Elizabeth Moon: Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Paks rolled out of her bunk and made for the jacks down the corridor. Then back to the room, to struggle with her bunk. She peeled off the nightshift, hoping that Korryn’s eyes were occupied elsewhere. No one said anything. Everyone around her was as busy as she was. She unbraided her hair, combed it with the bone comb she wore looped into it, and rebraided it smoothly, wrapping the tip with a thread from her tunic. She didn’t know what to do with the nightshift. Bosk came to the door; Paks caught his eye and he came forward.

“What do we do with these?”

“See that ledge? Fold it neatly and put it there.” Bosk went around the room to tell the others. Paks tied her bootlaces, straightened her belt and empty sheath, and smoothed the sheet on her bunk one last time.

Devlin came to the door. “Ready?” he asked Bosk.

“As they will be.”

“Recruits, prepare for inspection!” yelled Devlin. Paksenarrion stood where she thought she should be and stared straight ahead. Stammel entered the room, and began on the other side. He found something wrong with each person: blanket folded wrong, sheet crooked, pallet misshapen, boots laced unevenly, hair uncombed, tunic crooked, nightshift folded wrong, dirty fingernails (Paks felt a stab of panic and almost looked at her hands), untrimmed beard, messy bunk (he was only two bunks away, and Paks was sure she could not stand the suspense), nightshift under the bed weren’t you listening, recruit? And then it was her turn. She felt herself begin to blush before he said a word. She heard—she did not look—him thump the bunk. He looked at her from all sides, grunted, and finally said, “Tunic’s wrinkled in back,” and walked out.

“Dismissed,” said Bosk, and Paksenarrion headed for the yard, beginning to wonder why she’d gotten into this.

She wondered even more in the next weeks. She enjoyed the marching drill, which kept them moving about the wide fields in intricate patterns for several hours every morning and evening. It wasn’t fighting, but it was soldierly, and expected. What she didn’t enjoy was the other work. Bedmaking, cleaning, and dishwashing were among the things she’d left home to avoid. If she’d wanted to be a carpenter or a mason, she grumbled to herself one day while working on repairs to the stable wall, she’d have apprenticed herself to one.

Others felt the same way.

“We haven’t even seen a sword yet,” complained Effa. “I signed on to be a fighter, not drag rocks around all day.”

“Well—surely we’ll get into that,” said Saben, as he hoisted one of the despised rocks into place. “I mean, the place isn’t full of workers, so they must have become fighters and gone to war.”

Korryn gave a sneering laugh. “Fine reasoner you are! No, they’ll keep us as laborers as long as they can, and then try to skimp on our training. As long as they can count on fools like you to join every year, they don’t care how many die.”

Paksenarrion snorted. “If we’re fools for joining, what about you?” The others laughed, and Korryn scowled, slamming a rock into wet mortar so it splattered them all.

“I,” he said, “already know how to use a sword. I don’t have to worry.”

“You will if you don’t get busy,” said Bosk. They all wondered how long he had been listening.

The closest they came to anything that Paksenarrion recognized as weapons training was hauk drill. Every day they spent two hours with the hauks, weighted wooden cylinders that looked somewhat like maces.

“I know what you want,” said Armsmaster Siger, as he supervised the drill. “You want swords, you think, and spears. Huh. You couldn’t wield a sword for a quarter-glass yet, none of you. Get that up, recruit—higher, that’s right. Thought you were strong, didn’t you? And you’re all as weak as newborn lambs—look at you sweat.” Siger was a gnarly, dried-up old man who looked old enough to be anyone’s grandfather.

Paks had begun to doubt they would ever get to real weapons—week after week, they swung the hauks: over, under, sideways. And then one day they arrived to find practice swords laid out: wooden, and blunted, but swords. Siger stood behind the row of swords like a potter behind his wares.

“Today,” he said, “we find out who’s making a warrior. File one, come forward.” Paks led her file out of formation. “All right, file leader, are you ready to face a sword today?”

Paks took a deep breath of excitement. “Yes, Armsmaster.”

Siger glared at her. “Ha! Eager, are you? You innocents are all too willing to shed your blood. Very well—pick up the first one in line—yes—that one.”

Paks could not help grinning: a sword in her hand at last. She waggled it from side to side.

“No!” roared Siger. “Don’t play with it, fool! It’s not a toy to show off with. A sword is to kill people with, nothing less.”

Paksenarrion blushed scarlet.

“Now—hold it just like the hauk in position one. Yes.” Siger scooped up one of the other practice blades. “This is an infantry sword, short enough not to get in the way in formation. It’s used to stab and slash. Now, file leader—the motions are the same as for hauk drill. Proceed.”

Paks was puzzled but willing, and began to move the sword through the remembered sequences. As she did so, Siger’s blade met hers, tapping it first lightly, then harder. Paks began to watch his blade, thinking back to Jornoth’s sketchy lessons, and forgot all about the sequence of hauk drill. Excitement rose in her, and she began to swing the blade harder, trying to force Siger’s blade aside. Suddenly his sword was not there to be tapped; instead it rapped her sharply on the ribs.

“Ouch!” She was startled, and having lost her rhythm was whacked twice more before she regained it. Uncertain, and a bit angry, she glared at Siger, who gave her a mocking smile.

“That was the flat of the blade,” he said cheerfully. “Next time it’ll be the edge; keep to the drill, recruit.”

Paks bit her lip, but returned to the drill pattern, meeting Siger’s blade with a crisp smack. He increased the pace, and she struggled to keep up, irritated by his smile and by the snide remarks of Korryn behind her. Again Siger rapped her ribs, sore now from the earlier blows, and Paks erupted furiously into wild strokes that hit nothing—until a sharp blow in the mid-section knocked the wind out of her, and she dropped the sword and sprawled painfully on the ground. Korryn laughed.

“Always a mistake to get angry,” said Siger, over her head. “You’ve a lot to learn before trading killing blows. Catch your breath, now.” His voice chilled. “As for you, recruit, that thinks it’s funny, we’ll have you next, if you please.” Paks gasped a moment or two, and clambered up.

“Still want to learn swordplay?” Siger asked.

“Yes, sir. It’s—it’s harder than it looks, though.”

Siger grinned. “It always is, recruit; it always is. Now you’ve been blooded, I want you to put on a banda next time.” He jerked his head toward a pile of white objects like cushions. “Not you—” he added as Korryn moved toward the pile. “I want to see if you think it’s funny when I whack your ribs.”

Korryn glared at him and snatched up a sword with practiced ease.

“Ah-h. An expert, is it? You’ve handled a blade before?” Korryn nodded. “We’ll see, then. You need not confine yourself to the hauk drill if you think you can do more.” But Korryn began with the standard movements, holding his sword easily. “I’d say you were used to a longer blade, recruit,” commented Siger.

Abruptly Korryn changed from the drill pattern, and a complicated rattle of blade-on-blade resulted; Paks could not see just what had happened. Korryn tried a quick thrust, but the short sword did not reach Siger, and Siger’s blade rapped Korryn’s shoulder. Korryn scowled and pressed his attack again, using his height and longer reach, but he could not touch the Armsmaster, who kept up a running commentary.