“Move on Mister Pretty boy, else we’ll start cutting on thee,” he said in a voice that sent a shiver of fear through her belly.
Pressing her lips together and suppressing the urge to gulp, Falon felt her left leg start to quiver. “I’m sure you mean, ‘or else we’ll start cutting on you, Lieutenant,’” Falon said. Despite her brave words, she was unable to completely suppress a quaver from entering her voice.
“A Lieutenant is he now, Doug?” the Old Blooder said with a smile that Falon could describe as nothing but pure evil.
“Oh aye, that’s something different I reckon,” the man addressed as Doug said cruelly.
“Surely it is, Doug, I ‘spect that he’s got his-self a might more valuables on his person than a common runner,” the first man said.
“Why, I’m sure of it—” Doug started. Then a man with the green sash of a Sergeant came stomping out from the center of the camp.
“Douglas! Fenobar!” he barked, cutting Doug—or rather, Douglas—off midsentence, “Knock that scuzz off and cut back on the skunk-juice.” The Sergeant emphasized this order with a smack to the back of the Old Blood man named Fenobar which sent the potential thievish ruffian sprawling.
Crossing her arms at this behavior, Falon wondered if there was a single male in the army that didn’t prefer to settle his disputes with physical force over talking things over like adults.
“These two dirt-clods give you any trouble,” the man in the green sash of a Sergeant asked shortly.
“Sergeant Geralt?” Falon asked cautiously.
“Sorry, guv,” muttered Fenobar, the man who had first brought up the idea of robbing her.
“Get lost,” the Sergeant snapped to the pair of guards, “go find a game of dice—or a woman, if you still have any coin—this army’s about set to move out, and there’ll be no time for lying about and taking your pleasures on the march.”
“Yes,” muttered the two men, backing away and slinking back into camp, but not without a final pair of harsh promising looks in Falon’s direction as they back away.
“Sergeant—” Falon started to ask the question again, but the Sergeant grit his teeth and cut her off.
“I heard you plain as day the last time. Stop wasting time, yours—and most importantly mine,” he grated.
“Were those men really going to rob me?” Falon asked drawing back at the shortness of the man’s response.
“Look, you’ve got a blue sash on and from the looks of it his Lordship went so far as to rob the cradle coming up with enough officers for his militia, so I expect yer that new Lieutenant I’ve been hearing about,” the Sergeant growled, taking a step forward so that they would have been nose to nose if their heights had been comparable—which they were not. “I know you have orders from the Captain to steer clear of this squad, so do us all a favor, eh?”
“What favor?” Falon felt she had to ask, even though she already suspected the answer and knew she wasn’t going to like it.
“Steer clear!” reiterated the Sergeant.
Taken aback by the ferocity of the man’s response, Falon was temporarily at a loss for words. Standing nearly forehead to nose with the powerfully built warrior was more than a little intimidating for her, and she took an instinctive step backward.
“Captain Smyth told me to check on the readiness of each Band,” she said in a weak voice. Then, realizing she was letting the man intimidate her with just his presence, she swallowed hard. Knowing she had to at least pretend she wasn’t afraid of him, she stuck out her chin, “It’s not interfering with your band to do as instructed by the Captain.”
Ignoring her he turned his head over his shoulder and yelled, “Pete!”
“Yes, Sergeant Geralt,” yelped a young man who then scrambled off a water barrel and sprinted over. Not inconsequentially, this new man also provided the first rock-solid indication that she was right about the identity of this man.
“This here is Pete,” Sergeant Geralt said, turning back to frown at Falon as soon as Pete showed up at his side.
“Good to meet you, Pete—” Falon was cut off.
“The way this works is thus: if’n I need something from you, I send Pete. But if you need something from me, you don’t come here,” Geralt said in a no nonsense tone, “you ask the Captain.”
“That hardly seems…” Falon trailed off under the Sergeants glare, “okay?” she said weakly.
“And here’s another thing to get through your very young, very well-bred head,” he said his eyes feeling like they were burning holes through the back of her head, “my Foragers may be some of the most merciless bunch of poachers and cutthroats this side of King’s Rest, but they are most certainly not a ‘Band.’ The rest of the Company may be organized into common Militia Bands, but this here is a Squad: the Foraging Squad, and don’t you forget that.”
While Falon stood there with her mouth opening and closing as she figured out what to say, the Sergeant shook his head, turned around and stomped back into his camp.
“Name’s Pete,” said the young, lanky man as he stuck out a hand.
“Yes, I got that,” Falon said irritably as she reached out to clasp his elbow. Glancing down at his arm, her hand gripped convulsively and she almost shrieked. From his hand all the way up to his elbow, Pete’s arm was covered with raised, ropy scar tissue.
Biting her tongue and feeling that looking down in horror at another person’s arm had to be in very poor taste, Falon looked up instead, determined to meet his eyes.
“The name is Falon Rankin,” she said firmly, and then figuring it was expected, added, “Lieutenant in Lord Lamont’s Army.”
“Got some airs on thee,” Pete said with a cocky smirk, “I’ve got t’ be going now, Lieutenant New Blood.”
