The Blooding – Rise of the Witch Guard: Book One
by
Luke Sky Wachter
Copyright © 2013 by Joshua Wachter
All rights reserved.
Books by Luke Sky Wachter:
As of 08-06-2013
SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVEL SERIES
Admiral Who?
Admiral's Gambit
Admiral's Tribulation
Admiral's Trial
SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVELLAS
Admiral's Lady: Eyes of Ice, Heart of Fire
RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVEL SERIES
The Blooding
RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVELLAS
The Boar Knife
Visit AdmiralWho.com for more information.
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Table of Contents
Prologue: The Fond Farewell
Chapter 1: The Muster
Chapter 2: Over a Cart
Chapter 3: Tending Wounds
Chapter 4: The Visitor
Chapter 5: Explanations and Getting on with it.
Chapter 6: Lessons in Traveling
Chapter 7: Midnight Miss-adventures
Chapter 8: Breaking Camp
Chapter 9: Chance Acquaintances on the Road
Chapter 10: The Heralding of the Knight
Chapter 11: Dealing with Sore Feet
Chapter 12: Trundling In at Night
Chapter 13: Midnight Encounters
Chapter 14: Reporting in: Gaining Admission
Chapter 15: Reporting in: Seeking the Lord
Chapter 16: Reporting in: the Inner Sanctum
Chapter 17: Trekking Out
Chapter 18: A Good Night’s Sleep
Chapter 19: Coming to Terms
Chapter 20: Gathering your Dignity
Chapter 21: Meeting the Captain and other Harsh Lessons in Reality
Chapter 22: To the Stocks!
Chapter 23: In the Pillory
Chapter 24: Another Recruit
Chapter 25: First Impressions
Chapter 26: A Duel or a Training Exercise?
Chapter 27: Training and Filling out Inventory Forms
Chapter 28: More Training (Actual)
Chapter 29: Marching Out
Chapter 30: Flogging a Dead Horse
Chapter 31: An Encounter with Some Knightsons
Chapter 32: To the Victor Go the Spoils, or at Least the Scarf
Chapter 33: Trouble and Confrontations
Chapter 34: A Long Day’s March Doesn’t Mean a Long Night of Rest
Chapter 35: Night Training
Chapter 36: The Search for Sore Muscle Relief Leads to the Plotting of an Adventure!
Chapter 37: To the Camp Followers
Chapter 38: Mama Tulla’s Tent of Wonders
Chapter 39: The Last Camp
Chapter 40: Late Arrivals and Meeting the Enemy
Chapter 41: The Parley
Chapter 42: A Pep Talk and the Horns of War
Chapter 43: Battle: The Advance
Chapter 44: Battle: The Break Out
Chapter 45: Battle: Receiving the Charge
Chapter 46: Battle: The Aftermath
Chapter 47: Battle: Rallying to the Standard
Chapter 48: Battle: Pilling on
Chapter 49: Battle: The Pink Breakout
Epilogue: Not Just Binding Moonlight
Epilogue: The Chain
Sneak Peak
Chapter 1: Reunions can be Joyful or Full of Sorrow
Chapter 2: Mustering Out…or is it Mustering In?
Afterword
Prologue: The Fond Farewell
Falon would have never believed that the wagons could get fixed in time, or that after getting fixed they would ever be filled with enough food for the campaigns. But looking down at the two new-looking wagons, she had to admit she’d been wrong. Ernest and Duncan, the Doyle brothers who were there to accompany her on the first leg of their journey, had done an unbelievable job of fixing the old, rotten wagons.
“Remember to feed the oxen, and make sure not to let the men know about those two kegs under the driver’s seat,” Christie told her, sounding as if she was close to tears.
“Yeah-yeah,” Falon snorted, like she was about to just hand over the two kegs of pear wine secreted in the lead wagon before they had even left the Twin Village area.
“And make sure to take good care of Papa’s journal and study it as you go,” Christie instructed, holding her leather bound Chatelain’s Defense tome to her chest.
Krisy had tried to force it off on her, but Falon had firmly put her foot down. That old book might be the last part of her older sister’s dowry still left intact, and besides, the threat of rain or theft alone was reason enough for Falon to flat out refuse to take the burdensome thing.
“You do have your own journal, right?” Christie demanded, starting to look concerned as the idea suddenly occurred to her.
“Yes I have the stupid journal,” Falon grumped, “although I still can’t believe you justified the expense. Poor Phantom…”
“That horse is in a better place,” Christie said sharply.
“He’s on his way to a battlefield, Krisy?!” Falon stared at her incredulously.
Christie’s mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. “If not a better place, at least he’s once again doing what he was trained to do, Fal,” Christie corrected herself so flatly that from the sound of her voice Falon knew better than to press the matter, although she was greatly tempted anyways. It just wasn’t fair that they had to sell Papa’s old charger, and Falon still could not believe that old Phantom was gone.
“Whatever,” Falon finally replied with ill grace. If Papa had not taken ill, it would be him, not her that was riding off to war—and he would have been doing so on Phantom!
