The nerves vanished the moment their wooden blades first clashed and Thorn knew she had the lad well beaten. She dodged his second blow, steered away the third and let him stumble past. He was strong but he came at her angrily, blindly, his weight set all wrong. She ducked under a heedless sweep, almost laughing at how clumsy it was, hooked his shield down and struck him across the face with a sharp smack. He sat down hard in the dirt, blinking stupidly with blood pouring from his nose.
“You are the storm,” she heard Skifr murmur over the cheering. “Do not wait for them. Make them fear. Make them doubt.”
She sprang screaming at the next man the instant Jenner called for the fight to start, barged him into his shocked friends, chopped him across the stomach with her practice sword and put a dent in his helmet with a ringing blow of her wooden ax. He stumbled drunkenly for a moment while the South Wind’s crew laughed, trying to pry the rim back up over his brows.
“Men used to fighting in the shield wall tend to think only ahead. The shield becomes a weakness. Use the flanks.”
The next man was short but thick as a tree-trunk, cautious and watchful. She let him herd her back with his shield long enough for the boos of the Black Dog’s crew to turn to cheers. Then she came alive, feinted left and darted right, went high with her sword and, as he raised his shield, hooked his ankle with her ax, dragged him squealing over and left her sword’s point tickling at his throat.
“Yes. Be never where they expect you. Always attack. Strike first. Strike last.”
“You useless dogs!” snapped Crouch. “I’m shamed to be one of you!” And he snatched up the fallen sword, took up a shield with a white arrow painted on it and stepped into the circle.
He was a vicious one, and fast, and clever, but she was faster and cleverer and far more vicious and Skifr had taught her tricks he never dreamed of. She danced about him, wore him down, rained blows on him until he hardly knew which way he was facing. Finally she slipped around a lunge and gave him a smack across the arse with the flat of her sword they might have heard in Kalyiv.
“This was no fair test,” he growled as he stood up. It was plain he desperately wanted to rub his stinging buttocks but was forcing himself not to.
Thorn shrugged. “The battlefield isn’t fair.”
“On the battlefield we fight with steel, girl.” And he flung the practice sword down. “It’d be a different outcome with real blades.”
“True,” said Thorn. “Rather than nursing a bruised pride and a bruised backside you’d be spilling guts out of your split arse.”
Laughter from the South Wind’s crew at that, and Jenner tried to calm his helmsman with an offer of more ale but he shook him off. “Get me my ax and we’ll see, bitch!”
The laughter guttered out, and Thorn curled her lip and spat at his feet. “Get your ax, sow, I’m ready!”
“No,” said Skifr, putting her arm across Thorn’s chest. “The time will come for you to face death. This is not it.”
“Hah,” spat Crouch. “Cowards!”
Thorn growled in her throat, but Skifr pushed her back again, eyes narrowed. “You are a hatful of winds, helmsman. You are a hollow man.”
Odda stepped past her. “Far from being hollow, he is full to the crown with turds.” Thorn was surprised to see a drawn knife gleaming in his hand. “I never had a braver oarmate, man or woman. At your next insult I will take it upon myself to kill you.”
“You’ll have to beat me to it,” rumbled Dosduvoi, tossing aside his blanket and drawing himself up to his full height.
“And me.” And Brand was beside her with his bandaged hand on that fine dagger of his.
Many fingers were tickling at weapons on both sides and—what with the ale, and the injured pride, and the lost silver—things might quickly have turned exceeding ugly. But before a blow was landed Father Yarvi sprang nimbly between the two bristling crews.
“We all have enemies enough without making more among our friends! Blood shed here would be blood wasted! Let us make of the fist an open hand. Let us give the Father of Doves his day. Here!” And he reached into a pocket and tossed something glinting to Crouch.
“What’s this?” growled the helmsman.
“Queen Laithlin’s silver,” said Yarvi, “and with her face upon it.” The minister might have been lacking fingers but the ones he had were quick indeed. Coins spun and glittered in the firelight as he flicked them among the Black Dog’s crew.
“We don’t want your charity,” snarled Crouch, though many of his oarmates were already scrambling on their knees for it.
“Consider it an advance, then!” called Yarvi. “On what the queen will pay you when you present yourselves at Thorlby. She and her husband King Uthil are always seeking bold men and good fighters. Especially those who have no great love for the High King.”
Blue Jenner raised his cup high. “To the beautiful and generous Queen Laithlin, then!” As his crew cheered, and charged their cups, he added more softly, “and her deep-cunning minister,” and even more softly yet, with a wink at Thorn, “not to mention his formidable back oar.”