They'd most likely all inherited keen eyes and steady hands too; even in fortunate areas like this, not many weaklings had lived through the Change and its aftermath to breed more of their kind.
I can't lose either way, Edain thought. If I'm last man, I buy them more beer and they get talkative. If I'm not, I get more respect
… and they'll be more likely to speak freely, eh? And I hate to lose; so may Cernunnos guide my hand!
He hefted the spear he'd been handed, which had a much dinted shaft and an iron shank that looked as if it had been straightened any number of times. It was a practice weapon; well balanced, but probably a little off center. And it was as heavy as a battle spear, or nearly, which was not meant to be thrown.
"Ground and center, ground and center," he murmured to himself.
Edain was wearing his brigandine, which was fair, but that was a hair less hampering than the cuirass of steel bands and hoops that was their equivalent. He didn't use the solid face front step and-throw method the local men did; that was designed for use with a great twenty-pound shield in your left hand to balance you. Instead he took a half sideways skip forward and put all his body into it with a snapping twist. Throwing something this heavy that far took real effort; his breath hissed out between clenched teeth.
Good!
The throw had the smooth heavy to-light flow that said it was going where it should as it left his hand. It arched higher than the others had… and then his lips moved in a silent curse as it wobbled in flight.
Thunk.
The long pyramidal point of the spear clipped a little twist of osier from the wicker figure's notional head as it went by, and then banged into the asphalt a half dozen yards farther on.
"Not bad," Gottberg said, taking off his helmet and scratching vigorously. "Most newbies can't even get a pila to go that far."
The redhead named Kit looked at him narrowly; he'd be the one buying the first two rounds if Edain wasn't. "I thought you said you only used bows?"
"No, I said I mostly used bows," Edain said, grinning. "Sometimes we use spears-hunting boar in thick country, when you want something heavy at close range. Aren't you glad I didn't put money on it, eh?"
Several of the others laughed. Kit smiled, if a little sourly. "Here," he said. "Try this one-it didn't bend and it's better than those old clunkers from the practice bin."
Edain caught the tossed spear with a smack of palm on wood. It was a better weapon; he could feel it in the swoop and sway as his arm rocked back under the impact. He made a half bow.
"Nar laga Ardwinna do lamh," he said formally.
He didn't speak the old language-only a few schol ars did, and Rudi and his mother and his sisters Fiorb hinn and Maude, of course-but he'd learned a few of the Chief's sayings, as most people in the Clan did.
"May the Huntress never weaken your hand," he repeated in English.
Breathe in, breathe out, and… throw.
Shunk.
This time he speared the target through the inner edge of the shield. Not the best throw-just good enough to win him next to-last place.
Kit sighed. Edain held out his hand. "We're low men on the pole, so let's split those first two rounds," he said.
The redhead shook the outstretched hand. That won him more acceptance than he'd hoped for. The file shed and racked their armor at the gatehouse barracks. Edain did the same with his brigandine and bow and quiver, though it made him feel a bit naked so far from home and among strangers.
"Let's get that beer," Gottberg said. "And something to eat."
"They don't feed you?" Edain asked, surprised. A lord usually did, at least keeping table for his full-time warriors.
"Sorta-kinda." Kit grinned. "It's on the list of Soldier's Superstitions."
At Edain's raised brow he went on: "We all get it on a printed sheet when we're called up, with the rest of the paperwork. It's sort of a list of things soldiers believe. Like, 'It is very unlucky to get a spear in the guts on a Friday.'"
Gottberg went on:"The one he's thinking of is,'When the sun rises in the east, it is a sign that we shall have stew for dinner.' "
"Mystery meat stews with desecrated vegetables. And they say the stuff with it is beer. I say the quartermaster's horse has something bad wrong with its kidneys."
"We'll go to the Fife and Drum instead. That's where a lot of guys go off duty. It's a bit pricey but not too bad and it's all fighting men."
"I'm not much of one for brawling in taverns."
"Oh, they don't brawl there. Because-"
The city of Boise was an orderly, law-abiding place, like the rest of the United States governed from there. People mostly liked it that way, and those who didn't tended to meet the National Police and then either dance the hempen hornpipe on air or spend many sad and stress ful years working under extremely unsympathetic management in the National Infrastructure Reconstruction Battalions.
The Fife and Drum tavern was orderly and law-abiding too, usually, but the National Police didn't go there. Nor did the military police, nor did officers, and it wasn't a place where a civilian would last long either.
The loud raucous sawdust-floored atmosphere re minded Edain of some places he'd seen in Corvallis, stu dent hangouts around the university. The smell was the same-gaslights, cooking food, beer. There was a little more sweat, and the voices were harder, somehow, and there were a lot of battered weapons and hacked shields on the walls, down to one made from a pre-Change traffic sign with a spear that looked like a kitchen knife on a stick beside it.
It was more orderly than those Corvallan pubs, though; off along one wall were a series of booths in which most of the patrons were scarred middle-aged men with quiet gimlet eyes. Some of them were smoking pipes or cigarettes, or chewing wads of tobacco, habits that were nearly extinct elsewhere.
Young soldiers who wanted to fight and break things went to other places, establishments where noncoms didn't go either. They came here when they didn't want their dinners dropped into their laps by the arrival of flying bodies.
"He's all right," Gottberg announced to the room, and the stares at Edain's kilt and general foreignness turned less hostile; Garbh's hair lay back down on her shoulders. "And he's with us. And he's one of the guys that saved the boss."
"Is that Sergeant major Anderson over there?" Edain said with interest as they grabbed a table.
It was big enough for everyone if you didn't mind a little jostling; Garbh lay down at his feet, too disciplined to wander, but letting her nostrils wrinkle with the fascinating mix of scents.
"Yeah, and you don't stare at him. He's Sergeant major Anderson. The top NCO. That makes him a lot more important than most officers."
"Most officers lower than major," Kit said. "Or maybe colonel."
"Oh, I don't know," Gottberg said. "Lieutenants have their uses."
"Yeah, they're useful when it comes to stopping a spear that might've hit someone who works for their living."
"Oh, I dunno," Gottberg repeated thoughtfully. "I mean, the boss's kids, they're both pretty useful. Only what you'd expect, though."
A waitress came out with glasses and big pitchers of beer. Edain sampled his.
"Not bad," he said. "Nice and crisp. A little lighter than they brew it at Dun Juniper, where you eat it with a spoon, but well hopped."
"Hey, traveling the way you do, you must get to see a lot of different types of booze," Kit said enthusiastically.
"Some. More often, it's many different types of bad water."
"Tell me," Gottberg replied. He cast an eye at some of his men. "You can get the galloping shits that way… unless you're careful about purifying the water. Right? "
"Ah, hell, Corp, we never have to do that back home."
"And back home your mama still holds your cock while you pee, right? Jesus, what is this, an army or a nursery school?"
"You're starting to sound like Sergeant-major Anderson, Corp."