“Oh, let’s not spend out last moments fighting over a stupid horse!” Christie blurted, reaching over and throwing her arms around Falon began squeezing so hard that the breath suddenly whooshed out of the younger girl.
“Krisy, you’re killing me,” Falon wheezed.
Her older sister relaxed her grip fractionally. “You have to promise to eat well and look after yourself,” Christie ordered, still holding Falon in a death grip. She was about to continue with the laundry list of things Falon absolutely had to do—yet again—when Kaitlin, Sinead, Blair and Rogan suddenly swarmed them.
Eyes wet with tears, Falon looked down at all her sisters and single brother.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” she promised, and her voice caught as she did so.
“Come right back, Fal,” Sinead said gravely, not at all sounding like her usual, bratty self.
“As soon as you can,” added Blair.
“Just stay safe, big sister, and worry about returning after the battle,” Kaitlin said giving her a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, everyone,” Falon said as stoically as she could manage while feeling as if she were about to break down into tears.
Seeing a few of those tears, Rogan climbed up on Kaitlin’s shoulders and wiped them off.
“Thanks, Rogan,” Falon smiled through a watery gaze.
“Don’t worry Falon; you’ll come home safe to us. I just know it,” Rogan said gravely.
“Oh, how do you know?” she asked with a tremulous feeling welling up inside her.
“Because I told Bucket the Magnificent to protect you while you were away from home,” he said solemnly.
The thought of taking away her baby brother’s pretend warhorse was almost more than she could bear, and her heart clenched painfully. But her leaving was going to be traumatic enough for the whole lot of them brother and sisters. If it would ease Rogan’s mind, she
and Christie agreed that Falon should take the four-legged stinker with her.
Besides, on a more practical bent, it was a lot easier to replace a donkey than a warhorse.
Waving and crying, Falon got up on her ancient riding horse and watched over her shoulder as her family stood on the porch and held onto one another for support. Feeling tears stream down her face, Falon waited until she was far enough away that it was difficult to make out their faces before turning forward.
Resolutely staring at the neck of her palfrey, she resisted the urge to jump off and run back home as fast as her legs would carry her. She had only pretended to be a boy so she could sell their fruit crop in the local villages; hiding her gender among the men of their militia was going to be much harder.
While she knew that a real, proper boy would probably feel ashamed at the Doyle brothers seeing ‘him’ break down in tears, in this one thing she didn’t care. Let them think whatever they want, so long as they drive the wagons into town, she thought.
Urging her horse forward, she got out in front of the ox-pulled wagons. Oxen might be slower than draft horses, but as her older sister had discovered, they were just as strong if not stronger—and much less expensive.
Riding with her back toward the boys, she stared straight ahead. Against all odds, and under pretenses which would have easily been considered ludicrous for the most absurd bedtime story, she was going to war.
She wondered if she could keep the fact that she was a girl a secret, but she knew that she had to try. Her family was depending on her.
Chapter 1: The Muster
Arriving at the outskirts of the village proper was kind of anti-climactic. The Rankin girls had struggled and scrimped every bent penny they could find—and even sold their Father’s warhorse to outfit the pair of wagons and pay for the new metal-shod wheels.
So when the villagers smiled briefly at her arrival and then just as quickly turned away, she had to suppress the desire to glare at the whole lot of them. It had been an almost insurmountable task which had cost the girls more than any of these people seemed to appreciate, but instead of recognizing the Rankin heroic effort to get them fixed and filled with food, their sacrifice was simply taken in stride, as if it were a matter of course. Feeling her head starting to get hot, she looked around at the tearful partings taking place all around her and brutally suppressed her own feelings.
If others chose to care for their loved ones instead of complimenting her people on simply doing their duty to provide a pair of fully provisioned wagons, who was she to tell them they were wrong?
When put in that light, Falon felt herself starting to blush with shame. She would have certainly done the same thing, were she in their place.
With no on here to see her away—having already received her sendoff back on the estate—Falon sat stiffly in her saddle, feeling separate and more than a little left out. Even the farmer’s families had come in to see their sons and husbands off.
Grateful for the chance to get away from all that heavy emotion, Falon was the first one to put heels to horse (although, in point of fact, she had the only horse in the muster) and ride on out of West Wick, the only place she had ever known.
“What do ye think about our militia, Falon?” Ernest said as he walked up alongside her. “Don’t we make a fine display?” he asked his chest puffing up with pride.
Looking back at the East Wick men with their new boots and weapons of war, she had to admit that, even though they didn’t match the descriptions she had read in her books about formations of trained warriors, it was still an impressive sight.
“Very fearsome,” she finally allowed, and had to suppress a wince as one farmer’s son who had been strutting along the road with his nose in the air somehow managed to trip over his own spear.
Nine men, eleven boys and a pair of women trailed along behind and beside the wagons. Glancing at the women, she recognized the village Healing Wench, and a younger girl she didn’t know. Despite the official tally of families living in East Wick, it seemed the small village had managed a representative from every family. Or, she supposed in cases like with Duncan and Ernest, someone else had sent a family member in their stead.
