“You managed to get them all fired up…a lot better than I expected, actually,” Darius leaned close and muttered in a low tone.
“Pretty good for a fresh-faced Lieutenant without any experience, eh?” Falon said proudly, and then started tugging on her fake mustachios. The thing had started itching just as soon as she mentioned her face; how menfolk could put up with having hair all over their faces if they itched like this, even just a fraction of the time, she couldn’t possibly understand.
Falon wondered how long the glue—and thus, her beard—was going to last. She imagined herself sometime in the future telling her wide-eyed sisters everything about the first time she went into battle, but somehow she just couldn’t imagine actually admitting to them that their sister went off to war with a wretched beard all over face. She shuddered, as she knew she would never live it down. No, she knew then and there that certain things about battle and warfare needed to remain on the field, just like Ernest and Duncan had said.
“I was going to say that it was a good reaction from a poorly armed militia, made up primarily of farmers still tilling their fields a few weeks ago, but you did pretty well also,” Darius said giving her a short nod.
Falon bridled at the poorly armed farmers dig, but begrudgingly had to admit in the privacy of her own mind that the Imperial’s assessment was fairly accurate.
“Perhaps after this battle we’ll be a touch better armed,” she said coolly.
“If you live,” Darius agreed, with what seemed like an excessively calloused shrug to Falon’s eyes. He then pursed his lips, “And if no one decides to sell any gear they pick up for coins instead lugging it all the way back home.”
Falon narrowed her eyes at him, but before she could say anything she was cut off by the sound of horns blowing from the Center of their Kingdom’s battle lines. Then horns all up and down the front rows of the army sounded off, and she could hear the horns located back at the giant banner of a Fighting Swan that indicated Lord Lamont’s position. Then she heard horns from an even closer position near a much smaller standard where Captain Smyth was at.
Her blood ran cold as there was no mistaking what those horns meant: it was time to fight.
And for many, it was time to die.
Chapter 43: Battle: The Advance
“There’s the signal to advance on the enemy,” Darius smiled tightly, “now it’s time to earn our pay.”
“We’re just militia,” Falon said numbly, “we don’t get paid, we just get to keep half of whatever spoils we can carry off the field.”
“It’s an old expression from the Regiments. Besides, you’re wrong,” Darius told her quite seriously, and she glanced over at him with wild and unbelieving eyes, “since you’re a Lieutenant directly commissioned by his Lordship, I spoke with Tug, and he said that you draw a daily wage paid in weekly allotments.”
Falon waved her hands as if shooing away a fly, “I put all of that into the supply fund, I mean except for a couple silvers I spent in camp for…some, uh, necessary supplies and personal equipment,” she muttered, unconsciously giving her beard a nervous stroke. Realizing what she was doing, her hands jerked away from her face as if stung.
“I’ll just bet you did,” Darius said, looking at her pointedly before sweeping John, Ernest and Duncan with his hard eyes. His mouth tightening, he turned to the militia, “Prepare to advance on my order!”
Behind her she heard Vance’s voice. “Here, I made this for ye,” said the Blacksmith.
Falon turned around in surprise. “What?” she asked, completely confused.
Vance stepped forward and handed something wrapped in cloth and leather.
With a wondering look, Falon unwrapped it. It was a Shri-Kriv! “What is this,” Falon half laughed with wonder.
“It took me awhile to finish making the blade all small and slender as they say ye like it,” Vance said with a fast smile.
“Thanks,” Falon said gratefully, choking up with emotion, “I mean thank you Blacksmith Vance, you didn’t…I mean you weren’t obliged to make anything for me.”
“Yer Father should have been the one out here beside ye saying this to ye right before yer first battle,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder as he looked deeply into her eyes, “but good job, son. Ye’ve been doing a man’s work out here. Getting that training master and being the Lieutenant and everything, I know it hasn’t been easy for ye. More than a few of us have had our doubts along the way, but yer Papa trained you well. Ye’ve done him and yerself proud, lad…I mean Lieutenant.”
