Falon flushed when the blacksmith frowned at her disapprovingly.
“There’s not another blade like it,” the blacksmith agreed, not even trying to mask his disapproval at the treatment of the overly honed blade.
“It did what was needed and killed the pig,” Falon grumbled, but that was as far as she was willing to risk going. This pair weren’t the first she’d heard from about the ‘poor’ treatment of her Shri-Kriv. It had gotten to the point she didn’t show it to the ‘other’ boys even if they asked, but as the blacksmith was considered an authority on such matters—and her elder, to boot—she had to sit and listen to them denigrate her weapon.
“That’s no pig, boy,” the Reeve said condescendingly, before turning back to the other men, “surely though it was the Spear killed the ‘boar’,” he continued, placing great emphasis on the fact the boar was no simple pig before looking at the other two for confirmation that it was the spear, and not the dagger, that had finished the old tyrant.
“Let’s see,” the blacksmith replied, leaning down to grab the pig and start to flip it onto its other side. The other two quickly moved to help, although the Reeve did so with a grimace of distaste and after a number of overly masculine grunts, they proceeded to roll the boar.
Looking down at the remains of the boar spear sticking out the side of the large male pig, the Blacksmith shook his head.
“The spear might have killed it—eventually,” he allowed in response to the Reeve, “but it looks like it was the dagger to the eye that sealed the deal.”
“And here I thought we were going to have to start calling him Falon Boar Spear, and listen to an unending stream of jokes about the strength of his manhood,” Doyle muttered with a chuckle.
“It’s hard to use ‘Shri-Kriv’ in anything with a catchy sounding name,” the Reeve muttered sourly.
Falon blinked and stared at them in surprise.
“Killing that boar wasn’t a heroic deed,” she denied, shaking her head vigorously. Heroes wouldn’t be terrified, or afraid, or try to run away only to find their spears were stuck in the ground and it was too late to escape.
“They say this one was a man-killer over in West Wick,” the Reeve said grudgingly, seemingly ignoring her protest.
Both the other men made scoffing sounds, as if they found it impossible to believe anything a West Wick man might say. The rivalry between the two East and West Wicks was infamous.
The Reeve, appointed by Lord Lamont himself, shook his head at this bit of inter-village sport.
Half horrified and half bemused at the way the three of them talked about whether or not this big boar had actually killed people, her jaw dropped.
“Careful, you’ll catch flies in there, boy,” Vance grinned at her.
Falon’s mouth snapped shut and she started, embarrassed to have been caught out like that and the three of them—even the Reeve—smirked at her.
“Boar’s Bane, you think Vance?” Doyle mused, then shook his head sadly as if he already knew the answer.
Falon had to forcibly stop herself from frowning at the serious way that even the Reeve, who didn’t seem to approve of her killing the boar, seemed determined to give her a catchy new nick name. Men, she thought, rolling her eyes disgustedly. It was impossible to understand them more often than not.
Honestly, here she was, nothing more than just a battered and bloody girl—or rather, a boy as they thought her to be—and instead of fussing over her wounds or getting her treated and put to bed to recover, they were obviously determined to stand around a dead carcass arguing about trivialities like new nicknames. Why it mattered if she got a nickname, or what it was to be if she did, was quite simply beyond her comprehension.
“The Deathly Dagger?” the Reeve finally hazarded, and the other two men looked at him quizzically, causing the tax collecting Modesto to flush.
“That’s not a proper dagger, Reeve,” Vance the blacksmith disagreed in a no-nonsense tone of voice as he respectfully explained to the man that went around every year collecting the Lord’s taxes, “and it’s clearly broken. There isn’t anything very deathly about a broken blade now, is there?”
“I’ve got it!” Doyle exclaimed happily.
“What?” Falon asked, almost despite herself moved to speak. It didn’t make any sense to her, but the way a trio of obviously grown men kept talking about like it was the most exciting thing to happen this year, she couldn’t help but get caught up in the moment.
