The Blooding

by Luke Sky Wachter

  Wondering just what he could have seen that was tantalizing enough to divert his attention, Falon looked over and instantly wanted to cringe. It was the Banner of the Fighting Swans, with Captain Smythe and large group of men standing under it.

  She tried to tug on the reins and turn Bucket’s head, and her efforts had just started to bear fruit from the tired sounding donkey, when the Captain’s head snapped around and he looked at her.

  When the Captain gestured for her to continue her approach, Falon felt a hollowness deep within the pit of her stomach. Her eyes skittering away from the Captain even as she urged Bucket towards him, Falon tried to look anywhere but at him.

  Looking around, she realized the landscape had opened up. They had just entered a very large clearing, a place too large to be properly called a meadow. It had large stands of trees to either side and a small creek cutting through part of it, all the way off on the opposite side of the clearing. There was more than enough room for the whole army to camp here.

  Then her eyes caught the long line of cavalry, armsmen and militia starting form in several separate lines all across the meadow. Looking past them her heart stopped. The Raven army was huge and already set out in formation. The large blocks of cavalry and lines of ground-based armsmen, or rougher looking units of what she assumed were militia, were set up just like in a sand box, at least from what she could see.

  “Done wool gazing and being intimidated by the sight of the enemy, yes, Lieutenant?” Captain Smythe said his voice cutting.

  Falon tried to suppress her involuntary start at the sound of his voice. “Lieutenant Falon, reporting in,” she said instead.

  “Couldn’t stand to wait in the back of the army?” Smythe frowned at her. “Had to come galloping up on that miserable excuse of an Officer’s mount and lay eyes on the Raven’s for thy self, eh?”

  “I, uh…” Falon started to prevaricate, but the fiery gleam in Smythe’s eye brought her up short, “that is, I lost control of my Donkey—temporarily,” she finally admitted, closing her eyes to receive the tongue lashing she deserved.

  “Lost control of thy mount,” the Captain scoffed, “I’ve heard that one more times than I’ve been in battle. Why don’t you try and tell me another excuse?”

  Falon’s eyes popped open. “But it’s the truth,” she said, taken aback.

  “Every young officer ‘loses control of his horse’, at one time or another,” Smythe said sternly, “just admit thy blood got up and thou couldn’t help running to the front to get a good gander at the enemy.”

  Falon opened her mouth to protest her innocence yet again, but then she saw the Captain’s mouth harden in way she fully understood. She gulped. “Uh…I, uh…my blood got up and I had to come see the Raven Guard for myself,” Falon finally lied with a weak smile.

  The blow he landed when the Captain chucked her on the arm staggered her enough that she had to grab Bucket’s mane to stay atop her steed.

  “Well don’t let it happen again,” Captain Smythe growled and then his face lightened, “still, it’s good to see my Officers eager and with fire in their bellies,” he said with a nod.

  Falon’s mouth started to make a moue of dismay, but she womanfully forced a rictus of a smile to take its place instead.

  “Right, belly’s full of fire,” Falon echoed him faintly, “that’s me.” But rather than fire, it felt like ice had entered the previously hollow portion of her belly. Her eyes shot over to look at the Raven Prince’s army; there was no way they could take on an army that big! “Let me at them,” she blustered hollowly, certain that she was about to die for her country.

  “Buck up, boy-o,” the Captain said, then after pointing to the enemy army he made sure she was watching him and then rolled his eyes, “looks pretty large and powerful all set up in them nice, pretty lines, don’t it?” he asked probably seeing the expression of dread sneaking upon Falon’s face.

  “Surely it does, Captain,” Falon agreed with desperate feeling. There had to be thousands and thousands of them over there! All that cavalry and-and infantry. The armsmen alone…she didn’t even want to think about fighting off armsmen with her friends and neighbors. Militia had no business out tangling with highly trained sworn men, with top of the craft armor and steel swords!

  “Let me tell you a little secret, Lieutenant,” the Captain said, leaning in close.

