The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  This looked like a piece of illuminating information for the two young farmer’s sons, their mouths making ‘O’s’ of dawning understanding.

  “I thought me, all them fancy Knights and Lords and such like were all rich,” Duncan said, sounding surprised.

  “Oh, they’re all of them rich enough for a warhorse and armor,” she agreed hurriedly, “and they might even be rich in gold and stuff, but not when it comes to land. For that, I think…” she paused trying to remember the name of every knight she knew of with a land grant, “there are maybe four land holding Knights under Lamont with manors—they’re not called stone houses,” she reminded them.

  “What about the rest of them Knights,” Ernest asked, sounding awed at her wealth of information, and Falon felt herself puffing up with pride.

  “Some are landless and just roaming around until they find fame and glory or service with a Lord like Lamont who can afford to keep them,” she said wrinkling her brow. She had never really thought too deeply about such things; she had always just kind of known about them from listening to her father.

  “And a Squire’s underneath all of that,” Ernest said sounding halfway awed at the thought.

  “His heirs even more so,” Falon sighed, “we’re really halfway a peasant and halfway a noble. We’re not rich as the Lords and Knights, but we have more than any farmer. And while we don’t pay a third of our crops to the Lord,” she added tightly, “instead we have to muster up a fixed amount of coin, called a ‘salt’ tax. Originally payable in salt, now it’s gold coins that are expected.”

  “Gold?!” both boys said their eyes wide. Falon doubted their father ever saw a full gold coin any one time, taking his pay in barter and in-kind payments of cattle or wheat or milk or what have you.

  “Plus, of course we don’t owe a yearly militia duty; instead we are expected to send a son in service as a Page or Squire to Lord Lamont or one of his Knights, else we have to rally to the war banner and fight in the front lines, leading the ‘men’ during battle.”

  At the mention of the ‘front lines,’ both boys drew back unconsciously and they all stood around the wagon which the two boys had been repairing.

  “Duncan’s a daft hand with the carpentry,” Ernest said after a comfortable silence, “but I’m sorry if he caused you distress. Please don’t tell it to Father.”

  Falon blinked in surprise. The boys were actually afraid for what she might report to their Pa’, Farmer Doyle. She had always been the one so fearful of being reported on, and it was a bit of a perspective shift to realize they were afraid of the very same thing.

  Ernest must have taken her surprise for hesitation because he plowed forward, “We’d count it as a favor true and all, if you’d at least think on it the night,” he said hurriedly.

  “He stole my pig!” Duncan burst out before she could get a word in edgewise. It was one thing to watcher her brothers interacting with the village boys, it was another to be taken for one of them and expected to get into fist fights and scrambles on the drop of a hat. “And now we’re supposed to cater to him like he’s lord o’ the manor!”

  “I won’t tell,” she said quietly before giving a decisive nod.

  “I was up all night and…” Duncan trailed off, running out of a full head of steam as her words penetrated.

  “We’d greatly appreciate it,” Ernest replied in a low voice, and to Falon it seemed as if all the low voices and quiet tones added a great deal of meaning to the promise made in the barn.

  “Think nothing of it,” she quirked a smile, “boys will be boys after all,” she added a saying Goody Agnes, one of their old field wenches from before father started to root, had used to say every time her brother’s came home with a split lip or scrape on their knee.

  Ernest had started to smile at her in return and then looked at her so oddly, that she realized she must have said something wrong.

  “You fancy Squire folk sure do have a real womanish way of talking sometimes,” Duncan snorted so derisively that the momentary tension faded away, and for no reason she could determine they all broke out into laughter.

  When the laughter had died down Ernest glanced over at her. “I remember hearing about Daman and Garve when I was small,” he said with a pleasant smile.

  “Yeah, before they ran off,” Duncan snorted and then seemed to realize he had crossed the line, “no disrespect intended.”

