The Blacktongue Thief

45 Blood to Milk

If I had any worry that one of Yorbez’s age might hold us up, they were put to rest watching the industry with which she conducted her morning exercise just before dawn. First, she ran to the top of the hill and back to get her blood up. Then she tied a rope between two trees and did a sort of dance around and under it, ducking, then striking up with sword and shield, ducking, then striking up. Made me tired just to watch.

Then she and Galva sparred with several students, including Malk, using wooden swords, and that was a brutal business. Malk did all right for himself against most, but he was easily outclassed by both Galva and her mistress. I wonder if he got a chill to think back on the duel he’d nearly fought with Galva—it was pretty clear from the sparring that it wouldn’t have gone well for him.

I confess I hadn’t thought much of Yorbez to look at her, but when it comes to fighting, it isn’t always the most fit-looking geezer that wins. Yorbez was only fast when she had to be, and then it was blinding. When she fought Malk and the younger Spanths, she ducked, reversed directions, cracked knees, got behind her adversary, all while never seeming terribly bothered. You couldn’t put your finger on why each exchange ended with the other eating wood; it looked like luck, but of course, it wasn’t. She just seemed to casually fall into place where she was supposed to be and feed the other one a sword or a heel or an elbow.

Her tough wooden bullnutter whacked one girl in the chest so hard she gritted her teeth and dropped her sword, which earned her a crack across the back of the knee that dropped her to the ground. Yorbez, hot from the fight, stripped off her shirt. I was standing near Galva at the time and couldn’t stop myself from saying:

“Why are you and Yorbez both missing your tits?”

Galva flicked me an eaglish side-eye, then went back to watching the sparring field. Malk was stepping up for another round with Yorbez. “We took the cut of Dalgatha.”

“You mean…”

She nodded and chopped over each of her own pectorals to illustrate.

“By the crooked pricks of goblins all. I thought you were injured in the war or the like.”

Galva shook her head. “I took the cut when I was twenty, before I marched to Gallardia. The Skinny Woman loves a dam who prefers blood to milk.”

As if to illustrate how very loved by Dalgatha she was, Yorbez kicked Malk’s leg out from under him and landed heavily on his chest with a squat, grinning and tickling his neck with the wooden point of the bullnutter.

She let Malk up and motioned for Galva, saying something in Ispanthian that made the rest laugh. All but Malk, that is, who brushed himself off and limped over to me, saying, “You want to give the old bird a go?”

“Fuck if I will,” I said.

“Fuck if I should have. It’s got to be magic.”

“I didn’t see any magic,” I said.

“It’s the only explanation,” he said.

“Is it?” I said. “I saw her run up and down a hill for breakfast while you were lying in, sorting out whether to pick your arse or scratch your nuts.”

“Magic,” he said, and spat, and limped off.

He missed a hell of a show.

Galva and Yorbez fought so pretty with their deerlike Calar Bajat leaps, whip-turns, skip-lunges, and the lightning-fast leg-sweeps that dropped soldiers of every nation on their arse, I’m not even sure who won.

We broke camp soon after and crossed the border into Molrova.