The Blooding

by Luke Sky Wachter

  Ernest smiled and gave her a shoulder bump. They walked in silence for several minutes, and while she could tell that Ernest was more than happy to just march along beside her, she felt like they still needed to talk about it. Just to make sure everything was okay after their latest fight.

  “So,” she said with a sideways look at Ernest, “anything you want to discuss?” There, that should give him the chance to get say everything was good.

  Ernest’s brow furrowed. “Not really,” he said a bit awkwardly. “I’m good,” he said and gave her a smile.

  “Are you sure…” she pressed, feeling slightly put out that this was his chance to put their latest conflict to sleep, and he was blowing it, “nothing at all?”

  Ernest pursed his lips and started to shake his head. Then his head slowed and he nodded as if reaching some momentous decision, “well, it was kind of mean to threaten Duncan with the wrath of the Training Master, I mean.”

  Falon’s face darkened with anger.

  “Not that he didn’t deserve it,” he added hastily. “He was being a tool about the whole thing and all that, but still…”

  “I think we’re done here,” Falon said coldly.

  “Don’t be like that, Fal,” Ernest pleaded, “you asked, I answered, sorry if I said it all wrong.”

  Falon opened her mouth to lambast the hapless boy for choosing brotherly solidarity over the path of right and justice, when a thunder of hooves came pounding toward them.

  Head picking up in alarm, Falon looked forward to the sound. Several people scattered off to the right side of the muddy dirt road, slipping and sliding toward the center to get out of the way.

  The horses came to a stop with a spray of mud and seeing she wasn’t about to be run over—yet—she closed her mouth. When the flying mud and dirt started pelting all over her, she closed her eyes too.

  She knew she was too slow when the wet, earthy taste of freshly churned sod hit her tongue. Spitting the taste of mud out of her mouth and wiping it off her face, she gave her hands a good shake to get the stuff off her. Once her eyes were clear, she glared up at the morons who had thought it would be fun to pull such a stunt.

  “So this is the new Lieutenant we’ve been hearing about?” scoffed a young man of about 18 or 19 on the back of a young charger, dressed in an imposing suit of black, leather armor with a gleaming, steel breastplate, complete with leg greaves. “He’s really not that much to look at, if I do say so myself. I expected…more.”

  Falon gaped with surprise and growing outrage.

  Chapter 31: An Encounter with Some Knightsons

  Her eyes swept back and forth as she identified the five riders. Three of them looked like Gentry, or low nobles, like her. The other two were clearly guards of some kind

  “A real Fighting Swan they say, Philip. Although perchance they were mistaken what they actually saw was just an overly dirty duck, what do you think?” asked another young man of about sixteen. He was dressed in a heavily dented, and many times re-welded, breast plate.

  “I don’t know, perhaps we should ask the Lieutenant,” said Philip of the black leather armor and gleaming breast plate, and not-so-gleaming greaves.

  “I don’t know how he does it, prancing around in the muck like a common peasant,” said the third leg of the leading trio. This one produced a blue sash and held it to his nose, which wrinkled as if smelling something foul. This one was slightly overweight, and somewhere around seventeen. He wore a chain shirt and leather breeches, and he turned his horse off to the side of the road as he mocked disgust at the sash’s supposed smell.

  Falon’s outrage turned to body-shaking rage as soon as she realized that the blue sash he was holding to his nose was, in fact, her long-missing officer’s sash. She doubted it was mere coincidence that these three now had possession of it.

  “Well we’re asking you, what do you have to say for yourself?” demanded what Falon was coming to identify as the ring leader, this ‘Philip’ character.

  “Asking me what?” Falon said stiffly, still staring at her missing sash. How many blue officer’s sashes could there possibly be running around the army?

  Philip issued a long suffering sigh, but underneath it all his eyes were hard as stone. “I said, are you a Fighting Swan or just another dirty duck?” the young man repeated with ice threaded through his tone.

