That little weasel better watch out; she was used to little schemers from back at home, and she wasn’t—stopping in outrage, she realized that dealing with the former Page was a lot like dealing with her sisters and brothers, back when the boys were still around. She thought that leaving home to go to war meant being able to get away from interfering busybodies like them, but it seemed not. The more things change, the more they stay the same, she thought sullenly.
“Good to meet you, John,” Ernest said, breaking her out of her reverie and extending his hand for a shake, “I’m Ernest. I see you’ve already met my brother Duncan.”
“The pleasure is mine of course,” John said with a grin and clasped hands.
“Poncy bloke,” Duncan muttered under his breath, glaring at the dirt right in front of John.
“You say something,” John the demanded turning to stare at the older—bigger—farm boy.
“Yeah,” Duncan glared, standing up taller with his chest expanding as he took a deep breath.
In a sudden movement, the Imperial who was still holding his sheathed sword adjusted his grip and pivoted on his heel. The next thing Falon knew, Duncan doubled over with a grunt of pain.
“Enough posturing,” Darius snapped, freezing Falon and the rest of the boys with a look, while Duncan was still clutching his stomach.
“What he said,” Falon echoed, trying and failing to suppress a grin. This was more like it! She was more than tired, she was completely fed up with all this boyish posturing and beating on each other to prove who had the hardest fists and biggest muscles.
She had just started to turn back into camp, her nose rising in the air when she caught a look out of the corner of her eye from the Imperial that gave her pause.
Turning, she was stung to see a look of disappointment on Darius’ face, and it was clearly directed at her. Deflating, her eyes dropped to the ground; she didn’t feel superior any longer. She didn’t know how, but with just one look he made her feel as if she should have somehow been a better example and leader for the boys, even if she had never really been a leader before.
Then she rallied, furious with herself for letting a former prisoner—a common criminal, no less!—fresh out of the pillory make her feel ashamed. It wasn’t her fault no one listened to her! Brushing the corner of her eye with the sleeve of her tunic, she picked up her head and glared defiantly around her. If her eyes preferred to focus on the Imperial’s nose instead of his stormy blue eyes, there was nothing wrong with that either.
She stomped across the camp to the fire pits, in which the nightly bonfire was mere moments from being lit. Almost before she knew it, Falon was standing before Vance and Aodhan with her hands on her hips.
“Yes?” Vance looked up at her with a steaming clay mug full of tea paused half way to his mouth. Beside him, Aodhan tossed the contents of his cup on the fire, and a small cloud of steam started to rise as he got to his feet.
Falon drew herself up to her tallest upright posture. “Lord Lamont has made me a Lieutenant in his army, and we’re now a part of the Fighting Swans,” she said a bit stiffly, uncertain how she was supposed to tell the two actual leaders of the Two Wicks militia that she needed to be a real leader now.
Belatedly, Vance climbed to his feet and then stood facing her. “Who are these newcomers?” he asked indicating Tug, Darius and John.
“Tug is our new clerk,” she indicated the rotund man known as ‘Bad Scales,’ “John the Valet, and last but not least, we have our brand new Corporal and Training Master, Darius.”
Vance looked mostly guarded and, if she wasn’t seeing things, slightly taken aback. Aodhan on the other hand just looked mad.
“Training Master, huh?” the West Wick headman said, his hands clenched at his side.
Her eyes widening slightly, Falon tried to control her face and add clarification, “All the other bands have a trained armsman as their new Sergeant. I figured it was important to make sure the Wicks didn’t fall behind.”
“Thou figured, didst thee?” Aodhan said shortly. “Forgive us if we happen to think our training is just fine, youngster.”
Falon opened her mouth, but Darius took a step to the side and cut her off.
“Perhaps a demonstration is in order,” the Imperial said in a tone that made his words more a statement than a question, and he loosened his sword in its scabbard.
Aodhan slowly grinned, and it wasn’t a very nice expression as far as Falon was concerned. “I thought thou’d never ask,” said the Headman. Turning to one of the West Wick young men, he thrust out a hand and called for his spear.
