That sent her off-balance as the leg buckled; Ritva struck with her weight behind it in the same instant, shield punching into shield. The younger woman went over on her back with a hard thud only slightly muffled by the deep snow under a leafless maple, and an ooof! as the impact knocked the wind out of her lungs. The Ranger skipped forward to tap her lath-sword at the base of the Bjorning?s throat. ?Ah, I think I see your problem,? Ritva said, sliding the smooth curve of the visor up the forehead of the sallet.
Asgerd slowly levered herself out of the snow, blowing and shaking her head, snatching off her helm by the nasal bar to strike at the snow that had packed up under it and into her hair. ?You?re better with the sword than me!? she snarled, her breath puffing white in winter air.?And you?re more experienced. That?s my problem! You?ve killed me four times and I?ve only wounded you once.? ?Yes, but that?s not your problem,? Ritva went on.?You?ve been well taught, but your problem is that you?re fighting like a man.? ?Well, if I?m to fight, it probably won?t be against women!? ?No. But…?
She turned to Mary.?Let?s show her the Parable of the Door. You do the sounds.?
Mary grinned, a remarkably piratical expression with the eye patch; they?d played this game as instructors at Mithrilwood ever since they graduated to ohtar rank, and had missed it on the trip. Aunt Astrid and her anamchara Lady Eilir had come up with it, back when they first brought the Dunedain together.
Running off the unsuitable and training the teachable, she thought. Both good fun.
A lot of discontented teenage girls had turned up at Stardell Hall over the years, drawn by the lure of the Dunedain name and the glitter of the Histories… and weary of the endless routine of churn and hoe and loom. Or the damp hands of pimply-faced local swains, as opposed to dreams of some Elven Prince. Or in the case of Mary and Ritva Havel, tired and bored with being spare heirs.
Which is about as useful as being a wagon?s fifth wheel.
Ritva turned back to the Bjorning, who was dusting more snow off her byrnie and the seat of her breeks. If you let it melt into your clothing, the dampness could linger for days on the trail. There wasn?t much chance to get people warm and dry, much less their clothing. ?Fighting is like opening a door. Now, imagine there?s a door here,? the Ranger said.
She stuck the practice longsword in the snow and sketched a portal with her finger, and pointed out the features: ?Nice solid door. Here?s the hinges. Here?s the handle and the latch. Now, imagine a man trying to open the door. Here?s how he?d probably do it.? ?Belch,? Mary put in, with an alarmingly realistic accompaniment. ?Urrgghhh!? Ritva said.
Her hands went up and gripped the sides of the imaginary door. Then she whipped her head forward. ?Bong!? Mary shouted.
Again. ?Bong!?
Again and then she stopped, scrunched one eye closed while rubbing her head and scratching her backside, then reversing the process. ?Belch,? Mary put in.?Fart.? ?Me smash! Arrrggghh! Me smash! Me smash!? Ritva bellowed, mock-guttural.
She mimed head-butting the door over and over, her features contorted into a mask of cross-eyed rage and lips slack as if she was drooling; then the eyes rolled up in her head and she fell backward into the snow. ?Now! she said, bouncing back up again and clapping her hands together.?Here?s how a woman does it.?
Ritva reached out, lifted the invisible latch-Mary supplied the click -turned the knob, stepped through, and closed the door behind her, with a final clunk from her sister. ?You see??
Asgerd looked at them both. Her face had been grim almost all the time since they left Eriksgarth; now it lightened a little. The smile had to struggle up like a fish broaching from the depths, but she managed it. Then-Ritva?s eyebrows went up-she started to giggle. After a moment she spoke: ?I think I see a little of what you mean. We have a saying, that when your only tool is a hammer all your problems start to look like nails.? ?We have the same proverb,? Ritva said.
Though if it?s John Hordle or even Rudi, they just walk through the door without noticing it?s there. But that would undermine the lesson, so…
She went on:?The Gods have made men and women differently. They have hammers. We have needles. If you want to fight well, you have to fight like a first-rate woman, not like a bad imitation of a man.?