Vance braced to attention, the first time she had seen anyone other than Darius do that for her. Oh, they had occasionally stood to attention for him, but not for her, “I meant to give this to ye before the battle, but the enemy came up rather suddenly and I didn’t remember until just now,” he said with a wink.
“That means everything to me,” Falon said huskily, tears welling in her eyes, “thanks, I just wish my father was as proud of me as you are now today.”
“I’m sure he is,” Vance said gruffly, “in fact, I’m certain of it. Anyway, I made the blade with me own hands and hammer, and the hilt is made from the tusks of that boar ye slew back home. I put the two tusks together, bound them with cooper wire and then wrapped them in the skin of the very same boar ye kilt. The blade’s just as ye like it so…”
Impulsively, Falon stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she gave him a tremulous smile.
“All right, you bunch of lay-abouts! Enough gawking at the enemy; forward at the half step,” Darius bellowed in a voice that left Falon sticking a finger in her ear and wiggling it around in some reflexive attempt to protect her hearing.
“Owe,” Falon silently mouthed, taking a pair of steps to the side and moving to her position at the far right of the spear line. Snatching her boar spear up out of the ground, she quickly leveled it at the enemy and fell into step with the front line of the Two Wicks Militia. Not having time to switch out her old knife for this new one, she shoved it through her sword belt, thankful that the belt was cinched tight enough that it wasn’t going to slip and fall out very easily.
“No one else seems to want to be the first band to get moving, so it looks like we’ll have to be the one leading off,” Darius commented from his position behind and to the side of her.
Falon turned her head to stare at him with wide eyes, “Isn’t that pretty risky. Being the first to cross spears with the enemy, I mean,” she whispered loudly. She hoped that no one else could hear them, even though she knew that was probably a false hope.
“That’s why we’re moving at the half step; it gives everyone else plenty of time to catch up,” Darius said in a loud, confident voice. Twisting her head around even further, Falon saw the pointed look he was giving her. “Nothing to worry about, this is pretty normal,” he added.
She had been overheard; it was the only explanation for his overly loud and carrying voice. Blushing furiously at a mistake like that, she was so caught up in herself that her foot caught on a rock. She wobbled, and only by nearly falling to her knees before catching her balance did she refrain from twisting her foot.
Ducking her head, she pushed herself back off the ground and took a quick double step to regain her position at the end of the line.
True to their Imperial Training Master’s words, a band soon appeared on their left hand side. A half minute later, a tardy militia band on their right ran up beside them and started making one big ragged line. The Sergeant to their right was running up and down, literally pushing people into place. Falon, being the nearest person to their sloppy formation, was starting to worry about how that group was going to react when they came into contact with the enemy. Will my right side be unguarded when the fighting actually starts, she wondered, worrying her lip between her teeth.
Hearing a braying ‘hee-haw’ sound coming from behind them, Falon looked back, shocked to see Tug pulling Bucket the Magnificent along behind the two lines of mili
tia that made up the Two Wicks men. She would have run back and sent Bucket out of harm’s way, like she had specifically ordered at the beginning of the Parley, but there didn’t look to be time. The enemy militia were only about fifty feet away!
She hadn’t cared about the fact that officers were supposed to ride mounted into combat, and unlike when on the march, Darius had backed her up on her decision. Furiously, she used one hand to hold the spear while the other wiped away a frustrated tear. That was her little brother’s ‘noble steed;’ what would she say to him if Bucket got captured—or worse, died?
Up ahead she saw Captain Smythe atop a well-built light warhorse as he charged up and down the lines of the Fighting Swan Militia Company.
When he charged in front of her formation, he lifted his sword and the Wicks men, led by Darius, gave out a hearty cheer and lifted their weapons in the air. Even Falon couldn’t help a smile at these theatrics. The cheers were picked up by the unit next to them and the next, until Smythe came charging back down the line in time to rejoin his headquarters group, or squad, or whatever it was he called them and disappeared from her sight.
