“Run away, pretty boy,” Gearalt smiled viciously, “this is no place for younglings.”
“The men,” Darius reminded her while leading the other Sergeant off to the side, behind a small stand of trees and bushes next to the creek.
“So it’s like that, is it?” Gearalt said as they walked away.
“You forgot to sign a receipt for the family back down the road,” Darius explained tersely. “We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Is that what this is all about, a stupid piece of script?” Gearalt howled with disbelief, raising his voice just enough that he could be heard as they moved further away from the group. “Oh, that’s rich. Well this ain’t the Regiments, Impie; I’m here to do a job, not hold hands. We do things a mite differently here in the Kingdoms.”
The two men then stepped behind the bushes and out of sight.
“Fall out, men,” Falon said, snapping back to reality as soon as they disappeared, “and send up Tug. We’ll need ink and parchments.”
Behind the bushes there came the sound of metal clashing on metal, followed by a bellowed curse.
Falon closed her eyes and cursed herself for a coward. She should have handled the meeting with Sergeant Gearalt better, and then when things broke down she shouldn’t have hesitated. She was a leader and had to fight her own battles.
When someone cried out in an accented voice, her heart clenched. Gearalt was bigger—a lot bigger—than Darius. Her Imperial was going to be killed and it was all her fault. However skilled he was, and Falon knew the Imperial Training Master was deadly with a blade, you just couldn’t make up for that much of a size discrepancy in the clinch.
Doing her best to ignore the fight, Falon turned to her would-be warriors and began directing them into the small opening around the ford.
The foraging Squad looked at Falon and her company belligerently and casually started move toward her in something that more and more resembled a fighting line. It wasn’t the precisely ordered lines the Imperial had been drilling them in, but they appeared deadly in a way Falon’s former farmers didn’t.
Several of them muttered among themselves and looked up at her with such cold dead eyes, she had to suppress a shiver and remind herself that she was their Lieutenant, and to them she was the Squire of Captain Smythe, a Knight of the Realm by order of Lord Lamont and the Prince.
She could sense her own men bristling at the looks being cast their way, and an angry muttering started behind her.
Fortunately for everyone involved, the two Sergeants resolved their disagreement before things boiled over.
Staggering out from behind the small copse of bushes and trees, the sight of Sergeant Gearalt sent a sigh through her men and triumphant snorts and looks from the Foraging Squad. Until, that is, the transplanted Imperial Sergeant Darius stalked out behind him without so much as a limp.
When compared side by side, it was obvious who had come out the better in their little ‘disagreement,’ with the Imperial presenting with the only obvious damage a small nick right below his left eye that bled in a small trickle down his face. Gearalt, on the other hand limped along, guarding his right leg with every step. A rapidly swelling left eye and hand rubbing the side of his neck finished off the all-too-clear picture.
If they had decided to fight to first blood, then the Sergeant had won in such a way that no one could doubt how a true battle between the two men would have concluded. While the more likely scenario, in light of Gearalt’s common and exceptionally rough way—not to mention the sort of men he surrounded himself with—would indicate he simply lost and got well beaten in the process.
The groans and smirks promptly switched groups, with the oversized band behind Falon visibly perking up at this evidence of their Sergeant’s superiority. The foraging Squad’s faces turned stony at this new turn of events.
“Prepare the wagons for an inspection,” Gearalt growled, limping amongst his men.
Behind him, Darius stopped a respectful distance from the other’s men—‘respectful’ inasmuch as it was outside of easy sword or axe range—and cleared his throat.
Gearalt’s head whipped around and from the murder in his eyes, Falon thought he was about to throw away whatever understanding they’d reached and attack.
In return, Darius just stared at him levelly and raised a single eyebrow in that infuriating, Imperial way of his. His deep, blue eyes daring the other man to do his worst as he casually widened his stance and placed his hand near, but not actually on, the hilt of his sword.
