The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard)

by Luke Sky Wachter

“Anyway, you can’t ride him,” Christie said with ringing finality.

  “What are you talking about?” Falon objected, her eyes blinking in confusion. “You just admitted I can!”

  “You are able to ride him safely now, at least around the house and fields,” Christie said shaking her head, her body motions at complete odds with her words, “but you aren’t going to.”

  “Why ever not?” Falon demanded. “None of the other Squires will take me seriously if I don’t have a horse!”

  “Will you listen to yourself girl,” Christie stared at her in disbelief, “it doesn’t matter if they think you’re the poorest, meanest, stupidest son of a Squire that ever lived.”

  “It’ll mean something when they won’t watch my back,” Falon hissed, remembering how the village boys could be during their scrambles. Their feuds didn’t tend to last as long as the village girls, but their fights usually ended in blood. On the battlefield having no allies meant she would probably be killed.

  “You can take Hermiony,” Christie said with ringing finality.

  “That old nag? A riding palfrey so old her teeth are falling out,” Falon said in disbelief, “everyone will laugh at me!”

  “Good,” Christie said sounding half-pleased.

  “I’ll look like a fool and—“ Falon protested.

  “And if you show up on Papa’s charger wearing whatever armor of his will fit and completely unable to wield a sword—let alone a Shri-Kriv what do you think’s gonna happen?” Christie asked coldly.

  “Huh?” Falon had never really thought about it. All she had been concerned with was showing up and looking like a real stand-in for her father. After that it would all sort itself out—or so she had hoped.

  “Better if they shun you for being poor,” Christie continued in a no nonsense tone, “they’ll all remember you, but none of your peers will want to associate with a poor Squire’s fifth son—one who doesn’t even have a decent horse, or proper weapons and armor. Not that you could wear the armor even if you had it…”

  “You want them all to treat me like dirt and ignore me?” Falon said exasperated with her older sister.

  “You don’t need to earn glory on the field, make a name, or win your own inheritance like a normal fifth son would,” Christie said bemusedly, her eyes looking at Falon strangely, “by all the gods Falon, you’re just a daughter. After this is all over and done with, the estate will be secure and you can come home, get married and live a normal life. If no one pays any attention to you, then there’s less chance anyone will recognize you as anything other than another one of ‘your sisters’.”

  “No one’s going to want a scar-faced wife,” Falon complained, feeling tears gathering in the corner of her eyes as she rubbed her face where she had taken the wooden shrapnel from the exploding spear, “this was just from a pig. How much worse will it be when I come back from war?”

  “It’s all going to be okay Fal, you’ll see,” Christie consoled, putting her arms around her younger sister.

  “I’m scared, Christie,” Falon finally admitted, “so very scared.”

  “It’s okay to be scared, Fal,” Christie said finally and Falon could hear the tears in her big sister’s voice as well, “you’ll make it through the battle in one piece; you’ll come home and all of this will seem like a bad dream when it’s all over. You’ll see.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Falon allowed as she clung to the cloth of her sister’s dress.

  “Listen up, we’ll get you a sword and put you on a horse so old no one seeking upward mobility will want to associate with you,” Christie said fiercely. “There won’t be a Knight in the army that’ll want you for a Squire with such humble accoutrements, and one look at you swinging a sword will convince them to move on.”

  “You sure don’t have any confidence in my non-existent skills,” Falon half laughed, half sobbed.

  “But you’ll be there fulfilling the family obligation, and after we sell Phantom you’ll have the wagons and enough supplies to fulfill our feudal obligations,” Christie continued, holding Falon down when she started to jerk back.

  “Not Phantom!” Falon cried.

  “Yes Phantom,” Christie said sternly, “with this war there’ll be lots of younger sons looking for a steed. Phantom’s too old for a Knight or landed Squire, but one of their younger sons will need a proper warhorse and he’s just the charger to do it.”

  “What’ll we tell papa?” Falon sighed leaning back into her sister.

