Dies the Fire

The tents were pitched in neat rows, one per family with more for the single men, single women and outfit purposes; each had a fire in front of it and a Coleman lantern hung from the peak. A latrine trench was behind a grove of aspens, and a canvas enclosure for bathing stood beside a wheeled metal water-tank, another Ken-and-Will joint project; it was built so that a heating fire could be kindled in a hearth at one end. A woman was tossing chunks of pine into the fire, and a valve hissed on top as the water came to a boil.

"Helps avoid giardia," Havel said.

Woburn nodded; the nasty little parasites were endemic in Idaho streams, including the "purest" mountain brooks.

"Pretty piece of work," he said.

Havel nodded gravely, gri

"Lord Bear," one of their more recent recruits said, taking the reins as Havel and his guest swung down out of the saddle.

Havel felt his teeth gritting. Breaking people of calling him that was probably more trouble than it was worth, and most seemed to like it better than "Boss." Giving Astrid a sound spanking for coming up with the idea was almost certainly more trouble than it would be worth… but it was so tempting, sometimes!

He steered Woburn past the portable smithy-they had a real blacksmith now, freeing up a lot of Will's time-the arrow-making operation, the armor-assembly area from which Astrid and Lua

Interesting, Havel thought. When he's actually working, our Bill looks almost trustworthy. The problem is you have to stand over him to keep him working.

Right now he was opening the insulated hotbox and checking a bow-limb curing there, the half-S shape secured between plywood forms with metal screw-clamps; the box reduced the time needed for the glue to set hard from a year to weeks, at the cost of a slight loss in durability. An assistant had a hardwood block clamped in a vise; he was shaping the riser into which the limbs would be pegged and glued, roughing out the shape of the pistol grip and arrow-shelf with a chisel. Shavings of pale myrtlewood curled away from the tap-tap-tap.

Havel nodded towards the pots of glue, planks of osage-orange wood, bundles of dried sinew, pieces of antler, and a box of translucent lozenges sawn from cow horns.

"We'll always have those materials."

"You've been thinking ahead," Woburn said respectfully.

They passed the school, taught open-air by A

Astrid galloped her horse past a deer-shaped target- and the arrow flickered out to go thump behind the shoulder. Others were on foot, shooting at Frisbee-sized wooden disks rolled downhill, or at stationary man-shapes; the shooters were crouched, kneeling, walking, as well as standing in the classic archer's T.

Lua

Hope she doesn't dig in and knock herself out of the saddle while our guest is watching, Havel thought. She's the only one we've got yet who doesn't do that all the time!

Those just starting with the sword were hacking at pells-posts set in the ground, or convenient trees-or slicing pinecones tossed at them. He didn't have anyone riding the wooden hobbyhorse just now, learning to swing a blade from the saddle without decapitating his mount-it was essential, but he had to admit it looked so…

Dorky, he thought. There's no other word that fits.

Except for Astrid and a few other fast-growing teenagers, all those at weapons practice were working in chain mail, to get used to the weight and constriction and sweat-sodden heat of it. That was only marginally more popular than the regular exercise sessions wearing the stuff, jumping and ru

My sympathy is underwhelming, you poor little darlings, Havel thought. Try humping an eighty-pound pack through fucking Iraq.

Pam Arnstein had one of her fencing classes going for the better students, with Signe as her assistant.

"The targe"-she insisted on using the fancy term for small round shield-"is not there for you to wave in the air! Keep it in front of you. Remember it's a weapon like your sword-weapons are kept face to the enemy. Pivot the rear foot as you move-heel down, Johnson! Passing thrust-passing thrust-cut-cut-forehand-backhand- at the man, not at the shield! Stay in line, in line!"

Impatiently, she called Josh Sanders out from the double line of pupils. Havel watched with interest as she drove the brawny young man down the field in a clatter and bang of mock combat.

"Right, try it again… better. Now free-form! I deflect your cut with my blade sloped behind my back, and make a crossing attack, stepping forward to cut in turn to the hamstring… so."

"Ouch!" He stumbled and recovered.

"I knock your shield out of line… so. The body follows the sword, remember. Swords first, foot just a fraction of a second behind. Then I thrust to the face… cut to the neck-no, don't block with the edge of your targe, you'll get it sliced off. With the surface-that's why it's covered in rawhide. Good parry, now I'm vulnerable, hit me with it-"

Crack! as leather met leather.

"Sorry!" he blurted, as he knocked her off her feet and onto her back.

The sixteenth-century European blade styles featured a lot of bodychecking, throws, kicks and short punching blows with the pommel of the sword or the edge of the shield, too. The brutal whatever-works pragmatism was precisely to Havel's taste.

"That's the first completely correct move you've made today," Pamela said as she rolled erect again. "You've got the advantage of weight-so use it. There aren't any bronze or silver medals in this sort of fencing. Win or die!"

Havel inclined his helmeted head towards the practice field. "Like you said, Sheriff, it's not just finding or making the weapons, it's learning how to use them."

"Doesn't look like what I remember of fencing," he said, shading his eyes. "Watched the Olympics once."

Havel nodded. The motions were much broader and fuller, with all the body's coordinated strength and weight behind them. He went on aloud: "One of these cut-and-thrust swords will blast right through an epee parry and skewer you front to back, or gut you like a trout. We were real lucky to find Pam Arnstein-that's our instructor there."

Ken Larsson was working on a drawing pi

Havel introduced them, and the elder Larsson went on: "Pam was a stroke of luck. She's our vet too, and doubled as our medico until we found Aaron here."

He gri

"Lord Bear's Luck, some call it," Rothman said. "And believe me, I was glad to get a share of it!"

I really wish people wouldn't say that, Havel thought. The dice have no memory. You've got to earn your luck again every morning.

Four Bearkillers were passing by with a quartered beef carcass in wheelbarrows, heading for the cooking fires and the chuck wagon. Arnstein looked at Havel, who nodded. She halted them, and had the hindquarters hung on hooks hoof-up beneath a tree while she laid down the practice lath, unhooked the wire-mesh screen from the front of her helmet and took up her battle sword.