Chapter 26: A Duel or a Training Exercise?
“You don’t have time to call for a weapon when the enemy attacks,” Darius said scathingly, “a soldier should have his weapons with him at all times.
“It’s like that, is it?” Aodhan asked, his face working as he spat off to the side. Before the spittle had fallen to the earth, the Headman pulled out his Shri-Kriv and launched himself at the Imperial.
Naked iron came up in a savage, gutting motion that would have left Darius gasping on the ground with his internals spread out for all to see. At least, it would have done so if the Imperial hadn’t danced back a step and whacked the Shri-Kriv away with his scabbard, causing Aodhan to come forward with red murder in his eyes.
The Headman had just raised his arm to ward off a counter and allow him to move in close, when Darius smashed Aodhan’s arm with the flat of his blade, eliciting a cry. And then, to Falon’s shock, he kicked the Headman in the jewels.
Holding his left arm in close, and almost doubled over from the kick, the Headman still didn’t look like he was about to give up. Disgusted that every male she ran across seemed determined to settle their disputes with violence, and if she was honest with herself, she was more than half afraid of being caught up in the challenge duel—or was it a training exercise?
However, instead of coming in and finishing Aodhan while he was still reeling, Darius took a step back and brought his slender Imperial sword up with a flourish. Holding it straight up and down right in front of his face, the Imperial cast aside his sheath and assumed a practiced fighting stance.
From the sideline, a young man came running up and tossed Aodhan his spear.
“The Blunt Spear is going to crush you, Imperial,” shouted Glaisne from among the circle of men now surrounding Darius and Aodhan, “smash him into the ground, Headman!”
This was the first time she had really taken a look at the weapon of either man, and as they started circling each other, she stopped backing up long enough to join the circle and observe them.
Aodhan’s spear was half a head longer than he was, and both the shaft and nearly foot long blade were covered in the swirling runes of the old tongue, giving it an impressive and intimidating appearance. Darius’ blade, on the other hand, was shorter and thinner than any sword had a right to be. It reminded Falon more of a lady’s stiletto or Shri-Kriv than it did a proper blade. It was also hard to tell from a distance, but she thought his sword had some kind of strange swirls of glittering, potentially crystalline deposits running up and down its length.
The men were also a study in contrast. At first blush one would think the Imperial at somewhere around 5’4”—around the same height as Falon herself—would be at the disadvantage, even if he appeared to be made up entirely of muscle and sinew. He tested Aodhan’s defenses with a lighting fast thrust and lunge combo. However, it was the taller, bulkier Aodhan who, despite being just under six feet in height, several stone heavier and wielding the longer weapon, was forced to step back on the defensive.
Seeing someone her size…well, not her size exactly, but around her height take the fight to Aodhan was eye-opening for Falon. Her mouth hung open at the sight of them side-by-side, fully realizing the size discrepancy.
She watched as Aodhan managed his first attack. Nimbly jumping back far enough to bring his spear into play, the Headman thrust forward, aiming for somewhere between t
he Imperial’s thighs and lower abdomen.
With a powerful, sideways block, Darius sent sparks flying as sword-edge met spearhead, knocking off Aodhan’s aim just far enough to the side that he had missed, sending the shaft of the spear skittering along the side of the Imperial’s leg.
Stepping into the West Wicker’s attack, the Imperial came forward with his blade held low. Pivoting to the side, Aodhan adjusted his grip and levered the butt of his spear forward like it was the head of a quarter staff, leaving the spear head low and to the side.
Ducking his head and sacrificing a glancing blow to his offhand shoulder in exchange for a pair of steps, the Imperial ran his blade along the edge of Aodhan’s right wrist.
Blood flew and when he lost his grip with his right hand, Aodhan completely abandoned his spear. He was still grabbing for his Shri-Kriv when Darius reversed grip on his sword and drove the pommel into the Headman’s chin.
