“Even still, and I thank you for those words, you and the men have worked wonders. It’s entirely my fault if I didn’t issue orders making it clear that those more wood-wise than myself needed to speak up when we reached our target. I’m the Lieutenant, I’m the Squire,” she added, in a mental nod to the loyalty shown by her Raven peasants, “it’s on me.”
“No need to beat thyself up, Mister Falon,” Uilliam said awkwardly, and at the same moment she felt a sense of relief, she also felt a sense of despair. How long was she going to have to live her life as a lie? And how much worse would her life even last if she didn’t have the lie to live behind right now.
Feeling morose, heartsick, and disappointed that they had to turn around, she rallied as best she could and mustered the best smile she could to bestow upon Uilliam.
“Let’s get going; those Ice Raiders aren’t going to kill themselves,” she sighed.
A good twenty minutes later, when they finally stumbled out of the woods to set themselves upon the backside of the savage army, the native Ice Raiders proved that they knew the this land far better than Falon and her foreign transplants. For lined up to face them were two score of club-wielding barbarians, the spikes of their weapons glistening in the waning sunlight creating a silent challenge to the intruding Swans.
“So much for a surprise attack,” Papa Aonghus growled, shooting a stream of spittle out a gap in his teeth.
“They must have had scouts out and spotted us while we were blundering around in the woods like a bear in heat,” Falon said, drawing out her sword and cursing herself for an idiot. Clearly, if recent events were any guide, she was no tactical genius, “I probably should have just joined forces with Smythe and forgotten about this fancy maneuver through the woods. I guess it’s a good thing it’s the Prince and not me who’s the General of this army.”
“About time to form ranks, hmm?” Sir Orisin mused loudly before stumping past her.
“Right,” Falon said, snapped out of the ‘could have beens’ and back into the present.
“Form up,” Papa Aonghus called out, his words quickly echoed by Uilliam. Between them, the two file leaders soon had the remaining men of her band formed up an in line.
Because she had led them into this trap—or perhaps ‘counter-ambush’ was the better term—and because it was her place, Falon hustled forward into the front line, taking a place right in the middle of their formation. Even though she carried a sword and both men beside her had spears, thus leaving her the odd woman out, something inside her settled. Live or die, she would do it with the men she had led here.
“Stand fast and prepare to be judged by the Lord of the Field,” she shouted, pointing her sword at the enemy. “Forward, men,” she called out for the advance.
Slapping their weapons together and screaming at the sky, the barbarians started forward. A pair of glowing-eyed Spirit Warriors broke free of their front line and sprinted toward the Swans. These ones were unlike others of their ilk she had previously seen: their eyes were black as a moonless night and they were literally frothing at the mouth.
She could all but feel the men behind her miss a step as the foul sight met them, and she had to suppress a flash of fear herself at their unnatural demeanor. Though she had magic, it was only of the most basic type and she’d never encountered anything like these crazed men. Still, she had powers beyond those of her men—and more importantly, they were her men. They were hers, and she had a duty to protect them.
Left leg trembling, she stepped up her pace until she was out front of protective reach of the nearest Swan’s spear. Also stepping out from the men was Sir Orisin, the Raven Knight. Looking over, he gave her a nod which, feeling flush with gratitude and pride at the acknowledgement, she returned.
Now that she and the Knight were out in front of their men, the possessed warriors seemed to focus on the two of them, swerving until they were pointed unerringly at Falon and Orisin.
“A Rankin for a-Swan,” Falon shrieked, breaking into a jog and putting every ounce of fear, and terror, and every single other emotion inside her into her voice. Almost instinctively, she started drawing upon the magic of the Earth, bringing the snake coiled around her leg to life.
“Saint Aife lives…in the Short-Mire!” cried the Knight, drawing back his sword for a powerful, two-handed, downward stroke.
Strength hummed through her veins as the magic coiling up her leg settled in her belly, and then spread its tentacles through her body like roots seeking fertile soil in rocky ground.
