A knock came at the door; she said “Enter” and Selfer looked in.
“All settled, Captain. Animals being groomed and fed; the troops can eat in sections or we can take meals out to the barns where there’s more room. There’s a hay barn almost empty.” Selfer looked fresh enough to travel another half day. “There are locals come in for supper—”
“The barns then, if the landlord has no objection.” She started to remind him about fire precautions and the other minutiae of settling a cohort for the night in civilization, but stopped herself. He was past needing that; what he needed now was her trust.
“Right, Captain. I’ll report back when they’re done. The landlord’s set them up for sleeping in the loft upstairs, sergeants and officers to have rooms. I thought we should leave a guard in the barn with the animals.”
“Excellent, Selfer.”
He withdrew, and Valthan cocked his head. “He’s very young.”
“He’s lived a lot,” Dorrin said. “Youngsters grow up fast in combat.” She yawned. “Excuse me, but I am going to need real food shortly. After that, perhaps we could visit the local grange together?”
In the late-winter dusk, the grange was brightly lit from within, though the big doors at the road end were shut. At the barton entrance two young yeomen stood guard, faces stern as Dorrin and Sir Valthan approached.
“Welcome, visitors,” said one. Then his eyes widened. “Sir—you are a Knight of the Bells—I’ll get the Marshal.” He whirled and darted into the barton.
Dorrin grinned at the other guard, much younger, who looked confused and uncertain. “This is Sir Valthan Destvaorn, of the Royal Guard,” she said. “And I’m Dorrin, a Knight of Falk.”
Valthan glanced at her, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. But then he nodded; evidently he understood and accepted her reason for not proclaiming her new status this night.
One of the Marshals Dorrin had seen after the battle came to the barton gate, wiping his hands on his tunic, sweat gleaming on his face. “Welcome, sir knight—lady—oh! I remember you, don’t I? I’m Marshal Berris.”
“That’s right,” Dorrin said. “I’m Dorrin, and as a Knight of Falk ask courtesy of the grange. This is Sir Valthan—”
“Knight of the Bells, that’s what the lad said. Welcome, sir. And you, my lady. Knights of Falk are always welcome, and you in particular. Come in, both of you. I’ve had to add drill nights, since the grange has grown so in size.”
“This is Harway Grange?” Valthan asked.
“It’s the grange for Harway now,” Berris said. “It was established before the border was set, as a village barton in the early days of the war, Thornhedge. So it’s on the grange rolls at Fin Panir as Thornhedge Grange, but Harway’s long grown out to swallow the old vill and travelers call us Harway Grange. I suppose I should write the Marshal-General and see to getting it changed, but I don’t like to lose the old name.”
“And no wonder,” Valthan said. In the barton, steam rose from the sweaty yeomen who had been drilling furiously—formation drills, Dorrin noticed; some were rubbing bruises from the hauks. “When it pleases you, Marshal, I’m ready to take my turn.”
Berris chuckled. “And they’re ready for a breather, I daresay. So am I, though. I daresay this lady, Falkian though she be, will not mind a few touches with you—”
“She traveled all day, Marshal; I believe her fatigued, as I am not.”
Berris glanced at Dorrin. “My apologies, then. Perhaps—”
“I’ve had food and a rest, Marshal,” Dorrin said. “I would be pleased to cross blades with Sir Valthan, though not to his hurt. I understand that your rules do not require blood be drawn?”
“No, certainly not. And should you prefer another mode of combat, you have only to ask. We will be glad to observe two knights of different traditions—”
“And one non-knightly tradition,” Dorrin said. “As you know, Marshal—and many of you may as well—” She looked around at the interested faces. “I was one of Duke Phelan’s—now King Falkieri’s—captains when he was a mercenary.”
“Good,” Berris said. “We shall move into the grange itself, where others are now studying Girdish lore, who tranferred from Falkian fields along the border.”
Inside the grange, Dorrin and Valthan moved to the platform; those who had been outside crowded in, and those who had been studying moved to the sides. Dorrin had watched the ritual exchange of blows many times and had practiced so many times in front of troops that she had no concern at all except for wondering if Valthan would start with a standard opening or one of his own. She intended to follow his lead; she was sure she could take him in real combat, but she needed him as an ally.
“I’m wearing mail,” she said to the Marshal. “I was traveling and haven’t yet changed.”
“I also,” Valthan said. “It’s fine with me, if it is with you.”
“Perhaps you should go to the training swords,” Marshal Berris said. “No sense risking a nick on a quality blade, just for the exchange.”
Dorrin nodded and, seeing no stand, took off belt and sword together, hanging them on one of the hooks on the wall nearby. Valthan did the same. The Marshal handed them wooden training swords, which had only simple crossguards.
“Knucklebusters,” Dorrin said, grinning. Valthan grimaced, but ended in a grin. She jumped lightly onto the platform and walked back and forth, imprinting its dimensions in her mind; Valthan did the same. Then, from opposite corners, they waited the Marshal’s signal, and when it came, began a slow spiral toward each other.
Valthan held the training blade a little loosely, as he would have a dueling blade, where the play of fingers had more effect. Dorrin, equally skilled with duelers’ weapons, battle swords, and short swords, wondered if it was a feint. The sword he’d been wearing had a scabbard as broad as hers. She feinted; his response was so quick, she grinned as she parried, the clack of the wooden blades loud in the breathless silence. He tried a second thrust, just off where it should have been, and she made a parry that trapped his blade long enough to drive a thrust to his shoulder. A touch, no more than necessary, but he dipped his head, acknowledging. An honest dueler, then. Not all were.
He switched hands suddenly, and with a diagonal pace attempted her unprotected side; Dorrin spun with his move, instinct taking over, and the strong inner third of her blade met the outer third of his—strong against weak—with enough force to take it from his hand and send it clattering across the platform to land in someone’s hands a length away.
Valthan stared at her, empty-handed and wide-eyed, for a moment. She forced herself to stillness, backed a step, and bowed. “My pardon, Sir Valthan,” she said. “Enemies have made that switch before, and I forgot this was a ritual exchange. I struck harder than I should have.”
“How did you do that?” he asked, still staring as if she’d turned into a wildcat. Or a wicked mageborn.
“I would be glad to show you in slow practice,” she said. “It’s a very useful stroke, but only against that particular attack. If the Marshal permits?”
Marshal Berris seemed as awestruck as Valthan. “Please,” he said. “I was taught how to face an other-handed fencer, but only quick retreat and regroup if someone switched hands.”
“Let’s have that blade,” Dorrin said, as if the fellow holding Valthan’s wooden blade were one of her own cohort, and he handed it back, hilt-first, very politely. She checked the tip. “I’m sorry, Marshal—I cracked this blade. You’ll have to get another. I’ll be glad to pay—”
“No, no … these are practice blades; they break; it’s their nature. Here—Sir Valthan, do you wish to be the demonstration model, or shall I?”
“I,” Valthan said, reaching for the replacement blade. “I’ve never had someone disarm me with that move; I want to see how it was done.”