Bastion (9 page)

So far he hadn’t found terribly much. Mostly, anything useful had been buried in the interviews that the Guard did with traders and entertainers before they were allowed to pass the Border. Thurbrigard was so
very
far away that no one had taken much thought to gathering intelligence on it. There were a very few mentions of it, and only then as places that traders said they carried goods from. Carved semiprecious gems for the most part: high value, small size. That made it worth carting them all that distance.

He could see why no one considered Thurbrigard any sort of a threat worth investigating. First, it didn’t seem to be a very prosperous Kingdom, so it was logical to assume it didn’t mount much in the way of armed forces. In the case of the gemstones, they were
semi-
precious. It was really the intricate carving that made them valuable, not the intrinsic value of the stones. If that was their best export, they weren’t a wealthy land. Second, before Thurbrigard could be a threat to Valdemar, its army (if it even had one) would have to wade across two or three other countries, one of which was the ever armed and ever hostile Karse. There would be plenty of warning long before it got as far as Menmellith if the rulers decided to get up to no good.

For that matter, the sudden abandonment of our Border by Karse would be a good clue that there was something up,
he thought, watching as Gennie and Jeffers passed the ball back and forth between them.

And third—why would they ever bother to come this far north? What could Valdemar offer that was worth trying to invade it across three other countries? Nothing that they couldn’t get by going to war much closer.

No one could ever have anticipated that some remote assassin clan would decide to come calling.

He felt someone coming up behind him and recognized her by the “sense” of her as Amily long before she actually reached the fence. “You could ask for your place back,” she said, putting her arms up on the top rung and leaning her chin on it as he was doing. “On the team I mean.”

“They already offered it,” he replied, ruthlessly pushing down a feeling of melancholy. “But it don’t feel right, takin’ it from Wolf. He’s good.”

“Not as good as you!” Amily protested—truthfully, actually. Wolf and his Companion weren’t as fast or as agile as Mags and Dallen. Wolf couldn’t Mindspeak to every other Companion and human on the team, either.

Still, they could
learn
to be as fast and agile, and Wolf’s Gift of Farsight could prove just as useful as Mags’ Mindspeech.

“But he ain’t gonna get better ’less he’s pushed to it, an’ if I take my place back, he ain’t gonna get pushed.” Mags suppressed a sigh. He didn’t say aloud what he was thinking—that after having all those memories shoved forcefully into his head, he just couldn’t look at Kirball the same way anymore. He’d been indoctrinated into the mindset of people who literally did not have a word for
game.
Sure, in the back of his mind he had always known that Kirball was training for warfare—and he and his fellow players had even used
those moves to help rescue Amily and capture—briefly—two of the assassin clan. But he hadn’t felt it, not deep inside. But now, he did. Now whenever someone made a move, his mind overlaid it with how that would play out in combat. He could still play, and play well . . . but the game would never be free of that for him, ever again.

He’d never again be able to lose himself in the game, which was half the fun of playing it in the first place.

Maybe this was why the experienced Guardsmen—the ones who had combat experience—hadn’t volunteered for the team.

“Nah, it wouldn’t be fair,” was all he said. “You busy?”

“Well, there are always things I can do . . .” She hesitated. “I was going to see if I could get a lesson with the Weaponsmaster.” She brightened. “I really love Weapons work! He’s been really kind about fitting me into every class I turn up for.”

Well, that would be something both of them could do. “Good idea.” He smiled at her. “Reckon we can both use as many of those as we can get.”

The Weaponsmaster, of course, was already putting a class through training. And as usual, it was a mixed class of mixed ages and levels of expertise. That hardly mattered; the Weaponsmaster was so skilled a teacher that this was merely a slight challenge to his abilities. Weapons classes were the one place where Trainees of varying levels of advancement actually
could
be taught together, so long as the teacher was a good one.

In fact, he welcomed them with a half smile and a nod and directed them to pair up with other Trainees for some sword work. Mags expected he’d be set up with one of the young Guardsmen who would have qualified as “advanced,” and indeed he was, but he was pleasantly surprised to see that Amily was put up against one of the Herald Trainees who was certainly “intermediate” if not a bit higher.

The helmet obscured the face of the young man he was paired up against, but the way the fellow moved let Mags know this was someone he had never fought with before. The young Guardsman’s introduction confirmed that. “Helden,” said the Guardsman, giving him a salute. “You’re Mags, right?”

