“Art thou alive, varlet? Or hast I finished thee?” the Knight who she knew now as Sir Orisin demanded.
Turning her head dully, Falon’s eyes came to rest on a shattered portion of her spear. It was a good three feet long, and had a thin, jagged edge of wood protruding from it.
“I’m no varlet,” Falon coughed angrily, as she grasped the broken length of her former spear haft with her right hand. Each motion was agony, which left her sweating as she inched the piece of wood over with her damaged right arm toward her good, left arm.
“I had almost thought you dead! I didn’t happen to hit thee with my flail perchance?” Sir Orisin hissed, the initial disappointed exclamation in his voice speedily replaced by courteous tone as he asked her if he had managed to beat her to death yet.
“You missed,” Falon ground out, levering herself up with her left elbow.
“Well, you’ve been a plucky little fellow, I’ll give you that. But I hope you understand when I say that think I’ve finally figured out how to get just enough leverage to push myself up that extra little bit I need to finish thee,” the Knight said conversationally, and then with a grunt of effort that had the horse shaking and jiggling over her, he started to lever himself up.
While he was holding himself up to his new vantage point with one hand and trying to jerk his flail free with the other, Falon finished sitting all the way up.
Looking over the horse, she observed that unlike the last Knight, this Sir Orisin had an open faced helm and thick, older-style armor carved with runes in the old alphabet.
“Ah, there thou art,” the Knight, a man that Falon could now see had a gunmetal grew beard, a missing front tooth and was at least fifty years old if he was day, said with a hard smile, “it will be so much easier to settle things this way, man-to-man as it were.”
“I don’t think so,” Falon quipped, leaning over and stabbing him in the face with the jagged edge of her length of wood.
“Gah,” cried the Knight, falling backwards and swatting away her three foot length of wood with his chainmail covered leather gauntlets.
Falon tried stabbing him again in the face, but she simply didn’t have the reach, and trying to lean forward to do so only left her sweating with pain from her right shoulder.
“I say, bad cess my evil little varlet,” protested Sir Orisin.
Seeing that trying to finish him by stabbing him in the face was getting her nowhere, Falon started whacking him right on the fingers holding his flail.
“What art thou doing, I say…owe!” shouted the Knight.
Ignoring his cry of pain, Falon alternated trying to jab his hand with the sharp end of her wooden haft—pretty ineffectual when one is trying to stab between chain links and through a leather glove—and bashing him repeatedly on the fingers and knuckles.
When the Knight suddenly jerked forward and a dagger went whizzing past her head, Falon started to lay back down. But fury suddenly rose in her stomach at what was happening, and she reached over and jerked her new Shri-Kriv out. Laying back down, she tore a strip off her shirt and placed the hilt of her knife against the end of her shattered wooden haft. The task was quicker to complete than she had supposed, and soon enough she cinched the binding with her teeth.
“Did I get thee?” the Knight asked hopefully.
“Nay,” Falon sneered at him from her position on her back, mocking him with an imitation of his accent, “you’ll have to do better than that, Sir.”
“I’ll get thee with my next strike; never fear, varlet,” the Knight said with grim certainty as he started tugging his flail free for what would almost certainly be the last time.
“That’s Lieutenant Falon, of the Fighting Swans Company,” she growled between her teeth as she sank the knot in as tightly as she could, using only one hand and a set of teeth.
“An officer in a Militia Company?” Sir Orisin said scornfully, “Thou probably aren’t even a Squire, I’ll wager.”
“Surrender,” Falon barked, levering herself up onto her elbow before pushing herself the rest of the way up with a jerk that left her feeling like she was about to vomit.
“And why ever wouldst I want to do that?” Sir Orisin asked laconically, with a final heave of effort that saw his flail freed.
While he was drawing back his arm for the final swing, Falon thrust her Shri-Kriv tipped, miniature wooden spear towards him until it was touching his throat.
