The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “I believe you were paid out a rather large sum from the last battle, after which we were promptly posted here where there’s nothing to spend it on. So if your pockets are empty I’d suggest you and your men stay out of the gambling tents,” Darius rebuked, “and as for my business, that happens to be training every man in our Knight’s portion of the Battalion. Now that he officially runs everything, maybe it’s time I looked into the training status of the Foragers?”

  Gearalt stood up, his hand falling to the pommel of his dagger. “Anytime—” he started.

  “I think the Lieutenant can speak for himself,” Falon snapped, pushing back her own chair and glaring at the two men, even though on the inside she was grateful for the Imperial’s assistance it was time to rein them back in, “so sit down the two of you!”

  Gearalt glared at Darius before throwing himself back in his chair with a curse and crossing his arms across his chest angrily.

  “Right now I’ll put a copper per head recruitment bonus, assuming they meet the basic requirements,” Falon decided.

  “A copper!” Gearalt scoffed.

  Seeing a number of brows furrowing around the table, Falon frowned.

  “And I’ll consider adding up to a silver additional per head for the recruiter or his squad to be shared after the recruit’s first battle, depending on his performance,” Falon added a little unwillingly. “If the recruit in question runs away or dies before then, you’re tough out of luck.”

  Gearalt swore and his eyes turned red as he looked at her before he finally slapped his hand on the table. “Done!” he declared before sitting back muttering under his breath about Lieutenants too smart for their britches, and how was an honest Sergeant supposed to take care of his men under these kinds of officers. He only stopped once Sergeant Uilliam slapped him hard enough on the shoulder to almost send the smaller man out of his chair. But after a sharp look that promised retribution, he shut his mouth.

  “Alright then, if there are no more questions,” Falon said with relief, and once again pushing back her chair stood up.

  Behind and to the side of her the previously silent clerk noisily cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Bad Scales?” Falon couldn’t stop herself from using the man’s less than flattering nickname. She knew that unless she was insanely lucky, she was about to be buried under litany of tedious but necessary things that had to be done before they departed.

  “Lieutenant…I mean Acting Captain, pardon me, I have a list of things that absolutely must be gathered or completed before the Battalion can leave the Manor of Sir Smythe,” he said firmly, placing a parchment onto the surface of the table.

  “I’ve only just given the order to depart,” Falon protested.

  “We’ve known all winter that there was a high likelihood that we would be called to rejoin Prince William’s host,” Tug said with patent disapproval. “What kind of Clerk would I be if I didn’t have a list prepared and waiting to be reviewed?”

  “What kind of Clerk indeed?” Falon echoed with a sigh. She had just come back from a patrol and was dog tired. Follow that by a meeting with the former Captain before she’d even properly taken her boots off, and now another with the remaining leaders of the soon to be reduced battalion and she was dog tired. She’d hoped, futilely it turned out, that after she spread the word she could put her feet up and take a brief rest—even just a candle length or two. But it wasn’t to be, so she sighed loudly.

  “Please continue,” Falon said flushing, in embarrassment as her unintended sigh caused a temporary halt around the table.

  “Right,” Tug pursed his lips before shrugging good naturedly, “starting off with firewood. What we need to carry with us are at least…” he said, starting at the top of the list and working his way down.

  Exhaustion swept over Falon like a wave. Now that the convincing and arguing and surprises seemed over and done with, her body was telling her how much it would appreciate a break. However, a woman’s work was never done. So instead of putting her feet up she leaned forward, propped a fist under her chin and tried to look interested.

  It was a long day and it only looked like it was going to get longer.

  “Next thing we need to make sure of are boots. Not only for ourselves but for these new recruits we’re going to be taking with us. Now we have a number of….but…” zoning in and out of Tug’s droning, Falon wished there was someone—anyone—else who could take on this thankless job. Unfortunately, there wasn’t. She decided she was going to have to do something about that first thing.

  Chapter 5: Marching Out

  The men assembled in the snow covered courtyard grunted and swore and they slipped and slid around in the icy cold muck assembling the goods and supplies.

  “Bucket!” Falon shouted as her little brother’s infernal donkey jerked abruptly, causing her to lose her footing and precariously slide along the ground a good four feet before coming to an ignominious stop. Worse, the very act of stopping caused her to lose what little balance she had remaining and she landed with the thump on her rear.

  As she glared with outrage at the stupid beast of burden masquerading as a donkey, Bucket stood there two of his four legs splayed out as he looked around nervously. Then, seemingly realizing that everything was fine and he was in no danger, he brought his two feet back into proper position and looked off to the side, lifting his upper lip and hunting around as if looking for something to eat. He seemed entirely uncaring about the person he’d just landed on her backside!

  “You stupid creature,” Falon scolded, gathering what remained of her damaged dignity standing up and then trying to brush clean the seat of her pants. Thankfully, the ground was cold or she would have been all over in mud.

