“Not have to fight?” Falon boggled, and then the idea exploded inside her brain. If the two feuding Princes could settle their differences in single combat, maybe no one needed to die! “Not have to fight,” Falon repeated with an excited, wondering smile, “you’re a genius, John; we might not have to fight after all!” Falon said, grabbing his shoulder with her off hand and shaking him from side to side at the heady thought. How many stories had she heard about where the two champions fought in single combat and the victor won, the loser lost, and the armies each went home?!
John grinned at her as the rest of the men kept up a stream of cheers as the two Princes—at least she assumed it was the Princes…she was too far away to be entirely sure—crossed blades.
Swords flashed in the air above the heads of the two combatants before they met with force, and the two figures began circling. The only way she could tell which person to root for was by the Black and Purple colors of the Ravenguard on the one figure, and the Gold and Silver pattern of the Royal House on the other.
It was quite epic fighting for man to man instead of with armies, and romantic too that they were fighting over the favor of lady, a Princess even! The Pink Princess must be really something two Princes from entirely difference kingdoms were fighting for her hand, Falon thought with clear envy as a real-life fairy tale seemed to be playing out before her eyes.
The Princes danced back and forth in a dazzling display of swordsmanship that Falon could only dream of achieving someday. She dearly hoped that it wasn’t just the large size of the Princess’s dowry that had the two men in the center of the field coming to blows. She hoped the Princess was beautiful, and well-tempered, and sophisticated, and that the Princes each sought her hand for true love.
Seeing the man in Black and Purple being driven back around the inside of the circle, Falon leaned forward with bated breath, all the while wondering what the Pink Princess thought of all this. Because she was leaning forward at the front of the lines, that’s when she saw a pair of her militia turn around, hands on their trousers. She did a double take as she realized they intended to return the Ravenguard’s vulgar display.
“Get back in line,” she screamed at the pair of overgrown idiots, “and get your hands off those trousers, or so help me the moment they come down I’m going to do like your mother should have when she was teaching you manners and paddle you both black and blue!” Unbuckling her belt because it would have taken too long to untie her sheath from it, she waved her still sheathed sword at them by the handle.
The two miscreants jumped, and the pairs of trousers that had been on the way down quickly came back just as quickly. Falon shuddered and looked away until they had turned back around again. All the men within easy listening distance of Falon and the two miscreants bellowed with laughter.
“I’m ashamed of you two. The last thing I needed to see today was your hairy backsides staring me in the face,” Falon shouted, turning red in the face—both at what she had seen, and at the laughter of the rest of the men.
“But they was doing it too,” exclaimed an older boy she knew vaguely from her time in the villages, pointing at the opposing line from the Raven army. His partner in crime started to look embarrassed.
“I suppose if all your friends went and jumped off a bridge then you’d go and do the same thing, right?” Falon rolled her eyes and glared as menacingly as she could manage. Which, judging from the reaction of the second boy, was pretty intimidating. Unfortunately, his loud mouthed partner seemed to be made of denser stuff.
“O’course ye’d jump! You can’na just slink off from a dare like that,” the older boy said indignantly, “thou just hast to watch out for the rocks in the water to either side when thee jumps in and—”
“Shut up,” Falon shouted, jumping up in his face. The loudmouth finally started to realize he was in deeper trouble than he thought and his mouth snapped closed, “it’s a short candle of extra training for you when we get back into camp!”
“After a battle,” cried the stupid one, while the other boy began edging away from him.
Falon opened her mouth, but the other men quickly silenced him with a few harsh words and a clout to the back of his head.
“Shut it you and take yer lumps like a man; the rest of us is trying to watch the fight,” said an older man, the same one who thumped him on the head.
Seeing the boy chastened, Falon gave a satisfied nod and absently said, “It’s a duel.” Seeing that no one cared, she shrugged and then eagerly turned back around to watch the fight. That’s when the men behind her suddenly grave a groan.
Wondering what it could be, her eyes quickly sought out the duelists. Clenching her fists in dismay, Falon saw a sword flying in the air and the man in Silver and Gold scrambling to recover it.
“Come on,” she screamed, seeing her Prince running for his sword with the Raven Prince in hot pursuit. Then the Stag Prince stumbled, and Falon clutched her chest when the man in Purple and Black placed his foot on the sword of her kingdom’s Prince, and the enemy Prince leveled his blade at her Prince’s throat.
“Of all the cursed luck,” spat Tug from right behind her ear.
“I thought you were staying back with the wagons,” Falon said, looking over at the overweight clerk with surprise. Although he was less overweight than at the beginning of their journey he was still rather rotund. However she didn’t let the antics of her sticky fingered clerk’s distract her for long, her eyes instantly tracking back to watch his Royal Highness.
“Well, I guess we lost,” John said from her other side kicking a rock, “Earth and Field—” he started, but Falon cut him off.
“Watch your tongue,” she said severely, all the while keeping her eyes on the two men in the far distant dueling circle, “win or lose, at least none of us will have to die today.”
