He’d never again be able to lose himself in the game, which was half the fun of playing it in the first place.
Maybe this was why the experienced Guardsmen—the ones who had combat experience—hadn’t volunteered for the team.
“Nah, it wouldn’t be fair,” was all he said. “You busy?”
“Well, there are always things I can do . . .” She hesitated. “I was going to see if I could get a lesson with the Weaponsmaster.” She brightened. “I really love Weapons work! He’s been really kind about fitting me into every class I turn up for.”
Well, that would be something both of them could do. “Good idea.” He smiled at her. “Reckon we can both use as many of those as we can get.”
The Weaponsmaster, of course, was already putting a class through training. And as usual, it was a mixed class of mixed ages and levels of expertise. That hardly mattered; the Weaponsmaster was so skilled a teacher that this was merely a slight challenge to his abilities. Weapons classes were the one place where Trainees of varying levels of advancement actually could be taught together, so long as the teacher was a good one.
In fact, he welcomed them with a half smile and a nod and directed them to pair up with other Trainees for some sword work. Mags expected he’d be set up with one of the young Guardsmen who would have qualified as “advanced,” and indeed he was, but he was pleasantly surprised to see that Amily was put up against one of the Herald Trainees who was certainly “intermediate” if not a bit higher.
The helmet obscured the face of the young man he was paired up against, but the way the fellow moved let Mags know this was someone he had never fought with before. The young Guardsman’s introduction confirmed that. “Helden,” said the Guardsman, giving him a salute. “You’re Mags, right?”
“Aye, that’d be me.” Mags made sure that the straps holding all of his padding were snugged down tight, then tamped his helmet on. “Would you be a bodyguard in training?”
“Aye.” Helden shifted his posture into the ready position. “Queen’s men. Want to lead off as attacker? I’ve been hacking at Grell for the past three days, it feels like. I need some defense.”
“Trust me, it only seems that long,” Mags replied with a laugh, and went into the attack.
He spotted Helden’s weakness immediately as he scored a shoulder hit that would have taken his left arm off if it had been a metal blade and would have probably broken the joint if Mags hadn’t been pulling his blows. “Hold up a bit,” he said, “I want to see something. Hold out your left arm and fight what I’m doing.”
Helden obliged. Mags pressed up on it from below, and got heavy resistance. But when he pressed down from above, he felt the arm trembling and giving way. “There’s yer problem,” he said. “Ye need t’be exercising both sets of arm muscles.”
“But that’s my off arm,” Helden objected. “I won’t be holding a shield when—”
Then he stopped. He realized that if the Weaponsmaster had put Mags in charge of him, then Mags knew what he was talking about. So he properly shut up and let Mags explain.
“Ye’ll have armor on that arm that’s almost as heavy as a shield, and meant to serve as one,” Mags explained patiently. “Except that it don’t work exactly like a shield does. Ye gotta be careful with that kinda heavy arm armor. Ye don’t block with it, ye gotta learn to move and deflect. And ye can’t just tuck yer arm behind ye like ye been doin’. Started on Court fencing?”
Looking puzzled, Helden nodded.
“Thought so. Court fencing’s good training, but not for this. It’s all rules and lines. Bodyguardin’ is no rules at all, and figure the one comin’ at ye is gonna play dirty.” Absently he noticed that his speech had lapsed again, but Helden didn’t seem to notice or care, so he continued on. “That’s why ye’ll get armor on yer off arm, and yer to use it sorta a shield, only not the kind yer used to. Get off the line of attack if ye can, but ye may be pinned in—look, I’ll show ye. Come at me.”
Helden did, using the same pattern that Mags had—a stab at the gut, which was parried and turned into a cut down to the shoulder. Only Mags had brought his arm up in such a way that the wooden blade glanced along it and down, and while Helden was gawking, Mags closed with a hammerlike blow of his hilt to the gut, and as Helden staggered back, a cut to the neck that he stopped short of connecting.
“See?” Mags said. Helden nodded.
“It’s a whole different way of thinking,” the young Guardsman said, rubbing his neck.
“Right, so, instead of thinkin’ of it as unlearnin’, think of it as learnin’ something new. Like ye did when ye learned sword and shield work for in the line.” Mags scratched his head. “Got an ideer.”
He went to the equipment room and procured a tiny shield, not even the size of a dinner plate, to strap onto Helden’s left wrist.
“This’ll remind ye t’keep that arm out, not tucked behind,” he said with satisfaction. “Weaponsmaster’ll have some weights for the wrist, I reckon. Or heavier padding for yer off arm. But this’ll do for now.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he had been watching Amily with astonishment and pleasure. She had changed into a pair of trews that she bound at the ankle and up her calves, and she was giving her partner as good as she got. She was favoring her bad leg a good bit, but compensating for it, and her partner wasn’t good enough to take advantage of the weakness. This was making Mags extremely happy. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she had said she could take care of herself.
