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Chapter 41. Sparring |
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nluan’s bearish form lumbered ahead of Armand, leading him to a small yard behind the crowded huts. There was the stump of an old tree that had conveniently become a chopping block and there were cords of wood stacked up under oilskins to age through the summer. Nearby there was a mountain of aspen and alder logs that needed to be hewn down to size for the hearth and stacked up under one of the oilskins to season. Armand was aware that the man was watching him to see if he balked. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and laid it aside on one of the oilskins before jerking the heavy axe out of the chopping block. “How long have ye been with my daughter?” Anluan asked as Armand set a small length of log on the stump and swung unerringly, splitting it cleanly. “In the autumn before Wintersday, or near about.” Anluan sat down on a stack of logs and watched, his weathered features expressionless. “She saw ye in the circus and took a fancy?” “Not exactly,” Armand replied, stifling a strange urge to grin as he recalled the moment he had met her while he was half-crazy with infection and trapped in a cave. Instead he focused on his blows, splitting the logs with practiced precision. It had been one of the odd jobs he had performed for shelter or food in the lean days after the Searing. Its repetitive simplicity calmed him and helped him to focus. “My daughter is one of the Chosen of Balthazar,” Anluan continued, forging ahead, his arms crossed grimly, “Her kind weren’t meant for your kind.” Armand paused and straightened his back, turning to meet the man’s dark eyes. “And my kind would be?” “Vagabonds and lay abouts,” the man rumbled accusingly. “You brought me out here to spar,” Armand replied, “You will have to do better than that to provoke me. Or you could simply ask.” Anluan stared at him, then roared with laughter. “I’ll grant, ye have pluck, little man, but I’d snap ye in two. Nay, I’m givin’ ye a chance to walk away gracefully and in one piece.” Armand shrugged and swung the axe, splitting another piece of wood with a loud crack. “I’m not leaving,” Armand replied, hardly out of breath, “So it looks like you’ll have to try splitting me in two.” Armand hated being proved correct in such situations. Anluan thrust to his feet and stripped off his heavy bearskin coat, tossing it aside demonstratively. He stripped to his thick leather breeches and flexed his arms, revealing muscles like young tree trunks. Armand sighed and lodged the axe back in the stump before he unbuttoned his blouse the rest of the way, and put it aside with his jacket. Anluan was a man of honor, at least, and would not come at him swinging a weapon. Not that Armand was concerned either way. “This is your last chance,” Anluan warned, “I’d hate to ruin that pretty face.” “Pity, I’m rather fond of it, myself.” Now the warrior hesitated, unaccustomed to seemingly weaker prey acting so unconcerned. “Go into the yard,” the warrior said grimly, “Too cramped in here and I’d at least like to give ye a chance to run.” “How kind of you,” Armand replied, somewhat relieved there would be more space as he walked between the narrow passage into the brighter yard outside the entrance to the Gaenor household. He trod toward the far end of the yard near the silvered fence rails that marked the boundary of their home while Anluan stood twenty paces off with nothing between them. They circled slowly now, taking one another’s measure. As if on cue, the other denizens of the tiny community appeared and took up seats on the fence rail or at the door stoop. “I apologize for what I must do now,” Anluan rumbled, “but I love my daughter.” “As do I,” Armand said. He hissed a brutal incantation as the warrior sped toward him, his light frame limned in magenta as the hex curled around Anluan’s body. A look of confusion caused the man’s rugged features to tense, but he continued, swinging and then gasping in pain as Armand ducked aside gracefully. A second incantation burned from Armand’s lips as the warrior backed away in confusion only to wince in agony when the hex punished him for inaction. Enraged, Anluan barreled toward him and was flung back with an agonized cry by a single harsh word. “Stop this!” came a woman’s voice before Anluan could gather himself for another attack. It was clear he was in a great deal of pain, an unexpected pain that was at once maddening and humiliating. Armand straightened, indicating that he was done fighting for the nonce. He watched as a lithe towering figure trod gracefully into the yard and chanted softly, her form shimmering with chaotic magic as she lifted the punishing hex from Anluan. The warrior glanced up at her, then grunted grudgingly and walked away. “Supper in half an hour,” the man rumbled as he opened the door, “Wash up and join us.” “And you are?” said