  Falon ground her teeth but knew better than to start anything with these older, stronger boys. “I’m a Lieutenant in Lord Lamont’s Fighting Swan Company,” she said tightly.

  “I dare say we made it clear from the beginning we knew your position,” sneered Philip, “what we’re interested in is if you are, in fact, a Fighting Swan.”

  Falon glared up at him, “I don’t think I have anything further to say to the three of you,” she snapped.

  “What?” laughed the young man in the worn breast plate, “Can’t he see there’s five of us? Or perhaps he simply cannot count.”

  “Easy now, Herman,” laughed Philip and it had a mean edge to it, “I’m sure the Squireson didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “Insult!” Falon exclaimed with anger over the way they were deliberately trying to provoke her, “I haven’t insulted you; far from it.”

  “Oh really, Lieutenant Squireson,” Philip grinned. “How is that possible when your very existence in this army is an insult to The Turnip over here?” he inquired, gesturing over to the slightly pudgy member of their trio.

  Falon glanced over at the young man in the chainmail shirt and shook her head dismissively. “I’ve never met you before in my life,” she said, giving this ‘The Turnip’ person the hairy eyeball.

  “Are you calling The Turnip a liar?” Philip, the leader, asked dangerously.

  “Satisfaction!” cried Herman of the beat up armor.

  “Maybe we should see what you can really do with that knife,” Philip smirked.

  “I’m not going to fight you,” Falon said, shaking her head and taking a step back.

  “Then you intend to allow The Turnip to avenge his honor upon your body!” Philip cried, looking for all the world as if he were finding this turn of events most agreeable.

  “What did I do to you?” Falon demanded, wide-eyed as the one they called ‘The Turnip’ started to climb down from his horse.

  “Philip and I are both Squires, and should this war go as planned we’ll be made Knights for service on the battlefield,” Herman informed her with a tight smile. “Derek, on the other hand, while a Knightson like the rest of us, hasn’t been able to find service with a Knight yet. The Fighting Swans were to be his!”

  “The Fighting Swans belong to his Lordship, Lord Lamont, and he chooses his Officers as he sees fit,” Falon protested. “And besides, the Swans aren’t mine; if they belong to anyone besides his Lordship, it’s Captain Smythe. This is just insane!”

  “Did you hear that, Turnip?” Philip cried in overly dramatic, mock outrage. “He’s called you insane!”

  Derek, The Turnip, finished sliding out of the saddle and adjusted his chainmail shirt before looking at her through long locks of hair. Placing fist to open palm, be popped his knuckles menacingly.

  Silent throughout the exchange up until this point, Ernest finally stepped forward, “Look, Falon’s a reasonable guy. I’m sure that he didn’t mean to insult any of you—” the farm boy’s words were interrupted by Philip as he urged his horse forward.

  “Silence before your betters, dirt clod,” cursed Philip, bringing back his boot and kicking Ernest in the face. “It’s time you Old Blooders learned your proper place!”

  Left leg quivering so hard that she thought she was about to lose her footing, Falon’s ears were filled with ringing, “That was uncalled for; Ernest’s as New Blood as the rest of you horse born, diggers,” she snarled, her hand going to the Shri-Kriv on her belt.

  The leather-clad leader of the pack glared at her and threw the reins in his hands over to the other side of his horse’s neck. His charger responded by quickly
turning around in a circle and sidestepping toward her.

  “What was that for?! Watch where you’re going,” Falon yelled, dancing away from the Charger’s iron shod feet.

  “Are you saying I can’t control my horse?” snarled Philip, urging his horse toward her once again.

  “You owe my friend an apology,” she raged, half pulling her Shri-Kriv before the reality of what she was about to do came upon her like a bucket of cold ice water down her back. If she drew first on her social superiors, they could kill her without recourse. The worst they would get would be a slap on the wrist.

  Realizing the trap just in time, she looked up and saw the hawk-like gaze of the two, still-mounted, boys and quickly slammed her knife back into its sheath. Unless she was unequivocally in the right, or they interfered with the performance of her duties to the Lord, she was stuck.

