Fight Like A Girl
Page 1
Fight Like A Girl
Edited by
Joanne Hall and Roz Clarke
www.kristell-ink.com
Copyright © 2015 Grimbold Books
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Fight Like A Girl © 2015 Juliet McKenna
The Women’s Song © 2015 Nadine Andie
Turn Of A Wheel © 2015 Fran Terminiello
Arrested Development © 2015 Joanne Hall
Asenath © 2015 Kim Lakin-Smith
The Coyote © 2015 K R Green
The Quality of Light © 2015 K T Davies
Silent Running © 2015 Sophie E Tallis
Unnatural History © 2015 Danie Ware
Vocho’s Night Out © 2015Julia Knight
The Cold Wind Oozes © 2015 Kelda Crich
Sword Dancer of Azmai © 2015 Roz Clarke
Archer 57 © 2015 Lou Morgan
The Runaway Warrior © 2015 Dolly Garland
Fire and Ash © 2015 Gaie Sebold
Paperback ISBN 978-1-909845-66-4
Epub ISBN 978-1-909845-67-1
Cover art by Sarah Anne Langton
Typesetting by Book Polishers
Edited by Joanne Hall and Roz Clarke
Kristell Ink
An Imprint of Grimbold Books
4 Woodhall Drive
Banbury
Oxon
OX16 9TY
United Kingdom
www.kristell-ink.com
Contents
Introduction
Coins, Fights and Stories Always Have Two Sides
The Women’s Song
The Turn of A Wheel
Arrested Development
Asenath
The Coyote
The Quality of Light
Silent Running
Unnatural History
Vocho’s Night Out
The Cold Wind Oozes
Sword-Dancer of Azmai
ARCHER 57
The Runaway Warrior
Fire and Ash
About the Authors
A Selection of Other Titles from Kristell Ink
Introduction
Anne Lyle
From a very young age I was a sucker for a good sword fight, and on Sunday afternoons the BBC fed this appetite with re-runs of classic Hollywood swashbucklers like The Adventures of Robin Hood, The Crimson Pirate and Scaramouche. Errol Flynn versus Basil Rathbone, Steward Granger versus Mel Ferrer; I lapped it up. At the time I didn’t consciously register that the dudes with swords were all, well, dudes. Then in January 1977 the Doctor Who of my teenage years, Tom Baker, got a new companion: a knife-wielding but intelligent “savage” named Leela. I immediately developed a huge girl-crush on this character who was eager to fight first and ask questions later. In retrospect of course she was mainly designed to appeal to the dads in the audience, with her skimpy outfit showing off an awful lot of fake-tanned skin, but for me Leela was my first experience of what “fight like a girl” really meant.
It wasn’t just Leela, though. The late seventies saw the rise of a new type of female character, one who was in the thick of the action instead of the damsel in distress. Or, if the princess did need rescuing, as often as not it was her own daring that had landed her in captivity in the first place, like Star Wars’ Leia Organa. In one notable case a woman was cast in a part – Ripley in Alien – originally written for a man, thus inadvertently creating an iconic female character.
Thankfully in the twenty-first century it’s become less acceptable for female characters to be stripped down to their gold lamé bikinis for the male audience’s titillation. From Battlestar Galactica’s Lieutenant Kara “Starbuck” Thrace to Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games, our modern heroines are more likely to be wearing sweat-stained coveralls and grime than sequins and lipstick. Which is not to say they can’t be glamorous as well. Agent Peggy Carter manages to kick arse as easily in a sharp 1940s suit as she does in army fatigues!
Despite these advances, female characters who wield weapons are still a comparative rarity even four decades later, perhaps because war has traditionally been a male pursuit and violence a male preoccupation. Women who fight often do so in self-defence or self-preservation rather than any desire for aggression; a characteristic exploited in Frank Herbert’s 1981 God Emperor of Dune, in which Leto II builds an all-female army to protect himself and his empire. “You fight like a girl” might be a taunt in the school playground, but our culture also acknowledges the idea of the “mamma bear” who will fight to the death to preserve her cubs.
