“My leadership?” Falon asked dangerously.
Darius’s looked taken aback, turning to look at her seriously for the first time since he started speaking.
“You speak as if you weren’t there fighting in the same battle as I,” Falon said tightly.
“I didn’t mean you, I meant your generals…the Prince,” he clarified further, “and of course I was there. I didn’t mean to imply anything otherwise.”
Falon took a pair of deep breaths, fighting the urge to escalate the verbal conflict. She closed her eyes and reminded herself that Darius was an important part of her command, and what was more, he was a stupid Imperial. Everyone knew Imperials thought themselves better than everyone else. Well, here was the proof supporting the notion, and the worst part…
She didn’t even want to think about the worst part, determined to shrug off her treatment as nothing more than sour grapes.
“If everyone just does their part and obeys orders, we’ll be fine. Just remember we’ve done this before,” she whispered to herself, her words half a prayer. A shiver went up her spine and her blood ran cold at the memories of her last pitched battle. Unconsciously, she started rubbing her hands and twisting them together before realizing what she was doing and quickly thrust her hands down at her sides.
“Steady,” Darius urged her.
Falon flushed eyes darting from one end of the barbarian line to the other. “There are a lot of them,” she said taking a deep breath, “how many of them would you say they have?” Groups and bands of fur-covered warriors with bronze, stone, and wooden weapons trickled in to join the growing line of enemy men arrayed against them.
“We’ll do fine,” the Imperial assured her soothingly.
“That’s not what I asked!” Falon exclaimed—too loudly, she noted, when heads started to turn in their direction. She gritted her teeth and forcibly leaned back. She waited a long moment before continuing, “Don’t patronize me; I’m a big g—boy, I can take it,” she hissed, almost as mad about her near stumble as she was at the evasive answer in the first place.
“And just how can I get an accurate count from all the way over here, on the extreme end of the left wing, when they’re still coming out in dribs and drabs, hmm?” the Sergeant inquired with the barest edge in his tone.
Far from infuriating her even more, the reminder of her training master’s fallibility had the opposite effect. Just knowing she wasn’t the only one feeling the tension did wonders to help calm the butterflies in her stomach.
“So you can feel…tension right before a battle?” Falon asked, the muscles in her shoulders loosening slightly. She paused then continued dispassionately, “I don’t need a completely accurate count, you know; just a rough estimate.”
“Anyone who doesn’t feel either strong fear, or outright terror, right before a battle is drunk or stark, raving mad,” Darius said with a laugh.
Falon flashed him an unbidden grin. “That’s good to know,” she admitted. She was glad that she wasn’t the only one to feel that way, and that she wasn’t experiencing some kind of jitters that only plagued womankind right before a fight. “It feels different when you know it’s coming. I’d have thought it was easier…more time to prepare yourself and all that, when you know when and where it’s going to happen. But it’s not. It’s even harder…if that makes any sense?”
“You don’t have much time for deep thinking when it comes on you suddenly,” he agreed. “Many a man has stood strong and gone toe to toe with the enemy when he’s had less than a candle sliver of time to prepare himself, yet give that same man a candle’s length or more to ponder his place in a set battle, and…let’s just say I’ve seen otherwise brave men turn and walk away.”
“I thought Imperials prided themselves on the steadfastness of their army,” Falon chided.
“Not every man who fights for the Bull is regular Imperial Army. The Regiments can be found fighting alongside Provincial Militia more often than you’d think, looking in from the outside. And of course, a lot of men start out in the Militia and work their way from there into the Regiments,” Darius said contemplatively, “many by invitation after fighting alongside us.”
A particularly large group of the savages came trotting out onto the field outside the Castle, hoisting the banner of a ferret with giant, green eyes in the stiff icy wind.
“There sure are a lot of them,” Falon fretted, switching topics back to the Ice Raider army.
“This isn’t going to be any fun,” Darius said grimly.
Falon looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Oh,” he said to clarify, gesturing to the frosty ground, “I mean fighting in the cold like this; any hits that don’t cut are going to sting more than usual. I wasn’t talking about the actual battle itself.”
Falon was about to follow-up on that thought when a well-dressed runner came jogging up to her position. “Yes?” she asked, looking at the messenger as he bent over and placed his hands on his knees.
“Just a…moment,” the boy gasped.
“Take your time,” Falon said impatiently, unable to mask her eagerness to find out what was happening and any new orders the boy might have.
“Thanks,” the runner said a few moments later, after catching his breath.
“So what’s the word?” Falon burst out, unable to contain herself longer than a handful of seconds.
“Your Swan Captain sent me,” the boy said, referring to Sir Smythe self-importantly—and with more familiarity than he probably should have done in front of said Captain’s official Squire. “The Lord Prince has sent orders,” he added.
Falon waited for along moment but he remained smugly silent. “Well?” she demanded, tapping her foot on the ground and delivering a level look.
The young runner smirked. “There’s been a change in command. Sire Morlan’s been placed in charge of the Left Wing, with orders to demonstrate against the barbarian Right,” the Runner said.
Falon’s brow wrinkled. “I thought Morlan was in command of the Right,” she protested, “why is he over here now?”