He went back to turning the young Guardsman into a proper royal bodyguard. He suspected this fellow was destined to be part of Princess Lydia’s entourage rather than going to the Queen, since the Queen already had a contingent of men she knew and trusted, and he was in for a rude shock when he discovered that Lydia was probably as good as he was. Still, Lydia would often be hampered by robes of state and other impediments, not to mention being surrounded by half a dozen potential hostages in the form of her ladies-in-waiting. She’d need all the help she could get from her bodyguards in the event of an emergency.
When both Mags and Helden were soaked with sweat, the Weaponsmaster called a halt to the class. He’d come by a few times to suggest something but otherwise had been content to let Mags do the teaching, which had tickled Mags no end.
“Are you and Amily scheduled for anything?” he asked Mags, as the rest of the class went off to clean up.
Mags shook his head. “Caelen ain’t put me in any classes,” he replied. “And I guess Nikolas ain’t got any more questioning for me.” He glanced over at Amily, who was just coming over, pulling a helmet off her sweat-damp hair. “You got anything?”
“Anything to do this morning? Not really. Nor the afternoon, either,” she replied, with a curious look at both of them.
“Good.” The Weaponsmaster smiled thinly. “I’ve got just the thing for you.” His gaze unfocused for a moment as he spoke to his Companion, and when his attention returned to them, he smiled again. “It’s all arranged. Until Nikolas and Caelen decide what is to be done with you two, you are my new assistants.”
Mags gaped at him. “All day, sir?” he stammered, although it was not out of dread for the work. If anything, it was with a certain measure of relief. He wasn’t going to be able to think of anything while he was schooling others in weapons work.
“I see no reason why not,” the Weaponsmaster said, then shrugged. “Well, perhaps not Amily for the whole day. Not because she is a female, but we do not wish to place too much stress on her leg while she is still technically healing. But you? Yes.”
Mags felt himself smiling. “That sounds good to me, sir!” he said with real enthusiasm. Then he looked over at Amily. “Sound good to you?”
She rubbed the lobe of her ear thoughtfully. “I’ve never done . . . physical things . . . for days at a time before. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all to me.” She considered a moment more, then smiled. “Actually, sir, I wouldn’t mind more practice parrying while sitting. Tha
t would make me a perfectly adequate set of pells for the youngsters. More than adequate, since I can correct them as well as deflect them.”
“Good. There’s a pump and a sink in the changing room. Clean yourselves up a little. The next class will be archery and other distance weapons.” Now the Weaponsmaster’s smile turned sly. “Amily is going to give you some unexpected competition, Mags.”
It ain’t unexpected if I was expecting it, he thought, but he didn’t say anything, just followed Amily to the changing room.
After all, if the Weaponsmaster wanted him to be surprised, well he could simulate that. Who was he to deprive the Herald of a little pleasure?
He blinked as he realized he didn’t actually know the Weaponsmaster’s name. No one ever referred to the man except by his title. Well, that’s embarrassing. . . .
He sensed a chuckle from Dallen. :Not as embarrassing as the Weaponsmaster’s real name. Marion.:
He was in the act of plunging himself head and shoulders into the filled sink of cold water and came up spluttering and coughing. :Marion? Are you joking?:
:Can you blame him for preferring his title?: Dallen replied.
:Not the tiniest.: No wonder the Weaponsmaster was as good as he was. With a name like that, the poor kiddie must have had to fight practically from the cradle. :What kind of sadist gives a boy a name like Marion?:
:Never asked. Don’t intend to. Suggest you don’t, either.:
Amily was giving him a peculiar look. “Water’s colder than I thought,” he said, and began toweling off. There were piles of old uniforms just one step up from the rag-bag in here, and he rinsed his tunic out in the sink when Amily had finished washing and hung it up to dry, taking another that was approximately his size and was either a gray so faded as to be almost white, or a white so dingy it was almost gray. It wouldn’t matter what color it was when he was done with the next class, because it would probably be soaked through with sweat again.
“I should do what you did,” he said, nodding to her. She had changed out of her regular gown and into a set of tunic and trews that were a red so faded they were pink. “Nobody’d take me serious in pink.” She snickered.
“I’d love to see you in pink,” she said.
“I might take that challenge,” he replied, and they both went back out as the sound of the next class arriving filled the salle.
Of course, the class only remained there long enough to get bows, arrows, and other distance weapons, like sets of throwing knives. This time the Weaponsmaster put Mags in charge of an intermediate group and Amily with the advanced students. There were as many Healer and Bardic Trainees in this class as there were Heralds. Guards did their own drilling in distance weaponry. But Healers and Bards were often enough out in the wilderness alone and would need to defend themselves or hunt for food, so this training was mandated for them. Mags’ group was a mixed set of Healers and Bards, four of them. He set them at targets at twenty paces and kept increasing the distance until their arrows were falling short. Then he set to work with them, now that he knew what their base distance was. Of course, there was only so much distance you could get out of a bow with a given pull in the hands of an expert, but this lot was by no means expert yet.
Amily’s bunch, however . . .
Amily herself was setting the bar for each flight of arrows. She would shoot first, then the rest were to place their arrows as close to hers as possible. They were all Herald Trainees, and they were using man-shaped targets with multiple hit spots marked out on them. Amily was consistently placing her arrows in the lethal zone.