The Captain is very brave, Falon thought admiringly, but it was an admiration tinged with fear. She didn’t think that if she were a Lieutenant for month and months—even years, something that wasn’t ever going to happen—that she’d be brave enough to race in front of those enemy lines like that. It had been great for morale; she could see and hear that with her own eyes and ears, but it had almost felt like the Captain had been daring the Ravens to try for him.
She didn’t think she would ever have the courage to pull such a stunt. What if her horse stumbled or she fell off?
“Alright lads, advance at the full step now; we’ve got units on either side of us,” Darius called out, and for a second Falon was caught flat footed. Another stutter step kept her in her position on the far right, and she kicked herself for not have thought to order the same thing…or at least consult with Darius.
The enemy was rapidly approaching until she could see their rough, homespun clothing, very much like those of her own people. However, it was the weapons they were carrying and the determined look in their eyes that got her attention. Seeing all those sharp objects pointed in her direction had her fighting for extra breaths and swallowing rapidly as her throat felt dry as a bone.
I’m just a teenage girl, and girls didn’t have a place on the field of war, she thought wildly. She had never known what the term ‘hysterical’ really meant until that moment, and her head rolled around as she looked for a place to escape to, but by now the militia group to her left had put someone just a few feet away from her.
“The best way to take an enemy like this is with as much momentum as possible,” Darius called out, “on the order, prepare to advance at the trot.”
Falon’s mouth felt like it was so dry she could have put a rolled up parchment in there and it wouldn’t have been the least damp when retrieved. Plus, she suddenly had the alarming, nearly overpowering urge to make water.
“At the double step—now!” yelled Darius.
“Two Wicks!” the men surrounding her yelled their previously agreed upon battle cry.
If she didn’t do something, and right that very moment, Falon knew with complete certainty she would turn around and run away. Half mad with the thought of crossing spears—or blades, or whatever a real warrior would call it—with fully grown men trying to kill her, she did the only thing she could think to do.
“Charge!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, sprinting forward as quickly as her legs could carry her. It was either go back and be branded a coward, or go forward and die. If she ran forward then at least it would all be over quickly enough when someone stabbed her with a pitchfork, or ran her through with a spear.
She had a half an instant to realize the thundering feet of the men behind her had picked up, and they had just started to yell, “Two Wicks!” when they crashed into the enemy line.
Her arm stung as a line of fire lanced through it, and someone ahead of her screamed. Her arms felt like she had just run her spear into a brick wall, and she almost lost her grip on the old boar spear as she staggered to the side and fell down. Grimly holding onto the spear and bracing it to the ground for support so she didn’t lose it, she saw a man fall to his knees in front of her with the boar spear’s head buried in his stomach. The fall to his knees drove the spear the rest of the way into his body, all the way up to the cross guard before he jerked backwards.
She realized with horror that she had aimed low. She should have been aiming for just under his chest, not his lower stomach. When the man fell backward, the spear slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers.
All around her, the Wicks men thudded into the Raven line. Falon was still on her knees, staring in horror at the man now screaming on the ground with haft of her boar spear pointing to the sky.
A Raven man with a pitchfork and a black band of cloth tied around his right upper shoulder to identify him, came charging straight at her from about eight feet away, shouting and screaming as he did so.
Reflexively, Falon ducked and fell completely to the ground as the pitchfork came for her, but the metal tines followed her down. She was just starting to try a belated roll to the side, a movement she knew was going to be too late, when out of nowhere an axe came flying in front of her face to knock the pitchfork out of the way.
“Ye already got one, but now’s not the time to kneel in prayer,” Vance said with a grunt, stepping forward to swing his axe in a short, chopping motion at the Raven man, forcing the other back. “His soul will be just fine without yer help,” he grunted, his axe head locked with the tines of the Raven man’s weapon. For a long moment, the two of them struggled back and forth.
