The Protector's War (76 page)

I'd like to see it then,
he replied.
But not to wash in.

She laughed at his shiver, and then looked away with a flush that spread down from face to breasts.

Eilir leapt up:
Let's get home!

Home in Mithrilwood had turned out to be, somewhat to his surprise, a log-cabin lodge with a stone kitchen attached, built in the 1930s by the CCC. Whoever that acronym belonged to had had high standards of craftsmanship. The low building was better than a hundred feet long and nearly forty wide, with a great fieldstone hearth set in one wall. The high-peaked shingle roofs were green with moss save where the Rangers had made repairs in recent years; outbuildings of the same construction were sleeping quarters, stables, storehouses, and a springhouse—diverting a cool stream through it provided a semblance of refrigeration, enough to keep meat and milk fresh a bit longer. The works of man hugged the earth amid tall Douglas firs, maples and oaks, scattered through a stretch of rolling hilly land; brush and saplings were reclaiming the road that had led here before the Change, save for a narrow path kept open by axes and hooves.

Once the meat was stowed and the horses stabled, the Rangers set to practice for the rest of the afternoon, except for a pair whose turn it was to cook. Alleyne saw Hordle's eyebrows rise as they shot at the mark; every one of them was a good archer, and some were very good even by the exacting standards Nigel Loring had set for the regulars. They joined in for the unarmed-combat practice, recognizing Sam Aylward's eclectic freeform, and then for sword drill…

“Give it a go?” Astrid asked.

“Ah…certainly,” Alleyne said.

I'll have to be careful not to hurt her feelings,
he reminded himself.

He had his own heater-shaped shield along, and there were plenty of the alderwood practice blades much like the longsword he customarily used; he took stance with his left foot advanced, shield up under his eyes and his sword over his head, hilt towards her. The protective bars across the face of the drill helmet they found for him might well be an advantage, since he was used to wearing a visored sallet rather than the open-faced helms favored in western Oregon. Astrid was using Bearkiller gear—a round shield two feet in diameter, and a long single-edged sword with a basket hilt, much like a Renaissance schiavone or a claymore.

“Kumite!”
said the Ranger acting as referee.
Fight!

The point of Astrid's sword flicked out at his eyes, seeming to float and then blur like a frog's tongue after a fly.
Fast,
he thought admiringly, and smacked it aside with a two-inch movement of his shield, whipping the longsword down in an overarm cut.

Crack!

The hard polished leather of the targe shed the edge, precisely angled to throw him off-balance and jar every bone in his body down to the small of his back. He recovered with a skipping hop like a child jumping rope as her blade hissed in from the side in a hocking cut at the side of his knee; she blocked his counterthrust with an upward flick of the practice blade, striking from the wrist…

Just under ten minutes later they stepped back by unspoken mutual agreement, both breathing deep and quick, sweat soaking their gambesons in huge fresh patches and making runnels down face and neck. A circle of Rangers gave an admiring cheer, and several of them clapped him on the back.

“That's a lot longer than any of us has ever gone with Astrid without her getting a touch home,” someone said. “Except Eilir, of course.”

Remind me not to think bloody nonsense.
Alleyne thought, bringing his blade up in salute with a wry grin.

Astrid's face had been inhumanly calm during the bout, except for a disconcerting small smile. Now she grinned back, then quickly looked aside, her eyes fluttering unconsciously.

That's a good sign,
Alleyne thought.
Except that it might not be…

“Hey, let me try,” a brash youngster named Kevin said. “Let's see how you handle short sword and buckler.”

After a more few bouts of his own Alleyne found himself watching Eilir working with Crystal, the newcomer, who was grimly determined as she hefted the practice blade of alderwood, double the weight of the real thing.

No,
Eilir signed, stepping back after a brief slow-time passage and letting her practice blade swing on its wrist-thong for a moment.
Remember, keep the buckler
towards
me, not swinging behind you, slightly ahead of your sword point.

“Whenever I try to think of what I'm doing with it, I lose track!” Crystal grumbled.

Everyone starts that way. That's why we do it slow to start with. You practice until you don't
have
to think about it. Once more. You attack.

Crystal did, bringing the short broad-bladed sword up in a stab towards Eilir's stomach. The deaf girl's buckler came down in a sweep that knocked it out of line. In the same motion she stepped forward and continued the arc, ending up with the bowl-shaped boss of the little shield in front of Crystal's nose. Then she stepped back again.

You can punch the buckler, or strike with the edge of it. It's a weapon too—believe me, when you've whacked someone hard in the face with a two-pound steel weight, they lose all interest in hitting you. And don't block the opposing sword directly—
bat
it away as if the buckler were an extension of your hand. It's not like a man-at-arm's shield, or even a Bearkiller targe, it's supposed to redirect force, not absorb it. Now back to the basic position—crouch a little, left foot forward and knee bent. Sword…buckler…sword. One-two-three! Let's go!

They engaged again; even in slow motion, Eilir's darting grace was impressive. So was the gentle patience she showed in the face of the girl's clumsiness. He guessed that that was why Astrid worked with the more advanced students.

Better!
Eilir signed, stepping back again when Crystal had turned puffing and red and the weapons started to quiver in her hands.

A dozen yards behind her Astrid smiled as she took a dare and went to one knee, her eyes closed; then they flared open as she rose, twisting and drawing and striking in a blur of speed. Her long blade hissed in a horizontal streak and she was extended in an impeccable follow-through. The severed dragonfly dropped, spiraling towards the ground in neat halves.