  “Anyway,” Ernest continued, glaring at his older brother, “it must be hard having them gone. I sure know I’d miss this blockhead if he took off to seek his fortune.”

  “Thanks,” Falon said awkwardly, not sure what else she was supposed to say. If she was talking to another girl she would know, but how was a brother supposed to talk to other boys?

  There was an uneasy pause. “Still, at least with them gone, you’ll probably stand to inherit,” Duncan said gruffly.

  Even knowing she shouldn’t, Falon stiffened at essentially the same accusation—only in another form—that her father had leveled at her.

  “I stand as heir behind little Rogan,” she said flatly, silently furious that anyone actually thought she was doing any of this for her own personal gain.

  “Ah,” said Duncan a flash of something she couldn’t identify flitting across his face, before he stared down at his feet, “well then, didn’t mean nothin’ by it, no how. Sorry.”

  Still furious but trying to hide it, Falon stared at the older boy, who still refused to meet her eyes opting instead to grind his foot into the dirt.

  “What me brother Dun’s trying to say is he’s natural born himself and didn’t know; it’s why he has such a big chip on his shoulder sometimes,” Ernest cut into the tense silence, “he wasn’t trying to come across implying things.”

  For a moment Falon failed to understand this cryptic comment, and then it came to her that with their talk of natural born and how she said she would inherit after Rogan, they thought she was a bastard child just like Duncan.

  Her face heated at the thought of being taken for illegitimate when her mother and father had been married the whole time—at least up until Mama Muirgheal became ineligible for marriage for becoming a Witch.

  So even though she knew it might be best to be taken for ‘natural born’ bastard child, she just couldn’t stand the thought of sullying her honor that far.

  “My mother and father were married when they had me,” she said evenly, “but she’s Old Blood you see, and they agreed I went to her first and only. My father made me his heir after Daman and Garve left and she became a Witch, but only after Rogan,” she said, wielding the truth like any well-honed weapon.

  Ernest’s brow wrinkled.

  “You noble folk sure do have some strange rules,” Duncan said disgustedly. She could tell from the expression on his face that because her mama was a Witch, he still considered her more illegitimate than not and a glance at his brother Ernest’s face confirmed he felt the same way.

  “He’s half Old Blood, Dun, and they’ve got some different ways of looking at things too,” Ernest said finally.

  Falon heaved a sigh. It was clear what they thought but she had already defended her mother’s honor, and her own.

  “So, Falon,” Ernest remarked, and Falon looked over at him in surprise at the tense he was putting on her name.

  “Yes?” she asked wondering what’s next.

  “Kind of a girlish sounding name,” Duncan made a scoffing sound, and then followed it up with a chuckle.

  “It’s a warrior’s name, and an Old Blood name at that,” she said tightly, failing to add that they were right: it was an Old Blood female name. However, she wasn’t really lying, as it was a name belonging to any number of female warriors from before their people had been conquered by these boys’ New Blood ancestors.

  “No need to make fun at a strange name,” Ernest said stiffly to his brother, and Falon was actually touched at the way he was trying to defend her.

  “Just goes to show you shouldn’t let
a woman pick a boy’s name,” Duncan said derisively, referring to the Old Blood tradition of letting the mother’s name all the children, unlike the New Blood tradition of officially giving that right to the Father. Although as a matter of practice, most new blood women got to pick the name of their daughter.

  Falon grinned and prepared to let loose with a retort she had been working on ever since she discovered what she considered to be the unfairness of the woman doing all the work growing the kid, only to have the father swoop down to steal the naming rights.

  Just before she was about to let fly, someone else stepped through the barn doors and she heard a gasp.

  “Falon Rankin,” her sister Christie all but shouted, “why is your face all covered in blood?!”

  Chapter 16: A Sisterly Scolding

  “I’ll deal with you lot later,” Christie yelled at the two farmer’s sons as she grabbed Falon by the ear and hauled her back to the house. The treatment was no treat, but it was only when Christie started twisting as if she had a mother’s right that Falon began to get mad.