“The Boar Knife,” he proclaimed, throwing his arms wide as if he were a grand illusionist revealing something impossible.
Despite herself, Falon frowned. Not that she wanted a catchy nickname, she hastily assured herself as she wiped any expression off her face but if she was going to be stuck with one, it ought to be one that at least sounded nice. Being labeled the Boar Knife sounded a lot less interesting than even the Deathly Dagger. Even the boar Spear, she thought, blushing at the suggestive accolades around such a title, sounded better than the…Knife.
The men started winking at each other and chuckling, and she looked at them in surprise.
Taking pity on her confused state, the middle-aged farmer leaned over conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, lad,” Farmer Doyle explained to her with deep satisfaction in his voice, “we’re not making fun of you.”
“Yes,” agreed Vance and if even the Reeve was nodding in agreement, then Falon suspected it must be true.
Seeing she was still confused, the Farmer chuckled again.
“It’s almost a requirement for anyone who gets such a name, that they don’t like the sound of it,” the Farmer grinned.
“At least, at first they shouldn’t,” Vance cut in, slapping Falon on the back so hard she took half a step forward.
“Falon, The Boar Knife,” Modesto the Reeve stepped back from the carcass shaking his head in bemusement, “I’ll make sure the changes are entered into all the rolls and ledgers,” he sighed.
“The Boar Knife?” Falon asked glumly. She couldn’t help but feel a little appalled at the name. Being called the boar anything wasn’t the kind of nickname a proper young woman, or any woman at all come to that, ought ever have associated with her.
“The Boar Knife,” Doyle agreed, guiding her back over to the porch.
The others were looking at her so expectantly that it was obvious they wanted her to say something about this new nickname.
“I guess it could be worse,” she grudged as much as she imagined one of her brothers might have, had they been given a completely inappropriate name by one of their older friends. Although, come to think of it, Daman or Garve would have probably strutted around the house like they were the cock of the walk if any of their friends had given them such a name.
Looking up sourly, she saw the men looked a little taken aback, as if this was an entirely unexpected response. So casting her mind back on the various antics of her long gone brothers, she finally came up with what she hoped was a better patch on the conversation.
“At least I’m not going to be called Pig’s Wallow behind my back,” she added weakly, trying for a half smile to gauge their reactions. She vaguely remembered her brothers telling her all about one of their friends over in West Wick who had fallen into a pigsty and been mauled by an angry Sow before being rescued by the girl he had been hoping to impress. Falon had rolled her eyes at the time, and later found out that the unfortunate friend had later been given that awful nickname.
The Reeve guffawed and the other two quickly covered their mouths before all three tried to straighten out there expressions.
“I admit the Boar Knife does sound a bit better than ‘Pig’s Wallow’,” the Farmer finally burst out. Apparently, a chance to gossip and gloat about over such a terrible name that had been given to one of their rivals over in West Wick was too much for the man to pass over.
Falon looked back and forth between the three men, as if observing them for the first time. Clearly, men out and alone in their native habitat acted a
bit more oddly than when there were womenfolk around. She was still trying to fully determine if she was supposed to be laughing, or smiling, or what have you to try to fit in when Farmer Doyle looked over at the blacksmith with a suddenly serious expression on his face.
“Well, Vance, I think our little Boar Knife over here just settled the question for us don’t you,” he asked the blacksmith.
Vance’s face suddenly turned grave as he looked over at her for a long, assessing moment before turning back to nod in agreement with Farmer Doyle.
“What are you talking about,” Falon asked more sharply than she’d imagined. Had they been wondering if she was secretly a girl? East Wick was settled mostly by families of the New Blood, so the family—all excepting for Papa, who’d been bedridden and thus kept out of it—had debated whether or not to keep trading honey and selling fruit in West Wick where the Old Blood families settled. The Old Blooders didn’t look poorly on a woman trying to sell her goods, or ‘acting like a man’ by engaging in commerce. The alternative had been to move such activities to East Wick, where no one really knew them, but where women were generally barred from such activities.
