"You'd better. But that's a smaller target than you're ready for. And it moves. You've something to learn before you face a live spearman with an axe."

Paks nodded, and turned to the enemy tree. She had just gotten in position for a stroke at the left-hand branch when Cieri stopped her.

"Now look, Paks—you've got more sense than this. Look where you are."

She was sideways to the "enemy," in easy reach of the right "arm."

"You can't face him directly with that axe—think! Where can you strike, and be out of range."

Paks was annoyed at herself. She moved around the side of the tree, and swung at the left branch from there. She heard the wood creak as the axe sank deep, and was halfway into the next stroke when Cieri yelled again.

"Gird's blood! Do you think he'll stand still while you chop him up? Move, girl!"

Paks felt the blood rush to her face. She jumped, whirling the axe high, and swung again at the branch. It split before taking the full force of her blow, and the axe swung on to lay a deep gash in her leg as she landed from the jump. Furious, she ignored the pain and aimed a vicious slash at the main trunk, straight at Cieri's mark. The axe stopped in midstroke, wrenching her shoulders, and hung in the air.

"Let go," said Cieri mildly. Paks looked at the axe, down at her leg, and then unwrapped her hands from the axe handle. The axe fell with a clang. "If the blade's damaged," Cieri went on, "you can grind it down yourself. I'd thought you too seasoned a fighter to lose your temper for a little thing like that."

Paks said nothing, still angry. Pain from her leg began to demand attention. He came forward, and picked up the axe, running his fingers over the head and blade edge. Then he looked at her.

"You're damned lucky, Paks. Now will you believe me about axes?"

"I can learn." She was surprised at her own voice, furry with anger.

His eyebrows rose. "Oh? How? By cutting off your limbs one at a time? The way you're going, you'll be an axe-fighter about the time you're holding the axe in your teeth."

"I could—if you weren't badgering me." Paks glared at him, saw the flash of his dark eyes.

"Me! You—not even a yeoman—you're telling me, the weaponsmaster, that I shouldn't heckle you? I thought you had more sense—and here you stand flatfooted like a novice yeoman, then lose your temper just because I tell you so, and then this! I suppose I should be glad you aren't a Girdsman."

"I—" Paks was suddenly conscious of all the other listening ears. "I'm sorry," she muttered.