"Hold!" cried Sir Maris, and the sergeant's broadsword paused in mid-chop. He dropped his buckler, staring about him. "Wot 'appened?"
"Had this Gallowglass not fought in sport alone," said Sir Maris, "thou wert a dead man this day, Sergeant Hapweed."
He scowled at Rod, puzzled. "Who would ha' thought to use a sword's point?"
"Shall we have at it again?" Rod's blade whined through the air and slapped against his leg.
Sir Maris studied Rod's face, his brow furrowing.
"Nay," he said, lifting his head. "I'll warrant you're a swordsman."
"Aye," muttered Big Tom, and Sir Maris glanced over at him; but the big man was only beaming with pride.
The Master of the Guard turned and caught up a quarterstaff. "Here!" He tossed it to Rod. "We'll try you with this."
Rod sheathed his dagger and caught the staff by the middle. He slipped his sword into its scabbard.
The big sergent was practicing quick one-two-three blows with his quarterstaff.
"Have at it!" Sir Maris called, and the big sergeant stepped forward, knees bent, quarterstaff on guard. Rod followed suit.
Then he was in the middle of an oaken rain, blows from the sergeant's staff drubbing about his head and shoulders, seeking an opening, a half second drop of Rod's guard.
Rod set his jaw and matched the sergeant's pace, catching the blows as quick as they came—jlist barely. His stomach sank as he realized he was on the defensive.
He blocked a swing at his shin, caught the rebound toward his head, swung the lower end of his staff to catch the answering blow at his belly—but the blow never came. It had been a feint.
Frantically, he tried to recover to guard his head, but the sergeant had gained his half second opening. Rod saw the heavy oak staff swinging at him out of the corner of his eye.
He sank back, rolling with the blow. It cracked on his skull like a thunderclap. The room darkened, filled with dancing motes of light; there was a roaring in Rod's ears.
He gave ground, blocking the sergeant's blows by sheer reflex, and heard the onlooking soldiers yell with triumph.
Won't do at all, Rod's thoughts whirled. He'd been trained at quarterstaff; but he hadn't had a bout in a year, whereas the sergeant had all the skill of a devout hobbyist. It was just a game to him, probably, as the swordplay had been to Rod. The sergeant was in the driver's seat, and he knew it.
There was one chance. Rod leaped back, his hands slipping to the middle of the staff. It began to turn end-over-end, twirling like a baton.
Rod set his jaw and put some muscle into it. His staff leaped into a whirling, whining blur.
It was French single-stick play, le moulinet. The sergeant probably knew it as well as Rod; but chances were he wasn't any better practiced at it than Rod was. It was rather exotic form, unless you were French. And with a name like Sergeant Hapweed…
SirMaris and Co. gaped. The sergeant stepped back, startled. Then a wariness came into his face, and his staff jumped into a whirl.
So he knew the style. But he wasn't a master; in fact, Rod had the advantage. The sergeant's staff was a blur, but a quiet blur. Rod's staff was doing a very nice imitation of a buzz saw. He had the edge on the sergeant in angular velocity, and consequent greater striking power.
Sergeant Hapweed knew it too; the muscles of his neck knotted as he tried to speed up his wing.
Now! Rod leaped forward. His staff snapped out of its whirl, swinging down counter to the rotation of the sergeant's.
The sticks met with the crack of a rifle and a shudder that jarred Rod's back teeth. He recovered a half second ahead of the sergeant and brought his staff crashing down on the sergeant's in two quick blows, knocking the other's staff out of his hands.
Rod straightened, drawing a deep breath and letting the tension flow out of him as he grounded the butt of his staff.
The sergeant stared at his hands, numb.
Rod reached out and tapped the man's temple gently with the tip of his staff. "Bang! You're dead."
"Hold!" cried Sir Maris, making things official. Rod grounded his staff again, and leaned on it.
Sir Maris scowled at Rod, eyes bright under bushy eyebrows.
Rod gave him a tight smile.
Sir Maris nodded slowly. "Shall I try you with a longbow?"
Rod shrugged, bluffing. With a crossbow, maybe. But a longbow…
A deep, skirling laugh rolled from the rafters. The Master of the Guard and all his men jumped. Big Tom fell on his knees, arms flung up to protect his head.
Rod's head snapped out, eyes searching for the source of the laugh.
On one of the great oaken beams crossing the hall sat a dwarf, drumming his heels against the wood. His head was as large as Rod's, his shoulders broader, his arms and legs as thick as Rod's. He looked as though someone had taken a big, normal man and edited out three feet here and there.
He was barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, and bull-necked. The shaggy black head seemed strangely large for such a truncated body. Black, curly hair hung down to the point of the jaw and the nape of the neck; bushy black eyebrows jutted out from a flat, sloping forehead. The eyes were large coal-black, and, at the moment, creased with mirth. They were separated by a hawk-beak nose under which thick, fleshy lips grinned through a bushy black beard, jutting forward at the chin. Square, even teeth gleamed white through the beard.
Someone had tried to cram a giant into a nail-keg, and had almost succeeded.
"Longbow!" he cried in a booming, bass voice. "Nay, I'll wager he's as fair a shot as the county ram in springtime!"
SirMaris glowered up at the dwarf. "A plague on you and your stealthy ways, Brom O' Berin! Is there not enough salt in my hair already, but you must whiten it all with your pranks?"
"Stealthy ways!" cried the dwarf. "Forsooth! Had you some pride in your calling, Sir Maris, you would thank me for showing you your own lack of vigilance!"
"Brom?" muttered Rod, staring "O'Berin?"
The dwarf turned to Rod, glowering. "Black Brom O'Berin, aye!"
"That's, uh, a combo of Dutch, Irish, and Russian, if I've got it right."
"What words of nonsense are these?" growled the dwarf.
"Nothing." Rod looked away, shaking his head. "I should have seen it coming. I should expect something else, on this crazy—uh… in Gramarye?"
The dwarf grinned, mischief in his eyes. "Nay, unless I mistake me, that hath the sound of a slur on the great land of Gramarye!"
"No, no! I didn't… I mean…" Rod paused, remembering that apologies were unbecoming for a fighting man in this culture.
He straightened, chin lifting. "All right," he said, "it was an insult, if you want it that way."
The dwarf gave a howl of glee and jumped to his feet on the rafter.
"You must fight him now, Gallowglass," SirMaris rumbled, "and you shall need every bit of your skill."
Rod stared at the Master of the Guard. Could the man be serious? A dwarf, give Rod a hard fight?
The dwarf chuckled deep in his throat and slipped off the beam. It was a twelve foot drop to the stone floor, more than three times Brom's height, but he hit the floor lightly, seeming almost to bounce, and wound up in a wrestler's crouch. He straightened and paced toward Rod, chuckling mischief.
There was a roar behind Rod, and Big Tom blundered forward. " Tis a trap, master!" he bellowed. "Witchcraft in this land, and he is the worst witch of all! None has ever beaten Black Brom! Yet I shall—"
Every soldier in the room descended on Big Tom in a shouting chaos of anger and outrage.
Rod stood a moment in shock. Then he dropped his staff and waded into the melee, hands flashing out in karate punches and chops. Soldiers dropped to the floor.
"Hold!" thundered Brom's voice.
Silence gelled.