“He knew ye might die, that both of us might, Ern,” Duncan said furiously wiping his face. “We talked it over, him and me, before we left.”
“I don’t want ye throwing away yer life, dang it, brother!” Ernest cursed, his face tense with emotion.
“I’m not going to stand by and let my lil brother march off and get his foolish head taken off by some big, savage, northerner now am I?” Duncan demanded, and then answered his own question, “Not hardly! And if that means that we both die, or I die so as ye can live, then that’s just the way it is. The eldest sons of Doyle stick together.”
Ernest choked up, bending over placing his hands on his good knee.
“Well…” Falon said at a loss for words. There didn’t seem any way to continue the argument in the face of that little speech.
Duncan looked up at her fiercely, as if daring her to tell him again that he should go home. This time it was the newly minted Squire who raised her hands.
“I’ll have Tug add you to the rolls, I guess,” she said, wishing she had a sibling present who was as fiercely loyal to her as Ernest and Duncan were to each other.
“You do that, Lieutenant,”’ Duncan said his voice thick.
Ernest looked up long enough to nod his head up and down in a mixture of resignation and relief.
Falon’s mouth tightened but she reluctantly agreed. And even if she didn’t, it was obvious that nothing she said was going to sway the dunderheaded farm boy.
“It seems we’re in it together until the end,” she said, trying for a light tone but ending up her voice just as thick as Duncan’s had been a moment earlier.
When Duncan placed his arm around Ernest, causing the younger brother to straighten and shake him off, Falon knew she was intruding and turned to take herself elsewhere.
She had a pair of great friends in the two of them, but inside she ached for her family.
Walking to the other side of her tent, she stood there waving until long after the Wicks and her Wagons had departed. Along with the Wicks militia went a certain well-paid Carter with a purse full of coins for her family, along with his extra cart.
Chapter 9: Mustering the Men
The sound of a voice clearing behind her brought Falon’s attention back away from the empty road. She had to suppress a startled jump and force herself not to whirl around as she turned to see Darius standing behind her.
“And what does our Training Master need with me today?” Falon asked in what she was pleased to hear was an almost completely droll voice, which was completely at odds with how she felt on the inside. She silently congratulated herself on hiding her feelings even after being surprised.
“It’s best we do this now; the new men are starting to stir,” the Imperial said in a no nonsense voice.
Falon blinked and realized that as frantic and emotion packed as her morning had been, less than two hours has passed since dawn—long enough that even the most soused of militia farm boys, drunk on ale cut with liquid wood spirits, were beginning to rouse.
“What is it we need to do?” She asked.
Darius looked at her with surprise. “We got them here, signed them on our rolls and we paid them,” he said shortly, and Falon blinked in confusion at this bold assertion after the way they had essentially robbed the men of their first month’s pay the previous night. But Darius continued without missing a beat, “But a piece of paper they can’t read, and coin they’ve already spent, aren’t going to keep a man who wakes up in a strange camp from trouncing off on the first opportunity,” he explained somewhat patiently.
“But they signed up last night,” Falon said in instant objection but with a sinking sensation in her belly. How many times would she have run home if doing so wouldn’t have pointed the finger at her and her family? And what would she have done if no one outside of the Wicks ever had cause to know her name? She knew all too readily exactly what she would have done.
“Yes. They did,” Darius said with forced patience in his voice, “and that’s why this morning we are going to roust them out of bed and reinforce that liquor-hazed memory. A hung-over man isn’t at his best and we’re going to use that. We need to keep them so off-balance they lack not only the faculties question us, but also the time. That’s why as soon as they’re awake we’re going to start them in on training; physical activity and fear are the glue that a Sergeant and Training Master uses to bind his men together. That, and shared hatred,” he added with a wintery smile. “We need them so focused on their outrage at me that they don’t even have time to think about wandering off.”
Falon looked at his stoic, grim, and slightly eager face and felt sick. Was this really what men had to suffer through when they joined a lord’s army? Recruiters that said whatever they had to get you to join and then cheated you of your pay, sadistic Training Masters eager to make them suffer so they wouldn’t ask any questions, and an Officer who cared so little for you as a person that she was not only willing to let it happen but actively aided and abetted it?
“I should be there,” Falon said, feeling green, “with the men, that is.” At the very least she could suffer alongside them, she thought but Darius shook his head.
“A grizzled old war hound like the Captain might be able to pull it off and not lose any of his authority, but you can’t,” he said flatly.
“W-what,” Falon stuttered, feeling as if she should be outraged but mostly still in a state of shock at the kind of person she’d become.
“An Officer—and especially a gentleman—needs to be a cut above,” Darius explained. “At least, he needs to appear so. This isn’t the Militia of men you’ve known your whole life that you have to prove yourself to, and who won’t look down on you if you stumble. Having you sweating and bleeding along with the men the very first time they see you won’t go well. Right now they’re going to be angry and confused. We want them focused on me, not on an Officer who will give them a spot on the whipping post for disobedience. Having you there this morning will only confuse them.”
