Chapter Eight: Lessons

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The hearth burned low, and the remnants of cheese and lentil porridge simmered in the cauldron. Outside, the camp was humming with activity. Voices rose and fell past the door, iron chinked and clanked, horses whinnied, and every so often, gruff shouts rang out. Peering out the door into the midmorning sun, I saw nothing and no one. I quickly washed and ate, half-afraid of what I’d find once I set foot on the other side of the door. I didn’t have the stamina for another expedition.

The men all made their way toward the western pasture. Others had gathered on the knoll, and a commotion rose from their direction, but I could see nothing. With my warbelt bound tight and my weapons by my side, I followed.

Mounting the slope, I climbed up the rise behind the others and followed the sounds of clanging iron. At the top of the rise, I met a wall of men, their backs to me, watching something in the field. I shouldered through the crowd to find Bornon clashing swords with a young novice of maybe sixteen winters. I asked the man beside me what was happening. After giving me a long look up and down, he informed me that it was a training day. When there was no pressing business at hand, veterans saw to the education of younger members. Surveying the field sent a little thrill through me. Though I saw no sign of Aric or the Hellene, further afield men fenced with swords, boxed, grappled, practiced archery. Boys and young men lined up to watch and take their turns. It seemed a ripe opportunity for me to take mine as well. 

Before me, Bornon gave a demonstration on guard positions with a sword to a group of young men. I stood with them, listened to his instruction, and watched as he allowed each youth a chance to stand across from him and try his skills. For a stout man, Bornon was surprisingly quick. I’d never seen anyone faster with a blade. When they’d all taken their turns, I stood before him and reminded him of our introduction, when Aric had bestowed his own sword upon me, and humbly asked if he would instruct me in its proper use.

He stood and squared his thick shoulders as he stared at me with his soft brown eyes. Meaty hands gripped the hilt of his short sword. The young men around us glanced nervously from one to the next. He said nothing. Instead, he sheathed his sword and walked away.

Everywhere I went, I found the same. I approached; the instructors retreated. I watched, and I listened, but none of the tutors would train me when my turn came.

Walking to the central hearth for dinner, I passed a vazarka called Mourdag coming back from the pastures, his linen tunic spattered across the chest with blood. His square face, cut and bruised from fighting, was framed in thick waves like oak bark, and his pale eyes shone like two silver coins.   

I looked him in the eyes and nodded, an attempt to be cordial, even though he’d been a prick to me earlier, refusing to train me in the boxing square.

Glowering at me, he mumbled, “hamazon witch,” as he passed.

“Go fuck yourself,” I said, and I intended to leave it at that. But as I walked on, a swell of rage surged up in me. I turned around, marched over to him, and, with a closed fist, bashed him upside his thick head. He swung at me and missed as I ducked. We grappled for a bit, both refusing to let go of the other, and I tried to kick him in the balls. He was too quick, leaping back out of reach. He snarled, drew back his fist, and held it at the ready.

I leaned in and stared him in the face, waiting. “Go ahead, I dare you,” I goaded him.

He drew his head back, his eyes grew wide, and his face fell slack. “No.” He wagged his head and went meek like a scolded boy. “I won’t strike a woman.”

Still gripping his arm, I dug my nails in as hard as I could. “Do it!” I screamed at him, trying my best to rattle his massive frame. “I fucking dare you!”

He released his hold on my arm and thrust me away.  

“Coward!” I taunted.

“Oiorpata,” he said and spat at my feet. Then he spun around and stomped off, his fists still clenched.

“I thought you were men here!” I shouted after his retreat. “Cunts!”

“You’re doing a shitty job of making friends,” Aric said at our evening meal when I related the incident with Mourdag, wanting him to hear it first from me.

“I’m not here to make friends,” I said, holding my bowl out to him as he scooped a revolting brown slop from the cauldron. “I’m here to train—so I can learn to fight enemies.” I slumped beside him on a reed mat spread over the grass with my bowl of slop. 