Alleyne caught it out of the corner of his eye.
She's not
human, he thought, with a slight inward quiver.

“This is a lot harder work than I thought it would be!” Crystal said to Eilir. “I thought I was
used
to hard work since I was a little girl!”

There's nothing harder than sword work,
Eilir signed sympathetically.
It uses different muscles from almost anything else. Let's go try you on the pells again. You've got to go full-out to build speed, and get used to the shock of hitting something. Remember, most of the people you fight will be stronger than you are. You have to be quicker, and you build speed like you build muscle.

A rock-fringed natural swimming pool not far from the buildings had been reconditioned—diverted stream water in at one end and out the other replacing the chlorine cycle. Nobody minded a few floating leaves anymore. Alleyne ambled down a flagstone path towards it, with the clatter and bang of combat fading behind him, stripped and dove in; the other Englishman joined him. Alleyne rested against the steps and spoke low-voiced to Hordle: “Having a good time, Little John?”

“Well, I'm not the one with the two best-looking girls panting after him,” the big man said, grinning. “Seriously, I know you're the one who looks like a prince, and I make people think of
fee fi fo fum
and grinding the bones of an Englishman. Which is a bit hard, innit, seeing as I
am
an Englishman?”

“Luckily, women aren't as fixated on looks as we males,” Alleyne pointed out.

Hordle's grin got wider. “No, but looking good doesn't hurt much, does it? Still, I reckon my charm and wit will win out in the end.”

They both laughed; Hordle's voice was like a monstrous frog croaking. “That was quite a display you put on with little Astrid.”

“Christ! But it's not that which makes me hesitate.”

“Her relatives?”

“No…no. I like her brother-in-law and most of the others seem good sorts at heart, though Signe Havel is just a trifle too carnivorous for my taste; and that man Hutton is a magician with horses. Nor am I so noble and pure as to spurn the thought of being related to the local royalty. And she's good company, we've got a good many common interests, she's clever, and a stunner…well, you've got eyes, don't you, man?”

“She's not pretty, sir. Eilir is pretty, pretty as a man could want. Astrid is like something you'd see in a painting, the type you're not allowed to get close to because your breath might pollute it.”

He ducked and came up blowing and rubbing at his thatch of dark red-brown hair. “Let me guess. It's the fact that she's bloody barking mad that's giving you the collywobbles?”

Alleyne made a gesture, and tried to keep the defensive tone out of his voice: “She's not mad. She couldn't have put this Ranger thing together if she was mad. She doesn't
actually
think she's living in the Third Age of Middle Earth, or that she's a warrior elf-maid fighting the Dark Lord, though when you think of what that man Arminger is like…But she is…obsessed. The problem is that I share her obsession…in a very, very much less intense fashion. And seeing how it
might
flower into full-blown form
is
rather frightening.” He sighed. “I meet a beautiful American heiress, I like her, she likes me…and then she turns out to be a fundamentalist with a more literal interpretation of scripture than I feel comfortable with. Only our bible was written by an Oxford don about sixty years ago.”

Hordle thought for a moment, his heavy brows knotted in thought. Alleyne waited; one of the advantages Little John Hordle had in life was the way people assumed his massive size and strength meant he was stupid. It wasn't so.

“Well, I wouldn't be quite so frightened as all that, if I were you. I would if this were the old world, but it isn't.”

Alleyne's fair eyebrows went up further. “What difference does that make?”

“Look at it this way, Mr. Loring. If this were the time before the Change, what use would it be to be obsessed with horses, and swords, and bows, and living in the woods like a poncing elf and fighting bandits and man-eating beasts and evil kings? As opposed to here and now, where she can actually
do
all those things—
has
to do most of them, in fact.”

Alleyne opened his mouth, then closed it again; it was his turn to frown. “You know, Sergeant, that is a very acute observation. If it's madness, it's a very practical form of insanity. Now that I think of it, even if she's living a fantasy she's gone about it in a very practical way.”

Hordle shrugged. “Think nothing of it. Sergeants are supposed to figure things out and let officers take the credit.”

“Of course, the fact that if I were to make a play for Astrid, her friend might have time to think about someone else has
no
bearing on your advice.”

Hordle rolled his eyes upward and put his hands together in an attitude of prayer: “Of
course
not, Mr. Loring! I deny everything! How could you think such a thing?” He clutched at his chest. “I'm wounded, wounded, I tell you!”

Alleyne laughed. “We'll see what develops. What do you think of settling here? Father's giving it serious consideration.”

“And I know why,” Hordle said with a wink. At Alleyne's blank look he chuckled and went on: “Seriously, it's pretty country, right enough, nice climate—a lot like Hampshire, only better—there's plenty of land for the asking, and the hunting's good. I could get myself a bit of a farm, or even a farm
and
a pub. Incidentally, they're not bad, themselves, this Ranger lot, even the girls. I thought they were a bit,
mmmm
…informal-like, but they know what they're doing and they don't waste time talking when it's important.”

“Not surprising, when you consider that Sam had a say in training them early on. Not to mention Mr. Havel.
And
they've had real work to do here, with bandits and raiders and the prospects of a pukka war hanging over them. More than we did in England, when we weren't sent abroad. Being in the regulars back home was too much like being a policeman at times for my taste, this last little while.”

“Right. Never did want to be a copper. Still, at first I thought…”