The Deed of Paksenarrion (72 page)

Macenion scowled and opened his mouth for a quick retort, then paused. “I never thought of that,” he said. “I wonder if—” and he rummaged around inside his tunic until he came out with the tooled scroll case Paks had commented on. “It’s difficult—” he went on, as he flicked off the lid and slid the scroll out. “You remember I told you how expensive it was?” Paks nodded. “Thing is, a magical scroll—one that has on it a workable spell—can be written only by a magician who can cast the spell without it. I don’t know why; it seems a silly rule, and it certainly gives far too much power to men who do nothing but study, but there it is. Usually a scroll belongs to the man who wrote it, or to someone he trusts: his journeyman, say, or a brother mage. He knows which scroll is which—or he sets his private mark on each—and all’s well. But for someone who comes across one of these scrolls—far away from the person who wrote it—it’s difficult to tell what it is without reading it.”

“Then read it,” said Paks, gnawing on a slab of dried meat. It was delicious. “You can read—?”

“Of course, I can read! That’s not the point. That’s how it’s used—by reading it. If I read it, whatever it is happens.”

“Oh. So there’s no way to—to peek?”

Macenion allowed himself to look amused. “No. Not that I ever heard of. There are a lot of teaching tales for young apprentice magicians that tell of attempts to peek and what happened afterwards. No, I must decide, by examining all the marks on the outside of the scroll and by my own abilities, whether it’s worth chancing that the spell or spells on it will do us any good.” He peered at the scroll itself, then at the case, and then back at the scroll.

“I might just take a look into the corridors,” said Paks casually. “In case someone is coming—”

“Good idea. Then you’ll be out of range if something does happen.” Paks had not realized that Macenion would find her motive so obvious. She said nothing, but looked into the corridor diagonally opposite that from which she’d entered the chamber. This was the way the “servants” had left. She could see no one before the corridor turned, some twenty paces away. She looked back at Macenion. He was still examining the scroll, but he looked up at her and nodded. “Go on—not too far. I think I’ll try one of these; for what I paid for them, they should be fairly powerful.” Paks went on as far as the turn.

It seemed a long time before he called, a high excited yell. Paks swept out her sword and ran back to the chamber. She was just in time to see a blue flare lance to the ceiling from the elf’s body. A dry clatter brought her eyes back to the floor; bones lay scattered there, and as she watched, they crumbled to dust. A draft scattered the dust. She looked up to meet Macenion’s eyes. He was pale and trembling.

“It worked,” she said unnecessarily.

“Yes. It—by Orphin, I’m tired. That—even reading it—that was beyond my powers—” He reeled, and Paks moved quickly to catch him before he fell. He lay some time unmoving. She could feel a pulse beating in his neck, so she folded her cloak under his head and let him rest. Some time later he opened his eyes and blinked. “What—? Oh yes. That.” Silently Paks offered him water and food. He took a long drink, and shook his head at the food. After another swallow, he rolled up to a sitting position and shook his head sharply.

“Do you think, Macenion, that that creature was what we came here to fight?” Paks had been worrying about this; if it were the servant of some greater evil, she had little hope of escape.

“I think so. That—was a considerable power. If it had chosen a better spell for you, or been more practiced at sword play—we wouldn’t be here.

“Then what were we to free? The elf’s body? That couldn’t have called us. What else is there?”

Macenion rubbed his face with both hands. “No. You’re right. We haven’t been greeted with cries of joy and armfuls of reward, have we? Something still to be done—by Orphin, I don’t know if I can manage any more spells today.”

“Maybe you won’t need to. If whatever it was is trapped somewhere, all we need to do now is find it.”

“I hope it’s that easy.” Macenion stood up, swaying slightly at first. “I just had a thought. I hope whatever it is wasn’t trapped in a jewel or something worn by the elf. Some magicians do that sort of thing. If so, we’re out of luck.”

