To her relief, she still had shirt and pants on.
“We fought off a few more attacks before we cleared the pass; the men really think something of the way ye faced down that magic bull and then the barbarian berserker,” Ernest said proudly, his face almost shining as he relayed the news. “The smoke just seemed to pour out of it after you stabbed it, now that was something else. All those guys who said ye were sort of small and puny-looking are sure eating…” he trailed off, wide-eyed.
“Puny, is it?” Falon said stiffly as she stood up.
“Oops,” he said, looking aghast at letting that little tidbit pass his lips.
She gave him a half-hearted glare but seeing his worry turned to dread took the wind out of her sails. “I guess it’s good to know where I really stand,” Falon sighed.
“Oh no,” Ernest hastened to assure her, looking disturbed at her inference, “they all think you’re crazy brave now.”
“Really?” Falon asked her ears perking up, then her eyes darkened. “Now you’re not just saying that to butter me up and get out of trouble.”
“The Lady strike me blind,” he declared, raising his hands and shaking his head for emphasis, causing Falon’s breath to whoosh out in relief.
“Thanks,” she said simply.
“Yeah, they weren’t too sure about your moniker,” he said, seeming inordinately proud of this fact for some reason—probably because he knew such a big word.
Falon wrinkled her brow at him.
“You know, the story of the raging boar in your family orchards and how ye killed it with just a shri-kriv and your bare hands,” Ernest said matter-of-factly, clearly uncomfortable at using ‘ye’ instead of ‘you.’
“Story?!” Falon exclaimed angrily. “Besides, I didn’t just use the knife; I had a spear, too. I’m not a complete fool, you know; I took the right tools for the job, so it’s not my fault if it broke!”
“Well, after seeing ye kill that giant red-looking bull—something much worse than any pig—they know why ye’re called the Boar Knife,” Ernest said with deep satisfaction and a knowing grin as he slipped back into his usual speech.
Falon’s smile, which had been growing on her face, suddenly turned wooden and fell. There was that awful name again! After this was all over, she feared she was never going to be able live it down. Just like this stupid, infernal, good-for-nothing beard!
So thinking, she gave a mighty tug on the patchy, itchy, ugly thing. To her surprise, there was a painful ripping feeling on her lip and the ‘beard’ came right off in her hands.
“Praise the Lady,” Falon said fervently. It took her a few seconds to see Ernest giving her an odd look.
She quickly gave herself a shake. “It itched,” she explained defensively.
“Ah,” Ernest nodded still looking at her strangely but not quite as much as before.
Falon quickly tossed the raggedy piece of stagecraft off to one corner of her tent and rubbed her upper lip. It was now raw and sensitive to the touch, but she’d been itching to do that for quite some time. A little tenderness was a small price to pay for a bit of Lady-beloved relief!
“Anyway, the men are singing yer praises, even if that ‘red-hot,’ hot head keeps muttering about how it were really him and his magic what caused the bull to be laid low,” Ernest finished derisively.
Falon cocked her brow.
“I know I got it in the eye, but it didn’t feel very dead when it lifted me off the ground and tossed me into a tree,” she pointed out. “It’s entirely possible that some of his magic had something to do with our victory.”
Ernest frowned. “Well even if it did, that was one of the bravest, stupidest, things I’ve ever seen. I mean, taking on a raging Spirit Bull with a knife,” Ernest clarified. “I don’t remember seeing Schmendrick going out and facing the thing all by himself.”
Falon felt herself flush with embarrassment. “It was pretty stupid wasn’t it,” she admitted.
“Ye can’t keep doing things like that, Fal. Ye’re going to get yerself killed!” Ernest said earnestly.
“Someone had to distract the thing or it was going to tear through our spear-lines. Then the savages would have really done a number on us,” Falon said defensively before taking a deep breath. “I’m glad you care, though. And you’re right,” she sighed, “I just didn’t see any good choice.”
“Well the ‘red-hot’ sent their wizards running, and after the Captain caught up with us, he and his boys sent those savages running for the hills,” Ernest said.
“Shamans, not Wizards,” Falon corrected absently, “and you know you’re going to have to work on that peasant accent if you’re going to be my aide.”
“What’s wrong with the way I speak?” Ernest protested and then did a double take. “Hey wait, what’s this about being yer,” he paused at her sudden glare and then corrected himself, “you’re ‘aide’?” he asked, sounding funny as he tried to ape her higher-class accent. “See? I been workin’ on it when I have time!”
“Aide, runner, valet…,” she trailed off with a blush, realizing that she didn’t need—or want—someone on staff who thought it was part of his job to try and dress and undress her. “Well maybe not valet; I don’t need a body servant, I can dress myself just fine!” she corrected hastily. “But for the rest of it, why not? You’re learning how to ride. Darius’s already sending you with messages. Since what’s-his-name didn’t stick around after the ‘glory’ of the Flower War, I could use a new gopher to fetch things.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Ernest said dumbly.
“Say ‘yes’ and get to work on that accent,” Falon said slyly.
“Okay,” Ernest flushed with embarrassment—and more than a little pride—at receiving an official title.
