ARMY HQ THE HIGH KING’S HOST HORSE HEAVEN HILLS (FORMERLY SOUTH-CENTRAL WASHINGTON) HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA) AUGUST 8, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
rack.
C rack. Huon Liu grunted as the shield buffeted into his, taking him at a wicked angle that threw the stress across his leg rather than punching straight back into his fighting crouch. He snarled and switched stance as fast as he could, trying not to stagger, giving ground and bringing the shield up. The armored figure rushed at him with a movement as smooth as oil, nothing to see above the shield save the long vision slit in the curved visor. He was wearing an open-faced sallet himself, but he’d been maneuvered until the lowering sun was making him squint.
Perhaps if he tried a looping flourish cut and-
Crack and his sword struck against the shield, jarring his right hand and arm. It pushed in, binding and hampering his sword-arm.
The other sword lunged towards his face. He brought his shield up and around and ducked his head, desperately trying not to block his own vision. The other’s shield twitched out to block his cut at the leg then darted in to lock its edge under the rim of his and lever it aside.
Another quick pivot, and the blunt tip of the wooden practice sword struck the back of his thigh with paralyzing force. Huon gave an involuntary grunt of pain and went down on one knee, desperately propping the point of his shield on the ground and against his shoulder, whipping his padded oak sword back.
The High Queen stepped back and used the edge of her shield to knock her visor up. Her face was red and streaming with sweat, but she grinned at Huon.
“Not bad, youngster. And you don’t give up, which is the essential thing. If they cut off your arms and your legs, your last words should be: Come back, you coward, I’ll bite you to death! But you’re still thinking too much while you’re doing. Just throw the lever and let it happen. Disarm me, you two.”
Huon levered himself back to his feet and racked the battered practice weapons with the others; nobody in the Household slacked off. Even the Queen spent at least two hours a day at it, and she had enough other work to choke a horse. There was no choice; if you lost your edge you were easy meat in a fight.
Though with armies this big-St. Michael witness, tens of thousands!-commanders may not fight with their own hands as much or as often. But it’ll still happen, and it only takes once to die.
He was wearing the gear he’d picked up in Portland; a brigantine of small steel plates riveted between two layers of leather on his torso, plate vambraces and greaves, a mail camail for neck and shoulders and rows of steel splints on leather for his thighs and upper arms. It was good protection by skilled armorers, and even with the letter of credit he hadn’t quite dared to order a suit of plate that he’d outgrow in a year or less with the prospect of doing it all again several times before he reached his full height. He wasn’t going to be towering, but his hands and feet indicated he’d be adding inches yet.
Right now the armor seemed to be squeezing at him, and he made himself control his breathing. Ogier de Odell was the other Royal Squire now. He was in a suit of plate-he was also a year older-and he’d already relieved Mathilda of the shield and drill sword. Huon lifted the helm and padded cap off her coiled brown hair, transferred them to the armor stand outside the door-flap of the tent and began on the buckles and straps and the slip-knots in the laces of the arming doublet as the High Queen stood or moved to ease their task.
Ogier grinned at him as they worked; he was a good sort, and didn’t presume too much either on his years or his birth; of course, he was very much a younger son of the Count of Odell, not his Viscount-heir. With two sets of trained hands at the task it went quickly. He still felt a little reverence as he handled the suit. It was made from arcane pre-Change alloys that were usually too refractory to work, matchlessly light and strong, the sort of thing only a monarch could afford because it involved a team of highly paid specialists for a year or more using technology right at the limit of the possible.
“You’re in my position right now,” she went on to him as the plates came off.
A page came with a T-tunic to replace the doublet, and Huon handed her the sword belt with the live steel. In the field you wore it even when you were sitting down to eat.
“Your Majesty?” he said, as he knelt and cinched the tooled leather.
“You’re fighting opponents with more weight and bulk. There are ways around that, and it’s a good idea to know them. You’ll be bigger than me soon, but you’re never going to have the High King’s inches, or even Ogier’s.”
“Odard wasn’t a very tall man either, my lady,” Huon observed.
About your height, in fact, he thought; Mathilda Arminger was very tall for a woman, maybe a thumb’s-width over average height for a man. Odard was medium-sized, but he was quick as a weasel.
“No, but he was very bad news in a fight,” Mathilda said. “I saw him kill a lot of bigger men. Including a Moorish corsair in his last fight who, and the Virgin witness that I’m telling you the truth, was the size of Lord John Hordle and had at least as much muscle. He used a brassbound club I could barely lift one-handed.”
Huon blinked; the Dunedain leader had beheaded an enemy’s warhorse with a single stroke of his greatsword once, and taken off the knight’s head with the next, chopping right through the bevoir plate. It wasn’t the only legendary feat that hung around his name. The thought of his brother’s end brought a familiar rush of mingled pride and grief; also a twinge of doubt that he’d ever be able to live up to the legend.
Mathilda grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ve got years to do that.”
He bowed, and flushed at her good-natured chuckle.
“Now disarm and come join me at table.”
Ogier helped him, though the squire’s kit he wore was a lot easier to shed than a knight’s outfit. He suppressed a groan of relief as the armor and padding came off and the hot dry air dried the sweat. This area had plenty of heat and dust, and only just enough water for drinking. The smell wasn’t too bad; everyone went down to the Columbia and washed once or twice a week and you got used to rankness in the field.
We wash once a week whether we need it or not, as the saying goes, Huon thought.
“Perceptive, our liege-lady, isn’t she?” Ogier murmured. “Sometimes you suddenly remember who her mother is.”
“She’s kindhearted, though,” Huon said, also quietly, since the implication was that the Lady Regent was not. “ And she’s good with a sword, too. I thought maybe it was troubadour’s spin, but it wasn’t, was it?”
“Nope. She’s no d’Ath or Astrid Loring, but she’s pretty good, definitely better than the average man-at-arms, the speed and skill makes up for the bulk. Especially in this armor. They’re thinking of marrying me off to Anne of Tillamook, you know?”
“I’ve met her. She’s very nice,” Huon said, wondering at the segue. “My sister spent some time there and she says Anne’s a good mistress.”
Yes, I’d heard about that match. It’s logical; she inherits. Tillamook isn’t exactly rich, but a Countess isn’t going to wear wooden shoes even if a lot of her subjects do! He’s a third son, but his father is a Count. And the families are allies, so it makes sense to link them.
“She’s very smart,” Ogier said. “And pretty, too; and our children would be heirs to a County, even if it’s a bit of a damp, remote one. But I won’t have to worry about my wife knocking me off my horse at a tourney, if you know what I mean.”
“Neither will the High King,” Huon pointed out. “Sweet St. Michael, have you ever seen the man spar? I did just a couple of days ago. He makes the Protector’s Guard knights take him on two or three at a time so he’ll have to really work.”
Ogier nodded and gave a grunt of agreement. “And he deals with them like he was stropping a razor,” he said. “He may be a pagan, but by God he’s a fighting man!”
Then he clanked off to take up his duties; he was in charge of the inner guard this watch. A bell rang from somewhere nearby, and was echoed across the encampment. The royal pavilion wasn’t very large, but it had a tall flag post with the banner of Montival at its peak; now that was lowered, and respectfully folded by a detail. From here you could see a dozen separate encampments, the contingents of the gathering host. It was six-just time for the Angelus-and a haze of woodsmoke lay over the rolling hills and their coat of golden sun-dried grass, with here and there a patch of reaped wheat.
The bell rang again, and the household all knelt except the guards on duty. Chancellor Ignatius had come in
