Away from the lake village, real winter had hold. Cattle huddled together, their heads bowed against the cold southerlies. A band of ten mounted Chetts huddled in the lee of a shallow hill wishing they were back in their huts or around one of the hundreds of campfires. They were from different clans and did not talk to each other. Kumul stayed apart from them, seemingly impervious to the weather.
“You have no armor to speak of,” he was saying to them. “What you call spears are nothing more than javelins. Your horses are well trained but don’t ride well close together. You’re not cavalry.”
Some of the Chetts looked defiantly at him.
“I repeat, you are not cavalry.” Kumul bit the words out. “You see that single arrow tree three hundred paces north?”
The Chetts looked over their shoulders. One or two nodded.
“Take your mounts there and back here.”
“Is that all?” one of the Chetts asked.
“Keep them to a walk.”
Six minutes later the group were back, still cold. Their mounts looked even less happy.
“Now do it again, at a fast walk.”
A little less than six minutes later they were back again.
While the Chetts looked as miserable as ever, and even more confused, the horses seemed more aware of the world around them.
“Now do the distance at a trot. When you get back, do it at a canter, then a gallop.”
By the time they had finished the three runs, both mounts and riders were warmer; the exercise had also piqued their interest.
“Again,” Kumul told them. “At a fast walk. Line abreast, and no more than three paces between each of you.”
This time, Kumul watched them carefully. He had never seen anyone sit on a horse more naturally than a Chett, and the bond between a Chett and his mare seemed almost telepathic to him, but Chetts rode together with less discipline and grace.
“You had trouble keeping the distance close,” he told them when they got back.
“It got crowded,” one of the Chetts said.
“Get used to it. This time keep the same distance, but move at a trot.”
The result was even more disorganized. Kumul made them do it at a fast walk again, and this time the mares and riders managed to reach the arrow tree in something like a dressed line. He then told them to do it at the canter. A mess.
“Now again, but slow to a trot.”
Better, and by now the Chetts were getting the idea behind the changing pace and constant distance. Their mounts were getting used to working close to other horses.
“Let’s try it at a gallop!” one of the Chetts said excitedly.
“Not yet,” Kumul said firmly. “That’s enough for the day.”
“But we’re just getting started!” the same Chett complained.
Kumul could not help grinning at them. He liked their enthusiasm. He knew they would need it in the days and weeks to come.
“I said that was enough for the day. Back here tomorrow, same time.”
The Chetts nodded and drifted away.
“Now the saber is an interesting weapon,” Ager said, “and useful from the back of a horse. But when you’re on foot, there are better weapons.”
The group of Chetts gathered before him watched and listened with keen interest. As with Kumul’s group, they were from more than one clan. News of the crookback’s victory over Katan had spread like a grass fire, and they wanted to learn how he did it. They were also curious about what was inside the sack he was carrying.
“But Chetts do not fight on foot,” one of them said.
“Not yet,” Ager said under his breath, then out loud: “The lessons you learn from me will be useful if you fight standing, riding, crouching, or crawling.” He pointed to the Chett who had spoken. “What’s your name?”
“Orlma.”
“Come here, Orlma.”
The Chett looked nervously at his fellows but did as asked. Ager dropped his sack and pulled out two wooden swords, one shaped like a saber and the other shorter and broader in comparison.
“The short sword,” Ager said, and the Chetts heard something like reverence in his voice.
“This is heavier than any saber I’ve ever used,” Orlma said, hefting the dummy weapon.
“And by the time I’ve finished training all of you, your own sabers will feel as light as a feather. Attack me.”
The Chett grinned. “I will not make the same mistake that Katan made, Captain Crookback.”
“Glad to hear it. Now attack me.”
Orlma moved forward cautiously, his saber held slightly above waist level, its tip raised slightly. He expected his opponent to retreat before his longer reach, but instead Ager waited with what seemed like boredom. ‘“Get on with it, will you?”
The Chett scowled and raised the saber above his head to slash down, but before he could do anything more he felt the hard tip of Ager’s weapon punch him in the chest and he fell back on his rump. He could not believe the one-eyed crook-back, who usually moved with evident difficulty and lack of grace, could move so fast.
“Again!” Ager ordered. The Chett scrambled to his feet, held out his saber again, and waited to see if Ager would advance. He did. Seeing his chance, Orlma turned his wrist and swept the saber inward, aiming for the crookback’s stomach. Ager retreated half a step, letting the saber whistle past, then lunged, catching his opponent on the chest again.
“I will figure out how you do that,” Orlma said, picking himself off the ground for a second time.
“No need,” Ager told him. “I’ll tell you. Stand as you were before.”
The Chett did so. Ager stood within striking distance of him. “Could either of us miss at this distance?” he asked the other Chetts. They all shook their head. “Slowly, start your attack,” he told his opponent. Orlma swung his arm back, and Ager simply jabbed forward so the point of the short sword rested over the Chett’s heart.
“My enemy has to make two moves with his saber to strike me,” Ager told his audience. “I only have to make one. This is the advantage of a stabbing weapon over a slashing weapon.”
“But when you beat Katan, you were using a saber,” one of the Chetts pointed out.
“That’s because I know how to fight on foot, and Katan doesn’t. If you only have a saber or cutlass, keep your movements as small as possible. It’s not necessary to cut off your enemy’s head to kill him. Severing an artery will do the job as well, and almost as quickly. More importantly, it isn’t necessary to kill your enemies to win a battle; you can put them out of action and kill them later. Draw your sabers.” Ager inspected three of the swords. “Just as I thought. You whet them on the same plane.”
“It is the only way to make them properly sharp,” Orlma said.
Ager drew his own saber and invited Orlma to feel its edge.
“It is rough.”
Ager pulled a short branch from his sack and laid it over two rocks. “Cut it with your saber,” he told Orlma.
The Chett swung as high as possible and slashed down. His blade sank deep into the branch. He tugged and pulled at the weapon to free it, then held up the branch to show the others how deep he had cut. “If that was an enemy’s body, it would have sliced through his kidneys!” he boasted.
Ager grinned. “How true. Put it back.”
Ager now slashed down with his own saber. The blade did not cut nearly as deep, but it came out of the wood without effort and the cut it left behind was wide and jagged. He held up the branch. “If this had been an enemy’s body, it would have destroyed more than his kidneys. A wound like this cannot be repaired, and my saber comes out easily.”
There was an astonished murmur from his audience.
“I want you to go now and make a wooden saber and a wooden short sword for yourselves. Have them done by tomorrow, and we’ll start your training.”
After the evening meal Lynan stepped back from the campfire and his circle of friends. He found himself more at peace when alone, something which confused him. He had grown up alone, Kumul’s careful guardianship a light and sometimes forbiddingly remote presence, but during their flight from Kendra to the Oceans of Grass he had learned to rely on the steady companionship and protection of Kumul and Ager, Jenrosa and Gudon. He still cared for them all dearly, but increasingly felt the need to set himself apart, to keep some distance between his new life and his old.