  Philip’s mouth twisted and then he paused. Looking over at Ernest, who was only now just picking himself up off the road, his jaw worked. Then he spat on Ernest.

  “There’s my apology, Squireson, and it’s no more than the dirt clod deserves,” Philip declared pulling back on the reins and forcing his horse to back up. From its flaring nostrils and the way is kept trying to turn from side to side, his horse disliked the idea of retreat.

  Falon glared up at him and it was all she could do to clench her teeth on the hot words she wanted to say.

  She was still grinding her teeth and figuring out what she could say without making things worse, when the slightly rotund one stepped over to her.

  “What do you want, Turnip?” she sneered.

  The young man in the chain shirt drew himself up and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, “Mister Falon Rankin, you are undeserving of your rank in his Lordship’s army. You have not the skill, the training, nor the breeding for such a position,” he declared. Her face flushed, and for an instant she was tempted to punch him in the face.

  Eyebrows rising at her own impulses, Falon realized she had been spending entirely too much time in the rough world of men if fists, and not words, were her first response. Besides, the one she really wanted to hit was Philip not this Derek Turnip person. Reason and discourse, if given the chance, would win out every time.

  “So?” she demanded, figuring that acknowledging the truth was the safer option. While they thought it was an insult, she figured a person couldn’t lose honor for owning up to reality.

  The Turnip blinked at her and then his face turned an alarming shade of red, “You, Mister, are not worthy to shine his Lordship’s boots, let alone command men in his lordship’s name!” Derek cried, his chain shirt clinking as he did so.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Falon agreed with a nod, “I know of neither the shining of boots, nor the leadership of men, but what of it? It is not my place to question his Lordship’s decisions…” she paused as if in contemplation then, “is it yours?”

  The next thing she knew she was hit in the face by a leather gauntlet. Seeing white, followed by red, she cried out and instinctively raised her hands as she staggered back, more in surprise that from the force of the blow.

  “You are a fraud, Squireson!” yelled the Turnip.

  “What of it?” Falon shouted back at him. She wasn’t about to give him the slightest excuse, “It is not my place to question the Lord. Is it yours?”

  “Satisfaction,” Derek the Turnip spluttered, seeming surprised at her continued agreement with his declarations, “I demand satisfaction for your insults!”

  “What insults have I tendered?” she rebuked him, placing her hands on her hips.

  “Defend yourself,” the Turnip cried, pulling out his sword.

  Falon took a step back, looking from one mounted face to the other. When Derek took a step toward her, she looked down at the hilt of her Shri-Kriv.

  “You want me to fight you, sword to Shri-Kriv?” Falon said bewildered that anyone could call forcing a fight like this honorable.

  The Turnip stopped his advance. “He’s right,” he declared, and removing one hand from the hilt of his sword, he waved imperiously in her direction.

  Behind him, the two still-mounted Knightsons exchanged looks, silently arguing. Herman got an intractable look on his face and crossed his arms. Then with a growl, Philip drew his sword and tossed it point first in the earth beside her.

  Staring at the oversized broadsword with disbelief, Falon looked at the three of them, then grabbed a hold of the hilt. It was almost too heavy to lift, so she was definitely going to need both hands. “Really?” she asked incredulously.

  The Turnip had the grace to look slightly embarrassed before his face hardened. “On your guard, blaggart,” he declared, leveling the point of his sword at her for emphasis before drawing it back into the ready position.

  “What does that even mean?” Falon asked, utterly dumbfounded. However, when Derek pulled his sword back into a classic, second position attack, she grabbed the oversized broadsword and with a tremendous heave, followed by an angry grunt as she levered the sword up over her head.

  It took several back and forth steps to gain her balance, and it was all she could do to hold the sword up using both hands.

  For a moment all three Knightsons just stood there staring at her, their faces working. She could tell they wanted to laugh at her but in this particular instance, with one of their own number involved in what was about to be a duel, to do so would have been to demean everyone involved.