“If only we get out of this,” said Paks, “we’ll be
in
luck.”

“True. Did you see anything down that corridor?”

“No. Nothing.”

Paks was never afterwards sure what had guided their choice, with so many ways to go, and no knowledge. At first, as they walked the bare stone corridor, Macenion continued to eat, reaching out now and again to touch the walls as if for balance. Then the corridor sloped down, and he paused.

“Wait—” Macenion’s face, when Paks turned, was grim. He pulled out his own sword, and tested the balance. “I sense something—”

“Not that thing in the Winter Hall!”

Macenion shook his head. “No. Not so dire as that. But it’s as if my blood tingled—some enemy is below, and coming nearer.”

Paks looked around for a good place to fight. The corridor was slightly too wide for two to hold. “We’d better go on, then, and hope for something we can use.”

Macenion nodded, and came up beside her as they started off again.

“Don’t you want to stay back and prepare your spells?”

“I told you—I can’t do that again today. I’d never be able to cast a simple fire spell, let alone anything useful.”

The corridor turned right, and continued downward. Paks felt edgy; she was increasingly aware of the weight of stone and earth above her. She found herself whispering words from a Phelani marching song. Macenion looked at her curiously, and she blushed and fell silent.

Suddenly Paks caught a foul whiff that stopped her short. “What’s that?”

Macenion looked eager. “Ah. I might have known. Orcs, that’s what. They would move in when the elves were driven away.”

“Orcs?” Paks had heard of orcs; they had raided Three Firs in her greatgrandfather’s day, but she had not expected to meet any.

“Ugly but cowardly,” said Macenion briskly. “If that was their master, they’ll want nothing better than escape. They won’t be looking for experienced fighters like us—”

“If they want to escape, we can let them,” suggested Paks.

“Let orcs loose? Are you crazy? They’re disgusting. Vermin, killers, filthy—”

“How many are likely to be in a group?” Paks didn’t care how disgusting they were; enough orcs could kill them.

“Oh—not more than seven or eight. We can handle that many. I killed three by myself one time.”

“But, Macenion—”

“Paksenarrion, I’ve seen you fight, remember? We have nothing to worry about. If we can handle that thing up there—” he jerked his head back where they’d been, “—we can handle a few orcs. Trust me. Haven’t I been right on this so far?”

“I still think we should wait until we know how many there are. What if there’s twenty? Let’s find a hiding place, and—”

“Where?”

Paks looked around. Ahead, the corridor turned again twenty paces away, still going down. They had passed no doors for the last two hundred paces. She shrugged, and went on.

Around that corner the stench was stronger. Trash littered the floor. Paks looked for someplace to hide. Halfway to the next turn a doorway shadowed one wall. They had nearly reached it when they heard a harsh voice from somewhere ahead. Paks darted forward. The doorway was an empty gap opening into a tiny bare room. She grabbed Macenion’s arm and pulled him in.

He glared at her, but said nothing as the voice came nearer in the corridor.

The first orcs were uglier than Paks had imagined. Greasy leather armor covered their hunched torsos; long arms banded with spiked leather hung nearly to the floor. The first carried a curved blade, badly nicked along the inner curve, and the second dragged a spear short enough to use in the corridor. Paks noted the spare knives in sheaths on both hips, and helmets that came low over the nose. Behind the first pair came another, whose voice they had heard. It wore a filthy fur cloak over its armor, and carried a spiked whip as well as a sword. Whatever it was saying to the others must have been unpleasant, for the spear carrier turned suddenly and growled back at it. Paks flattened herself into the angle of wall away from the door, and hoped the orcs would quit arguing and go on. Macenion, however, leaned toward the door. She realized suddenly that he was about to go out and attack. He looked back at her and cocked his head at the door.

If he attacked them and was killed, they’d be sure to look in the room. Paks cursed the stupidity of all magicians, and moved to the other side of the door, sword ready.

“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.