Immediately feeling guilty, she hurried over to the bed and checked the leather bindings before breathing a sigh of relief. Everything looked okay, so no damage had been done. Placing the book back on the bed—gently this time—she raised her arms over her head and stretched. Cracking a yawn, she peered outside the short, narrow window leading outside her room and realized it was later than she had thought.
Resting her head against the window sill, Falon wished she were still as small a Sinead or Blair. Then she could fit through her window and run outside without Christie or anyone else the wiser. Unfortunately, Papa had made the windows small enough that a child could slip through, but anyone large enough to slip inside with a knife wouldn’t fit.
She was standing at her window, generally feeling sorry for herself, when the sound of a saw cutting through wood came to her from the direction of the barn. Her ears pricked up, and for a moment she wondered if her conversation with Papa had been enough to rouse him from his rooting stupor. That moment quickly passed when she recognized two different voices carried to her window by the breeze. While too far away to discern words, they were clearly young and male—only one of which her father was.
Farmer Doyle must have made good on his promise and sent two of his sons over to help with the wagons after they had done the most important of their normal chores around the his farm.
While not as uplifting as if her father had come to help, the work in the barn still offered the chance for a reprieve from the tedium that was poring over a book filled with inventories, calculations and the best way to keep the rats under control.
Snatching up the cleanest set of her soft leather work boots, she quickly put them on and pulled the leather laces tight. Grabbing a pair of old leather gloves she had learned early on to use when performing unfamiliar ‘manly’ chores—chores that might rub the skin of her hands raw until they toughened with callouses—she was all ready to go.
She started to go out the door but something felt off. For a moment she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it was, and her hands drifted over her person making sure that she had all her usual accoutrements. Then her hands landed on her empty waist. Realizing she had grown so used to carrying around a Shri-Kriv on her belt, she ground to a halt and her face reddened.
It wasn’t right for a proper young lady to feel ill at ease not carrying her brother’s old dagger and leather belt around her waist. Although she paused momentarily in semi-serious consideration, as the daughter of a Squire, whether or not she was an actual lady or just another village wench depended more on the size of her father’s estate and the size of her personal dowry than anything else.
Then she shook her head at the foolishness of such thoughts, because whether she was a wench or a lady didn’t matter, as it was appropriate for neither to feel such thoughts.
Still, the lack of the belt and knife weighed on her and it just didn’t feel right going outside without it. Reminding herself that they had a pair of young male visitors helping out in the barn, and that they at least would expect her to have her Shri-Kriv with her, she quickly grabbed the belt with its attached sheath and buckled it on.
Realizing the broken dagger was still gone, she started to feel immensely foolish at how comforting the weight of leather felt around her middle. Even if it was lighter than usual because of the missing Shri-Kriv, the tightness of the belt felt reassuring, as if now that it was back on she was once again ready to face the world as an imitation boy.
All her confidence and swagger evaporated as soon as she reached the door, like morning dew in the new risen sun.
Sneaking over the last few steps to make certain the floor board didn’t creak beneath her feet, she slowly unlocked the door, wincing at the loud clack the lock made as it slid back. Then, slowly depressing the latch until it was free, she carefully tugged the door open.
She peered outside and smiled when there was no sign of a big sister, or any rug rats in the vicinity. Creeping out into the hall, careful to place her steps so none of the floor boards would give away her position, she snuck over to and then down the stairs.
Hearing footsteps and then seeing a pair of Littles running full tilt from the front door into the kitchen, she quickly ducked down behind the railing until they were through the kitchen doorway. Hearing Kaitlin scolding them for running in the kitchen, Falon suppressed a smile and popped back up.
Gliding over to the front door as smoothly as possible, she quietly slipped outside. She grinned triumphantly as she latched it behind herself.
Taking in a deep breath of fresh air, clattered down the front steps, no longer worried if anyone would hear her. Whistling a little ditty about a gallant knight and his fair maiden under her breath, she rounded the corner of the house headed for the barn almost running into someone coming around the other way.
At the sight of her older sister Christie, Falon blanched and quickly turned to run the other way.
“Falon Rankin, as I live and breathe,” Christie declared, sounding quite put out.
“I was just, umm…going to the well for some…uh, water,” Falon stammered, quickening her pace.
“Don’t run away when I’m talking to you,” Christie demanded, starting to sound angry.
Falon slowed to a halt and her shoulders slumped. “Okay,” she sighed, finally willing to admit she had been caught fair and square.
“Did you finish the book I gave you?” Christie said harshly.
“Almost,” Falon replied weakly, turning around and staring at the ground.
“Almost,” Christie repeated, disbelief running rampant through her voice.
“They day’s almost over and I’m sure Doyle’s boys need help in the barn,” Falon rallied, trying for a righteous tone, but even she could tell she was failing miserably. She sounded more like Sinead at her worst than a proper and almost-all-the-way-grown-up sister.
“The Doyle boys,” Christie said scorn oozing with every word, “have all the help they need.”