She took up the lath practice sword again.?Rudi can break a shield?s frame with a straight flourish cut like the one you used, if he hits full-on; and break the arm underneath it, sometimes.?
Asgerd blinked.?With a one-handed blow from a sword?? she said incredulously.?With a battle-ax or war hammer, perhaps…? ?I?ve seen him do it. Or slash right through ringmail.? ?So can Ingolf,? Mary said. A little reluctantly:?Rudi?s faster, though.?
Ritva nodded.?For you or me, trying to do that?s just a waste of effort and leaves you open to the counterstrike. Or… you?re about my height. Or Odard?s or Edain?s. But getting into a shield-to-shield shoving match with either of them is a bad idea-they?ve a third again our weight. More muscle, heavier bones. Let?s try something a little different-?
Edain came up on skis, then slid to a halt to watch for a while. Garbh sat beside him, her tail curled around her feet and black nose going back and forth, tongue dangling behind white puffs of breath. ?Not bad,? the young clansman said, after a flurry of blows.?But it?s time for lunch, and then to get moving again.?
He grinned at Asgerd.?They beat me all the soddin? time too,? he added.?Sure, and it?s like trying to hit a ghost.?
She snorted, too winded to speak for a moment. Edain politely didn?t look at her too closely, or in too nonprofessional a way, as she shrugged into her loose parka with its mottled cover of white and off-white and brown, and buckled on her sword belt and the baldric for her bow and quiver that she?d hung on a branch. The shield rattled as she slung it over her back as well; a cover of bleached canvas hid the colorful black-and-red painting of a fylfot. Garbh came over and butted a friendly nose beneath a hand and the Bjorning paused to ruffle the big beast?s fur, which seemed to soften her mood a little. ?Do they beat you at shooting?? she said, tossing down her skis from where she?d leaned them against a birch and stepping into the toe-loops. ?No. They?re better than fair shots, but not nearly as good as me,? he said straightforwardly. ?But better than me?? Asgerd asked, with just a touch of belligerence in her tone. ?For now, yes. Rangers train hard and long. They?re not farmers; they fight and hunt for a living. You could be as good, but it?ll take a year at least, or more depending on how much time you put into it.?
Asgerd nodded, her face calm but approval in her eyes.
She?d have scented flattery, Ritva thought, and hid her grin. ?Now, they?re both a total failure at milking a cow, mind,? Edain said.?More of a moo and a kick they?d get if they tried than aught in the pail.?
The two Rangers snorted, and Asgerd chuckled. They all slid south and east-and slightly downhill-towards the valley where the main caravan lay with its sleds. Or bounded easily in a series of puffs of snow, in Garbh?s case.
Edain?s not quite the bluff simple Mackenzie crofter he puts on. That was quite clever.
Asgerd seemed like a nice girl, if grim-which was understandable, given what had happened to her betrothed-and far less likely to meet a bad end than that Mormon woman back in Idaho. Ritva wished him all success, as she might a younger brother.
As I might a considerably younger brother, though we?re with a year of the same age. Still… he?s always felt younger than us. Men grow up more slowly.
And there wouldn?t be as many religious problems if things went well, which wouldn?t be soon anyway. Those faiths of the Book with their exclusive claims to truth were a complete nuisance; look at the bother it had caused for Rudi and Mathilda. ?You live by the sword too?? the Bjorning girl asked Edain.?Or the bow,? she added. ?Not all the time, no, not until this trip. Mostly I help me da on the farm, and in the bowyer?s workshop we have; that?s what Mackenzies do, work the land and follow crafts. My mother?s a weaver of some note, and well known for that and her cheeses-people come from as far away as Corvallis to buy?em both. To be sure, Da was First Armsman of the Mackenzies for years and years-war leader of the Clan, under the Chief. But everyone who can fights when it?s needful, among Mackenzies. Only a few are warriors all the time.? ?As with us,? Asgerd nodded.?Only the hirdmen of a godhi… the guards of a chief… make a trade of war. We haven?t had a big war for a long time; not since the years after the land-taking, when they say whole bands of reivers were abroad, desperate and hungry. Just scuffles and skirmishes since then, and-?