“Other than being sent out to the least habitable part of the field to make camp?” Falon asked, unable to curb her sourness. “We’re the first at the barbarians every day—and the first to camp—yet we get the worst spot?”
Smythe looked at her sharply. “Take note, Doolie,” he said mildly, and the young man who’d been cleaning his armor leaned forward as Smythe turned back to her. “I see I’ve been remiss in your education, so I’m only going to say this once.”
Falon straightened in surprise, realizing she must have gone too far somewhere. “Yes, Sir,” she said, bracing to attention as she’d been taught by the Imperial Training Master.
“Yer a man—so act like it!” he barked, falling back into his old accent and for the first time Falon realized he’d been speaking with the slightly more refined accent of a gentleman—or close enough for the rough and hardened campaigner—even as she all but jumped at the fierce disapproval in his words and demeanor.
“Sir!” Falon said, fixing her eyes forward like she had seen far too many of her own warriors do in the presence of Darius when he was on a tear.
“What’s more, yer an Officer now by word of his Lordship Lamont and sent in the service of a Prince of the realm,” Smythe barked. “What we do reflects not just upon us and our families, but upon the Lord who holds out oaths. Do you understand?!” his voice cracked like a whip.
“Y-yes,” Falon stuttered, knowing there was no answer to give but still not entirely sure.
The Captain took a moment to compose himself and the slightly off accent he’d started out with returned, sounding more than a little odd, coming from the mouth of the powerfully built seasoned old campaigner. “Look, Lieutenant, we don’t have time for these sorts of womanish complaints and that’s what I’m afraid this is: the sort of bitching and moaning I’d expect from a pack of women,” Falon silently bristled, as he continued, “not half a battalion of trained warriors—and certainly not out of the mouth of an Officer and a Gentleman,” he said in a voice that turned her outrage into embarrassment and made her want to sink down into the floor. “Now I realize you’ve been thrust into things a bit and it’s hard being the lead company on the march. Gods above and below, do I know it,” as he said this, he seemed to calm down, “but there’s no more time to act like a boy.”
“Yes, Captain,” Falon mumbled, feeling like she was standing in front of her Papa again and being chewed on for her misdeeds.
“You’re a man now—what’s more, you’re an Officer,” Smythe sighed, “act like one.”
“I will, Captain,” Falon vowed.
“I know it’s not fair that we’re out in the front of the army every day of the march, nor is it fair that we get the coldest, most exposed, piece of earth to pitch a tent,” he sighed and Falon found herself nodding along. “But life isn’t fair, the army isn’t fair, and I’d like to think we’ve done a more than passable job along the way. No one promised fairness when you signed up; it was duty, a share of the spoils, a shot at glory and above all, the chance to die. Anyone who told you otherwise was lying to you,” he frowned, and his eyes bore into her own. “At the same time, if any man tries to take that from you, you fight him tooth and nail.”
“Yes, Captain,” Falon said, to afraid to grumble as the Captain loomed over her but the same fear that settled into her belly caused her to babble—anything was better than silence, and so she filled it, “do my job and keep the men in line. Don’t let anyone take from me. Got it.”
“I know men who would kill to be given half the chance you have, son,” he said with only a hint of condescension in his voice. “Leading a hundred men at the front of an army, fighting off barbarians, and all of it under the noses of a Princes and Generals the likes of which most men will never get the chance to see?” he seemed to shake off the mood. “So keep yer gob shut and march on,” he growled, “and make sure yer men do the same thing. I don’t have time to listen to the whining of little boys, or hold the hands of Officers who do a better job of complaining like women than they do of taking charge of their men and dealing with things they ought to handle themselves! I am not the Prince, to hand out cushy assignments at my every whim and you can’t act the boy anymore, Mister Rankin. I have no time for it. You understand me?”
Falon stiffened stung at the idea that she was both throwing away chances others would kill for and at the same time failing as an Officer.
“I hear and obey,” she finally said when it was clear the Captain was waiting for a reply to his query. And really, there was no answer to give. He was her Knight, and she was his Squire, even her office as a Lieutenant was placed under him as the Captain of her Battalion.
“Good, then that’s settled,” Smythe said, baring his teeth in what some might have called a smile. “And we won’t say another thing on that. By the way,” he frowned, “if I haven’t had the chance to say it yet, good job saving those gentlemen up on that hill. You got up under the Prince’s eyes and didn’t do a half bad job of it.” Having said this, the Captain turned away.
Feeling the tension that had entered the room suddenly lessen, Falon’s breath whooshed out of her as a desperate feeling of relief coursed through her body. It was only at that moment that she realized the magic had reacted to the tension, as if she were about to enter combat, and began snaking up her leg.
Hearing her relieved sigh, Captain Smythe turned back to look at her questioningly. Finding herself once again ‘on the spot,’ Falon desperately cast about for something anything to talk about that didn’t risk bringing up her inadequacies as an officer again, while she tried to stop the magic snake that seemed determined to finish climbing up her leg and building up in her belly.