Falon’s breath caught as events wobbled on the tip a knife point, threatening to degenerate into all-out violence.
The foraging Sergeant took in a ragged breath and then rounded on one of his men. Falon was shocked and surprised to recognize one of them men by the scar running across his forehead; it was Pete, a particularly disreputable person she’d met only once before the completion of the Flower War. Now that she was looking, she also spotted Doug, the young man who had stolen her officer’s sash the last time she’d paid a visit to the Foragers’ Camp.
Doing her best to appear to ignore the goings on of under-officers as beneath her notice, Falon sat woodenly in her saddle and tried to appear Squire-ly. She had no idea if she succeeded, but at least no one was smirking at her anymore. And none of the 2nd Company men were pointing or commenting about her…no that she could see anyway.
A cold sweat broke out on Falon’s forehead as the reality of what she was trying to do slammed home in her heart and mind. If she didn’t even make a very effective boy, how in the name of the Lady was she supposed to portray herself as a man—no less a gentleman, which she now was supposed to be! Ever since Smythe and Lamont had conspired to make her a Squire, that’s what she had become to everyone she encountered.
Glad to have something to distract her mind, Falon was more than willing to start mentally griping about the whole Squire business, up to and including the fact that she hadn’t even had one lesson in the whole business from Sir Smythe.
After one last baleful look at Darius, the foraging Sergeant grunted the Imperial forward. “Send for my bag and see if I have some of that infernal parchment!” Gearalt snapped, “I make no promises as to ink, though.”
Feeling Tug’s eyes on her, and realizing she was still sitting rigidly atop her horse like some kind of statue, Falon finally dared to take a full breath. Looking over at the Company Clerk, she gave a nod to the question look in his eye.
“Give them quill and ink, at need,” Falon ordered.
“Yes, Squire,” Tug acknowledged.
She watched as he gulped and then jumped as if stung and scurried forward, his portly little legs churning as he made his way through the Foragers to the Gearalt and the wagon.
“That was as well done as the situation allowed,” a voice said from her elbow.
Falon gasped in surprise and jerked in the saddle as her head whipped around, not realizing that someone had snuck up on her and then been following her train of thoughts.
Her fast beating heart only began to settle when her eyes recognized what her ears should have noticed from the beginning: the man speaking was the paroled Raven Knight.
“But there will be consequences,” Sir Orisin remarked in a quiet voice. “I wouldn’t go wandering around camp alone, the next time we meet up with the main army.”
“What would you have done differently?” Falon asked, much more curious than irritated with the man’s interjection. This was a Knight after all; even if he’d recently been the enemy, he was still a real, honest-to-the-gods warrior and gentleman. If he had anything to say about men and warfare, she’d be a fool not to at least listen.
Sir Orisin stroked his grey streaked mustachios. “I,” he stressed the word, “wouldn’t have stood for such a challenge to mine authority, and showed this Sergeant the difference between a man-with-a-sword and a swordsman, and upbraided the lout in front of the men accordingly—possibly even killed him. A gentleman can’t stand for challenges to his authority like
that,” he said strictly.
Falon felt herself turning pale with anger and humiliation. She couldn’t defeat such a giant of a man in combat, so was she just supposed to roll over and die? Not that Sir Orisin seemed to notice her frustration, as he continued in a measured voice.
“But then, I am a Knight,” he eyed her speculatively, “and a fully grown man besides. Both of which thou hast yet to achieve, young Squire.”
“I should re-ask the question,” Falon said gruffly, “what would you have done differently? If you were me at my age?” she hastily added.
At this, Sir Orisin pursed his lips. “Not much different, in veritas,” he finally admitted. “Except back when I was thy age, I would probably have gotten a lot hotter under the skin and blustered a bit.” He paused and then added, “Which would have been as likely to get mineself two feet of steel as it would to settle the situation. Thou chose the safest path by letting thy Sergeant settle things.”