  “You let me worry about that,” Christie said evenly, “Phantom can go to pay for the back taxes and all the supplies we don’t have but are supposed to provide for the militia, and this will be a seller’s market. I’ll draft the letters and send them by runner to the Keep as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, poor Phantom,” Falon moaned, feeling sorrow at the impending loss of Papa’s warhorse. She was unsure how much of that sorrow was for Phantom, and how much of it was for herself. She had become more than a little attached to the old warhorse.

  “The old charger’s just a horse,” Christie said stiffly, “you’re our sister, and that’s more important than any animal. You won’t be equipped to ride with the cavalry, which is good because you have no real training for it, and no Knight will want a horseless Squire.”

  “I’ll have Hermy,” Falon protested pulling back and this time Christie let her.

  “Hermy’s as good as having no horse,” Christie rolled her eyes.

  “But if I’m not with the cavalry, where will I be fighting?” Falon continued, trying to figure it all out.

  Christie looked slightly ill, “You’ll be down with the militia and peasant levies.”

  A wave of dread came over Falon at her older sister’s words. “Papa always said it was death down there with the feudal levies,” she whispered.

  “He also said the first to die in a cavalry engagement were the untrained, and the young Squires that didn’t stay back with the tents,” Christie said flatly, “knocked off their horses and trampled to death, if they weren’t just run through. Because you’re going to represent Papa and you’re not going to be some Knight’s Squire, you’ll have to be in the battle.”

  “I guess fighting alongside the village boys won’t be so bad,” Falon smiled weakly, “at least I know most of them.”

  “Yes. From both villages,” Christie said giving her a significant look.

  Falon groaned. Some of the younger ones might still recognize her from two years ago, before when they stopped going to West Wick

  “It’s okay,” Christie smiled sweetly, it was a look Falon distrusted immensely, “I already mentioned it to Muirgheal. The West Enders know better than to get on the wrong side of an Old Blood Witch like your mama.”

  Chapter 12: Getting Ready

  She grudgingly went down and ate lunch with Christie, Kaitlin and all the rest her sisters, and their little five year old brother Rogan. She felt trapped, and just like a hostage (in this case, hostage to family affection) Falon pretended everything was alright. Saying she was still shaken up by the boar attack and that’s why she had been fighting with Christie.

  She could tell most of her siblings didn’t really believe her, but that they wanted to so badly they refused to press the issue. Finishing her food as quickly as she thought she could, Falon bolted for the stairs unable to maintain the façade any longer.

  Retreating back up to her room, she plumped back down on her bed and stared at the largest of the two books in dismay. It was a veritable monster, worse than the boar even! Then she paused and reluctantly admitted it would have to be a really bad book to come anywhere close to as bad as that ornery old boar and a passel of busted up ribs. If the boar wasn’t bad enough, then Mama Muirgheal’s magic certainly would have been worse than any book ever written.

  Reaching out with trepidation, she ran her fingers over the raised ridges of the cover and just hoped there were lots of pictures inside it. After reluctantly deciding to start with the monster and
save Papa’s journal for later on…maybe when she was actually on the road, she opened the cover and turned to the first page.

  It read:

  A Chatelaine’s Defense: In the Absence of Lord or Castellan

  By the Lady Mellissa Smythe-Cink

  There was a large, flowing signature underneath the title and name.

  Frowning at the book skeptically, she wondered what she could possibly learn about war from some Cink-Knight’s Lady. Wrinkling her brow, she cast about through her memory until she recalled that the Smythes were no mere lords of the manor but an actual Baronial Family. Eyebrows rising, she wondered how the Cinks had managed to marry so high before returning to her main point and rolling her eyes.

  Falon was just about to place the book aside in favor of something actually useful, and actually started to close the book, when her sister’s elegant looking hand reached down and forced the book back open.

  “It gets better later on,” Christie said encouragingly.