Eventually, they reluctantly decided that word would probably get back to Lord Lamont or a Crown Justice no matter how careful they kept going into West Wick, so they had switched to the more Patriarchal East Wick and disguised Falon as a brother instead. She didn’t actually have to lie; she had kept her same name after all, and just walked around in Damon’s old trousers and carried an equally old Shri-Kriv. Was it her fault if everyone simply assumed she was a boy, and thus didn’t ask any embarrassing questions about a sick father and a house full of unmarried daughters with only five year old Rogan around to protect them?
“Everyone knows your Papa is sick, Lad. There’s no use denying it; he’s not been seen up and about in either of the villages for the better part of a year,” Doyle sounded uncomfortable as he admitted to what was supposed to be an open secret. Everyone knew father was ill, but no one in either village made mention of it out of respect for his service to the land and the kingdom in his younger years.
“Aye,” Vance agreed with such certainty that Falon’s instinctive urge to disagree with them died stillborn.
“He’s getting better,” she protested instead, even though she knew that father had fallen into the sort of depression common to older members of the Old Blood.
“Of course, lad, of course he is, your papa’s a strong one,” Doyle hastily agreed, even though she could tell he was saying this mostly not to hurt her feelings.
Her heart clenched. If even outsiders could tell that Papa wasn’t getting any better, how much hope was there still left? Nowadays, the only time he got out of bed was to go out to the porch so he could give Rogan his daily lessons. After that, he went right back to bed and refused to eat. He had been like that ever since he gave up hope that Garve and Daman would return.
Falon and her sisters had learned the only time they could get food down him was during the hour and a half to two hours he spent reminiscing and ‘training’ young Rogan. The rest of the time it was as if the world no longer held any interest for him.
“In the meantime, there’s other matters that need taken care of,” Reeve Modesto finally broke the silence, for once sounding as if he were actually trying to console her. Her blood ran cold; if the nastiest man in the twin villages was trying to console her then something serious must be wrong.
“Our taxes are current,” she said quickly.
“That’s as may be,” the Reeve said, looking away in a manner that said he didn’t entirely agree, but wasn’t going to push the matter.
“Both the Lord and the King’s share have been paid in full,” she flared, not liking this lack of disagreement from the Reeve. If the man responsible for collecting money thought arguing over taxes wasn’t that important right at the moment, she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out what he thought was. “Both in harvest, and in coin!” she added defiantly.
“Aye, Lad,” Vance agreed pinning her down with his iron grey eyes, “and if it’s only just enough paid for a proper accounting, give or take a little on the side, no one here that’s going to argue with ye while you’re papa’s feeling ill.”
The Reeve stirred and Falon was suddenly grateful when Vance swung around to pin that man with his iron grey eyes instead.
“Are they, Modesto?” he asked sternly, and the less muscular tax man shook his head but agreed.
“I’m not an Orc or a Gimly, Vance,” the smaller statured Tax Man complained indignantly, “no matter what the good people of the Twins might think of me!” he exclaimed, referring to the nickname given to East Wick and West Wick by outsiders, in this case meaning the rest of hamlets and villages around them that swore fealty to Lord Lamont.
“That’s as it may be,” Vance glowered, not sounding entirely convinced.
“If our taxes are in full and we’ve broken no laws,” Falon demanded, quickly putting her wounded hand behind her back and crossing her fingers. Remembering how they had tricked the recipe out of Father, and hoping against hope that no one had reported the two barrels of Cider Ale they had brewed up for illicit sale to the local Village pubs, “then what’s this all about.”
Falon and her sisters had deliberately made one barrel each for both East and West Wick, so that neither Village got mad at them for playing favorites, which might lead to them reporting the matter of an untaxed keg of ale to the Keep.
Vance pursed his lips and looked away.
“It’s the Levy, lad,” Doyle said heavily.