“Ah,” said the Knight.
“Surrender now,” Falon snapped through teeth clenched in response to the pain in her upper right chest.
“All I have to do is lay back down and try again later; you can’t reach me with that spear, and if I’m being brutally honest, you don’t really look that well,” said Sir Orisin all-too smugly.
Falon pressed forward ever so slightly, “One thrust and we can see how well you do trying to breath blood through a hole in your throat while lying down,” she said grimly.
“I see,” the older Knight’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“Surrender or die,” Falon yelled, drawing her arm back slightly to give her a better thrust if it came to that, “your call.”
The Knight glared at her and closed his eyes. Releasing the hold on his flail’s haft, he sighed. “The name is Sir Orisin, the Earth Smiter, a Landless Knight quite reluctantly at your service, Lieutenant,” the Knight said coolly and then with a grimace, “I offer you my…parole.”
“I accept your parole, Sir Orisin,” Falon gasped, lowering the makeshift spear until it rested on the horse’s flank and then propped herself up with her elbow.
“I didn’t quite catch thy full name the first go round,” the Knight prompted.
“Lieutenant Falon Rankin, of Twin Orchards,” she said evenly, and then when he continued to look at her expectantly she added, “Squiresheir.”
The Knight released a pent up breath. “Taken prisoner by a Squireson in a militia,” he groaned, “I fear I’ll never live this down.”
“You don’t have to sound so overjoyed,” Falon spat.
“My horse is dead thanks to thee, my sworn battle brother lies dead at my feet—again, thanks to thee—and I am thy hostage. Thankfully, being joyful is not requisite to the situation,” Sir Orisin grumped, thumping the back of his helmeted head against the ground repeatedly.
The screams and shouts of combat all around them had started to die down when Falon saw a familiar pair boots.
“Darius,” she called out with a feeling of relief as she lifted her head back up off the ground where she had been resting it.
Chapter 46: Battle: The Aftermath
The first thing she spotted was his Imperial sword, and the next was his left arm dangling bonelessly down at his side, with what looked like a large hunk of wood sticking out of his lower arm.
“Lieutenant,” the Imperial acknowledged, staggering over to her.
“How bad is it?” Falon asked, the words wrenched out of her as she fought a nearly overpowering mixture of pain and dread.
“Someone jabbed the broken end of a lance through it,” Darius said, looking down at his dangling arm. Then he looked back up at her and blinked, “But you’re probably not asking about that are you. You’re worried about your unit, right?”
“Does your arm hurt too much?” Falon asked after a momentary pause.
“Can’t fool me,” Darius said, the corner of one side of his face twisting wryly, then he staggered and knelt down beside the horse she was trapped under and used his good arm to lift and roll, “everything happened fairly quickly, but I think that the majority of the Cavalry went around us just so you know, but even so…” he trailed off.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Our spear line did better than we had any right to hope, if that helps any. We were fortunate that only about eight of those Knights had room to hit our truncated lines,” Darius said aimlessly and then paused, “I think I’m going to need help getting you out.”
Putting a pair of fingers in
his mouth, the Imperial whistled sharply and a pair of stunned looking militia members came over to help him lift the horse enough to drag Falon out.
Looking up through a haze of pain, she saw that one of the men was Aodhan. “Vance?” Falon asked desperately, only to see the Headman shake his head.
“Is he,” she squeezed her eyes shut, “dead?”
“Not yet,” the Headman sighed.
“Then he might make it,” Falon could hear herself begging and didn’t even care. A man’s life was at stake!
“Doubtful,” Aodhan grunted, “he took a lance to the chest—in one side and out the other. Missed the heart but went straight through one of his lungs.”
“Please, no,” Falon’s hand went to her mouth as tears leaked out from the corners of her eyes.
Then a pair of hands reached up under each of her shoulders. “No,” she repeated, but his time for an entirely different reason. But she was unable to resist when they plopped her down on her feet.
