The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Uilliam muttered.

  “That means I can’t simply cut you loose, and since I can’t set you free and I have no convenient place to put you, for the meantime you’re going to join Sir Orisin’s fighting tail,” Falon said heavily.

  Uilliam blinked rapidly. “You want us to fight?” he asked his arms widening.

  “What!?” Sir Orisin exclaimed.

  “You’ll have to be signed onto the company roster for the duration,” Falon explained further, “but—”

  Sir Orisin cleared his throat loudly, and Falon turned.

  “I am still under parole, Squire Falon,” the Raven Knight said, embarrassed as he pointed out this arcane piece of etiquette, “it would be one thing if these men hailed from mine lands, then it would be my duty to take them on, but entirely another to recruit my countrymen for a war band whilst still in enemy hands mine own self.”

  Falon jerked and couldn’t help feeling a flash of betrayal. Over the past week she thought they’d treated the raven Knight well, and his presence had almost drifted into the background. But now this?

  “It is not my intent to impugn thy hospitality,” he said quickly, “merely to indicate that whatever thine intentions, the other gentlemen in the Stag Army would take great exception to a recent enemy recruiting warriors in their midst.”

  Slightly mollified, Falon looked down at her feet for guidance, wondering what she should do from here.

  “Since I cannot, that means thou shall have to accept them into thine own fighting tail,” he informed her.

  Falon stiffened.

  “Fear not,” Sir Orisin assured her, “they will swear their oaths before a Knight Raven, so that any oaths sworn will be considered binding.”

  Uilliam muttered something under his breath, but when Sir Orisin gestured for him to elaborate, he shook his head and settled.

  “I’m not sure…” Falon said, feeling overwhelmed at the thought of recruiting peasants, not for Lord Lamont’s fighting Company, but into her own direct and personal service. Even if she intended to promptly enroll them in the fighting Swan Battalion, she would be the one holding their oaths. It was a weighty responsibility, and one which she was entirely unprepared for.

  “We wouldn’t expect much,” Uilliam hastened to assure her, “even just a clean run for the border would have me and my men singin’ thy praises all our live long days.”

  Falon closed her eyes and said a quick prayer to the Lord of the Field for strength and forgiveness and opened her eyes. “I’ll take your oaths,” she said, turning to Uilliam and ignoring Sir Orisin’s penetrating look, “but we’re going north, not west, and we won’t be going back near Raven lands anytime soon.”

  Uilliam seemed to ponder this for a split second and then shrugged. “I’ll not say the thought of goin’ from one war right into another is pleasing, ‘cause it’s not,” he said with a wince, “but it’s not like we had much to look forward to, even back home. So any use you can put us to that puts food in our bellies, and the potential for coin in our pockets, will be accepted…if not exactly welcome.”

  “Is that a backhanded way of asking for wages?” Falon asked, her eyes narrowing at the cheek of this fellow.

  Uilliam smirked. “If shoe fits, wear it,” he said with his deep peasant accent and then splayed his fingers, “and can thee blame a peasant for asking?”

  Falon whose own family was still in something of strained circumstances had little sympathy for anyone trying to milk her for coins.

  “Focus on your lives and reparations for your bandit ways,” Falon said haughtily, “we can talk about wages after you’ve done something to earn them.” She very much doubted, from the look of them, that they would ever threaten such action.

  “Of course, Sire,” Uilliam said, knuckling his forehead.

  “Right,” she said to cover for her disbelieving stare at the man’s out-of-place gesture, “then let’s be about it.”

  Uilliam stated speaking and then laid his Scythe at her feet. “I, Uilliam, son of Dora and Kelly, holding no other man alive my master, do hereby swear myself to,” he paused and looked up at her questioningly while Falon gaped at him.

  “Falon Rankin,” she barely had the presence of mind to say.

