They loaded the carcasses on the packhorses-the boar was quartered first, since it would be unfair to make any one horse carry quite that much. The canyon path ran beside a waterfall; then behind the falling water. A deep pool lay below; they all slid down a rope secured to a steel piton driven into the living rock and dove and swam in it, or stood under the fringes-but only the fringes, since the stream was narrow but the water fell from nearly two hundred feet above. After a moment-it was cold water-they hauled themselves out on the rocks and spread towels to dry off.
And I'm just as glad that it's cold water, Alleyne thought. Given the scenery, one doesn't wish to make one's interest too clear, eh? Free and easy is one thing, rampant another.
Astrid leaned back on her palms and looked up at the water falling down the green-mantled black rock, seeming to drift as it launched itself free from the cliff and then turning to swift-plunging silver lace farther down. She signed instead of speaking, clearer under the toning roar of the falls: That's why we call this area Mithrilwood. In the winter, when the mist freezes on everything it's like a world of silver.
I'd like to see it then, he replied. But not to wash in.
She laughed at his shiver, and then looked away with a flush that spread down from face to breasts.
Eilir leapt up: Let's get home!
Home in Mithrilwood had turned out to be, somewhat to his surprise, a log-cabin lodge with a stone kitchen attached, built in the 1930s by the CCC. Whoever that acronym belonged to had had high standards of craftsmanship. The low building was better than a hundred feet long and nearly forty wide, with a great fieldstone hearth set in one wall. The high-peaked shingle roofs were green with moss save where the Rangers had made repairs in recent years; outbuildings of the same construction were sleeping quarters, stables, storehouses, and a springhouse-diverting a cool stream through it provided a semblance of refrigeration, enough to keep meat and milk fresh a bit longer. The works of man hugged the earth amid tall Douglas firs, maples and oaks, scattered through a stretch of rolling hilly land; brush and saplings were reclaiming the road that had led here before the Change, save for a narrow path kept open by axes and hooves.
Once the meat was stowed and the horses stabled, the Rangers set to practice for the rest of the afternoon, except for a pair whose turn it was to cook. Alleyne saw Hordle's eyebrows rise as they shot at the mark; every one of them was a good archer, and some were very good even by the exacting standards Nigel Loring had set for the regulars. They joined in for the unarmed-combat practice, recognizing Sam Aylward's eclectic freeform, and then for sword drilclass="underline"
"Give it a go?" Astrid asked.
"Ah: certainly," Alleyne said.
I'll have to be careful not to hurt her feelings, he reminded himself.
He had his own heater-shaped shield along, and there were plenty of the alderwood practice blades much like the longsword he customarily used; he took stance with his left foot advanced, shield up under his eyes and his sword over his head, hilt towards her. The protective bars across the face of the drill helmet they found for him might well be an advantage, since he was used to wearing a visored sallet rather than the open-faced helms favored in western Oregon. Astrid was using Bearkiller gear-a round shield two feet in diameter, and a long single-edged sword with a basket hilt, much like a Renaissance schiavone or a claymore.
"Kumite!" said the Ranger acting as referee. Fight!
The point of Astrid's sword flicked out at his eyes, seeming to float and then blur like a frog's tongue after a fly. Fast, he thought admiringly, and smacked it aside with a two-inch movement of his shield, whipping the longsword down in an overarm cut.
Crack!
The hard polished leather of the targe shed the edge, precisely angled to throw him off-balance and jar every bone in his body down to the small of his back. He recovered with a skipping hop like a child jumping rope as her blade hissed in from the side in a hocking cut at the side of his knee; she blocked his counterthrust with an upward flick of the practice blade, striking from the wrist:
Just under ten minutes later they stepped back by unspoken mutual agreement, both breathing deep and quick, sweat soaking their gambesons in huge fresh patches and making runnels down face and neck. A circle of Rangers gave an admiring cheer, and several of them clapped him on the back.
"That's a lot longer than any of us has ever gone with Astrid without her getting a touch home," someone said. "Except Eilir, of course."
Remind me not to think bloody nonsense, Alleyne thought, bringing his blade up in salute with a wry grin.
Astrid's face had been inhumanly calm during the bout, except for a disconcerting small smile. Now she grinned back, then quickly looked aside, her eyes fluttering unconsciously.
That's a good sign, Alleyne thought. Except that it might not be:
"Hey, let me try," a brash youngster named Kevin said. "Let's see how you handle short sword and buckler."
After a more few bouts of his own Alleyne found himself watching Eilir working with Crystal, the newcomer, who was grimly determined as she hefted the practice blade of alderwood, double the weight of the real thing.
No, Eilir signed, stepping back after a brief slow-time passage and letting her practice blade swing on its wrist-thong for a moment. Remember, keep the buckler towards me, not swinging behind you, slightly ahead of your sword point.
"Whenever I try to think of what I'm doing with it, I lose track!" Crystal grumbled.
Everyone starts that way. That's why we do it slow to start with. You practice until you don't have to think about it. Once more. You attack.
Crystal did, bringing the short broad-bladed sword up in a stab towards Eilir's stomach. The deaf girl's buckler came down in a sweep that knocked it out of line. In the same motion she stepped forward and continued the arc, ending up with the bowl-shaped boss of the little shield in front of Crystal's nose. Then she stepped back again.
You can punch the buckler, or strike with the edge of it. It's a weapon too-believe me, when you've whacked someone hard in the face with a two-pound steel weight, they lose all interest in hitting you. And don't block the opposing sword directly-bat it away as if the buckler were an extension of your hand. It's not like a man-at-arm's shield, or even a Bearkiller targe, it's supposed to redirect force, not absorb it. Now back to the basic position-crouch a little, left foot forward and knee bent. Sword: buckler: sword. One-two-three! Let's go!
They engaged again; even in slow motion, Eilir's darting grace was impressive. So was the gentle patience she showed in the face of the girl's clumsiness. He guessed that that was why Astrid worked with the more advanced students.
Better! Eilir signed, stepping back again when Crystal had turned puffing and red and the weapons started to quiver in her hands.
A dozen yards behind her Astrid smiled as she took a dare and went to one knee, her eyes closed; then they flared open as she rose, twisting and drawing and striking in a blur of speed. Her long blade hissed in a horizontal streak and she was extended in an impeccable follow-through. The severed dragonfly dropped, spiraling towards the ground in neat halves.
Alleyne caught it out of the corner of his eye. She's not human, he thought, with a slight inward quiver.
"This is a lot harder work than I thought it would be!" Crystal said to Eilir. "I thought I was used to hard work since I was a little girl!"
There's nothing harder than sword work, Eilir signed sympathetically. It uses different muscles from almost anything else. Let's go try you on the pells again. You've got to go full-out to build speed, and get used to the shock of hitting something. Remember, most of the people you fight will be stronger than you are. You have to be quicker, and you build speed like you build muscle.
A rock-fringed natural swimming pool not far from the buildings had been reconditioned-diverted stream water in at one end and out the other replacing the chlorine cycle. Nobody minded a few floating leaves anymore. Alleyne ambled down a flagstone path towards it, with the clatter and bang of combat fading behind him, stripped and dove in; the other Englishman joined him. Alleyne rested against the steps and spoke low-voiced to Hordle: "Having a good time, Little John?"