The Sword of the Lady (65 page)

″Ho La, Odhinn!″
Asgerd hawk-screamed.

She moved like a swift slender metal statue in her mail byrnie and nose-guarded conical helm and cut with the cry. The hilt-forward position of her sword turned into a sweeping circle that came down towards Ritva′s head as her feet moved her forward like a stooping hawk. The Norrheimer-style round shield was held by a single grip beneath the boss, and she kept it always between them, ready to strike with it as the sword hammered down. Ritva brought her own shield up in a flash of motion—and around, so that it didn′t block her vision, and arrived slanted at an angle.

The hard birchwood lath of the practice blade bounced away from the curved surface of the shield. Ritva grunted as the blow rocked the convex circle of plywood and bullhide and painted sheet metal against her shoulder and shocked through her arm where it ran between the elbow-loop and the rim-grip.

Strong!
she thought approvingly.

The same impact helped her swing aside and out of the path of the Bjorning′s rush. Her left foot moved forward and her right followed it in a skipping crabwise step, blurring-fast. The blunt point of her wooden sword drove home and Asgerd gave a cry that was half frustration and half stifled pain as it took her on the back of the knee below the edge of the byrnie.

That sent her off-balance as the leg buckled; Ritva struck with her weight behind it in the same instant, shield punching into shield. The younger woman went over on her back with a hard
thud
only slightly muffled by the deep snow under a leafless maple, and an
ooof!
as the impact knocked the wind out of her lungs. The Ranger skipped forward to tap her lath-sword at the base of the Bjorning′s throat.

″Ah, I think I see your problem,″ Ritva said, sliding the smooth curve of the visor up the forehead of the sallet.

Asgerd slowly levered herself out of the snow, blowing and shaking her head, snatching off her helm by the nasal bar to strike at the snow that had packed up under it and into her hair.

″You′re better with the sword than me!″ she snarled, her breath puffing white in winter air. ″And you′re more experienced. That′s my problem! You′ve killed me four times and I′ve only wounded you once.″

″Yes, but that′s not your
problem
,″ Ritva went on. ″You′ve been well taught, but your problem is that you′re fighting like a man.″

″Well, if I′m to fight, it probably won′t be against women!″

″No. But . . .″

She turned to Mary. ″Let′s show her the Parable of the Door. You do the sounds.″

Mary grinned, a remarkably piratical expression with the eye patch; they′d played this game as instructors at Mithrilwood ever since they graduated to
ohtar
rank, and had missed it on the trip. Aunt Astrid and her
anamchara
Lady Eilir had come up with it, back when they first brought the Dúnedain together.

Running off the unsuitable and training the teachable
, she thought.
Both good fun.

A
lot
of discontented teenage girls had turned up at Stardell Hall over the years, drawn by the lure of the Dúnedain name and the glitter of the Histories . . . and weary of the endless routine of churn and hoe and loom. Or the damp hands of pimply-faced local swains, as opposed to dreams of some Elven Prince. Or in the case of Mary and Ritva Havel, tired and bored with being spare heirs.

Ritva turned back to the Bjorning, who was dusting more snow off her byrnie and the seat of her breeks. If you let it melt into your clothing, the dampness could linger for days on the trail. There wasn′t much chance to get
people
warm and dry, much less their clothing.

″Fighting is like opening a door. Now, imagine there′s a door here,″ the Ranger said.

She stuck the practice longsword in the snow and sketched a portal with her finger, and pointed out the features:

″Nice solid door. Here′s the hinges. Here′s the handle and the latch. Now, imagine a man trying to open the door. Here′s how he′d probably do it.″

″Belch,″
Mary put in, with an alarmingly realistic accompaniment.

″Urrgghhh!″ Ritva said.

Her hands went up and gripped the sides of the imaginary door. Then she whipped her head forward.

″Bong!″
Mary shouted.

Again.

Again and then she stopped, scrunched one eye closed while rubbing her head and scratching her backside, then reversing the process.

″Belch,″
Mary put in.
″Fart.″

″Me smash! Arrrggghh!
Me smash! Me smash!
″ Ritva bellowed, mock-guttural.

