“We don’t use polearms often,” said Stammel. “We’re a fast-moving, flexible infantry, and swords are better for that. But we do train with ’em and we use them sometimes. So. First you’ll learn to carry something that long without getting all tangled up in it. Remember those reeds we gathered last week you were so curious about? Well, they’ve been drying in the storelofts, and you’ll each take one.”
Soon they were back in formation, each with a twelve-foot reed in hand. Stammel had shown them how to hold the mock spears upright; now he gave the command to move forward. Five of the reeds tipped backwards. The butt on one tripped the recruit in front of the careless carrier. When he stumbled, his reed swung out of control and hit the file leader on the head.
“Pick ’em up—don’t stop, come on! You’ve got to hold them firmly—don’t let ’em waver. Keep in formation, there. Stay in step or you’ll trip each other.”
The reeds dipped and wavered as if in a windstorm as Stammel led the unit to the far side of the parade grounds. By the time he called a halt, most faces were red.
“Now you see what I meant. The only easy thing about spear work is how easy it is to mess up the whole formation. If you ever see one of the heavy polearm companies, like Count Vladi’s, you’ll see how it should be done. Now—you’ve got to learn how to shift those things about. Together, or you’ll all be tangled together. So just holding them upright, we’ll practice turning in place.” He called for a right face. Two recruits let their reeds lag behind the turn, and the tips bumped neighboring reeds. “No! Hold them absolutely steady when you turn. Keep ’em straight. Try it again.”
After a dizzying few minutes of facing left, right, and about, the unit could turn in place without any wavering of the reeds. Stammel wiped his face and glanced at the corporals. They were trying not to grin. Far across the parade grounds, he could see another unit practicing. It looked worse than his, he thought.
“Next step is the slope,” he said. “Don’t move anything until I’ve explained. First, you’ll put the butt a handspan behind the right foot of the man in front of you; file leaders, that’s an armspan in front of you. Then slowly tilt the reed back over your shoulder—you have to be careful not to let the butt slip forward. Then your left hand grips two spans below the right, and you lift it onto your shoulder. That gives enough clearance in front for marching. Don’t let it swing free; use your grip to hold the butt end down. Bosk, show them how to do it.”
Bosk came forward and took Paksenarrion’s reed from her hands. He held it upright, and demonstrated the facing movements they had practiced: the end of the reed, far over his head, scarcely quivered when he turned. Then he loosened his grip and let the butt end slide toward the ground, tilting the reed as it slid so that it grounded an armspan in front of him. While his right hand steadied the shaft, his left hand reached below and lifted; the reed rose, keeping the same steep slant. When his left hand reached his right, he shifted the right quickly to the lower grip.
“That’s the position you want,” said Stammel. “Now, show ’em how to move with it.”
Bosk strode forward, the reed steady on his shoulder, not waving or dipping with his stride. When he turned, they could hear the whirr as the end of the reed sliced the air. He made a square, then returned the reed to an upright position and handed it back to Paks.
“Ready—” said Stammel. “Ground the butts—” Paksenarrion felt the length of reed quivering as she tried to let it slide slowly through her hands, aiming the butt somewhat ahead of her right foot. It bumped the ground.
“It’s too close to you,” said Bosk. “Slide it out further.” Paks slid the butt along the ground until Bosk nodded.
“Now tilt ’em back along your shoulders,” said Stammel. Paks let the top of the reed fall back slowly. The butt came off the ground, but she pushed it back before anyone said anything. Some were not so lucky. Stammel and the corporals were yelling at those who let the reeds get out of control. At last all were in the correct position.
“Left hands down,” said Stammel. “And lift, but keep it under control. NO!” he roared. Paks heard a smack and a yelp of pain as someone’s reed landed on someone’s head. Her own wavered as she tried to shift the grip of her left hand. “Steady!” Paks let her eyes slide sideways to see how others in the front rank were doing. Everyone seemed to be in the right position. “Now—bring them back vertical again. That’s right. Now slope ’em back—no— No! Control it, don’t let it get away from you.”
They repeated this exercise again and again until the whole unit could shift the reeds from vertical to sloped position without getting out of position. Paksenarrion’s arms ached, and her palms tingled unpleasantly where the reed slid back and forth.
“We’re going to march back with them at slope,” said Stammel. “And you’d best not look as foolish as the other units, either. Anyone who drops a reed—” he scowled at them.
They managed to make it back to the courtyard before the others, without dropping anything but sweat. By the time the other units were in and halted, their own reeds were safely on the ground.
Gradually their weapons skills improved. They took fewer—but never no—thumps from Siger, and the spears seemed more manageable. After Paks took the skin off the inside of her left arm during archery practice, she learned to keep her elbow braced correctly. They all suffered a variety of lumps, cuts and scrapes, but the only serious injury in Paks’s unit was Mikel Falsson, who fell from the wall while working on repairs and broke both legs. He recovered, but with a bad limp, and eventually went to work in the armory.
“He was lucky not to lose either leg,” said Devlin. “That was as nasty a break as I’ve seen.” Paks shuddered, remembering the white ends of bone sticking out.
“If there’d been a Marshal here—” began Effa. Devlin interrupted.
“No. Don’t say that. Not here. Not in this Company.”
Effa looked puzzled. “But I thought Phelan’s Company recruited mostly Girdsmen—doesn’t it?”
“Once it did, but not now.”
“But when I joined, and said I was a yeoman, Stammel said it was good.”
“Sergeant Stammel, to you. Oh yes, we’re glad to get Girdsmen—the more the better. But there’ll be no Marshals here, and no grange or barton.”
“But why—?”
“Effa, leave be.” Arne tapped her arm. “It’s not our concern.”
It was not in Effa’s nature to leave be. She worried the question any time the corporals and Stammel were not around, wondering why and why not, and trying to convert those (such as Paksenarrion, Saben and Arne) who seemed to her virtuous but unenlightened. Paks found these attempts at conversion annoying.
“I’ve got my own gods,” she said finally. “And that’s enough for me. My family has followed the same gods for generations, and I won’t change. Besides, however good a fighter Gird was, he can’t have turned into a god. That’s not where gods come from.” And she turned her back on Effa and walked off.
Meanwhile, she and Saben and Vik discussed religions in a very different way, fascinated by each other’s background.
“Now my family,” said Saben. “We were horse nomads once—my father’s father’s grandfather. Now we raise cattle, but we still carry a bit of hoof with us, and dance under the forelock and tail at weddings and funerals.”
“Do you worship—uh—horses?” asked Vik.
“No, of course not. We worship Thunder-of-horses, the north wind, and the dark-eyed Mare of Plenty, though my father says that’s really the same as Alyanya, the Lady of Peace. Then my uncle’s family—I’ve seen them dance to Guthlac—”
“The Hunter?”
“Yes. My father always goes home then. He doesn’t approve.”
“I should think not.” Vik shivered.
“City boy,” teased Paks. “We gather the sheep in from the wild hunt, but we know Guthlac has great power.”
“I know that. It’s
“Who are they?” asked Paks.
“Sertig’s the Maker, surely you know that. Craftsmen follow him. Adyan is the Namer—
“You’re a harper’s son?” asked Saben. Vik nodded. “But you’ve no voice at all!”
“True enough,” said Vik, shrugging. “And no skill with a harp either, though I had one in my hands as soon as I could pluck a string. My father tried to make a scribe of me, and I wrote as badly as I played. And got into trouble, liking to fight. So—” he looked at his hands. “So it became—wise—for me to move away, and make use of the skill I
