The Blooding

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “A wizard will draw the villain mark on his forehead, clear as day for all to see, and then give you a scrap of paper,” John explained. “Tear it in half and soak the remains in water, and the magic blurs and dissipates along with the ink mark on his forehead.”

  “That’s it?” Falon said taken aback and not entirely sure how this would stop someone from running away. “A magic ink tattoo that disappears once you’ve paid for your crimes?”

  Tug looked up. “What the young Master Page fails to mention is that if I try to run away, all you have to do is place the parchment over a fire—even so much as a candle flame—and the tattoo is permanently branded into my forehead,” he said sourly, and then started to look a little pale, “it’s said to be quite painful.”

  “Oh,” was all Falon could manage.

  Chapter 24: Another Recruit

  While John was off running down the Key Warden, or his boss the Bailiff, Falon wandered back to the little road running between the two sides of prisoners.

  Almost despite herself, she found her feet wandering back in the direction of the foreigner side and a pillory holding a certain Imperial prisoner. She told herself it was just for the opportunity to talk to a real foreigner one more time, but even she knew that was a lie. After all, hadn’t she come up with a daring plan back when she’d been talking with what was soon to be her new Clerk? Although…she rather doubted that a mere mark branded onto his forehead was going to stop a trained Imperial from doing as he pleased.

  She pushed such thoughts aside. After all, she could abandon her plan at any time! It could be that all she wanted was one last chance to speak with someone from the Empire. Almost before she knew it, she was standing before the imperial yet again.

  “Back for more?” the cocky Imperial smiled at her.

  “No,” she replied in purely instinctive denial. Upon hearing the stiffness in her own voice, she felt a little bit foolish. Sticking her hands in the waistband of her trousers and pulling them back out again, she stomped her foot in frustration.

  The sound of laughter caused her to flush and look up at the source of her current woes. “I don’t bite,” the Imperial laughed, “at least…not all muzzled up like this.” He gave a good shake of the boards that succeeded in doing little more than rattling the pillory frame he was trapped in.

  “Let me see your hands,” Falon said abruptly, curious if her speculation from their first meeting that he was a former Regiment Soldier was accurate.

  “No,” the foreigner said flatly.

  Falon was taken aback before seeing a smile flitting around the corners of his mouth, and then she started to get angry.

  “Why did I even bother asking?” she grumped to no one particular. The prisoner’s hands were spaced about a foot to either side of his head, and there was nothing he could do to deny her from taking a look.

  “You’re asking me?” the foreigner demanded.

  Ignoring the frustrating Imperial man, she leaned down to get a closer look. He promptly flapped his hands open and closed in an abrupt fashion, probably trying to get another rise out of her, she just shook her head.

  Then she saw what she was looking for: the sign of the Regiments, a bull’s face with long horns to either side, and it had been branded into the side of the first knuckle of his first finger. The brand was placed right about the same spot his thumb would naturally come to rest.

  “You’ve been in the Imperial army,” Falon breathed, feeling a thrill despite herself. There were many stories of the heroic young Knight finding Imperial spies, or battling the Regiments as part of a Royal Army. For half a second, it was almost as if she were the intrepid investigator suddenly discovering a secret Imperial in the castle. In a story, she would—

  The man had to ruin her imaginings by loudly breaking wind. “So I’ve got the mark of the Taurus,” the former Imperial Soldier said rudely, “what of it? Lots of men bear the mark of the Imperial Regiments.”

  Frustrated with the man for ruining her flight of fancy, and for being a generally uncouth individual, Falon glared at him.

  “True, but if memory serves, not too many are as young as you,” she said.

  He snorted in response, but she barreled forward undeterred.

  “It’s too early to have served your twenty years of service to the Imperial Bull,” she mused, thinking aloud as she went. “That means you’re either a cripple…”

  This time she was the one to pause and snort before continuing. “Or else you’re a deserter,” she finished triumphantly.

  “Hey! I could always be a spy,” the foreign soldier growled.

