Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

"A light breakfast, Baj."

"Richard, I know a light breakfast."

"And only boiled hot water, no morning beer."

"I know, Richard. Only water…" Baj began the stretches and postures he'd been taught as preparation for great effort, for fighting. There hadn't seemed time for those formal attitudes – not through all the weeks of flight and mountain traveling. Now, he wished he'd taught them to Nancy…

Errol seemed intrigued, the poses striking him as dance, perhaps, so he stood and joined in excellent imitation… bending, stooping, slowly squatting to leap upright, twisting first one way, then the other… all to easy heartbeat rhythm. One deep breath to every six beats. Step, step, and cross-step to the right. Step, step, cross-step to the left. Slide-step forward… slide-steps back. Arms slowly swinging up and around… down and back around. Wrists flexed, fingers flexed and clenched. Flexed… and clenched.

Stepping lightly, and a little higher for the uneven ground – ground already powdered with snow.

A group of troopers paused as they came by from mess, to watch him finish his exercise – Errol mirroring precisely the same easy come-to-rest at finish. By then, Baj's hands were still as stone.

Richard, shaking his head, muttering in some argument with himself, sat by the fire bent over Baj's rapier with a piece of granite-powdered ice, persuading its keenest edge.

… After a rye-porridge breakfast almost uneaten except by Errol, who had eaten what he could of everyone's, they walked out of camp into clearing air… and the glow of sunrise to the east. The cold was of that variety that Kingdom-River people called "Hello," meaning just sharp enough to alert a person, put them on notice of grimmer freezes to come. It was also called "First breath," meaning Lord Winter's first breath, come down from the ice.

It would be no trouble, fighting.

"Not too cold after all," Richard said. None had worn their furs. "But watch the snow on this sedge grass."

Nancy said nothing, towed Errol along by her accustomed grip on his jerkin.

"Baj," Patience touched him on the shoulder. "If there is a choice to kill or cripple him – kill .Crippling will make enemies that killing won't."

Baj nodded as they walked along, but said nothing. His world was no longer quite their world, as if a sheet of the Wall's ice had slid between them. What was said to him now, seemed sent as if by pigeon, or one of Boston's little Mailmen.

… They were walking to a crowd of hundreds of soldiers – all, off-duty, standing silent as ghosts of some ancient tundra battle, and all unarmed, unarmored, except for Provost officers, brass chains glinting on steel breastplates.

George Brock-Robin stood aside and alone in boots and leathers, a round hide shield leaning against his knee. He was swinging a double-edged short-sword in his right hand… Baj was pleased. Right hand – better than confusing left, with its reverses.

Brock-Robin waved a greeting as Baj came up, and called, "Good morning," his breath smoking a little in the chilly air. He seemed in good humor.

Baj said, "Good morning."

"I'm going back," Nancy said. "I'm going back." And she turned away to the camp, dragging Errol with her.

Brock-Robin watched her go, and glanced at Baj – a look between men, satirical. "Women," the look said.

A Wolf-blood officer, the handsome one Baj recalled from the General's pavilion, came between them. "We are not wasting time with this. Get it done – to the death or not – but get it done."

George Brock-Robin nodded, and Baj said, "Yes," unbuckled his sword-belt, drew rapier and left-hand dagger from it, and tossed the belt behind him.

The crowd of soldiers, silent, circled and shifted until they'd made what they must have made many times before – a fighting space generous enough, of tundra carpeted with lichen and snow-streaked sedge.

A few gray thrushes flew past them, as if on more important business… To the north, the Wall loomed two miles high.

The handsome officer drew a cavalry saber, flourished it, then struck it across his cuirass, so steel rang on steel.

George Brock-Robin, shield up, came trotting.

Baj circled away to his right, keeping to the Person's left – his shield side. Brock cut that angle in a bounding rush, caught Baj as he backed away, and as their swords clashed on guard, points aside, hit him a smashing blow with the shield.

Baj thought he felt his right cheekbone crack, a little snap as his head went back. He spun full around to his right again to stay on Brock's shield side, avoid the short-sword. Blood was coming down his face; he could feel it. Should have guarded left-hand, with the dagger.

No sound from the watching soldiers.

Made more cautious – not by the injury, which hardly seemed to hurt at all, was only a numbness – but by Brock's moving so fast, striking so surely, Baj, smelling crushed grass in cold air, feinted changing his circling from right to left, and saw Brock's boots shift beneath the round shield to stay with him.

The Person stepped in and struck with his short-sword, thrusting low inside – a to-be-parried blow, it seemed to Baj, so Brock could judge his ward. Baj took the thrust in quinte on the left-hand dagger's long blade, gave with the blow's slashing power so it slid whining off his steel… then moved to his right again, cautious of the shield as Brock shifted – lightly, swiftly – to follow him.

Shield blow and sword thrust had proved the Person twice, perhaps three times stronger. There'd be no meeting him force to force, but only by indirection… As he circled to his right – careful, careful not to stumble – keeping away, keeping Brock's shield his shield as well, Baj saw the soldier had been trained to never leave his sword arm exposed, never be caught wrong footed, with his shield out of line. It was a fine way to fight in ranks – even open ranks.

For that sort of battle fighting, it was perfect – and Brock, immensely strong and very quick, appeared to use that strength with disciplined restraint.

But it seemed to Baj that the soldier's veteran practice might be used against him… And as they circled – he already feeling weary while Brock moved so smoothly, so fast, in a sort of close constant dancing – Baj suddenly stopped and stepped to the left. And as he saw, beneath the shield's rim, Brock's boots shift neatly to follow, he lunged full-length – knee almost to the grass – thrust down into the soldier's right boot, felt the blade-tip slide through leather to the splitting resistance of little bones – then recovered and was again circling to the right as Brock grunted and came after him… not limping.

Determined not to limp, apparently, Brock stepped out perhaps even more firmly – and Baj, just as he had the moment before, suddenly halted, feinted to the left, lunged and thrust into that booted foot again.

"Nasty," the Master would have said. "Unfair – and the perfect thing to do."

His face no longer numb but in increasing pain where the shield had struck him, Baj circled again to the right, to Brock's shield side – swift blind sideways steps over uneven turf, invitations to trip and be killed, watched by a silent circling wall of soldiers. Blood was running down his cheek… his neck.

Brock, shield held a little lower, came after him – with him – his black boot spattering red. Limping now, but limping very swiftly, the Moonriser cut the angle again, drove into Baj with his shield, and thrust up to gut him.

Baj parried a second time with the left-hand dagger – felt his wrist sprained by impact hard as a horse's kick – and lunged turning off-balance to thrust his rapier's point down into Brock's suffering boot again, so firmly planted for that sword stroke. Then spun away, scuttling to his right as before. Fleeing, was what it was.