Falon jerked and almost turned around to launch herself at the infuriating boy, but while her back stiffened she refused to give him the satisfaction.
“My social superiors,” she corrected him icily, still refusing to turn around and face him, “three different Knightsons from, no doubt, three different Knights. While I am simply a Squire’s heir.”
“They’re not only your social superiors but your combat ones, from what little I saw,” he mocked her.
Eyes filling with tears at his mean and hateful words, she kept her face away from him. “As you say,” she said as evenly as she could, and she closed her mind and ears to any further words as she took off sideways from the column. Blindly blundering into the scrub brush and tall grass to the side of the road, she only knew she could never let the men see her cry.
She didn’t know why all men were fools, but what she did know was that if she let them see her cry they would lose all respect and call her a crybaby. She didn’t want to be in this world of theirs, but she wasn’t even just a Squireson anymore; she was a Lieutenant now. If her family was to stay safe, she had to play the role she had been given as far as she could.
Chapter 34: A Long Day’s March Doesn’t Mean a Long Night of Rest
She wandered back into the militia line, rejoining her people shortly before the end of the day’s march.
Half surprised and wondering why she felt so, Falon observed more than a few members of her Wicks Militia giving her sideways glances. Most of them had the grace to look away after an extended glance, but from her position in the wagons the expression on Nyia’s face was pure, vindictive satisfaction, quickly masked by studied unconcern.
Too exhausted from wandering around outside the column and forcing her way forward through the mud not once, but twice, Falon met the gaze of anyone she spotted looking at her, but otherwise kept her head down.
Later that evening while they still setting up camp, the large meadow they had stopped in was filled to overflowing with campfires, tents, and men, all stretched out in large circles on the ground.
She could almost tell which camp belonged to which group. Over here was a gaggle of poorly organized men in rough-spun outfits, carrying everything from pitchforks and spears to a handful of rusty swords. They were clearly a militia band.
Over there was a trio of large, double tents that had seen better days, but the men all had swords. A pair of sentries walked the perimeter of their dozen plus men, most likely belonged to a down on his luck, wandering Knight.
Meanwhile, over on what probably qualified as a slight swell in the ground in the area, was perched a huge, blue tent with the royal coat of arms: the head of a stag with his five, proud antler points rampant on the side. At least a dozen tents—all larger than the poor country Knight’s she had just passed—surrounded the massive blue tent. With hundreds of men milling around outside, it was by far the largest camp in the army.
For a moment, she wondered why Lord Lamont only had his armsmen around his camp and not the militia, but then she shrugged it off. Wandering over for a closer look, she dodged a stream of men winding their way between camps and wrinkled her nose as the odor of fresh ordure wafted over her. The contents of a chamber pot had been dumped somewhere over to her left, and said contents were stinking up the place.
“Take it off the field at least,” she yelled at no one in particular, glaring in the direction of the tossed contents before turning away with a scowl. It’s time to go back to the Wicks campsite anyway, she decided sourly. The martial romance of the large, beautiful tents, surrounded by hundreds of men in metal armor had been lost.
Upon her arrival back at the wagons, she saw that Darius had the men lined up in two rows. She leaned against the wagon as she observed that the spears and pitchforks were arranged in the front of the formation, and everything else was in the back.
The withering look the Imperial man shot her way upon seeing her propped up against the wagon made her jump. Leaning over into the wagon she snatched up her father’s old boar spear, with its brand new (as of a week ago) wooden haft, and she scurried over to the training lines.
Face burning, she ignored the disgusted snorts from behind her and quickly assumed the same position as the rest of the spearmen. Since they were positioned as if to receive a charge, that mostly meant holding the spear firmly and placing the butt of the spear on the ground with her foot planted firmly over it. It was almost exactly like when she had fought with the boar, except that the head of the spear was to be set higher in the air since men are naturally taller than pigs.
He ignored her tardiness for about five minutes, just long enough for her to relax and settle into the rhythm of the basic motions. Thrust high, thrust low, set to receive a charge, it all seemed rather simple in concept, although she greatly feared that reality was going to be a much different experience.
They were just getting to the part where Darius would normally start barking out orders—such as to advance at the walk, advance at the trot, advance at the charge and then switch it around and practice the fighting withdrawal or retreat—when the Imperial Training Master turned to her.
“I have a few things to arrange,” Darius said without any trace of ire, and sounding completely like the Imperial professional he used to be as he spoke to her. At least, it was how she imagined a professional soldier would sound. “So why don’t you take over this evening’s training.”
Falon blinked in surprise. “I’m not sure if I’m the best—” she started in instant denial. Aodhan or Vance, either one would be a better at the job than her, but Darius cut her off before she could get any further.
“It’s decided then; you need the practice,” he said with a no nonsense smile that dared her to contradict him. Unable to do so, she stared at him with wide eyes before he gave her a nod, as if passing control of the training exercise over to her. With that, Darius turned and walked off.
Falon stood there, mouth hanging open until the men beside her began to stir. Closing her mouth with a snap, she took a tentative step forward and started to panic. She couldn’t do this; she wasn’t a training master! Taking another step forward, she felt herself begin to hyperventilate.
