A scowclass="underline" "A lot of Iron Rod's men use scales fastened to canvas backing, too, recently."
"I've seen gear like that," Havel said. A lot of it in Portland, to be precise. "It's heavier and less flexible than chain mail, though. We can sell you some armor, and more importantly we can take some of your people through the whole process of making it."
It was past four o'clock when they passed the Bearkiller sentries; some of them were carrying lances as well as swords and bows, which impressed Woburn. Havel hid a smile as he returned their fist-to-chest salutes; so far, only the unanimous verdict of Will's cavalry manuals kept him trying with the damned bargepoles. They were as hard to manage on horseback as archery!
The Bearkillers' camp was in a clearing just back of the ridge where the lane led down to the prairie; the grassland there covered several acres, interrupted by scraggly lodge-pole pines and some aspens. The afternoon sun gilded the tall grass, and cast blue shadows towards the east. A scent of woodsmoke and cooking came from the hearths, and the cheerful sound of children playing, the tink… tink … of metal on metal, the rhythmic lock of axes splitting firewood.
More of the wagons' loads had been taken down than was usual for a one-night stopover; Havel wanted Sheriff Woburn impressed, and it had been easy enough to send orders back from the sacked farmstead.
The tents were pitched in neat rows, one per family with more for the single men, single women and outfit purposes; each had a fire in front of it and a Coleman lantern hung from the peak. A latrine trench was behind a grove of aspens, and a canvas enclosure for bathing stood beside a wheeled metal water-tank, another Ken-and-Will joint project; it was built so that a heating fire could be kindled in a hearth at one end. A woman was tossing chunks of pine into the fire, and a valve hissed on top as the water came to a boil.
"Helps avoid giardia," Havel said.
Woburn nodded; the nasty little parasites were endemic in Idaho streams, including the "purest" mountain brooks.
"Pretty piece of work," he said.
Havel nodded gravely, grinning to himself. He wasn't quite running a Potomekin village setup for the good sheriff, but he was putting the best foot forward.
"Lord Bear," one of their more recent recruits said, taking the reins as Havel and his guest swung down out of the saddle.
Havel felt his teeth gritting. Breaking people of calling him that was probably more trouble than it was worth, and most seemed to like it better than "Boss." Giving Astrid a sound spanking for coming up with the idea was almost certainly more trouble than it would be worth… but it was so tempting, sometimes!
He steered Woburn past the portable smithy-they had a real blacksmith now, freeing up a lot of Will's time-the arrow-making operation, the armor-assembly area from which Astrid and Luanne had been reprieved for awe-the-locals purposes, and on to the bowmaking benches.
Interesting, Havel thought. When he's actually working, our Bill looks almost trustworthy. The problem is you have to stand over him to keep him working.
Right now he was opening the insulated hotbox and checking a bow-limb curing there, the half-S shape secured between plywood forms with metal screw-clamps; the box reduced the time needed for the glue to set hard from a year to weeks, at the cost of a slight loss in durability. An assistant had a hardwood block clamped in a vise; he was shaping the riser into which the limbs would be pegged and glued, roughing out the shape of the pistol grip and arrow-shelf with a chisel. Shavings of pale myrtlewood curled away from the tap-tap-tap.
Havel nodded towards the pots of glue, planks of osage-orange wood, bundles of dried sinew, pieces of antler, and a box of translucent lozenges sawn from cow horns.
"We'll always have those materials."
"You've been thinking ahead," Woburn said respectfully.
They passed the school, taught open-air by Annie Sanders when there was time, with a folding blackboard and students from six to twelve. Reuben Waters, Billy's eldest, made his typical entry-Annie dragged him in by one ear, with occasional swats to his backside along the way. She thought the Waters kids were salvageable, and they did seem a bit brighter than their parents.
Astrid galloped her horse past a deer-shaped target- and the arrow flickered out to go thump behind the shoulder. Others were on foot, shooting at Frisbee-sized wooden disks rolled downhill, or at stationary man-shapes; the shooters were crouched, kneeling, walking, as well as standing in the classic archer's T.
Luanne was on horseback too, picking wooden tent pegs out of the ground with a lance as she galloped. It made a dramatic backdrop for Will's horsemanship class with its jumps and obstacles.
Hope she doesn't dig in and knock herself out of the saddle while our guest is watching, Havel thought. She's the only one we've got yet who doesn't do that all the time!
Those just starting with the sword were hacking at pells-posts set in the ground, or convenient trees-or slicing pinecones tossed at them. He didn't have anyone riding the wooden hobbyhorse just now, learning to swing a blade from the saddle without decapitating his mount-it was essential, but he had to admit it looked so…
Dorky, he thought. There's no other word that fits.
Except for Astrid and a few other fast-growing teenagers, all those at weapons practice were working in chain mail, to get used to the weight and constriction and sweat-sodden heat of it. That was only marginally more popular than the regular exercise sessions wearing the stuff, jumping and running and tumbling and climbing ladders.
My sympathy is underwhelming, you poor little darlings, Havel thought. Try humping an eighty-pound pack through fucking Iraq.
Pam Arnstein had one of her fencing classes going for the better students, with Signe as her assistant.
"The targe"-she insisted on using the fancy term for small round shield-"is not there for you to wave in the air! Keep it in front of you. Remember it's a weapon like your sword-weapons are kept face to the enemy. Pivot the rear foot as you move-heel down, Johnson! Passing thrust-passing thrust-cut-cut-forehand-backhand- at the man, not at the shield! Stay in line, in line!"
Impatiently, she called Josh Sanders out from the double line of pupils. Havel watched with interest as she drove the brawny young man down the field in a clatter and bang of mock combat.
"Right, try it again… better. Now free-form! I deflect your cut with my blade sloped behind my back, and make a crossing attack, stepping forward to cut in turn to the hamstring… so."
"Ouch!" He stumbled and recovered.
"I knock your shield out of line… so. The body follows the sword, remember. Swords first, foot just a fraction of a second behind. Then I thrust to the face… cut to the neck-no, don't block with the edge of your targe, you'll get it sliced off. With the surface-that's why it's covered in rawhide. Good parry, now I'm vulnerable, hit me with it-"
Crack! as leather met leather.
"Sorry!" he blurted, as he knocked her off her feet and onto her back.
The sixteenth-century European blade styles featured a lot of bodychecking, throws, kicks and short punching blows with the pommel of the sword or the edge of the shield, too. The brutal whatever-works pragmatism was precisely to Havel's taste.
"That's the first completely correct move you've made today," Pamela said as she rolled erect again. "You've got the advantage of weight-so use it. There aren't any bronze or silver medals in this sort of fencing. Win or die!"
Havel inclined his helmeted head towards the practice field. "Like you said, Sheriff, it's not just finding or making the weapons, it's learning how to use them."