  “Later on?” Falon asked, her eyebrows climbing for the ceiling. She hadn’t even made it past the cover page, and already Christie was telling her to persevere? This did not bode well for her chances of actually reading through the entire book.

  “Yes, after all the lists of food stocks and household supplies,” Christie replied, arching a brow.

  “I hadn’t got that far yet,” Falon admitted feeling her cheeks heat for no reason she could imagine. She literally hadn’t had a minute to read further, but somehow her sister must have known she hadn’t been planning to read further.

  “There’s even a section on the style of Lady’s gowns from two generations ago,” Christie continued, ignoring Falon’s admission.

  “Then what use is it?” Falon asked, curious despite herself.

  “It’s the journal of a woman eventually in command of men, and speaks about the steps taken in the defense of Smythe Castle,” Christie replied archly, “such knowledge could be very useful to you in the field.”

  Falon reared back in surprise. “I’m not going to be in command of any men,” she said in instant rejection, “and I’m certainly not going to be defending any family keeps, let alone a castle! I don’t see how any of this applies to my situation. She was a Lady Smythe placed in command of a garrison of armsmen sworn to her family, while I’m going dressed up as a boy!”

  “Yes, but—” Christie started but Falon cut her off.

  “We’re not going to be defending any Keeps, Castles or family Manors,” Falon said reaching over and slamming the leather-bound book closed.

  Christie reached over, turning the books slightly towards her and slapped it back open.

  “You may not be defending any keeps but there’s every chance the Prince will be victorious and then lay siege to one,” Christie said sharply, pounding the book with a finger for emphasis. “Men kill. Famine kills, and disease can run rampant through any army slaughtering more than the enemy if the proper precautions aren’t taken.”

  “The Prince will have his wizards with him for that,” Falon sneered, “I don’t know what you expect on Squire’s heir to do about any of this.”

  “And if they die, or the campaign is extended beyond what the Prince can afford,” Christie said furiously, “you’ll be with the levy, not amongst the noble tents.”

  Falon stared at her mulishly, angry that her older sister might just have a point. “Maybe,” she replied sullenly as she considered the fact that she might have to read an endless series of boring lists filled with house hold supplies and food stores after all.

  “There’s no maybe about it,” Christie said severely, “just like there’s no maybe that the villagers will look to you for leadership.”

  “Me!” Falon all but shouted, feeling dismayed to the point of outrage at what her sister was saying, “I’m just a girl, and half the villagers will know that!”

  “The levy from West Wick, you mean?” Christie asked coyly.

  “Of course!” Falon yelled.

  “The same ones that had no problems with female leaders before being brought into the kingdom, and whom your mother is soon to put the fear of an Old Blood Witch into,” Christie said, frowning emphatically at Falon’s raised voice, “those villagers?”

  Falon felt the urge to duck her head and tried to muster growl instead, but once again her sister had a point. “The rest of them from West Wick will only know me as the young boy who ground his Shri-Kriv down too far,” she replied sullenly.

  “Look Falon,” Christie sighed sitting down beside her younger sister, “no one—all the way from Lord Lamont down to the villagers themselves—will expect you to be some kind of heroic battle leader.”

  “How do you know tha—” Falon started, only to realize she was being sucked into some kind of big sisterly trap, “I mean how could you know? Unless you’ve been to some sort of battles or wars I’m unfamiliar with.”

  “However, they will expect you to interface between the villagers and the nobles, knights and other squires,” Christie said blithely ignoring Falon’s attempt to divert the conversation and change the subject.

  “And just how am I supposed to do that, Krisy?” Falon said half angrily and when her older sister’s arms went around her middle, Falon felt her shoulders slump, “I don’t know anyone, or who’s going to be expecting things from me or…” she stumbled to a halt, placing her face in her hands, “I’m not even a boy!”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Christie said giving her a quick squeeze, “I have faith in the mighty Boar Knife of Brown Creek Grove. Even if she doesn’t,” her sister finished with a pat on her arms.

