No True Scotswoman
Adrenaline spikes through my body. I take a deep breath, desperately trying to control it.
Wild instinct isn't going to get me through this one.
In an instant I have a grip on myself. Then I exhale, and let myself relax a little.
Tightly controlled fury isn't going to get me through this either.
Only cold determination and fire of mind, blent into a steel-hard line of purpose, will serve me now. I must not only control myself, I must wield myself too. I must be both the pilot, and the Silverwing. This isn't the course-setting I would have chosen, but no flight path is perfect, just as no ship is ever truly your own until you fly it solo.
Dougal is a worthy foe, and I've mastered him on other fields.
But he has height, reach, strength, and decades on me in this one.
I ought to be terrified.
So why am I suddenly happy?
I've heard of battle-joy, but this is ridiculous. . .
There is a ringing snap into the hush of the courtyard as our blades clash, and then disengage. We each take a step back. I raise my shield arm, and bring my knife up into a defense position.
My vision tries to narrow onto Dougal, with his longer blade, and shorter shield-brace, but I force my attention to stay on the broader situation. The cobbles of the courtyard. The stalls of the shops. The people, tables and chairs scattered around.
He may be a master at his own chosen weapons, but I am a master of surviving on whatever I can find.
This entire situation is my weapon. If I can find a way to use it, I might just have a chance here. . .
We circle slowly, sizing each other up.
I catch his first two slashes on my shield arm, and deflect his third with my knife. I twist back as he lunges, and then I jump sideways unexpectedly. He swings around to follow me. . . and his foot slips into a hole left by a missing cobblestone. The very hole I was aiming to drop him into. I manage a strike across his shield arm as he stumbles, and just barely nick the shoulder of his coat on the upswing.
The tearing sound is small, but it practically echoes across the courtyard.
I didn't reach skin, but first blood is still mine.
An odd expression crosses his face, but I don't have time to focus on it. He's back on his feet in an instant, using the momentum from his stumble to swing into a roundhouse lunge.
I just barely manage to dodge, throwing both my arms out for balance, and entirely accidentally, catch the back of his head with the edge of my arm-shield. The dull thudding sound descends straight into the pit of my stomach, even more directly than Dougal face-plants into the cobbles.
I smile, and suddenly want to scream at the top of my lungs.
If this is battle-joy, then it bears all the hallmarks of raging insanity. . .
Red Sorcha tosses her knife to reverse the blade, and brings it down swinging towards Dougal's neck. . .
And the Pale Lady stabs the collar of his jacket.
There is a clashing sound as the point of my knife hits stone through the cloth, and a tearing sound as I pull it free.
This time both noises are swallowed by the silence of shock.
I back up a pace, needing to catch my breath, and desperately trying to re-set my hold on both my weapon and myself. But I only get a bare second to regroup, as with a grunt, a leap, and a curse, Dougal is back on his feet, and this time snarling mad.
He advances hard. I am not used to dodging this much, or at all, and so our blades clash five, six times before he finally overreaches me, and I can get my dagger hand under his. I swing hard towards a nearby wall, and pin his wrist with mine. Our shield arms clash as we lean in, warring for leverage. He uses his height against me, but I twist, and angle my arm up, until my wrist is braced against his chin. He's forcing me back, and I can't hold much longer. . . My thumb hovers over the tonfa bar extension button. If I extend it, it will jam right into his windpipe. But I don't know what damage that would do, and this is absolutely not the time to find out.
Just because I can kill doesn't mean I have to. I've just proven that.
So now I prove it again.
I shove hard against his weight, and leap backwards out of his reach. When he staggers forward, off balance for a second, I meet his eyes, for the first time in this encounter. Then I hold up my shield arm, and extend the tonfa bar.
It only takes him a split second to understand.
Finality mixes with the shock in his eyes.
This next clash will be the end. One way or another.
You can do this, Beauchamp. He's better at fighting, but you're more of a fighter. He may be the expert at weapons, but you are the expert at him.
How does he expect this next attack to go? Use that, and then flip it against him.
"You never knew you were going to walk into a fallacy today, did you Dougal?"
I'm panting with exertion, but my voice is steady.
His eyes flash with annoyance.
If we didn't have an audience, he'd ignore me.
But we do. So he can't.
And when it comes to audiences, I have the advantage, and he knows it.
"No true Scotsman would fight a lady, would they, Dougal?"
We slowly circle each other again, waiting for the right moment, the right angle. . .
"Good thing I'm not a Scotsman, then, isn't it?"