  As it was, The Turnip actually had the grace to look embarrassed—probably for her. And then, with a grimace, he swung his sword at hers. She could tell it was deliberate, but that didn’t’ help her; the force of his blade clanging off of hers almost knocked the broadsword out of her hands.

  Fingers and palm stinging on both hands—but most especially the left—Falon grunted with effort as she brought the sword back up to guard position.

  This time, when he swung his sword, The Turnip was less tentative and the force of his blow threw Falon into a half spin that also sent the sword flying from her fingers. She was just starting to straighten and starting to lunge forward to pick up the sword, when she was hit in the hind end by what felt like a hammer.

  With a howl of pain, the force of the blow overbalanced her, and she landed face first in the mud. Trying to grab the sword with one hand and her backside with the other, she rolled over just in time to see a sword tip pointed at her face.

  “Yield,” The Turnip said triumphantly.

  “Why should I?” Falon demanded from her position on her back.

  Derek looked taken aback and squinted his eyes at her, “Because if you don’t I would have the right to kill you?” he said, looking down at her with concern. She could see that, despite the posturing, this guy didn’t really want to kill her.

  Falon closed her eyes and let the air escape her lips, “Fine, you win,” she said unhappily. As she was the one laying in the mud with a sword pointed at her face, she refrained from mentioning the unfairness of the entire episode.

  Chapter 32: To the Victor Go the Spoils, or at Least the Scarf

  It took The Turnip two tries before he got his sword started in its leather holder before he was able to sheath the weapon. Then, to her surprise, he leaned down and offered her a hand.

  “Sorry to hear about your horse,” he muttered loud enough for only her to hear about. “I didn’t realize you were so bad with a sword, or I wouldn’t have let Philip talk me into this.”

  “Thanks,” she said without thinking and reflexively took his hand, then halfway levered back up and realizing what she had done, she let go.

  “Why’d you do that,” he complained, as she landed back in the earth with a squelch. All the jostling caused her backside to flare up with pain.

  “How can you even ask that?” she retorted through gritted teeth.

  Withdrawing his outstretched hand, The Turnip straightened up and the concerned individual who offered her a hand up disappeared. In its place was the disdainful lackey cum accomp
lice of this Philip character.

  “That will teach you to insult the honor of Derek Knightson,” he said stiffly.

  Behind him the two Knightsons exchanged high fives, as if defeating her had been some kind of group accomplishment.

  “The Blood Turnip stands triumphant over all his foes and the honor of Blood Riders is avenged,” Philip declared, in what Falon had to believe was his most pompous voice.

  “Good for you,” Falon muttered under her breath. If these guys thought that beating up on her was an accomplishment, then they were clearly idiots.

  “My little sister could have fought better than he did,” The Turnip declared, “some Boar Knife indeed. Anyway men, I could use a stiff drink to celebrate my victory.” Pulling back out Falon’s blue sash, Derek made sure to turn so that she could fully see it as he cleaned his hands on her long-missing badge of office.

  “And you shall have it, my good Turnip,” Declared Philip and making a motion indicating his friend should reclaim his horse, “I have a flask of mead put aside for just this occasion.”

  With a lot of compliments and back slapping, the final member of the trio reclaimed his horse and headed back the way they had come.

  Just as quickly as they had come, Falon was left sitting in the mud watching the tails of their horses as they disappeared back up the road.

  “Better luck next time, Falon,” Ernest consoled, clapping a hand on her shoulder and helping her up.

  “Next time?” Falon said morosely, suddenly quite certain there would be a next time. Up until that moment it had all been rather surreal. All of a sudden, with Ernest’s words, it was suddenly—alarmingly—real.

  “I’m sure ye’ll trounce the lot of them when you’re better prepared,” her friend said stoutly. “It’s always harder to fight when ye’re not using yer own weapons.”

  “How would you know?” she asked genuinely curious.

  Ernest turned red, “At least…that’s what I hear ‘round the camp fire.”

  “My fighting skills suck,” Falon’s shoulders slumped as she said this.