kanas once, and tasted orcs’ blood and robbers’ blood in its time. The other is a very different matter: long and straight, keen-edged, of the finest sword-steel, silvery and glinting blue even in yellow firelight. The pommel’s knot design is centered with the deeply graven seal of St. Gird; the cross-hilts are gracefully shaped and chased in gold.
The children of that place look at both swords with awe, and on some long winter nights old Dorthan, grandfather of fathers and graybeard now, takes from its carved chest the scroll that came with the sword and reads aloud to his family. But first he reminds them of the day a stranger rode up, robed and mantled in white, an old man with thin silver hair, and handed down the box and the sword, naked as it hangs now.
“Keep these,” the stranger said, “in memory of your daughter Paksenarrion. She wishes you to have them and has no need of them.” And though he accepted water from their well, he would say no more of Paksenarrion, whether she lived or lay buried far away, whether she would return or no.
The scroll Dorthan reads is headed The Deed of Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter of Three Firs, and many are the tales of courage and adventure written therein. Time and again the family has thrilled to the description of Paksenarrion in battle—the littlest ones pressing close around Dorthan’s knees, and watching her sword on the wall. They are sure it glows slightly when those tales are read.
And always they ask, the little ones who never knew her, what she was like. Just like that in the scroll? Always so tall, so brave? And Dorthan remembers her face the night she left, and is silent. One brother thinks of a long-legged girl running down errant sheep; the youngest remembers being carried on her shoulders, and the smell of her hair. Besides this, legend is all they have. “She’s dead,” say some. “She must be, or they wouldn’t have sent her sword.”
“No,” say others. “She is not dead. She is gone where she doesn’t need this sword.”
And Dorthan turns to the end of the scroll, which solves nothing . . . for the Deed is unfinished, ending abruptly in the middle of a stanza.
And one of those children, the little ones, has climbed from stool to table, and from table to mantelpiece, and touched with a daring hand the hilt of each sword . . . and then climbed down, to dream of songs and battles.
Book I:
Sheepfarmer's Daughter
Chapter One
“And I say you will!” bellowed the burly sheepfarmer, Dorthan Kanasson. He lunged across the table, but his daughter Paksenarrion sidestepped his powerful arm and darted down the passage to the sleeping rooms. “Pakse!” he yelled, slipping his broad leather belt from its loops. “Pakse, you come here now!” His wife Rahel and three smaller children cowered against the wall. Silence from the sleeping rooms. “Pakse, you come or it will be the worse for you. Will you go to your wedding with welts on your back?”
“I’ll not go at all!” came the angry response.
“The dower’s been given. You wed Fersin Amboisson next restday. Now come out before I come in.”
Suddenly she stood in the mouth of the passage, as tall as he but slender, long blonde hair braided tightly. She had changed to her older brother’s clothes, a leather tunic over her own shirt, and his homespun trousers. “I told you not to give dower. I told you I wouldn’t wed Fersin or anyone else. And I won’t. I’m leaving.”
Dorthan glared at her as he wrapped the belt around his right hand. “The only place you’re going, you arrogant hussy, is Fersin’s bed.”
“Dorthan, please—” began Rahel.
“Quiet! She’s your fault as much as anyone’s. She should have been spinning at home, not running out on the moors hunting with the boys.”
Paksenarrion’s gray eyes glinted. “It’s all right, Mother; don’t worry. He’ll remember someday that he’s the one who sent me out with the flocks so often. Father, I’m leaving. Let me pass.”
“Over my dead body,” he grunted.
“If need be—” Paksenarrion leaped for the old sword, Kanas’s sword, over the fireplace. As she lifted it from the rack, the belt caught her shoulders with its first stroke. Then she was facing Dorthan, sword in hand, with the firelight behind her. The sword felt easy in her grip. Startled, Dorthan jumped back, swinging the belt wildly in her direction. Paksenarrion took her chance and ran for the door, jerked it open, and was gone. Behind her came his furious bellow, and questioning calls from her brothers still working in the barns, but Paksenarrion did not slow or turn until she came to the boundary stone of her father’s land. There she thrust her grandfather’s sword into the soil.