I smirk as he blinks, and then, for the first time, I press my attack. My slashes are inept, but fast, and inexorable. None get past his defense, but that wasn't the point of them.
The point is, he is the one defending. No matter what happens next, that's a victory.
And everyone in this courtyard knows it.
He retreats back close to the stables. Then, with one kick I manifestly do not see coming, he sweeps my legs from under me, and lands me on my backside, deep in a haystack.
I accept it for what it is – the expert taking out the novice with such casual ease as to make it clear just exactly what all the previous fuss and bother was actually about – and I lean back into the relative softness to catch my breath.
Jamie is almost instantly by my side, grinning broadly.
Extra proof, if I needed it, that it was all just a test. That Jamie hadn't stepped in to stop us at the beginning, and that no one else made any noises of protest at any point throughout had already told me so, but it is good to have this confirmation.
And that he's grinning so widely makes me think I might have actually passed. He helps me up, and leads me back over close to the pub entrance, where someone has set up a few chairs. I collapse into one, and lean my head in my hands, utterly exhausted.
Dougal goes in to the stables, and comes out leading Donas into the yard. He rummages in one of the big horse's saddlebags, and calls out, "Tarbh Dubh?"
"Aye, Fireun?" answers Angus.
"Take down some notes."
Slowly, Angus pulls out his e-padd.
"Skill," says Dougal, matter-of-factly, "Novice. Technique. Untrained, but intuitive. Strength. Average. Speed. Average. Agility. Unremarkable, needs work. Initiative. Strong, but with a tendency to overthink. Bodily awareness. Good for a beginner, but also needs work. Situational awareness. Excellent. Creativity. Masterful."
He finds whatever he was looking for in the saddlebag, and comes over to stand in front of my chair.
He crosses his arms as I look up at him. He meets my eyes.
"Fighting spirit. . . legendary."
He leans down, and takes the sgian-dubh from me. With the same motion, he lifts my hand, and nicks the heel of my palm with the point of the blade. Then he smears the blood down the flat of it, and smiles grimly.
I am too tired and surprised to react with more than a blink.
"Ye must allus blood a blade, tae let it ken its master. Now, 'tis bought an' paid for." He closes my fingers around the knife again, and lets my hand drop. Then, he hands me what he was looking for in Donas's saddlebags. It is an e-padd memory card, labeled "Training Lvl 1".
He grunts as I take it, "From now on, practice two hours a day. Every day. Half an hour strength training - Ye need tae be able tae land a forceful enough hit to make a dent wi'out relying entirely on power moves – ye cannae count on allus havin' the angle or the momentum. Half an hour reflex training - Yer reactive moves are a joke – there were fifteen times ye parried when ye should ha' dodged. Fifteen. Yer only excuse is that this is yer first day at it. An' one hour combat forms." He pauses, and gives a very, very small smile, "Ye'er a beginner – no' hopeless. I'll test ye again in a month. Dinnae let me down."
He backs up, and raises his voice.
"Evary man ov ye has my permission tae thump annyun who questions if this woman is a good an' loyal Scot. Bu' ye'el let her throw the first punch befoor puttin' yer oar in. Always. Understood?"
There is a very short pause, and then a chorus of agreement.
"A warrior chooses their own battles, an' whenever possible, the ground they're fought on. Ye will respect her right tae do so, as she respects yers. Understood?"
Another chorus of agreements
"An' given that all warriors under my command are given their own choice of a fightin' name, Mac Dubh's wife is now Claire tae ye. Or Mrs. Fraser. Nowt else, until or unless she tells ye ye'ev earnt the right tae call her Red Sorcha – or whichever such name she may choose. Annyun calls her Sassenach wi'out her express permission will answer tae me – personally. An' I'll be armed. Is that understood?"
The agreements are slightly louder this time.
I nearly cheer. He's taken them all back. Every man of them. He's leading them, as he hasn't been, this entire time. I've never admired Dougal more than I do at this moment.
And, it may look like he's putting me in my place, but I know what that means.
It means he's giving me a place.
He's saying we're allies. At last.
And, of course, by making a few concessions to me, it means he's got the upper hand again. But I have Jamie now. I barely care.
"Mac Dubh?"
"Aye, Iolaire-bhuidhe?"
"Would ye an' yer wife care tae have tea wi' me this e'en?"
Jamie doesn't look at me for confirmation. He knows what I'd say.
"We would."
"Good. 'Tis the third cottage from the end of this row jus' heer," he gestures vaguely, off to his left, "Dinnae be late."
Then Dougal lifts himself astride Donas, and clop-clops slowly out of the yard.