Feeling guilty over badmouthing the Prince—a person she had never even met—it was almost a relief when her old mare started to sweat and show signs of fatigue. At least it gave her an excuse to get off the horse and stretch her legs.
Half staggering off the aged riding palfrey, Falon took the reins in her hand and resolutely kept her eyes forward as she walked.
A few hours later, with her legs starting to feel the unaccustomed strain of walking continuously in one direction for so long, Falon was excited to see that the East Wick militia party had already made it to the agreed upon meeting point: an old dirt packed crossroads.
Being in front of the West Wick men, she got more than her fair share of looks from the East Wicker’s. Forcing a pleasant expression on her face, she could feel some of the instinctive clannishness start to fade from the East Wickers when the men from West Wick spotted a two wheeled cart hauled out here by the East Wick men.
Chapter 2: Over a Cart
When the muttering started up behind her, Falon knew the West Wick militia group wasn’t feeling happy, but she completely underestimated the level of their response.
“Are you boys trying to show us up?” demanded a hot-tempered West Wick Farmer—whose name escaped Falon at the moment—and pointing at the cart. Some general muttering behind her and Falon know that his fellow villagers were tending to agree with them.
Curious, she looked over her shoulder, wondering at the objection. She had brought two wagons heaped with food and supplies, and it was West Wick that had helped get them turned around from their previous half-rotted state and back into a pair of fully functional conveyances. All East Wick had done was give them a reduced rate on purchasing some of the supplies.
“That wouldn’t be too hard,” retorted a younger East Wick man.
“What you need that fancy cart for then, you chicken monger,” another West Wick man shouted, sticking out his chin.
Looking back and forth from the East Wickers to the West Wickers, she was still perplexed over what the issue really was. Other than the cart and tending for a more traditional Old Blood look, with leather pants and vests instead of home spun clothing like New Blood West Wickers, there wasn’t much difference between the two groups. Both sides had the same motley assortment of mixed weaponry: mainly spears with a few others thrown in for flavor. Both sides had roughly equal numbers, and neither group looked significantly ‘better’ than the other.
“It’s not our fault if you lot are too poor to bring your own cart,” snapped a younger old blood man.
“Oh you did not just say that,” Blacksmith Vance barked, striding up to the front of the group from West Wick. While surprised that the village Blacksmith was coming with them, she had been aware of his presence ever since they left the village.
“Shut it down, Carl,” grated an older, more distinguished villager from the East Wick side to the loudmouth who claimed the West Wickers were poor.
“Now, good men,” Falon said uneasily, but her words were lost almost as soon as they were uttered, swallowed up by the noise and general sounds of discontent swirling up from both groups by now.
“Are we just going to stand here while a bunch of invaders disrespect our cart?” shouted Carl, shrugging off the older man’s hands and conveniently failing to notice that every man from both villages, East and West, had been born in the area, “first they take our land, and now it’s hatred for our cart!”
Falon had finally decided that someone had to do something. It didn’t matter if she was a girl or not; to these men she was her father’s heir, and the last thing they needed was for tempers to over flow and cause—
Vance the Blacksmith threw his large two handed hammer onto the ground, and all around her the ground rumbled as every single West Wick man threw his weapon on the ground.
“You natives can take your cart and shove it where the sun don’t shine!” Vance glared at the East Wick side.
“You invaders want to throw down?” roared the distinguished looking older man from the Old Blood side, who until this point had been going for a calming presence.
“Let’s not—” Falon got no further—and no one was listening to her anyways—when the East Wick militia suddenly threw their spears and swords to the ground as well, making a terrible racket as they got rid of their weapons.
Then with a roar Falon had only recently come to understand, the two sides went after each other.
Amazed at how quickly they went from talking to fighting, Falon watched as the two sides started punching and kicking their rivals. Gape-mouthed with dismay, Falon could hardly believe her eyes.
She might have expected this kind of behavior out of some of the boys (like Ernest and his brother Duncan had shown recently during a dustup with their own cousin) but there were more than just boys present in this militia, and they were even led by fully grown men like Vance the Blacksmith, who had all but led the charge against the East Wick militia.
She was unsure which side she should be on; the New Blood side that had helped repair her wagon and where she had traded in the village market place over the last two years, or the Old Blood East Wick side which was where the majority of her heritage came from. She didn’t even know if she had a side, since if her father were hear he would be leading both villages until they met up with Lord Lamont or one of his retainers. He most definitely would not be heaping wood on this potential bonfire of a situation.
Her breaths coming to her in shallow rapid draws, Falon watched with wide eyes as the Two Wicks, made of boys and men who should have known better, started pummeling each other.
Standing in front of her tired old horse, reins in hand, seemed far from the wisest course of action to Falon right then at that moment. Placing her foot in the leather stirrups, she swung back up onto the palfrey in one smooth movement.
Down on the ground everything had seemed much more intimidating, with all those bigger and taller men swarming around the front of her.
From a position atop her horse looking down on those very same men, the teenage girl felt a renewed a renewed sense of confidence, and when no one moved to attack her she started to relax.
