The warrior-girl reins in and tosses the heavy bundle that balanced on her saddlebow to thump softly into the grass. She slips from the saddle, turning to pat her grey steed on the neck, and smile to him - “Well Fairwind, I think this is far enough that I won’t make a fool of myself on either job I have to do – I know, I’m supposed to be practicing my writing, but when I asked Rian and Fille to teach me I didn’t think it would be quite so hard!”
She turns and leaves him to graze, confident the Mark-trained horse won’t stray far, putting her blonde hair up into a messy braid and turning to a more pleasant task. Picking up the bundle, she sets up a heavy hay bale purchased from a Bree-farm on her ride out, and tugs out a long poleax with a wickedly curved blade. She unlaces the leather cover from that blade, and gazes in satisfaction down the well-turned handle to the gleaming steel head.
“Let’s see if I’m ready for you…” she mutters, and hefts the weapon over one shoulder, then, with a soft grunt, heaves it up into a guard position, morning sun flashing on the polished blade, and with a shrill warcry hacks down into the haybale. Changing stance, she cuts again, laterally this time, pieces of straw and dust flying, recovering, already sweating lightly, face flushed, aiming a third diagonal cut before stepping back, gazing critically at her target.
She sighs, and holds the weapon out at arm’s length, balancing the haft on one hand to find its balance point more precisely. “Not quite, not quite there yet, but soon…We just need to know each other a little better, that’s all!” So saying she returns to work, cutting, blade whirling and whistling until she’s well winded, gleaming with sweat, and the bale is reduced to fragments.
Finally she grounds the weapon and scoops up her waterskin, guzzling greedily, and dumps a good measure over her upturned sweaty face, sputtering happily and stretching. Turning back to the weapon, she takes a rag and carefully wipes dust and hay-bits away, giving the maker’s mark an extra tender buff before casing the tip again and setting the poleaxe aside.
Smiling, she looks back across the hill towards the distant roofs of Bree-town, and tosses down the waterskin – “Now, I’m in the proper mood for poetry…let’s see… “ Cyndwin pauses, then half-whispers, almost chanting, the Mark-tongue rolling out:
Lost glories litter the North, none now know the ancient songs,
Rain-veiled ruins, and forgotten fanes once fair - now ivy-claimed,
Their builders lain in hoary bone-house, silent but for weeping wind.
Rack of time, lost-battles ransom, somethingsomething…
Weary sight to far-wander’s eyes, stumbling amongst the stones.
Darkness comes down, but stars shine out,
Light like swords, darkness defying – a Star in the South and Star in the West,
Glimmer in the gloom, heralding home and rest…
A long silence and she bends for the waterskin, muttering “more to do …not ready, but better… and now for home!”