The two pairs of warriors met between the forces with an audible crash. Falon slashed high but missed when the black-eyed warrior ducked inhumanly quickly and then leapt at her, ramming his shoulder into her middle. He hit like a kicking donkey, slamming her into the ground with the force of his charge. More beast than man, he slavered over her, raking and clawing at her arms with his fingers. Panicking, Falon felt her connection to the Earth leave her as soon as her feet left the earth.
Beside her, the other possessed warrior easily ducked the Knight’s sword stroke and metal met man when the savage slammed into Sir Orisin’s full plate armor.
She could hear the Raven Knight’s breath leave his lungs even over the sounds of the feral warrior on top of her, but unlike her, Sir Orisin was no teenage girl. However fast or slow he was, the man was still a highly-trained, thickly-built Knight and he kept his feet beneath him. The crunch she then heard—and the shriek that followed—belonged to the black-eyed Spirit Warrior.
Howling and batting at his face, his very skin—or at least that part which was exposed to the elements on the front side of his body—steaming and smoking like he was on fire, the savage fell back to the earth and began rolling around.
She just had time to see Sir Orisin raise his blade high and give chase before a blow to her face spun her around. Falon raised her arms for protection, and one of her flailing legs pressed down on the ground. Immediately, she felt her connection to the Earth reopen. It wasn’t as powerful as when she’d had both feet on the ground, but she didn’t care.
Using her left leg for leverage, she slammed her right leg into the warrior atop her, pounding his backside with her knee and bucking her hips up into him with all the enhanced power she could summon from the Earth.
To her amazement, the black-eyed savage went flying, teakettle over spout, off of her. And from the sound of it, the possessed man was just as surprised as she was.
Scrambling to her feet, Falon snatched up her sword just in time to meet the spiked club with it, locking weapons with her opponent.
His attack thwarted, the Spirit Warrior screamed in her face, spraying her all over with spittle but Falon was a woman covered with far worse things than a little honest spit. She was a girl drenched in the blood of her enemies, and when he leaned down his mouth open in a mindless rage, she drove herself upward with the full power of both of her magically-enhanced legs, smashing her head into his nose.
The savage swayed back, and then forward yet again as the black of his eyes surging brighter—if there even was such a thing as ‘brightness’ which could be used to describe the night-black orbs in his skull. The strength in him forced her arms back, and the spike of his club drove an inch into her upper arm.
Falon cried out, forcing the spike back and out of her body. Although she managed to force some distance between them, she could feel her feet skittering under her. The strength of this man was incredible and she knew then and there that couldn’t stop him. Wildly, Falon looked from side to side for a way to escape.
Someone howled in mortal anguish off to her right, but despite her best efforts she couldn’t get free. She tried everything she could think of, but even a knee to the groin failed to so much as faze the black eyed slavering animal that was the warrior with the black eyes.
“Off,” Falon shouted jerking and trying to break her weapon free, “get off me!” She jerked from side to side, but couldn’t unbind their weapons. The spike of his club pushed ever c
loser to her, and this time Black Eyes was aiming it right for her left eye.
There was nothing she could do about it, try as she might, and it drove ever closer to her face.
A rush of movement came from her right and, not hearing one of the Raven’s battle cries, Falon screamed knowing death was upon her.
Only instead of something hitting her, something—or rather, someone—slammed into the black-eyed warrior, knocking him to the ground.
For a moment Black Eyes rolled on the ground, batting at himself and screaming.
“This armor was forged…in the Short-Mire!” roared Sir Orisin, bringing his blade down and skewering the possessed man beneath him. But even being run through wasn’t enough stop the black-eyed man, who bared his teeth and leaned up to snap at Sir Orisin’s gauntleted hands with an open mouth.