“This is going to smart a bit,” Darius warned, and Falon’s eyes snapped open just in time to see the Imperial jerk out the dirk.
Falon cried out and her legs buckled, but fortunately Aodhan and the other man kept a firm hold on her arms and held her steady, refusing to let her fall.
“Smart,” she said again as soon as she was able, “that was much worse than just a simple smarting.”
“Oops,” Darius said with patented unconcern as he shoved a clean rag into her wound, and started wrapping across her chest and under her arm pit to hold the bandage in.
“Well, at least it’s all over now,” Falon sighed.
Darius stared at her. “Sorry half pint, but if you think you’ve got time to rest your laurels then I’m afraid you’re going to be very much mistaken,” he said flatly.
“What?!” Falon said with outrage. “We just got run over by the Cavalry; it’s time to get off the field and go home…or at least tend our wounds in camp.”
“The battle is far from over, although I’m sure the enemy would like to hear that Officers are saying that very thing, I’m sure,” Darius said shaking his head derisively.
“Darn those dratted Ravens,” Falon cursed, feeling so angry she wanted to cry.
“That’s why they call them ‘the enemy,’ Lieutenant, because they’re determined to ruin our day. Now come on, we’ve got work to do,” Darius said flatly, “and by ‘we’ I mean ‘you.’”
“I’m coming,” Falon replied, wondering why a hardened campaigner like this Imperial needed someone like her hanging around at a time like this.
Arcs of lighting began falling from the sky and landing far to the right and slightly to the rear of their position.
“What was that?” Falon yelped, spinning around as fast as her injured body would allow and holding her shoulder tightly to keep control of the pain.
Looking over her shoulder like she was she saw a string of dismounted Knights and Cavalry spread out in a muddy slurry, starting right about where their Militia Band had broken through the original lines and back a hundred feet into Left Wing territory.
“Richard Lamont!” Darius shouted, his head turtling. However, unlike most of the men around him, he didn’t fall to the ground hugging the floor for cover. “The Cavalry that pounded us had spread out into a single line to do the most damage; he must have held a mage back from the army pool because it looks like just as soon as they hit the original line, the entire ground underneath their feet turned to mud.”
“What does a mud spell have to do with a lightning attack on our side?,” she shouted, pointing at the lighting that continued to rain down on Prince William’s Center Wing at the rate of about one bolt every fifteen seconds.
“After they broke through into our main line over here on the Left, the speed of their horses hitting all that slickened earth at a charge knocked most of the Knights off their horses,” Darius explained.
“We killed or unhorsed the Cavalry unit posted to their Right Wing from a simple earth moving spell?” Falon asked in numb disbelief.
“Captain Smythe said something about their armor only being impervious to directed effects, along with our mage needing to cast his spell from behind our own lines,” Darius shouted, “I think that capturing or killing a third of the Raven Cavalry had Prince Hughes a little worked up, and then his Lordship ordered a counter charge. You can see the tail end of it there,” he said, pointing at a patch of the field. “Captain Smythe just led a counter-charge straight through their Right Wing; we’re rolling it up as we speak, and I think that lightning is their response!”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Falon said still staring at the lighting. Even as she started, a flurry of one and two foot diameter fireballs began shooting out from the center of the Stag Kingdom lines and towards the Ravens.
“Don’t be a fool, stop and think,” Darius shouted at her, “The mage play is taking place in the middle of the armies, and the Captain just gathered up over half the Swans—the half that was still organized—along with all the odds and sods on our side of the battlefield who would rally,” the Imperial explained impatiently. “The magic’s in the center and the counter attack will be taking place over there, where Smythe is going through them like a hurricane right now,” he pointed to where Falon could see Captain Smythe on his horse, leading their militia forces against a mass of fleeing Raven. Many of the enemy had thrown down their weapons to lighten their move to escape, Falon observed with a mix of cold fury and empathy for the fleeing ‘soldiers.’ “This has to be one of the safest places on the battlefield right at the moment. All the fighting’s moved past us for now,” Darius said confidently.