He felt himself grinning at her with pride, his smile fully wide enough to make the corners of his mouth hurt a little. The Weaponsmaster turned at that moment and caught his expression, and nodded with evident satisfaction.
He had to turn his attention back to his own pupils, though; they sorely needed it. Evidently the Weaponsmaster had not yet had the time or opportunity to press them past their current state of achievement, and being, like most younglings, a little lazy, they hadn’t pressed themselves. Well, he could understand that. The Weaponsmaster was only one man, and there were a lot more Herald Trainees now than there had been in the past. They were certainly adequate for fieldwork, and even battle conditions. Mags just wanted them to be excellent rather than adequate.
He kept his group on the archery targets, but Amily’s group moved on to throwing knives, then axes, then javelins. She was superb with everything but the ax, which didn’t seem to be much of an issue to him. The ax was a weapon for someone with a strong arm; it took an entirely different sort of skill to throw it than to throw a knife. Heralds didn’t carry axes for anything but cutting wood, and the likelihood that Amily would be in a position where that was the only weapon she had to hand was pretty slim.
And if it was the only weapon she had to hand, it would be pretty foolish of her to throw it away anyway. He remembered the Weaponsmaster’s admonition to all of them the first time they began using throwing weapons. The person who throws his only weapon at the enemy is an idiot. A few moments after that, he will be a dead idiot. Facing someone with a bow, her best bet would be to drop and roll and knock the assailant’s legs out from under him if she could, and at least make herself a harder target to hit if she couldn’t. Against someone with a sword or a knife and no option to run, her best bet would be to wait for him to attack, take his measure, and use the ax as a hand-to-hand weapon.
He sent his group away to try out some more bows, admonishing them to look for ones that had a harder draw than the ones they were using now. He reckoned it was about time for them to try more powerful bows. While he waited for them to come back, the Weaponsmaster left his group for a moment to come talk to him.
“Amazing, is it not?” the Herald said with what—in anyone else—Mags might have called “glee.” “Who would have guessed? It is as if a natural warrior, not unlike you, was simply sleeping inside her, waiting for her leg to be repaired before leaping out fully formed.”
“She’s a natural, that’s for certain sure,” Mags agreed, watching as she set her pupils another challenge. “There’s nothin’ magic about it, though,” he continued. “She’s been playin’ darts t’pass the time since she was about old enough to fling ’em. And her pa made her a little grapple on a cord she could use to fetch things to her so she didn’t have to struggle to get ’em. Clever bit of kit, that. Wonder who thought of it?”
The Weaponsmaster gave him a long look, as if to make certain that Mags was not trying to pull some sort of joke on him. “Darts, you say?” He repeated, sounding a bit incredulous. “And a grapple?”
“Well, think about it. When you gotta drag a near-useless leg around, so yer pa set you up a target you can pull to you, and pull back into place, you got a lot of incentive to learn to hit it, so you don’t haveta go chasing scattered darts,” he pointed out reasonably. “And if you got a way to hook a basket, or a book, or an apple and bring it to you, well, you get good hooking things real fast.”
The Weaponsmaster nodded thoughtfully. “The skill of hand and eye would translate somewhat to the sword as well,” he mused. “But not, say, the staff. Which explains why she is not much better than I would expect in staff.”
“I dunno about that, but I’d have her at my back with a bow any time,” Mags said with open admiration. And then his pupils returned with their new bows, so he moved them closer to the target to begin all over again.
The next class was swordsmanship again, and Amily tired quickly after teaching two classes in a row. The Weaponsmaster put her to correcting the youngest and least experienced in the class, something she could do without having to partner them, while Mags took another group of mixed Heralds and Guards. And then it was time for luncheon—or, rather, it was just time to get themselves clean before going to luncheon. They all set off for the bathing rooms and filled the place. No Trainees ever wanted to present themselves at the dining hall stinking of sweat.
The afternoon was much
the same as the morning, except one of the classes was in staff rather than sword, and Mags saw for himself that Amily was barely adequate. In a way, that was a little bit of a relief—it would have been just a bit depressing to discover she could outfight him in every aspect of weapons work!
At least he could be sure she would never be able to scramble across rooftops the way he could. She didn’t have much of a head for heights, and with her leg still strengthening, she would likely never be able to climb and leap the way he could.
Just as well. Her pa’d murder me if I took her roof-walkin’.
:He would murder you and find a way to bring you back so he could murder you again, Chosen,: Dallen chuckled.
Amily arrived at the dining hall at almost the same time as he, both of them with wet hair from a good dousing, and Mags had the feeling they even looked much alike: tired, but satisfied. Lena and Bear gave them startled looks as they sat down at the table, took plates, and began helping themselves.
“Dare I ask what you two have been up to?” Bear ventured.
“We’re the Weaponsmaster’s new chew toys,” Amily said dryly.
Bear looked confused, and Mags chuckled. “She means we’re his new assistants. All day, every day. Tell you what, we’re getting more’n our share of exercise.”
“I can believe it!” Bear explained. “But . . . why?”
Bastion Page 7