  Falon felt a momentary flash of fear before common sense won out. “Right,” she drawled, “because that would make so much sense. Locked up in the pillory, with those Taurus marks on your hands as plain as day, for every Key Warden and Bailiff to see. I’m sure his Lordship is already aware of you, so why don’t we try that again?”

  “Well I could be,” the man with stormy blue eyes insisted, lifting them up enough to glare at her.

  Her breath momentarily catching, she quickly suppressed her reaction to his looks and quirked her mouth. “It seems like a pretty dumb way to try being a spy, but I suppose anything’s possible,” she allowed impishly.

  The Imperial man growled at her, but she suppressed a jump and instead looked at him coolly and raised a brow.

  “Early retirement when the 47th; was retired early,” he said shortly.

  Falon opened her mouth and then decided better of continuing to prod the man about his past, “What brings you to the Kingdom?”

  “’The Kingdom,’” the Imperial snorted, causing Falon to frown, “you Stags always say that as if there was only ever the one.”

  “I am well aware ours isn’t the only one,” she replied evenly.

  “Kingdom of the Silver Stag indeed,” the Imperial rolled his eyes, “what a mouthful.”

  “The banner of our Royal House is the Silver Stag,” Falon reminded him a little nonplussed, “why would we call it something else? Ravenhome is also named after their Royal Family, if you recall.”

  “As you say,” the Imperial replied with a sigh.

  Falon glared at him for a moment, not used to feeling as if anyone looked down on her people. Taking a couple deep breaths, she calmed back down. “Tell me,” she continued, determined to change the subject back to what she desired.

  “Yes?” the man interrupted her.

  Closing her eyes and counting to five she opened her eye. “If you have such little regard for our people, what is a high and mighty Imperial Soldier doing here?” she asked as politely as she could.

  “Former Imperial Soldier…” he corrected her, “unless of course I’m really a spy. Because if I was a spy, my job would be to lie to you, so you naturally couldn’t believe anything I said,” the man quipped with a smile.

  “That still doesn’t answer my question,” Falon said smugly.

  “I’m a sellsword,” the Imperial said with a snap of his fingers, “here to ply my trade.”

  “Have you already sold your sword to one of the Knights or Lords?” Falon asked innocently.

  “Would still I be stuck in here?” the Imperial asked rhetorically.

  “I don’t know,” Falon replied honestly.

  There was a brief pause. “No,” the Imperial said flatly.

  “Standing for days and then a few lashes with the knotted rope,” Falon said not having to suppress a slight shudder at the thought, “it doesn’t sound like happy days ahead.”

  “I’m not concerned with a few lashes of the whip, or whatever it is you call it here. This ‘knotted rope,’” the Imperial scoffed, and Falon came to a renewed decision.

  “Name’s Falon Rankin,” she said sticking out her hand.

  “Is that the best you can do?” the Imperial groaned and made a gesture with his trapped hands, indicating there was no way he could reciprocate.

  Refusing to be embarrassed, she reached over to shake his hand. He
sitating right before she placed her smaller hand against his, she took a small breath hoping no one noticed and clasped his hand with hers.

  For a moment, when the Imperial’s jaw clenched and his hand squeezed she was afraid she had made a terrible mistake.

  “Soft hands, Lieutenant,” he observed dryly, releasing her hand after it seemed he had ground all of the bones in her hand together. Embarrassed, yet determined not to show it, all she did was open and close her hand to work the pain out of it.

  “I haven’t been able to put in as much practice as I wanted,” she said lamely and immediately winced, the words sounding weak even in her own ears. What boy worth the name, with access to a sword, wouldn’t have practiced as much as he could—even at the risk of cutting his own ears off?

  “Sure,” the Imperial said, sounding entirely unconvinced.

  “Look,” Falon continued, trying to sound serious and not sure if she was succeeding, “I want to know if you are competent in the use of the sword and the spear.”