“Good, then that’s settled,” Falon said, taking a moment to stretch before looking for her sword and gear.
“How much does it pay?” Ernest interrupted her search.
Falon turned to stare at him with surprise and then a growing sense of outrage. “It pays the same as what you’re getting now but since you’ve been riding Bucket for free, I’m of half a mind to start charging you a daily riding fee after that question!” Falon exclaimed hotly as she stamped her foot.
“Right, same pay, no problem,” the hapless young man agreed, beating a hasty retreat towards the flap.
“Don’t you run away when I’m talking to you, Ernest Farmer,” Falon said, stamping her feet even more emphatically.
“You’re a real pal, Fal,” Ernest called over his shoulder as he disappeared outside the tent, “I really appreciate it!”
“Get back here!” Falon yelled, having to fight the urge to laugh at his hasty retreat.
“I won’t forget this,” Ernest’s voice trailed off out of earshot.
Now that her friend was out of range, she stopped holding back and let loose her own laughter. That was just what she needed after falling and almost dying last night: to wake up and have a good belly laugh.
Falon was just strapping on her slender, Imperial-style sword after checking it for rust, and had plans for putting on her boots afterwards when Darius walked into her tent.
“You can’t be bothered to knock?” she asked, irritated at being interrupted like this before she had even properly woken up and gotten dressed.
Darius shrugged off her concern. “You’re taking visitors already.”
Falon huffed with outrage and then shivered. “Is it me, or is it cold out there?” she said, gesturing for him to close the tent flap and then rubbing her hands together as she caught a chill.
His eyes raked her appraisingly and he seemed to come to some kind of decision, because he nodded and then reached over to let down the flap. “A lot’s happened since you’ve been unconscious—and asleep,” Darius informed her seriously.
“How much could have happened?” Falon asked, curiosity fighting with irritation—and winning, hands down. She needed to know right away of any difficulties. A concer
ning thought occurred to her, “Did we lose many of the wounded?”
“The ones that made nightfall survived,” Darius said. Clearly this wasn’t the thing that had him barging into her tent unannounced.
“Well then…what is it?” Falon demanded feeling worried and not liking the sensation. She had just fought a giant, magical, Red Bull and almost died! Surely she should have at least been allowed to wake up and step out of her tent before the fat was thrown in the fire, after everything she’d—they’d—done?!
“I don’t know if you’re aware but after we knocked out the shamans, the Captain came up and we drove the barbarians out of the pass. We cleared the gap and set up tent,” Darius explained.
“Yes,” Falon nodded in agreement, “Ernest told me.”
Darius frowned at her.
“I’m making him my official aide,” she informed him shortly.
His frown deepened and then he shook his head, “Well, that’s beside the point.”
“Then what is the point?” she asked.
“Word is, that baron wasn’t happy with our greeting and he told the Prince,” Darius said evenly.
Falon cursed.
“That’s not the problem; apparently the Prince and him don’t exactly see eye to eye,” Darius added.
“Where are you getting your information?” Falon asked, leaning forward.
“That’s not important,” Darius said.
“I think it is,” Falon said firmly.
Darius paused before shrugging, “The Captain.”
Falon was surprised but nodded.
“Anyway, we’re back on point for the army,” he informed her.
“What?!” Falon exclaimed. “We were supposed to be rotated off once we were through the gap.”
“The baron said we were incompetent, or else his advance party wouldn’t have been ambushed. He demanded we be rotated back to the rear guard where we belong,” Darius stated.
“Scratch him with a rusty nail,” Falon growled, glaring at the tent wall before looking back up at him, “but that’s a good thing, right? I mean we need to rotate out of the vanguard anyway.”
“Apparently the Baron insulted the Prince somehow,” Darius grumbled. “Right now, if he said it was night, the Prince would insist it was still daytime.”
Falon’s stomach felt like it dropped through her legs on its way to the floor. “So instead of rotating to the main body, we’re stuck on point,” Falon groaned.
“Indefinitely,” Darius agreed, “with no end in sight, if the Baron continues to make an issue about it.”
Falon groaned again. “He probably would have forgotten us before, but now that it’s becoming an issue between the two of them we’re caught in the middle,” Falon sighed then straightened.
“Yep,” he agreed.
“How important is this baron?” Falon asked. “I remember hearing something about the lords out here in the north, but I don’t remember which was which or their standing.”
“This one’s the top feudal lord out here; calls himself the Fist of the North and he’s the Lord of the entire Frost-March, which is what they call everything north of the Gap,” Darius explained. “Sounds like he’s the big fish out here, and isn’t taking too kindly to the King sending his second son, Prince William, out here with a small army when he requested the King personally lead a very large army to put down the Frost Raiders.”
Falon sat down heavily and placed her head in her hands. It was too early for her to have to be dealing with this. Right now the Prince was on their side because the Baron was upset with them. He also seemed to be upset with the Baron, but she was under no illusions that if the winds of politics shifted and either the two Lords made up, or the Prince had to give the Baron a concession…
She picked her head up out of her hands and stared at the Imperial. They were just going to have to trust in the honor of the Prince—and his care for the men and officers underneath him.