Falon caught him by the elbow as he turned to go and was alarmed at way his hand twitched toward his knife belt. He quickly relaxed, and turned laconically back towards here.
“Yes, Mister?” lanky Pete asked.
“I’m a Half Blood,” Falon said firmly, and then taking in slightly more brownish than straight up black hair of the Sergeant’s runner, she hazarded a guess, “just like you.”
“Nah, you ain’t nothing like me,” Pete said, sucking on one of his back teeth before shrugging off her hand and turning away.
“Well if they’re all ready and don’t need anything, then they could have just said so and dropped all the posturing,” she sighed before also turning away. She had several more bands to check before she could get back to her camp with the Wicks Militia.
It was only when she was challenged by a sentry standing outside Sergeant Jake’s camp that she realized her blue officer’s sash had been stolen.
Chapter 30: Flogging a Dead Horse
“I thought she was getting better,” Falon wept, unashamed of the tears running down her face.
“Well, she’s not dead yet,” Vance said doubtfully.
Falon looked up at him with hope in her eyes, but as soon as she looked in his face Vance turned away. Feeling crushed almost as if she was losing a member of the family her shoulders slumped and she threw herself on her horse.
“Come on Hermiony, get up,” she whispered into the old nag’s ears. Breaths coming so harshly that they was louder than a blacksmith’s bellows, the loyal old mare tried to one last time to get a leg under and stand up.
Hoping against hope Falon’s head dropped right alongside her horses when Hermiony gave up, and this time the old horse just lay on her side in the muddy road. Ignoring the people passing around to either side of her, Falon pressed her forehead to that of her horse. Thinking that she should have been more prepared for sickness and death after her father taking ill these past two years, she straightened her shoulders, but almost immediately she slumped back over Hermiony.
Seeing Vance standing off to the side and shaking his head didn’t help but when Ernest came over and placed a hand on her shoulder, she reached up and clasped his hand.
“What can we do?”
Falon asked plaintively, looking up for answers in her friend’s face.
“Have ye tried to…encourage her, Fal?” Ernest asked finally.
“I’ve done everything,” Falon all but sobbed, “I yelled, talked nice, offered her sweets and even tried to help her stand up. I thought she was better!”
There was an extended pause, and she didn’t like the hesitant look on Ernest’s face.
“What?” she demanded.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered.
“I can tell you’re not telling something; spit it out,” Falon urged him.
“When I asked if ye’d encouraged her, I meant have ye really ‘encouraged’ her. Like with a whip…or something,” Ernest mumbled before looking shame faced under the weight of her horrified gaze.
“That’s awful!” Falon snapped, unable to believe that any friend of hers would have suggested such a thing, “how could you?!”
Then, looking around and seeing no real suggestions, she heard the definitive squelch of their Training Master. “Do you have any ideas how we can save her?” she turned to the Imperial desperately.
Looking down at her sick horse the Imperial shook his head. “By the Emperor,” he cursed.
“We can’t just leave her here,” Falon said.
“She’s right,” Darius said grimly and turned to Vance. Falon was still nodding her head when the Imperial seemed to come to some kind of decision, “We can’t afford to let the meat go to waste, and if we leave her someone else will just part her out. Lady of Love but I’d hoped the beast would make it until after we crossed the border into Raven territory before giving out.”
Falon stared at him, horrified by his callous, unfeeling reaction to her horse’s plight.
“We need to save her, not talk about…,” Falon trailed off as the impact of what he’d been saying penetrated, “you mean you’ve actually been expecting my horse to die?!”
The Imperial looked down at her like she was being deliberately dense, while Vance just looked away and shook his head, “How old was that horse?” Darius said shortly.
“Only sixteen,” Falon answered, and after but a moment she was unable to meet his eyes.
“Unbelievable,” Darius rolled his eyes, “’only sixteen’ he says. Well get this through your head: this is a campaign. Expect to run low on food, safe drinkables and just about everything else you can think of. Did I expect an old, decrepit horse that was barely recovered from the relatively easy jaunt from wherever you came from to the Muster Field to survive a war campaign filled with privation?” He snorted and turned away, “Someone get a skinning knife and tell the wagons to slow down. We’ll have to butcher her here and leave whatever we can’t take; we’re not set to pitch camp for another three hours.”
“My people aren’t so much for it, but the West Wickers like to cook the kidneys and liver with a good blood pudding,” Vance muttered to Darius in a low voice.
“Blood pudding,” Darius said upper lip curling, “I’ve had it before and it can be filling. But not often, thank the Emperor.”
Falon turned to Ernest and grabbed his arm. Looking at him seriously, she asked in an urgent voice, “Do you have a whip?”
It was two hours later and Falon trailed along at the back of their militia group. She refused to take her normal place up in the front. The thought of seeing and smelling the remains of her horse were simply too much for her. Intellectually she knew meat came from animals, but those were farm animals—not her horse!
She was still mentally flagellating herself for not paying more attention to her horse when she had the chance. If Falon had then maybe Hermiony would have still been alive. Not…reduced to bloody chunks and joints of meat up in the wagons.
Her stomach rolled at the thought.