She mimed head-butting the door over and over, her features contorted into a mask of cross-eyed rage and lips slack as if she was drooling; then the eyes rolled up in her head and she fell backward into the snow.

″Now! she said, bouncing back up again and clapping her hands together. ″Here′s how a
woman
does it.″

Ritva reached out, lifted the invisible latch—Mary supplied the
click
—turned the knob, stepped through, and closed the door behind her, with a final
clunk
from her sister.

″You see?″

Asgerd looked at them both. Her face had been grim almost all the time since they left Eriksgarth; now it lightened a little. The smile had to struggle up like a fish broaching from the depths, but she managed it. Then—Ritva′s eyebrows went up—she started to giggle. After a moment she spoke:

″I think I see a little of what you mean. We have a saying, that when your only tool is a hammer all your problems start to look like nails.″

″We have the same proverb,″ Ritva said.

Though if it′s John Hordle or even Rudi, they just
walk through
the door without noticing it′s there. But that would undermine the lesson, so . . .

She went on: ″The Gods have made men and women differently. They have hammers. We have needles. If you want to fight well, you have to fight like a first-rate woman, not like a bad imitation of a man.″

She took up the lath practice sword again. ″Rudi can break a shield′s frame with a straight flourish cut like the one you used, if he hits full-on; and break the arm underneath it, sometimes.″

Asgerd blinked. ″With a one-handed blow from a
sword
?″ she said incredulously. ″With a battle-ax or war hammer, perhaps . . .″

″I′ve seen him do it. Or slash right through ringmail.″

″So can Ingolf,″ Mary said. A little reluctantly: ″Rudi′s faster, though.″

Ritva nodded. ″For you or me, trying to do that′s just a waste of effort and leaves you open to the counterstrike. Or . . . you′re about my height. Or Odard′s or Edain′s. But getting into a shield-to-shield shoving match with either of them is a bad idea—they′ve a third again our weight. More muscle, heavier bones. Let′s try something a little different—″

Edain came up on skis, then slid to a halt to watch for a while. Garbh sat beside him, her tail curled around her feet and black nose going back and forth, tongue dangling behind white puffs of breath.

″Not bad,″ the young clansman said, after a flurry of blows. ″But it′s time for lunch, and then to get moving again.″

He grinned at Asgerd. ″They beat me all the soddin′ time too,″ he added. ″Sure, and it′s like trying to hit a ghost.″

She snorted, too winded to speak for a moment. Edain politely didn′t look at her too closely, or in too nonprofessional a way, as she shrugged into her loose parka with its mottled cover of white and off-white and brown, and buckled on her sword belt and the baldric for her bow and quiver that she′d hung on a branch. The shield rattled as she slung it over her back as well; a cover of bleached canvas hid the colorful black-and-red painting of a fylfot. Garbh came over and butted a friendly nose beneath a hand and the Bjorning paused to ruffle the big beast′s fur, which seemed to soften her mood a little.

″Do they beat you at shooting?″ she said, tossing down her skis from where she′d leaned them against a birch and stepping into the toe-loops.

″No. They′re better than fair shots, but not nearly as good as me,″ he said straightforwardly.

″But better than me?″ Asgerd asked, with just a touch of belligerence in her tone.

″For now, yes. Rangers train hard and long. They′re not farmers; they fight and hunt for a living. You could be as good, but it′ll take a year at least, or more depending on how much time you put into it.″

Asgerd nodded, her face calm but approval in her eyes.

She′d have scented flattery,
Ritva thought, and hid her grin.

″Now, they′re both a total failure at milking a cow, mind,″ Edain said. ″More of a moo and a kick they′d get if they tried than aught in the pail.″

The two Rangers snorted, and Asgerd chuckled. They all slid south and east—and slightly downhill—towards the valley where the main caravan lay with its sleds. Or bounded easily in a series of puffs of snow, in Garbh′s case.

Asgerd seemed like a nice girl, if grim—which was understandable, given what had happened to her betrothed—and far less likely to meet a bad end than that Mormon woman back in Idaho. Ritva wished him all success, as she might a younger brother.

