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Mathilda smiled at him over her horn, but tears trembled in her eyes. She rose: ?I have sworn service as vassal with Artos the High King already. Here I swear that I will take him for my man, for my war captain, for my King, and keep faith with him in all ways so long as life is in me. Drink hail!? ?Wassail!?
Edain stood in his turn.?I started on this quest a boy, following a friend. Along the way I?ve found a King to follow, who?s still the best friend and comrade a man could have. I swear I?ll stand by him as best I can, all my life long. Drink hail!? ?Wassail!?
The others followed; the twins swore their pledge in liquid Sindarin, causing a little confusion. Odard went last, and stood silent for an instant. When he spoke his voice was low at first: ?When I started this journey, I came because of the Princess more than Rudi. There was bad blood between my family and his… A man?s mind is never all of one thing, nor does he know himself or all his reasons beneath the masks he wears. They deceive even the wearer. But by following Rudi, I?ve found enemies worth fighting, and a man… a King… worth following. I will follow him, and raise my sons to follow his. Drink hail!? ?Wassail!?
TheSwordoftheLady
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
?You attack this time,? Ritva Havel said to Asgerd Karlsdottir. ?On the count-one-?
The Ranger had her parka off, and wore only the down-quilted vest, wool undershirt, wool tunic, padded gambeson and mail-lined leather jerkin. That was miserably chilly but exercise would help, though there was a hint of moisture in the air today that made the cold sink right into bone and joint. For some reason the same quilted padding that turned a mail shirt hellish in summertime did nothing for you in weather like this. At least the cold muted the harsh rank smell of old sweat and rancid oil inseparable from armor, leaving the clean scent of spruce and pine the strongest odor around them. ?Two…?
The edge of her shield snapped down the visor of the sallet she was wearing, and the steely gray light of the winter?s day shrank to a line of tarnished brightness across her eyes through the vision slit. Her shield came up under her chin, and her feet felt for the balance-the mealy snow moved beneath her boots, as bad as sand for leeching away speed. Sword up, point up… ?Three!? ?Ho La, Odhi
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.
Crack.
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 gri
Ru
A lot of discontented teenage girls had turned up at Stardell Hall over the years, drawn by the lure of the Dunedain 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.
Which is about as useful as being a wagon?s fifth wheel.
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. ?Bong!?
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.