″Then I backhanded this other fine fellow across the head, turned on my heel, and lunged while your friend there was off-balance, which left me with nothing to do but block your other friend with the black hair
so
—″
He mimed letting a shete-cut slide off the blade of his longsword.
″—which in turn left me in position for a quick stab to the inside of the thigh, below the armor and cup. It′s a low blow that′s often the most effective. A man who blocks strikes to his face and chest well can often be taken with a blow to the thighs or knees or shins—or even a thrust through his foot pinning it to the ground, after which he′ll be sadly lacking in nimbleness and no good at a dance at all.″
″Christ, you were fast,″ one of the young men said reverently. ″I didn′t think a guy your height could move like that. That′s why I tried to come in under your guard.″
″Well, to be sure, I am very quick,″ Rudi said.
Modesty was a vice he left to Christians and there was also no point in denying what they′d seen with their own eyes; and while some of it was just the cradle gifts of the fey, more was honestly earned by long hard effort.
″And being both tall and fast is a fine thing. But also, there′s the matter of the weapons. Your Eastern shete hits hard, I will not dispute, but it recovers slowly even when held by a strong wrist. Good enough for a melee, where you seldom strike for the same man twice and few men see the blow that kills them, but not for the higher art. Here there′s just the four of us, and no interruptions or distractions, of which a battle has more than its share.″
The Readstown instructor held out his hand. ″Can I see that? What do you call it?″
″A longsword. To be technical, it′s a hand-and-a-half, or a bastard longsword. Thirty-six inches in the blade, and the hilt long enough for either a single or two-hand grip. Here, try the steel, it′ll give you a better idea than wood.″
He picked up his sheathed sword where it rested with the belt wrapped around the scabbard and tossed it over. The Readstowner drew the great cross-hilted blade. His eyes picked out the spots where nicks had been ground out of the layer-forged steel, and he grunted approval of the state of the edge—knife sharp, but not a vulnerable hair-thin razor edge that would turn on bone, and all the metal covered with a barely perceptible film of neatsfoot oil. He tried it in a few broad sweeping cuts of the type the local blade-style used, feet rustling in the yellow-brown barley stubble, then held the weapon and turned it slowly in a circle from the wrist, and then flicked it back and forth.
″Nice piece of smith work here, you betcha. It′s no lighter than a cavalry shete,″ he said. ″But the balance is a lot further back. Just forward of the guard.″ He tried a thrust. ″Bet you could put this right through a mail shirt.″
″Yes, with a solid hit. And enough weight behind it and just a wee bit of luck. The blade tapers to a narrow point, as you see, and the tip of it will get inside the first link. Then the edges cut the rings from the inside. Even good riveted mail is much better protection against cuts than thrusts of that sort.″
″Like a thin-tipped spear?″
″Precisely, though you won′t run a man in a mail hauberk all the way through . . . but inches are enough in the right place, eh?″
″Yah hey, fighting
or
fucking,″ the man said, to a general laugh.
Then he tossed it up a little, resheathed it and went on shrewdly:
″Bet this thing takes longer to learn well than a shete. Bet
you′ve
been at it a while; I′d say you′re a Changeling. All the way, too, not just mostly like me.″
″Probably, though a wise man never stops learning his tools,″ Rudi acknowledged with respect to the first part of the statement. ″And yes, I′ve been at it since I could walk, more or less, and I was born in the first Change Year. War′s my trade, though I′ve put my hand to other things in plenty.″
″Like to fight, do you?″
″No, that I do not,″ Rudi replied. ″I like the art of the thing, and the mastering of the skill, and the testing of the self. A bladesman′s skill can be as beautiful as any other. Fighting . . . that you do because it′s needful.″
″You′ve won a lot of fights,″ one of the youngsters said brashly, despite a glare from his instructor when he pushed into the conversation. ″What′s it like? We′ve had some brushes with outlaws lately but they just run off if they can′t bushwhack you.″
Rudi twitched the wooden sword down until its point rested in the dirt and leaned on the hilt. ″You′ve slaughtered beasts, I suppose?″ he said calmly.