“These men are not your enemies.”

“Has anyone told that to them?”

He stared ahead and chewed.

I dropped my spoon into my bowl. “How am I supposed to learn or grow stronger if no one will train me?”

He turned to face me, his hand propped on his thigh. “You need us. We don’t need you. Look,” he gestured to the others seated around the fire, all engaged in their own talk. “Who sits with you now? Who speaks with you willingly? They don’t care who your father is or why you’re here. You want their fellowship, you have to earn it….”

His words stung because he wasn’t wrong. “How?”

“You’ll try again tomorrow. If you’re sure you’re ready?”

I looked him in the eye. “I’m ready.”

“We’ll see.”

“No matter how strong you are,” Aric said, his fists raised, shoulders like a bull’s, forearms knotted like the cords of a rope, “most men will be stronger.” 

He stood opposite me on a flat patch of ground just after dawn, stripped of weapons—as was I. Dew soaked the grass, and the morning smelled of wet wool and cooking fires. A crowd of spectators swarmed around us. 

“This is simply a fact,” he said. “Even men who are small and thin might still surprise you. Don’t think because you are tall and fit, it’s ever enough.”

“I understand.” Disconcerting as his words were—unfair as they were—I knew he was right.

“In battle, skill with a horse and a bow level the field. But on the ground, a man’s muscle is his advantage. Learn yours. Keep him at a distance as long as possible. Know where he’s vulnerable. Always keep your daggers and sagaris close. If he is one-quarter bigger, you must be smarter or quicker by half. These are your advantages. Most of all, be ruthless. Never hesitate. Never flinch. Never yield. Is this clear?”

“It is.”  

“A man is more vulnerable than you in other ways. Use that.” 

“You mean, go for the balls?”

A smile broke his grim expression as he nodded. “He’ll guard them well, but,” he chuckled, “go for the balls. And the eyes.” 

I cringed, finding it hard then to meet his eye. 

“Anything soft you can get your blades, fingers, fists, knees, or feet into. Be ruthless. You must remember: In battle, the prize is life. Never expect mercy from your enemies. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be….”

“Then come and strike me, if you can.” Aric circled slowly around me like a wolf late to a kill. I moved around him too, but striking him without just cause felt ignoble. My hands were dead.

“Come on! Make your move,” he said, the rasp of his voice more urgent, forceful.

This is what I asked for. If I couldn’t do it, I’d never earn the men’s respect. I stepped in and took a swing at him with all my strength, which he easily sidestepped. Quicker than I imagined. Shit.

“Alright,” he said. “But a big move will be seen and ducked. Punch from the center of your chest. There’s no dodging that. Try again.”

I circled a half turn and tried again, this time darting forward and landing a good blow to his breastbone before he could duck. I didn’t want to hurt him. But the sensation was profoundly satisfying—the impact shuddering through my hand, up my arm, into my ribs.

He swung his fist and caught me hard in the shoulder, throwing me back a half step. A murmur rose through the crowd.

“Quick, come again,” he barked as I recovered my footing.

I stepped forward and jabbed again from the center, this time catching him in the jaw.

As the first blow glanced off my browbone into my right cheekbone, I turned away. But the next flew so fast, I barely saw it coming. Square into my nose and mouth. Before I could block. Before I could blink.

Pain didn’t frighten me, nor injury. Living around horses all my life, I’d had more than my share of broken bones and bruises. I’d been knocked about, trampled, kicked. Not to mention all the falls. But nothing could have prepared me for the feeling of a powerful man throwing his fists into my face. Of waiting in expectation of it. Of seeing it come, unable to duck fast enough. The force and sting of it. Radiating across my whole face and into my stomach. The loss of equilibrium. The way my teeth rattled in my skull. Seeing my own blood spatter across my breast. The taste of metal. All this in the space of a breath.

