“Get back in the ring,” said the same familiar voice. It was Ernest, she realized with shock and then he shoved her barely hard enough to move her shoulder. Feeling the rounded metal in her hand, she clenched her fist around it.
“Quit fooling around and show us those iron hands of yers, Fal,” Duncan said from somewhere only a few feet behind her.
Realizing what she had in her hand, she quickly switched the metal from her right hand to her left behind her back so that Tell wouldn’t see her do it.
“Knock him dead, Fal,” screamed Ernest.
Tell stepped forward while Falon was still distracted, and she barely had time to dodge. She was too slow to avoid the blow and he hit her in the chest like a raging boar, sending her flying.
Sliding back on the earth, she scrambled back to her feet just in time to catch a kick to her legs that sent her sprawling.
“Get up ye little digger; I’m going to bust yer head wide open and teach ye a low bred lesson that yer high bred self’s been sorely missing,” Tell growled.
Holding onto the metal cylinder in her hand, Falon braced herself so that when she got up this time, she would be ready.
Getting her feet under her in a crouch, she looked up to see Tell standing over her, fist raised and ready to pound her back into the ground.
Breaths coming in short gasps, she knew she was going to have to make her next blow count, so she came up swinging.
Her fist grazed his shoulder as he leaned to the side and came back with an over hand right. Raising her right arm to block, she felt something crack when his blow landed and fire lanced up her forearm.
Shaking her head, she saw him standing flatfooted in front of her just like all the other scrambles she had observed between men, almost as if he were waiting for her blow. Not about to let this opportunity go to waste, she came forward swinging for the rafters.
Her left fist came around in a wild swing, hitting him in the cheekbone with punishing force and she heard him cry out. Holding her right arm close in to her body, she jumped back to avoid his next blow and she once again banged him in the face, this time landing square on his jaw.
Amazed that her hand hurt, but not nearly as much as it had the other times she had hit someone in the face, she dimly decided that she was going to need one of these round bits of metal for future fistfights.
Seeing him standing there with his legs wobbling and shaking his head, Falon came forward and once again kicked him between the legs. Seeing him fall to his knees with a sound that started as a groan but ended as a moan, she stepped forward with a left uppercut.
This time when Tell went down, he stayed down.
Not willing to take any chances, Falon jumped atop him. Straddling his chest, she used her left hand to rain blows down on his face. All she could feel was pure, unadulterated rage, and somewhere in her rational mind she knew that she had to make the most of the situation.
She didn’t stop bludgeoning him until hands started dragging her off the fallen axeman.
“I’ll bury you, feet first,” she screamed, fighting the hands and trying to pull her off. Then another pair joined the fray grabbing her arms; her left arm didn’t bother her, but her right did and she couldn’t fight back a cry of pain.
“Let it go Fal, ye’ve won,” Ernest urged her while Duncan helped pull her away.
“Let me go,” she struggled but they wouldn’t let her loose. Seeing the circle of men around the scene of the fight, just watching as if this were some kind of illicit cock fight, she glared wild eyed at the lot of them, “Anyone else feel the same as that dirt clod, Tell?” she demanded as she spat in their direction and lunged forward to attack.
“Stop Falon, it’s over,” Ernest grunted dragging her out of the circle.
“I’ll do the same to anyone else who ignores orders,” Falon screamed, “I will plant you, or fong you, or whatever else!”
Another grip on her right forearm by Duncan cut her off from saying anything more and she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out.
“I think his arm’s broken, Ern,” she heard Duncan exclaim.
“Let’s get him over to the Wench,” Ernest suggested, adjusting his grip until he was holding her under the armpit. Duncan did likewise, and Falon was left clutching her right arm to her body.
“Men!” she spat.
“Hush Fal, the battle’s over,” Ernest whispered.
“You want to settle everything with violence? I’ll give you violence!” she raged. “I’ll give you so much violence you’re begging me to sit down and talk instead!”
Still shouting her outrage at the world, and her supposed militia band while her friends dragged her over to the wagon, she turned to glare at Ernest.
“Where were you when that dirt clod decided he didn’t have to follow my orders?” Falon accused the fifteen year old boy.
“Earth and Field Fal, get a hold of yerself,” Ernest snapped.
“Let me go,” Falon yelled, taking a few deep breaths and ceasing her struggle.
“Not until yer arm’s been looked at,” Duncan said from the other side of her.
“You didn’t lift a finger either, Duncan Farmer,” Falon said shortly.
“Ye have to fight yer own battles Fal, just like the rest of us,” Duncan said just shortly.
Feeling their grips loosen now that she had stopped fighting, Falon shrugged off their hands and pulled away.
“Don’t do anything stupid now, Fal,” Ernest warned, lunging over and catching her elbow.
Once again Falon shrugged off his hand. “I’m not going back after Tell, so keep your paws off me, Ernest,” she said coldly and under the weight of her gaze the two boys backed off.
“Fine, go back and get yer head knocked in,” Ernest said, raising his hands in defeat and disgust.