“I won’t have him saying I stole it,” she muttered to herself. She turned for a last look at her home. Against the dark bulk of the hill, she could see light at the open front door, and dark figures crossing and recrossing the light. She could hear voices calling her name, then a deep
bellow from Dorthan, and all the shapes went in at the door and shut the light in. She was alone, outside the house, and she knew, as well as if she’d seen him do it, that Dorthan had barred the door against her. She shook herself. “It’s what I wanted,” she said aloud. “So now I’d better go on with it.”
The rest of that night she jogged and walked down the well-worn track from her father’s farm to Three Firs, warmed by the thought of the coming adventure. She went over her cousin’s instructions time after time, trying to remember everything he’d said about recruiting sergeants and mercenary companies and training and drill. In the first light of dawn she walked into Three Firs. Only in the baker’s house did she see a gleam of light behind closed shutters, and a plume of smoke out the chimney. She smelled no baking bread. She could not wait until the first baking came out unless the recruiters were still in Three Firs. She walked on to the marketplace. Empty. Of course, they might not be up yet. She looked in the public barn that served as an inn. Empty. They had left. She drew water from the village well, drank deeply, and started off again, this time on the wider track that led to Rocky Ford—or so her cousin had said; she’d never been beyond Three Firs.
As daylight came, she was able to make better time, but it was nearly noon when she came to the outskirts of Rocky Ford. The rich smells of cooking food from the inns and houses nearly made her sick. She pressed on, through what seemed to her like crowds, to the market square in the town’s center. There she saw the booth that Jornoth had told her to look for, draped in maroon and white silk, with spears for cornerposts. She paused to catch her breath and look at it. On either side, a man-at-arms with breastplate, helmet, and sword stood guard. Inside was a narrow table, with one stool before it, and a man seated behind. Paksenarrion took a deep breath and walked forward.
As she reached the booth, she realized that she was taller than either of the men-at-arms. She waited for them to say something, but they ignored her. She looked inside. Now she could see that the man behind the table had gray hair, cropped short, and a neatly trimmed mustache. When he looked up at her, his eyes were a warm golden brown.
“This is a recruiting station for Duke Phelan’s Company,” he said as he met her gaze. “Were you looking for someone?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I was looking for you—for a recruiting station, I mean.” Paksenarrion reddened with embarrassment.
“You?” The man stared a moment, then looked down briefly. “You mean you wanted to join the Company?”
“Yes. My—my cousin said such companies accepted women.”
“We do, though not so many want to join. Look—mmm—let’s get a few things straight before we start. To join us you must be eighteen winters old, healthy, with no deformities, strong, tall enough—you have no problem there—and not too stupid. If you’re a drunkard, liar, thief, or devil-worshipper, we’ll throw you out the worse for wear. You agree to serve for two years beyond your basic training, which takes four to six months. You get no pay as a recruit, but you do get room, board, and gear as well as training. Your pay as a private in the Company is low, but you’ll share any plunder. Is that clear?”
“Aye,” said Paksenarrion. “Clear enough. I’m over eighteen, and I’m never sick. I’ve been working on the moors, with sheep—I can lift as much as my brother Sedlin, and he’s a year older.”
“Mmm. What do your parents think of your joining an army?”
“Oh.” Paksenarrion blushed again. “Well, to be honest, my father doesn’t know that’s where I am. I—I ran away.”
“He wanted you to wed.” The man’s eyes had a humorous twinkle.
“Yes. A pig farmer—”
“And you wanted someone else.”
“Oh no! I didn’t—I don’t want to marry at all. I want to be a warrior like my cousin Jornoth. I’ve always liked hunting and wrestling and being outdoors.”
“I see. Here, have a seat on the stool.” While she sat down, he fished under the table and came up with a leather-bound book which he laid on top. “Let me see your hands—I have to be sure you don’t have any prison brands. Fine. Now—you like wrestling, you say. You’ve arm wrestled?”
“Surely. With my family, and once at market.”
“Good. Give me a try; I want to test your strength.” They clasped right hands, and on the count began to push against each other’s resistance. After several minutes, with neither moving much, the man said “Fine, that’s enough. Now let’s go left-handed.” This time he had the greater strength, and slowly pushed her arm to the table. “That’s good enough,” he said. “Now—was this decision to join a sudden one?”
“No. Ever since Jornoth left home—and especially after he came back that time—I’ve wanted to. But he said I had to be eighteen, and then I waited until the recruiting season was almost over, so my father couldn’t trace me and cause trouble.”