“Then what am I to do, just stand by and do nothing?” Falon asked plaintively as it seemed she couldn’t even expunge a small fraction of the guilt she was feeling by at least suffering with them this first terrible morning.
“No,” Darius said flatly, “it’s good for you to practice with the men and it’s good for them to see you doing anything you’re going to ask of them—just not this first morn. When things settle down I’ll let you know and call you in. But for now it’s important you appear to be the cut above these lads as their Lieutenant.”
Falon clenched her fists and closed her eyes. She wasn’t feeling angry, mostly just lost and helpless with a small dash of confusion wended in for good measure.
“Alright,” She agreed sadly, “are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”
Darius paused and started to shake his head and then stopped. His right eye partially narrowed. “Now that you mention it, there is one thing you could do.” He nodded slowly, “It’s an Imperial tradition that you ‘barbarians’ never seem to have picked up,” he smiled to take the sting out of his words.
Falon’s mouth tightened but in her current mood she wasn’t feeling up to taking him to task over it. Not here and not now. “What?” she asked simply instead.
For an answer, he thrust out his hand and held it thumb up, displaying the brand of his imperial masters.
Falon looked at him quizzically. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?” she asked hesitantly.
“Bearing the brand is what makes the men of the Regiments what they are,” he explained. “And I’m not talking about magic,” he answered her next question before she had time to even frame it in her own mind, “it’s part of what makes them more than a full-time militia or common warriors. When a group bears the brand it helps build identity and instant kinship between men who’ve never met before today.”
“Okay,” Falon said slowly, “but how does that apply to us here? The men aren’t going to sit still and allow themse
lves to be branded like common livestock. I understand what you’re saying about a common identity, but in the Stag Lands we take pride in not being like the Empire, and only common criminals like Tug are branded. Even then it’s only after failing to repay their debt to Lord and neighbor.”
Darius smiled. “On the other hand you people are almost obsessed with your word,” he said. “That’s why, if you think it can be done, I’d like for you to get a Wizard or magic worker who can make the same kind of magic tattoo as Tug has.” He paused and then shrugged, “Or at least something similar. We’ll put it on the men, as a rite-of-passage, and then if anyone runs off he’ll forever be marked as a man who broke faith.”
“I can do that,” Falon said leerily, not at all sure if what he was asking was possible. She’d heard of the Old Blood tattooing themselves, both permanently and right before battle, and there was a large contingent of Old Blood males in their company—based on hair color and skin tone. She knew it would be important to portray it as an honor and not a brand. The brand would be reserved for those who had broken faith with their fellow warriors.
“Or at least I can check,” she said doubtfully as the prospect of securing the services of a wizard to do the deed trickled through the back of her mind.
“Good,” Darius said with a sharp nod, “you do that while I work on getting their attention and beginning the process of turning them from a disparate group of clueless militia into a real fighting force; one that will stand up to the enemy in battle.”
With that, the short Imperial Training Master strode past her and out among the new recruits. Kicking and cursing, he started to rouse those that were still asleep and, with the assistance of a few men who’d been with them from the beginning of his tenure as Training Master, he started herding them into a group.
Not sure if she wanted to hang around and see any more after Darius got in the face of a particularly recalcitrant recruit warrior and started screaming at the top of his lungs, Falon hurried into her tent and gathered up the things she thought she might need when she met the wizard.
The shouts of an enraged, Imperial Sergeant followed her to the edge of camp and beyond. It was only when she was lost in the bustle and hustle of the departing or consolidating force of men in the greater camp that she finally breathed a sigh of relief.
She felt like a coward to walk away like she had, but that was something a young woman was just going to have to live with, as Darius didn’t want her around right then.
Out amongst the strangers of camp, the girl-turned-warrior-turned-Officer—and finally a Squire, as well—put on her serious face and set off to find herself a Wizard.
Chapter 10: The Meet and Greet
The first place to go when looking for a wizard—especially when one wanted to avoid anywhere in the vicinity of Madam Tulla—Falon figured had to be at a place where one knew wizards worked.
His Lordship, Richard Lamont, the original Fighting Swan, had used the services of a wizard to turn the earth and sod beneath the contingent of Knights and heavy cavalry into mud. Since he was her lord, Falon figured that was an ideal place to start. It was, after all, something she was trying to do for the benefit of the Company— or rather, the Battalion.
That’s why a quarter turn of the glass later she found herself standing outside the tent of his Lordship, the former commander of the Left Wing.
“Who goes there,” the pair of guards standing outside the Lord’s large and magnificent looking tent challenged.
“I’m here to see a man about a Wizard,” she said boldly, though pointedly failing to mention she was there to see his Lordship himself.
She knew that if anyone could direct her to a practicing wizard without disturbing her overlord, she’d be more than willing to forgo seeing the Great Swan himself.
The guards snorted. “There’re no wizards here, Lieutenant,” the one on the left advised her, “you’d have more luck trying a mummer’s tent.”