  “That’s not even funny,” Falon said lifting her face up from her hands long enough to stare at her sister.

  “There’s nothing funny about any of this, Falon,” Christie said meeting Falon’s stare with one of her own, “I thought you would have realized that by now.”

  “I could die,” Falon muttered dropping her gaze to stare at her hands as they twisted around one another, “I’m going to die. I have no business on a battlefield.”

  She could feel Christie looking at the back of her head while she stubbornly stared down at her knuckles.

  “Read the books,” Christie said letting her arms drop and getting to her feet, “both of them.”

  “But—” Falon started until Christie shook her head and sighed.

  “But me no buts, little sister,” Christie said in a false jovial tone, one threaded with an underlying bar of iron, “I’ve a number of letters to write.”

  “Yes, Krisy,” Falon whispered, still staring down at her white knuckles. She didn’t look up again until she heard the door start to swing closed.

  “Oh and Falon,” Christie said, catching her sister’s eyes.

  “What?” Falon sighed heavily.

  “Don’t worry about anything except those books and learning everything you can about war and warfare,” Christie said holding her eyes, “I’ll take care of things in the meantime.”

  Falon opened her mouth to object being stuck inside her room all day every day, reading books of all things! Meanwhile there were a hundred different things and details that needed working out. Christie cut her off before she could get a word in edgewise.

  “We’ll see to getting everything ready, it’s the least we can do for you,” Christie stated, rapidly blinking her eyes as if stave off tears.

  “It’s okay,” Falon replied standing up, “I can still help out and finish these books,” she finished saying the last word as if it were something filthy.

  “It’s the smallest portion of what you deserve,” Christie said holding up a hand, one that froze Falon in her place, “besides, we’re going to have to get used to doing without you for a while,” she finished with a brave smile.

  “Oh, Christie,” Falon said in a small voice, thinking about how her brother and sisters were going to do without her, one of the bigger girls, around help keep things going.

  Christie gave her a curt nod and quickly
turned, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Chapter 13: Stuck in Her Room

  Her sister’s book was every bit as terrible as Falon had feared. Pages and pages filled with nothing but figures and inventories, mixed in with the occasional rambling accounts of then-Lady Smythe’s—eventually to be Lady Smythe-Cink’s—daily chores and duties. Even worse were the detailed descriptions of exactly why the young Lady Smythe had been told it was necessary to purchase or store the things she did.

  Honestly, Falon thought, would I ever really need to know how many pounds of food a fighting man consumed per day, and then be able to compare it to how much a serving girl would consume, and then proceed to calculate how many days’ worth of inventory needed to be set aside to survive a winter?

  After wading through those accounts by the Lady Smythe, Falon was just getting into a particularly good part involving arrival of what was, reading between the lines, a quite handsome knight from the North Keep household bordering the cold lands, when the paragraph was quite hastily ended (Falon could tell from the hand writing and inadequately short sentence) and another set of practice calculations were started on a fresh page.

  This time it was how to perform an estimate on the amount of provisions needed for a full garrison…well, a full garrison as it related to the author’s native Castle Smythe. This time the calculations called for figuring out how many pounds of food would be eaten and involved separate amounts for knights, men-at-arms, footmen and the entire servant staff and noble family residing within the castle—as well as expected food wastage due to rats.

  Falon stared incredulously at a pair of pages detailing how vital cats and small rat-dogs were to the long-term survival of a successful food storage operation, as well as the additional protein such dogs and cats could provide during a siege.

  “Why on earth would I ever need to know how many cats and dogs or cats versus dogs it takes to keep a rat population under control at Castle Smyth?” Falon muttered, shuddering in disgust at the thought of eating Betty the family war hound, before closing the tome and tossing it onto her bed. The bindings creaked and protested this rough treatment loudly enough to cause Falon to wince at such poor treatment of her sister Christie’s gift. Books were expensive, and not to be casually tossed around by careless younger sisters.