Read Online The Outskirter's Secret by Rosemary Kirstein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosemary Kirstein
Tags: Rowan, bel, inner lands, outskirter, steerswoman, steerswomen, blackgrass, guidestar, outskirts, redgrass, slado
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length, resilience, and possible
advantages and disadvantages in strategy.
She did not care to lose her sword. Of all
those she had used or owned, the sword she now carried was the only
one with which she felt something approaching the true unity of
fighter and weapon. She had no intention of permitting anyone to
take it from her.
The sword was one that Bel had stolen for her
during their escape from the fortress of the wizards Shammer and
Dhree: a standard-issue guardsman's sword, stolid, unadorned,
seemingly unremarkable. But although there was no magic power in
Rowan's new sword, she suspected magical processes behind its
construction. It was lighter than its length suggested, and a shade
stronger than its weight would lead one to assume. It held its edge
longer, and under stress it revealed the slightest hint of flex,
permitting her to use more aggressive maneuvers, moves that would
risk breakage in a common sword, or cause its user to be trapped in
a disadvantageous stance.
With her knowledge of these differences, the
steerswoman now found during practice that her strategies became
incomprehensible to her opponents, while maintaining to herself an
elegant interior logic. She began to enjoy using the weapon and
became, for the first time in her life and to her great surprise, a
superior swordswoman.
"Let's go."
The steerswoman looked up. Bel was cleaning
her hands with dirt and leaves. The rabbit carcasses, legs tied
together with a strip of skin, were draped over a low-hanging
branch.
"What?"
"Let's practice."
"In this weather?"
The Outskirter raised her brows. "You plan
never to fight in the rain?"
Rowan laughed. "Very well, then." She stood,
tossed the Outskirter weapon hilt-first to Bel, and found her own
sword.
They moved into a larger clearing nearby, and
as they faced off, Rowan took a moment wryly to note the oddity of
the scene: rain spattering through the trees all around, a murky
humid sky lowering above, tendrils of ground mist snaking and
vanishing, whirling around the legs of two women who were
carefully, intently assuming a battle stance—both damp as otters,
and clad only in their underlinen. Then Bel made her move.
They stepped into the drill as if stepping
into a dance, patterned and familiar, as Rowan studied the action
of the Outskirter weapon, trying to reason out its weaknesses and
turn them to her advantage.
Eventually Bel stepped back. "No."
"What?"
"You're trying to use your edge against my
flat."
Rowan used the respite to regain her breath.
"Your flat is wood. I thought to be able to chip away at it and
weaken the sword."
"It'll take you forever." Bel pushed wet hair
from her eyes. "And I have more weight, and more strength. You'll
exhaust yourself." She beckoned, raised her sword. "Try again, with
your usual style. But slowly."
Artificially slow movement was more tiring
than swordplay at normal speed, and Rowan's muscles trembled as her
weapon met Bel's careful downstroke. Rowan parried, and as ever,
the superior resilience of her sword began to absorb some of the
power behind Bel's blow, affording Rowan an easy escape.
She began to take it: a shift of weight, a
half step back, preparing to take advantage of her opponent's
longer recovery time—when Bel said, "No. Come in ."
Reluctantly, Rowan moved her weight into the
stroke, found her strength overmatched, slid her blade up Bel's,
instinctively shifting to the strongest section of her own
sword—
At Bel's word, they paused: face-to-face,
edge-to-edge at guards. "I don't like getting this close," Rowan
told Bel.
"I know. Now twist your edge. No, away from my guard, and use all the
strength you can." Rowan complied, to no visible effect whatsoever.
"Good." Bel stepped back and dashed the water from her eyes with
one forearm. Rowan vainly attempted to wipe her fingers dry on her
singlet, to improve her grip. "Now again," the Outskirter said when
both were finished, "full strength, up to speed. And then
halt."
Rowan tried
advantages and disadvantages in strategy.
She did not care to lose her sword. Of all
those she had used or owned, the sword she now carried was the only
one with which she felt something approaching the true unity of
fighter and weapon. She had no intention of permitting anyone to
take it from her.
The sword was one that Bel had stolen for her
during their escape from the fortress of the wizards Shammer and
Dhree: a standard-issue guardsman's sword, stolid, unadorned,
seemingly unremarkable. But although there was no magic power in
Rowan's new sword, she suspected magical processes behind its
construction. It was lighter than its length suggested, and a shade
stronger than its weight would lead one to assume. It held its edge
longer, and under stress it revealed the slightest hint of flex,
permitting her to use more aggressive maneuvers, moves that would
risk breakage in a common sword, or cause its user to be trapped in
a disadvantageous stance.
With her knowledge of these differences, the
steerswoman now found during practice that her strategies became
incomprehensible to her opponents, while maintaining to herself an
elegant interior logic. She began to enjoy using the weapon and
became, for the first time in her life and to her great surprise, a
superior swordswoman.
"Let's go."
The steerswoman looked up. Bel was cleaning
her hands with dirt and leaves. The rabbit carcasses, legs tied
together with a strip of skin, were draped over a low-hanging
branch.
"What?"
"Let's practice."
"In this weather?"
The Outskirter raised her brows. "You plan
never to fight in the rain?"
Rowan laughed. "Very well, then." She stood,
tossed the Outskirter weapon hilt-first to Bel, and found her own
sword.
They moved into a larger clearing nearby, and
as they faced off, Rowan took a moment wryly to note the oddity of
the scene: rain spattering through the trees all around, a murky
humid sky lowering above, tendrils of ground mist snaking and
vanishing, whirling around the legs of two women who were
carefully, intently assuming a battle stance—both damp as otters,
and clad only in their underlinen. Then Bel made her move.
They stepped into the drill as if stepping
into a dance, patterned and familiar, as Rowan studied the action
of the Outskirter weapon, trying to reason out its weaknesses and
turn them to her advantage.
Eventually Bel stepped back. "No."
"What?"
"You're trying to use your edge against my
flat."
Rowan used the respite to regain her breath.
"Your flat is wood. I thought to be able to chip away at it and
weaken the sword."
"It'll take you forever." Bel pushed wet hair
from her eyes. "And I have more weight, and more strength. You'll
exhaust yourself." She beckoned, raised her sword. "Try again, with
your usual style. But slowly."
Artificially slow movement was more tiring
than swordplay at normal speed, and Rowan's muscles trembled as her
weapon met Bel's careful downstroke. Rowan parried, and as ever,
the superior resilience of her sword began to absorb some of the
power behind Bel's blow, affording Rowan an easy escape.
She began to take it: a shift of weight, a
half step back, preparing to take advantage of her opponent's
longer recovery time—when Bel said, "No. Come in ."
Reluctantly, Rowan moved her weight into the
stroke, found her strength overmatched, slid her blade up Bel's,
instinctively shifting to the strongest section of her own
sword—
At Bel's word, they paused: face-to-face,
edge-to-edge at guards. "I don't like getting this close," Rowan
told Bel.
"I know. Now twist your edge. No, away from my guard, and use all the
strength you can." Rowan complied, to no visible effect whatsoever.
"Good." Bel stepped back and dashed the water from her eyes with
one forearm. Rowan vainly attempted to wipe her fingers dry on her
singlet, to improve her grip. "Now again," the Outskirter said when
both were finished, "full strength, up to speed. And then
halt."
Rowan tried
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