Paks thought about it a moment. “You mean—ordinary farmers—fighting regular soldiers?”
“Yes, exactly. Surely you’ve heard that?”
“Well, yes—but—”
“But you still don’t believe it?” He shook his head. “You were a farmer’s daughter—and you wanted to fight—so in your mind you built up what a soldier’s weapon can do. When you become a Girdsman, Paksenarrion, I’ll show you, wood against steel, how Gird won.”
“Why not now?”
Cieri gave her a long look. “Because you are not under Gird’s law yet, and I just might lose my temper.”
“Oh.” Paks was not sure what he meant, and didn’t think she should ask more.
“But as for axes, that’s a Girdish weapon. Have you ever used one much for chopping?”
“No—we didn’t have forest where I grew up.”
“And in Phelan’s company?”
“The sergeants said they didn’t have time to teach us axe-work.”
“Wise. Well, go get one from the armory, and we’ll start.”
For a few days things went well; the basic drills were not hard, and Paks soon adjusted to the heavy axe-head hanging on the end of her arm. Or so she thought. Then Cieri set up a roughly carved log for her to “fight.” It had a couple of branches for “arms.” Paks looked at it disdainfully. She had seen the amusement on the others’ faces.
“Isn’t this just like chopping a tree?”
“Yes, but you haven’t chopped any trees, and we don’t happen to need any trees chopped. This will be fuel for the main kitchens later, if you’ll get busy and do what I tell you.” He took the axe from her, motioned her back, and with two smooth swings took a four-finger deep chunk out of the log. “Like that,” he said. “And remember what I told you about backswing and bounce. Wood is harder than flesh, but softer than armor—at least this wood is.”
Paks took the axe, which now felt comfortable in her grip. The basic stroke, he had explained, was much like the sideswing in longsword—but for using two hands. Paks had not used a two-handed sword; she did not think that mattered. She swung the axe back over her shoulder, and brought it around smoothly. Harder than flesh—softer than armor: she put what she thought was the right force into it. Whack! She felt the blow in both shoulders, and the axe-head recoiled, dragging her off balance, and missing her knee by a fingersbreadth.
“You have to hit harder than that, Paks,” said Cieri. “A two-handed blow is a twisting blow; get your back into it.”
The next stroke caught the axe-blade in the wood. She struggled to wrench it free, while Cieri described what happened to fighters whose weapons caught in an enemy. She felt the back of her neck getting hot; yet she knew he was right. That didn’t help. When she began again, she managed a series of effective strokes, knocking off chips much smaller than Cieri’s, but not making any serious mistakes. He called a halt, and nodded.
“You’re doing well for a beginner. Now see if you can hit a certain target.” He brought out his pot of paint, and daubed red on both of the “arms,” as well as two spots on the “body.”
“Let’s see you get the left arm first, then the upper body, then the lower body, then the right arm. Make your strokes work; use as few as you can. Remember, he’s got a spear he’s poking at you in the meantime.”
Paks looked at the targets. “Axe fighters don’t carry shields, do they?”
“Not using this kind of axe. There’s a light battleaxe for riders that you can use one-handed—you could carry a shield with that. But here it’s your quickness.”
“I could break the spear with the axe, couldn’t I?”
“You’d better. But that’s a smaller target than you’re ready for. And it moves. You’ve something to learn before you face a live spearman with an axe.”
Paks nodded, and turned to the enemy tree. She had just gotten in position for a stroke at the left-hand branch when Cieri stopped her.
“Now look, Paks—you’ve got more sense than this. Look where you are.”
She was sideways to the “enemy,” in easy reach of the right “arm.”
“You can’t face him directly with that axe—think! Where can you strike, and be out of range.”
Paks was annoyed at herself. She moved around the side of the tree, and swung at the left branch from there. She heard the wood creak as the axe sank deep, and was halfway into the next stroke when Cieri yelled again.
“Gird’s blood! Do you think he’ll stand still while you chop him up? Move, girl!”
Paks felt the blood rush to her face. She jumped, whirling the axe high, and swung again at the branch. It split before taking the full force of her blow, and the axe swung on to lay a deep gash in her leg as she landed from the jump. Furious, she ignored the pain and aimed a vicious slash at the main trunk, straight at Cieri’s mark. The axe stopped in midstroke, wrenching her shoulders, and hung in the air.
“Let go,” said Cieri mildly. Paks looked at the axe, down at her leg, and then unwrapped her hands from the axe handle. The axe fell with a clang. “If the blade’s damaged,” Cieri went on, “you can grind it down yourself. I’d thought you too seasoned a fighter to lose your temper for a little thing like that.”
Paks said nothing, still angry. Pain from her leg began to demand attention. He came forward, and picked up the axe, running his fingers over the head and blade edge. Then he looked at her.
“You’re damned lucky, Paks. Now will you believe me about axes?”
“I can learn.” She was surprised at her own voice, furry with anger.
His eyebrows rose. “Oh? How? By cutting off your limbs one at a time? The way you’re going, you’ll be an axe-fighter about the time you’re holding the axe in your teeth.”
“I could—if you weren’t badgering me.” Paks glared at him, saw the flash of his dark eyes.
“Me! You—not even a yeoman—you’re telling me, the weaponsmaster, that I shouldn’t heckle you? I thought you had more sense—and here you stand flatfooted like a novice yeoman, then lose your temper just because I tell you so, and then this! I suppose I should be glad you aren’t a Girdsman.”
“I—” Paks was suddenly conscious of all the other listening ears. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“So you should be,” he said crisply. “You’ll miss days of work with that leg, and I don’t think you’ll find yourself in the same class when you come back. If you do.”
Paks looked up, startled, to meet a grim cold Cieri she had never seen. “Sir?”
“It might pass in a novice, Paksenarrion, but not in someone who claims to be a veteran. Was all that just an act?”
“What?” Now she was completely bewildered. It must have shown, for Cieri’s face softened a trifle.
“That even disposition you showed until today. That smile, that willingness. Which is the real you, Paksenarrion? Do you know yourself? Or are you acting a part all the time, inside and out?”
“I—I thought you—liked me,” she said. She knew at once it was the wrong thing to have said.
“Liked you? Gird’s arm, what do you mean by that? Listen, Paksenarrion, you come here on trial, not even a Girdsman—you come in full of life as a yearling colt, showing off, taking every trick I know, everything the other Marshals can teach you—and teaching your own tricks to the others—and you expect us to like it? Well, any teacher likes a willing student—but that’s not enough for us. We’re training Knights of Gird, Paksenarrion, and paladins, who will go and and die for the justice Gird brought. You—you’re playing with us, enjoying a safe, exciting time doing what you like to do. Then you’ll go where you please, using what you’ve learned for your own ends. The rest of us aren’t playing a game.” He shook his head. “I’ve let you play; after all, you’re a good practice partner for the others. I thought, from the way you seemed to be, that you might join the Fellowship and justify the time I’ve spent. But I won’t waste my time on games any more. We’ll see what the Marshal-General says, before you return.” Paks could hardly believe her ears. He was turning away when he glanced at her leg. “Better wrap that; you’ve bled a lot.”