If she didn’t do this, she would lose all respect from the villagers. But if tried and failed, the humiliation would be unbearable. Feeling faint, she took a third, and then a fourth and final step, her legs wobbling with every stride. She was just a teenage girl, a young woman. What did she know of war? She had no training! Ernest or Duncan had each spent as much—or more!—time with Darius, working on weapons and formation movements. Why was she left in charge?
Coming to roughly the same distance in front of the two lines of militia men as Darius usually liked to stand, she felt like her heart was being squeezed between two bricks. Unable to hear anything over the ringing in her ears, she realized her eyes were squeezed tight. Opening them as wide as she could, she swiveled around to face the group.
Feeling everyone’s eyes on her wasn’t a tenth as bad as actually seeing them. Rooted in place, she stood paralyzed under the weight of their regard; all she could think of were all the sideways looks after rejoining the band after the run-in with those Knightsons.
Taking a deep gulp, she heard someone in the back line laugh. Knowing she had to do something soon, before they became impatient, she opened her mouth but all that came out was a barely audible croak. Face flushing with shame, all she wanted to do was run as far away as possible; she had even gone so far as to turn her head away from the training group, when she saw Nyia standing on the wagon with her hand over her forehead to shade against the falling sun.
The smirk on the apprentice Wench’s face as she watched Falon make a complete and utter fool of herself was worse than the time she had been stung by a swarm of bees.
“High thrust, low thrust,” Falon snapped, whipping her head away from the wagon and back toward the Two Wicks Militia. At first no one moved, and she felt her face (previously warm with the feeling of gr
owing shame) now turning the red all the way down to her neck but this time it wasn’t with shame; it was with anger and embarrassment.
“I said move,” Falon ordered in a loud voice, stabbing the tip of her spear into the ground as far as she could with a single blow. Fortunately for her non-muscular woman strength, the ground was fairly loose and the head sank in deeply. Widening her stance and unconsciously placing her hands behind her back in imitation of Darius during his training routines, she cocked a single eyebrow at the line of hesitant and unmoving men.
Her heart was just beginning to sink when she heard a growl from the far right end of the first line. To her surprise it was Aodhan, who was the first one to stab his spear up high.
Half the front line group unevenly followed the West Wick Headman, while the rest craned their necks to look up or down the line.
“I said High Thrust, Low Thrust! In unison, now move!” Falon shouted, feeling her confidence renewed. If Aodhan was willing to follow her orders, then who were the rest of these lay-abouts to do otherwise?
This time, both the front line and the back line moved in time to her orders. However, their movements were disjointed as some of the men seemed hesitant, while others overly enthusiastic. Instead of the fairly even movement of spears attacking first high and then low, mirrored by the odd assortment of axes and swords assembled behind them, some people were still thrusting high while others were just pulling back their low attack and resetting to an ‘at ready’ position.
“Again,” Falon ordered, trying to keep her voice as professional and unemotional as Darius. However, as soon as she spoke she could tell she sounded more cold and determined than the seasoned professional she was trying for. But she decided that anything was better than croaking and trembling in front of the men like a fool.
This time, when the first rank looked like it was going to be uneven in its joint movements, Aodhan raised his voice in time with his first thrust. “Come on, Clod-Heads. Attack!” he shouted, rage growing in his voice as he thrust.
While the attack may have started out unevenly, this time it finished with everyone completing their second attack at the same time.
Watching everyone following her commands released a tightness she had been feeling in the pit of her stomach. Breath whooshing out and feeling her confidence growing with every moment, Falon couldn’t help a small smile. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought, she allowed herself to think.
Then someone in the back line stepped too close and jostled the weapon of the man in front of him.
“Are thou trying to kill me!” shouted the Old Blood militia spearman who had been jostled.
“Hold yer horses, Ajax; it was an accident. If I wanted to chop you down, you’d have known it by now,” snapped the New Blood East Wicker behind him.
“Chop me down? You couldn’t do it if you tried—even with my back turned—but I’ll plant you in the Orchard if you don’t watch thy mouth!” yelled the West Wick man, the tattoos on his bare arms gleaming in the setting sun.
“Real men don’t take root in the soil like some accursed tree when they die,” the New Blood man said with growing rage, tossing his axe down on the ground he raised his fists.
Seeing the destruction of everything she had been working to achieve, before she knew it Falon was pushing her way past the front line.
Catching hold of the neckline of the spearman’s shirt, she jerked with all her might, even going so far as to throw her whole body behind it to pull him back.
“I’ll plant you in an Orchard if you start a fight in the middle of Camp,” Falon screamed while the man staggered and regained his balance.
“That’ll show him,” mocked the axeman.
Shoving her way to him, Falon put her fist in the East Wick man’s face. Poking her finger right under his nose, she looked up and growled at him.
“Watch your swings,” she said angrily, “if I lose a man to an injury because you can’t control your axe, it’ll go poorly for you.”
“If you lose a man?” the axeman scoffed in disbelief. “I control my axe just fine young lad, so if’n yer looking for someone to blame, then it’s that accursed spear carrier who can’t control his weapon, not me.”