The teenager nodded; it would be rare for anyone not to have that experience. Anyone except a wealthy dweller in a large city, and such were very rare in the world as it was now. Even a child could help hold the bowl of oatmeal to catch the blood for sausages and black pudding when a carcass was hoisted up to drain.
″Much like that; like butchering a pig, shall we say, they being clever enough to know what you′re about, and to fear their death before it comes. Except that you can generally kill a beast cleanly with one blow, since it′s not trying to stop you with a weapon of its own, the which is unfortunately rare in a fight. In battle you must often disable before you can put an end to the man; which means you can see the knowledge in their eyes as the last blow falls. Or you must cripple a man and go on to the next, there being no time for mercy.″
The instructor nodded vigorously. Rudi continued:
″And animals rarely try to hold the wounds closed, or weep, or scream and call for their mothers because the pain is so bad.″
″Oh,″ the young man said; he and his friends winced.
″And that,″ the DI said ruthlessly, ″would have been
you
three this time.″
He pointed to each of them in turn. ″Weiss, you′d be bleeding out right now, fast, ′cause that one he gave you would′ve opened up the big artery inside the crotch. Cartman, you′d be lying flat on your face with blood coming out of your nose and ears waiting for someone to cut your throat. And Andersen,
you′d
have a four-inch stab wound in your gut and after the fever set in you′d be
begging
for someone to finish you. So let′s practice some more, hey? Get set, two on one!″
He turned back to Rudi and spoke more quietly as the young men moved off in obedience to his orders:
″They′ll do OK, if I can just keep them alive while they get some of the piss and vinegar whacked out of ′em.″
Rudi smiled; he liked this man, even on brief acquaintance. ″Still, better to have to restrain a noble stallion than prod a reluctant mule.″
″Yah, God knows that′s true. The timid ones take even more work. These, they′re good kids. It′s just . . .″ A pause. ″Trouble′s coming, isn′t it?″
″It is that. Trouble that follows me and my friends—but even so is just the first wave of a storm of troubles to come.″
″Well, shit. I′d better get back to work, then.″
Something touched the back of Rudi′s hand. It was a snowflake; more fell, and then the wind began to flick them into his face. The young Readstowners stepped back and began to sling their gear.
The instructor gave a smile that would have done credit to a tiger confronted with a crippled cow.
″War isn′t going to be called on account of snow!″ he barked. ″Where do you think you′re going?″
Rudi walked over to where his half sisters and Virginia Kane and Fred Thurston had been showing off a little with mounted archery, which was an upper-class style here. Ingolf was leaning against a maple and watching with his arms crossed.
″Standards have gone up since I left,″ he said. ″This bunch are a lot better than I was when I went for a soldier.″
″The which is a fortunate thing,″ Rudi said.
The snowflakes grew larger, and began to stick on his eyebrows.
″What would you say of it?″ he asked; Ingolf would be a better judge of weather here.
″Going on to snow hard,″ he said. ″It′s early. That means we ought to be able to get going in a week or so.″
Rudi nodded. ″If I were more eager, ants would crawl out of my nostrils. They′re crawling around under my skin, as it is. But again, we′ve not wasted the time here. I think your brother has come around to our way of thinking about the Cutters.″
Ingolf nodded. ″Yah. He connected the dots and didn′t like the picture. He′s going to be sounding out the other Sheriffs and the bigger Farmers about it over the winter too, you betcha.″
″So we′ve accomplished that here.″ Rudi sighed. ″Much as a mad dash would have eased my heart. Do you know the worst of adventuring, my friend?″
Ingolf snorted. ″Your Majesty, I could go on all
day
about that.″
Rudi shrugged. ″It′s not so much the hardship or danger. It′s the
monotony
. Everyone back home probably thinks it′s such a wild and carefree life . . . but it′s hard work, and mostly at the same thing. You travel, you fight, you try not to starve, travel some more, fight some more . . . even a pleasant place like this isn′t
home
, and it isn′t
yours
.″
Ingolf chuckled. ″Well, you get to see a lot of the country. Granted you do a lot of it bleeding or running or hiding. And sometimes you meet a great girl and she falls for you.″
His gaze turned fond as he looked over at Mary; she was putting the cap on her quiver, and paused to blow him a kiss.