  “Swear myself to, Falon Rankin, Squire and Lieutenant of this fighting company before me. Squire Falon Rankin, I am your man and look to you in all things.” So saying, the Raven militiaman picked up his scythe and carefully nicked his forearm, presenting the cut for her inspection, “With this blood, do I swear.”

  “Uh,” Falon stuttered and stumbled, “protection for service, support for arms, and…,” she looked over at Sir Orisin desperately, but his stoic affect and lack of response were no help, “and, uh, life for fealty. You are, uh, my, uh, man and I am your, uh, Lord—I mean, Squire!”

  “So mote it be,” Uilliam said with finality.

  Falon wanted to cover her eyes, sure that she’d fumbled badly the oath of fealty, mixing it up somehow and sounding like a fool. Moments later, she realized she actually had covered her eyes and dropped her arm like it had been covered with acid.

  “They are just peasants, not vassals or even free holders,” Sir Orisin said neutrally, and Falon’s face burned.

  But it burned even worse when one by one, each of the Raven men walked out, nicked his arm and knelt before her, each declaring themselves ‘her man’.

  A ghost of a smile flitted across Falon’s face as the absurdity of the situation penetrated through the stark, raving terror of this entire situation. Not since the days of old, when Witches walked the earth openly, had a woman had had so many ‘men.’

  Falon turned to face the double lines of the fighting company and hurried back to them and her horse.

  “The Ravens are joining the Fighting Swans, after they’ve repaired the damage to this farm,” she informed them, making sure to speak the declaration loud and clear and carrying.

  The men of the Fighting Swans stared at her with disbelief, and in a few cases, dismay on their faces.

  “That will be all,” Falon said not knowing what else to add.

  There was a pregnant pause. “Alright, you heard the Lieutenant,” Darius growled, “fall out of line and prepare to welcome your battle brothers.”

  At this, a surge of resentful muttering started sweeping down the line of men. However, the muttering stopped halfway down the line when the Imperial Training Master’s baton clubbed the nearest naysayer upside the head, knocking him unconscious and sending him to the ground in a heap.

  “When I say ‘form a battle line,’ you form a cussed battle line,” the Sergeant screamed. “And when I say ‘fall out,’ then by the Horns, you sorry dogs had better fall out on the quick step!”

  The muttering died down as the Imperial set about restoring order.

  “Looks like thou wilt have thy work cut out for thee,” Sir Orisin said startling her.

  Falon’s head whipped around. “Thanks for the advice,” she said shortly, “although I could maybe have used it earlier—before I swore a score and a half men into my service.”

  Sir Orisin shrugged. “Rude and coarse as they are, they are still mine countrymen,” the Raven Knight said, as if that explained everything. And after a moment Falon figured that maybe it did; if her people had lost the Flower War and she had the chance to save some of their lives at the cost of a little, or even a lot of inconvenience to her captor, she couldn’t honestly say she wouldn’t take it…not if the alternative was death for them.

  “Another two days and then we rejoin the main column,” Falon said instead, her words clipped, short and to the point.

  “Understood, Squire,” Sir Orisin said, subtly reminding her that while he was her captive and essentially just along for the ride (even though he hadn’t a horse), he was also her social superior.

  The teenage girl gritted her teeth and turned away before she let loose her frustration on a man who could wipe the floor with her. />
  Chapter 22: Tulla Revisited

  “Madame Tulla-Madame Tulla!” exclaimed a loud, brown haired hellion from outside her tent.

  “Nothing but a bunch of fiddle sticks,” Tulla grumped under her breath before heaving herself back to her feet, “What is it!” she demanded raising her voice.

  “You told me to keep an eye out for the Swan Banner,” said Dani the young boy who so resembled her lost son.

  Tulla sighed and flung open the flap of her tent.

  “Well, come on in,” she said using irritability to temper the surge of excitement which the boy’s report brought to her.

  After sitting the boy down on the small, folding couch that passed for her bed, she looked at him expectantly—which was all that was needed to open the flood gates.

