“And when did you start with staves? And you’re already out of the novice class, into intermediate. Work at it. As for you, Con,” the Training Master turned to him. “You quit worrying about your standing with the juniors, and start spending your evenings on tactics. And supply. Perhaps if you’ll explain reckoning in all numbers to Paks, she’ll explain why you can’t march a cohort for two days on sixteen measures of barley and a barrel of apples.”
“Apples? I meant to write salt beef.”
“Your writing is not much better than Paks’s—neither Tigran nor I could decide what you really meant, so we called it apples. So might your supply sergeant, someday.”
* * *
She could not remember when she had felt so at home. Not even in the Company, that last year. Instead of Saben and Canna, she had Rufen, Con, and Peli. They spent hours with pebbles and beans, teaching her reckoning. She taught them all one of her favorite sword tricks, so that Cieri, bested three times in one day, glared at them all, and accused Paks of trying to get his job as weaponsmaster. She began to read faster, and understand more complicated books and scrolls. They began to realize, as Rufen explained one night, that the soldiers they might command one day were real people.
“I knew they were,” he said thoughtfully, “and yet I didn’t. Here we talk about supplying a cohort, or positioning a squad of archers over here, and a couple of cohorts of pikes there. They’re just—just bodies. Soldiers. Gird forgive me, being a Girdsman, but I looked like that at my father’s guardsmen . . . they all wore a uniform, they all wore the same weapons. But after knowing you—and you were, as you say ‘just a private’—I know they’re real people.”
Paks looked down, suddenly moved almost to tears. She felt, for the first time, that these were real friends. She could talk to them about the Company—about the people in it—with no betrayal of trust. Little by little she opened up, a few words at a time about Stammel and Devlin, Vik and Arñe—even Saben and Canna.
She had special status with the juniors—for Aris Marrakai had told his friends about her protecting him from Con’s bullying. They did not venture to intrude on the upper floors very often, but she was conscious of shy smiles and friendly greetings from the whole group that Con despised.
Then there were the other races, seen close-to for the first time. The elf who had spoken to her the first night often ate at her table. When he saw her interest, he taught her a few words of elventongue—polite greetings and other courtesies. Some evenings he played the hand harp and sang; Paks and the others listened, entranced. Paks might have thought him a mere harper and wordsmith, but he came to weaponsdrill from time to time, and only the most advanced students fenced with him. Paks lost her sword twice in one session.
The dwarves kept more to themselves, and Paks might not have met them but for an accident with an axe. She had asked to learn axe-fighting, remembering Mal’s effectiveness, and Cieri shook his head.
“I can teach axe-work, but to be honest, Paks, I don’t know as I’ve ever seen a good swordfighter take to the axe. You’re likelier to make a good spearman than be good with it. But whatever you want—as long as you keep improving with staves.”
“I still don’t understand why that’s so important.”
Cieri grinned. “You don’t, eh? Well, keep in mind that the rest of us are Girdsmen. Gird was a farmer, not a lord’s son to have a sword at his side. He won the freedom of the yeomen with weapons they could find or make: clubs, staves, cudgels—and an occasional axe. Every Girdsman learns to use those first; every Knight of Gird can not only use, but teach the use of, the weapons you can find anywhere. Then no yeoman of Gird is helpless, so long as a stick is within his reach.”
Paks thought about it a moment. “You mean—ordinary farmers—fighting regular soldiers?”
“Yes, exactly. Surely you’ve heard that?”
“Well, yes—but—”
“But you still don’t believe it?” He shook his head. “You were a farmer’s daughter—and you wanted to fight—so in your mind you built up what a soldier’s weapon can do. When you become a Girdsman, Paksenarrion, I’ll show you, wood against steel, how Gird won.”
“Why not now?”
Cieri gave her a long look. “Because you are not under Gird’s law yet, and I just might lose my temper.”
“Oh.” Paks was not sure what he meant, and didn’t think she should ask more.
“But as for axes, that’s a Girdish weapon. Have you ever used one much for chopping?”
