Sheepfarmer's Dauther dop-1

by Elizabeth Moon

  Paks was puzzled but willing, and began to move the sword through the remembered sequences. As she did so, Siger’s blade met hers, tapping it first lightly, then harder. Paks began to watch his blade, thinking back to Jornoth’s sketchy lessons, and forgot all about the sequence of hauk drill. Excitement rose in her, and she began to swing the blade harder, trying to force Siger’s blade aside. Suddenly his sword was not there to be tapped; instead it rapped her sharply on the ribs.

  “Ouch!” She was startled, and having lost her rhythm was whacked twice more before she regained it. Uncertain, and a bit angry, she glared at Siger, who gave her a mocking smile.

  “That was the flat of the blade,” he said cheerfully. “Next time it’ll be the edge; keep to the drill, recruit.”

  Paks bit her lip, but returned to the drill pattern, meeting Siger’s blade with a crisp smack. He increased the pace, and she struggled to keep up, irritated by his smile and by the snide remarks of Korryn behind her. Again Siger rapped her ribs, sore now from the earlier blows, and Paks erupted furiously into wild strokes that hit nothing—until a sharp blow in the mid-section knocked the wind out of her, and she dropped the sword and sprawled painfully on the ground. Korryn laughed.

  “Always a mistake to get angry,” said Siger, over her head. “You’ve a lot to learn before trading killing blows. Catch your breath, now.” His voice chilled. “As for you, recruit, that thinks it’s funny, we’ll have you next, if you please.” Paks gasped a moment or two, and clambered up.

  “Still want to learn swordplay?” Siger asked.

  “Yes, sir. It’s—it’s harder than it looks, though.”

  Siger grinned. “It always is, recruit; it always is. Now you’ve been blooded, I want you to put on a banda next time.” He jerked his head toward a pile of white objects like cushions. “Not you—” he added as Korryn moved toward the pile. “I want to see if you think it’s funny when I whack your ribs.”

  Korryn glared at him and snatched up a sword with practiced ease.

  “Ah-h. An expert, is it? You’ve handled a blade before?” Korryn nodded. “We’ll see, then. You need not confine yourself to the hauk drill if you think you can do more.” But Korryn began with the standard movements, holding his sword easily. “I’d say you were used to a longer blade, recruit,” commented Siger.

  Abruptly Korryn changed from the drill pattern, and a complicated rattle of blade-on-blade resulted; Paks could not see just what had happened. Korryn tried a quick thrust, but the short sword did not reach Siger, and Siger’s blade rapped Korryn’s shoulder. Korryn scowled and pressed his attack again, using his height and longer reach, but he could not touch the Armsmaster, who kept up a running commentary.

  “Taught by a fencing master, weren’t you? You like a thrust better than a slash. You handle that blade like you did most of your fighting in alleys. It won’t do for us—you might as well forget it, recruit, and start learning it right.” And with that Siger began a furious attack that forced Korryn back, and back, and back around the practice ring, taking blow after blow, until Korryn lost his grip and the sword flew out of his hand. Effa caught it in midair.

  “Now,” said Siger, the point of his sword at Korryn’s waist. “Is it quite as funny when it happens to you? Let’s hear you laugh.”

  Korryn was white with rage, breathless and sweaty.

  “Sir,” he said finally. Siger gave him a slight smile and nodded.

  “Novices, that have never handled a sword, them I expect to get drunk on the excitement and do something stupid—and I thump them well for it. But those who claim to know something… Go wait for your turn again, recruit.”

  Each of them went a round with Siger without protection, and each received a complement of bruises. Then he showed them how to fasten the bandas, the quilted canvas surcoat worn for weapons practice.

  “Your turn again,” Siger said to Paks. “Ready? Are you sore enough?”

  Paks grinned. “I’m sore, sir, but I’m ready. I hope.”

  “You’d better be. Now start with the drill.”

