S. Stirling - The Sword of the Lady

She chuckled.'Mom's Westria Project.'

They shared the joke, and Rudi went on airily:'There's just the little matter of beating the Prophet and Martin Thurston of Boise, the creatures, before we set all in order.'

She nodded and took his arm.'No great problem.'

He looked out to sea to hide the bleakness that rested in his eyes for a moment.

I calculate our odds as about even, when we have the Sword. And even then… how many will live to see the victory' How many will lie for the scald crows' There are victories that leave you with wounds that cannot fully heal. And not just in the Histories of the Dunedain. 'Well, then, that's the fate of the High West settled,' Rudi said. 'Now let's keep our fearless followers from recalling their stomachs by working them a bit more. You take one half, I the other, and we'll play at storming and defending the poop deck by turns, eh''

He leapt lightly down to the main deck; despite his two-hundred-odd pounds of bone and muscle and armor he landed lightly as a cat. 'All of you! We have to learn to fight with a ship as a battlefield. We'll divide into two teams and each into three squads. Hrolf Blood-ax and Ulfhild Swift-sword, you'll be with me…'

The big Bjorning grinned, setting aside his murderous weapon for the practice version. Ulfhild nodded silently, but her face flushed with pleasure at the new use-name.

CORSAIR SCHOONER BOU EL-MOGDAD APPROACHING NANTUCKET JANUARY 16,

CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD

Dawn made shadows across the moving deck. Rudi stretched and drew his sword, saluted the glow where the rising sun was about to break over the horizon and began a slow routine that gradually quickened. There was enough space on the main deck just behind the foremast to work out, if you were careful-and being careful was part of the training. A longsword and a tall man's arm had a great deal of reach, but endless practice had given him a reflexive grasp of where every bit of edge and point would go. It wasn't quite as certain on the pitching deck of a ship, and he needed to do better with that.

A little like horseback, but not entirely. It's fortunate indeed that I enjoy the sword, he thought. For I'd have to spend just as much time at it if I didn't. Also, I wouldn't be as good at it, and would die… die sooner, at least.

When he finished he was sweating despite the cold that bit at his nose and ears and made the inside of his nostrils stick occasionally. He steamed a little, in fact, and not just the deep puffs of white breath. That warmth wouldn't last more than a few seconds if he stayed still, with this wind out of the northeast that lashed his shoulder-length mane backward from his face beneath the headband. He sheathed the sword on the belt hung from a belaying pin in the collar around the mast, put his waterproof parka back on and buckled on the belt over it. Nobody else but the deck watch was up yet. This was the day they expected to make landfall, and the hold was stuffy and crowded, but the others preferred it to early rising.

Or most did. Someone was standing on the fantail by the war engine; he recognized a Bjorning voice, and a woman's-not Asgerd, but deeper and rougher. Ulfhild Swift-sword, then. And she was chanting softly, facing northwards along the white track of the schooner's wake, with arms raised at either side and palms upward. There was a dreamy yearning in her tone that made him blink in surprise.

'People will always surprise you,' Rudi murmured very softly to himself.'For their minds turn upon themselves in coil and counter-coil. We do not ever know ourselves completely. How can we know another''

He waited until she was finished to walk up the short ladder staircase to the poop. The two men at the wheel nodded to him-one was a Southsider, the other a corsair. Ulfhild had already turned; she gave him a short dignified inclination of the head and then met his eyes, standing proudly with her left hand on the hilt of her sword. He liked that. Norrheimers didn't truckle to their Gods or to their chieftains either. 'Good morning, Ulfhild Swift-sword,' he said.'Today we make landfall.' 'Good morning, lord,' she said.'I am ready.'

Which was about as many words as they'd exchanged since the oath she'd sworn, apart from orders. She hesitated, and he waited patiently, withdrawing the edge of his self. There was a trick to that, almost like hunting, which drew folk out. 'The others are awake,' she said.

They'd turned the captain's cabin over to the womenfolk of the party; a little inconvenient for the two wedded couples, but on balance the best way to handle the crowding of the ship as a whole. 'May I ask you a question'' He nodded, and she went on:'Why did you arrange the quarters that way, lord'' 'Princess Mathilda's folk have different ways from mine. They're..'

He hesitated; modest wasn't exactly what he meant.'Much more shame-fast about their skins, I think you would say. You can't always take account of that when men and women are together on a campaign, but there's no harm in doing so when you can.' 'I understand,' she said. Then more hesitantly:'I don't think your betrothed… the Princess Mathilda… likes me, lord. Have I offended her'' 'No,' Rudi said.

Or not by doing anything in particular, he thought, which was what she'd actually meant. Aloud he went on: 'Some people just don't take to each other. I have no ill to say of you; you fought well at Kalksthorpe, and you've worked hard and obeyed orders without complaint since. And you are sworn to me, not her. Tell the Princess that we'll be having a conference in there as soon as it's clear; her, myself, the Moorish captain, Ingolf and Father Ignatius.'

She hurried off, with an air of relief. 'We just nearly there,' Abdou al-Naari said twenty minutes later.

The captain's cabin of the Bou el-Mogdad had touches of lavishness; inlaid wood, mother-of-pearl in traceries of alien script, thick cushions of butter-soft red leather, hanging lanterns of intricate metal fretwork wrought in brass and silver. Rudi admired the workmanship-there were few things Mackenzies valued more highly-and the neatly compact folding tables, chart case and cupboards for instruments, racks for weapons and armor. There was also a shelf of books, mostly older works on navigation and geography in French, pre-Change guidebooks for travelers giving details of cities on the western side of the Atlantic, and several volumes of poetry in languages he didn't recognize. Besides leather and cloth and lamp oil the room smelled surprisingly of some faint flowery scent.

Right now, five tightly bound bedrolls rested against the walls, or against the cushioned couch below the slanting stern windows. Rudi and Edain had the little cabin to the port, Ignatius and Ingolf the one to starboard, and the rest of the crew had the hold and forecastle, carefully arranged so that the corsairs were always shadowed by at least one of his war band.

The lanterns glowed, dispelling the last of the dawn twilight, and Rudi's closest stood around the table and looked at the map, with the dividers and set square atop it. More and more cold bright sun spilled through the skylight as the night died, flowing clear as diamond.

They all held bowls in their hands and plied spoons as they thought. The Bou el-Mogdad had a well-fitted galley but she'd been down to dried dates, dried salt fish, a little rice and weevily sorghum by the time the corsairs reached Kalksthorpe. Rudi had restocked before they sailed, and this was steel-milled oats cooked with dried blueberries and honey, welcome for stoking the fires. Nowhere on a wooden ship was completely dry, or less than cold on these seas in this season. He hadn't grudged the Moorish captain a monopoly of his coffee set and beans; it was a rarity for the very wealthy in Montival, but the man came from a land where it was common and he was used to it. Abdou sipped at a cup as he indicated the map. Rudi had to admit the scent was intoxicating, though the Moors brewed it thick and strong enough to melt a spoon. 'We sight Sorcerer's Isle today, if this wind holds,' the rover captain said.