As if on cue there was a sudden chorus of snarls; Garbh had one of the Eriksgarth hounds on its back, with her teeth holding its neck ruff. She shook it a little and then stepped back, tense and wary. ?Well, at least we?re not expected to engage in arse-sniffing contests,? Rudi pointed out, which the dogs were doing at that moment, their tails wagging.
Not far away, Mary Havel-Mary Vogeler, now, Rudi reminded himself-was talking to a big young Bjorning with a battle-ax in his hands. The weapon was a bit unusual; the rear of it was drawn out into the rectangular serrated head of a war hammer. The ax-man looked over at Ingolf, who with Fred Thurston was helping some newcomers unload a roughly butchered moose carcass from their sled, a contribution to the feast and a gift to their chieftain.
The tall Richlander hefted a hindquarter over his back, with no more than a grunt at a weight greater than his whole body. ?Friend, you?ll find that Mary can take care of herself well enough, you betcha,? he said mildly, and then strode over to where Harberga waited at the door of her kitchen?s cold store. Fred sniggered wordlessly as he scooped up two burlap sacks of rye flour and followed Ingolf with one over each shoulder.
The Bjorning flushed, leaned his dreadful polearm against a wall and picked up the practice equivalent-a four-foot helve with a mock blade of light pine, wrapped in felt and rags; no matter how shielded, the seven-pound head of the original would smash bone like kindling if driven hard. Then he took stance, the ax slanted across his body with his hands wide-spaced near butt and helve-an expert?s grip. The man was about halfway between Rudi and John Hordle in size, and from the look of him he had the shoulders to move the massive weapon quickly. When he struck the air hummed, but Rudi thought he was pulling the blow.
Mary leapt straight upward over the swing, her own chest-height from a standing start. The Bjorning had expected to strike, or at least to have the blow blocked by the longsword she wore across her back with the hilt over the right shoulder. Instead as it met only air the momentum of the strike pulled his body around irresistibly. The Ranger?s hand darted out and tweaked his nose painfully; then she went into a series of backflips that left her half a dozen yards away.
Tsk, tsk, Rudi thought.
He was a fine gymnast himself, but that sort of thing had little place in actual fighting to his way of thinking. In a fight you should move precisely as much as needed to attack or defend, neither more nor less. The Dunedain tended to be a bit showy, though.
Some of the onlookers cheered her. Others hooted in wholehearted mirth, bending over and clutching themselves or slapping hands on their thighs-as Edain had said, the two clansmen found the dwellers here a bit doomful by Mackenzie standards, but this was a joke after their own hearts. A few of the women watching called comments to the ax-bearer that would have had Rudi?s ears flushing, and made the man bellow with anger in his mouse-colored braided beard. He brought the weapon up to guard and began a rush, then halted in wariness.
Now Mary had the chain unwound from her waist, both ends crisscross ing in glittering arcs as she whirled them clockwise and counterclockwise; one held a sickle-shaped blade, the other a steel ball. That was a weapon she?d taken up during their stay in Chenrezi Monastery, in the Valley of the Sun. The monks taught it, and Master Hao said she was a natural for it-it was a yin weapon anyway, suitable to her changeful nature.
The Bjorning decided to treat it as if it was a quarterstaff, and struck at the middle spot where her hands turned wrist-over-wrist to keep the chain moving. Mary dropped promptly to one knee, and let the steel links slide through her gloved palms. There was a rattling chunk as one end of the chain whipped around the ax helve, and a muffled curse as it bound hand to ashwood. The sickle struck his forearm in a way that would have laid it open to the bone if the sharp blade hadn?t been encased in its leather sheath.
He pulled back, trying to free the haft and throwing his far greater weight and raw strength against hers through the metal link. Mary came with the pull and at the same instant the other end of the chain wrapped around the man?s knees, whirling itself into a tangle with the steel ball thudding into his thigh muscle with paralyzing force. He began to buckle forward; Mary?s booted feet struck him neatly in the stomach, her back hit the ground, and she used his own momentum to throw him roaring over her head with an arching twist and pivot.
There was a heavy, meaty thud as he landed in a patch of last night?s snow not yet trampled or stained. It puffed up around him in a cloud of glittering crystal, and through it Mary pounced with a cat-screech of Sindarin that Rudi translated without effort: ?So long, sucker!?
She landed astraddle the man, her long narrow dagger out and hovering above his eye. He glared at her for a moment and then his lips quirked up in a smile. That turned into a roar of laughter, and he threw his arms wide in a theatrical gesture of surrender. ?Hrolf Homersson gives you best, shield-maiden! I give you best. What a pity you?re wedded already!?
Mary simply snorted as she rose and helped him untangle himself. Ritva sauntered over and put her hands on her hips as she watched. ?I?m not,? she pointed out with cheerful helpfulness.?Are you, Hrolf Homersson? Not that I?m proposing, you understand.?
Ingolf came back from his task, working his shoulders. He spoke to Mary in the elven tongue, slowly and a bit clumsily: ?Herves?- wife -?you can throw me on my back and leap upon me when you will, but I may grow resentful if you do it to other men… unless there?s a dagger in your hand.? ?Herven? -husband-?with you I will use not the dagger of war for your eye, but the feather-duster of tickling for your man parts!?
Virginia Kane was demonstrating what you could do with a lariat from horseback; seeing one of their dodging, running number caught and dragged a few yards was another way to tickle the Bjorning funny bone, evidently. ?Their sense of a jest is something… robust, here,? Rudi observed. ?I like it well enough,? Edain said. ? That?s no surprise. You near killed yourself laughing that time the cow I was milking caught me in the face with a well-beshatted tail.?
Edain snickered at the memory.?Chief, a man in his eightieth summer would have thought that funny, and him dead also, much less a boy! The expression on you! And you rubbed dung in my hair, as I remember, and we were both covered head to foot by the time we?d stopped scuffling like a pair of puppies.?
Rudi sighed reminiscently.?And then your da came out and took us by the ears and pitched us both into the pond,? he said.?Lucky it was that was a warm day and we weren?t wearing anything but old kilts.?
Edain shuddered.?Lucky indeed, Chief. You ran back up the hill to Dun Juniper. I had to face me mother!?
Just then Harberga came back out the door and called, smiling: ?If the children are finished their play, the meal is ready!?
A herald more formal came out of the main doors of the hall and blew the summoning horn, a long harsh huuuuuuuuuu through the cold air.
The twin doors were twice man-height, thick oak slabs strapped with iron on either side of a framework of beams, and at the end of the long rectangular structure. The roof above towered high and steep-pitched; the gable beams crossed in snarling dragonheads above the snowy shingles, and a steady trickle of smoke came from the mortared fieldstone chimneys. Pillars on either side of the entranceway were carved in a strong stylized style.
The shapes were a red-bearded man who bore a hammer and a woman with a distaff and hair of bright gold; gold covered the elk antlers above. Within was a square stone-flagged chamber ringed with benches, trunks, pegs and racks where outer clothes and weapons could be left. Rudi was wearing his good kilt and plaid beneath his winter gear today-a kilt wasn?t as warm as trousers, but it was more than enough for a while, if you had drawers on beneath.