“You mean you all would just go back home because of a simple two person duel,” Darius blurted with patent disbelief.
“The honor of the Royal Houses—” Falon began, only to be cut off when Darius made a loud raspberry sound with his mouth.
“I’ll believe it when I see it. No man brings an army all the way out here and then just marches it right back simply because he lost a duel, especially not when he has the numbers on the enemy,” Darius snorted.
“You find our code of honor so unbelievable then, I take it?” Falon frowned.
Darius shrugged, “I don’t know enough of it to really speak with authority, but the only way I’d march out of here without a fight, supposing for some insanely stupid reason I was trying to settle things with a duel, was if my army was smaller,” he said with a certain shake of his head.
“So you’d take the win if you had the smaller army?” Falon sneered. “Imperials; you have no understanding of honor.”
“No, I’d throw the duel and take the loss,” Darius said scornfully before adding, “Provincials. At least my army’d still be intact at the end of this mess and no one would have died. Haven’t you been listening to a thing I’ve been teaching you?”
“This is a Flower War, fought over the hand of a lady Princess,” Falon said pointedly, “I think you’ll find that we ‘Provincials’—” Falon’s mouth fell open as out in the dueling circle, her Prince suddenly started tugging on the sword trapped under the enemy prince’s foot.
“Foul,” cried the men of the Raven army.
The men of her army stood there in shocked silence.
“I think you’ll find that Provincial honor is highly overrated when you have superior forces,” Darius remarked with a world weary grin.
“This is no smiling matter,” Falon stomped her foot, staring out at the dueling circle in disbelief.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Darius said speaking quickly.
With a sense of growing urgency Falon replied, “Prince William is daring Hughes,” at Darius’ questioning look, she added, “the Raven Prince to cut him down for refusing to yield, even though Hughes has him dead to rights!”
>
“Thus the foul,” Darius observed, not sounding as concerned as Falon thought he should be. Then out in the challenge ring, the Raven Prince stepped off the sword.
“The Raven Prince would have been well within his rights to slay Prince William,” Falon explained, and then when William snatched up his sword, the Raven Prince smacked him on the wrist with the flat of his blade, causing Prince William to drop his blade again.
“I guess that’s that,” Darius said, shaking his head. He was no doubt disgusted at hot-headed ‘Provincials,’ and although the slur against the independent sovereign status of her native kingdom made Falon’s blood boil, in this particular case she couldn’t exactly say he was wrong. Of course, she couldn’t exactly say he had the right of it either, which is why her mouth compressed into a thin line instead.
“Bastard,” cried some men further down the militia line.
“Why, that cur,” yelled some of her own men.
Looking back at the challenge ring near the parlay desk, her heart in her throat, Falon saw the Raven Prince chasing Prince William around the circle, swatting him in the buttocks every other step.
“That won’t help settle things back down,” Darius observed wryly.
“Our Prince can’t let an insult like that pass,” Falon despaired, “they’ll have to settle it on the Field now. It’ll be a battle of armies for sure now.”
“Even though our guy started the whole thing?” Darius asked, eyebrows arching.
“The humiliation…” Falon paused as Prince William finally took the hint and went running out of the challenge circle, his good hand clutching his backside. She closed her eyes, “It’s too great, I think, to be ignored.”
“Probably. No commander can be made a laughing stock in front of his men, they’ll lose all respect,” Darius nodded his agreement. “Oh well, what did I tell you? There was no way this was going to end any other way than the clash of forces.”
Falon was going to die, and her family was would be short another sister to go along with a pair of already missing brothers, and all of it because of the Prince. His stubborn, highborn refusal to admit defeat would kill hundreds, if not thousands this day. Curse the male ego and all its stupid, manly pride, she thought with a despair that rocked her entire body. She didn’t even care if technically her thoughts were treasonous; it was how she felt.
“You were right,” Falon said hollowly.
Chapter 42: A Pep Talk and the Horns of War
Darius silently clasped her shoulder tightly using his free hand. After a moment, he released her and started striding up and down the line barking orders.
“Back row, check the straps on your shields. Front row, if you’ve got dry leather gloves for those spear shafts, now’s the time,” Darius said smartly, stopping to check that someone’s boots were properly laced before turning around and starting back up the line. “Also, this is your last chance to make water; don’t bother running all the way back to the jacks trench, just go wherever you can and cut loose. We’ll advance beyond this position the rest of the way to the marker pole just as soon as you’re done, and that’s a good eighteen meters. So don’t worry about standing in your own slop during the battle; that’s why we’re a touch back from our official start position to begin with.”
“What about if we get driven back?” yelped one of the men in the back row fearfully. Falon could see the expressions of sudden worry and doubt running through her friends’ and neighbors’ like a wave. Just moments before it had looked like they’d escaped the spear thrust, and then their own Prince went and threw it all away. She could understand their sudden fear and lack of enthusiasm because she shared it. Dying for kingdom and country sounded a lot more gallant when you were safe back at home; being on the actual field it was about to take place one brought the reality home with punishing force.