This proved to be a mistake, as no sooner had she turned her horse’s head and begun to walk her away from the yelling and shouting when a leather clad boy of seventeen or eighteen with scraped knuckles emerged from the brawl. His gaze fell on her horse and his eyes narrowed as he started towards her.
Alarmed, Falon clicked her tongue and tapped her heels to get the old nag to pick up the pace, and her left leg starting to quiver. For a half a step it looked like she was going to comply, and then the old horse gave a snort and settled back into a tired walk.
“Think thou’re some kind of a warrior?” the boy demanded, grabbing her by the heel and trying to haul her out of the saddle.
She was halfway off the horse before she knew what was happening, and only a sudden death grip on the pommel of her saddle allowed her to stay astride.
“Let go you blighter,” she yelled, using her leg muscles to try and jerk her foot free.
“Mama’s not here to protect thee now; come down and pick a side,” he grunted, and using both hands he pulled with such force he almost dismounted her. Holding on only by virtue her two hands on the pommel and a heel hooked into the top of the saddle, she was just about to lose the last of her balance when his hands slipped.
Foot slipping off the top of the horse and her other foot suddenly free, only her death hold on the saddle kept her from falling, tea kettle over spout, onto the ground.
The boy gave an inarticulate ‘oof’ as he landed on his back side about the same time her feet hit the ground.
Using her arms for leverage, she jumped and pulled herself back onto the saddle without using the stirrups—a move that would probably have been impossible with a taller, more muscular horse like Phantom, her Papa’s old warhorse which she had ridden secretly for many months and had grown quite attached to.
The thought of Phantom
having been sold to some unappreciative Squire, or Knight’s son, put her into a sour mood and this boy coming along to try dragging her down into the dirt just so he could beat her up was just icing on the cake. Filled with rage, Falon turned the old mare toward the boy.
“Think thou art better than I, with thy witchy mother and rich father, don’t thee?” the boy said, jumping to his feet.
“Motherless cur,” cursed Falon, using her right heel, which was once again in the stirrup, to kick the old nag into faster movement while readying her more powerful left leg.
Cocking back his fist and jumping forward, the boy landed a punch on the big thigh muscle of her leg. The blow was so brutal that for a moment Falon thought her leg was going to cramp up.
Resisting the urge to cry out in pain, and womanfully resisting the cramp, Falon pulled back her leg and then kicked him square in the face.
Staggering back, the boy looked at her incredulously for half a second.
“What did thee say about mine mother, thou natural born pig in a wallow?” he demanded wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and coming away with blood, probably from a cut lip where she had hit him.
Kicking her palfrey forward, and with murder in her eyes, Falon bore down on him much more quickly this time, her horse feeling her thirst for vengeance and actually picking up its feet for once.
“By the Lady, thou art a natural born coward to stay up on a horse like that—” he baited her as he dodged another well-aimed kick by dancing back. However, he didn’t get any further with his taunts before Falon was on him.
Leaping out of the saddle, she temporarily forgot a few inconsequential and minor details—like the fact she was just a girl, and he was a boy with two years and forty pounds on her.
Landing on the taller boy with both fists, Falon was swinging away with both fists before they even had enough time to finish toppling to the ground.
“Take it back,” she raged, smashing his nose with a hammer fist and then popping him in the jaw with her other hand.
Even as he raised his hands to ward off her blows, she simply squeezed his torso with her legs to help hold him down and kept raining down blows on his face, neck and chest. Whatever she could slip through his guard was fair game as far as she was concerned—anyone who knowingly insulted her mother by calling Falon a bastard child deserved any punishment she could give him.
“Motherless, is it?” he finally gasped, even as his right hand slipped through her punches to grab her by the hair.
Falon cried out when he pulled hard enough to wrench her neck and pull her head back to a very uncomfortable angle. Her next few blows were weak and ineffectual and the larger boy underneath her—nearly a man grown, in truth—easily warded off her unguided strikes. It was almost impossible to see good enough out of the corner of her eye to aim her punches when the boy had her face pointed skyward.
Then the boy clouted her in the side of her jaw so hard her entire head rattled and temporary blackness flitted across her field of vision instead of the keep blue sky.
“Eat thy words, Falon Muirghealsdotter,” the boy demanded, using his grip on her hair to throw her to the side hard enough she fell off him thumped into the dirt. His voice was low enough no one else could hear him, and she realized this was deliberate when he continued in a much louder voice, “Or I’ll change thy face with me fists and have you eating dirt!”
Catching his next punch on the arm, she felt her hand spasm open. She realized this boy punched ever so much harder than Ernest’s brother Duncan, which was the only other real fight she had to compare it with.
Realizing she couldn’t take another clout to the head from a boy this strong or she really would be eating dirt, Falon twisted her head in his grip. Feeling her braid slip out the back of her shirt, she couldn’t have cared less. She wasn’t the only ‘boy’ with long hair; the Old Blooders often let their hair grow to ‘warrior’ length, and besides, it gave her enough room to do this.
She bit him in that part of the arm just below the wrist—hard. When the older, bigger, stronger boy shouted in pain and loosened his grip in surprise, Falon jerked her hair and herself out of his hands.
