“No, sir.”
“Who sent you?”
“The elves, sir, that I met—”
“Elves!” He looked at her sharply. “You run with elves? Dangerous company you keep, young warrior. So: what message did they have for the Marshal of Gird in this grange?”
“To tell you, sir, that in a high valley east and south of here the elfane taig had been wakened, and the lost elf-lord had been freed.”
The Marshal sat straight up. “Indeed! That old evil gone, eh? And they had done this, the elves? I thought they claimed they could not.”
“Sir, they hadn’t done it. They—we—it happened, sir, while I and another were there—”
“Happened! Such things do not happen, they are caused. Are you the cause? Did you fight in that valley and live to return?”
“I fought there, yes. But they did not say the evil was gone, only that the elf-lord was freed.”
“I understand. But the evil has lost its body; it will have some trouble to find a new one that will serve so well. And the elfane taig awake. Hmmph. That will please none but elves and Kuakkganni. But tell me more. You were there; you are a fighter. What was your part in this?”
For the second time that afternoon, Paks found herself telling over what had happened. It was not so hard, talking to the Marshaclass="underline" almost like telling Stammel or Arcolin back in the Company. When she finished, the Marshal looked grave, his lips pursed.
“Well,” he said finally. “You have been blessed by the gods—and I would think by Gird himself as well—to come through that alive and free of soul. I’d not dare call it luck that a party of elves found you, and knew what to do. For all I’ve just finished drill, we’ll go into the grange and give you a chance to show your appreciation. Unless your allegiance forbids—?” Paks had no idea what he meant, but saw no harm in entering the grange. She had been curious about them since talking to the High Marshal near Sibili, curious and reluctant at once.
Marshal Cedfer led the way into the grange, first along a passage, past the door to the outer room, and through another door set at an angle. Inside, the vast room was already dim in the fading light. Paks could see the glint of weaponry here and there along the walls. The Marshal struck a spark and lit a candle, then lifted the candle toward a torch set in a bracket above him. Paks saw that most of the floor was stone paving blocks, worn smooth. But at the near end of the room a platform of wood rose knee-high, floored with broad planks. It was six or eight spans long and the same wide, easily large enough for many men to stand on. The Marshal, meanwhile, had lit several more torches. Paks wondered what the platform was for, and then noticed Ambros’s face in the doorway. So did the Marshal.
“Come on in, Ambros. Good news! Paksenarrion, here, brings word that the elf-lord possessed by the demon is freed. She’s a little travel-weary, but I just finished drill, so that will be fair.” He went over to a rack on the wall and took down a sword. “This should do. Now, Paksenarrion, since you are not a Girdsman, I suppose I should explain. You know that Gird is the patron of fighters?” Paks nodded. “Good. Well, for thanks and praise we honor him with our skill, such as it is, in fighting. You have escaped not only death, but great eviclass="underline" you owe the High Lord and Gird great thanks. We shall cross blades, therefore, and by the joyous clash of them the gods will hear our thanks. Unless—” He paused suddenly. “Do you have a wound that would pain you? I should have asked before.”
“No,” said Paks. “I have none. But what is the purpose to which we fight? Am I to wound you, or—?”
“Oh no. It’s like weaponsdrill. We are not enemies that I know of, to draw blood. Gird is no blooddrinker, like some gods. This will not take long; just spar with me.”
Paks drew her sword and stepped up onto the platform with the Marshal, who had thrown off his robe to reveal a tunic as drab and worn as Ambros’s. He eyed her thoughtfully. “Are you sure you won’t take off your cloak? You might find it troublesome.” At that, Paks realized that she was still wearing her chainmail shirt; she hardly thought of it these days.
“Sir, it will not trouble me, but is it right that I wear mail? If I must change—” She wondered as she said it why she was so willing to please him by this exercise.
“Oh no. Oh no, that’s no problem. I’m a Marshal, after all; if I can’t face mail without it, I’m a poor follower of Gird, who fought in an old shirt and a leather apron, or less than that. Now, Ambros, turn the quarterglass, and we’ll begin.”
And with a quick tap of greeting, the Marshal began testing Paks’s control of her weapon. When she proved strong, he tried quickness. When she proved quick—and he smiled broadly when his lunges failed—he tried movement. Paks met his attacks firmly, but concentrated on defense: she did not want to know what would happen should she injure a Marshal of Gird in his own grange.
He was skilled indeed, perhaps as skilled as any human she had faced but for old Siger. Still, he did not penetrate her defenses, though she had to shift ground more than once. She sensed the sand passing through the quarterglass, and changed her tactics slightly, pressing the Marshal a bit. Was he just a little slower to the right? Were his returns to position sluggish there? She felt the impact of the blades through her wrist. It had been long since she had such good practice.
Suddenly the Marshal quickened his pace, surprising her; she’d thought he was slowing. She gave back, turning, her rhythm broken, fending him off as much by reach as stroke. She took a breath, and stepped back again to gain room for her own attack, but her foot found nothing to step on: she had come to the edge of the platform.
Instantly she threw herself sideways and tucked, hitting the stone floor on her left side, and rolling up to a fighting position. But the Marshal had not followed up her fall.
“Forgive me!” he cried when her saw her up. “I had forgotten, Paksenarrion, in the fighting, that you were not one of us, and did not know the platform well. It was ill-done of me to press you so close to the edge.” He racked his sword and came to her side. “Were you hurt in the fall?”
Paks took a breath. Her side hurt, but that was as much the old bruises as the new ones. “No, sir. It’s all right, truly it is. I’ve had harder falls.”
“Oh, aye, I’m sure you have. But you’re not a yeoman here for training. I should have warned you—glad you’re not hurt.” As Paks sheathed her blade, he picked up his robe. “It’s customary,” he said, “to make an offering toward the armory, too. Though as you’re not a Girdsman, it isn’t strictly required—” Paks found that Ambros had come to her side with a slot-lidded box. She fished out the pouch from her tunic again, thinking to herself that it seemed hard to be dumped on the floor and then asked for money. She took the first jewel at random and dropped it into the box. The Marshal did not appear to be watching.
“You’re very good with that longsword,” he commented. “Don’t most mercenary companies use a short one?”
“Yes, sir, we do, but we had the chance to learn other weapons. And out of formation a longsword has great advantage.”
“Yes, of course. With your height, too. I was surprised to see that you moved so freely with it, though. Most who come from formation fighting are used to depending on the formation, and are static. Though you’re not a Girdsman, you’re certainly welcome to drill with us here at the grange, as long as you’re in Brewersbridge. We have open drill three nights a week, in the barton usually. You’ll find most of the local yeomen fairly good at basic things, though few of them are up to your standard. And I’d be honored to partner you for advanced swordsmanship—or Ambros, here: he’s certainly up to a bout with you. Have you had any training at unarmed combat?”