“You said you’d been on the moors—how far from town do you live?”
“From here? Well, we’re a half day’s sheep drive from Three Firs—”
“Three Firs! You came here from Three Firs today?”
“We live up the other side of Three Firs,” said Paksenarrion. “I came through there before dawn, just at first light.”
“But that’s—that’s twenty miles from Three Firs to here, at least. When did you start from home?”
“Late last night, after supper.” At the word, her stomach rumbled loudly.
“You must have gone . . . thirty miles, I don’t doubt. Did you eat in Three Firs?”
“No, it was too early. Besides I was afraid I’d miss you here.”
“And if you had?”
“I’ve a few coppers. I’d have gotten some food here and followed you.”
“I’ll bet you would have, too,” the man said. He grinned at her. “Give us your name, then, and let’s get you on the books so we can feed you. Any girl who’ll go thirty miles or more on foot without stopping to eat ought to make a soldier.”
She grinned back. “I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter.”
“Pakse-which?”
“Paksenarrion,” she said slowly, and paused until he had that down. “Dorthansdotter. Of Three Firs.”
“Got it.” He raised his voice slightly. “Corporal Bosk.”
“Sir.” One of the men-at-arms turned to look into the tent.
“I’ll need the judicar and a couple of witnesses.”
“Sir.” The corporal stalked off across the square.
“We have to have it all official,” the man explained. “This isn’t our Duke’s domain; we must prove that we didn’t take advantage of you, or force you, or forge your signature . . . you can sign your name, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The Duke encourages all his troops to learn to read and write. Now—” He broke off as a man in a long maroon gown and two women arrived at the booth.
“Got another one before the deadline, eh, Stammel?” said the man. The women, one in cheesemaker’s apron and cap, and the other with flour dusting her hands and arms, looked at Paksenarrion curiously.
“This young lady wishes to join,” said Stammel shortly. The man winked at him and took out a stone cylinder with carving on one end. “Now,” Stammel continued, “if you’ll repeat after me in the presence of the judicar and these witnesses: I, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, do desire to join Duke Phelan’s Company as a recruit and agree to serve two years in this company after recruit training without leave, and do further agree to obey all rules, regulations, and commands which I may be given in that time, fighting whomever and however my commander directs.”
Paksenarrion repeated all this in a firm voice, and signed where she was directed, in the leather-bound book. The two women signed beside her name, and the judicar dripped wax underneath and pressed the stone seal in firmly. The cheesemaker patted Paksenarrion on the shoulder as she turned away, and the judicar gave Stammel a final wink and leer.
“Now then,” said Stammel. “I’m Sergeant Stamm
el, as you may have gathered. We usually leave a town at noon; all the rest of the recruits are at The Golden Pig and have eaten. But you need something in your stomach, and a rest before we march. So we’ll wait a bit. From here on, you’re a recruit, remember. That means you say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ to any of us but other recruits, and you do what you’re told with no arguing. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paksenarrion.
An hour later, seated by a window, Paksenarrion looked curiously at the other recruits lounging in the courtyard of The Golden Pig. Only two were taller than she: a husky youth with tousled yellow hair, and a skinny black-bearded man whose left arm had a tattooed design on it. The shortest was a wiry redheaded boy with an impudent nose and a stained green velvet shirt. She spotted two other women, sitting together on the steps. None had weapons except a dagger for eating, but the black-bearded man wore a sword-belt. Mostly the recruits looked like farm boys and prentices, with a few puffy-faced men beyond her experience. Only the men-at-arms and the recruiting sergeant were in uniform. The others wore the clothes in which they’d joined. She finished the sandwich in her hand and started another; Stammel had told her to eat hearty and take her time. She had downed four sandwiches when Stammel came in again.
“You look better,” he remarked. “Is there a short form of that name of yours?”
Paksenarrion had been thinking about that. She never wanted to hear her father’s Pakse again. Her great-aunt, for whom she was named, had been called Enarra, but she didn’t like that, either. She had finally decided on a form she thought she could live with.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Just call me Paks, if you wish.”
“All right, Paks—ready to march?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, then.” Stammel led the way to the inn courtyard. The other recruits stared as she came down the steps. “This is Paks,” he said. “She’ll march in Coben’s file today, Corporal Bosk.”