“Great,” Falon said unenthusiastically. Then she wondered why she was less than entirely happy with the words. Being safe was supposed to be her entire watchword! Yet, when the Knight said she had chosen the ‘safest path,’ he somehow made her feel like she was less than a success.
“Nothing to be done for it now,” Sir Orisin said brightly and pointed toward the broken-axled wagon, “it seems it is now time to inspect yon goods.”
Falon felt more than a little leery about just heading in there with the foragers all around, but when the Raven Knight stepped forward with a jump in his step as if he hadn’t a care in the world if he was attacked or not, she stiffened her spine and urged her horse forward.
She might not be a coward, but she wasn’t stupid enough to get off her horse with her current, paltry skill with a sword. She silently vowed to redouble her efforts with learning the blade; she would practice instead of sleep if that’s what it took.
“Well I think that’s the last of it, Sergeants,” Tug said servilely, as he finished jotting down the list of goods supposedly taken from the farmhouse down the road.
“Whatever,” Gearalt sneered, snatching the quill from the fat clerk and then scrawling a hasty signature on the parchment that was half scratch with no real ink in it, before casting the quill down to the earth.
Tug quickly bent down into the mud to retrieve it.
“We’re done here,” the foraging Sergeant snapped, turning to his men, “fill your sacks and let’s go.”
Falon’s brows rose as the men of the foraging squad quickly and professionally loaded up their packs with goods and started across the ford.
“Leave the rye; I want nothing to do with it,” the Sergeant said with a sneer. Then he took a fully loaded pack from one of his men and set off.
According to the receipt the man had written out, with the assistance of Tug, the rye was originally from the Farm. Although, despite his cruel and uncaring words as the food was concerned, she noted that both wheels of cheese—as well as the fruit preserves on the list—were mysteriously as absent as the other grains.
When she realized Gearalt really was abandoning the broken down wagon, she had no choice but to say something. “Are you going to abandon the wagon?” Falon asked with disbelief. “And what about the rye!”
“Keep it or let it rot for all I care,” Gearalt turned to her, “there’s more where that comes from and besides, I don’t trust it.”
“And the wagon?” Falon repeated when he made to turn back around and continue trudging away.
Gearalt made a rude gesture. “There’s too many farms still to forage today to waste half a day on repairs,” he sneered.
Falon started forward angrily, but a hand on her horse’s neck stopped the stallion. “Let him go,” Darius said.
“But,” Falon spluttered reminded of the entire reason they had come out here, “that’s it? He signs a scrap of paper and he just gets to walk away?”
“Limp away,” Darius said judiciously with a slight gleam in his eye, “but in a nut shell, yes.”
The young Lieutenant stared down at her more world wise Sergeant in disbelief. “Then we’ve done nothing!” she all but exclaimed, only keeping her voice from carrying to all her company and across the ford two by a last second reminder of who and what she now was. “If he only wrote a script because I forced him, he’s twice as likely to just take what he likes next time and deliberately not write anything out just to spite me—to spite us!”
“Most likely,” Darius agreed, “but soon enough he’ll settle back into whatever his routine was before.”
“Unbelievable,” Falon boggled.
“It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it,” Darius said, pulling out a dagger and starting to trim the ragged edge of a fingernail. “The men have to eat and it’s the duty of the farm folk to provide food; food for protection is the most basic contract there is.”
“I don’t care how necessary it is, I’ll never become as calloused and uncaring as that,” Falon snapped, furious at Gearalt for proving the futility of her actions and Darius for agreeing with a man he’d just taken out behind the proverbial woodshed and smacked around.
“The good ones don’t,” Darius smiled sadly, “of course they don’t make the best foragers either, and a hungry army can be worse than locusts and can turn on those very same Officers in the blink of an eye. Try to make a man go long enough without food and see just how long he lauds you for being fair before stringing you up. A man joins for tradition, loyalty or coins, but an army marches on its belly first and foremost. You don’t want to place yourself in front of that; you’ll be trampled.”