Ernest and Duncan drifted back through the ranks until they were trudging along beside her. “I’m really sorry, Falon. I am,” Ernest said after the better part of a minute walking together in silence.
“I’m not speaking to you right now,” Falon grumbled, turning her head so that she wasn’t looking at him. Unfortunately, that meant that she was now staring at Duncan, who had the audacity to grin at her.
“I know she was a good horse…but you have to let her go. She was old and this is war, Fal,” Ernest said earnestly but she was impervious to logic.
“I still can’t believe you suggested I flog her,” Falon snapped in no mood to be reasonable, “the only reason I’m not punching you in the nose right now is because I was also stupid enough to listen to you!”
Duncan snorted and tried to hide his mirth.
“Something funny?” Falon glared at him.
“You flogged a dead horse? I didn’t hear that part,” Duncan choked, clearly still struggling no to laugh.
“She wasn’t dead, you big fat jerk,” she shouted. Impervious to her sour mood, Duncan finally started laughing outright.
“Falon, I’ve heard people talk about, ‘flogging a dead horse,’ but it never involved an actual horse!” he chortled. He reached around behind her and punched Ernest on the arm, “get it? Flogging your ‘horse?’Har-har-har!” Duncan broke down with laughter.
Falon didn’t get the joke, whatever it was about, although Ernest seemed to as he turned red-faced and quickly looked away. Still, it was clear that Duncan was making a joke at her expense, and it was about her dead horse.
“Get lost, Duncan,” Falon snapped.
Taken aback, Duncan looked over at her and no doubt took in her clenched jaw and fighting mad expression. Seeing the look on her face caused his own features to harden.
“You going to make me?” he demanded sticking out his own chin.
“Yes I will, if you don’t get out of here now,” Falon said clenching her fists.
“You and what army; you don’t even have a horse anymore,” Duncan growled as he squared up on her.
Falon leaned in close and, standing on her toes, whispered near his ear. “How about I just tell Darius you need extra training every night when we get back into camp, because you think he’s been going too easy on everyone?” Falon said in a syrupy sweet voice.
“Ye’re a cruel one, Falon Rankin,” Duncan said giving her a withering look, as if she was the sort of something he had just scraped off his boot.
“I’m cruel?” she snarled with outrage. She didn’t know why she was unable to believe that one of her friends would go around making jokes at her expense. He was acting as if death was a laughing matter, and he would dare to call her cruel—but for some reason, she knew it was true. Silently fuming at the injustice of the whole situation, she turned her head away from Duncan.
As this left her staring at Ernest—another person she wasn’t very happy with right at the moment—all she was left with was silently fuming. She then proceeded to do just that.
She was chewing on her cheek when Ernest cleared his throat. “What?!” she snapped, and only then did she realize that Duncan had stalked off sometime back. Not that I care, she thought furiously.
“I’m really sorry for your horse…I know how much she meant to you,” Ernest said awkwardly.
Staring at Ernest, Falon was caught flatfooted by the unexpected kindness. Feeling her eyes start to grow wet, she quickly reminded herself that part of her foul mood was his fault. She surreptitiously dabbed the corner of her eye, concealing the gesture from the boy as she did so.
“She was just a horse,” Falon said bravely, like she thought a boy would, although the hitch her voice gave her away. Then unable to contain it, she added, “A wonderful, faithful, reliable horse.”
“Right,” said Ernest with a nod.
“She was the first horse I ever rode,” Falon continued, her eyes tearing up as she remembered the day she had first sat on Hermiony’s back.
“I wish we’d had a horse growing up,” Ernest sighed.
Falon blinked and used the sleeves of her tunic to wipe her cheeks dry.
“Other than Spud of course, our draft horse,” Ernest conti
nued, “but it’s not like he’ll let you ride him.”
“Oh,” Falon said, and then kicked herself for not realizing before that moment that someone like Ernest would not have had access to a riding horse like she had. In many ways, she was more fortunate than both Ernest and Duncan. She had grown up with a horse, and they had not. None of them really knew how to fight with weapons, but by the fortunes of birth (and a liberal does of deception, she reminded herself) she was a Lieutenant and they were both stuck as spear carriers.
If I look at it that way…she shook her head to banish the thought. She didn’t want to be looking at things from another’s perspective. What she wanted to do was be upset over the loss of her horse. Worse, how was she supposed to react when the communal mystery stew had extra meat in it that night? Or perhaps it wouldn’t be stew; maybe everyone would have a bit of steak, or a roast.
Feeling herself turn green at the thought of eating Hermiony, she didn’t understand how farmer people could be so blasé about naming their animals—even down to the chickens—and then when the Priest, Headman, or other person of importance came by they would tell their sons to go catch little Betty so their sisters could cook her! She would never understand, and she didn’t want to either.
Killing her own food put Falon off her feed like nothing else. Visions of winter, goats and a Shri-Kriv danced through her brain and she looked around, eager to put such thoughts away.
Unfortunately, there was only Ernest to speak with. But right at that moment she was too eager to get rid of her previous thoughts to hold strong to her desire to give him the silent treatment.
“Sorry you never had a horse to ride,” she finally muttered. There, she had extended the parlay flag. Now it was up to him.
The Blooding Page 22