“No—we didn’t have forest where I grew up.”
“And in Phelan’s company?”
“The sergeants said they didn’t have time to teach us axe-work.”
“Wise. Well, go get one from the armory, and we’ll start.”
For a few days things went well; the basic drills were not hard, and Paks soon adjusted to the heavy axe-head hanging on the end of her arm. Or so she thought. Then Cieri set up a roughly carved log for her to “fight.” It had a couple of branches for “arms.” Paks looked at it disdainfully. She had seen the amusement on the others’ faces.
“Isn’t this just like chopping a tree?”
“Yes, but you haven’t chopped any trees, and we don’t happen to need any trees chopped. This will be fuel for the main kitchens later, if you’ll get busy and do what I tell you.” He took the axe from her, motioned her back, and with two smooth swings took a four-finger deep chunk out of the log. “Like that,” he said. “And remember what I told you about backswing and bounce. Wood is harder than flesh, but softer than armor—at least this wood is.”
Paks took the axe, which now felt comfortable in her grip. The basic stroke, he had explained, was much like the sideswing in longsword—but for using two hands. Paks had not used a two-handed sword; she did not think that mattered. She swung the axe back over her shoulder, and brought it around smoothly. Harder than flesh—softer than armor: she put what she thought was the right force into it. Whack! She felt the blow in both shoulders, and the axe-head recoiled, dragging her off balance, and missing her knee by a fingersbreadth.
“You have to hit harder than that, Paks,” said Cieri. “A two-handed blow is a twisting blow; get your back into it.”
The next stroke caught the axe-blade in the wood. She struggled to wrench it free, while Cieri described what happened to fighters whose weapons caught in an enemy. She felt the back of her neck getting hot; yet she knew he was right. That didn’t help. When she began again, she managed a series of effective strokes, knocking off chips much smaller than Cieri’s, but not making any serious mistakes. He called a halt, and nodded.
“You’re doing well for a beginner. Now see if you can hit a certain target.” He brought out his pot of paint, and daubed red on both of the “arms,” as well as two spots on the “body.” “Let’s see you get the left arm first, then the upper body, then the lower body, then the right arm. Make your strokes work; use as few as you can. Remember, he’s got a spear he’s poking at you in the meantime.”
Paks looked at the targets. “Axe fighters don’t carry shields, do they?”
“Not using this kind of axe. There’s a light battleaxe for riders that you can use one-handed—you could carry a shield with that. But here it’s your quickness.”
“I could break the spear with the axe, couldn’t I?”
“You’d better. But that’s a smaller target than you’re ready for. And it moves. You’ve something to learn before you face a live spearman with an axe.”
Paks nodded, and turned to the enemy tree. She had just gotten in position for a stroke at the left-hand branch when Cieri stopped her.
“Now look, Paks—you’ve got more sense than this. Look where you are.”
She was sideways to the “enemy,” in easy reach of the right “arm.”
“You can’t face him directly with that axe—think! Where can you strike, and be out of range.”
Paks was annoyed at herself. She moved around the side of the tree, and swun
g at the left branch from there. She heard the wood creak as the axe sank deep, and was halfway into the next stroke when Cieri yelled again.
“Gird’s blood! Do you think he’ll stand still while you chop him up? Move, girl!”
Paks felt the blood rush to her face. She jumped, whirling the axe high, and swung again at the branch. It split before taking the full force of her blow, and the axe swung on to lay a deep gash in her leg as she landed from the jump. Furious, she ignored the pain and aimed a vicious slash at the main trunk, straight at Cieri’s mark. The axe stopped in midstroke, wrenching her shoulders, and hung in the air.
“Let go,” said Cieri mildly. Paks looked at the axe, down at her leg, and then unwrapped her hands from the axe handle. The axe fell with a clang. “If the blade’s damaged,” Cieri went on, “you can grind it down yourself. I’d thought you too seasoned a fighter to lose your temper for a little thing like that.”