  Casting around, she spotted the horse trough. She gave it a sidelong look and for a long moment she was tempted, but remembering the last time she came back from patrol and reached into the ice cold water of the trough she shuddered. Her hands had been instantly chilled to the bone—and that even after she’d used a dipper to take a drink. Cold—even the word ‘frozen’—just didn’t cover the ice cold chill that had spread throughout her body from her throat and stomach.

  It just wasn’t worth it.

  Just as she was leaving, Tug came running over.

  “What are you doing taking care of a pack animal?” Tug scolded everyone around her as he scurried close. “We’ve got stable hands for that creature, and your horse is saddled and ready anytime you feel ready to mount,” he assured, her taking her arm and starting to lead her away.

  “I don’t mind taking care of Bucket. He’s my baby brother’s favorite animal,” Falon said, turning to glare at the donkey, “or I wouldn’t mind if he’d just hold still.”

  Tug waved his hand at a nearby man causing the other to step over and grab bucket’s rope.

  “I’m sure your brother will appreciate the sentiment. Now, about the supplies: we’re loading as much as we can into the wagons but even so I’m not sure if we’ll be able to carry everything we’ll without distributing it among the men,” Tug said, falling back into Battalion business as soon as they were away from the donkey.

  Feeling in over her head, Falon did her best to nod in the appropriate places and pay attention to everything the Clerk was saying. But she soon realized that most of what she was feeling was the pressure of being the woman at the top. Acting Captain wasn’t much different than Lieutenant; she still had to get her men mobilized and marching the same as if she was still working for Smythe. The only difference was that now she was in charge.

  It was a weighty responsibility but she could do it. She told herself this several times, and each time it felt a little bit more certain.

  “What do you think, Lieutenant…I mean Captain?” Tug asked.

  Falon blinked and then shook her head. She hadn’t been paying attention and missed whatever it was he’d been asking her.

  “I’m sorry…my mind drifted,” she admitted. her cheeks coloring, “what did yo
u ask again?”

  Tug looked at Falon quizzically and then sighed. “I can handle it, Sir Falon,” he said with resignation, “mere matters of supply and transportation are rightly the purview of your clerk anyway. I’ll take care of the fodder for the animals we’re taking with us. I mean…I presume we’re taking the animals.”

  Falon worried her lower lip.

  “Sir?” Tug prompted.

  “Yes, of course we’ll be taking our share of the goats and cows. That we’re taking the horses shouldn’t even need to be mentioned,” she said quickly.

  “One cow,” Tug interjected critically, “the Captain gave us the one whose milk dried up, and kept the other three plus the bull for himself.”

  Falon’s mouth twisted but she refrained from commenting. “See to the goats; I’m heading over to the wagons,” Falon declared, half wondering now that she was captain if she would start abusing her power the way her predecessor the Captain had.

  Stepping away, she headed over to the wagons and helped direct the men in transferring, packing and tying down the various goods they were storing in it.

  There was a lot of work to do.

  ****************************************************

  “Thanks for setting up such a nice seat for me!” Oliver, aka ‘Schmendrick the Magician,’ said with a bright smile.

  “As if,” Falon mocked derisively.

  However, as if completely ignoring her words, her efforts and her intention, the White Tower Initiate grabbed the side of the wagon and pulled himself up the side.

  “Just where do you think you’re going, mister?” Falon demanded tapping her left foot on the floor.

  “Right to the…top!” Oliver said with a grunt as he pulled himself up onto the top of the wagon. Sitting down on the various furs they’d collected and cured over the winter, the wizard looked quite satisfied with himself, “Yes, this will do nicely. Furs-over-hay makes the best seats. If you’d simply put the furs directly over the barrels and packages, it wouldn’t be nearly so nice,” he said pompously.

  By this time, Falon’s face was turning red and she could feel the steam ready to come out of her ears.

  Opening her mouth to unleash a withering retort, she was interrupted by a loud shout to the side.

  “Sir Falon! Lieutenant…I mean, Captain: the animals have been rounded up, the one and two man sleds have been readied, and the last wagon has been filled up. The Battalion is ready to go,” Tug said with loud satisfaction—seemingly oblivious to the fact she was in the middle of a discussion with the apprentice masquerading as an important full-fledged wizard.

  “That’s nice, Tug,” Falon growled, “but right now—”

  “Sir Falon. Thy fighting tail reports ready for action. Point us at the enemy, Sir Knight,” Sergeant Uilliam boomed as he stomped over.

  Fuming Falon gave one last glare at the insufferably smug-looking wizard before turning to the former Raven militia man and forcing a smile.

  “Good work, Armsman,” Falon said.

  One after another, the various sergeants and corporals trickled in to report to her. Her. Falon Rankin of Brown Creek Grove. For a short moment, she felt like her forehead was about to break out in a sweat. Forcing the feeling down, she took several deep breaths until the urge to run screaming out of the room, shouting that she was just a teenager—and a girl, to boot!—dissipated.

  “Good work everyone,” Falon said firmly, reminding herself that she was no longer just the unseasoned second sister of the Rankin household. Not long ago she had desperately pretended to be a Squireson to protect her family, but now she was a battle-tested warrior and Knight Lieutenant in command—however temporary—of her own company of fighting men.