  “I was an Optio in the Regiments before we were demobilized,” the Imperial said in disbelief, “of course I can use a sword; I know the spear too.”

  “Can you train others?” Falon demanded, finally arriving at the reason for which she had come back to speak with this man. With her lack of skill, there was no way she could evaluate the proficiency of the Wick men. Training her Militia was something she didn’t know how to do, and she was pretty sure the other ‘Sergeants’ were going to be drilling their own men.

  “Of course,” the Imperial said slowly.

  Falon narrowed her eyes. The other militia bands in the Fighting Swans Company were certain to have an advantage over her friends and neighbors as long as she didn’t have anyone who could help train them. She wouldn’t expose herself for a fraud if she could help it, but there was no way she was going to stand silent while men died because she was too scared of being found out.

  “I’d like to hire you,” Falon finally decided to take the plunge.

  “I don’t believe this,” the Imperial dismissed, but after looking into Falon’s eyes for several seconds blurted, “you’re serious.”

  “Yes,” Falon said.

  “Your Lord has me thrown in the stockade, and now one of his baby-faced Lieutenant wants to hire me?” he snapped. “No way; I’ll take my licks and move on. Maybe the other side will want to retain my services after I get out of here.”

  “Other side,” Falon demanded, “what other side, Ravenhome?!”

  “No, not Ravenhome,” the Imperial replied, but his voice and hard look gave the lie to his words. “Besides, there are any number of other sides here in the on this very Muster Field: Knights, Lords, Captains—and even Lieutenants. There are any number of people who might desire another sword in their service.”

  “But I’m the only one who’s asked you!” she exclaimed.

  “How would you know that?” the Imperial asked with a skeptical look on his face.

  “Because if anyone else had, then you’d already be out of here,” she declared confidently.

  “Maybe I prefer to wait until after I’m free from this cursed prison of wood,” he said, giving his pillory a shake. “That way I’m in a better bargaining position. More pain today often means more gold later on.”

  “Gold,” Falon laughed, knowing there was no way she could afford to pay gold, “you must think pretty highly of yourself.”

  The Imperial looked honestly offended. “I’m a trained professional, and unlike your once-a-season weekend warrior militia bands, the Empire makes sure that its soldiers know what we’re doing before our battles—not after,” he replied with a cutting smile.

  “If you’re not interested,” Falon said stiffly, turning away in frustration.

  “Fine, fifteen gold then,” the Imperial said.

  “For the campaign, or just per battle?” Falon gaped, completely taken aback at the amount. That was more cash money than her family saw in a month!

  “Per day,” the Imperial said looking at her quizzically.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Falon choked and shook her head vigorously, “no way.”

  “You’re twisting my arm here,” he sighed, “I can go as low as 5 gold per day, but not a bent copper less.”

  Falon looked down at the heavy money purse she was still holding and opening the mouth of the bag to glance inside. It looked like half were large Silver Lords, and the rest were gold pieces, mainly split between the small Golden Queens and much larger Platinum Kings. She was shocked to be holding so much valuable coin, but there still wasn’t nearly enough to cover the kind of wage this man was asking for.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, but regardless of not caring about the knotted rope, I’d be happy to get out of the Pillory in time for the campaign if I were you,” Falon said, still shaking her head in disbelief at this man’s audacity.

  The Imperial pursed his lips. “They’re not going to leave me stuck in here when there’s a war on,” he finally said in disagreement, “worst case they’ll just try to put me in the front line right before the battle.”

  “I may be new to this whole ‘Lieutenant-ing’ business, but I’m not stupid,” Falon declared, “there’s no way you can expect to be paid even a fraction of what you’re asking.

  “Then what’s your offer?” the Imperial man asked splaying his fingers as if to say, ‘I had to try.’

  “Who do you think I am, some rich Knight,” Falon demanded, “I’m in charge of a militia band. If you want to hear my offer then this is what it is: you eat with us, you sleep the same as us—and that doesn’t include the use of my tent,” she added quickly before tugging on her tunic nervously. “And you get a chance at battlefield spoils, just the same as the rest of us.”