“When the Fist of the North found out he was being placed in the van under direct command of the Prince, he protested. Saying that between them, him and his vassals brought almost two thirds as many men as the Prince and the entire rest of the Royal Army put together,” the young man grinned. “so the Prince offered him command of the left.”
Falon grimaced as the implications began to swirl in her head.
“But,” continued the Runner, “the Fist of the North then protested that his honor couldn’t survive anything less than command of the Noble Right Wing, and that if his honor was compromised he wasn’t sure if his men-at-arms would be willing to come on out of Ice Finger Castle in the tail of such an dishonored leader.”
“The Fist of the North indeed; more like the open hand that can’t grip,” Falon said flatly. “His Lordship, Baron and Lord of the Frost March, has some gall all but ordering the Prince around like that.”
“I’d keep a civil tongue on you, Squireson,” the runner said, putting his nose in the air, “especially when you’re speaking of your betters.”
“Who are you to upbraid me, runner, when I’m both a Squire and a Lieutenant,” Falon glared, emphasizing her lofty new status. At least, it was lofty compared to where she had started, out on the original road from Two Wicks.
“I am the son of a Knight, and someday I will be a Knight myself, while you’re nothing more than an up-jumped Squire with a company of peasants and delusions of grandeur,” the young runner openly sneered. “Someday you’ll be cleaning the spurs on my boots, Squireson—with your tongue.”
“Is that so, Knightson?” Falon could feel the tips of her ears turning red.
“Yep,” the youth mocked.
“Well, how about this,” she said fighting the urge to explode. She hadn’t known that such discrimination existed between the bottom end of the social classes, and she decided that she didn’t care for it
at all, “How about until that day arrives, you just finish delivering the Captain’s messages and then run along like a good little messenger-boy,” she finished adding the last ‘-boy’ just to get under his skin the way his insults had gotten under hers.
The runner paled, his lips turning white with fury. “The message’s done,” he bit out the words. “Prepare your men for the signal and get out of my way,” he said roughly pushing past her.
Beside her, Darius growled at the boy’s disrespectful gesture and the Knight-born runner skittered away quickly. For whatever else his faults the young man could tell overwhelming force when it stared him in the face.
Falon did her best to ignore the flash of happiness that accompanied the Imperial’s quick defense of her person and honor.
“Watch yourself, Squireson,” the runner said, dancing away from her and Darius. “Why were you and your men at the front of the army each and every day? I don’t know, but me and the other young gentlemen don’t think it was because his Highness and the Lord Generals consider you indispensable!”
“Why you…get back here, you strutting little capon!” Falon exploded, surging after the youth. Only a sudden grip on her collar by Darius kept her from flying after the young man.
“Your little peasant command is on the disorganized Left, for the second time and in your second battle, Squireson,” the messenger mocked, while she choked until regaining her balance. “Hardly the position of honor, I’d say.”
“Get back here, you coward!” Falon screamed after him, “come back and say that to my face!”
“Steady,” Darius said in a quiet steady voice but one filled with iron and when she still strained against his hold on her shirt, “steady; don’t let him get your goat.”
“I’ll kill him,” she seethed as the runner laughed and trotted off.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Darius said harshly.
Falon turned to glare at him but he met her hot, angry gaze with an implacable look. Under the weight of his stare, and knowing that she really wasn’t about to go off killing anyone just for crass speech, she jerked free of his hold and whirled around.
“Much as the scheming little twerp deserves a good thrashing, he doesn’t deserve to die…yet,” he said placing a hand on her upper arm.
“No, I won’t kill him,” Falon agreed, pulling her arm away stiffly and speaking through clenched teeth.
“Don’t let that well-bred mutt distract you,” Darius said in his more usual instructor’s voice after she’d taken a few moments to calm herself.
Despite all her time around these men and the tough talk of a few moments ago, Falon still wasn’t stupid enough to act the honor-shamed youth and go running off to remove the stain on her dignity by trying to challenge everyone who disagreed with her to a sword duel. The fact that Darius might have actually thought for a moment that she would have done so was almost humorous enough to break the thin line her mouth had become. Almost, but not quite.
Still, it did let her take a step back and shake her head. “You’re right of course,” she said, trying not to sound begrudging.
“There’s plenty of enemies to wet your blade with right across the field,” the Imperial advised her. “Stay focused on them and not on that arrogant little messenger. His time will come; have no doubt.”
Falon bared her teeth. “I’d just as soon not have to kill anyone today,” she admitted and then added, “even that fool.”
“Good,” Darius said simply.
The drums sounded from somewhere in the center of the left wing, a rolling thunder that started in the middle but soon swept down the line toward her Swans until the nearest unit, that belonging to the Captain, which added its own rhythmic drumbeat. It was time to advance.
“I guess the next thing we’re going to need is a drummer,” Falon said as dispassionately as she could manage.
Darius looked at her and nodded, she could see the agreement in his eye. “Ernest carries our standard and the signal is given,” the Imperial said formally, “your orders, Lieutenant?”
“Give the order to advance,” Falon said, although it was not like she could have said anything else.
