Without a murmur of complaint or exasperation, the bowmen did as they had been told-and once more Natac marveled at this aspect of the elven troops. Although the whole concept of military practice, and especially the discipline needed for volley fire and marching, was foreign to the experience of these raw warriors, they put themselves to every task with a sense of purpose that still caused Natac to look on in awe.
This time the top of the stump bristled with arrows, and Deltan allowed himself a grunt of acknowledgment.
“You’re doing well, all of you,” Natac declared, pleased at the pride evident on the elven faces. He turned to watch the larger group of Tam’s fighters, who were clashing and bashing with their staves, when he was distracted by a loud shout.
“Hey… you’re wasting time on those silly games!” The booming taunt came from the hillside over the training field. Fionn was striding down the steep incline, with Owen lumbering along behind.
“That’s no way to get ready for war!” the Viking chimed in. The two men, cloaked in their furs, bearing stout staffs and full packs, swaggered closer. A half-dozen druidesses came behind them.
“Why don’t you show us how to do it?” Natac called back, pleased that the pair had come by.
“Show you? Me own lesson would kill you!” snorted Fionn, while Owen merely guffawed.
“Try me, then?” Natac said casually. He stood firmly and planted his hands on his hips as the two burly warriors pulled up short.
“Not to offend, little man… but I meant what I said,” the Irishman growled. He raised one of his own hamlike fists and faced Natac with a grin that was not at all humorous.
“So did I.” The Tlaxcalan took a step forward with unmistakable challenge, though his hands remained at his sides. “But before we grapple, perhaps you’d do me the honor of making a little wager?”
Fionn’s bearded face split into a broad grin. “Name yer terms,” he said jovially.
“My wager is this: If I can throw you on the ground before you do the same to me, then you’ll agree to join my company-and to abide by my orders.”
The big man frowned and paused. “Yer serious, aren’t ya? Thinking you can actually throw me?”
“Perfectly serious, yes.”
“And what about when I throw you? A wager goes two ways, does it not?”
“What are your stakes?” Natac, having watched Fionn and Owen grapple on countless occasions, was fairly confident of his victory. Still, he couldn’t suppress his apprehension when, after a moment’s thought, the Celt replied:
“Ye’ll do my washing for a full cycle, and clean out my lodge to boot. The place is startin’ to smell like a pigsty, anyway.”
“I accept.” The Tlaxcalan gave his word sincerely, privately vowing to win the fight, and quickly.
Abruptly Fionn charged, a rushing bull. He swept his arms around Natac-but before the Celt closed his grip, the smaller man seized a burly forearm and tossed, using the fulcrum of his own shoulder. The Irishman crashed to the turf with an impact that shook the ground. For a moment he flailed weakly, before drawing in a huge gasp of breath.
Even before Fionn regained his feet, Owen doubled over, howling with glee. “Looks like you’ve found a new recruit!”
“Would ye… like a try… at the slippery devil?” Hands on his knees, the Celt still strained to breathe. “That was no fair fight!” he finally gasped, standing upright.
“A fair wager, though,” Natac suggested. “And welcome to my company.”
“Ye’ll not be havin’ me work with those faerie bows, will ye?” growled the Irishman.
Natac shook his head and laughed. “I daresay you’re not cut out to be an archer. No-perhaps you could go and get your staff-I’m of a mind that you can help with training.”
Without a word, Fionn turned to trudge back to his kit. He didn’t even acknowledge the sympathetic cooing of Julyia and several other druidesses who gathered around.
“Would you take the same wager?” Natac asked, turning to Owen.
“Surely!” Owen accepted with immense good humor. “And I’ll do me best not to hurt you!”
“I appreciate that,” Natac replied as the Viking swaggered forward. The Tlaxcalan was wary, certain that the Norseman would not repeat Fionn’s mistakes of overconfidence and haste.
And clearly, Owen had learned a lot from Fionn’s misstep. The big man skirted through a tight circle, forcing Natac to do the same. The two studied each other, feinting with a swipe of a hand, the dip of a shoulder. When the Viking advanced, he still moved with caution, reaching without lunging, keeping his weight evenly balanced between his feet. Despite Natac’s own best efforts, he could not draw his foe into a careless attack-all the while Owen’s full concentration remained on Natac’s hands and arms.
So the Tlaxcalan decided to change tactics. He feinted an attack with his fists, and Owen spread his arms, ready to embrace Natac’s careless advance. Instead, Natac snapped a sharp kick with his right foot, smashing hard into the Viking’s left knee. Owen bellowed and stepped back, favoring the injured limb.
“How’d you do that?” the Viking growled ominously. “I’m thinking that magic is disallowed in this duel!”
“No magic,” Natac replied, dropping into a crouch. He spun through a full circle, putting all of his strength into a spinning roundhouse kick that smashed, hard, into Owen’s right ankle. Owen’s leg was swept out from beneath him, and with a roar of frustration and pain he crashed to the ground, landing hard on the flat of his back.
Natac rose and extended his foe a hand, but Owen growled fiercely and kicked at the Tlaxcalan. “No fair-I cry foul!” declared the Viking, pushing himself to his feet. He went over to the bundle of his belongings and pulled forth his large staff. “I meant to wager on a fight with weapons.”
“This is what you Norsemen call honor?” demanded Natac. Still, he was not surprised-nor unprepared. He retreated to his own cloak and pulled out the shining sword. “I warn you, Owen… you’ve lost the fight and the wager. If you come after me now, it will not go well for you!”
But the Viking was beyond reason. He let out a bloodcurdling roar and charged, swinging the stout shaft before him. His aim was good-Natac could neither duck below nor leap over the weapon.
Instead, the warrior extended his sword in a direct parry, knowing that the weapon’s first test would be a real challenge. Holding the hilt with both hands, he winced against the impact-and indeed, the blow sent him staggering to the side, his palms stinging from the vibrations of the attack.
But Owen didn’t pursue. Instead, he gaped stupidly at the deep gouge that had scored his oaken staff. When he flexed the weapon sharply, the small piece of wood connecting the pieces creaked ominously. With a flick of his sword, Natac struck the top of the staff, and the weapon snapped in two at the cut.
Instantly the big Viking leaped forward. Instincts from a lifetime of fighting with a maquahuital almost forced Natac to hack with the blade, but he recalled the lessons he’d learned from his studies of Earth. Instead, he brought the point sharply against Owen’s leather vest. He pushed hard enough to slice through the cowskin and slightly puncture the skin beyond.
The Viking halted, eyes narrowed. “You could kill me, just like that,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.
“But I won’t do that. You made a wager, and you lost. Now, go find yourself another staff, and report back here, ready to go to work.”
11
Journeys Into a Dark Place
Narrowed forest pathway, oaken gates ajar,
Shadows lurking halfway danger near and far.
“The Metal Highway is over there… are you sure this is the way to the Greens?” Nistel asked, looking up the dauntingly steep trail. They were only a few miles from Miradel’s villa, but the gnome had obviously noticed that the sage-ambassador followed a trail leading farther into the hills.