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The apple was aimed more than arm?s length to Rudi?s left, past what was now his sword hand. That hand flashed across his body and he turned in the packed snow of the yard, granules flying up in arcs from his boots with the speed of the movement. Steel glittered in the cold winter light as he extended in a long lunge, the point an extension of his arm in a play of motion and angle.
Tock.
The point went through the firm flesh of the apple with a surgeon?s delicacy, the edge parallel to the ground so that it stopped the motion without splitting the fruit. He held the lunge for an instant, with a background of amazed oaths, then flicked the longsword?s point upward and twitched his wrist to send the steel in a shimmering arc.
Tock.
This time the apple tumbled towards the ground in two neat halves. Rudi caught them with his other hand, moving like a frog?s tongue after a fly, then wiped the tip of his sword on his sleeve and slid it home. He tossed one half to a gri
His half was tart and sweet at the same time as he crunched it; a little harder and more grainy than the breeds they grew back home in the Mackenzie duns or the Yakima lands, but palatable. Edain ate his in three bites, his cheeks bulging for a moment, and his gray eyes taking in the awestruck expressions scattered across the open expanse. Some were frankly goggling; everyone here trained to the blade, which meant they had a fair idea of just what combination of speed and control the little demonstration had required.
Now that was more than a bit flashy, Rudi half chided himself. But then, Edain?s only a bit past twenty. And I?m no graybeard yet either! And we wouldn?t have done it before those who weren?t warriors themselves, sure. ?I think it?s the custom here to push a man a bit. To see what?s in him, as it were,? Edain said. ?The which Mackenzies would never do,? Rudi said, and they both laughed.
Edain went on:?They?re a bit doomful here, but for the rest it?s homelike enough; and they get something more lively with some beer in them.? ?That they do!? ?Has it struck you, Chief, that men are not at all unlike dogs.. . especially in the way they greet a stranger??
As if on cue there was a sudden chorus of snarls; Garbh had one of the Eriksgarth hounds on its back, with her teeth holding its neck ruff. She shook it a little and then stepped back, tense and wary. ?Well, at least we?re not expected to engage in arse-sniffing contests,? Rudi pointed out, which the dogs were doing at that moment, their tails wagging.
Not far away, Mary Havel-Mary Vogeler, now, Rudi reminded himself-was talking to a big young Bjorning with a battle-ax in his hands. The weapon was a bit unusual; the rear of it was drawn out into the rectangular serrated head of a war hammer. The ax-man looked over at Ingolf, who with Fred Thurston was helping some newcomers unload a roughly butchered moose carcass from their sled, a contribution to the feast and a gift to their chieftain.
The tall Richlander hefted a hindquarter over his back, with no more than a grunt at a weight greater than his whole body. ?Friend, you?ll find that Mary can take care of herself well enough, you betcha,? he said mildly, and then strode over to where Harberga waited at the door of her kitchen?s cold store. Fred sniggered wordlessly as he scooped up two burlap sacks of rye flour and followed Ingolf with one over each shoulder.
The Bjorning flushed, leaned his dreadful polearm against a wall and picked up the practice equivalent-a four-foot helve with a mock blade of light pine, wrapped in felt and rags; no matter how shielded, the seven-pound head of the original would smash bone like kindling if driven hard. Then he took stance, the ax slanted across his body with his hands wide-spaced near butt and helve-an expert?s grip. The man was about halfway between Rudi and John Hordle in size, and from the look of him he had the shoulders to move the massive weapon quickly. When he struck the air hummed, but Rudi thought he was pulling the blow.
Mary leapt straight upward over the swing, her own chest-height from a standing start. The Bjorning had expected to strike, or at least to have the blow blocked by the longsword she wore across her back with the hilt over the right shoulder. Instead as it met only air the momentum of the strike pulled his body around irresistibly. The Ranger?s hand darted out and tweaked his nose painfully; then she went into a series of backflips that left her half a dozen yards away.
Tsk, tsk, Rudi thought.
He was a fine gymnast himself, but that sort of thing had little place in actual fighting to his way of thinking. In a fight you should move precisely as much as needed to attack or defend, neither more nor less. The Dunedain tended to be a bit showy, though.
Some of the onlookers cheered her. Others hooted in wholehearted mirth, bending over and clutching themselves or slapping hands on their thighs-as Edain had said, the two clansmen found the dwellers here a bit doomful by Mackenzie standards, but this was a joke after their own hearts. A few of the women watching called comments to the ax-bearer that would have had Rudi?s ears flushing, and made the man bellow with anger in his mouse-colored braided beard. He brought the weapon up to guard and began a rush, then halted in wariness.
Now Mary had the chain unwound from her waist, both ends crisscross ing in glittering arcs as she whirled them clockwise and counterclockwise; one held a sickle-shaped blade, the other a steel ball. That was a weapon she?d taken up during their stay in Chenrezi Monastery, in the Valley of the Sun. The monks taught it, and Master Hao said she was a natural for it-it was a yin weapon anyway, suitable to her changeful nature.
The Bjorning decided to treat it as if it was a quarterstaff, and struck at the middle spot where her hands turned wrist-over-wrist to keep the chain moving. Mary dropped promptly to one knee, and let the steel links slide through her gloved palms. There was a rattling chunk as one end of the chain whipped around the ax helve, and a muffled curse as it bound hand to ashwood. The sickle struck his forearm in a way that would have laid it open to the bone if the sharp blade hadn?t been encased in its leather sheath.
He pulled back, trying to free the haft and throwing his far greater weight and raw strength against hers through the metal link. Mary came with the pull and at the same instant the other end of the chain wrapped around the man?s knees, whirling itself into a tangle with the steel ball thudding into his thigh muscle with paralyzing force. He began to buckle forward; Mary?s booted feet struck him neatly in the stomach, her back hit the ground, and she used his own momentum to throw him roaring over her head with an arching twist and pivot.
There was a heavy, meaty thud as he landed in a patch of last night?s snow not yet trampled or stained. It puffed up around him in a cloud of glittering crystal, and through it Mary pounced with a cat-screech of Sindarin that Rudi translated without effort: ?So long, sucker!?
She landed astraddle the man, her long narrow dagger out and hovering above his eye. He glared at her for a moment and then his lips quirked up in a smile. That turned into a roar of laughter, and he threw his arms wide in a theatrical gesture of surrender. ?Hrolf Homersson gives you best, shield-maiden! I give you best. What a pity you?re wedded already!?
Mary simply snorted as she rose and helped him untangle himself. Ritva sauntered over and put her hands on her hips as she watched. ?I?m not,? she pointed out with cheerful helpfulness.?Are you, Hrolf Homersson? Not that I?m proposing, you understand.?