  “The large group that yer waiting fer came marching into camp a bell ago,” Dani said eagerly. “There was a smaller group that came in last night that’s in the same camp area, but they were a different lot and carried none o’ the banners you told me to watch fer.”

  “Interesting, but not that important,” Tulla said dismissively.

  “They’re a rough lot, that first bunch,” Dani said with a shiver, “so I steered clear.”

  Tulla’s eyes sharpened, but she let his dithering pass.

  “From the talk when I skittered through the Swan camp, they don’t like the them much,” Dani said.

  “Who doesn’t like who?” Tulla asked with narrowed eyes.

  “That big Sergeant from the first group and his ruffians looked mad enough to fight when the second bunch—the ones ye sent me to watch—marched in,” Dani confided.

  “But the one I told you to keep a special eye on, he’s there?” Tulla asked sharply.

  “The Lieutenant was up on his horse, slick as ye please, watching everyone else do the work,” Dani nodded solemnly, “a proper officer, he is. Though his beard is falling off.”

  Tulla threw back her head and laughed. “I want thee to run a message to Harry Jim,” she told Dani after cutting her laughter short.

  “Yes’m,” he agreed ducking his head.

  “You tell him to come on by old Tulla’s place as soon as he can,” Tulla smiled wickedly.

  “What ye need him fer?” Dani sounded distressed. “I can run ye any messages what need run.”

  “Not everything I need done can be handled by a boy—even if he be the best of boys,” she added when he seemed to wilt. “Let’s just say that when a goat tries to go astray, the wise shepherdess whistled for the sheepdogs to round her back up.”

  “If’n ye say so, Madame Tulla,” Dani said with wide eyes.

  Tulla looked at him reprovingly. “I thought that’s what I just did,” she scowled, tossing the boy a bent copper, which he snatched out of the air.

  Sticking the coin in his mouth, he bit down to test the metal and seemed to like the results.

  “A pleasure, Madame Tulla,” he grinned.

  “Get out of here, scamp!” Tulla chuckled as he turned and ran off. “And don’t forget my message!” she called out after him stepping outside the tent.

  Then when he was gone she turned back to her little home of canvas and wooden poles and smiled. There was much work that would need to be done before her guest arrived: items to assemble, materials to gather…and bandages to be prepared.

  Tulla smiled cruelly. “Tun-run-run as fast as thee can,” she cackled in a sing-song voice, “but I’ll catch thee, for I’m the witchy wo-man.”

  Dropping the vials that were in the trunk onto her cot she assessed them with a weathered eye.

  “We’re going to need more,” she said grimly and then straightened, listening to the bones in her back snap, crackle and pop as she straightened. “But first things first,” she muttered, “if I’m to be up all night, I’ll need a nap.”

  She nodded decisively, knowing that her old bones weren’t as young as they used to be. She would just have to send Harry Jim out with her list of supplies. She’d do no good for the cause if she was too sleepy to see straight tonight.

  Humming an old, outlawed tune, the old Witch bustled around the room setting everything just right before lying down on her cot and covering herself with a threadbare blanket.

  Chapter 23: Falon takes a stroll

  The long march parallel to the main body of the army was, at least temporarily, over and done with and Falon couldn’t have been more relieved.

  This independent command business—with all the responsibility for anything that went wrong squarely on her shoulders—was for the birds!

  Speaking of birds, her eyes cut sideways to look at the most homely, poorly dressed and ill-fed band in her pseudo-company.

  “Evening, Squire,” Uilliam, apparently feeling her eyes on him, looked up and smiled from where he and his men were busy helping Tug set up her tent.

  Falon forced a smile in reply, one that gradually became genuine. It was hard to stay cross with people that were so grateful you hadn’t strung them up with a rope, like the Raven peasants. It was almost like kicking a dog, not that she personally had kicked any dogs but she well remembered the one time one of their old war dog’s sons had decided to make a nest atop a saddle, scratching the good leather all up with its nails. She shuddered at the thought of the way the dog had just lay there twitching after her father got done taking stick to it; she’d been amazed the animal had survived. Then father gave it away, probably because the littles had been so concerned that it was ‘sick.’