The Readstowner went on: ″And Mary and I are going to get hitched before we go.″
Rudi grinned at that, and put out his hand. They shook, and a grin came over Ingolf′s battered face as well. It made him look a good decade younger.
″We′re already brothers in battle and camp,″ Rudi said. ″It′ll be good to have you formally in the family, so to speak.″
″It′s not . . . well, it′s just a ceremony, but . . . you know.″
The rest of the questers came up while they were talking, and Ingolf endured more handshaking and slaps on the back.
″Mary doesn′t mind a Catholic service,″ Ingolf said. ″And I thought my folks here would prefer it that way.″
Rudi nodded. ″You′re handfasted when the two of you stand before the folk and say you are. Ceremonies mark a marriage, but they don′t
make
it, not to the Old Religion′s way of looking at things.″
He cocked an eyebrow at Mathilda. ″Matti and I have decided we′re to be wed, by the way.″
Everyone congratulated
them
. He went on. ″But we haven′t yet decided on a date . . .″
Mathilda looked at him, turned on her heel and stalked back towards the Vogeler manor.
″Now, what was
that
about, for the sake of sweet Brigid Hearth-mistress?″ Rudi said, bewildered.
Ritva cleared her throat. ″Ah . . . I don′t know exactly, big brother. But yesterday she muttered something about witch-boys all being cream-stealing tomcats with their consciences in their balls.″
He raised his hands in exasperation and looked from side to side. ″What? What? I′ve been as chaste as Father sworn-to-avoid-it Ignatius the now!″
Virginia laughed, not exactly cruelly, but . . .
″Your Majesticalness, I even believe you. But it ain′t
me
you′ve got to convince!″
Four days later the blizzard howled outside the Vogeler dining room, hard enough to shake the stout walls now and then; it was a second-floor chamber, big enough to seat a score, if not a feast for the whole garth. Today it held all of Rudi′s party, the Sheriff and his wife, and what Rudi had come to think of as the Readstown general staff. The windows were good double-glazed ones of pre-Change manufacture. They rattled a little in the modern frames, and they looked like squares of blackness with ribbons of white spearing at them. It made the glow of the lamps and the flickering coals in the fireplace all the more welcome, and the pleasant lingering smell of the meal.
″And how pleasant it would be, to feast the winter away so, snug and warm, with all the comforts of home,″ Rudi said. ″The which
some
of our party can do.″
Jake sunna Jake nodded reluctantly. He also lifted his third wedge of blueberry pie—a quarter of the whole—onto his plate and lathered it with whipped cream; Rudi smiled at his enthusiasm. Until a few months ago none of the Southsiders had ever tasted baked goods, or sweeteners other than wild honey, or dairy of any sort. Some of them didn′t like the unfamiliar diet. Jake was not one of them. He′d done justice to the glazed ham, shepherd′s pie, glistening panfried potatoes, vegetables, and the better part of two loaves of bread and butter, too. He and his tribe all had the reflexive voracity of those who′d gone hungry often from childhood on, even those who yearned after their old perpetual stew.
And his table manners have become something less roynish
, Rudi observed, with some relief.
Even a fork has yielded up its mysteries to the man.
″ ′Kay,″ the Southsider Big Man said, in something that had grown closer to the others′ varieties of English. ″I kin . . . can . . . go to like have our bitches—um, womenfolks—and littles stay here. They′s good ones, here. Southsiders who stay, they can learn plenty till-un we gets here again. And eat good shi . . . good stuff like this alla times, n′ sleep warm, not have lotsa littles die.″
Rudi shuddered a little at what a winter in their home range must have been like, with no more arts than they′d had when he met them. Granted central Illinois wasn′t as brutal in the Crone′s season as the Free Republic of Richland or the territory they were headed for, but it would be bad enough. He also finished his own last forkful of blueberry pie; it had always been one of his favorite dishes, and the berries here were the best he′d ever tasted either fresh or baked or in preserves.
Edward Vogeler nodded gravely, tamping the tobacco in his pipe. ″Yah, Jake,″ he said. ″They′ll be a help, in fact. Looks like it′ll be a hard winter, and an early one.″