Elizabeth Moon - Oath of Gold

“Darkon Edge,” he said. “What—”

“I’ll show you,” said Paks. She drew her sword and laid it crossways on the saddle bow. “Yeomen of Gird!” Her yell brought heads around, and drew a flurry of movement. “Yeomen of Gird, hear me!” A few men hurried into the square: an obvious baker, dusting flour from his hands, a forester with his axe, several more. When perhaps a dozen had clustered around her, she pointed at the baker. “Is this all the yeomen in Darkon Edge?”

“No—why—what is it?”

“I am Paksenarrion,” she said, “a paladin of Gird, on quest. Do you know of it?” They shook their heads. “You know who stayed here last night?” One nodded; the others merely stared. “The rightful king of Lyonya,” said Paks loudly. “The king who was stolen into slavery as a young child, and lost all memory of his family. He was taken, yeomen of Gird, to weaken Lyonya, to open a way for the powers of evil to assail both Lyonya and Tsaia.”

“So?” asked one of the men.

“So in the end, the powers of Liart and Achrya failed, and he is going to his throne. If he gains it, peace and freedom will have a chance here. Do you think Liart and Achrya like that?”

“But he’s a mercenary,” yelled someone from a window across the square. Paks faced it and yelled back.

“He was a mercenary, yes—to earn his way, when he knew nothing of his birth. But he’s more than a mercenary. Gird knows Lyonya needs a soldier on the throne, with those against her.”

“It won’t do any good,” said the same voice. “Nothing does. Gird: that’s an old tale. The real power’s in the dark woods, where—”

“Come out here and say that,” said Paks. “Is this light I carry an old tale? Will you face it and say that Gird has no power?”

“Not against Liart.” The face at the window disappeared, and the yeomen muttered.

“Who is that?” asked Paks quickly.

“Joriam. He’s an elder here,” said the forester. “His son’s gone, and his nephew’s crippled by that there—” But a powerful gray-haired man had come out the door, and strode angrily across the square to Paks.

“You!” he yelled. “Paladin, are you? You come here and tell us to fight, and then you’ll go away, and it will start again. What do you know about that, eh?” He looked her up and down. “Fancy armor, fancy horse, fancy sword. You never lay bound on Liart’s altar! It’s easy for you!”

In one swift gesture, Paks jerked off her helmet. Into the shocked silence that followed, with every eye riveted on her scarred shaven head, she said quietly, “You’re wrong. And this is the proof of it. I carried Liart’s brand: look now, and see Gird’s power.”

The man’s mouth opened and shut without a word. One of the foresters blushed, and looked away. Paks scanned the square, noting others who had crept in and peered from doorways. She raised her voice again.

“Yeomen of Gird, I have known what you fear. I have been captive—aye, by Liart’s priests, as well as others. I have been unarmed, hungry, frightened, cold, naked—all that you have feared, I have known. If it were not a winter’s day—” Her voice warmed to the chuckle she felt, “—you could see all my scars, and judge for yourself. But let this—” she gestured at her head, “be enough proof for you. I know Liart and his altars, and Achrya and her webs, and I know the only cure for them. I call on you, yeomen of Gird. Follow Gird; come with me; together we will destroy the evils you fear, or die cleanly in battle. No more bloody altars of Liart, yeomen. Blood on our own blades now.” She raised her sword; a shout followed. The faces watching her came alive.

“But—” The old man raised an arm and the shouts died.

Paks broke in. “No, elder Joriam. The time for ‘but’ and ‘maybe’ is long past. You have suffered evil; I am sorry for it. Now the yeomen of Gird must take heart and take weapons, and save themselves from more evil. Come!” The red horse danced sideways, clearing a space which filled with men, suddenly swarming from doorways and side streets. “Is it true?” asked the baker, wiping his hands again. “Is it really true that you can find it, and we can fight?”

Paks grinned at them all. “Yeomen, we shall fight indeed.” She watched them run to the Grange, bringing back stored weapons, and form themselves into a ragged square before her. Then she heard the drumming hooves of Dorrin’s cohort coming into the village, and turned to meet her.

Dorrin looked at the small group of yeomen with distaste. She managed not to look at Paks’s head. The rest of the cohort were not as careful.

“What’s this?”

Paks met her eyes steadily. “This is the yeomanry of Darkon Edge; they will march with us to meet the enemy.”

Dorrin’s eyebrows rose. “This?” She said it quietly, but Paks saw one of the foresters redden. She wrapped the scarf around her head, stuffed the helmet back over it, and nodded.

“We will need them,” she said. “Gird has called them.”

“I see.” Dorrin’s eyes dropped to her hand on the reins. “Then I suppose—”

“That it’s settled. Yes.” Paks turned to the Marshal. “Sir Marshal, will you lead your yeomen, or shall I?”

A spark of interest had returned to his eyes; now it kindled into pride. “I will, paladin of Gird. Do we go by the road?”

“For a time.” Paks nodded to Dorrin. “Captain, I would recommend battle order, with forward scouts in sight of the cohort. For now I will ride with the yeomen.” Dorrin’s quick commands soon had the cohort moving at a brisk trot. Paks waited until the Marshal had brought out his own shaggy mount and they rode together at the head of the yeomen. Before he could say anything, she was asking about the road ahead, and the shape of the land around.

Just out of town, the road entered a section of broken, rough land, more heavily forested than that on either side. Already some of the springs had broken; the road surface was a rough mass of frost-heave and mud. The red horse slowed, picking his way around the soggy places and slippery refrozen ice. The yeomen marched strongly, but in a loose, ungainly formation. Paks wondered how they would fight—but anything would be better than the blank apathy of Darkon Edge. The Marshal began to explain some of what had happened in the past several years. She realized that some powerful force had harried his grange, and the next to the south, picking off the strongest and bravest of the yeomen. Only a few had been found, alive or dead. The old man’s nephew had returned a cripple, and half-mad from torture. Another, terribly mutilated, had managed to kill himself. She shook her head as he fell silent.

“Indeed, Marshal, you have had hard times. You say you tried to find the source of this?”

“Of course I did!” Now he was angry again. “Gird’s blood, paladin, when I came I was as full of flame as you are now. But year by year—one after another they died, and I could find nothing. How can they trust me, when I can’t find a center of evil like that, eh? How can I trust myself?”

“And the other Marshals nearby, they did nothing?”

“Garin tried—until he got the lung fever so bad. His yeoman-marshal was taken, too, and that—well, it was bad to see, paladin. I know Berris, east of me, has had trouble too, but we neither of us had much time to meet—it’s more than a day’s journey across by the road. I’ve got six bartons outlying, as well as the grange, and always something gone wrong.”

“And you quit hoping—”

“Hoping! Hoping for what? What’s left? Half the yeomanry I had when I came—Gird’s blood, I don’t doubt this day will see the half of that half gone. But as you said, a clean death. I don’t fear death itself—Gird knows I’ve tried these years, but—”