In this anthology you’ll find all kinds of women who know what to do with the pointy end, from soldiers and mercenaries to cage-fighters and duellists, to those who have no choice but to fight or die. There’s more to each of these women, of course, than their fighting skills: some are mothers, some are sisters, or lovers, or perhaps they’re all alone in the world. They may be fighting other humans, or monsters beyond our comprehension. Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose. Badly. But whatever their reason for fighting, it is always a compelling one.
Reading these stories I’m reminded once more that “you fight like a girl” is a compliment, not an insult. Or at least it should be. Anyone who thinks otherwise, well, I’m sure any of the ladies in these stories would be happy to give you a demonstration . . .
Anne Lyle
Cambridge, 2016
Coins, Fights and Stories Always Have Two Sides
Juliet McKenna
As shadows lengthened across the camp ground, Erlin surveyed his fiefdom with satisfaction. Two tall tents of oiled leather were securely pitched at either end of a sturdy wagon, all embracing a sizeable hearth. A broad griddle and three lidded cookpots rested above the flames on an iron frame. To one side, a spit rested on its uprights above an oval pan. That wouldn’t be empty long. Korose was approaching with a plump young sheep carcass over his shoulder.
The lanky lad grinned as he arrived. “We’ll do well tonight.”
“We will.” Erlin set the last of the flatbreads he’d been cooking in their linen-lined basket and moved it a prudent distance from the hearth. “Get that fire stoked.”
He secured the beast on the spit with interlocked skewers. Customers would appear once the aroma of roasting lamb drifted through this Lescari mercenary throng; customers with coin in their pockets, so soon after the end of the fighting season. Aft-Autumn’s shifting colours had yet to subside into For-Winter’s unchanging calm and the weather had been kind thus far.
The camp would be a different place come Aft-Winter. Once the frosts bit deep, Korose would have to forage ever further afield for firewood. Hungry mercenaries would grudge every copper spent on barley broth. Erlin would need all his guile to persuade the Caladhrian villages across the river to part with their jealously guarded stores. He was already buying sacks of flour, beans and onions from farmers gloating over well-stocked barns.
Each day, as hungry mercenaries came to his fire, Erlin discreetly looked for those most likely to try stealing from him after the solstice; sneaking up to the wagon at night like a rat after cheese or threatening him with a sword, demanding the leathery remnants of a side of bacon.
“I’ll want you out of your blankets early tomorrow,” he said as Korose fetched an armful of firewood. “To practise with your quarter staff.”
“Maybe tr
y some sword work?” the lad asked, hopeful.
Erlin smiled. “If you impress me.”
He had every intention of getting his notched blades out from under the wagon’s driving seat. These past ten days, this stretch of well-drained grassland between the river and a sprawl of coppices had been attracting ever more mercenaries seeking a winter haven. Time to show any covetous strangers that a grey-haired, weather-beaten old man was no easy prey.
Erlin had served his time in Lescar’s interminable wars, as six rival dukes spent their silver and other men’s blood on their ambition to be crowned High King. He still practised the skills that had seen him safe through countless battles.
He’d teach Korose, so the lad had some chance of surviving his first bloody season, once he’d put on enough muscle and height to catch a recruiting sergeant’s eye.
Maybe the lad would come back years later, scarred and wealthy. Maybe Erlin would never hear of him again. No telling with such waifs and strays.
“Stir up the fire.” He set the laden spit on its uprights.
Korose threw weathered wood onto the flames. “What news today?”
Erlin shrugged. “Quicksilvers took a beating when Sharlac’s duke challenged His Grace of Triolle. Greenhawks scattered to the four winds after the battle at Chinel turned against Draximal.”
“You reckon we’ll see any of them here?”