Falon was glad she had recovered her blue officer’s sash that proclaimed her rank as a Lieutenant. Its presence helped keep men like these two helpful instead of irritable. But she was less pleased to hear she might have to march all over the kingdom—or at least the rapidly diminishing army camp.
“I suppose I’ll need to speak with his Lordship, or someone in the household about it then,” she sighed morosely. She very much disliked the idea of a face-to-face with Lamont, but with Smythe still unreturned to his tent from his ceremonial vigil, she didn’t know where else to go…other than Madame Tulla, who Falon flat-out refused to consider until all other options had been exhausted—and maybe not even then.
The guards shared a glance and the one on the right shook his head. “His Lordship’s been up all night, sponsoring an infantry hero into the Knighthood. I wouldn’t advise attempting it; his Valet is likely to tear your head off and urinate down the hole as give you an audience and if you did get one…” the Guard frowned. “Maybe you better let us know why you want a Wizard before you try to disturb his Lordship?”
Falon pursed her lips in consideration and with a shrug decided she couldn’t come up with a reason not to tell them. They were all in the same Lord’s service and they had no reason to hurt her cause and every reason to see her succeed, to the greater glory of Lord Lamont and Swan Keep.
So she told them.
“A magical mark?” the guard exclaimed with mirth. “What you’re looking for is a magic tattoo.”
The other guard snorted.
“What’s so funny,” Falon asked, perplexed and not liking to be the butt of anyone’s jokes.
“Ye don’t need a full-blown Wizard for that,” the guard who’d snorted said, his accent abruptly thickening as he started shaking his head. “Any Village Fair mummer, and more than half a dozen failed adepts and novices right here in camp, could do that for you.”
“Course…it’ll cost ye,” the other guard said in agreement with his cohort.
“Cost,” Falon grumbled before nodding slowly, “I can pay. Assuming he or she can do the job.”
The one who had mentioned the cost opened his mouth but Falon cut him off quickly.
“I want someone that won’t cost me my entire purse or my first born child in trade,” she added, flashing a quick smile to take the sting out of it.
“Might be we’re knowing just the fellow,” the first guard shared a wink with the second and chortled.
“O’ course,” the Second grinned holding out his hand out, “the name is free, but the directions…those’re at a premium.”
Falon stared at them in a dumb lack of understanding until the other guard started rubbing his finger together. The lamplight in her brain flared brightly, as if someone had turned up the oil.
“Oh…you want coins?” she said with dawning understanding.
The guards smiled and her brows lowered thunderously.
“Careful,” she warned, “you’re dealing with a Squire now.”
“O’ course your lordship,” the Guards said, straightening their faces and speaking with mock respect.
Falon just sighed.
**************************************************
Several coppers later and Falon was on her way to an open sided tent pub with the sigil of a pair of wands crossing a spear on the slop sided top of the canvas structure.
As she came closer, she was impressed to see more mage lights than she could easily count on the fingers of one hand floating, standing from candlesticks, or otherwise illuminating the interior of the tent.
Staring around with wide eyes, she realized she was acting like a little girl seeing her first magic trick when a couple of the men looked up at her. They shook their heads and then went back to their ales, or quill and parchments.
Quickly schooling her face to a more appropriate—and she hoped Squire-ly—demeanor, Falon strode into the tent. She paused only long enough to spot a path through the various campaign desks and three-legged stools the men and even a pair of women were hunc
hed over. Noting with surprise that the women had chosen to drink with the men, Falon headed for what she took to be the bar.
It was a large, wooden structure made out of what had to be a giant, polished tree stump. Falon blinked rapidly as she took in the fact that it stood on four wooden legs. She idly wondered how the owner managed to haul it all the way out here as her eyes darted around taking in the various men in robes, cloaks, and in a few cases, floppy hats and staves.
The man behind the bar noisily cleared his throat. “Can I help you?” he asked.
Falon looked up started. She had never been in an actual pub before, only ever having snuck a peek out of the corner of her eye, and politely shuddered. Mama Patience hadn’t held with strong drink, and certainly not the kind you went to village and paid another person for, so this was all very new to her.
“Yes, you can,” Falon replied, her eyes darting about trying to take it all in and feeling slightly intimidated.
The bartender cleared his throat again, this time much more pointedly and asked. “Pint or parchment?” he asked and her eyes snapped back to him.
“Wa-what?” she asked confused. While her brain was still trying to process the request, her eyes were taking in the man’s grey hair. It was slicked back in a short ponytail, and he even had nose ring as well. His clothes were a muted color that blended in with the rougher homespun of the average man of the army, but upon further examination they consisted of superior linens and more and better quality worked leather than any regular man of the army would be able to afford. She crossed her legs back and forth as she shifted from side to side nervously.
“Do you want a pint?” he asked with exaggerated patience, lifting up a wooden mug with something sloshing inside. “Or are you here for parchment?” he added lifting up a small stack of five papers that rested about a foot apart from half a dozen mugs full of what she took to be ale.
He paused to give her an assessing look and then thrust the ale at her.
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 9
