Also she wanted to get out of the open meadow; they hadn't seen any sign of pursuit for a while, but these alien mountains weren't the friendly confines of Mithrilwood, or even the further Cascades, where you could kindle a little fire and eat the liver fresh as was ancient hunter's right. Spit ran into her mouth at the thought; there was nothing like liver or kidneys right out of the beast, grilled on a hot twig fire with no relish but a little salt.
"If you could get a fire going in this misery," she muttered to herself.
A trickle of skin-rippling cold rain ran down inside her collar. The rest of her clothes were just damp, but they'd be wet soon if this went on. You got used to that if you spent a lot of time outdoors, but that didn't make it any fun. And it leached the heat out of your body, which meant you had to eat more.
Then her head came up beneath the shadow of the lodgepole she'd selected, and she frowned as she blew on her fingers to keep them supple; you didn't want your grip to slip when you were using a skinning knife.
What's the matter? she thought. Is it the weather?
The low clouds hid the peaks eastward, and even the glacier-polished granite upper slopes of this broad valley. And yes, it smelled like it was going to get a lot colder; maybe snow, maybe heavy snow. They were well above five thousand feet here, and it could be dangerous, even though she wasn't all that far from camp. But it wasn't that which made the skin between her shoulder blades itch.
As if absently, she whistled softly as she cut a branch for a spacer, trimmed it to points on both sides, ran those between hock and tendon, tied a rope to it and hoisted it up. There was no reply from Mary…
Uh-oh. Something is wrong!
Her senses flared out, but the rain was stronger now, a white curtain of noise, blurring sight and drowning scent. Four trees big enough to hide a man stood close by.
It was the smell that warned her, even in the damp; a sudden shift in the wind brought the scent of woodsmoke soaked into fur and leather, and the distinctive taint of wool cloth full of old dried sweat wet again with the rain. She'd just started her whirl and lunge when arms long and cable strong clamped around her from behind. The man whipped her sideways, and her wrist struck the tree trunk painfully. The knife skittered off, pinwheeling into the mass of dead leaves and fallen needles.
Ritva hunched her shoulders and threw her weight downward, but the arms gripped harder and lifted her off the ground-the man was strong as a bear, and tall as one too, and knew what he was doing. A half-dozen thin red braids wound with eagle feathers and bits of turquoise on the ends swirled around her face as they struggled. She whipped her heel backwards, and heard a grunt as the boot connected with a knee.
"Keep still, woman!" a voice grunted in her ear, harshly accented and smelling of stale breath and unscrubbed teeth. "I win badges for wrestling!"
Ritva did keep still for an instant-and then whipped her right foot back up over her own shoulder as she felt him adjust his grip. You had to be very limber to do that, but it took him a little by surprise. The toe of the boot didn't crack into his face; he'd pulled his head aside. But it did graze along his jaw, and that made the arms slacken a bit. Not enough to wrench free; they were so bear tight she was having trouble breathing, but enough so that she could get her left hand down along her sword sheath.
No point in trying to draw it, she thought. But…
Her fingers closed on the grip of her buckler. She stripped it out of the clip, swayed her hips to one side, and did her best to smash the hard, hard edge into her unknown assailant's groin. Again he was too fast, but the edge hit his hip bone instead, and even without much leverage the thump was enough to paralyze him with pain for an instant. In that instant she stamped down on the instep of one foot, and felt something yield. She was wearing laced boots, and he apparently had some sort of soft moccasin on instead.
A grunt of pain and bad breath by her face, and she wrenched herself free. The motion turned into a whirling circle-in-place, but as she turned her hand snapped down on the hilt of her sword and swept it out. The steel swung in a blurring arch of silver in the gray rain as she turned, but the man suddenly wasn't there; he'd flung himself back and pivoted in the air above the waist-high swing of the longsword, then backflipped again, hands down and then snapping upright. His tomahawk and long knife flicked into his hands.
"Ieston esgerad gweth lin!" she snarled in baffled fury that tasted like vinegar at the back of her mouth. "And then I'll stuff them down your throat!"
Nobody had a right to be that fast, except her and her sister. Well, perhaps Aunt Astrid, and Rudi, and by reputation Grand Constable d'Ath. And nobody whatsoever had any right to be able to sneak up on her that way. Nobody had, not for years.
The man grinned at her and circled; she turned on her heel, keeping the sword and the buckler up. He was tall, as tall as Rudi; lanky rather than leopard-graceful, but the crushing power of those long arms was a dreadful memory. He'd known what he was doing, too; if he hadn't been trying to subdue rather than kill she'd be dead or crippled or at least unconscious already.
Just a trace of a limp. And he doesn't look like there's any armor there, she thought.
He was wearing fringed leggings of mottled buckskin and a long woolen shirt covered in rondels of cloth sewn with images-a bow, a canoe, a horse, more-and a bearskin tunic over that. If he had a backpack or supplies, he'd cached them elsewhere.
"You are not like the women of the Prophet's men," he said.
The fighting-ax and bowie made precise, lazy circles to draw her eyes; she kept them on his, instead, and let the focus blur a little so that peripheral vision would be sharper. The white plumes of their breath puffed out into the chilly falling drizzle, slowing as they controlled the impulse to pant.
"They are sheep," he went on. "You are a she-wolf, like our Scout women, worthy of badges of merit of your own; I have followed you many days, and seen your skill. I will take you back to the Morrowlander camps northward, and you will bear strong cubs. The Prophet can go find comfort with his wooly ewes."
"Alae, nago nin, hwest yrch!" she said. "Oh, bite me, orc-breath!"
She was used to male admiration, but this was ridiculous. To herself she added: He didn't notice that there were two of us? Where is Mary?
"And-" the man began.
He attacked as his lips began to move, sweeping the hammer of his tomahawk towards her temple and flipping the bowie into a reverse grip so that the foot-long blade lay along his forearm, ready to block a cut.
Clung-tung!
Steel rang on steel as she swept the buckler around and up to knock the tomahawk aside. The impact nearly tore the little steel shield from her hand, and did send a jag of pain through her wrist and forearm, making her grit her teeth and work the fingers against the wooden grip to get the numbness out. The sheer strength was shocking, but Ritva was used to male warriors who were stronger than she was; men her height often had twenty pounds more muscle on their arms and shoulders. She wasn't used to fighting men that fast. She had to duck, because the deflection barely sent it over her head.
Ouch! she thought, and lunged, her right foot throwing up a ruck of forest duff as she extended.
The Scout was used to fighting with men who used shetes, point-heavy slashing blades with the balance thrown well forward of the hilt. He leapt backwards and landed with a grimace of surprise. A spreading red spot showed where she'd touched him, on the front of his wool shirt just above the solar plexus. She could see his eyes widen a little as he took in her sword and what it implied, thirty inches of double-edged steel starting at two thumbs' width and tapering to a murderous fang.