Dropping his sword the Knight pulled out a dagger and leapt atop the savage. “Taste cold iron, forged and quenched…in the Short-Mire!” he cried, stabbing the beast-like man repeatedly as the dagger took the black-eyed warrior in the side. Shortly after each blow, smoke and steam rose from the wound the Raven Knight left behind, looking for all the world like the smoke of an oil fire.
Throwing back his head and screaming after half a dozen good, clean blows from the Knight’s blade, black steam came billowing out of the barbarian’s mouth and choked his screams briefly.
Rolling off the savage and falling onto his back with a thump, Sir Orisin flopped over onto all fours and pushed himself back up. As soon as he stood, the Knight kicked the possessed warrior in the side, grunting happily at the scorched skin and steaming wounds he had wrought on the body of his foe. It took three attempts before he successfully sheathed his still-bloody dagger, and then he leaned over and ripped his exceptionally wide broadsword out of their dying foe.
“The Short-Mire,” he barked, obviously trying for a longer, louder yell but running short of breath as he reset his feet beneath himself. Adjusting his grip on the sword from a one-handed to two-handed one, he waved it over his head before bringing it down to point challengingly toward the rest of the savages still coming toward them.
Looking up, Falon saw that the mundane, ‘unpossessed’ enemy warriors were looking more than a little intimidated. But after a moment of staring at the Raven Knight’s blade weaving before them, their faces hardened and they ran the last few feet separating them from Falon and her men.
The next moments consisted of nothing more than hacking and slashing, punctuated by desperate dodging and parrying. At first she was pressed back, first up against the wall of her own warriors and then the battle swirled around her and she was somehow cut off from her own men.
Four savages surrounded her and behind them she saw Sir Orisin on his knees, dagger in one hand and a foe with a stone maul standing over him. Heedless of her own safety, Falon rushed the two men between her and the Raven Knight.
Her sword lashed out like the flicking tongue of a serpent, causing the one on her left to dance back and she shoulder-checked the one on the right. Unlike when Sir Orisin shoulder-charged an enemy, the other man didn’t go flying; instead, she bounced and stumbled but was undeterred.
Sir Orisin had precious few moments remaining to him. She couldn’t later explain what came over, her but instead of doing the smart thing and racing to his side, Falon threw her sword. Unlike in the stories, it did not land point-first and neatly kill the barbarian by taking him through the eye; nor did it strike hilt-first against his skull, rendering him unconscious. Instead, as she should have expected, it flew at him sideways and only temporarily fouled his killing blow aimed at the vulnerable Raven Knight.
However, the two moments it took the enemy warrior to toss away her weapon were all the Raven Knight needed. Almost falling forward from the weight of his own armor, the Raven sunk his dagger to the hilt into the other man’s inner thigh.
That was all Falon saw of that, because she was already clawing at the boar tusk-handled Shri-Kriv sheathed at her belt. Snatching it out, she raked the man beside her up and down the ribs. He reeled away and she turned to deal with the man who had dodged her wild sword strike when a blow slammed into her helmet, ringing her head like it had been inside a bell during the morning strike.
She stiffened and was dimly aware of collapsing to the ground, her connection to the magic of the Earth severed.
After that, she remembered only flashes. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, men were fighting all around her. It was a distant dream and she couldn’t focus on anything meaningful, so she closed her eyes again. This time when she opened them, she saw Sir Orisin, his right arm hanging limp and the shoulder plates of his armor on that side impossibly bent out of shape.
Falon felt the urge to do something but when she tried to get up, she instead closed her eyes.
When she opened her eyes yet again, someone was shaking her. Seeing the concerned eyes of Sir Orisin, Falon tried to get up but her body felt weak and uncoordinated. It felt like she could only blink, and that she was all but draped over the shoulder of a man wreathed in darkness. She would have been afraid except it was one of the men she recognized from the Swans.
That’s when she realized they were back in the woods.
She tried to speak but even she couldn’t recognize the words that crawled out of her mouth.