Paks said nothing, still angry. Pain from her leg began to demand attention. He came forward, and picked up the axe, running his fingers over the head and blade edge. Then he looked at her.
“You’re damned lucky, Paks. Now will you believe me about axes?”
“I can learn.” She was surprised at her own voice, furry with anger.
His eyebrows rose. “Oh? How? By cutting off your limbs one at a time? The way you’re going, you’ll be an axe-fighter about the time you’re holding the axe in your teeth.”
“I could—if you weren’t badgering me.” Paks glared at him, saw the flash of his dark eyes.
“Me! You—not even a yeoman—you’re telling me, the weaponsmaster, that I shouldn’t heckle you? I thought you had more sense—and here you stand flatfooted like a novice yeoman, then lose your temper just because I tell you so, and then this! I suppose I should be glad you aren’t a Girdsman.”
“I—” Paks was suddenly conscious of all the other listening ears. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“So you should be,” he said crisply. “You’ll miss days of work with that leg, and I don’t think you’ll find yourself in the same class when you come back. If you do.”
Paks looked up, startled, to meet a grim cold Cieri she had never seen. “Sir?”
“It might pass in a novice, Paksenarrion, but not in someone who claims to be a veteran. Was all that just an act?”
“What?” Now she was completely bewildered. It must have shown, for Cieri’s face softened a trifle.
“That even disposition you showed until today. That smile, that willingness. Which is the real you, Paksenarrion? Do you know yourself? Or are you acting a part all the time, inside and out?”
“I—I thought you—liked me,” she said. She knew at once it was the wrong thing to have said.
“Liked you? Gird’s arm, what do you mean by that? Listen, Paksenarrion, you come here on trial, not even a Girdsman—you come in full of life as a yearling colt, showing off, taking every trick I know, everything the other Marshals can teach you—and teaching your own tricks to the others—and you expect us to like it? Well, any teacher likes a willing student—but that’s not enough for us. We’re training Knights of Gird, Paksenarrion, and paladins, who will go and and die for the justice Gird brought. You—you’re playing with us, enjoying a safe, exciting time doing what you like to do. Then you’ll go where you please, using what you’ve learned for your own ends. The rest of us aren’t playing a game.” He shook his head. “I’ve let you play; after all, you’re a good practice partner for the others. I thought, from the way you seemed to be, that you might join the Fellowship and justify the time I’ve spent. But I won’t waste my time on games any more. We’ll see what the Marshal-General says, before you return.” Paks could hardly believe her ears. He was turning away when he glanced at her leg. “Better wrap that; you’ve bled a lot.”
Paks watched him walk without a backward glance toward the other students, who were staring in the same shock she felt. He had them back to their drill in seconds, and did not look her way again. Paks forced herself to think, to move. She took off the scarf she had wrapped around her head against the cold, and bound it tightly around her leg. The bleeding had slowed, but she had left a sizeable stain on the ground. She could do nothing about that, but she did take a few seconds to stack the hacked limb neatly near the rest of the tree before limping back to the armory. Cieri still had the axe.
She looked back from inside the armory. Cieri was fencing with Con; no one looked her way. She felt cold, inside as well as out. She had been stupid—even rude—but was it really that bad? And had they all been resenting her since she came? She tried to think what to do. She took a roll of bandage material from its box beside the armory door, and retreated toward the stableyard, which had a well. It was midmorning; a stable worker trundled a barrow full of dung out the far archway as she came into the yard. No one else was in sight. Paks pulled the scarf away from her leg, wincing, and washed the wound out until the bleeding stopped before wrapping it with clean bandages.
The Training Master, she was thinking dully. I must see the Training Master—and then the Marshal-General. Her leg was hurting in earnest now, throbbing in time with her pulse. She rinsed the scarf in a bucket of water, and wrung it out, her fingers stiff from the cold water. When she looked up, two dwarves were watching her.
“Your pardon is it?” said the darker one. “Is it that you can say what way to the training field for the knights?”
Paks worked the meaning out of this. “Did you want Marshal Cieri?” she asked.
