Elizabeth Moon: Sheepfarmer's Dauther

“Taught by a fencing master, weren’t you? You like a thrust better than a slash. You handle that blade like you did most of your fighting in alleys. It won’t do for us—you might as well forget it, recruit, and start learning it right.” And with that Siger began a furious attack that forced Korryn back, and back, and back around the practice ring, taking blow after blow, until Korryn lost his grip and the sword flew out of his hand. Effa caught it in midair.

“Now,” said Siger, the point of his sword at Korryn’s waist. “Is it quite as funny when it happens to you? Let’s hear you laugh.”

Korryn was white with rage, breathless and sweaty.

“Sir,” he said finally. Siger gave him a slight smile and nodded.

“Novices, that have never handled a sword, them I expect to get drunk on the excitement and do something stupid—and I thump them well for it. But those who claim to know something… Go wait for your turn again, recruit.”

Each of them went a round with Siger without protection, and each received a complement of bruises. Then he showed them how to fasten the bandas, the quilted canvas surcoat worn for weapons practice.

“Your turn again,” Siger said to Paks. “Ready? Are you sore enough?”

Paks grinned. “I’m sore, sir, but I’m ready. I hope.”

“You’d better be. Now start with the drill.”

This time Paks handled the sword with more assurance, and kept the cadence as even as she could. “Better,” admitted Siger. “Painfully slow, but better. Speed it up, now, just a little. Keep the rhythm.” The blades clacked together. Again, again, again. “Now a bit harder—not too much at once.” The shock of contact was making Paks’s hand tingle; her arm began to tire. Siger shifted around her, and she had to turn and strike at the same time. The ache spread up her arm. Whack. Whack. Sweat trickled down her face, stinging in her eyes. Siger moved the other way, and Paks turned with him, but she lost the rhythm. Quick as a snake’s tongue his blade tapped her ribs. “Enough,” he said. “You’re slowing down again. Give the blade to someone else, and go work with the hauks awhile.”

Once they began drilling with wooden blades, they also began to learn other weapons. By the time they marched south, Siger said, they would have a certain minimum proficiency with short-sword, dagger, bow, and spear.

The spear offered the most difficulty. As usual, it had seemed simple, just thinking about it. A long pole with a sharp end, to be poked at the enemy. No fancy strokes—simple. Effective. Surely it was easier than a sword; if nothing else you could hang onto the thing with both hands.

“We don’t use polearms often,” said Stammel. “We’re a fast-moving, flexible infantry, and swords are better for that. But we do train with ’em and we use them sometimes. So. First you’ll learn to carry something that long without getting all tangled up in it. Remember those reeds we gathered last week you were so curious about? Well, they’ve been drying in the storelofts, and you’ll each take one.”

Soon they were back in formation, each with a twelve-foot reed in hand. Stammel had shown them how to hold the mock spears upright; now he gave the command to move forward. Five of the reeds tipped backwards. The butt on one tripped the recruit in front of the careless carrier. When he stumbled, his reed swung out of control and hit the file leader on the head.

“Pick ’em up—don’t stop, come on! You’ve got to hold them firmly—don’t let ’em waver. Keep in formation, there. Stay in step or you’ll trip each other.”

The reeds dipped and wavered as if in a windstorm as Stammel led the unit to the far side of the parade grounds. By the time he called a halt, most faces were red.

“Now you see what I meant. The only easy thing about spear work is how easy it is to mess up the whole formation. If you ever see one of the heavy polearm companies, like Count Vladi’s, you’ll see how it should be done. Now—you’ve got to learn how to shift those things about. Together, or you’ll all be tangled together. So just holding them upright, we’ll practice turning in place.” He called for a right face. Two recruits let their reeds lag behind the turn, and the tips bumped neighboring reeds. “No! Hold them absolutely steady when you turn. Keep ’em straight. Try it again.”

After a dizzying few minutes of facing left, right, and about, the unit could turn in place without any wavering of the reeds. Stammel wiped his face and glanced at the corporals. They were trying not to grin. Far across the parade grounds, he could see another unit practicing. It looked worse than his, he thought.

“Next step is the slope,” he said. “Don’t move anything until I’ve explained. First, you’ll put the butt a handspan behind the right foot of the man in front of you; file leaders, that’s an armspan in front of you. Then slowly tilt the reed back over your shoulder—you have to be careful not to let the butt slip forward. Then your left hand grips two spans below the right, and you lift it onto your shoulder. That gives enough clearance in front for marching. Don’t let it swing free; use your grip to hold the butt end down. Bosk, show them how to do it.”

Bosk came forward and took Paksenarrion’s reed from her hands. He held it upright, and demonstrated the facing movements they had practiced: the end of the reed, far over his head, scarcely quivered when he turned. Then he loosened his grip and let the butt end slide toward the ground, tilting the reed as it slid so that it grounded an armspan in front of him. While his right hand steadied the shaft, his left hand reached below and lifted; the reed rose, keeping the same steep slant. When his left hand reached his right, he shifted the right quickly to the lower grip.

“That’s the position you want,” said Stammel. “Now, show ’em how to move with it.”

Bosk strode forward, the reed steady on his shoulder, not waving or dipping with his stride. When he turned, they could hear the whirr as the end of the reed sliced the air. He made a square, then returned the reed to an upright position and handed it back to Paks.

“Ready—” said Stammel. “Ground the butts—” Paksenarrion felt the length of reed quivering as she tried to let it slide slowly through her hands, aiming the butt somewhat ahead of her right foot. It bumped the ground.

“It’s too close to you,” said Bosk. “Slide it out further.” Paks slid the butt along the ground until Bosk nodded.

“Now tilt ’em back along your shoulders,” said Stammel. Paks let the top of the reed fall back slowly. The butt came off the ground, but she pushed it back before anyone said anything. Some were not so lucky. Stammel and the corporals were yelling at those who let the reeds get out of control. At last all were in the correct position.

“Left hands down,” said Stammel. “And lift, but keep it under control. NO!” he roared. Paks heard a smack and a yelp of pain as someone’s reed landed on someone’s head. Her own wavered as she tried to shift the grip of her left hand. “Steady!” Paks let her eyes slide sideways to see how others in the front rank were doing. Everyone seemed to be in the right position. “Now—bring them back vertical again. That’s right. Now slope ’em back—no—No! Control it, don’t let it get away from you.”

They repeated this exercise again and again until the whole unit could shift the reeds from vertical to sloped position without getting out of position. Paksenarrion’s arms ached, and her palms tingled unpleasantly where the reed slid back and forth.

“We’re going to march back with them at slope,” said Stammel. “And you’d best not look as foolish as the other units, either. Anyone who drops a reed—” he scowled at them.