“A little help here, Lieutenant!” Vance roared, shoving the pitchfork wielder back just in time to free his axe and jump out of range of another man who had thrust at him with a spear.
Seeing the threat to Vance, something inside Falon seemed to snap and she rolled forward to her feet. Everything seemed distant and numb, but the one thing she could hold onto at that moment was that while she was certainly going to die in this battle, someone else needed her help.
Springing to her feet, Falon grabbed the head of the sheath for the Imperial sword strapped to her back with one hand, and took the hilt in the other. Drawing the blade from its scabbard, she saw the spear wielder about to skewer Vance to one side, and from the other side came a man swinging a scythe—at her!
Parrying the scythe away with her sword and stepping to the side—toward the spear wielder who aimed to kill Vance—Falon turned and thrust with her sword.
The spear wielder attacking at Vance screamed and clutched at his arm where she had just stuck him, the head of his spear dropping to the ground.
Seeing Vance jump on top of the spear, swinging his axe, Falon hastily turned back toward the scythe.
This time she barely got her sword between her body and the scythe, and she just didn’t have the angle to avoid the blow entirely. Her wrist cried out from abuse when scythe and Imperial sword were slammed against her side with punishing force. The blow smarted and knocked her into another member of the Two Wicks’ back line, this one wielding a rusty sword and hacking away against another pitchfork wielder.
“Get off me,” cried the Old Blooder shoving her away with a push that sent her staggering to one knee.
She didn’t feel any wetness, or anything that stung where she had been hit, and when she popped back up to her feet, everything seemed to be working just fine. Praying that she would only have a bruise on her left side later on, Falon brought her Imperial sword back up to a ready position. On seeing the Wicks man with the rusty sword grab the haft of a pitchfork stuck through his upper thigh, she jumped forward to help him.
Lunging with her sword aimed at the man who had stabbed her neighbor in the leg, the tip of her blade plunged right through his Raven neck. Gagging and clutching at his throat, the
enemy militia man—who looked to be a down-on-his-luck farmer, to Falon’s horrified eye—staggered back and then fell to the earth with blood squirting through his fingers.
“Thanks,” the man she had saved gasped, still holding tightly to the pitchfork in his leg.
Up ahead, she saw Darius holding a spear and leading a wavering line of Spearmen pushing forward through a bow in the enemy lines.
“We’ve almost broken their lines,” Darius roared, thrusting forward and driving back another poorly clad farmer with a pitchfork.
His enemy screamed when Darius struck him in the shoulder, and the Imperial training master pulled free his spear from his opponent’s body. Falon saw the Raven militia man turn and run, only to be stuck in the leg and fall in front of Darius.
“We’ve got them on the run now boys!” Darius screamed, leaping forward and laying about him with the spear he was holding like it was some kind of club. Then Falon realized that when he switched his grip on the haft, he was brandishing it much more like a quarterstaff than a spear.
The men around him saw Darius pressing forward and gave a bull-throated cheer. Falon could see the Raven militia, who were armed mostly with pitchforks and home spun clothing instead of armor, start looking over their shoulders with fear and uncertainty plain on their faces.
Head swiveling to take in the fighting occurring in front of her, she could see the enemy wavering and starting to step backwards whenever possible.
“They’ve broken in the back,” Falon screamed the lie as loudly as she possibly could, not caring if her voice reached upper registers normally inaccessible to the male half of the species, “get ‘em, lads!” she screamed again, this time jumping forward and sweeping her sword in wide arcs. She wasn’t trying to damage anyone; just to hit as many weapons held by as many men as possible, and make a mad racket while doing it.
The back line scattered around beside her gave a cheer, “Two Wicks!” They were too stuck into the battle to see that the back line of the enemy was wavering, but still very much intact, and they pressed forward at her and Darius’ urging.
The Blooding Page 33