I reeled backward and, staggering, caught myself before I fell. I blinked, and my eyes were blade sharp. They only saw him. His eye locked on mine, his fists poised. He nodded his readiness almost imperceptibly. I lunged. Seized his beard with my left hand, pulling him to me and me to him. With my right fist, I shot three sharp punches to his nose, his eye socket, his mouth. I leapt back, still clutching strands of his beard in my fingers. He didn’t budge or flinch. His nose was bloody, his lip split, and a cut on his brow bled down his cheek. He grinned broadly, blood smeared across his teeth. 

“Ha, ha, that’s it!” He stepped toward me. 

I retreated as he advanced, fists up again. He spat a mouthful of blood and held up open hands in a gesture of peace. I braced myself as he came near and grabbed hold of my hand. 

“You can strike here,” he said and pressed the edge of my open hand to his windpipe.

Like the mane of a well-groomed horse, his beard’s auburn hair was fine and soft to touch. But he was still speaking, and I quickly shook off such odd distractions.

“Also, when you punch to a bony place, especially the nose, you can use the heel of your hand.” He turned my hand over in his and pressed his great palm to mine. My hands were by no means small or delicate, but they were still dwarfed beside his. I then understood just how much injury he could have inflicted if he had wanted to truly hurt me. “It does more damage, and you won’t harm your hand. You can throw all your weight behind it.” 

I swallowed the blood running down the back of my throat. “Thank you.”

“You’ve made a good start today. Go and clean yourself. We have a patrol to ride.” He slapped me hard on the back, and I tried not to wince. “Next time, Bornon will show you swords,” he said pointedly.

When I turned to see the men assembled, they were all gaping. Blood still poured from my nose and mouth, which I wiped on my tunic sleeve. Some frowned; others looked bewildered. But none probably more bewildered than I. 

Ravenous but not eager to face the others, I dragged myself to the hearth for our evening meal when we returned from our patrol. Worn and battered, Gohar was the first to approach, his expression grim. I slowed and braced for whatever came next.

He handed me a drinking horn full of mead. “You look like you could use this,” he said, and a grin slowly spread over his weathered face. “Ha, the woman who stood her ground against Aric… and lived!” 

I sighed in relief. “Thanks.”

“I can’t decide if you’re brave or stupid,” Gohar said.

“Ask me tomorrow?”

“Heh,” he jabbed at me with his elbow, spilling my mead. “Look here!” he shouted to the other men. I was about to protest, being too tired for whatever bullshit was about to be hurled my way. I just wanted to eat and maybe have a drink in peace, then fall into my bed without any more strife. But before I could stop him, he grabbed me by the arm and, spilling more of my precious mead, dragged me into the circle of the firelight. I was too weary to resist. “Look who’s shed her first blood of combat today.” To my great astonishment, most of the men stood and began to shout a cheer as they raised their horns. I looked up from my half-empty horn and saw them all drinking to me. To me.  

It was foolish, but the sound of it warmed me from within and made me hum inside like a tree full of bees. For the first time all day, I forgot my swollen face and the sting of my bruises—forgot the sting of the day before—and downed my first cup of mead with them.

As I prepared for bed, a little drunk from all the mead, Aric called me over to sit beside the hearth.

“Here, let me see.” He squeezed the bridge of my nose. 

“Ouch.” I winced hard. “That hurts.”

“You’re fine,” he said softly.

I didn’t fool myself that the quiet in his voice was the product of sympathy but rather the protocol of nighttime.

“It’s not broken. Your eyes will swell and blacken, but it will heal.” 

“I don’t mind,” I whispered and looked at the floor, unsure how to say what I wished to. “I’m grateful, truly.”

“Grateful?”

“Not for the bruises, I mean. But that you don’t treat me like….”

“Like what?”

“A girl.”

He furrowed his brow and regarded me a long moment. Then turned to stare into the fire. “It’s nothing.”

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Chapter Nine: Horse

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