“Aye, that’d be me.” Mags made sure that the straps holding all of his padding were snugged down tight, then tamped his helmet on. “Would you be a bodyguard in training?”

“Aye.” Helden shifted his posture into the ready position. “Queen’s men. Want to lead off as attacker? I’ve been hacking at Grell for the past three days, it feels like. I need some defense.”

“Trust me, it only seems that long,” Mags replied with a laugh, and went into the attack.

He spotted Helden’s weakness immediately as he scored a shoulder hit that would have taken his left arm off if it had been a metal blade and would have probably broken the joint if Mags hadn’t been pulling his blows. “Hold up a bit,” he said, “I want to see something. Hold out your left arm and fight what I’m doing.”

Helden obliged. Mags pressed up on it from below, and got heavy resistance. But when he pressed
down
from above, he felt the arm trembling and giving way. “There’s yer problem,” he said. “Ye need t’be exercising both sets of arm muscles.”

“But that’s my off arm,” Helden objected. “I won’t be holding a shield when—”

Then he stopped. He realized that if the Weaponsmaster had put Mags in charge of him, then Mags knew what he was talking about. So he properly shut up and let Mags explain.

“Ye’ll have armor on that arm that’s almost as heavy as a shield, and meant to serve as one,” Mags explained patiently. “Except that it don’t work exactly like a shield does. Ye gotta be careful with that kinda heavy arm armor. Ye don’t
block
with it, ye gotta learn to move and deflect. And ye can’t just tuck yer arm behind ye like ye been doin’. Started on Court fencing?”

Looking puzzled, Helden nodded.

“Thought so. Court fencing’s good training, but not for this. It’s all rules and lines. Bodyguardin’ is no rules at all, and figure the one comin’ at ye is gonna play dirty.” Absently he noticed that his speech had lapsed again, but Helden didn’t seem to notice or care, so he continued on. “That’s why ye’ll get armor on yer off arm, and yer to use it sorta a shield, only not the kind yer used to. Get off the line of attack if ye
can,
but ye may be pinned in—look, I’ll show ye. Come at me.”

Helden did, using the same pattern that Mags had—a stab at the gut, which was parried and turned into a cut down to the shoulder. Only Mags had brought his arm up in such a way that the wooden blade glanced along it and down, and while Helden was gawking, Mags closed with a hammerlike blow of his hilt to the gut, and as Helden staggered back, a cut to the neck that he stopped short of connecting.

“See?” Mags said. Helden nodded.

“It’s a whole different way of thinking,” the young Guardsman said, rubbing his neck.

“Right, so, instead of thinkin’ of it as unlearnin’, think of it as learnin’ something new. Like ye did when ye learned sword and shield work for in the line.” Mags scratched his head. “Got an ideer.”

He went to the equipment room and procured a tiny shield, not even the size of a dinner plate, to strap onto Helden’s left wrist.

“This’ll remind ye t’keep that arm out, not tucked behind,” he said with satisfaction. “Weaponsmaster’ll have some weights for the wrist, I reckon. Or heavier padding for yer off arm. But this’ll do for now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he had been watching Amily with astonishment and pleasure. She had changed into a pair of trews that she bound at the ankle and up her calves, and she was giving her partner as good as she got. She was favoring her bad leg a good bit, but compensating for it, and her partner wasn’t good enough to take advantage of the weakness. This was making Mags extremely happy. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she had said she could take care of herself.

He went back to turning the young Guardsman into a proper royal bodyguard. He suspected this fellow was destined to be part of Princess Lydia’s entourage rather than going to the Queen, since the Queen already had a contingent of men she knew and trusted, and he was in for a rude shock when he discovered that Lydia was probably as good as he was. Still, Lydia would often be hampered by robes of state and other impediments, not to mention being surrounded by half a dozen potential hostages in the form of her ladies-in-waiting. She’d need all the help she could get from her bodyguards in the event of an emergency.

When both Mags and Helden were soaked with sweat, the Weaponsmaster called a halt to the class. He’d come by a few times to suggest something but otherwise had been content to let Mags do the teaching, which had tickled Mags no end.

“Are you and Amily scheduled for anything?” he asked Mags, as the rest of the class went off to clean up.