“What do ye think ye can prove?” Duncan said scornfully as the two brothers stopped following her.
“If have to fight my own battles then fine, that’s exactly what I’ll do,” Falon ground out and turned back toward the side of the camp they had been practicing in.
“Where are you boys going?” she called out as she saw the men had broken up and were turning back to go to the campfires, “this training exercise isn’t over. Get back in line!”
To her surprise, the men stared at her and then started moving back to the small bit of field they had been using for practice.
Aodhan stepped forward and crossed his arms, “And why should we?” he asked curiously.
“If I can keep going with a broken arm and the rest of you feel like you need a break because the work’s too hard then by all means, be my guest,” she said, wincing with pain as she deliberately used her right arm to indicate the campfires. Then, striding over to her boar spear, she used her left hand to pull it out of the ground.
“First line, form up on me,” she turned around to place her back to the man and called out. Using both hands caused pain to flare through her right arm, even when she was using as much of her stronger left side as possible, she still had to lever around the spear with her right.
“An advancing middle/low thrust pattern on my three,” she called out, ignoring whether the men were following her or not. “Three. Two. One,” she snapped. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Aodhan come to stand right beside her and take up position.
Each motion causing agony to flare through in her right forearm, Falon bit her lip until it bled to keep from crying out. She had to press forward and at least go long enough to finish a regular exercise; with the Headman standing there right beside her she could tell she had to complete this exercise. She had no choice.
They could not like her, they could think she didn’t deserve her Lieutenancy, they could even hate her but by the Lady they were going to respect Lord Lamont! They were going to complete their training so that it wasn’t a black stain on her soul if they died on the battlefield. If by some miracle she survived and one of them didn’t, there was no way she could look their widow in
the eye, knowing that her neighbor died because her militia was the only one that didn’t train enough.
Which was to say nothing of her own family relying on her to do her duty here, no matter how painful it might be.
Chapter 35: Night Training
“It’s too heavy,” Falon gasped as she tried to swing around the sword into the designation position.
“If you hadn’t damaged your right arm in a pointless display of machismo, maybe it wouldn’t be,” Darius said lightly, “now move into third position.”
“No, I mean it’s just too heavy; I’ll never get strong enough to wield this sword with one hand,” Falon complained, her breath coming in deep gaps as she tried to ignore the growing pain in her right arm from the strain of holding the sword out in front of her.
“When your man strength comes in I’m sure you’ll be fine,” the Imperial said dismissively. “When you get a few more inches on you and match the rest of your countrymen, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“That’s never going to happen,” Falon moaned under her breath.
“What did you say?” Darius asked sharply.
Falon coughed and then lowered her sword to let the tip rest on the ground, “I was saying that’s not going to happen in time—certainly not in time for the battle,” she said, taking the momentary pause to try and catch her breath and ease the pressure on her arm.
Darius raised his eyebrows and turned away, then pausing he turned back, “This is the lightest long blade made by your people.” He placing his right hand on his left upper arm and moved his fingers in a rhythmic tapping motion as he visibly thought out loud, “Since you clearly don’t think you’ll be able to wield even such a sword as this anytime soon, that begs the question of why I should even bother to teach you at all?”
“So you’re calling off the lesson?” Falon asked with relief at the thought of escaping another hour of pain filled practice.
“No,” Darius said his face hardening, “after your exploits today, even if I never teach you another lesson in swordsmanship you will finish tonight’s lesson.”
“Look, Tell had it coming,” Falon said starting to feel angry, “I couldn’t let him tell me off in front of everyone.”
Darius looked surprised and then gave her a skeptical look, “That certainly could have been handled better, but that’s not the exploit I’m talking about,” he said.
For a moment Falon was taken aback and then comprehension dawned. “You mean my run-in with those Knightson blockheads,” she said growing upset as she ran back over the events of this morning and relived that particular, humiliating episode.
“Yes, those ‘Knightson blockheads’,” Darius said shaking his head.
“Why would that bother you more than the training exercise?” Falon asked with genuine confusion. To her mind, fighting and brawling in the middle of camp was the worse offense by far.
“The exercise and its interruption are a serious disciplinary matter, yet you managed to successfully deal with it. Just don’t let it happen again,” Darius said sternly, and Falon had to stop from sighing in relief. “However,” he continued, “what you do outside this camp reflects on more than just yourself.”
“I don’t see how it does,” Falon said mulishly, “after all, I’m the one that got knocked face-first into the mud and personally humiliated.” She was surprised when he stepped over, and with a flick of his wooden training sword knocked the metal practice sword out of her hand and deftly snatched it out of the air.
“Everything you do reflects on your instructor, this militia band, and to a lesser extent the Fighting Swan Company as well,” Darius growled at her. “Your own ‘personal humiliation’ gets shared by the rest of us.”
“But…that’s not fair!” Falon exploded, unable to believe that anything she did could matter that much.
“Get used to it,” Darius snorted in derision, causing Falon to grit her teeth, “and get your guard up!” he exclaimed, tossing the well-blunted practice blade at her.
