Falon grimaced. “I was Squired for valor on the field, like my father before me,” she muttered and then brightened. “But my family has done good service to his Lordship in the past and as a reward for our deeds against the Ravens, Captain Smythe was Knighted, and I was made his Squire.”
“Oh,” Erik said, his eyes hooding slightly and then he shrugged it off with a smile that was blinding in its radiance. “Is Smythe your father then?” he asked reasonably.
Falon choked on her laughter. “No, my father has taken ill so it was up to me to answer the call to service,” she explained, her mood turning gloomy again as she recalled her sisters and brother. “I miss my family dearly but there was no one else, so here I am.”
“I understand family obligations,” Erik said wistfully, “my father squandered much of my inheritance but at least the family name’s still good for something. All I really need to do is finish earning my spurs, then gather a lance of men to my banner.”
“I wish you every success,” Falon said, tearing her gaze from his dreamy eyes so as not to gawk.
“Oh, I’ve got my eyes on a few men who might make the beginnings of a good fighting tail,” Erik said decisively. “But first thing’s first, of course; I need to chop a few oversized barbarians down to size and prove myself!”
Falon thought it best not to mention that she’d already gained a fighting tail. “Did you fight against the Ravens?” she asked.
Erik paled slightly. “I was in the center,” he told her, “I swear…I’ve never see so much magic bruted about before. It was quite something else; lighting bolts from the sky and flaming balls of burning metal hurled at the enemy. I got a few good licks in, but mostly against peasants and infantry; the day was carried by the wizards and they got the lions’ share of the glory. Unlike on the wings,” he said enviously.
“Yes, well,” Falon said sheepishly before clearing her throat, deciding it was better to change the subject than laud the deeds of the left wing or mention how she’d picked up a tail of Raven peasants. “Was there anything I could help you with?”
“Oh yes,” Erik straightened, “Sire Morlan, my uncle, is fresh out of parchments for his correspondence back home and I heard tell that somewhere in this establishment that such things could be procured.”
“Ah,” Falon said feeling strangely disappointed, “I believe that if you go and speak with the barkeep, he’ll sell you parchments. Or,” she added daringly and glanced down at her own mug, “ale.”
“Thank you for the offer,” the would-be Knight smiled down at her as he got to his feet, “but Uncle will be quite put out if I dillydally for too long.”
“Of course,” Falon said, trying to keep her crestfallen feelings from her face.
“But perchance I’ll catch you here again sometime!” he said as he hurried over to the counter.
Falon sighed, took one last grimacing sip of her ale and feeling rather stood up, got to her feet. Well, at least she was good and dry after spending a good hour within the Spear Stave and Wands.
With a final, longing, look at the future Knight who was now talking animatedly with the bartender, she managed to drag herself outside the tent pub.
**************************************************
Stepping outside the pub she struck out blindly, just needing to get away as quickly as possible. If not, she was afraid she’d make a complete and utter fool of herself by going back inside and trying to strike up another conversation with her fellow Squire—if only so she could listen to his deep voice while she lost herself in his green eyes.
She didn’t think that a ‘young boy’ staring at an older boy with longing in ‘his’ eyes would go over too well, which is why she was moving her feet as fast as she could without paying too much attention to where she was going.
Before long, she looked up and realized she was in a part of the camp she wasn’t familiar with. Casting about, she finally oriented on the Prince’s mighty royal tent, with was backlit by the setting sun. Once she knew where the Prince’s tent was, she had a pretty good idea how to get back to her camp.
Ignoring a pair of women standing outside some moth-eaten tents, she hurried past. Behind her, she heard footsteps but when she turned to look there was no one.
Shrugging at her overly active imagination, she turned back the way she’d been going—only to see a figure with his cowl pulled down standing in the middle of the dirt path.
She shifted to the side and made to pass when he shifted to block her way.
“Stand aside,” she warned, placing a hand on the hilt of her imperial style sword, “I have a sword and I’m not afraid to use it on a common footpad.”
The figure in front of her laughed, and it was an evil sounding thing that sent chills up and down her spine and her left leg started trembling.
Deciding not to wait a moment longer, she reached behind her to pull out her sword. Better safe than sorry, she thought, when once again she heard someone behind her.
Falon cried out with dismay but only managed to get her sword halfway out of its sheath when an iron-strong hand closed over the her on the hilt of her sword and squeezed, preventing her from completing the draw.
She would have released the sword but whoever was behind her was gripping her hand too tightly, so with her other hand she reached for her shri-kriv.
Her free hand had just closed on the boar knife—made for her by Vance, the now dead blacksmith—when she felt a sharp pain and something cold was in her back.
Falon arched with agony but managed to clear her knife in time to slash the face of the man in front as he came toward her with a raised club.
The front man reeling, Falon didn’t have time for anything fancy, so she stabbed back behind her head toward the hilt of her sword hoping to take the other man by surprise and stab or slash his hand.
She felt the tip of her shri-kriv sink in and the grip on her sword-hand loosened. The man behind her cursed in a voice that sounded like she ought to know it, right before something struck her in the back of the head.