“I’m sure another hand would be useful,” Falon muttered rebelliously, her left foot making a pattern in the grass and dirt under her feet as she ground it around underneath her soft leather boots.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Christie said sharply, “and even if it would, what you need to be doing is studying for war. Not studying how to put a pair of broken down, half rotten wagons back together.”
“Half rotten,” Falon exclaimed in surprise.
“Not another word,” Christie said putting her foot down with force and pointing toward the door with a stiff outstretched finger.
Falon opened her mouth.
“When you’re ready to give me a verbal report on the expected shrinkage of a garrison’s food supply due to spoilage and vermin, then we’ll talk about running outside to go play in the barn,” Christie said tightly.
Falon stared at her older sister in shock. “But—but that’s impossible to do without knowing how many men and for how long, Krisy!” she gasped in surprise at the difficulty of the assignment.
“So you have been studying,” Christie sounded half approving, “at least a little bit,” she continued, crushing Falon’s small beginnings of pride under a ruthless foot.
“Do you know how much multiplication and division is going to be required?” Falon heard herself whine, and was unable to stop it.
“If simple arithmetic is almost beyond you, then it’s clear as day that we’ve been neglecting your studies for far too long,” Christie scowled.
“But Christie, please,” Falon begged, in no way anxious to return to her room; after roaming around outside, the idea of returning to the room felt too confining.
“This only reaffirms my decision,” Christie declared. Falon felt her face fall and seeing this her older sister’s face softened, “Fal, you were almost killed by a boar yesterday. Take a few days off to recover. I know that it doesn’t feel like it right now, but magic takes its toll on the body and yours needs some time to rest up and recuperate.”
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“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Falon sniped crossly, turning back and around and stomping back inside.
“Let your other sisters take care of things for a while,” Christie said without getting angry, which only made Falon feel even more cross, “after you’ve finished the first book we can talk.”
Falon shot air out the side of her mouth to show what she thought of that. But on the inside she felt the slightest bit of hope start to burn. Maybe if she finished the book real quick…then she caught herself and scowled. Christie was up to her usual big sister tricks, and Falon wasn’t about to be fooled that easily.
Returning to her room, she glared at the large, leather-bound book that was her study assignment, and realized Christie had never answered her regarding how many men and for how long.
“Stupid book,” she muttered picking the infernal thing back up off her bed and placing it at the vanity desk. Rubbing her eyes irritably, she sat back down and cracked open the book, returning to the latest portion she had read.
Hunched over the vanity, reading until her eyes blurred, the first she knew that she had fallen asleep was when her neck started to hurt and she realized it was so dark outside she couldn’t see a single letter on the page.
She was busy trying to light a candle in the dark when someone started pounding on her door.
“Dinner’s up, Fal,” Sinead shouted through the door, and then started pounding on it again.
“Just a minute,” Falon yelled.
“I said—” Sinead shouted.
“Hold your horses, Sin,” Falon growled loud enough to be heard through the door.
“Some sisters are too big for their britches,” Sinead huffed with a loud sniff.
“Just you wait until I get out there,” Falon growled, banging her knee on her hope chest as she made her way to the door blind.
Sinead gave a squeal—half delight and half fear—before pounding through the hall and down the stairs.
“Little sisters,” Falon glared as she stumbled and almost tripped, only to find herself braced against the door, which she quickly used for support to reclaim her balance. “Can’t live with them, and you can’t strangle them, either.”
The sound of Sinead’s mocking laughter trilled up the stairs from the kitchen as Falon pushed open the door and made her way out into the dimly lit hall in search of some dinner.
Chapter 14: Some Fresh Air
Fresh air is highly overrated, Falon thought. She did her best to frown, but her face broke out into a sudden smile.
Unable to control her expression, and no longer caring, Falon kicked off her boots and let her feet run unencumbered through the soft wet grass surrounding the house. For several bliss-filled moments it just felt good to run and stretch muscles that had been cooped up for day hunched over a vanity desk.
Hearing the thunder of approaching hooves, her eyes widened as she looked over her shoulder to see a rapidly approaching four-legged terror. Squealing with fright, she increased her pace.
The terrifying equine gave its own squeal in return, and its gait became a full-blown gallop.
Running for a mighty ash tree planted near the house by father, back when he first laid claim to the place, she got there just in time to duck to the side as the thundering terrorizer flew past.
With her back against the safety of the tree she shook her fist at the four legged pursuer as he slowed his pace and came back about to face her.
“Dang you, Bucket,” she hollered in his direction, “how did you get out of your stall?”
Prancing his way back over to her and the ash tree, Bucket the Magnificent and all around general donkey extraordinaire looked entirely, insufferably, pleased with himself.
Not even feeling enough fear over the consequence of his action to so much as shy away, Bucket just rolled his eyes and snorted in good spirits when she lunged to grab his lead rope.
“We should have got rid of you before even thinking about selling Phantom,” she said speaking to him in her strictest voice.