  This time Paks handled the sword with more assurance, and kept the cadence as even as she could. “Better,” admitted Siger. “Painfully slow, but better. Speed it up, now, just a little. Keep the rhythm.” The blades clacked together. Again, again, again. “Now a bit harder—not too much at once.” The shock of contact was making Paks’s hand tingle; her arm began to tire. Siger shifted around her, and she had to turn and strike at the same time. The ache spread up her arm. Whack. Whack. Sweat trickled down her face, stinging in her eyes. Siger moved the other way, and Paks turned with him, but she lost the rhythm. Quick as a snake’s tongue his blade tapped her ribs. “Enough,” he said. “You’re slowing down again. Give the blade to someone else, and go work with the hauks awhile.”

  Once they began drilling with wooden blades, they also began to learn other weapons. By the time they marched south, Siger said, they would have a certain minimum proficiency with short-sword, dagger, bow, and spear.

  The spear offered the most difficulty. As usual, it had seemed simple, just thinking about it. A long pole with a sharp end, to be poked at the enemy. No fancy strokes—simple. Effective. Surely it was easier than a sword; if nothing else you could hang onto the thing with both hands.

  * * *

  “We don’t use polearms often,” said Stammel. “We’re a fast-moving, flexible infantry, and swords are better for that. But we do train with ’em and we use them sometimes. So. First you’ll learn to carry something that long without getting all tangled up in it. Remember those reeds we gathered last week you were so curious about? Well, they’ve been drying in the storelofts, and you’ll each take one.”

  Soon they were back in formation, each with a twelve-foot reed in hand. Stammel had shown them how to hold the mock spears upright; now he gave the command to move forward. Five of the reeds tipped backwards. The butt on one tripped the recruit in front of the careless carrier. When he stumbled, his reed swung out of control and hit the file leader on the head.

  “Pick ’em up—don’t stop, come on! You’ve got to hold them firmly—don’t let ’em waver. Keep in formation, there. Stay in step or you’ll trip each other.”

  The reeds dipped and wavered as if in a windstorm as Stammel led the unit to the far side of the parade grounds. By the time he called a halt, most faces were red.

  “Now you see what I meant. The only easy thing about spear work is how easy it is to mess up the whole formation. If you ever see one of the heavy polearm companies, like Count Vladi’s, you’ll see how it should be done. Now—you’ve got to learn how to shift those things about. Together, or you’ll all be tangled together. So just holding them upright, we’ll practice turning in place.” He called for a right face. Two recruits let their reeds lag behind the turn, and the tips bumped neighboring reeds. “No! Hold them absolutely steady when you turn. Keep ’em straight. Try it again.”

  After a dizzying few minutes of facing left, right, and about, the unit could turn in place without any wavering of the reeds. Stammel wiped his face and glanced at the corporals. They were trying not to grin. Far across the parade grounds, he could see another unit practicing. It looked worse than his, he thought.

  “Next step is the slope,” he said. “Don’t move anything until I’ve explained. First, you’ll put the butt a handspan behind the right foot of the man in front of you; file leaders, that’s an armspan in front of you. Then slowly tilt the reed back over your shoulder—you have to be careful not to let the butt slip forward. Then your left hand grips two spans below the right, and you lift it onto your shoulder. That gives enough clearance in front for marching. Don’t let it swing free; use your grip to hold the butt end down. Bosk, show them how to do it.”

  Bosk came forward and took Paksenarrion’s reed from her hands. He held it upright, and demonstrated the facing movements they had practiced: the end of the reed, far over his head, scarcely quivered when he turned. Then he loosened his grip and let the
butt end slide toward the ground, tilting the reed as it slid so that it grounded an armspan in front of him. While his right hand steadied the shaft, his left hand reached below and lifted; the reed rose, keeping the same steep slant. When his left hand reached his right, he shifted the right quickly to the lower grip.

  “That’s the position you want,” said Stammel. “Now, show ’em how to move with it.”

  Bosk strode forward, the reed steady on his shoulder, not waving or dipping with his stride. When he turned, they could hear the whirr as the end of the reed sliced the air. He made a square, then returned the reed to an upright position and handed it back to Paks.

  “Ready—” said Stammel. “Ground the butts—” Paksenarrion felt the length of reed quivering as she tried to let it slide slowly through her hands, aiming the butt somewhat ahead of her right foot. It bumped the ground.

  “It’s too close to you,” said Bosk. “Slide it out further.” Paks slid the butt along the ground until Bosk nodded.