Her vision exploded before everything went dark, and she knew she was vanquished.
Chapter 25: No one Escapes Old Tulla that easily!
A pair of men dragged a very unconscious Falon Rankin into the old Witchy Woman’s tent by her heels.
“We got ‘im for thee, Madame,” said the scruffy-looking one with the scar running across his forehead.
“A real pleasure, Mum,” added the lanky young man at his side.
“Too bad we couldn’t a kilt him for thee,” the first one said unhappily, “that would have been better.”
“This one belongs to me,” Tulla said sharply, “if you’ve killed—”
“Nah it’s not like that,” the older one with the scar on his forehead said quickly, “we gots the respect for an old one like thee.”
“He cut me, see?” the younger one said indignantly, showing his marked-up face.
“Should have moved faster, Pete” the older one said contemptuously, while opening and closing his own hand that had been stabbed by the boy.
“Enough of this chatter,” Madame Tulla said reaching into her bodice and producing small sack of coins, “the agreed amount. Now is there anything I need to know?”
“He only got shanked in the back once and smacked over the head good and hard with a bag of sand,” the older one said respectfully.
Tulla frowned. “I’ll have to do a healing first!”
“Thou said bring him in and so long as it was healable there’d be no worries,” the scruffy man protested, “you’re a healer, so heal!”
“It’s not even a tithe of what that Lieutenant’s earned making a fool out of our squad!” cursed the young one called Pete.
“Be gone,” Tulla said shortly and watched with satisfaction as the two ruffians took to their heels.
The young one paused just outside the tent flap and held up a sword and knife. “Can we keep it?” he asked.
Tulla looked up at hi
m grimly, “Leave it.”
“But…” he trailed off.
“Keep whatever coins you found and leave the rest with me,” she said in an unyielding voice that promised dire consequences if she were to be questioned again.
The young man dropped the weapons and fled.
She turned to the unconscious Falon the two men had dumped on her floor and smiled grimly.
“No one escapes Madame Tulla that easily, young woman,” she said with a sense of deep satisfaction. “Thou should have come and paid thy respects before now, and it wouldn’t have come to this.”
Rolling the young woman onto her side, Tulla hummed under her breath as she set about performing a healing. Once that was done, she was going to have to roll Falon’s dead weight into the cot.
Tulla was upset with herself; she should have had the two men do that before they left. Except she didn’t want to get blood on her cot unnecessarily, and she needed those two hanging around outside while she did her work not at all.
Singing an old song about betrayal and dark revenge, the old Witch started putting out everything she was going to need for this night’s work.
**************************************************
Falon groaned, as the pain in her head was awful, and opened her eyes. Dim as it was, the light from the brazier was almost too bright, and her nostrils were filled with the mixed scents of old cheese and rotting wood.
“Where…where am I?” she asked fearfully, the memory of being stabbed and clubbed in the head returning in an eye blink. Then she moaned again—the pain in her head was terrible.
“Thou were warned, girl,” the croaking voice of Madame Tulla sent a feeling of dread coursing through her entire body.
“No,” she groaned, trying to deny what was happening.
“You can run but you can’t hide from your destiny, girl,” the old Witch said, satisfaction laced through her hoarse old voice. “All it will bring is misery and heartache. Better to just accept what is and come willingly.”
“I won’t,” Falon cried out, sending spears of agony lancing through her brain.
“Come willingly or be dragged,” old Tulla said dispassionately, “thou art mine, little Thorn, and I will do with thee as I please.”
“The gods have forsaken me,” Falon felt like weeping.
“Forsaken thee?” Tulla actually sounded outraged. “I assure thee it is the opposite; do not blaspheme against them.”
“What are you going to do to me?” Falon asked fearfully.
“It is time to finish what we started during our last visit,” Tulla said suddenly looming over her.
Falon squirmed and tried to escape but found that she couldn’t. Something was holding her arms and legs fast.
“Please don’t speak in riddles,” Falon begged.
“Together we are going to make the first Holy Warrior of Lady Moon and Father Field in two…or is it three generations?” Tulla said, her eyes burning with fanaticism.
Falon once again tested her bonds and when that didn’t work, she decided her only chance was the try and head-butt the old Witch the moment she came within range.
“By the power of the Moon and the deep magics of the Earth, the Witch Guard will rise again!” Tulla continued, so caught up in whatever vision she was seeing inside her own head that she must have failed to notice how Falon was looking at her.
“The Witch Guard? What is that and why do you need me?” Falon asked as curiosity and fear warred for control of her mind.
“You will be the first painted Holy Warrior in two generations,” Tulla said matter-of-factly, her face and eyes losing their nearly insane look, to be replaced with the old woman’s usual crafty ways. Falon almost wished the crazy look were still there; at least then she wasn’t being visually dissected.
“But why me? I’m nobody and nothing,” Falon protested.
“You walk in the footsteps of thy ancestors, Daughter of Muirgheal, and I mean to paint thee this night,” Tulla said with satisfaction. “From Thorn, to Warrior, then to Witch and finally Queen, this is the path of our people since time forgotten—and the one you set your feet upon when you left home. Thou will be the first daughter of the Blood to go from Thorn to Painted in—”
“Three generations,” Falon guessed numbly.