“I’ll—” no sooner had the words left his mouth than she rolled to her feet and came up, lunging forward to land a knee to his face. His next words were too strangled to understand as he grabbed her and tossed her off the top of him. Clearly, he didn’t care for a second round of her fists in his face.
Scrambling to her feet, Falon was up just in time to see him turn her way and reach his knees. Just before he could reclaim his feet—and with it his superior height, reach and power over her—she swung her foot and kicked him right in the face.
His head spun to the side and blood flew out of his mouth, but to Falon’s horror his head came right back around—along with a powerful right cross. Landing on her left breast with enough force to knock her over, Falon couldn’t help a gurgled shriek of pain filled fear as her diaphragm spasmed and she lost her breath. With the wind temporarily knocked out of her, she scrambled around ineffectually on her hands and knees before a kick just below her ribs lifted her into the air and sent her rolling.
Getting her hands back under her, she lifted her face just in time for another clout to the same exact place on the side of the jaw she had been hit before. Another kick to the stomach came, and all she could do was curl up, feebly guarding her belly.
She was beaten and she knew it. Neither pride nor the fear of pain was enough to get her to try and return to the fight. Waiting with fear for the follow up blows that were certain to come as the older boy beat her into submission, she squeezed her eyes shut.
“Goat licker,” she heard a familiar voice yell, but she was too busy trying to regain her breath—and too afraid to sit up—to really take notice.
There followed the sounds of flesh slapping flesh, and the shouts and gasps that Falon had come to realize indicated another fight was taking place right next to her.
When someone stepped on her hand, her eyes involuntarily flashed open and she saw Ernest doing his best, but still getting whipped by the almost-man she had been fighting.
Before she realized what she was doing, Falon tried to sit up, only to feel pain shoot across her belly. Fearfully she looked over at the larger boy, feeling the urge to cringe when he looked down at her. Then Ernest somehow managed to take advantage of this momentary distraction and land a fist on the older boy’s mouth.
Blows rained between the two boys as they stood not two feet from one another, until suddenly Ernest’s eyes started to roll up and he staggered back a half step with his legs wobbling.
“Sharpen thy spear on a broke-back mule and come back when thou art worthy,” sneered the older boy, stepping forward and bringing a fist up in a rising uppercut which lifted Ernest off the ground, only to send him back to earth in a boneless slump.
“Now to finish with—” he began, rounding back on Falon.
She had just started to scramble backward with fear, realizing that teenage girls had no business fighting with boys big enough to whip her and knock out another boy her age in less than three minutes, when a battle cry sounded off to the side.
“By the Lady,” the Old Blood boy cursed as Duncan ran into him with enough force to send him staggering. A hammer fist to the back of Duncan’s head sent Ernest’s older brother staggering back, but Duncan regained his feet in time to meet the older boy’s punch with one of his own.
They stood there just as stupidly as back when Ernest was fighting the bigger older boy—who Falon was surprised to realize was actually about the same age as Duncan, and only a little bigger—and exchanged punches without moving their feet.
Falon almost felt disgusted at the way they just stood there taking punches, letting the other have his turn; her brothers had certainly never fought that way. She remembered overhearing Papa once tell them that only a fool or a fully armored Knight too weighted down to move properly just stood in front of his foe exchanging b
lows without trying to maneuver for advantage.
She realized she had forgotten to be afraid of getting beat up further when her left leg began to quiver, and she found herself actually considering how best to sneak up behind the Old Blood boy and clobber him. Falon stopped where she was.
With a groan, she decided whatever she wanted to do, she needed to get back to her feet but since sitting up was too painful, she had to carefully lever herself back up.
After regaining her feet, she saw Duncan and the other boy were still standing like a pair of idiots and exchanging blows. Duncan already had a puffy eye that looked to have come on from before this current fight, and was starting to list to the side after every mighty power swing he exchanged with the other boy. For his part, the Old Blood boy was actually starting to look the worse for the wear with blood pouring out his nose and the split lip, but despite this he still looked like he was going to outlast Duncan.
Seeing her friend about to be defeated, Falon ignored her quivering leg and stepped forward. Her step caught and she almost hesitated when she realized she had just thought of that clod head Duncan as a friend, but forcing her lips into a thin line, she kept forward. When she made that line with her lips, the right side of her jaw felt so painful she just about passed out, and she realized she had no capacity for complex mental calculations at the moment.
Stepping up behind him, she realized the Old Blood boy was too focused on Duncan to notice she was there. Falon saw the chance to land a punishing blow to his exposed kidneys and almost did just that, then looked down at her fist. Even Duncan had said she hit like a girl, and this older boy had just shrugged off her punches like they were nothing. She flushed, and for a moment wondered what good she—a sister—could actually do in a fight like this. She wasn’t a brother with a man’s strength behind her arms.
Then she noticed the way both Duncan and this boy were standing with fists raised in the air and legs spread wide for power, and a malicious gleam entered her eye. So this boy knew she was a girl and thought he could just drag her out of her saddle, punch her in the breast—which still ached—insult both Falon and her mother, and then beat her into the ground, did he?
The Blooding Page 2