  Wide-eyed, Falon couldn’t help being caught up at being on the receiving end of what a real warrior and military man like the Captain would consider a secret—even the sort that he would share with a fresh faced fraud like her. “What?” she asked, barely able to keep the tremors from her voice.

  “The enemy always looks bigger than whatever side you’re on,” he said with a confident smile and then leaned away.

  Falon stared at him blankly. “That’s it?” she blurted. “That’s the secret?”

  Smythe scowled at her, “That, and unless they’ve got a large battalion of men in each of those stands of trees, we’ve got them outnumbered,” he said shortly.

  “How do we know for sure, Captain?” Falon asked, hating the slightly begging tone in her voice, the one that asked to be reassured that there were more of them than the enemy. “Magic?” she couldn’t help but add, as the thought occurred to her.

  Smythe shot air out the side of his mouth, “Buck it up son; this is why they call it a man’s job. War’s not for the faint of heart,” he said in a dire tone of voice, then he paused and seemed to contemplate the situation for several seconds. “Not magic,” he said finally, “but an old campaigner’s trick. Look at the size of the groups, and count the number of men in each group. Then count the banners and you have a rough number.”

  “That’s a lot of math,” Falon said, trying to imagine what her brothers would have probably said in response to such an assertion. Meanwhile, she considered numbers reaching up into the thousands of men—on each side! She had dealt with those kinds of problems in the Chatelain’s Defense but to see them with her eyes and not as a calculation on a piece of paper was staggering.

  “Thou’ve got to have your basic arithmetic down if thou dost want to be an Officer—militia or sworn men, it makes no difference,” Smythe said sternly, “so mind thy letters and numbers. Those lessons are more useful than most know.”

  “Arithmetic,” Falon said in surprise. She knew her reading, writing and arithmetic already; it was using her multiplication and long division in complex formulas that tended to throw her.

  “Another boy who spent most of his time outside fighting and playing while his sisters were inside doing their studies,” Smyth scowled, “well, if thou last after this battle, best to brush up on those skills. That’s why I had thee hire a clerk.”

  “Err, right,” Falon said, glad that he had mistaken her words for normal ‘boyish’ behavior, but still more than a little irked because she actually had done all her lessons back home with her sisters.

  “The difference between a Corporal and his Sergeant are knowing his numbers and letters,” the Captain lectured, “the difference between a Sergeant and an Officer is luck, friends in high places,” he shot her a significant look, “and the mastery of his three R’s: reading, writing and arithmetic. So best pay it head.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Falon said dutifully. Her problem wasn’t with the clerk work. Her lessons growing up with Krisy back home had prepared her for the household accounts, and that easily translated over here. It was the fighting and brawling and things that the boys seemed to naturally learn by just simply growing up that she was still lacking.

  “Alright then, most of the men have started to catch up,” the Captain said, pointing back the way they had come, and Falon looked back in surprise at just how much time had passed during their conversation.

  Of course, they had been moving at the double time, she reminded herself firmly.

  “We’re to be situated south side of the clearing,” the Captain added.

  “Why?” Falon asked, shading her eyes w
hile she looked over to the south side of the field.

  “His Highness, the Prince has taken the position of honor and will command the Cavalry while his Guard Captain handles the Center for him. This leaves Right Wing under General Murphy, the Baron of Quinn. He might be old, but he’s a solid hand at these things. That leaves the Left wing, and as the only other General of this army, by order of our master the Royal Marshal, Prince William, his lordship Lamont been ordered to release his Knights to the Cavalry and take personal command of the Left Wing.”

  “So we’ve got the left side,” Falon said, wondering why Smythe bothered to explain everything. As far as she could see, all she had needed to know was where to put her men.

  “As a Lieutenant and the next leader of the Fighting Swans, should I fall in battle, you should have some idea who the main players in this army are,” Smythe said tightly. It was almost as if he had read her mind, and Falon quickly looked down at the neck of her donkey. “Since his Highness has summoned all the Knights to his Cavalry contingent—landless and land holders both—command of their smaller contingents will fall to Squires or, if those Squires are heavily-armed enough to join the Cavalry charge, their younger sons or trusted chief man-at-arms.”

