But Welt had anticipated it, sidestepped it, so the rounded tip of the blade slid past his gambeson.
Mulldoos shook his head. “Miserable display, boy. Miserable. And your thrust wasn’t parallel anyway. Bad form. Now switch up-Welt’s got the active sword now. If you defend half as poorly as you strike, it’ll be you covered in bruises, you plaguing bastard. What are you waiting for, Welt? Get after it!”
Welt seemed only happy to do so-he began a barrage of blows, using his length, reach, and excellent footwork to good effect until he had Fusko almost spinning and tripping over himself. He landed a blow on Fusko’s exposed thigh, and the smaller man, thinking the engagement was over, started to lower his defense when Welt struck him again on the shoulder.
“You dumb prick! It’s to one! Can’t you plaguing count? One!”
Mulldoos laughed and said, “Now that’s how you string together a combination! And Fusko-anytime you lower your guard, you deserve to get hit again.”
Fusko gritted his teeth, shook his arm out, and got back in position, swallowing whatever retort he had in mind.
Hewspear looked up at me. “I believe the captain is stretching his legs.”
“Is he…?”
“I cannot say. He did not look especially afflicted.”
I nodded, watching as Welt circled the shorter Fusko, moving well for a bigger man, confidently, smoothly. I said, “I would have thought, just coming from a battle and not sure if another might be around the next bend, that you’d all take the break to, well, not train. To let wounds heal.”
Mulldoos glanced up at me as if seeing me for the first time, despite the fact I’d spoken twice and Hewspear had responded. “Notice only the young stupid pups are out there getting sweaty and dusty.” It wasn’t nearly as much of a rebuke as I expected.
“When you got on Fusko about his thrust, what was that all about? Why does the sword positioning matter?”
Mulldoos curled his index finger and invited me closer. I suddenly felt like I’d lowered my guard and hesitated. He said, “Ain’t going to hurt you, scribbler. Too much exertion. But I ain’t getting up to show you neither. Come here.”
I fought the urge to look at Hewspear and bent over. Mulldoos reached up and grabbed my shoulder firmly with one big hand, and kept the fingers straight and tight together with the other hand, simulating a blade. He turned the hand so it was perpendicular to the ground. “Now see, you thrust like this-” the fingertips shot out, and though they only went a short distance, his hand still almost knocked the wind out of me, “-and a real bad thing could happen. Might be you get it lodged on the edge of a rib, or worse, stuck between a pair. Get caught like that, blade’s not likely to go in far, the man you’re stabbing is going to stab or slash you back.”
He pulled his hand back, turned it flat to the ground, and out it shot, thumping into my stomach, again nearly sending all the air out. The scary thing was, I don’t think he was actually trying to hurt me at all. “Do it like this though, and might be you still hit a rib, but if you do, point only, quicker to withdraw. Not likely to get you killed. And if you miss the ribs, get a clean thrust, no chance of catching it on anything going in or coming out.”
Mulldoos released my shoulder, and I nodded and stepped back, trying not to sputter as I said, “Makes sense.”
“Course it does.” Mulldoos looked at Hewspear and kicked his leg. “Remember Ultonis? That’s how he went out, wasn’t it? Stuck on a rib?”
Hewspear pulled his leg out of Mulldoos’s reach. “It is. Though all this talk of ribs is making mine ache.”
“Only thing worse than an old goat is a whiny old goat, bleating on about how his ribs are hurting.”
“We still have nothing on gimpy pale boars.”
Mulldoos kicked out at him again but Hewspear had moved just out of reach. Then he looked back at me and I was afraid he was going to offer another demonstration again. Instead he said, “Ultonis jabbed an Anjurian something fierce, but the blade was at a bad angle. Got in there, punctured some organ or other, but he couldn’t pull it free, the edge was lodged on a rib, just like I said. Anjurian had time for one blow of his own. Ultonis died with an Anjurian sword in his gullet, the Anjurian with a Syldoon blade lodged in his gut. Looked like dance partners.”
Then he laughed, and Hewspear smiled.
Every time I felt like I was just beginning to understand the Syldoon…
I saw the captain round the end of the wagon at the rear of our small camp, heading in our direction. Turning to Mulldoos, I said, “Many thanks for the thrusting lesson. But I have something I need to speak to the captain about just now.”
Mulldoos glanced at the pages in my arm. “Got something good, do you?”
I tried not to smile and failed. “I think so.”
Mulldoos got to his feet. “And I’m thinking I’ll want to hear this, too. Cap told us about the Bloodsounder bit. Like to hear what you got for us now.”
I didn’t welcome explaining everything with him as part of the audience-he always seemed to unsettle me, even when he wasn’t jabbing me hard enough to leave bruises.
He reached down and offered his forearm to Hewspear. “Come on, you mummified bastard. Ain’t planning on running through the whole thing later at your leisure.”
Hewspear accepted his help as they each clasped the other’s forearm and the shorter man hoisted him to his feet. “Your kindness is effervescent at times, Mulldoos. Truly.”
“Your sarcasm stinks worse than ox piss.” He called over to the sparring Syldoon. “Fusko-go fetch Vendurro. Quick. And make sure you sight the witches. If you can’t spot them, you tell me quick as spit, you hear?”
Fusko saluted, laid his waster and shield on a blanket on the grass, and ran back toward the other wagon.
The lieutenants and I approached Captain Killcoin. He stood there, arms behind his back. “Three unlikely allies, yes? This can only be very good or very bad. I just saw Henlester, so I know he hasn’t escaped or been killed. Has Scorn died then?”
Mulldoos slapped me on the back, and I nearly fell over. “Scribbler’s unriddled something in the dusty pages, he says. Figured we’d save some time and go through it all on the once. Ven’s on the way.”
“Well. Even if it proves less than gripping or convincing, it is better than a dead horse.” The captain turned and started walking away from the wagons and the camp, over the stones and stubbly grass. Vendurro saw us and ran to catch up.
When we were a suitable distance from the other men and any Memoridons (that I could see anyway-if Fusko hadn’t located them, he would have reported it already), Braylar stopped and said, “Very well, archivist. I am prepared to be regaled, mystified, and awed. Or at least reasonably distracted. Tell us what you’ve uncovered.”
I hadn’t been prepared to share it in front of his retinue. It was difficult enough to discuss these things with the captain alone. But there was no getting out of it now.
After clearing my throat, I began prefacing with the caveat about the perils of translating, and that it could be rife with errors if rushed, and sometimes even when not.
“So,” Mulldoos said, “What you’re saying is you’re guessing here. You really don’t know shit?”
Hewspear answered before I had a chance to. “I believe what he’s saying-correct me if I’m wrong, Arki-is that it is an imperfect endeavor, so we will need to bear that in mind as we listen.”
“Sounds like he doesn’t know horseshit. But go on, scribbler. Tell us all what you don’t know.”
I was going to ignore the jab, slide out of its path, but instead chose to address it. “With any translation, there is always the question of felicity, or synonymous choices that don’t overly muddy the original text. Yes, there is doubt that despite your best efforts, you have missed something, or distorted it, that you’ve somehow lost the essence of what had original been put to paper. Pure, perfect translation is only a dream. That much is true. Especially when you are talking about a culture that existed nearly a thousand years ago and taking into account how much has changed. Even with two live languages used in the here and now, you can’t have perfect translation. I don’t deny any of that.”