Tulla scratched her neck and nodded. “These secrets were not only held by the Queens who walked this path,” Tulla confided, as if bestowing upon her a great secret, “but also by certain, select, mentors of the Guard when the war turned against us and their numbers weakened. So as it was before the Queens, so as it is again,” she said, her voice turning wily, “and that is why this old Branch has the deep knowledge.”
Falon turned her head up to face the ceiling. “Is this going to hurt,” she asked, a tear trickling down the corner of her eye toward the cot.
“Anything worthwhile is painful,” Tulla said uncaringly, “you had it easy last time, lass. But I’m fresh out of those expensive paints we used for the boot and power lines. From now on it’s going to be the traditional way: with thorn and extract,” the old witch held up a handful of thorns in one hand and a small cup full of a thick, blue substance with another.
Falon’s muscles locked up in anticipation.
“Before we begin and thy mind turns to other things,” Tulla said calmly, “remember that I have much to teach thee about being a Witch. So do not stay away so long next time, hmm?”
Falon opened her mouth to retort when Tulla suddenly stabbed her in the leg with the thorn. Instead of a nasty reply, she cried out with pain.
“This isn’t going to work…I’m afraid I’m going to have to silence thy tongue,” she said unhappily, “we can’t have the neighbors interfering.
“No wait, I can—!” Falon blurted before her jaw locked up and her throat closed until she couldn’t say a thing as her breaths blasted in and out of her nose with increasing speed.
“This is going to take some time, as I’m going to have to insert the paint into thy body by covering the thorns and stabbing them into thy skin,” Tulla told her and then paused. “’Tis find to hate me for this,” she said grimly and then set about her work.
I will, Falon thought, arching her back in silent defiance.
“Now, this sigil will feed off the work we’ve already done, and give you the Strength of a Bear,” Tulla said with real relish in her voice. “In the old days, thou’d need to go into combat barefoot to maintain thy link to the Earth and power thy tattoos, but old Tulla’s made a few modifications these past years…”
From where Falon silently watched, tied to the bed, a single tear slid down the old Witch’s face before she wiped it away irritably.
“Watching your children die will do that. Now, I know that the modification to give thee a small bit of power storage will work; I used the same sigil on my daughter and it worked well enough,” Tulla sighed before continuing brusquely. “However, the extra linkage I’ve designed to let thee draw strength from the Earth when in contact with living—or formerly living—things like, oh, say leather boots…or when riding a horse, are still unproven.”
There was an extended period of silence as the old Witch poked her skin repeatedly with the inked thorn to create the new sigils and patterns into her skin. The scent of burnt brambleberries wafted into the tent from somewhere, but Falon’s mind was torn from the sensation when the thorn pierced her leg again.
“The other thing we’re going to do tonight isn’t really a sigil. Well…it is, but also it’s a modified working. The New Blood may have forgotten us, but they’ll remember fast enough if they see thy tattoos. In the old days, a woman was known by the power of her tattoos as measured by how strong they glowed. They also glow brighter when actively drawn upon,” Tulla explained. “I’ve made sure to keep thy tattoos off they face and hands, so remember to keep thy shirt and pants on,” she winked mischievously. “Anyway, the modified working will help disguise the tattoos, except during an active draw from the Earth—like w
hen you’re in battle. ‘Tis the best I could do. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and don’t worry: if the tattoos are put on wrongly, we can remove them and try again. It’s painful—and potentially deadly for you—but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. And we probably won’t get everything done tonight anyways…I’m not as young as I used to be.”
I am truly in the underworld, Falon thought between silent, mental cries against the pain the woman’s tattooing.
Chapter 26: Staggering Back home after a rough night leads to no rest for the weary.
Falon stumbled, her feet weaving back and forth first this way and then that as she made her way back to camp. Red-eyed from lack of sleep, and with her left leg throbbing from all the little pricks of the old Witch’s paint-soaked thorn into her skin, she knew that last night had been one of the toughest of her life—and she was counting being run through by the Pink Princess.
“Fal! What happened, man?” Ernest was the first to spy her as she staggered into camp.
“I’m okay,” she mumbled.
“Are you sure?” Ernest asked intently.
Duncan swaggered up to the pair of them. “Rough night, eh, Fal,” Duncan smirked, slapping her on the back hard enough she missed a step, “I see yer purse is empty, she must have been one great…” Falon fell to her knees.
“Duncan, ye dunderhead,” Ernest snapped.
“Hey,” Duncan protested his innocence, “I didn’t hit him hard enough to do that!”
“I just need…to…lay down,” Falon panted.
“You’re a real dirt clod, ye know that?” Ernest said shoving his older brother aside.
“Hey! There’s no call for calling me names!” Duncan yelled.
Falon collapsed to the ground.
“Dang your injured pride,” Ernest said, reaching down and grabbing her arm.
Falon allowed herself to be assisted back to her feet. The brief moment resting on the ground had been wonderful, but all she really wanted was to lay her body down and forget last night had ever happened.
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 20