“I, uh,” she fumbled before lighting on something, “I haven’t had the chance to meet your…I mean, Doolie, yet!” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, while she simultaneously wrestled with the forcing down the snake coiling around her leg and trying to make conversation at the same time. Besides, she honestly didn’t know what the young assistant did other than clean armor—which she belatedly realized should have been one of her duties, as the Captain’s Squire.
Smythe narrowed his eyes at her and seemed to shrug off whatever had caused him to do so in the first place as he motioned over the youth.
“This is my nephew, Doolie,” he said, repeating the boy’s name unnecessarily as far as Falon was concerned as he placed an arm around the youth’s shoulder, “and this, Doolie, is my Squire, Lieutenant Falon.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Falon,” Doolie said, ducking under his Uncle’s arm and extending his hand to her.
Falon smiled uncertainly, casting a cautious look over at Smythe, who returned her look evenly. She reached out and accepted the boy’s hand.
“Please to meet you—” she started, only to have to suppress a yelp as the boy started squeezing her hand uncomfortably. She was surprised that the boy tried this little piece of male dominance routine on her, and squeezed back for all she was worth. It simply wouldn’t do be show up by the little snot, and what was more, she didn’t feel like having her hand crushed by a mere armor wiper!
Throughout it all the boy didn’t show any sign that he was doing anything special, other than simply shaking her hand.
Falon suppressed a vindictive smile, since it was his hand and not hers that started to crumple together. All that training with sword and spear is finally paying off, she thought with satisfaction as the she ground his finger bones together once, and then again for good measure, before releasing the little upstart. She might play their stupid man games when they forced it upon her, and she wasn’t entirely above getting her pound of flesh, but it wasn’t really something she enjoyed all that much—probably because most of the time it was her hand being smashed.
“Tell me, Doolie,” Falon asked hiding a grin at her superior grip, “what is it you do around here?”
Doolie opened his mouth and started to speak before looked over at the Captain and clo
sing his mouth. When he opened his mouth to speak again, Falon doubted he was saying what he’d originally intended. “I’m just the Captain’s runner and general all-around Dog’s Boy,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.
Falon spent a second looking for some reaction to their little chest beating session of trying to squeeze hands together until they hurt but not seeing anything in the other’s face she shrugged it off.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, instead of half a dozen other, less courteous, things that sprung to mind, “I’m sure you’ll go far.” Not that she really meant that last bit, of course.
“He’s filling the duties of a page right now, while I see to his education,” Smythe said with a nod that dragged her attention firmly back to the larger man.
“It’s nice to have family around,” Falon nodded, feeling slightly uneasy that this…this…boy, who was getting the sort of education she had expected to receive as Smythe’s Squire. On the one hand it was a blessing in disguise, as she didn’t particularly relish the thought of sleeping in the Captain’s tent, polishing his armor, and seeing to the other dozen and one things that she understood a Squire was supposed to do for his Knight. On the other hand, in a way, this little scut was stealing her rightful place at the side of her Knight!
“Always make sure you’re worth less to a man dead than you are alive, I always say,” Sir Smythe said, the corner of his mouth lifting as he displayed his attitude from his days as a former mercenary. “But other than that, surround yerself with family and ye can’t go far wrong.”
The two men shared a look of mutual understanding that left Falon feeling on the outside looking in.
“A wise policy I’m sure,” she echoed, wishing for the first time since they marched through the Gap, that she had her own family around her for support.
She cast another look around the tent and saw that many of the little things that hadn’t quite been done before had been neatened and straightened up. She closed her eyes upon seeing that all the rough wood she’d seen in the Captain’s tent before had been sanded and polished. Yep, she decided, I’ve definitely been replaced—and before I even got the chance to try being a proper squire.
Telling herself that she should be thankful for not having to risk trying to live, eat, breath, sleep and—most importantly—change her clothes in the company of the Captain, she did her best to ignore the little pang that shot through her middle. It was really for the best. After all, how could she both command men and polish armor?
“Good job at the hill, and keep up your recruitment efforts,” Smythe said, breaking her train of thought. But even the flush of pleasure and relief she felt at having some of her accomplishments acknowledged did little to lift her mood.
Shortly after that she was dismissed, after being advised to double her guard and keep the fire’s well stoked.
Chapter 36: Tulla?!
No sooner had Falon taken three steps outside the Captain’s tent, morosely pondering her fate and the fact that she’d lost something without even first realizing she had it, she felt a small hand tugging on her own.
Falon looked down to see a boy’s upturned face. “Can I help you?” Falon asked.
“Someone wants to talk with ye,” the boy said solemnly.
Falon’s brow furrowed. “Does this person have a name?” she asked perplexed at who would send a boy to get her.
“Mama Tulla,” he said simply, and her blood ran cold. Concern melted into wariness and she eyed the boy suspiciously; he looked like any one of half a dozen camp urchins she’d seen wandering around camp but when it came to the Witch, she trusted nothing.
“And if I have no intention of going for a visit?” she demanded harshly.
The boy looked at her curiously and then shrugged. “She said to tell you that ‘you’d come if you knew what was good for you’,” he told her without heat, and then flashed an urchin’s smile that proved devilishly effective in diverting her attention.
