photographer who is also a civilian graphic artist. They have too many cats and two children who have learned how to fight anything, including zombies, from the age of four.
Riga Gundesdati, called Sworddancer, swigged from her bottle and pushed her helmet back on. Tendrils of flaxen hair obscured her eyes until she pushed them under the sweat-soaked leather padding.
All the students were working especially hard. Swordmistress Morle was watching, and some Herald from far Valdemar stood at the Yorl’s spot, studying them.
“Fight!” called the judge. Her new opponent, Ruti, looked nervous, so she charged.
“Yaaaaaah!” she shouted, and he hesitated. She swung her wooden practice sword and dropped her wrist, aiming for his thigh. He blocked and leaped, defensive, cautious, and timid. This fight was over, even if he didn’t know it.
A twist of her hips and shoulder brought her shield up against his swing. His blow was firm enough but without heart. She blocked it easily. His next strike was better placed, but he hadn’t yet realized that her presented stance—sword foot forward instead of shield foot—gave her longer reach.
With his third swing she had his rhythm. She shot her arm forward, pivoted at the hip, swung, snapped her wrist, and laid timber between his shoulder and helmet. A loud
She bowed in return and stepped out of the rope-edged vollar. She’d won three of five bouts so far.
Father was waiting, and she smiled. He took her in a huge hug. When young she’d complain about him squashing her, and he’d bellow, “I like squashing you!” He was getting on in years, but he was still tough and muscular.
He stepped back and kept hold of her shoulders.
“I already saw Erki. I’m called for a scout ride. I should be back in a week. Meanwhile, take care of Erki and ask the Swordmistress if you need help.”
Whatever was happening was huge. She kept the sob she felt to a sigh and hugged him close, hampered by leather and iron.
“Yes, Father,” she said.
“Good luck, girl. I’ll watch one bout. Show me your form.”
She nodded and hugged him again, then redonned her helmet and got in line.
Ten youths about her age were here today, having finished their letters and numbers. All the children learned to fight, even if they might go from here to pursuits like counting, textiles or motherhood. They were sea- and river-borne tradespeople and often had to fight attackers.
She wrapped up her musing because she was next. At a wave, she entered the vollar. Her opponent was Snorru, two years her elder, just now a man, big and proud, but he sometimes hesitated, worried about his appearance.
“Sworddancer and Strongarm. Honor having been given,
“Go, Riga!” her father shouted, then was silent. Coaching from the rope was not allowed, and he never had. He gave her her own mind, and she loved him for it.
Riga strode straight across the vollar, shield up and sword ready. Snorru swung, and it was accurate and strong. She deflected it, but it staggered her. His follow-up blow cracked on her shield and skinned her helmet.
She recovered, hiding behind her shield as she brought her sword up in front with a snap. The tip slapped Snorru’s wrist. His grip slipped and his weapon fell, as she swung up and around, cracked him in the back of the helmet, then his kidneys, then over into his chest. Her joints were trained to impart all their energy in a moment. He staggered down under the rain of blows.
“You could hit harder,” he said, rising and breathing hard, “but I grant you style.”
“Harder is better only so it breaks armor,” she replied. “Undirected force is wasted.” She offered a hand to him, and he took it.
She turned to find her father’s smile ... but he was gone. He’d known she’d be occupied with the bout, and he snuck out. She sighed. He was an honest but shrewd merchant, and that was so like him.
“He saw you,” her friend Karlinu said from the rope.
“Kari?”
“He left just moments ago. He saw your bout and grinned to split his face. That was great, girl! But you need to keep your tip higher when in guard.”
She knew that was a problem with her form, but she pushed Kari aside, hoping for a glimpse of Father.
“He’s gone. I’m sorry. And the Swordmistress wants to see you.”
She glanced at the youth vollar where Erki was working on his form. He was too eager, brave but incautious. Good with a sword, but his shield tended to drop.
She doffed her helmet, shimmied from her mail and left it in a neat pile near her cloak. Her real sword came with her, slung and ready. No warrior went without a weapon. She held the dressy bronze-tipped scabbard as she jogged. It was chased, with a falconeye jewel and a silver applique of a cat, its tail knotted about it. The plain fighting sword within was steel fitted with unadorned bronze around a chatoyant wood grip. She and Erki had fine blades. She tried to be worthy of hers.
Riga entered the Swordmistress’s tent at the field edge. She always felt nervous facing her teacher, as if there was something she would be chastised for. Nothing came to mind as an infraction, so she put it aside. Her sweaty gambeson didn’t help her nerves.
Not only Swordmistress Morle but also the visiting Herald were within. She bowed first to her Mistress, then to the guest. She faced Lady Morle but turned so she could study the Herald. He was tall, handsome, and very well dressed. His outfit was plain with just a touch of piping, but well fitted and spotless. He looked like something from a royal court.
She’d only heard mentions of Heralds, but they were highly regarded. This one had arrived a few days before, escorting a High Priest. He wasn’t one for any of the Kossaki gods, so he’d been made welcome as a guest.
Riga had no idea what had come about. The elders and her father, seemed aware of these Heralds and the priest and were unbothered. Now, though, her father had ridden off, as had most of the men and some of the women, all those trained and able to ride.
“Sworddancer, you must guide a party,” the Swordmistress said.
“I am honored,” she replied at once. Honored and scared. At sixteen, she was a capable fighter and skilled, but lacked the wiles and polish of her elders. She flushed hotter than she already was, then chilled.
“You hide your nerves well,” Morle said with a grin. She continued more seriously. “I don’t ask this lightly. A great many people need us.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she agreed. They were asking an adult task.
“Then look at this map.”
Morle unrolled the scraped vellum across her table and pointed.
“We’re here,” Riga indicated. “Little Town is there.”
“Yes. And there are refugees down here.” Morle indicated the south. “The villages south of Paust Lake are being sacked and destroyed by Miklamar’s thugs.”
Riga understood. “They’re fleeing. We can’t support them in our lands, and we must hurry them through in case we need to defend our own borders. We also don’t want the attention they’d bring.”
“Very perceptive,” the Herald spoke at last. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” she replied, meeting his eyes and trying not to be shy, “but I’ve studied since I was four. A map and supply count tell me all I need to know.
“I will lead youths, I presume?” she asked of Morle. “I can’t imagine I’m to lead senior warriors.”
“A youth,” Morle replied, and Riga gulped. “This is scouting, not fighting. There are thousands of refugees, and we’re not a large outpost.”
They weren’t even truly an outpost, Riga groused. Gangibrog, meaning “Walking Town,” was a glorified camp with little besides docks. Nor would the local resources permit it to become much larger. They were a trading waystop. River barges came from the coast; lighters went across Lake Diaska to rivers inland. Her family had traded widely; then Father retired here to raise them after their mother died.
“May I take my brother?” she asked. “He’s strong and sharp when he listens.”
“And you’re loud and bossy when he doesn’t,” Morle chuckled. “Why him?”