  “Owe! Let go, Krisy,” she yelled in pain as her sister gave a particularly vicious twist.

  “I let you out of the house and the first thing you do is get into a scramble with a couple of farmer’s sons,” Christie said so hotly that Falon was surprised there was no steam coming out of her big sister’s ears.

  “They started it,” Falon protested, angry at being treated as if she were still just a little, with Christie her mother.

  “I’ll deal with them later,” Christie shouted.

  “I took care of it,” Falon said grimly, “you stay out of it or you’re only going to mess it up.” She yelped with pain when her sister reached over with her other hand and gave her ear a wicked pinch to go with the twist.

  “You might have a broken nose,” Christie replied sharply.

  “Let go of my nose or you might have one to match,” Falon threatened.

  Christie gave her ear another twist just to show that she could before releasing Falon’s ear, claiming a firm grip on her younger sister’s arm instead.

  “I swear, the longer you’ve dressed up as a brother the more like them you act every day,” Christie hissed in her ear.

  “It’s not my fault, but it’s taken care of now,” Falon glared in return.

  “If you think I’m going to stand by while some unlearned farmer’s clod punches out my sister, you’ve got another think coming missy,” Christie ground out, matching her glare for glare.

  “That ‘clod’ is going to be coming to war with me,” Falon said in a growl of her own, refusing to give an inch, “so excuse me if I prefer them owing me a favor, over you messing things up so that I start out with at least one of those ‘clods’ hating my guts because my big sister tattling on him to his father after I promised him otherwise!”

  “Earth and Field, Falon, but I don’t know what I’m going to do with you sometimes,” Christie said with sharp exasperation.

  “It’s already being handled, Krisy, so just trust me to handle it,” Falon said fiercely, hoping that her sister would stop being over protective for a moment and trust her to be able to do this.

  Her mouth drawn in a tight line, Christie dragged her younger inside the house and then—in a move that completely stunned Falon, who had been ready and waiting for another fight—threw her arms around her younger sister.

  Awkwardly patting her sister on the back, it was a surprised Falon that realized her older sister was silently weeping.

  “It’s okay, Krisy,” Falon said stoutly, “really, it’s just a nose bleed. Daman and Garve used to get them all the time.”

  “Lady’s tits, you can be thick as a board sometimes,” Christie half sobbed, half laughed into Falon’s shirt before straightening up.

  “Are you okay?” Falon asked, genuinely worried for her sister.

  “No I’m not alright you little minx; I saw my little sister with her face covered in blood, and all I could think was this was how you were going to look on the battlefield with your throat cut,” Christie replied, furiously wiped at the corner of her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

  Falon recoiled at the mental image this description placed in her mind’s eye.

  “I swear you act more and more like one of our brothers every day,” Christie said and this time the look she turned on Falon was much more understandable than the half frantic, furiously worried Christie. Falon actually signed in relief at the return of the regular disapproving sister she was well used to by now.

  “Trust me when I say that having been a brother for the last two years, I think I know more about the way boys interact than you do, and you just need to let this go,” Falon reiterated, awkwardly pressing her case while her sister wasn’t half out of her mind with fear and anger.

  Christie shook her head sharply. “I hate to break this to you Falon, but you’re just as much girl today as you were the first day you started playing dress-up,” Christie reminded her disapprovingly.

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” Falon waved her arms in the air wildly. “I’ll always be a girl,” she said flatly, “but I think having spent more around them, trying to imitate them in their native habitat, as it were, that I’ve got some idea of just how they think. Tattling on someone after you’ve made a promise is one of those things they just don’t do!”

  “Fine,” Christie said flatly.

  “And that’s why—” Falon stopped and gaped at her older sister in surprise that she had actually listened to her for once.

