To Carry the Horn

by Karen Myers

  “I never tried that before,” he said, apologetically.

  “How’s it done?” Brynach asked.

  George showed him the direction and weight shift he’d used. He looked around and saw that the other pairs were mostly using grab and leverage moves, rather than blows.

  There were only three hand blows the untrained George could think of that would be useful in real combat: a punch to the solar plexus, a chop to crush the windpipe, or a palm thrust to the nose for bone splinters to the brain. He could see that the common leather jerkin and other torso clothing worn here might make a chest blow less effective, and that the closed shirts, stocks, and other throat defenses might be adequate as well. He had no experience in facial blows and thought the risk of an amateur breaking his hand in the process was fairly high. Most of all, he didn’t know how to practice any of these without running the risk of serious damage to his partner.

  This left wrestling, about which George knew less than nothing, and his inexpert recollections of oriental martial arts maneuvers staged by the movies. With his weight advantage he was willing to close and grapple, but again he had no idea how to achieve any effective result without hurting his partner.

  He decided to set a trap. As they circled, Brynach staying in front to avoid another leg sweep, George dangled his left arm out in front temptingly, and Brynach went to grab it. Instead, George caught his arm in a strong grip, brought his right hand down to join it, and dropped backwards into a roll using his weight and Brynach’s momentum to pull him off balance up and over his shoulder onto the floor with a thud.

  That caught the attention of some of his neighbors, who paused to watch as he demonstrated what he’d done to Brynach. “This is part of an organized system of martial arts which I have seen but never studied. I can’t teach it, I just know of a few gimmicks,” he said.

  He returned to the sparring. No fight was ever won by defense, so he determined to wade in and take his licks. He didn’t want to hurt his partner, so he decided to aim for pinning him flat. Brynach was game and stung him as he dodged, but couldn’t move him. George got a hip behind him as they grappled and was able to toss him to the floor.

  Hadyn came by to offer criticism. “Brynach, what is it you’ve learned, now?”

  “Big doesn’t necessarily mean slow. How do you counter size and strength?”

  Hadyn turned to George. “What shall you tell him?”

  “Keep a lower center of gravity and make the most of the strength you have, and remember, your center of gravity will keep changing as you finish growing. Counter my weakest positions with your strongest and avoid the rest, or use them against me if you can.”

  He considered for a moment. “Also, I think you underestimate my reach. You dodge the hand where it is, not where it could be. It’s not how long my arm is, it’s how long the whole lunge is. As in sword fighting, a pivot of the hips or a lunge changes all the angles and closes the distance more quickly than you’re prepared for.”

  “And what have you learned, then?” Hadyn asked George.

  “How very little I know about unarmed combat. I especially have no idea how to inflict serious damage in a real fight. I haven’t had a fist fight in earnest since I was a boy. That means I also don’t know how to spar without injuring my partner.” That last was said with a significant dark look at Hadyn for the uneven match-up.

  Hadyn smiled. “Worried you’ll break him if you get lucky, is it? You hold your body well, and you have some sensible moves, but you need to build this from the ground up. Brynach, spend the rest of this time with him, on the basics.”

  George was mollified to realize Hadyn had set the match unevenly not to humiliate him but to give another student an opportunity to practice outside of his weight class with a better chance of success. This isn’t a roomful of people waiting to watch you fail, he thought. You’re just another student here.

  For the next half hour, Brynach showed him some standard positions, moves, and counter moves, and gave him a few kata-like sequences to practice on his own. George thought this might be the first time Brynach got to teach someone who knew less than he did, and he knew from experience how that solidifies one’s own understanding. His respect for Hadyn’s expertise as an instructor grew.

  After a break of a few minutes for water, the group switched to weapons work, shrugging on some chest protection. This time Hadyn matched George with an older man who handed him a blunt saber and bowed.

  “I’m Helyan.” He was calm and confident.

  George introduced himself and warned, “I had some training many years ago, but not in earnest, for real combat.”

  They sparred for a while. Helyan got in several strikes as George learned in painful detail just how rusty he was, but gradually he fell back into the old groove and began to push the attacks, getting through Helyan’s defense for an occasional strike.

  They paused for a moment to catch their breath. Helyan said, “You need to press more. I can feel that you’re held back by something.”

  “You’re right. I learned this as a sport, not as a fighting skill. There were rules about acceptable moves and, of course, you weren’t supposed to try and really hurt your partner.”

  “Well, there are no rules in battle. Avoid head blows while sparring, for now, but otherwise have at it.”

  This time, when they resumed, George went on the attack immediately. He pressed Helyan back as they sparred, even though Helyan was able to deflect most of the strikes. George could feel himself getting into the rhythm of it, shutting out distractions and focusing on predicting the next moves of his opponent. Eventually he backed Helyan up to a wall and they stopped.

  Helyan conceded. “Much better. What are your thoughts?”

  “I can see some of the limits of what I’ve learned. Many of your successful strikes would’ve been illegal by my rules, and so I had no planned defenses for them, leaving me completely open. For real combat, I’d like a main-gauche of some kind, a weapon for the left hand, or at least something wrapped around my arm.”