Falon bit her lip, finding it hard to be angry in the face of such good humor. For half a moment she thought about marching right back to camp, rounding up Darius and a band of warriors, and giving the old hag a good what for…
Falon tugged on her collar, as it felt itchy and hard to breathe despite the almost cripplingly crisp winter air. For a second she forgot what she was doing and the sounds around her began to penetrate. Vendors were offering burnt, skewered meat of questionably quality, and women stood outside ratty tents as they called for customers in a small cacophony.
Snapping out her daze, the young woman shook her head in crushing dismay, realizing she was somewhere in the middle of the army camp—near the camp followers, and entirely too far from her own campsite. What am I doing here, she wondered. Her eyes lighted on the urchin and a thrill of fear coursed through her. This wasn’t right.
“Hey!” Falon exclaimed in dismay. “What are we doing here?”
“Uh oh,” the boy said jerking around to stare at her.
“What did you do to me?” Falon demanded backing away. This wasn’t right; she wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t going to go see Tulla just so that wicked witch could mess with her body and play tricks with her head!
“Oops,” the Urchin said, lifting his hands and starting to back away.
“Get out of here,” Falon shouted at the little scamp, “that’s right, go ahead and run.” She might be almost helpless in the presence of the old witch, but this boy was something else. She didn’t like to raise a hand to anyone, man or child, but this little scamp had given up his right to defense the moment he…
Something flashed in the boy’s hand, arresting her attention. Falon opened her mouth to ask a question and found herself captivated by the pretty. “I’m surprised that worked,” the boy said, as if from a distance.
The next thing Falon knew, she came to her senses inside the tent of Madame Tulla. The tent smelled at least as strongly as it had during her previous visit, and it was still the odor of aged cheese and decomposing wood.
“That’s better,” the old Witch said with satisfaction dripping from her voice.
“Unhand me!” Falon cried.
“Get over yourself, Thorn,” Tulla sneered, “no one’s touching you…yet,” she added darkly.
“You’re cruel, old woman,” Falon said, fighting tears. Out on the field she had strength and power, but in here she was helpless. She realized that the worst wasn’t found out on the battlefield in the press of men and swords and axes; it was to be completely helpless to another’s will without even the option of resistance. Angry tears dripped down her cheeks as she realized just how hopeless her situation had become.
“Grow up,” the old Witch snapped, slapping her in the face with stinging force.
Falon drew back wide-eyed and placed a hand on her cheek in surprise.
“Out there you may be a man and a high and mighty officer to boot—in the Invaders’ army, no less—but in here you’re a woman. And don’t you forget it!” Tulla snapped.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” recovering her composure after the unexpected attack, Falon sassed back as nastily as the worst of her younger sisters ever could, deliberately channeling her inner nastiness into her voice while inside she seethed with rage.
The old Witch drew back her hand and Falon’s instinct took over. Exploding into action, all the hours and extra evenings spent training to fight and battle the enemy took hold of her body.
Power roared up her leg and through her tattoos, and it was no small, sly snake this time. It felt like a rope that squeezed and squeezed at her until she let it loose with a battle cry of nothing more sophisticated or educated than simple, pure, feminine rage.
Falon lashed out with her fists, catching the old Witch by surprise and clipping her on the chin. Falon followed through with hammer fists to the old woman’s body, and when the Witch crumpled over, she followed with boots to the belly.
For a long moment she exalted in the older woman�
��s groans, eager to pay back the hours she had spent in helpless agony, paralyzed and trapped in the old woman’s cot—which had been worse even than if she’d been tied. At least then she could have squirmed, but even that much freedom had been denied her.
The old woman shifted and spat out something incoherent, and a collar squeezed around Falon’s neck with enough force to cut off blood flow. Instinctively fighting against the invisible band, the young girl clawed at her neck her fingers digging into her skin until skin caught up under her finger nails and blood started to slick her grip.
Then, because it had such a powerful grip on her, she grew faint and passed out. Once again she was at the mercy of the old woman’s magic, but with the last bit of resolve insider her, before she surrendered completely to the dark. She vowed it would not always be this way…even if she had to learn magic from Schmendrick to defend herself.
**************************************************
“That’s better,” Tulla coughed in imitation of the last time Falon had come to inside her tent, “you’re a lot of trouble, girl. I just want you to know that.” But she said it with something almost like respect in her voice.
“Rot in a shallow grave,” Falon cursed as she sat upright, realizing that she could do so. She immediately placed her head in her hands because she had one of the worst headaches she could ever remember.
“Well,” Tulla said and then ground to a halt. When she continued, Falon was pleased to note that she spoke with a catch in her voice; possibly Falon had damaged her ribs beyond a simple healing spell…although that was probably more wishful thinking than actual reality.
“Well,” Tulla repeated with a short huff as if sensing the direction of Falon’s thoughts, “I wanted to test thee and see if thy magic had started to come in yet, by trying to provoke a reaction. Sometimes that’s all it takes to get the magic to manifest in a girl…and I guess thou showed me, yeah?”
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 29