“All the more reason to drive through their lines,” Darius barked, “unless of course you relish the thought of fighting backwards through your own body waste, Liam.’’
A few chuckles broke out, and Falon could almost feel their spirits start to lift back up ever so slightly.
“It all comes down to grit and determination now, boys,” Darius said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “On the other side of this field you’re not facing Lords, and Knights, or their steely-eyed armsmen; you’ll be facing commoners and peasant levies. In other words, Militia just like yourselves. I personally guarantee each of you have better training than the other guy; after all, I trained you myself!”
Falon could feel the mood of the men lift a little bit more, and her own dark mood lightened ever so slightly. A smile tugged along the sides of her mouth as a few of the men started ribbing Liam.
“I’m not afraid,” Liam protested, sounding stung, “I was just curious is all.”
“Of course you were,” Darius allowed, shooting a hard look at the men who had been laughing at the unfortunate man, “but since we’ve got the better training, the only thing that matters now is who wants this more.”
“There sure are a lot of them,” muttered another man looking across the field, and Falon saw heads nod. She knew she had to do something.
“Captain Smythe says we’ve got them outnumbered two to one,” Falon exaggerated, jumping out in front of the men before she could think better of it and become paralyzed with fright, “and Darius just told you we’re better trained. We can do this!”
“But they’ve got the high ground, and their Prince just whooped ours all around the ring!” shouted someone from the back row with the odds and ends swords, axes and pitch forks, “how can we beat that?”
Falon felt herself starting to falter and she saw Darius open his mouth, ready to step in. Instead of causing her to step back with relief like she would have expected, the sight of their training master about to take over spurred her on instead. Just knowing there was someone who could take over if she choked up felt as if a great big weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and she was emboldened to press on. The worst thing she could do was make a fool out of herself. Darius would make sure no one died because of her, and it was all rather liberating to realize.
“We’ve got the training and we’ve got the numbers; we don’t need some Prince full of sour grapes to win, we’ve got everything we need right here!” Falon shouted, raising her fist.
A lot of heads were nodding now, but there were still a few who looked doubtful.
“But if their Prince can beat ours in the challenge ring, what’s to say he can’t just as easily defeat us on the battlefield?” demanded Liam, and heads that had just been nodding in support of her declaration slowed and started to look thoughtful, which was the last thing she wanted.
“I think Captain Smythe and his Lordship, Richard Lamont, just might have a few things to say about how this battle is fought and won, don’t you think?” Falon put a grin on her face, and was gratified by the accompanying laughter.
“Yes, okay but that only,” Liam stopped and started counting on his fingers.
“Our Lord commands a third of the army, Liam,” Falon snapped, glaring at the constant naysayer, “if that’s what you were trying to figure out with your fingers.”
The militia man colored, “But what if—”
Falon cut him off, “The Fighting Swans have just under two hundred and fifty men of mixed heritage, while those soft New Blood only men who got to march in front of us the whole way here and call themselves the Lamont Fief Militia, tally in with another hundred and a half,” Falon said knowing that the only ‘mixed heritage’ was in the Swans, so far was the West Wick men in her militia band knew. She felt bad that she was in essence tricking the men by quoting large numbers to them. Most village men that knew their numbers didn’t know how to count over a hundred, but if it made them more confident then she was pretty sure it would help them fight better, and every man who wasn’t fumbling his spear, or sword, or axe in fear was one more man likely to last longer on the battlefield, “throw in the Lamont Armsm
en and his Lordship’s personal guard, and I think it’s the Ravens who need to be afraid.”
“How many men is that, Fal,” Ernest suddenly asked.
“Yeah Lieutenant, how many,” Duncan said loudly, giving her a covert wink of support.
“It’s a lot,” Falon said firmly, “over five hundred men just from our fief, and that’s more than enough to win our side of the battlefield all by ourselves!”
“Our fief doesn’t need any of the rest of those odds and sods who think so highly of th’selves because they’re personally sworn to this Knight or that landless lordling,” Aodhan barked, stepping forward and sweeping the men with a steely gaze.
Vance stepped forward from his place in the second rank with his axe, and a sharp nod of support, “I say let them run if they’re afraid. We don’t need those cowards anyway!”
There were a few indrawn breaths at calling their fellow Left Wing warriors cowards, especially since many of them were better armed than the Two Wicks militia men, but they collectively began nodding.
“Pitchforks and scythes with only a few real spears amongst them, we can drive through them with one good spear push,” Aodhan yelled, thrusting his spear into the air.
His words were followed by a cheer, as the men ignored the fact that they had a few pitchforks—although no scythes, thank the Lady—among them. Then when the first cheer died down, Falon saw Vance step forward.
“And if any of them that try to sneak through or around, we’ll chop the rest of them down the size,” Vance promised, lifting his axe.
This time the whole unit cheered, and Falon couldn’t help from grinning as a ragged cheer started from the next militia band down the line. Looking over at the other band, she saw the majority of them looking over at her group, as if seeking inspiration.
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