A figure with his threadbare cape swirling behind him came running up just as Darius began barking the order that every man in the Battalion already knew would be given. It was time to face the enemy.
“Sorry I’m late,” Schmendrick puffed as he reached her, “I was unavoidably detained until just a few minutes ago and I ran straight here.”
“What?!” Falon asked. “Why are you here? I thought the Prince had made you his personal Wizard.”
Schmendrick glowered. “I was foolish enough to remind the Prince of his promise,” the Apprentice said stiffly, “so when the real army wizards returned—not three hours ago, I might add—I was finally released from the stocks.”
“I don’t follow,” Falon replied, her eyes widening, “what promise; and why would he put you in the stocks?! You were the only wizard still with the army!”
“Trust not in the promises of Prince,” Schmendrick said sourly, “or heed their fickle words.”
“That’s hardly informative,” Falon observed bitingly, “I’ll ask again: what promise? Or are you sworn to secrecy on this matter?”
Schmendrick looked at her in disbelief. “Why, the promise of his weight in silver to any commander or leader of men who could get the Prince a wizard,” the Apprentice said, a fire smoldering in his eye as he spoke.
Falon blinked rapidly. “Why would you do that?” she asked, her breath taken away at the risk the wizard had taken. “He’ll no doubt pay in his own time, and any questions like that—”
“Oh, aye, I know of which you speak,” Schmendrick said angrily. “Asking about payment is the same as trying to haggle with a Prince. The very notion touches upon his honor. I was lucky to escape without being shown to the knotted rope,” the self-proclaimed ‘Red-Hot Magician,’ or whatever his exact title was, produced a very real smirk. “He didn’t seem very happy when I broached the subject inside a tent with all of his Lords and Generals, either.”
“Oh, by the Lady,” Falon said with a sinking sensation, “whatever possessed you to do that?”
Schmendrick looked offended. “And now I know why those other wizards left, as well,” he said tightly, “payday came just a few days ago, if you recall, and when I broached the subject with his loftiness, the Prince, I was told to seek remuneration with my primary employer who, I was informed, should rightfully cover my fees. I was then promptly forwarded to the Royal Marshal.”
“Well you’re still alive, so this story can’t be all bad,” Falon said, feeling decidedly unhappy at yet another evidence of the Prince’s coin-pinching ways. “But don’t worry; we’ll get you paid up,” she sighed. “Although, as you recall, you’re only getting a warrior’s wage from your primary employer: me. But you do have the right to battlefield spoils and, well,” Falon gestured toward the assembled enemy, “there’s a battlefield.”
“So then,” Schmendrick continued with relish, as if she hadn’t even spoken, “I merely remarked to the Prince that you would most certainly pay me, as soon as the Prince made good on the promise of your weight in silver for the offer of my services, but that until then I needed coins to live and food to eat. After that I was escorted out of the tent and placed under guard—to ensure the silence of my wagging tongue, would be my bet.”
Falon shook her head but didn’t speak. She was less and less certain of the true nobility of her commanders every day. They had the titles and the bloodlines, but when it came to the finer points of honor…but perhaps it was just her own personal sour grapes speaking.
Chapter 39: A Storm of Swords
“Saint George!” howled the Raven Knight, breaking into a run moments before crashing into the Ice Raider front line.
“Spears forward. Second line, plug any leakers,” Darius yelled over the crash of men and metal. “Protect the man beside you and he will protect you in
turn—and by all that is holy, watch your spacing! You’ve been trained for this, you know what to do; so do it!”
“Oh gods,” cried one of her men.
“Aaaahh!” screamed another, and Falon turned in time to see the man stagger back into the second line, a spiked war club sticking out of the joint between shoulder and neck. It was as if his foe had attempted to drive it into his heart from the top down.
Savages, with all manner of bone and ivory sticking through their noses and the ridges of their necks, started forcing their way through the line.
Falon stomped her foot and felt a surge of power surge up from the earth. She wasn’t tired this time, and the magic snake responded by coiling up her leg with renewed energy. Along with the magic came a renewed sense of strength and vigor. She felt like she could take on the whole barbarian army—and win!
Racing forward, Falon reached up and drew her sword with a flourish. She felt as if the tired girl of a few hours earlier had been replaced with a mighty warrior!
A savage burst through the second line, a bloody axe in one hand and a broken spear in the other, and looked to either side with wild rolling eyes—and those eyes glowed with an evil, animalistic power.
Her sword sang, slicing through the spear just below the metal tip, and the force of her blow shattered what remained of the once-deadly weapon which had recently belonged to one of her people.
Focusing on the man’s yellow, glowing eyes, Falon was barely aware of anything else as she ducked an axe blow and then turned aside his inhumanly-quickly backswing through sheer force of her own magically-enhanced strength.
Sparks flew as the barbarian with the yellow eyes brought his axe up over his head, and then down again with every ounce of his savage strength.
Falon gripped her sword with both hands and braced herself to block in a move designed to pit mystical strength against mystical strength. Then, at the last moment, she slanted her blade and bent her arms as she had been taught these past few months, and sparks flew as Imperial steel met savage bronze.
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 32