Chapter 4: Preparing for the Levy
Falon had been expecting to hear about illicit ale sales or some wild rumor regarding her brothers – then her heart clenched as she remembered both Daman and Garve were gone. Leaving only Rogan and…herself, she supposed, suddenly in a foul mood. Then her eyebrows started climbing for the rafters; if it wasn’t taxes, and it wasn’t some stupid young village girl pregnant and trying to claim... Standing there nonplussed, she looked from one man to the other.
“The Levy?” she asked, genuinely confused.
Her sister chose that exact moment to return to the porch. “A Levy,” Christie breathed, placing a hand over her mouth. And then, as if only now realizing what she had done, she quickly lowered it again.
Falon saw her sister putting on the exact same expression Mama Patience—Papa’s third (deceased) wife, and the mother of the youngest four children—used to use when she was upset and trying not to show it. Falon called it her sister’s, ‘I’m the next best thing to a Mother you’re going to get’ face, and she hated every moment of it because Christie only used it when she thought something was wrong.
With growing concern, she looked back at the two village men and Lord’s Reeve. The two of the three men exchanged embarrassed looks, while the Reeve looked genuinely concerned.
“By order of the King, The Twins must field a militia of at least ten men from each village,” Farmer Doyle a bit shame faced. By ‘Twins’ he obviously meant the twin Villages of East and West Wick.
Falon pursed her lips in confusion. “Okay,” she said, more to have something to say than for any other reason she could think of, “isn’t that what the Wicks have to do after fall every harvest, I mean when Lord Lamont calls the men up for one week of yearly militia training?”
Once again the men shared significant looks and this time Falon could almost have stamped her foot in frustration.
“The Lad’s still injured, mayhap we should wait until he’s healed up,” Farmer Doyle said uneasily.
“He needs to know,” Vance paused before continuing doggedly, “as his Papa isn’t likely to take the field this season.”
Falon gasped and she saw Christie sway as her sister closed her eyes, as if this was something she had been expecting.
“Oh enough beating around the bush, just tell him already,” Modesto the Reeve snarled looking upset with everything and everyone in front of the house, including h
imself. Which, in a distant way was rather surprising to Falon. Normally she would have been more interested but the thought of papa strapping on his armor at Lord Lamont’s call made her sick. He wouldn’t make it two days in the saddle, let alone a campaign season.
“You do it…if you’ve got the guts,” Vance glared at the Reeve.
“Fine,” snapped Modesto the Lord’s man, as he unrolled a scroll and slowly and carefully read from it, “By Order of a King’s Marshal, to wit his Highness, Prince William. All the Lords, Knights, Squires and General Levies of the Greater Lamont Fief are called upon, for their Seasonal, Yearly and Five Yearly duties,” the Reeve paused and glanced over at Falon and Christie to make sure they understood, “The General Levy means both Wick Militia.”
“Yes, go on,” Christie said tightly.
“East Wick and West Wick are instructed to raise a force of not less than one man per family to serve in the militia,” the Reeve explained, looking upset. “That comes to roughly ten men from each Wick.”
The two sisters shared a look, both aware that there were more than twice that many families in each village!
“Their families will miss them, but what does that have to do with us?” Falon asked after an extended pause that caused the two villagers to squirm slightly. Then, knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer but felt the need to say it anyways, “Lord Lamont promised Father he wouldn’t issue any more calls to military service to us, after the bloody Siege of Deep End Keep. Does he go back on his word?!”
The Reeve looked down at her like she was something he had just scraped off his shoe. “The Crown,” he said stressing the word, “not Lord Lamont, demands traditional duties from the Squire of Brown Creek Grove, or one of his Heirs,” he explained condescendingly before his expression turned to a glare, “because of your injuries sustained in service to the region slaying that fearsome boar, I’ll not repeat your words to Lord Lamont!”
Falon blanched, realizing she had questioned the honor of the military Warlord of the entire Fief, and quickly ducked her head in horrified thanks even though the gesture caused her ribs to scream.
The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard) Page 3
