David Drake - Master of the Cauldron

The Sons hunched over and faced each other. About a double-pace separated each pair. "Now!" Herron said.

Cashel expected the Sons to start by taking each other's measure, though maybe since it seemed they did the same thing each day they wouldn't need to do that. In a group this big there'd always be one who rushed straight in, trying to overwhelm his opponent with a sleet of blows. Because they'd trained themselves, maybe they'd all do that Except they didn't. Each pair circled widdershins around its center without getting closer. They were too far back to hit. They were barely close enough that the tips of the wooden swords could touch each other if they both waggled them toward the other at the same time. Every once in a while a Son stamped his foot and leaned forward like he was about to lunge, but it was always a feint.

"Are you impressed, Cashel?" Mab asked in a tone of amusement. She spoke in a normal voice, one that the Sons could maybe hear over their own hoarse panting.

"No ma'am," Cashel admitted. "Not, you know, in a good way."

Herron must've heard the exchange, because he jumped toward Stasslin with a wild, overhead swing like he was splitting a log with an axe. Stasslin threw his shield and sword both up above his head. Herron's sword banged hard on the buckler-it was a powerful blow, no mistake-but then instead of kicking Stasslin in the crotch he backpedaled wildly.

Cashel saw why Mab had moved them so far away. Instead of jumping clear as Herron rushed backwards toward them, he raised his staff crossways in both hands to cover him and the woman both. In the event, Herron stopped just before he ran into the thick hickory instead of just after he did.

"I believe that's enough of a demonstration," Mab called in a clear voice. "Come back over here, if you will."

The Sons lowered their arms and walked to where Mab and Cashel stood. They were red-faced and panting: what they'd been doing was certainly exercise. It just wasn't fighting.

The wooden swords didn't have sheaths. Herron laid his on the ground and set his buckler on top of it, then lifted off his helmet. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp, turning it two shades darker. He looked at Mab and then looked away in embarrassment.

"This is the army which plans to defend Ronn, Master Cashel," Mab said. "What do you think of it?"

"Ma'am, I'm not a soldier," Cashel said. That was true, but it wasn't the real truth. He went on, speaking directly to Herron instead of talking about him as if he wasn't there, "You fellows aren't soldiers either. You're…"

He didn't know how to put it. He frowned and lifted his hand toward the mass of the city rising to the side. "Ronn's a wonderful place, I can see that," he said. "It's like Mab told me, a palace with everybody living like kings. You're not used to getting hurt-and that's good, I'm not saying it shouldn't be that way for everybody. But back where I come from, people are used to getting hurt, and we're used to fighting. And when you fight, you're likely going to get hurt some even if you win."

"Look, we don't want to hurt our own friends," Orly said hotly. "It'd be different if we were fighting the Made Men with real swords. It'll be differentwhen we do that, because surely the King'll attack some day soon. And the others will follow us when they see the danger's real."

"Cashel, do you agree?" Mab asked. "About it being different when they fight the Made Men?"

Cashel grimaced. She knew the answer, of course. "No, ma'am," he said, then meeting the eyes of the youths again. "Except then you'll be killed. I'm sorry, but you will."

He thought for a moment. The spectators had gone back to their own business now that the Sons weren't giving their dancing exhibition any more. These fellows, theseboys, knew there was a danger, they just didn't have anybody to teach them. And the rest of Ronn's citizens didn't even think there was danger.

"Look," Cashel said. "Herron-or Mab? Can you maybe hire soldiers? Enough to lead you, anyway? I mean, maybe the people herewould follow if they had real soldiers to lead. But you need somebody to, well, get the rest of you started."

"We'll lead them!" Orly insisted. "When it's not our friends, we'll fight and the other citizens will follow us!"

"Cashel's not your friend," Mab said. Cashel figured she was putting the sneer into her voice just to goad the others. It sure would've gothis back up if it'd been directed at him. "Will you fight him?"

"He's bigger than any of us," said Enfero doubtfully. He was a lanky fellow, taller than Herron but not nearly as heavy. "He's a lot bigger."

"He's not bigger than all six of you together," said Mab. "Is that all right with you, Cashel?"

"Sure," he said, keeping his voice calm. He held his staff upright on his right side; now he tipped the lower end behind him so the upper ferrule was just about the height of his eyebrows.

Back in the borough offering to take on six fellows with clubs would be asking for broken bones; but not here. Mab was teaching them what they needed to know before they got into a real fight with these Made Men. If they weren't willing to hear the words, then pounding the truth into them with a quarterstaff would do the job.

Stasslin cut at Cashel's head without warning. Cashel'd figured he might pull that. He shifted his right arm just a little so that the whistling wooden sword smacked into the end of the quarterstaff.

The sword flew off in the air while Stasslin yelped and grabbed his tingling swordhand with the other. He'd at least been trying, so Cashel hadn't let him smash his hand itself into the iron buttcap and break all his fingers. Still, Cashel wasn't feeling so kindly to a fellow who'd tried to sucker punch him that he didn't kick Stasslin just below the edge of his breastplate.

Cashel was barefoot, but he was generally barefoot so his soles were tough as ox hide. Stasslin flew backward, hit the ground, and spewed up more breakfast than you ought to eat before you start a workout.

Cashel backed away. "Mab, you stay clear!" he said, but she was just a shimmer of light robes. All Cashel was really seeing right now were the five Sons still standing. "You, Herron! Get your gear on now while I give you the chance!"

Herron made as if to kneel, but that was a feint too, just like all the foot-stamping when the Sons "fought" each other. Well, you shouldn't trust the guy who's planning to whale the daylights out of you, but Cashel was finding all this pussyfooting around troublesome. If Herron didn't Herron knelt for real this time and slapped the helmet over his head so quick that he canted the nose-guard over the corner of his left eye. He seized the double handgrip of his buckler and scrabbled for the wooden sword, grabbing it first by the wrong end.

Cashel shifted his quarterstaff crosswise before him, gripping it with his hands just more than shoulder's width out on the shaft. He hadn't had time to limber up properly, but he contented himself with a few twists and flexes instead of giving his staff the series of spins that he'd have liked to. He had too many opponents and they were too close for that to be safe.

While Herron was getting himself back together, the other four Sons still upright stood with their swords and shields lifted but not doing anything. That was pretty much what Cashel'd figured would happen, though he'd been ready if they'd managed to show some spirit.

He didn't worry about Stasslin except for remembering where he was just as same as he'd need to for a section of tree trunk. After a kick in the belly like he'd taken, Stasslin wouldn't be leaving the field without a buddy to help him.

Herron got his sword right end to, then jumped back to put himself at the end of the tight line his friends had formed. Cashel stepped forward, shifting his grip again. He slammed his staff's left ferrule low into Herron's lower chest. The boy managed to get his shield in the way, but Cashel's straight thrust banged it out of the way without slowing.