Mags shook his head. “Caelen ain’t put me in any classes,” he replied. “And I guess Nikolas ain’t got any more questioning for me.” He glanced over at Amily, who was just coming over, pulling a helmet off her sweat-damp hair. “You got anything?”

“Anything to do this morning? Not really. Nor the afternoon, either,” she replied, with a curious look at both of them.

“Good.” The Weaponsmaster smiled thinly. “I’ve got just the thing for you.” His gaze unfocused for a moment as he spoke to his Companion, and when his attention returned to them, he smiled again. “It’s all arranged. Until Nikolas and Caelen decide what is to be done with you two, you are my new assistants.”

Mags gaped at him. “All day, sir?” he stammered, although it was not out of dread for the work. If anything, it was with a certain measure of relief. He wasn’t going to be able to think of
anything
while he was schooling others in weapons work.

“I see no reason why not,” the Weaponsmaster said, then shrugged. “Well, perhaps not Amily for the whole day. Not because she is a female, but we do not wish to place too much stress on her leg while she is still technically healing. But you? Yes.”

Mags felt himself smiling. “That sounds good to me, sir!” he said with real enthusiasm. Then he looked over at Amily. “Sound good to you?”

She rubbed the lobe of her ear thoughtfully. “I’ve never done . . . physical things . . . for days at a time before. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all to me.” She considered a moment more, then smiled. “Actually, sir, I wouldn’t mind more practice parrying while sitting. That would make me a perfectly adequate set of pells for the youngsters. More than adequate, since I can correct them as well as deflect them.”

“Good. There’s a pump and a sink in the changing room. Clean yourselves up a little. The next class will be archery and other distance weapons.” Now the Weaponsmaster’s smile turned sly. “Amily is going to give you some unexpected competition, Mags.”

It ain’t unexpected if I was expecting it,
he thought, but he didn’t say anything, just followed Amily to the changing room.

After all, if the Weaponsmaster wanted him to be surprised, well he could simulate that. Who was he to deprive the Herald of a little pleasure?

He blinked as he realized
he didn’t actually know the Weaponsmaster’s name.
No one ever referred to the man except by his title.
Well, that’s embarrassing. . . .

He sensed a chuckle from Dallen.
:Not as embarrassing as the Weaponsmaster’s real name. Marion.:

He was in the act of plunging himself head and shoulders into the filled sink of cold water and came up spluttering and coughing.
:Marion? Are you joking?:

:Can you blame him for preferring his title?:
Dallen replied.

:Not the tiniest.:
No wonder the Weaponsmaster was as good as he was. With a name like that, the poor kiddie must have had to fight practically from the cradle.
:What kind of sadist gives a boy a name like Marion?:

:Never asked. Don’t intend to. Suggest you don’t, either.:

Amily was giving him a peculiar look. “Water’s colder than I thought,” he said, and began toweling off. There were piles of old uniforms just one step up from the rag-bag in here, and he rinsed his tunic out in the sink when Amily had finished washing and hung it up to dry, taking another that was approximately his size and was either a gray so faded as to be almost white, or a white so dingy it was almost gray. It wouldn’t matter what color it was when he was done with the next class, because it would probably be soaked through with sweat again.

“I should do what you did,” he said, nodding to her. She had changed out of her regular gown and into a set of tunic and trews that were a red so faded they were pink. “Nobody’d take me serious in pink.” She snickered.

“I’d love to see you in pink,” she said.

“I might take that challenge,” he replied, and they both went back out as the sound of the next class arriving filled the
salle.

Of course, the class only remained there long enough to get bows, arrows, and other distance weapons, like sets of throwing knives. This time the Weaponsmaster put Mags in charge of an intermediate group and Amily with the advanced students. There were as many Healer and Bardic Trainees in this class as there were Heralds. Guards did their own drilling in distance weaponry. But Healers and Bards were often enough out in the wilderness alone and would need to defend themselves or hunt for food, so this training was mandated for them. Mags’ group was a mixed set of Healers and Bards, four of them. He set them at targets at twenty paces and kept increasing the distance until their arrows were falling short. Then he set to work with them, now that he knew what their base distance was. Of course, there was only so much distance you could get out of a bow with a given pull in the hands of an expert, but this lot was by no means expert yet.