“Okay…that is bad news,” Falon said with a nod, “but I think it could have kept, at least until after I was out of my tent.”
“There’s something else,” the Sergeant said, looking genuinely concerned for the first time since entering the tent.
“What?” Falon asked, her blood running cold. She hadn’t thought there could have been much worse news than the fact that the Fighting Swans, or at least her part of it, were now caught between the two biggest Stags now north of the Gap.
“Gearalt’s dead, and I’m pretty sure the Captain doesn’t trust us,” Darius said grimly.
“What? Why?” Falon said taken aback. This wasn’t anything like she’d been expecting. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d been expecting, but this definitely wasn’t it. “We’ve been nothing but hardworking and loyal! Surely you’re wrong about this. I mean…what happened?”
“The Forager Squad was tore up pretty bad and when we talked,” he stopped and met her eyes, causing her to look aside, “you were unconscious. At any rate, when we talked, he mentioned that he was thinking about rolling the Forgers into our Company and asked my opinion—” “I hope you told him that it was a bad idea!” Falon interrupted.
Darius just looked at her and suddenly she started to feel like an unruly schoolgirl. Falon decided now might be a good time to just stay silent and listen.
“I told him that there was bad blood; the men on both sides hated one another and there would most likely be blood if he went through with it, so I strongly advised him against it,” Darius said.
“That’s good,” Falon said with faint relief, “but from the way you’re looking, I take it that wasn’t enough for some reason?|
“This morning the survivors and former wounded of the Squad showed up and presented themselves,” Darius said dourly, not at all in keeping with his usual expression. “The Captain,” he bit off the words, “must think we’re a little light in the rank department and promoted two of them. Doug, a man with a scar across his forehead, and another cutthroat named Fenobar, are our two new Sergeants.”
“Oh, Hades,” Falon breathed, plopping down on her stool with a thump.
“Now, according to them, they and the rest of the surviving Foragers are here to provide us with an advanced scouting ability,” Darius said.
“That’s the official line? We find out the Captain’s decision from the word of men who probably hate us?” Falon asked, her eyes narrowing. “If that’s the official word then what do you think the unofficial one is?”
Darius gave her a significant look. “After we took on those Ravens, our numbers jumped to almost double that of the Captain’s other half of the Battalion,” he pointed out.
“That’s insane,” Falon said angrily, “you’re a foreigner and I’m just a…boy,” she stumbled over the lie, and then quickly pushed forward, “one with no experience running a company of fighting men!”
“We just made an enemy of the Baron and were the closest unit to the foragers when they were hit and overrun,” Darius pointed out, “the Captain might be a tad suspicious and even if he wasn’t, neither the Rankin band or the Foragers are likely to be in the Baron’s good graces right now. He might be putting all his bad eggs in one basket and distancing himself, and the rest of the battalion, from any fall out.”
Falon’s mouth made a big, round, ‘O’ at his suggestions as to the potential reasons for this insane merging of the two groups.
“I think it’s crazy but then again, I guess I’m not used to thinking about things like this either…so I can’t really say that you’re wrong,” Falon said.
“Your people may have some strange customs, but you’ve got nothing on Empire when it comes to politics,” Darius assured her.
“For some reason that’s not very comforting,” Falon quipped, feeling disturbed and now looking at the Imperial in a new light.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Darius said with a shake. “I was just an Optio when I left, and I have no plans to stab you in the back and wrest power over a bare Century of untrai
ned farmers.”
“That’s comforting,” Falon said leerily, silently thinking, Not.
“There was nothing to be done for it,” Darius mused while she was busy thinking and she snapped out of it giving him a questioning look, “the baron, I mean. An officer who won’t stand up for his men won’t be an officer for long. Besides, you didn’t say or ask anything unreasonable for the situation.”
“I’m glad for your support,” Falon said, and she really was, “but that doesn’t change anything, now does it?”
“Nope,” the Imperial said after a moment’s consideration.
She rubbed a hand over her face and wondered just what exactly a squire’s daughter, untrained, unprepared and unmanned, thought she was doing getting herself embroiled in not just the politics of men but the machinations of Lords and Princes.
Then she straightened, mentally taking herself to task. She was no shrinking violet, and the Lord and Lady didn’t tend to give a person more than they could bear. She was just going to have to soldier and woman on as best she could.
“Okay, well we’ll just have to integrate the foragers into our band as best we can,” she said, schooling her face into a neutral expression. “As for our new Sergeants…” she looked up at him.
Darius shook his head one sharp, deadly shake and made a chopping gesture with his hand
“Right,” Falon said and then repeated herself, “right. We’ll just have to burn that bridge when we come to it.”
“Cutting one’s own rope,” Darius said flatly, “either they’ll work out, or they’re cutting their own rope.”
“Needless to say, I don’t trust them further than I could throw them—and since I couldn’t throw them if I tried, that matter should be clear enough,” Falon said and then took a breath. “Besides, I had a little run-in at camp that night I was out supposedly ‘partying’,” she grimaced, “I didn’t see any faces, but I wouldn’t be surprised at anything.”
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 24