  “That’s it;, all you’re offering me are basic Militia rights,” the Imperial protested, “you have to be insane! No mercenary worth their salt would settle for that, even if he was in the stockade. I’m not some peasant to fight and die for feudal duty; you’ll have to pay me something more than that!”

  “What kind of pay?” Falon asked, throwing her hands in the air, “I already told you I don’t have that kind of gold.”

  “I want my sword and gear back, a commission as a Sergeant along with a commensurate wage—and that’s non-negotiable,” he said flatly with a piercing look before continuing, “if you want me to train a bunch of sodbusters to play part-time soldiers, then you’ll good and well pay for it or you can just turn and walk away right now.”

  “I don’t even know if I could make anyone a Sergeant if I wanted too,” Falon started to scoff, but from the look on the face of the Imperial he clearly thought she could and that she was trying to pull one over, “but…even supposing I could, I’d need the permission of Captain Smyth, and Corporal is as high as I could possibly go.”

  Falon tried to put on her most stoic look, but under the weight of his burning gaze she felt as if her face was cracking.

  “A Corporal in the militia is the same thing as mud I scraped off my boot,” the Imperial cursed.

  “Take it or leave it,” Falon retorted, trying to sound cool and grown-up.

  “I want my gear and I want out of here, now,” the Imperial growled.

  “My Valet will see to it,” Falon said with a smile, “oh, and one other thing.”

  “What?” the Imperial snapped, with a look that warned her not to try and negotiate any further.

  “I can’t keep on thinking of you as ‘that Imperial’,” she smirked, “you know my name; what’s yours?”

  Chapter 25: First Impressions

  The looks on the faces of the Wick Militias was almost worth all the trouble it had cost her to the three newest members of the band…almost. One thing was for certain, though: as long as she had a fully trained sellsword at her back, she seriously doubted if Glaisne—or anyone else, for that matter—was going to try and beat on her anytime soon. They’ll be thinking twice and three times, especially after
they get to know their new drill Sergeant, she gloated.

  Darius, the Imperial and former Optio soldier of the Empire might be short in stature, but from what she could see he carried his steel like he had been born to it, and projected pure menace at anyone who looked at him crosswise. No, she decided firmly, so long as Darius is, around my problems won’t be from any more random Militia members.

  Of course, dealing with Darius if he took it in his head to go rogue would make all her previous problems pale in comparison. So she was just going to have to hope that she could keep on top of everything and ensure it didn’t come to that.

  “Hey, Fal, who’re the new blokes,” Duncan sidled up to her as soon as they cleared what passed for the outer marker representing the East Wick and West Wick Militia band’s boundary which separated her people from the rest of the giant camp.

  “Meet Tug, our new Clerk,” Falon said with an enigmatic smile, “and Darius, the new Training Master.” It was important to not give anything away too soon otherwise it would ruin the surprise. A throat was cleared behind her, and wrinkling her brow, she turned to see who it was…and immediately scowled. It was John the Page—well, former Page. It looked like she was going to have to bite the steel on this one, “Oh, and John; he’s going to be the Valet.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said John brightly, stepping forward and extending a hand.

  Duncan looked down at the hand like it had something unpleasant on it before reluctantly reaching out to return the favor.

  “Falon,” cried Ernest, running up and giving her a chuck on the shoulder, “is everything okay? You’ve been gone a long while now.”

  “It’s fine, Ernest,” she said, rubbing her shoulder where he had hit her, “meet our new additions to the Militia.”

  There followed a second round of introductions, although this time when it came back to John and his still-grinning face, she managed not to choke on the words.

  “And this is John, our new Valet,” Falon finished, hiding the sour expression that threatened to erupt all over her face. The last thing she needed was a snoopy Valet trying to barge into her tent while she was busy getting dressed. Unfortunately, he had been too helpful to just shove off.