Korose looked dubious. That particular bloody fight had soaked the soil on the far side of Lescar. But Erlin had tramped the length and breadth of this blighted country ten or more times in his youth, loyal to his scrawl on various mercenary companies’ muster rolls.
“Stranger things have happened.”
Korose tended the cook pots seething over the flames. Erlin turned the spit, making sure only the dull splat of fat dripped into the pan underneath, not the hiss of the meat’s precious juices.
Dusk approached and more newcomers arrived. Some had laden horses or handcarts. Others had only the clothes and weapons they wore. Once they’d claimed a space, late arrivals wandered towards the cook fire in search of supper.
Korose served turnip pottage to a hungry warrior and replaced the pot lid. “He’d be useful in a fight.”
A broad-shouldered and warmly-cloaked man with swords on each hip and carrying a bulky leather bag passed by their hearth.
“I’d say so.” Noting the lithe walk of an alert swordsman, Erlin fixed the man’s face in his memory. If he wasn’t hungry tonight, sooner or later their paths would cross and Erlin would learn his story.
The man’s fine clothing and better weapons indicated that he had no trouble filling his purse. So why come to this lesser camp instead of wintering in a larger stockade with some wealthy mercenary company?
Had he fallen out with the captain he’d mustered with last spring? Some quarrel over a wench or a wager? Never mind. Once the year had turned and For-Spring was on the horizon, Erlin would offer the stranger some introductions. By then the cook would know which warbands would welcome a swordsman who knew a rival company’s secrets. Grateful coin would chink in the coffer Erlin kept well-hidden in his wagon’s recesses.
Such profitable opportunities were merely one reason he liked to winter in these lesser camps. That, and the big mercenary company quartermasters ruled their cold-season stockades with an iron hand. Free spirits like Erlin paid extortionate sums just to breathe the same air.
“That smells good.” Two leather-armoured men approached. One was tall and broad in a long jerkin with tarnished brass studs. He had a close-cropped head and eyes as dull as a dead trout.
The other was lithe as a snake in a short cuirass of oiled hide. Curly black hair and his sallow complexion spoke of Tormalin blood. He reached out with his belt knife to cut a slice from the succulent meat on the spit.
Erlin knocked the blade aside with his meat-jointing knife, as quick as he ever had been with a sword. “I carve, and only once I’m paid.”
The snake withdrew, raising hands in mock surrender. “I beg your pardon.”
“Granted.” Erlin made no move towards the spitted lamb.
A heartbeat later the snake reached for a purse tucked inside his leather breastplate. “How much for two?”
“A silver mark each.” Erlin held out a hand. “Silver, not Lescari lead.”
The snake cocked his head. “Caladhrian or Tormalin?”
Erlin shrugged. “Whatever you’re carrying.”
The snake handed over two Caladhrian coins. Erlin slipped them into the pouch laced tight to his belt. “Fat or lean?”
“Fat,” the croppy head growled.
“Lean.” His companion smiled.
Erlin trusted that like he’d trust a mantrap’s grin but coin was coin. Korose offered a leathery flatbread in each hand. Erlin laid a generous helping of meat on each one and the lad handed them over.
“We’ll see you again.” The snake tore off a mouthful and went on his way.
The croppy-head lingered to stare at Erlin before he followed.
“He thinks a lot of himself.” Apprehension undercut Korose’s attempt at a laugh.
“He does.” Erlin pursed his lips.
He knew the snake’s attempt to help himself had little to do with meat. When that sort got away with acting as though they had every right to take what they wanted, soon everyone would yield for the sake of a quiet life. Newcomers wouldn’t even ask what gave such men their spurious authority.
He’d also seen the croppy-head taking in every detail of their little encampment, including the dun carthorse picketed on the far side of the wagon. Good luck to him trying to steal the beast or sneaking past to rob the wagon. Erlin had trained Pipkin to attack as readily as any guard dog.
He greeted the next man approaching the fire. “What’s your pleasure?”
“What’s your price?” the Lescari countered.