  “Now tilt ’em back along your shoulders,” said Stammel. Paks let the top of the reed fall back slowly. The butt came off the ground, but she pushed it back before anyone said anything. Some were not so lucky. Stammel and the corporals were yelling at those who let the reeds get out of control. At last all were in the correct position.

  “Left hands down,” said Stammel. “And lift, but keep it under control. NO!” he roared. Paks heard a smack and a yelp of pain as someone’s reed landed on someone’s head. Her own wavered as she tried to shift the grip of her left hand. “Steady!” Paks let her eyes slide sideways to see how others in the front rank were doing. Everyone seemed to be in the right position. “Now—bring them back vertical again. That’s right. Now slope ’em back—no—No! Control it, don’t let it get away from you.”

  They repeated this exercise again and again until the whole unit could shift the reeds from vertical to sloped position without getting out of position. Paksenarrion’s arms ached, and her palms tingled unpleasantly where the reed slid back and forth.

  “We’re going to march back with them at slope,” said Stammel. “And you’d best not look as foolish as the other units, either. Anyone who drops a reed—” he scowled at them.

  They managed to make it back to the courtyard before the others, without dropping anything but sweat. By the time the other units were in and halted, their own reeds were safely on the ground.

  Gradually their weapons skills improved. They took fewer—but never no—thumps from Siger, and the spears seemed more manageable. After Paks took the skin off the inside of her left arm during archery practice, she learned to keep her elbow braced correctly. They all suffered a variety of lumps, cuts and scrapes, but the only serious injury in Paks’s unit was Mikel Falsson, who fell from the wall while working on repairs and broke both legs. He recovered, but with a bad limp, and eventually went to work in the armory.

  “He was lucky not to lose either leg,” said Devlin. “That was as nasty a break as I’ve seen.” Paks shuddered, remembering the white ends of bone sticking out.

  “If there’d been a Marshal here—” began Effa. Devlin interrupted.

  “No. Don’t say that. Not here. Not in this Company.”

  Effa looked puzzled. “But I thought Phelan’s Company recruited mostly Girdsmen—doesn’t it?”

  “Once it did, but not now.”

  “But when I joined, and said I was a yeoman, Stammel said it was good.”

  “Sergeant Stammel, to you. Oh yes, we’re glad to get Girdsmen—the more the better. But there’ll be no Marshals here, and no grange or barton.”

  “But why—?”

  “Effa, leave be.” Arñe tapped her arm. “It’s not our concern.”

  It was not in Effa’s nature to leave be. She worried the question any time the corporals and Stammel were not around, wondering why and why not, and trying to convert those (such as Paksenarrion, Saben and Arñe) who seemed to her virtuous but unenlightened. Paks found these attempts at conversion annoying.

  “I’ve got my own gods,” she said finally. “And that’s enough for me. My family has followed the same gods for generations, and I won’t change. Besides, however good a fighter Gird was, he can’t have turned into a god. That’s not where gods come from.” And she turned her back on Effa and walked off.

  Meanwhile, she and Saben and Vik discussed religions in a very different way, fascinated by each other’s background.

  “Now my family,” said Saben. “We were horse nomads once—my father’s father’s grandfather. Now we raise cattle, but we still carry a bit of hoof with us, and dance under the forelock and tail at weddings and funerals.”

  “Do you worship—uh—horses?” asked Vik.

  “No, of course not. We worship Thunder-of-horses, the north wind, and the dark-eyed Mare of Plenty, though my father says that’s really the same as Alyanya, the Lady of Peace. Then my uncle’s family—I’ve seen them dance to Guthlac—”

  “The Hunter?”

  “Yes. My father always goes home then. He doesn’t approve.”

  “I should think not.” Vik shivered.

  “City boy,” teased Paks. “We gather the sheep in from the wild hunt, but we know Guthlac has great power.”

  “I know that. It’s what power—brrr. Now in my family, we worship the High Lord, Alyanya, and Sertig and Adyan—”

  “Who are they?” asked Paks.

  “Sertig’s the Maker, surely you know that. Craftsmen follow him. Adyan is the Namer—true-Namer—of all things. My father’s a harper, and harpers deal much with names.”

  “You’re a harper’s son?” asked Saben. Vik nodded. “But you’ve no voice at all!”