If anything the donkey looked even more pleased with himself than before.
“Who let you out of your stall this time?” she growled at him, but for such an insufferably-pleased-with-himself animal he was completely unwilling to give up his accomplices. That, or he was completely unable to speak, just like every other donkey born to this world.
She glared at him suspiciously, because if ever there was a talking donkey that refused to talk just to spite people and make himself feel all superior, it would have to be Bucket.
The sound of running feet came from the direction of the barn, and Falon saw one of Doyle’s sons come charging over.
“Sorry about that,” the older boy, who looked to be about seventeen puffed to a stop before scowling at the irascible Bucket, “I went into the stall to offer him half an apple and he just grabbed the apple in his mouth and took off.”
Falon gave the older boy a dour look. Strike one: he let the donkey out of his stall. Strike two: no one scowled at their animals but her or…well, maybe one of the family. All of which was immaterial as it regarded this interloper, who got to work on fun things like wagons while she was stuck inside reading a book of all things.
“Are you stupid?” she asked so bluntly the boy stiffened.
“I ain’t stupid,” the boy retorted, straightening to his full height until he towered over Falon’s own five and a half feet by a good several inches.
“Maybe you’re just trying to get out of work,” she sneered, still angry at the way he scowled at her little brother’s donkey. Even though she knew the whole escapade was mostly Bucket’s fault, this fool of a boy should have known better.
“Ain’t no fancy Squire’s son too full o’ himself to come outside and help fix his papa’s wagons gonna get no free labor off o’ me, then turn and claim I’m dodging me work,” the older boy growled, stepping up so close to her his chest was almost touching hers.
“Get a hold of yourself,” Falon glared at him, “and back off.”
“Think you’re better’n the rest of us too, I reckon,” the boy snapped, “sittin’ inside yer fancy house and readin’ yer fancy books when there’s a war about to start, and the wagons your people were supposed to provide are lyin’ in ruins!”
“My sister kept me penned up in that house,” she flared angrily, “it wasn’t by choice!”
“The man o’ the house, hiding behind his sister’s skirts,” the older boy scoffed so derisively Falon clenched her fists to keep from saying something that might blow her cover.
The other boy took a half step forward until they were touching chest to chest—something that had never happened before in the entire two years she had been pretending to be a brother. Eyes widening and anxious not to be discovered for a girl, she took a step back until they were no longer touching. She wasn’t particularly well endowed, but the risk was just too great.
“Oh go on and get back to work, you blockhead,” she said, taken aback at being treated this way.
“Yer sister’s not ‘round to fight yer battles for ye, fancy boy,” the boy sneered, clearly trying to provoke a fight.
“Hey, take that back,” she glared, skittering back when he once again came chest up to her. She knew she couldn’t let anyone talk about her like this or she would lose respect and be the butt of ever prank, joke and half sideways insult in East Wick anytime she came to market.
“Running away and makin’ excuses while yer papa’s all laid up with some native disease and no one knows if he’ll live or die,” the boy scoffed, half turning away, “I reckon we must consider ourselves blessed to have the mighty ‘Boar Knife’ ‘round to lead us simple village folk off into battle,” he finished, twisting the words of her nickname into an insult. Falon’s left leg started to tremble, but she was determined to ignore it and not draw attention to a sign of ‘fear,’ as it would only make things worse and the last thing she felt was fearful.
“I said—,” she started furiously, reaching up with bot
h hands to push him back. The way he was talking about her papa making her blood boil. However, no sooner had her hands made contact with his chest to push him back than the boy raised his hands and an overhand fist slammed right into her forehead.
Red and black flared in her field of vision, and the next thing she knew Falon found herself sitting on her hind end in the grass.
“What?” she said in confusion. She had tussled with her sisters and brothers before, but never been in an actual fist fight.
“No one calls me a shifter when it comes to me work,” the older boy growled, raising both fists into the air in a fighting stance. When she kept staring at him he gave her arm a kick hard enough to sting, “Get up an’ defend yerself. I don’t see no signs o’ broken ribs or other damage from the boar me papa reported,” he said derisively.
“My former Mama, Muirgheal the Witch, healed me,” Falon said scrambling to her feet. The older boy blanched and his face started to turn white before his expression hardened.
“So it’s to be ‘nother skirt to hide behind?” the older boy spat a big gob of spit at her boots and then raised his right fist beside his head, “are ye a man or a mullet—”
Even though she was no man, she knew she had to respond to what her own brothers would have considered a deadly insult or else have her ‘manhood’ questioned by every village boy in both villages.
With a growl, she awkwardly clenched her fists and raised them in an imitation of a similar fighting stance to the boy in front of her. It was one she had seen her brothers use, although she wasn’t sure what else she was supposed to do with the posture except punch the boy with her fists.
The boy jabbed at her, his fist seeming to move in slow motion, but the reality of being in an actual fist fight made everything seem surreal—at least until his fist connected with her nose.
The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard) Page 10