“Every man here is my responsibility,” Falon said shortly, “I’ll be the judge of who can and cannot control his axe or spear, and deal with them accordingly.”
“Who are ye to upbraid me, boy, when ye can’t even keep a hold of a sword in yer own hands?!” he mocked, and even Falon knew this was a direct reference to her sword duel of earlier in the day, and was unable to keep from flushing with embarrassment.
“Yer daddy’s not here to help you, nor is that training master ye brought in over us,” he sneered down at her, “so ye’ll have to carry yer own water right now, and I don’t think ye’re ready for the likes of Tell of East Wick.”
“I’m the Lieutenant placed over this Militia Band by his Lordship, Richard Lamont!” Falon exclaimed, unable to believe that he was saying these things and everyone else was just standing by and watching.
Looking around and seeing that no one was about to get involved or interrupt, Tell of East Wick placed a hand on her shoulder and have a shove that sent her staggering.
“I respect the Lord with every bone in me rough and humble body, but ye, lad, are not him. So why don’t ye just go back up to the front of this formation and just give the commands from where ye belong—up front—and leave the disciplining of the men back here up to real men? We’ve no time for the whims of young boys back here, Mister Falon.” So saying, the axeman stuck his thumbs through his belt and struck an arrogant pose.
Bewildered by first being thrown back and ignored, and then by the fact that no one—not the spearman he had been fighting, not Aodhan or Vance, or even her friends rising to her defense—Falon put a hand to her shoulder in shock. Idly rubbing it while her mind worked through what had just happened, Falon kept staring at the men around her.
“Move it boy, and get back where ye belong,” the axeman said in a not unkind voice. Where all the shoving and unkind words hadn’t worked, the almost kindly and condescending tone did, and that’s when Falon realized just exactly what she had to do.
So, taking a deep breath and gulping, Falon took a step forward and extended her hand. The axeman started and stared down at her in surprise.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she said, grabbing a hold of the other man’s uncertain hand and clasping his elbow while he was still surprised and gave a squeeze and a shake, “this is really all my own fault. I understand that now and take full responsibility for any misunderstandings,” she continued with a decisive nod.
“Just get back to the front and steer clear—” the man’s next set of words was cut short when Falon suddenly slammed her knee into the man’s crotch.
“I’m your Lieutenant,” Falon shouted as the man bent over with an ‘oof.’ Doubling up her fist, she slammed it right into his nose in a rising uppercut, “I speak with the Lord’s voice!”
The axeman raised his hand to ward her off, but Falon knew the only way she could possibly do this was by not stopping; she couldn’t let him regain the initiative. Which is why she ignored the pain in her left hand and, clenching her right, she slammed it into his face also.
Dodging a wild swing, she came forward, “Disrespecting his Officers is the same as spitting all over his face,” she screamed, launching herself forward and, at the last moment, slammed her shoulder into his midsection taking them both tumbling to the ground.
“Bastardson,” shouted Tell, the axeman, as he fell to the ground. A wild blow of his landed, clipping her on the back of her head and just like that all she could see was stars.
She couldn’t see, but she could still feel and when she felt the front of his shirt, she held on for dear life. Using her arm, she climbed up his torso and another blow landed on her shoulder, causing her hand to loosen its grip and her entire arm to scream with pain.
“Low blow!” cried the axema
n, sounding outraged and slightly muzzy, “I’ll kill ye for that!”
From the sound of his voice, Falon knew where to reach him next, but her one arm was weakened after the blow and she didn’t like to rely on it. She raised her other, but he grabbed her wrist. Jerking and trying to pull free quickly showed that, once again, she couldn’t overpower a full-grown man, so she did the only thing she had left.
Bringing her head down, she slammed her forehead into his nose, ignoring the pretty red and black colors interspersing with the stars in her field of ‘vision,’ and brought her head up and down twice more before he clouted her upside the head.
Falling off and to the side, Falon landed in the mud. Sensing movement, she looked up blearily but all she caught were flashes of movement. Then she heard Tell the axeman give a grunt of effort.
“I’ll finish ye, I will,” Tell grunted and she could hear his levering himself up to his feet, “time to learn ye about what happens to them that fight dirty!”
“What’s that?” Falon gasped getting to all fours and pushing off backward to both get up and gain some distance.
“They get themselves pounded into the ground and forced to eat mud,” raged Tell.
Dimly sensing movement, Falon leaned back and heard the axeman’s fist go swinging past her.
Putting her fists up Falon’s heart sank; her only hope had been a surprise attack. She had needed to finish him quick and put his little treason to rest, but here he was in open rebellion against her authority and no one was doing a thing to help stop it. She was about to get the beating of her life.
“I will fong you!” Tell raged, stomping forward while Falon backpedaled.
Then she bumped into someone, or something, behind her.
“Watch out,” exclaimed a familiar male voice, and Falon felt something pushed into her right hand. It felt hard and round, almost like a cylinder.
“Hey,” Falon said in surprise.
The Blooding Page 25