The Deed of Paksenarrion Read Online Free PDF Page B

suffered a variety of lumps, cuts and scrapes, but the only serious injury in Paks’s unit was Mikel Falsson, who fell from the wall while working on repairs and broke both legs. He recovered, but with a bad limp, and eventually went to work in the armory.
    “He was lucky not to lose either leg,” said Devlin. “That was as nasty a break as I’ve seen.” Paks shuddered, remembering the white ends of bone sticking out.
    “If there’d been a Marshal here—” began Effa. Devlin interrupted.
    “No. Don’t say that. Not here. Not in this Company.”
    Effa looked puzzled. “But I thought Phelan’s Company recruited mostly Girdsmen—doesn’t it?”
    “Once it did, but not now.”
    “But when I joined, and said I was a yeoman, Stammel said it was good.”
    “Sergeant Stammel, to you. Oh yes, we’re glad to get Girdsmen—the more the better. But there’ll be no Marshals here, and no grange or barton.”
    “But why—?”
    “Effa, leave be.” Arñe tapped her arm. “It’s not our concern.”
    It was not in Effa’s nature to leave be. She worried the question any time the corporals and Stammel were not around, wondering why and why not, and trying to convert those (such as Paksenarrion, Saben and Arñe) who seemed to her virtuous but unenlightened. Paks found these attempts at conversion annoying.
    “I’ve got my own gods,” she said finally. “And that’s enough for me. My family has followed the same gods for generations, and I won’t change. Besides, however good a fighter Gird was, he can’t have turned into a god. That’s not where gods come from.” And she turned her back on Effa and walked off.
    Meanwhile, she and Saben and Vik discussed religions in a very different way, fascinated by each other’s background.
    “Now my family,” said Saben. “We were horse nomads once—my father’s father’s grandfather. Now we raise cattle, but we still carry a bit of hoof with us, and dance under the forelock and tail at weddings and funerals.”
    “Do you worship—uh—horses?” asked Vik.
    “No, of course not. We worship Thunder-of-horses, the north wind, and the dark-eyed Mare of Plenty, though my father says that’s really the same as Alyanya, the Lady of Peace. Then my uncle’s family—I’ve seen them dance to Guthlac—”
    “The Hunter?”
    “Yes. My father always goes home then. He doesn’t approve.”
    “I should think not.” Vik shivered.
    “City boy,” teased Paks. “We gather the sheep in from the wild hunt, but we know Guthlac has great power.”
    “I know that. It’s what power—brrr. Now in my family, we worship the High Lord, Alyanya, and Sertig and Adyan—”
    “Who are they?” asked Paks.
    “Sertig’s the Maker, surely you know that. Craftsmen follow him. Adyan is the Namer— true -Namer—of all things. My father’s a harper, and harpers deal much with names.”
    “You’re a harper’s son?” asked Saben. Vik nodded. “But you’ve no voice at all!”
    “True enough,” said Vik, shrugging. “And no skill with a harp either, though I had one in my hands as soon as I could pluck a string. My father tried to make a scribe of me, and I wrote as badly as I played. And got into trouble, liking to fight. So—” he looked at his hands. “So it became—wise—for me to move away, and make use of the skill I did have.”
    “Which is?” asked Saben slyly.
    In an instant Vik had turned, gotten his hold, and flipped Saben onto his back. “Throwing down great lummoxes of cattle farmers, for one.” Saben laughed and rolled back up to a sitting position.
    “I see your point,” he said cheerfully. “But will it work against a thousand southern spearmen?”
    “It won’t have to. You and Paks will be up front, you lucky tall ones, and you can protect me.”
    After several weeks of switching places in formation, they received their permanent assignments. “Permanent until you do something stupid,” Bosk said. Paks, to her delight, was made file leader.