  “True enough,” said Vik, shrugging. “And no skill with a harp either, though I had one in my hands as soon as I could pluck a string. My father tried to make a scribe of me, and I wrote as badly as I played. And got into trouble, liking to fight. So—” he looked at his hands. “So it became—wise—for me to move away, and make use of the skill I did have.”

  “Which is?” asked Saben slyly.

  In an instant Vik had turned, gotten his hold, and flipped Saben onto his back. “Throwing down great lummoxes of cattle farmers, for one.” Saben laughed and rolled back up to a sitting position.

  “I see your point,” he said cheerfully. “But will it work against a thousand southern spearmen?”

  “It won’t have to. You and Paks will be up front, you lucky tall ones, and you can protect me.”

  After several weeks of switching places in formation, they received their permanent assignments. “Permanent until you do something stupid,” Bosk said. Paks, to her delight, was made file leader. She still had problems with Korryn, who teased and pestered her whenever the corporals weren’t around, but aside from that she had returned to her earlier pleasure in being in an army. She did wish that brawling were not forbidden. She was sure she could flatten Korryn, and ached for a chance. But after the formal punishment of three recruits from Kefer’s unit who had livened a dull rainy afternoon by starting a fight, she was determined to keep her temper. She did not want to lose her new position.

  One afternoon a troop of soldiers in the Duke’s colors rode up from the southeast, and were passed by the gate guards into the courtyard. The fifteen men, under command of a yellow-haired corporal, were immensely impressive to the recruits. And they knew it, and swaggered accordingly.

  “Get the quartermaster,” the corporal ordered a recruit from another unit, and the recruit scurried away. Paksenarrion, taking her turn at cut-and-thrust practice with Siger, was tempted to turn and look, but the Armsmaster brought her attention back with a thump in the ribs.

  “When you’re fighting, fight,” he said grumpily. “You be gazing around at everything on earth and heaven, and you’ll be buzzard-bait soon enough.”

  Paks concentrated on trying to slash past his defenses, but the old man was more than a match for her, and talked on without a break as she grew more and more breathless.
“Eh, now, that’s too wide a backswing—what’d I tell you? See, you left your side open again. Somebody’ll plant a blade in there when you’re careless. Quicker, lass, quicker! You ought to be quicker nor an old man like me. Look now, I gave you an opening wide as a barn door for a thrust, and you used that same wide cut. Stop now—”

  Paks lowered her wooden blade, gasping for breath.

  “You’re strong enough,” Siger said. “But strong’s not the whole game. You’ve got to be quick, and you’ve got to think as fast as you move. Now let’s break the thrust stroke down into its parts again.” He demonstrated, then had Paks go through the motions several times. “Let’s try that again. Don’t stand flat-footed: you need to move.”

  This time practice seemed to go more smoothly, and at last Paks’s blade slipped past his to touch his side. “Ah-h,” he said. “That’s it.” Twice more that afternoon she got a touch on him, and was rewarded with one of his rare smiles. “But you still must be quicker!” was his parting comment.

  Chapter Three

  It seemed to Paksenarrion that events had moved with blinding speed. Only that afternoon she had been a file leader, and Siger had praised her. Now she was shivering on the stone sleeping bench of an underground cell, out of sight and sound of everyone, cold, hungry, frightened, and in more trouble that she’d dreamed possible. Even with cold stone under her, and the painful drag of chains on her wrists and ankles, she could hardly believe it had really happened. How could she be in such trouble for something someone else had done? Her head throbbed, and her ears still rang from the fight. Every separate muscle and bone had a distinctive and private pain to add.

  It was so quiet that she could clearly hear the blood rushing through her head, and the clink of the chains when she shifted on the bench rang loudly. And the dark! She’d never been afraid of the dark, but this was a different dark: a shut-in, thick, breathless dark. How would she know when dawn came? Her breath quickened, rasping in the silence, as she tried to fight down panic. Surely they wouldn’t leave her down here to die? She clamped her teeth against a cry that fought its way up from her chest. It came out as a soft groan. She could not—could not—stand this place any longer. Another wave of nausea overcame her, and she felt hastily for the bucket between her feet. She had nothing left to heave into it, but felt better knowing it was there. When the spasm passed, she wiped her mouth on her tattered sleeve.