  “Just don’t expect that that they’ll be getting their food delivered hot any time soon,” Christie ground out, “as it is, I’m of half a mind to put the chicken we just fried up for them in the cold box and feed them two day old porridge from now on instead!”

  “Sure,” Falon replied with as nonchalant a shrug as she could manage, trying to mask her sudden urge to do cartwheels in the air.

  From the expression that came over Christie’s face, it was clear Falon had not been doing a good enough job at hiding her feelings.

  “Time for another essay,” Christie snapped, and suddenly Falon wasn’t feeling so good any more.

  “But, Krisy,” she whined, suddenly furious at both those farmer boys. No sooner was she let outside the house to stretch her legs than those foolish boys managed to ruin everything with their infuriating, male urge to pick a fight at the drop of a hat, “I only got to go outside for less than an hour!”

  “Not another word,” Christie said severely, “if you want to fight like a boy and stand up for your attackers, that’s no skin off my nose,” she continued in such a dire voice that her tone alone gave the lie to her words, “however, if you insist on acting like a boy then you will be treated like one as well!”

  “That’s not fair! I’m the victim here,” Falon snarled, “they attacked me, not the other way around.”

  “Back to your room,” Christie said stomping her feet and pointing up the stairs. Falon opened her mouth but her sister stomped her foot again cutting her off, “One more word and it’ll be two essays!”

  “Stupid boys,” Falon shouted, turning and going to the stairs. Each step on the way up she stomped her foot as hard as possible, until she had reached the top.

  She slammed the door shut as she stormed into her room—or at least, she did the best job of slamming possible with such a heavy, slow door. She buried her face in her pillow to escape the unfairness of it all. It was only when she came up for air and looked down at her nice, beautiful pillow and saw all the blood that she released a shriek of pure, unadulterated feminine rage!

  This was all their fault!

  Chapter 17: The Great Escape Leads to Greater Trouble

  This time when she snuck out of the house, Falon made sure she wasn’t spotted. She did not want to get busted like last time as soon as she stepped out the front door.

  It’s not that she didn’t have permission to be outside so much as she had already given Krisy her infernal requested
essay. That was the only ‘official’ reason she had to stay inside, and her big sister wasn’t even her mother…

  This was why was she currently crouched behind a pair of cranberry bushes. Peeking her head around the side to make sure the coast was clear, she chuckled. Her big sister never even suspected Falon would use the escape tunnel leading from under the house into these bushes.

  For a long moment Falon silently gloated at having evaded Christie and her army of little tattletales. Sticking Sinead and Blair in the hall outside her room to keep an eye on her had been a dirty move. That was why it was only fair to bribe said little spies with half a bag of dried fruit so as to make her escape through the family equivalent of a secret tunnel.

  When no one shouted, screamed, or in any other way indicated she had been missed, Falon crawled out from under the bushes and ran across the yard toward the barn.

  Stopping to check on the goat pens before going inside, she was happy to see that the animals had already been taken out to their round pen.

  Slipping into the barn, she watched unnoticed as the two Doyle brothers worked on the second of the two wagons. Both wagons were in pieces with their wheels off, and Falon for one could not see how they were going to be returned to readiness in time for the muster. The wheels needed lots of help, which was something of an understatement as they only had three good ones and as many outright broken ones, which meant they were short two entire wheels.

  All of that said, she was amazed at how much work the two boys had done all on their own. The pile of broken, rotten and disassembled wood from the wagon beds and sides were larger than she had expected.

  “Stopping by to admire our handiwork?” Ernest asked from right behind her.

  Falon gasped and jumped a half foot into the air.

  “Easy there, Falon,” Ernest said, sounding concerned.

  “How did you sneak up on me like that,” she said with a hand at her throat, before she mastered herself and turned to glare at him, “you’re right over there…” her voice trailed off as she saw that there were indeed two boys over there working and one of them was Duncan, but the other one most definitely was not. Although from her angle he did look fairly similar.