It was a single room, and resembled a small grange except that it had no platform and no doors at the far end, only the one on either side. It was empty at the moment, but Paks could hear grunts and the clash of weapons from the far side. The Training Master led her through it, and out the other door.
Here were perhaps a score of fighters, all in training gray, practicing with swords and—Paks was surprised to see—hauks. To one side a burly man in blue watched them closely. He glanced over at the Training Master, and waved. Paks followed as they walked around the training area to meet him.
“This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said the Training Master abruptly. “The Marshal-General has assigned her to this class.”
Sharp black eyes met hers. “Ha. She’s no novice.”
“So I understand. If you can spare her for more time in other studies, Cieri, do so.”
“Am I to hood hawks so they may learn music?” Paks thought by the tone that this was an old argument begun again. The Training Master’s face relaxed.
“There are other skills of war, Cieri—”
“Oh, and so there are, but none of them any good if you can’t keep a blade from your guts.” He shook his head. “Never mind, Chanis, I know what you mean, and the Marshal-General too. If she can spare the time, I’ll see to it. But only if, understand that.” He cocked his head at Paks, and looked her over.
“See that she knows where to go, when you’re through,” said the Training Master. He turned to Paks. “Gird be with you, Paksenarrion. If you have any need, come to my office at any time.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Paks, still ruffled.
“Well, now.” Cieri, the weaponsmaster, was walking around her. She turned to watch him. “Where have you fought? What weapons? I see marks of a longsword on your clothes.” For the third time that day, Paks outlined her training. Cieri, at least, showed no doubt. “That’s good. Three fighting seasons with Phelan—that means you know your way with short-sword and formation fighting. And you’ve used a longsword since—very good. Many who come to us with your background cannot fight without the others in formation. Not until I’ve trained them, that is.” He grinned broadly. For all that he was younger and heavier, he reminded Paks of Siger. “What about unarmed combat?”
“I’ve done it,” said Paks cautiously. She knew that Siger himself had mastered only a few of the many styles.
“Can you fight mounted? I know Phelan has infantry.”
“I have, some. Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge was teaching me, and I fought a little with a sword.”
“Without cutting up the horse? Good. I see you’re wearing mail—Chanis didn’t give you time to change, eh? But we don’t wear mail in practice sessions—you must not come to count on it. Today I’ll test you, but tomorrow you show up in training uniform, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Paks noticed that the others were watching covertly, slowing their own practice to see what she was doing. Cieri noticed that too, and bellowed at them.
“Gird’s gut, may the ale hold out, you dolts keep gaping like that and I’ll run you all around the field ten times before supper. D’you think an enemy’d let you gaze all around like a bunch of calves in pasture? Get to your work, or—” But the tempo had speeded back up at once. Cieri picked up two swords from a stack near the edge of the practice area. “Here—we’ll start with what you’re comfortable with.”
Paks took a sword, and moved it, testing its balance. It was heavier than her own, and broader across the blade. Cieri stood casually, touched her blade with the tip of his, and leaped in so fast that she almost missed her own stroke.
“Aha!” he said. “If you were that slow with enemies, you would have more scars than you do. Don’t hold back, girl—I’m better than Cedfer, if you want the truth of it.” Indeed he was, and Paks found herself working hard to keep his blade from clashing on her mail. She had gotten used to the delicate balance of the magic sword—that responsive light spring—and she felt, at first, that she was fencing with a length of iron firewood. Several minutes later, sweating freely, she found her balance, and tried offensive strokes as well as defensive. Cieri countered them easily, but grinned even more widely. “You’re learning,” he said. “You’ve got a reach on you, too. And reasonable speed.” He tried one of the tricks she knew about, and she thrust it aside, lunging quickly to mark his tunic. “And you know something. Very good. You haven’t wasted your time.” But in a flash he shifted his blade to the other hand. Paks, confused, missed her parry, and felt the sharp blow along her side. Another, in the same place, and then she countered with a blow that drove him back a step.
She had forgotten that he wore no mail, until after a fast exchange of heavy blows she caught his arm and blood darkened the tunic. “Hold,” he said, but she had already lowered her blade. He glanced at his arm, and then at her with new respect. “You do know something. By Gird, we may have a swordsman in this class after all.”
“I’m sorry—” she started to say.
“No matter. In a Hall full of Marshals, little wounds like these are no problem. Look here—” He pulled aside the ripped sleeve to show a narrow jagged wound already closing. “You must all learn to fight, and strongly, and therefore I take a lot of healing.”
Paks was startled. “But I thought—”
He looked closely at her. “Oh. You’re not Girdish, are you? Most are. With an arm like that, you should be. It’s nothing, here—Marshals can heal themselves as well as others, and Gird does not begrudge healing to weaponsmasters.”
“Then you’re—”
“A Marshal, yes. You didn’t know? Most of your instructors here are Marshals.”
“Oh.”
“Now put away that sword you obviously know how to use—not that you can’t learn more—and let’s see what you do with staves.” Paks had never fought with staves before, and collected a quantity of bruises proving her incompetence. Cieri then tried her in archery; her form, he said, was passable, but her ability to judge windage was abysmal. She could not throw a javelin at all, and when he saw her grip on a battleaxe, he told her to put it down at once. “And I won’t have you try unarmed combat in mail just yet—tomorrow will do for that.” By this time Paks was sweaty, tired, and sore enough to be glad of a rest. “You’re beyond most of the class in sword handling,” he said, after thinking a few moments. “Some of them have had lessons for years, but no actual fighting. That’s what makes the difference. You’ll need regular practice with the sword, but instead of new tricks with it, I want to improve your other weapons skills. When you finish, you should be able to instruct with at least five weapons. More if you’re interested. Tomorrow morning, come with the others for mounted drill—do you have your own horse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you can ride your own horse tomorrow. If it’s trained enough, you’ll bring it to every session, but we switch around. Marshal Doggal takes most of the mounted classes. Mounted work first thing in the morning, then your other studies, before and after lunch, then drill here. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. But—what about my horse? Where is he, and what about grooming—”