  “I understand,” Falon said, thinking of the confusion and potential disaster of having every band and fighting tail in their wing without their usual leaders for this battle.

  Captain Smythe nodded his approval to her, again almost as if he had red her mind, and this time Falon felt a warm flush of praise, “Anyway we, the Fighting Swans, have been tasked by his Lordship to take the Center with the odds and sods set to either side of us.”

  “We’re to take the center of the Left Wing,” Falon gaped at him, warm feeling turning to charcoal inside her, “shouldn’t that normally go to the armsmen?”

  “Without recourse to his normal Knights and commanders, Lord Lamont has decided to keep his personal army of sworn men and armsmen from the Keep in reserve as a contingency,” Smythe grudged.

  “Of course,” Falon replied unhappily. The orders of his Lordship were what they were; she had neither the training nor the experience to gainsay Lamont’s strategy. When it came right down to it, she really was just a spear carrier in this Flower War of the Prince’s. Then a thought occurred to her.

  “How do you know all this?” Falon asked with growing curiosity, “We’ve only just spotted the Ravens.”

  “The winds of politics have been wafting this way for days, but other than that I cannot say,” Smythe said flatly, “perchance when you too are as old and experienced, you will be as deeply in the confidence of his Lordship as I am.”

  “Thanks,” Falon said, careful not to add, ‘for nothing.’ But then she realized that it wasn’t for nothing after all. She was actually getting some very good hints about how armies and tactics and war strategies worked in real life.

  “Assuming the Ravens don’t launch a surprise attack and disrupt things, we’re to fall into our order of battle as quickly as possible. I’ve already sent runners down to put guide flags down for each of our units,” Captain Smythe informed her, “have your men march to the south to find your guide flag, and good luck.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Falon said quickly and pulling on the reins started to guide Bucket over to her now emerging band of militia.

  “And Lieutenant,” Captain Smythe called out after her. Falon turned in her saddle, “stay with your unit, and no more rushing around like a green stick fresh off the farm. You’ll come to grips with the enemy soon enough!

  Giving a sharp nod, Falon kicked her heels into to Bucket’s belly to urge him back to her band.

  After the kicking, bucking and outraged ‘Hee-Hawing’ that was Bucket the Magnificent’s response to this little bit of what he clearly considered abuse, Falon eventually regained control of her donkey. Her ears burning with embarrassment, she rode away from the Captain to the sound of male laughter filling her ears.

  Chapter 41: The Parley

  “We’ve stood here for over an hour now, Fal,” John whined in her ears, “do you think they’ll wrap this up any time soon?”

  “For the seventh time, I have no idea, Valet,” Falon rebuked in a cutting voice, “you’d have to ask the Prince that.”

  “What I meant was—” John started but Falon cut him off with a chop of her arm.

  “What you really wanted to know is if we’re going to stand around here until it gets too late for a battle, and retire to camp this evening so we can come back to fight this battle tomorrow,” Falon said, giving him a gimlet look.

  “Well…yeah!” John agreed, his face brightening.

  “Then in answer to your question, I’m sure we’ll find out later,” Falon said shortly, before adding, “unless they keep talking, and we don’t.”

  John looked at her sourly. “Well why didn’t you just say that in the first place and not get my hopes all up?” he muttered.

  Falon glared at him with enough outrage that her Valet eventually had the grace to look slightly shame-faced. “I already told you the exact same thing not five minutes ago,” she growled at him before turning and stomping a few feet away. In a way she was actually glad to be fuming at her nominal Valet; it helped keep her from pondering the thousands of men across the field from their position.

  Before she knew it, she was once again counting the number of men under the banner across from her position. Shading her eyes, she looked over the rest of the Ravenhome Army, counting as many banners as she could see.