They nodded gravely. They hardly topped her head, the way she was leaning over the bucket, and she didn’t think it would be polite to stand. The darker one carried a double-bladed axe thrust into his belt; the yellow-bearded one carried his in his hand. “It is that we were asked to show something of this skill with the axe,” he said. “It is Marshal Cieri who teaches this, is it not so?”
“It is.” Paks felt her ears redden. She felt even worse than before. If he had asked dwarves to come and teach her—"It is through that arch,” she said, nodding toward it, “and then right, and through the building there.” She could not explain; besides, it might be something else.
“What is it that you do here?” asked the darker dwarf, peering into the bucket. “It looks blood.”
Paks blushed deeper. “It is—I cut myself, and this wrapped it at first.”
The dwarf nodded. “Cut—are you then not a student of the weaponsmaster?”
“I—am,” Paks hesitated, wondering if she should claim that now.
“But he is Marshal, yes? It is that he heals those injured in training?”
“Not this time,” said Paks, hoping they would go.
Four shrewd eyes bored into her. She could not read their expressions. Then the darker dwarf emitted a rough gabble of words that Paks had never heard before: dwarvish, she thought. The yellow-bearded one spoke to her. “I am Balkis, son of Baltis, son of Tork, son of Kertik, the sister-son of Ketinvik Axemaster, the first nephew of Axemaster. It is that you are not Gird’s?”
Paks had never met a dwarf, and did not know that this introduction was normal. She was trying to remember it all when the question came, and for a moment did not answer. The dwarves waited patiently. “I am not of the Fellowship of Gird,” she said finally.
“But you are here,” said the darker dwarf. “How is it that you are here?”
“I was offered a time of training here,” said Paks carefully, “because of something I had done.”
“Ah.” Another pause. Finally the yellow-bearded dwarf, Balkis, asked, “Is it that we might know your clan?”
Paks realized, belatedly, that she had not responded to his introduction with her name. “I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, of Three Firs.”
An exchange of dwarvish followed this. Balkis spoke in Common again. “Please—is it that Three Firs is a clan? We do not know this name.”
“No, Three Firs is the village nearest my father’s home. It is far from here, to the nort
h.”
“Ah. And your father is Dorthan, but of what clan?”
Paks wondered how to explain. “Sir, my father’s father was Kanas Jorisson, but I do not think we have the same kind of clans you do—”
Both dwarves laughed loudly. “Indeed, you would not! No—no, you would not. But some men think they have clans as we do, and give themselves names for them, and if you were such then we wished no insult by failing to acknowledge that name.” Then Balkis leaned back on his heels, watching her. “What is it that you did, to make a hurt the weaponsmaster would not heal?”
Paks looked down. “I—cut myself.”
“Yes, but—” He stopped, and leaned close to place his face before her. “I would not have you to think that it is our nature to be inquisitive.”
Abruptly, Paks found herself grinning. “Oh, no,” she said. “I wouldn’t think that.”
“Good. But we have to study men, who come into our rocks and want things of us. So it is that you will tell us what is that cut?”
“I was trying to use an axe,” said Paks slowly. “And I became angry, and struck too hard, and cut my leg.”
“Ah. Angry with an axe is dangerous.”
“So I found,” said Paks ruefully.
“And this the weaponsmaster found badly done, is it so?”
“Yes. And I was rude.” She wondered why she was telling them, but their interest seemed to pull it out of her.
“Rude—to a Marshal.” Suddenly the darker one loosed a volley of dwarvish, and both of them began to quiver. Paks looked up to see their eyes sparkling with mischief. “You fear not Marshals?”
“I—” Paks shook her head. “I should fear them more. I was here as a guest, and my rudeness will cost my place.”
“Ha!” Balkis nodded. “They are as a clan of adoption, and you are not adopted. So it is they can be unjust.”
“It wasn’t unjust,” said Paks. “It—they think I have been unjust, to take their hospitality without giving in return.”
Now they frowned. “You haven’t?”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 83