The man beside her said something, but she couldn’t hear him over the ringing in her ears. Still, she was determined to put one foot in front of the other for as long as she could. Falon Rankin might be a girl, but she’s no one’s burden, she thought woozily, even as she put as much of her weight on the man beside her as she could manage.
“I’m a warrrrriorrrrrr!” she slurred.
Chapter 43: Not out of the Woods yet
They weren’t out of the woods yet, Falon knew that much. She could also tell that she was thinking much more clearly. Clearly enough, at least, to realize that even now her thoughts were suspect and if that was the case, then how much worse had she been before?
“Someone’s up ahead,” a Raven peasant, whose name escaped her, whispered harshly.
“Steady,” Sir Orisin said, sounding as if his mouth was filled with mush, so slurred was his speech.
“What direction?” someone asked in a high and thready voice, and it was only after everyone turned to look at her that Falon realized she was the one who had spoken.
“He shpeaksssh,” Sir Orisin slurred with a smile on his face. From the crooked slant to the left side of his mouth, the fact his helmet was missing, and the way he winced when he smiled, Falon took it that he’d broken his jaw somewhere along the way.
“Better than bein’ left fer dedddd on the ffffi-eld,” she slurred with a crooked, yet happy smile. And she really was happy. Although, from the looks on the faces of the men around her and the glances they exchanged, she realized that it wasn’t as happy a thing for them to hear as it was for her to say. “Sh-orrrrry,” she mumbled, all the sad faces around her bringing her mood crashing down.
“Not a problem for us, Squire,” Uilliam said, and her head swung around to see the man with the right side of his homespun peasants tunic soaked in blood and a wadded up shirt tied against a wound of some kind by the remains of yet another shirt. Because the top, right side of his shirt had been cut away—probably to deal with whatever wound he’d sustained—Falon caught sight of a portion of his well-muscled chest.
She smiled happily as her eyes lingered on his impressively defined musculature.
“Good,” she sighed dreamily, her mind flying back to flights of girlish fancy as she stared at him. Dimly, she realized that something was wrong with her but she was just too happy to look away or think too deeply on it. Besides, it was cold out here and if she moved her head too quickly she became dizzy.
“He’s still wrong in the head,” Uilliam rumbled to another man.
Thinking of muscles and men, Falon looked around for sight of Darius…he had such dreamy, blue eyes, after all…and if she could put
those eyes above Uilliam’s chest, that would be just about ideal…
That was when she realized there were only a handful of men with her. “Where’d ever-buddy go?” she asked, her brow wrinkling, as thoughts of dreamy eyes, well-muscled chests, and their combination disappeared from her brain as this new thought squeezed in.
She started to count the men but she couldn’t keep it straight in her head, so she had to start counting on her fingers to help her remember. However, every time she tried to do so, she ran out of fingers and when she tried to switch over to the other hand, she lost count.
Tears of frustration ran down her face and when the man beside her started to look askance at her, she realized she was counting out loud, not in the quiet of her own mind like she’d thought.
“Many?” she asked only realizing after she said it that she hadn’t used a full sentence to ask how many men were with them.
“There’s eight of us, Mister Rankin,” the man muttered to her out of the side of his mouth.
Her head was clearing a bit more all the time, and from his lowered tone of voice she took it that there was some reason to keep quiet.
Fighting a giggle at the thought of sneaking around, somehow even though she knew she was in a patch of woods filled with savages, the idea that she was sneaking around outside the house back home was so strong that for a moment she almost forgot where she knew was.
Pressing her lips tightly together, she did her best to remain silent. The faint smell of damp earth filled her nostrils as she trudged along, and the only reason it registered at all was because the ground beneath her feet was mostly frost-hardened.
As if waking from a fog, the urge to giggle faded away—as did the idea that she was somehow simultaneously outside Ice Finger Keep and back home at Twin Orchards. In its place came a pulsing, throbbing, aching, piercing, and above all, painful headache.
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 37