  “You’re stronger on offense than defense, it’s true. Are you familiar with small sword?”

  “I’ve trained with something similar.”

  Helyan gave George a light rapier with a blunted point. “Let’s see.”

  George went on the attack, beating the foible of Helyan’s blade, the front part, with the forte of his own, the strong back part, repeatedly. He got in a lucky prise en fer that popped the blade out of Helyan’s grip, but was unable to duplicate the maneuver. Helyan got in most of the touches.

  Hadyn observed the last few engagements. “What do you think, Helyan?”

  “He can move to the intermediate group, with some coaching.”

  Hadyn raised an eyebrow at George expectantly for his commentary.

  “I need to get past the sport restraints into real combat usefulness. I’ve lots of holes in the basics.”

  “You also need to learn knife fighting, one and two-handed, just for the fundamentals.”

  George agreed. He eyed the wall of medieval weapons. “I take it that’s for the advanced classes?”

  Hadyn laughed. “No one’s expert in all of those. You’ll pick your favorites and learn a bit about defense against many of the others.”

  “What about weapons at a distance? Bows?”

  “Aren’t bows part of your hunting training already?”

  George considered how to explain. “Our weapons from a distance are completely different, and I’m told they won’t work here.”

  Hadyn said, “I’ll set you at shooting practice next time, if you’re still here.”

  The training session was winding down. The participants removed their protective gear and started to don the clothing they had discarded. George shook Helyan’s hand and thanked him, making a point of seeking out young Brynach and doing the same.

  Everything hurt. His muscles were sore from the unaccustomed exercise, and there would be plenty of bruises soon.

  H
e checked his watch. There should be time to bathe before the gathering for Iolo.

  As George entered the baths, he discovered Eurig once again relaxing in solitary possession of the soaking pool. He joined him quickly, sighing appreciatively as the hot water began to do its work.

  Eurig looked over his latest collection of rising bruises. “Did you badly irritate someone, or do I recognize souvenirs from Hadyn? I remember the look from when I used to train.”

  “It’s always sobering to confirm how little you actually know. I’m useless as a warrior here, though I suppose that can be fixed. It’s just that our ways are so different.”

  “You’re thinking of guns, aren’t you?” At George’s surprised look, he continued. “Yes, we do know about them, and there’ve been some enterprising trials, but they don’t work here. Ceridwen supervised most of the experiments—you might want to speak to her about her conclusions.”

  George shook his head. “It’s not just that guns have replaced many of your weapons, it’s that we don’t have much of a warrior culture anymore. Except for our professional soldiers,” he said. “I know how to shoot, though many of us don’t, but I don’t know much about knife fighting or unarmed combat, and that’s still as basic a need as ever.”

  He chuckled ruefully. “There’s an old Persian saying about training a man to ride, shoot, and speak the truth. I figured I was done with that, but here it turns out I must go to school again, to reclaim the honor.” After a pause, he said, “But I must say it feels good, feels real. We’ve buried so much of that in our world, pretending we’ve somehow grown beyond it.”

  Eurig nodded. “It’s good to do the work you feel born for. Many of my kind try on one thing after another, and are never satisfied. We live long, but some can waste the whole time never settling and growing deep roots.

  “My Teg and I have been together all our lives, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s not that we don’t grow and change, it’s that we do it together and grow into each other at the same time. It’s hard to explain the worth of that to these youngsters.”

  Envying that lifelong partnership, George changed the subject. “Can you tell me what will happen this evening for Iolo? Where and when?”

  “They’ll take him down to the manor gates and the procession will go north from there to Daear Llosg, the Burnt Ground, where all roads meet. It’s not far, but most will ride, and there will be some carriages. We’ll assemble at the south curtain wall gate. Would you care to ride with us?”

  “Thanks, that’s most kind of you.”

  “I’ll knock on your door when we’re ready to come down, in a few minutes.”

  Back in his room as George dressed, he debated adding the borrowed saber to his robes. If I put it on and no one else is wearing a sword, I can always take it off and hang it on a hook in that first room with the weapons on the walls and reclaim it later.

  When he opened his door to Eurig’s knock, he was introduced to Tegwen in the corridor. She was a comfortable sort, with gray hair and plump cheeks, and she looked as if no crisis could ever disturb her. Her brown brocaded skirt was split for riding. George bowed over her hand, and she smiled at him approvingly.

  “Such manners,” she said to Eurig, “and so young.” George sighed to himself.

  Eurig was resplendent in a quiet way in brown and gold, and was wearing a heavy saber. He looked over George’s clothing and nodded, “You’ll do fine.”

  CHAPTER 11

  As they mounted up at the stables, George saw Isolda waiting atop a large open carriage quickly filling with her father and several of the kennel staff he recognized. Others were piling in as he watched. They were uniformly attired in more formal clothing than he had seen before, with dark red coats and weskits and buckskin breeches. Some had families with them, the wives and daughters in dark red skirts. These lutins had probably known Iolo all their lives, George realized, and now he was gone.

