He reached out and took her hand; his grip was firm but gentle. "No, Paks, I did not deal those injuries. We brought you out of the place where that happened." He turned to another man who had just walked up to them. "She's awake, and making sense, but her memory hasn't returned. Paks, do you know this man?"

Paks stared at the lean face framed in iron-gray hair and beard. He looked stern and even grim, but honest. She wanted to trust him. She could not remember him at all. "No, sir," she said slowly. "I don't. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," said the second man. "I wonder," he said to the first, "whether we should try to tell her what we know."

"Names, at least," said the dark man. "Or she'll be completely confused. Paks, my name is Amberion; I'm a paladin of Gird. And this is Marshal Fallis, of the Order of the Cudgel."

The names meant nothing to Paks, and the men looked no more familiar with strange names attached. She looked from one to the other. "Amberion. Marshal Fallis." They looked at her, glanced at each other, then back at her.

"Do you remember who Gird is, Paks?" asked Marshal Fallis.

Paks wrinkled her brow, trying to think. The name woke a distant uneasiness. "Gird. I—I know I should. Something—it's—what to do—to call—when—" she stopped, breathing hard, and tried again. "When you start to fight—only—I couldn't say it aloud! I tried—and it wouldn't—something on my neck, choking—No!" Paks shouted this last loud enough to startle the entire camp. She had shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head, her body rigid. "No," she said more softly. "No. By—by Holy Gird, I will fight. I will—not—stop. I will fight!"

She felt both men's hands on her shoulders, steadying her. Amberion spoke. "Paks. Listen to me. You're out of that. You're safe." Then, more quietly, to Fallis. "And what do you suppose that was about. Surely she wasn't free to fight them?"

"I don't know," was Fallis's grim reply. "But I suspect we'd better find out. Considering how we found her—"

"I won't believe it," said Amberion, but his voice had thinned.

Paks opened her eyes. For a moment she stared blankly at the sky, then shifted her eyes to look at Amberion. She could feel patches of memory coming back, unconnected still, but broadening. "Amberion? What—"

"You were injured, Paks. You don't remember much."

"I feel—strange. Will you tell me what happened?"

"We don't know all that happened. And it might be better to let you remember it for yourself."

Paks looked around. "I don't recognize this place. But the color of the rocks—something—is familiar."

"We moved the camp after you—after the fight."

"Are we in Kolobia yet?" Paks saw Amberion's face relax a little.

"Good. You are remembering. Yes, we're in Kolobia. How much do you remember of the trip here?"

"Some of it—we were in a caravan, for a long way. We saw the horse nomads, didn't we?" Amberion nodded. "And I remember a bald-faced red horse, bucking—"