the woman coldly, her hands resting on her hips. Her black hair was gathered up in a flowing tail and her eyes were the color of thunderclouds. The curious neighbors were now filing away until she stood alone at the gate in her fur-lined coat. “Armand Leblanc.” “Did you bother to tell him what you were?” “He never asked.” The faintest trace of a smile graced her lips. She was pretty, he had to grant her that. “Maeve An Binnech,” she said, nodding curtly, “I hope you enjoy your stay. I doubt Anluan will challenge you again.” “Where does one wash up?” he asked as she turned to leave. “There is a kettle of snowmelt in the longhouse,” Maeve replied over her shoulder. Armand watched her leave for a moment, then turned to gather his blouse and jacket. It did not take him long to find the heated water and retire with a bucket of it to a private corner of the building to cleanse the sweat from his body before donning his attire once more. By that time he saw many of the villagers were beginning to file into the longhouse with steaming bowls and platters. These were placed near the center of the great chamber on a raised bench. “Army!” Brigit called to him as he prepared to return to her house. Instead he smiled as she rushed up to embrace him possessively. It was difficult not to notice how drawn and sad her freckled face looked as he graced her with a chaste kiss and allowed her to lead him toward one of the rough tables. “Hello, my love,” he said quietly as he sat down beside her on a trestle bench. “How did your time with my father go?” she asked. Armand shrugged. “Alright, I guess. It wasn’t fatal.” Brigit laughed. “He isn’t as bad as he seems once you get to know him.” He wondered if Anluan had said anything to Brigit or her mother about what had transpired outside the house. He bit his tongue when he saw her parents striding toward the table with tense smiles on their faces. “Olga made chicken and dumplings,” Brigit said, though he could tell she was forcing herself to sound happy about their situation. There was a distinct puffiness about her eyes that betrayed the fact that she had been weeping. Clearly her mother had put her through something far more dreadful than what Anluan had inflicted upon him. “We’ll be alright, my love,” he whispered to her, squeezing her hand gently, “I won’t leave you, no matter what.” “Army, please, not here,” she said hoarsely, warning him she would weep openly if made to discuss it further. Now he was worried for her, wondering how she had been pressured and for what reason. He felt Neave’s eyes upon him and he returned the gesture, then nodded politely. “Ah, a good meal is in order,” Anluan rumbled as if nothing were amiss. He rose from his bench across from Brigit and went to join the gathering line of villagers where the food was steaming toothsomely. “Want me to get you some dumplings?” Armand asked Brigit, wishing there was something he could do to cheer her up. He felt helpless in the face of her sadness. “Olga will get your meal,” Neave said evenly, “You are guests. It is the least we can do to make you feel welcome.” With that, Neave rose to join the others, leaving the two of them alone. “I’m sorry, Army,” Brigit whimpered, “I should never have brought you here. This is no life for you.” He frowned, confused by her words. “I don’t mind being here.” “For a week, maybe,” she croaked, “but you’re so happy in the circus. And maybe you could write and tell me about it and… and I’ll get Maeve to finish teaching me my letters.” And then she really did begin to weep, loud racking sobs that caused the chatter to die down and bring the eyes of the villagers to bear on her. He was holding her, uncertain what was expected of him. “Brigit,” he whispered into her ear, “wherever you are is where I am happy. If it has to be here, then here I will stay. There is only one way I’ll leave you and I’m in no mood to talk to Grenth right now, so you’re stuck with me.” “Don’t jest about dying,” she sobbed, trying not to laugh, “I’d rather die than live in a world without you, Army.” “Well, it’s true,” he soothed, holding her like a child now and rocking her gently. “What about the circus? What about Mog and Teleri and Pen… and everyone?” “I’m sure your parents will give us a chance to put our other obligations to rest before we come here to stay.” “Aye,” said Anluan’s voice, startling him, “Maeve says you’re alright and we could always use another warrior around the place come winter. So long as ye return before snowfall.” “Of course,” said Armand, “That will give us time enough to finish performing before the circus settles in Brauer for the winter. And we can stop back at the island before then to let everyone know where they can find us. You never know, maybe a few will come back with us if you have urgent need of defenders.” Anluan laughed and set down a mug of ale before Armand. “Let us drink to that, then. We shall give you and any who come a hearty welcome.” |