As I might a
considerably
younger brother, though we′re with a year of the same age. Still . . . he′s always
felt
younger than us. Men grow up more slowly.

And there wouldn′t be as many religious problems if things went well, which wouldn′t be soon anyway. Those faiths of the Book with their exclusive claims to truth were a complete nuisance; look at the bother it had caused for Rudi and Mathilda.

″You live by the sword too?″ the Bjorning girl asked Edain. ″Or the bow,″ she added.

″Not all the time, no, not until this trip. Mostly I help me da on the farm, and in the bowyer′s workshop we have; that′s what Mackenzies do, work the land and follow crafts. My mother′s a weaver of some note, and well known for that and her cheeses—people come from as far away as Corvallis to buy ′em both. To be sure, Da was First Armsman of the Mackenzies for years and years—war leader of the Clan, under the Chief. But everyone who can fights when it′s needful, among Mackenzies. Only a few are warriors all the time.″

″As with us,″ Asgerd nodded. ″Only the
hirdmen
of a
godhi
. . . the guards of a chief . . . make a trade of war. We haven′t had a big war for a long time; not since the years after the land-taking, when they say whole bands of reivers were abroad, desperate and hungry. Just scuffles and skirmishes since then, and—″

Her voice broke for a second; then she cleared her throat and went on doggedly:

″—and those who go in viking to the dead cities must fight often against the troll-men.″

They talked, stumbling over terms occasionally; Ritva and her sister helped when they were at a loss for words, or used them differently. Rangers traveled widely and had to be good at picking up how meanings had drifted in the last generation, and she could speak Spanish and some French as well as English and Sindarin. It was harder with Asgerd, because her speech was speckled with words from old languages Ritva knew only as names, or with French. Not the ancient tongue that Portland′s nobility liked to affect now and then, either, but a quacking nasal local dialect like nothing she′d ever heard before.

Asgerd nodded when she was satisfied. ″You′re a
bondar
, a yeoman′s child, like me, then,″ she said to Edain. ″Neither rich nor poor, eh?″

It seemed to make her easier in her mind if she could place someone by station and kindred. Edain shrugged.

″Right. We′ve got a good farm and we′re well thought of in Dun Fairfax . . .″

″
Dun
means
village
, more or less. Thorpe, you might say,″ Ritva put in.

Edain nodded. ″In our village. But not great chiefs, no.″

Asgerd sighed. ″It seems a rich
land
though, this Montival. Gardens yielding into November! Stock grazing outside
all winter
? We have to feed ours hay and turnips and grain five months of the year! And I′ve never tasted those fruits you talked about, grapes and peaches and cherries and apricots and hazelnuts, they′re only old words here.″

″The Willamette′s fine country, and that′s a fact,″ Edain said. ″Better than aught I′ve seen on this trip—Iowa was very rich indeed in grain and swine and cattle, sure and it was, but cold in the winter too from the looks of it, and no vineyards to speak of, and not nearly the fruit orchards we have. And flat!
And
short of timber, the which we are not. The Lord and Lady have blessed us.″

She bristled a little, and he added: ″It′s not bad soil here. Those were fine spuds at Eriksgarth, and the stock was good.″

Then he looked around; they were traveling down a small river valley now, narrow between low steep densely forested hills, mostly pine and spruce with an occasional stand of taller white pine, and broadleaf trees along the water. Naked rock showed here and there, through snow and the thin soil beneath.

″Or at least that bit about Eriksgarth wasn′t bad. This here would break a farmer′s heart, it would! And any plow he tried to use on it. Fine timber trees, I grant, but ours stand taller.″

″They say the folk of the old world cut so many here in Norrheim . . . they called it Maine then . . . that few grow as tall as they might,″ Asgerd said. ″Or as tall as they will grow by my grandchildren′s time. That′s hard to imagine, but . . .″

The three westerners nodded at her shrug; they′d all grown up on tales of a world of marvels vanished before they were born. You never knew exactly which were true, and which mere fable, either. Not even the old people agreed on that!