“Even so,” Falon said uneasily, as his words began to ring true to her ears.
“I hope such decisions pass you by,” Darius said with a haunted look, before once again resuming his inscrutable Training Master’s mask. “Let’s take a look at the wagon the Foragers were kind enough to leave us.”
“Okay,” Falon agreed, swinging off her horse for the first time since leaving the farm.
A brief inspection under the carriage revealed that not only was the wooden axle still broken, but the metal assembly that bolted the axle to the undercarriage was missing.
“What?” Falon stared at it while Darius threw back his head and laughed. “What’s so funny?” she fumed, pleased with neither her own Sergeant nor the foragers at that moment. They would need a blacksmith to get this wagon working again.
“We’ll have to go back to that farm now, for longer than just half a day, or else move on and take the rye with us,” Darius snorted, a smile playing across his features.
“I can’t believe you’re actually looking pleased at this,” Falon exclaimed. “Don’t you realize what those men did? Gearalt’s band swiped out the metal supports right out from under our noses—while we were watching!”
Vaguely, she was aware that a large number of the men had gathered around the wagon and were listening to the conversation between Sergeant and Lieutenant with great interest, but couldn’t find it inside her to care. This was outrageous, and a public black eye!
“It was a good riposte on his part,” Darius broke out into her rising tide of silent fury. “Much better than I would have expected on short notice,” he added.
Falon stood there with her mouth opening and closing, steam figuratively coming out of her ears and unable to believe what she was hearing him say.
“We’ll crush them later, of course,” he said almost dismissively as he turned away.
She was about to say something sharp for turning away from her while they were speaking, when she saw the edge of a broad smile in his lips from side profile. Just past him and beyond, answering smiles appeared on the faces of the men of the Battalion.
“Darned right, Sergeant,” said a young man with a gape-toothed grin, who looked to be in his late teens.
“Buggers are a mite too full of themselves,” agreed an older man, spitting a stream of tobacco-laden spittle a good eight feet, causing the men around the champion-level expect
orator to briefly pause the conversation in favor of looked at the older man admiringly.
Falon was disgusted, but starting to realize that she had almost completely missed a potential morale-building moment. The disgusting episode of male bonding through worshiping brown streams of foul mouth contents, on the other hand, she was more than willing to suffer for avoiding.
“No respect for anyone else, Papa Aonghus,” agreed yet a third, but obviously addressing and agreeing with the spit hurler.
“Now now,” said Tug bustling over to join the men, “there’s gentlemen present.”
The farmers and tradesmen looked at him without response but Falon could see Bad Scales wasn’t entirely accepted into their little clique.
She was about to say something when the Raven Knight approached. “Aye, but at least one gentleman too long without his pipe or any tabac of which to speak,” Sir Orisin said seriously as he walked over to the men.
“All I got’s the chewin’ stuff,” the one called Papa Aonghus said cautiously, and then realizing he was speaking to a Knight, added hastily, “’course, you’re welcome to a chaw.” He hastily dug into a small pouch hanging off a crude hemp belt and produced a large pinch of the foul-looking stuff.
Falon looked away and politely shuddered as Sir Orisin accepted the pinch and promptly put it in his mouth between his lip and his upper teeth.
“I’m normally more of a pipe man nowadays, but in mine more hungry youth, alas…ah,” the Raven Knight said, audibly masticating the mass in his mouth.
“I figure you’re good for it gov’nor,” Papa Aonghus said.
Sir Orisin looked at the peasant warrior sharply, almost looking like he wanted to say something before sighing. “I figure I am, at that, as well,” he sighed and then just stood there with the men still looking at the wagon.
“Alright men, enough standby,” Darius growled, although Falon could tell his heart wasn’t really into chewing on any of the men right now, “this wagon won’t drag itself back to that farm by its lonesome.”
The men erupted like a kicked over anti-hill. “What do you mean?” said one.
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 14