  “How many of them are there, Fal,” John asked, actually sounding subdued and not at all like the usual, upbeat teenager he normally was.

  “Thirty, thirty five hundred,” Falon said absently and then slapped a hand over her mouth. How could she have been so stupid as to speak without thinking first?

  John gulped audibly. “That sounds like a lot,” he whispered, looking decidedly pale, “and didn’t you say something about how they have the high ground?”

  “We’ve got them outnumbered,” Falon hastened to assure him. “And I didn’t say anything about the ground,” she added furiously.

  “That’s good…that we have them outnumbered, I mean,” John sighed with relief, “I must have heard about the ground from someone else…maybe Darius.”

  “Great,” Falon said turning away.

  “But they do have the high ground, don’t they,” John said in a shrill voice that Falon did her best to ignore, “just how badly do we out number them, Lieutenant?”

  “Oh, now it’s Lieutenant,” Falon snapped.

  “I need to know,” John urged.

  “We have somewhere between forty three and forty five hundred at the last count,” Falon muttered.

  “Earth and Field avert. We’re going to die, I know it,” John prayed.

  “How do you figure that?” Falon rounded on him, her mouth a tight line.

  “I didn’t realize before now, but if we’re on the Left Wing, then that means that we’re going to face their Right Wing, and they have the high ground. Everyone knows you put your best men and commanders on the right, and everyone else gets the left,” John moaned, an expression of dread on his face.

  “Shut up,” Falon snapped, getting in her Valet’s face and snarling at him. “Do you think his Lordship is some kind of weak sister on the battlefield? This is your sworn Lord you’re talking about!”

  “N-no,” John replied weakly and wide-eyed.

  “Then be quiet, pull yourself together and…” she looked up before looking right back down at him, catching and holding his gaze with her own. “Get ready to run some messages for me,” she growled at him.

  “M-m-messages,” John stuttered before regaining his composure, so much so that he suddenly gave Falon a hard stare, “why are you suddenly planning to send me away? I don’t need any make work assignments! I’ve been training and I’m on the field of battle; I’m hardened,” he glared at her.

  Falon had to suppress the urge to laugh when the boy who, mome
nts earlier, had been on the verge of a breakdown and was now calling himself ‘hardened.’

  “What’s the joke?” John said in a low tone filled with growing ire.

  Falon reached over his shoulder and pointed. “There’s action over at the parley table,” she said struggling to keep her face straight, which wasn’t that hard when he continued to glare at her, “so really, get ready to run some messages if things start happening.”

  John whirled around and saw the same thing she did. The small figures of the parley negotiators were all standing and pointing fingers at one another. The middle chair on the Kingdom’s side of the table had all been knocked over, and the person she thought to be the Prince was busy shaking his sword at someone on the other side of the table.

  Pulling a sword under a white parlay flag was never a good idea in any of the stories Falon had heard or read.

  Then a slightly taller figure out in the middle of the field, on the Raven side of the negotiating table pulled out a sword of his own and the other ‘negotiators’ fell back.

  Falon startled when all around her, both armies of the field started cheering. Looking around in disbelief, she took in the men of the Wicks militia as they started heckling the other side of the field before a chant started to go up.

  “Stag-Stag-Stag,” shouted the men from the Center of their army. The chant was quickly taken up by her friends and neighbors, who began slapping each other on the shoulders and making rude gestures at the opposing line.

  The units directly across the field returned the gestures, and then several of the enemy warriors turned around and pulled down their britches. While Falon covered her mouth in shock, the bare-bottomed hecklers slapped themselves on the cheeks and jeered over their shoulders. An answering call swept through them and soon Falon could hear, “Raven-Raven-Raven,” cried by the enemy army.

  “It’s going to be a duel,” John yelled, punching her in the arm and then jumping up and down, “maybe we won’t even have to fight after all!” He pointed out toward the middle of the field, where off to the side of the negotiating table men were moving around in counterclockwise motion, digging a dirt circle into the earth and grass.