  “Evening, Uilliam,” Falon lifted a hand.

  The Raven must have taken this as a dismissal because he turned back to lifting the tent. As soon as her own face was turned away, she grimaced. She couldn’t bring herself to treat an animal that way, how much less a person! Having her rampant idealism run head long into a group of people who were causing her all sorts of headaches sure took all the fun out of griping about them, even in the privacy of her own mind!

  “Everything okay, Fal?” Ernest asked with genuine concern in his voice. “Ye look fit to be tied.”

  “Rope my hands and drag me behind a horse,” Falon said, shaking her head.

  “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” Ernest said with a note of concern.

  “I’m just glad we’re back in camp; it’ll be nice to let someone else worry about things for a while,” Falon quirked a smile.

  “Still…” Ernest said cautiously.

  “I’m fine,” Falon assured him, “I just need to get out and stretch my legs, I think. And put all this leadership and command business behind me for a while.”

  “Sounds like what ye need is to have a spot of fun,” Ernest smiled. “I think some of the men said the Spot o’ Ale is open for business out of the back of the owner’s Wagon. Not sure if he bothered to set up the tent since this is just an evening stop. It’s a bit of a rough crowd over there, but at least you could at least get a brew?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Falon said without any real intention of following through. Why, if she was going to go to any kind of beer and ale house, she’d go on over to see if the Spear Stave and Wands was up and running. She paused, as now that she was thinking about it, that wasn’t a half bad idea. It certainly beat wandering aimlessly!

  “Thanks, Ernest!” she said and set off with a skip to her gait.

  “But Fal, don’t you want to wait for—” Ernest’s voice trailed off behind her as she left him in the proverbial dust.

  She honestly didn’t want to wait for whatever it was he thought she needed to wait for. The last thing Falon thought she needed was to deal with another headache.

  **************************************************

  Behind her, Ernest said to himself, “…a couple of the boys to go with ye?” Then he shrugged to himself, “I can always get Duncan and head over to the Spot o’ Ale with me. Surely Gearalt and his men won’t bother to do anything with us around.”

  Putting some speed into his stiff-legged gait, he hurried over to Duncan. Let Falo
n have a few minutes to himself; me and Duncan can catch up directly, he thought.

  He was completely unaware that Falon had an entirely different destination in mind.

  **************************************************

  Pushing her way into the Spear Stave and Wands, Falon was pleased to see it was only half full and two of the tent sides were down to help block the wind and drizzling rain that came with it.

  She started to make directly for an unattended table and soak in the thrill of the forbidden atmosphere when she stopped suddenly, remembering she was supposed to buy an ale. She sighed, as that dark bitter stuff the barkeep had handed her the last time had been rather foul. Like most people who didn’t have a death wish, she was used to taking her water with either wine or small beer—emphasis on the small—on the few occasions they traveled away from home and their trusted water supplies. But somewhere around a tenth part of small beer to nine parts of water didn’t at all prepare her for the dark, bitter ale with bits and pieces thick in the bottom of her cup.

  “Hey there, barkeep,” Falon said sidling up to the bar and getting a small thrill from leaning up against the bar table, as if she had just as much right to be there as anyone else.

  The same bartender from last time looked up and grunted at her before going back to cleaning his cups with a wash rag. When he was finished, he inspected the rim of the cup before putting it back down. Then, glancing at her, he reached over for a foaming mug.

  “I’ll take a light ale,” she said quickly, not wanting to get saddled with a less-than-unappetizing dark ale. But then, being unpalatable the dark ale was three times as expensive and since she was just getting one in order to fit in, she wanted to preserve the contents of her coin purse for as long as possible.