Grunting and shaking his head like a goat just struck by an old hardwood club, the Headman straightened and raised his left fist as if he had recovered. Then, eyes rolling into the back of his head, Aodhan collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Pausing only to pull out a rag from his back pocket and wipe down his sword blade, the Imperial straightened and then sheathed his blade while the Militiamen watched him with varying looks of surprise and disbelief.
“It’ll be dark soon, and this man needs a Wench,” Darius called out, his stormy blue eyes turning steely as he swept the circle of men around him with his gaze. Under the weight of his gaze, a pair of West Wick men came and dragged the Headman over to one of the wagons, where the Healing Wench and her Apprentice were observing the proceedings with what appeared to be mild interest.
Just when Falon was about to think no one was going to say anything, Glaisne stepped into the circle and looked at the Imperial with murder in his eyes.
“Thou thinks to come up in here, near kill our Headman, and get away with it; as if we’ll do nothing?!” Glaisne grated, a four-pronged pitchfork in his hands.
Raking the young West Wicker with an assessing look so impartial it was almost scathing in its lack of emotion, Darius placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. “You next?” he asked, and made a come hither motion with two of his fingers.
Falon closed her eyes. Among the New Blood, to put your hand palm up and crook your finger motioning for someone forward was just considered just another way of saying ‘come over here,’ but among the Old Blood the same gesture was considered extremely disrespectful to the point of offense. To them it was the way a rude man would attempt summon a prostitute, and not at all in keeping with good behavior.
Stiffening with outrage, the fully grown young man’s nostrils flared and his eyes seemingly turned red with rage.
“Alright then thou bastard, have at thee,” snapped Glaisne, rushing forward the prongs of his pitchfork leveled and pointed at the Imperial’s chest.
Standing there unmoving with his hand atop the hilt of his sword in a relaxed, contemptuous pose, Darius did everything but yawn as Glaisne charged. Falon would have almost believed he truly didn’t care if not for two things: the ease with which he took down Aodhan—a man who, according to rumors as relayed to her by Ernest and Duncan, had been to war before—and the deadly look he hid under a shock of long uncut bangs of front hair.
At the last moment, the Imperial faked right and when the Pitchfork went to follow him, he spun left and narrowly avoided the tines. As Glaisne ran past him, unable to stop his forward momentum in time, Darius kicked him in the hindquarters.
Glaisne stumbled and his pitchfork dipped too far, the tines catching on the soft earth and sinking deep. Refusing to release his weapon, the force of the sudden stop was transmitted up from the earth through the wooden haft of the fork and to the young man’s arms, knocking to his knees.
Taking a quick hop-step, the former Imperial soldier deftly spun around and the heel of his boot slammed into the side of Glaisne’s head with bone-cracking force.
Falon wasn’t the only one who gasped when they heard the cracking sound as Glaisne fell over to his side from the power of the kick.
Seeing one of their own knocked out, dead, or unconscious with a single crushing blow—and all without the drawing a sword—right after besting Aodhan with the Headman’s weapon of choice was enough for most of the men.
Even as the Imperial bent down beside Glaisne and checked him for a pulse, others were already backing up. Some appeared to be grabbing for weapons, but most had clearly seen enough.
“He’ll live,” Darius remarked, getting back to his feet and wiping the dirt off his knees and Falon closed her eyes. She might not care one whit for that boy, but it’s not like she wanted to see Glaisne dead. All around her, it was almost as if some kind of collective breath had been released and while no one changed course or stopped what they were doing, it seemed as if some kind of precipice had been collectively peeked over—and hastily retreated from.
“Anyone else?” The Imperial asked, returning to the same spot he had been at on the start of the fight with Glaisne.
Falon could see men exchanging glances, along with a few calculating looks at Darius, but when Vance shrugged and turned away to head back to his fire and cup of tea the rest of the men in the circle shrugged and turned away. Although, Falon observed, not without a few backward glances at the Imperial.
“No?” Darius remarked in mock surprise.