  A few lutins were mounted, but there were more than could fit in one carriage, and he saw that the other drivers were not lutins. Isolda showed no discomfort among her peers, and George nodded encouragingly at her across the distance, bringing a smile to her face.

  He walked Mosby over to Eurig and Tegwen, and they led him to a place in the procession that was forming. At the head were Gwyn and Creiddylad, Rhys and Rhian, with Idris and others following. A group of guards rode close behind.

  Next came Ceridwen and a low open wagon carrying Iolo’s body encased in a decorated wooden coffin. Eurig’s group formed up behind them. As they moved slowly down to the main gates, George looked back and saw the long tail of the procession behind them, a mix of riders and carriages.

  At the gates, there was another, smaller, group waiting to join them. Eurig leaned over to him, “People from town, come to pay their respects.” George spotted Angharad among them, on a coal-black horse with a compact well-muscled frame. She was dressed in gray, and her auburn hair was the only bit of color about her. She nodded at him as their eyes met.

  The two groups merged and turned left up the road to the north. After clearing the palisade of the manor, the road passed through ever denser woods on both sides, and continued to ascend the slope of the Blue Ridge obliquely as it went.

  As they rode, at a walk, George realized they were headed in the general direction of the way he had pointed out earlier in the day, and he tried to locate it again. He was startled to realize that the road seemed to be headed precisely there. He could see that Idris was on the alert; perhaps Ceridwen had told him.

  Less than a mile from the end of the palisade the road widened out into an open meadow of several acres with a few patches of bare rock exposed. The main road continued north, but there was a footpath leading down from a gap in the ridge above them, running alongside a small stream. Tegwen, on his right, said, “Crossroads, water, fire, stone, woods. It’s a suitable sacred place.” The words caught his attention and he looked down at her, startled to see a saber of her own fixed to her saddle on the left.

  There was a bier waiting in front of a prepared pyre of criss-crossed logs, and Iolo’s body was brought there for final farewells. The procession pulled off to the side to allow enough room for everyone to assemble.

  George excused himself and rode over to Idris. “Did Ceridwen tell you? I think that way is right over there,” facing upslope and pointing to the right.

  “Yes, that’s why we have so many guards. She thought it might be focused in this spot. Is it open?”

  “How would I know? It seems like all the others at the moment.”

  “Tell me immediately if it changes. Only you and Gwyn can see it well, and he’s occupied with other responsibilities.”

  He let a look of frustration cross his face. “I don’t believe this is coincidence. What if someone killed Iolo, knowing we’d bring him here, where we’re all gathered together, outside our defenses? I don’t like this at all and advised Gwyn not to come.”

  He shook his head. “He wouldn’t take the prudent course.”

  He turned and positioned several of the guards between the bier and the place George identified, and more of them near Gwyn, but he was hampered by the need to stay clear of the ceremony itself.

  George put himself mentally on guard, trying to maintain a sense of the way at all times, like listening for a particular background noise. He positioned himself at the back of the crowd around the bier, his back to the dormant way, and a good downslope view in front of him.

  The individual visits to the bier gradually lessened, and Gwyn nudged his horse forward to stand beside it.

  “Today we make our farewells to Iolo ap Huw, foully slain. I knew him all his life and his father before him. None was ever so worthy as he to hunt the Cwn Annwn. He will be sorely missed, and I vow to find his killer and bring him to justice.” He gestured, and several of the guard bent to lift the coffin to the pyre while Gwyn drew his horse aside.

  In that moment when all eyes were on Gwyn, George felt a change of atm
osphere, as though a window had been opened. He whirled Mosby about and saw a mounted archer appearing out of thin air just behind him, already drawing on Gwyn. He shouted. Idris, who had been keeping an eye on him, had began to yell at the guards, but it was all taking much too much time.

  George threw his right rein to his left hand and closed his right hand on the lower edge of his flowing robes. He flung up his arm with the heavy satin widespread, thinking to block the archer’s view. The arrow went right through the material, but he hoped there’d been enough resistance to change its course.

  He didn’t turn to see what happened but dropped the robe and drew his saber awkwardly, launching Mosby up the hill against the lighter horse and rider. Mosby took his intent and, after a brief gray passage, the upslope meadow vanished around them and they barreled into the other horse, knocking him over.

  Around them three riders stood in an open field on a river bottom. They were startled at the crash of the archer’s horse and George’s unexpected appearance, but drew their swords and made for him.

  I am in so much trouble, George thought distantly, but his blood was up and he was already looking for a target. He discounted the archer crushed to the ground and pushed Mosby after the nearest approaching rider. I’ll have a better chance if I can take them one by one, he thought.

  Time slowed as the two of them neared each other. George reflected on his own advantages of weight and height versus his opponent’s probable experience. The only way this is going to work is if I go berserk on him and give him no time to realize my own lack of skill.

  He yelled like a banshee and brought his saber forward like every charge of the heavy cavalry scene he’d ever seen. He bore down on his opponent bearing to the right and parried his blow, then struck him from behind as he passed. The man wove in his saddle, clearly injured, and George spun Mosby around in a loose circle at a canter to focus on the other two.