Customers hurried up now they’d seen Erlin carving the lamb and plenty more wanted pottage. By the time the carcass was reduced to bones and gristle, all three cook pots were down to the dregs and the flatbread basket was long emptied.
“I’d say we’re done.” Erlin weighed the silver in the pouch against his thigh with satisfaction.
Korose was looking out into the darkness. “Do you–?”
He wasn’t talking to Erlin. The cook saw a slender figure in the shadows, wrapped in a blanket doing duty as a cloak.
He beckoned. “If you don’t want to eat, you’re welcome to warmth.”
“I’d like that.” The girl’s hesitating voice betrayed her nature.
“Do you have a bowl?” Erlin tilted one of the cook pots. “Otherwise I’ll pour this away.”
“Thank you.” The girl’s haste betrayed her hunger. As she rummaged in her bag and moved closer to the firelight, Erlin noted her shirt’s ragged cuffs and her much-mended jerkin. Her purse must be as empty as her belly.
Erlin filled her age-darkened wooden bowl with the last splash of broth and snapped his fingers at Korose. “Get those bones into a pot with a good tight lid and stow it in the wagon before any dogs come sniffing around.”
As Korose hurried to obey, the girl crouched down to drink her bowl dry.
Didn’t even have a spoon to call her own, Erlin guessed. He scraped the drippings from the spit into an earthenware jar. As he stood up, he saw the girl look hungrily at the smeared pan.
He fetched one of the flatbreads he’d set aside for himself and the lad. Wiping up the savoury residue, he tossed it to the girl. “Here.”
She caught it, deft as a pup leaping for a titbit and vanished into the darkness. Erlin saw Korose looking after her.
“Stir up that fire for one last blaze, lad.” He fetched juicy beefsteaks from the wagon along with a cast iron frying pan. “Let’s have an onion and those mushrooms from this morning.”
Korose was still trying to see where the girl had gone. “Do you think she’ll be all right?”
“What’s it to us?” Erlin brushed windblown ash off
the chopping block.
Though once they were fed, had tidied up and were settled in their blankets, his thoughts turned to the girl.
How old? Hard to say in the dying firelight. Not in the first bloom of maidenhood. That was some reassurance. If she’d been living around mercenary companies for a couple of years – and by her battered gear Erlin guessed she had – she must have learned a few tricks to save herself from rape or worse.
Not a whore. Skinny as she was, she’d worn a sword at her hip and made no offer to take his meat in her mouth in return for a meal. That was good to know. Satin Fantine’s brothel tents were on the far side of the camp. The henchmen who guarded her girls would offer freelance trollops the choice of handing over half their earnings or taking a beating so bad that no man would come near them.
Maybe she was a scout, Erlin mused as he drifted off to sleep. He’d known a few such women in his day; nimble enough to spy out an enemy camp and get back alive to tell the tale.
*
Korose was up with the first glimmer of dawn to rekindle the fire. Erlin fed himself and the lad, then began serving griddled pancakes and bacon to those with silver to spend and porridge to those with copper.
Erlin was assessing the batter in his green-glazed jug when the broad-shouldered warrior from the night before offered Korose a shiny mark. “Good day to you both.”
“The lad’s Korose and I’m Erlin.” He mixed more ale and flour. “What do we call you, friend?”
“Triggen,” the man said easily.
Young enough to still be friendly with strangers. Old enough and strong enough to stand his ground against anyone who tried to take liberties. Erlin wondered when he’d walked away from whatever plough or prentice bench he’d been born to. At least five years since, he guessed, maybe as long ago as ten.
“Looks like you had a good summer,” he observed.
“Up in Sharlac with the Sundowners,” Triggen agreed. “Looking after the townsfolk of Welland.”
“Sundowners are a fine company.” Honourable, for the most part, though that wouldn’t have stopped them extorting safe-passage money from any merchants taking the Great West Road. Erlin poured batter onto the hot griddle. “What’s your pleasure for breakfast?”