Seeing the Imperial with new eyes, Falon no longer felt like gloating. Instead, she was trying to ignore the icy fingers of fear climbing up her back towards her shoulders; a fear that asked her if she hadn’t made a terrible mistake by bringing this highly skilled, foreign swordsman back to camp with her.
“Well then,” Darius continued, sweeping the camp with a cool, calculating gaze as everyone pretended they were going back to whatever they had been doing before his arrival, “here endeth the lesson.”
When a very subdued Tug and John came over and asked where she would like to have her father’s tent set up, she just waved vaguely and they left to start pulling out tent poles and canvas.
As the new, undisputed Training Master walked over to squat down a few feet away from Vance as if he had every right to share a fire with one of the Militia leaders, Falon started to wonder if she had made a mistake. Maybe everyone would have been better off with the Imperial still in the pillory?
Sadly, it was too late for such questions…too late by far.
Chapter 27: Training and Filling out Inventory Forms
Falon’s body ached in places she hadn’t known she had, every single muscle in her arm screamed out in pain from their weapons training. That part she could have dealt with, and even half-expected as soon as Darius started his training exercises. But then he had gone and made the whole band run around the entire Muster Fields. Not once. Not twice. But more than seven times!
He had said in a loud, carrying, but completely respectful voice that as she was a Lieutenant, attendance was mandatory for everyone else but for her it was only voluntary. However, it was clear to her that she either joined them in their daily torture routines, or lose what respect she had managed to acquire from the rest of the men. And while that wasn’t much, she was determined to prove that she could do anything the rest of them were asked to.
It quickly proved out that she actually couldn’t do as much as a fully grown man, but that didn’t stop her from trying her best.
“Are you ready to go over those inventory figures requested by the Captain,” asked Tug from his position on a stool just inside the entrance to her father’s tent. It was the only place they could be certain to be safe from rain, so she had reluctantly told the Clerk to set up shop in there during the day.
“Earth and Field, yes!” Falon groaned. “Three days of nonstop torture by exercise and I swear I am more than ready to do anything, even write out inventories.” Feeling guilty at the thought of sitting down when the rest the Militia were still hacking away at each o
ther in the mud with wooden sticks, she quickly looked around.
Tug laughed. “I told Darius I needed you to put your signature to a few request forms, and asked if I could steal you away for a while without incurring his wrath,” the middle-aged man said, somehow intuiting the direction of her thoughts.
Falon looked over at him in surprise. “He actually said ‘yes?’” she asked in disbelief.
“Just sign this stack here,” Tug tapped a small pile of parchment and vellum forms for emphasis, “and you can get right back to it,” he added with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“Forget that!” Falon blurted. The idea of heading back out for more bruises from being pounded on by her friends and neighbors was suddenly too much to bear right at that moment.
“I can always take my little rickety campaign desk outside—thanks for buying that for me by the way—” Tug said with an evil grin, “and close the flap. I can always tell him you were called away to the Keep?”
“Lie?” Falon asked, for some reason feeling very uneasy at the thought. She wasn’t sure she wanted her former crook of a Clerk to get the idea that lying was okay to make a habit of. Then, remembering his smile when he thanked her for buying him the desk for his paperwork, she started wondering if she had paid too much or something. Between these worries, her brain stumbled upon a quite valid reason to actually avoid that for long enough to give her body a rest.
“No, I have no need to run off and play hooky,” she said coolly, giving Tug an assessing look.
“You’re the Lieutenant,” Tug said with a bemused expression, and then shot a glance over at where Darius was off on the other side of the camp, walking up and down a line of boys and men having at each other with their poorly constructed fake wooden swords and spears.
She was decidedly unhappy with the way everyone, even Tug, like to look to Darius. Especially right after she told them to do something they thought he might disagree with, and Falon scowled at her Clerk angrily. With two words she could send him right back to the stocks, and still he looked to the ‘Corporal’ and Training Master with more fear and respect than he did at her.
The Blooding Page 20