“Okay,” Falon said after a moment, “but how does any of this involve me?” she asked, using her good hand to help hold pressure on her wounded right chest.
“We’ve got to police up the wounded and get them back to camp, so that as soon as the moon comes up the Wenches can get started on them,” Darius said.
“That’s something you could have done without me,” Falon argued, taking a step away from the horse she had just been pinned under.
“And we have to rally up all the walking wounded that can still fight, as well as anyone who lost their units or are wandering around battle-shocked,” Darius added.
“You couldn’t just use my name?” Falon asked, turning around and scanning the area. She saw a number of men kneeling down and weeping, or in a few cases, using a dagger or knife to repeatedly stab a fallen foe.
“We also need to be ready to cover what used to be the Left Wing battle line all by ourselves, if the enemy reserve counterattack and cuts off—or cuts down—Captain Smythe. We’re all that stands between them and rolling up the Center line, or taking out the wagon train,” Darius explained, speaking rapidly. Shading his eyes with his hand to block out the setting sun, he added, “And I think I just saw his Lordship’s banner making all haste to reinforce the Prince in the Center.”
Falon winced. If General Lamont thought he needed to reinforce the Center with all his armsmen and his personal guard, then there really was nothing other than her and Darius standing between the Left Flank and total disaster, if the Raven’s managed to push a few units through.
“I don’t have the rank for the various militia Sergeants and Chief Men-at-Arms of the Free Units to listen to me,” Darius said flatly.
“Why not?” Falon said before she could stop herself. She blamed it on being wounded in battle, because the answer was obvious if she had only thought about it.
“Because I’m only a Corporal,” Darius said tightly.
“Right, a militia corporal,” Falon agreed, and then swayed on her feet as she lost her balance and almost fell. “Well, if you think being a first time Lieutenant will help, I’ll try to help.”
“We need a Wench or battle chirurgeon, over here,” Darius barked, grabbing hold of her left arm to steady her.
“I’m fine,” Falon tried to shrug off his arm, but another wave of weakness fell ove
r her like a wave and her left leg started trembling. Wearily, she unlocked her knees using his arm for a prop and pushed off.
“You’re looking very pale, are you sure you can stand unassisted?” Darius sounded genuinely worried for her, for the first time she could ever remember.
“Just start rallying the men, and if anyone complains send them to me,” she said grimly, forcing the darkness crowding the corners of her field of vision away by sheer force of will and several deep breaths of air.
“Yes, Sir,” Darius acknowledged, bracing to attention—or at least the best approximation of his usual Imperial-style brace with only one functioning arm—and then staggering away.
“I’m not a Knight…” Falon trailed off to silence when it was clear Darius neither heard her, nor paid the comment a second thought. Shaking her head, Falon decided they could use all the help they could get rallying the men. She saw a man sitting down and crying over the unmoving body of another, and placing her left foot forward and stiffly bringing her right up even with it, she fought against the waves of weakness that seemed to be rolling through her body.
The edges of her vision starting to go dark, but she fought it off by focusing on her anger at the whole situation and taking several deep breaths. Unfortunately, she couldn’t seem to build up as big a head of steam as she was expecting.
“Forget something over here?” Sir Orisin asked, waving a hand in the air.
“What?” Falon looked over at him blankly for a moment, and the Knight waved at his legs still trapped beneath the horse. “Right. I’ll be back,” she said restarting her journey over to the crying man with a renewed sense of purpose.
“I need your help,” Falon said from a distance, and the man looked up and her and then back down. Glancing down at the fallen figure the man was keeping vigil over, Falon staggered in spite of her best efforts to keep steady. There was the broken half of a rusty axe blade lodged in the side of his head, with a sharpened edge of the axe sticking out where an eye was supposed to be.
The Blooding Page 35