Whatever the official tally, the villagers were wise enough not to try a short shrift of Lord Lamont for the men that were his due. Even if they later tried to claim tax breaks they really weren’t technically owed, she supposed that was only to be expected. A couple weeks of service every year for militia training was a big difference from actually sending your sons and fathers off to war.
“Nigel the Cooper gave a pair of free boots to every man what’s in the militia,” Ernest said proudly lifting up his foot to display his, and then added almost as if an afterthought, “he also made a pair for the healing wench and her apprentice.”
“Oh?” Falon asked cocking an eyebrow, she understood the Healing Wench coming along, but who was this apprentice? She had never heard of the wench having a student her before today.
“Measured my feet and everything,” Ernest continued, blathering on about his boots when what she really wanted to hear about was just about anything other than a stupid pair of boots—like the new apprentice healer, for instance, “and not only are they not a pair of Duncan’s patched together hand-me-downs, but the soles have been reinforced with cow hide!”
“Wonderful,” Falon sighed.
“Isn’t it though?” the famer’s boy agreed still looking down and greatly admiring his boots. In that moment, Falon resigned herself to hearing the virtues of a new set of boots no one else in the family had owned before you.
“I bet I could march from one side of the kingdom to the other with these clod-hoppers,” Ernest continued, going into great detail about the stitching and double reinforcement of the sole before she managed to tune him out.
She knew about hand-me-downs. Her sister Christie had handed her down just about every day and work dress she had ever owned. Falon’s fingers winced in sympathy, remembering all the hours she’d put into fixing her ‘new’ dresses from Krisy (her pet name for her big sister Christie) back before Mama Patience took sick and died. Repairing hems and pulling out frayed and broken threads weren’t one of Falon’s favorite winter and bedtime chores.
“-and that’s why I’m so glad to have this here spear,” Ernest said, lifting up the short spear in his off hand, and in the process ripping Falon from a trip down memory lane.
“What about your spear?” Falon asked, feeling the beginnings of a blush coming to the edges of her face from realizing she had been out woolgathering.
“I said,” Ernest repeated patiently, a look of long sufferance flitting across his face before disappearing, “Pa had Smith Vance turned his old sword into a plow years ago, which is why I’m just glad to be holding onto a real spear here today.”
“He did what!?” Falon blurted, genuinely shocked at such treatment of what was sounding like the only real family weapon.
Ernest leaned back in alarm, and then looking around at the motley assortment of weapons carried by the village militia, had the grace to look away. “It was all broken and rusty, Fal,” he didn’t quite mutter the words, but it was close enough she still had to strain to hear him.
For a second she was taken aback at the familiar use of her shortened name, and then she shook it off and gave him a stern look. “Ernest Farmer, if you ever get your hands on a sword and then beat it into a plow, why I’ll—I’ll…,” she started in a furious tone and then blinked, before suddenly finding her inspiration again, “take a cane and beat you with it, is what I’ll do,” she finished savagely. She was just a Squire’s girl who had been forced to pretend being a boy for the last few years, but even she knew that a sword was much more valuable than an old short spear.
“Pa couldn’t help it if’n he came back home with a broken sword,” Ernest declared, jutting out his jaw in obvious anger.
Momentarily taken aback, Falon’s face hardened. “A broken sword, no,” she said finally,
“but he can’t help having a rusty one?” she asked in such patent disbelief that Ernest’s face squirmed for a moment before hardening.
“So what if there’s a touch o’ rust, Falon Squireson,” Ernest demanded, “a little rust never killed nobody.”
Falon scowled in response. “Letting rust grow on your sword is like letting weeds grow in your garden; it’s simply not done, Ernest!”
She could see her words striking home, but being in the right only seemed to cause the boy to tap into previously unrealized heights of male stubbornness.
“That’s your opinion,” he said shortly and slowed his pace.
“That’s not just my opinion, it’s my Papa and—,” she ground to a halt, realizing that she may have won the argument, but had most certainly lost her traveling companion.
Craning her neck over her shoulder she stared at the boy she had been starting to think of as a friend. Meeting her stare coldly, Ernest deliberately looked off to the side ignoring her.
“Great. Just great,” Falon muttered under her breath after she turned back around, “I wonder if I’m going to get punched in the face again.”
Thinking about the first real fistfight she had ever been in, and then again the other day in the barn when the two farmer’s sons and their cousin had laid into each other even though they were family, she glared at the pommel of her saddle.
“Stupid boys,” she spat at her old riding horse. For her part, the horse flicked an ear in her direction but when Falon did nothing but mutter about the unfairness of having to deal with fragile male egos and their desire to get into a scramble at the drop of a hat, even the horse proved it had better things to do than listen to her and turned back forward.
“Dumb horses, stupid boys, idiot Princes and their confounded wars, anyway,” Falon grumbled rebelliously. Even so, she was careful enough to keep her voice down where no one could hear her.
The Blooding Page 1