Catching the sword by the hilt, she cried out with pain as the weight of it put extra pressure on her injured arm. Struggling to put the sword up in position fast enough to suit Darius, Falon glared down at the stupid, overweight thing.
“Why can’t I just learn to use a sword like yours?” she complained. “It’s a lot smaller and lighter than this monster.”
“Your people only make larger swords, so the first problem is where you would find one to use,” Darius snapped, making clear by tone of voice that using his sword was not an option.
“I could have a smith make me one,” Falon said hesitantly.
Darius pulled out his sword and indicated the darker metal of his blade, “Imperial swordsmiths have the secret of the dark metal; yours do not. I believe that anything of a similar size made by your people out of normal iron would be much weaker, and prone to being sundered on the battlefield,” he said.
“Yeah, well at least I’d be able to use it until it broke, unlike this thing,” Falon muttered rebelliously. Stubbing her toe against the dirt area they were practicing in, she knew that he was probably right, but it still left her stuck using the spear as her main weapon. The spear was fine, and she actually seemed to be less incompetent with it than she was with a sword, but it made her stand out.
“Look,” Darius said patiently, “your swords can be used either one or two handed, interchangeably; an Imperial sword on the other hand is meant to be wielded with a single hand.”
“So?” Falon said sullenly, her dreams of actually finding a blade small and light enough for her to wield like a real swordsman slipping away like sand through an hour glass. Or, ‘swordswoman’ as the case may be, she smiled at the thought, and then remembered she didn’t have such a sword and her mood crashed.
“So not only would you be learning a whole new technique of sword-fighting, but you’d need your dominant hand to be able to able to cope with the strain of wielding it,” he said with what Falon felt was a very patronizing smile.
Great, she thought to herself as she recognized the expression. It looked like it wasn’t just being a girl that caused older males to be so patronizing. It must just be a natural skill they developed as time went by, which was just a wonderful observation to have fall into her lap at that particular moment. It really didn’t help improve her mood or day one little jot.
“It’s too bad you have to use your right hand for everything interesting,” she sighed glumly.
Darius froze and his head swiveled to look at her. “What do you mean by that little statement?” he asked, and if Falon was any judge he sounded reluctant when he asked the question. It was almost as if he didn’t want to hear the answer, which was just crazy. No one used their left hand for anything important…well, except for Witches and Wizards and such. The left hand was the path of the sorcerer and all that. They said that magic just naturally came easier to the left side…. at least that’s what Mama Muirgheal had told her, and she ought to know since she was a Witch.
“Oh it’s just that it would be nice if a person could use their left hand to learn things like writing and sword play and such,” Falon sighed morosely.
Darius cocked his head, “People often learn to use their non-dominant hand for things. However, with sword play especially, it’s important to learn the right way first. Then you can practice with your off hand,” he explained.
“I know we have to do things the right way,” she agreed, straightening up and giving him a nod of understanding, “it just gets frustrating and I wish we could learn things the left way instead. It would be so much easier.”
“The left way,” Darius said, closing his eyes and keeping them closed, “Falon don’t tell me. Are you naturally left handed?”
“Of course,” Falon said in surprise, “my mother is a witch after all.”
Darius opened his eyes and glared at her, “Why haven’t you mentioned this before now?”
Falon was taken aback. “Why would I? Was it important? We�
��d still have to do everything the right way anyway,” she explained slowly as if speaking to someone who couldn’t quite hear or understand what she was saying.
“Really?” Darius inquired, his voice deceptively mild. Falon eyed him suspiciously; she knew this tone of voice from the practice field and knew better than to trust it.
“Of course,” she exclaimed, “you’d jostle everyone else in formation if you tried to use a sword or spear the left way!”
Darius started to turn red in the face. “A surprisingly logical answer,” he finally grudged.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling satisfied.
“However, as your instructor it’s important that I know minor details—like which is your naturally dominant hand,” he said with a sigh.
“I didn’t think it would matter,” Falon admitted, “I mean you always have to learn how to use your right hand for everything. So why bring it up?”
“Now you know,” Darius said shortly, and turned away muttering to himself.
“Wait,” Falon said a new hope blossoming in her heart, “does this mean that I could start to learn how to use your sword…I mean an Imperial sword, with my left hand!” she quickly corrected feeling excited.
“No,” Darius snorted, turning back to her.
“Well, why ever not?” Falon demanded hotly. “You said you only need to use one hand and my left hand works just fine. We could start now!”
“Absolutely not,” the Training Master growled at her.
“But why?” Falon begged. “I don’t want to wait until my right arm is fixed; I need to learn how to use a sword I can actually use as soon as possible.”
“The arm you use isn’t important,” Darius snapped and then visibly pulled himself up short, “I mean…it is, but not as much as you think.”
“Then what do I need to do?” Falon said wheedling for all she was worth.
Darius turned away shaking his head.
“That’s not fair,” Falon cried, “why won’t you teach me? At least tell me why. Is it some big Imperial secret?”
Darius sideways towards her, his mouth working as if he was tasting something unpleasant.
The Blooding Page 26