  How it had turned out this way was a twisted tale of duty and deceit—the worst of it not even hers!—and even she was more than a little unclear on how it had all came to be. But in the end, the most important thing was that she’d been thrust into doing a man’s job, an officer’s job and now a Knight’s job. It was sink or swim and, for her family, she could die but not fail.

  The last of the stragglers to join the little group finally appeared, snapping her from such silent musings.

  “The men are in good spirits and as ready to brave the tail end of winter as they’re likely to get,” said Darius, the company and now battalion’s official Training Master stepping up beside her. “They’ll lose most of that enthusiasm an hour out from the manor, but for right now we should strike while the iron’s hot.”

  “Thank you, Darius,” Falon said solemnly.

  The Training Master looked pleased and then gestured with his head to the open barn doors. In his own way, he was silently prompting her to give the order to go.

  “Sergeant Gearalt, if you’ll take your men out front to scout the trail while I talk with the Captain…” Falon trailed off, realizing the leader of the foragers was nowhere to be seen. She scowled. “Where did that man get to?” she questioned. “He was just here a minute ago.” She clearly remembered that he had been one of the first to report his men ready to head out.

  Tug cleared his throat, looking embarrassed.

  Darius eyes snapped toward the Clerk and Falon’s couldn’t help but follow not half a beat later.

  “You have something to say?” the former Imperial asked, his voice deceptively gentle.

  Tug gulped before his spine stiffened and he glared at the Training Master. “I’m not the one at fault here, Sergeant,” he shot back with a glower, “I just remember the sergeant saying something about how he’d reported in to the Lieutenant so he was going to take his men out for a walk before they started making trouble with the rest of the company.”

  There was a sudden silence from the men—and, unknown to them, one woman—in the command circle.

  “And you didn’t think this might be something important to share with the Lieutenant?” Darius growled.

  “Everyone was busy reporting in and, like you’re so fond of reminding everyone: I’m just the clerk,” Tug said defensively. “Besides, on the face of it, keeping those poachers and throat cutters of his out of trouble sounded reasonable!”

  “It’s not your fault,” Falon said tightly, not feeling very charitable at the moment, “it’s the Sergeant’s. Can someone run outside and see if the Foragers are still around or if they’ve flown the coop like the chicken thieves they like to pretend to be.”

  A couple of men guffawed and Falon couldn’t help releasing a half smile of her own. But what little mirth she was feeling rapidly faded as Sergeant Jake ran out and then disappeared entirely a minute later when he came back shaking his head.

  “By the Lady,” Falon muttered under her breath, silently imagining what she would do once she got her hands on her wayward foragers.

  “Ye want we should announce them as deserters?” Jake asked uneasily.

  Falon remembered that both Jake and Gearalt were former Swan armsmen from the service of Lord Lamont, the founder of this chartered fighting company. Naturally, he wouldn’t be happy at the idea of clapping one of his fellow armsmen in iron and throwing him in the stocks—even if it would be a well deserved punishment!

  Several brows lowered thunderously at Jake’s query, but no one spoke out for or against the notion.

  “No,” Falon said finally. She realized that she could have forced the issue but, looking around, it was clear that while the men here weren’t happy at their fellow sergeant’s actions they weren’t as sympathetic to their leader’s frustrations as she might have hoped. “When you see him, escort the Sergeant and his men back to me and the main company or rather the main battalion,” she reminded both herself and the others that, while before she’d just been in command of a single company, now what she commanded was a battalion…even if right now 90% of her battalion consisted of the warriors from her former company.

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” was the group’s reply, along with, “of course, Acting Knight Captain,” overlapped from her under officers.

&nb
sp; “Enough lazing around,” Falon instructed, “let’s get this caravan on the road.”

  “Yes!” said the men breaking away from her like shards of broken clay from a shattered pot as they moved off to their various bands.

  Chapter 6: On the March

  Leading her horse, Falon cast a look over her shoulder at the man riding atop the wagon like he was some sort of king and scowled. Here she was, trudging through the snow and there he was all bundled up as snug as a bug in a rug, looking around as if he were the lord of all he surveyed.

  Over the next two hours they trudged along the trail when finally Gearalt and his band of wayward men finally made an appearance.

  “You wanted to see me?” Gearalt asked, stomping up to her and cocking his hip against a tree insolently.

  The moment of truth had come, Gearalt and a handful of men from his band standing off to the side were in front of her, and Falon suddenly felt the urge to just avoid the entire mess. But she steeled her resolve and lifted her eyes to meet those of the Sergeant. She had to set an example and make a point—her point. Otherwise discipline would suffer. If there was one thing she’d learned after speaking at length with Darius and Captain Smythe, it was that as soon as your men and under officers started taking your commands for suggestions everything fell apart.

  “Lieutenant.” Falon said flatly.

  “What?” Gearalt asked.

  “Lieutenant. You want to see me…Lieutenant. Or, right now, Acting Captain,” Falon said, keeping her voice low and cold.

  “Yeah. Sorry about that,” Gearalt said, looking like he was not sorry at all. When Falon glared at him, he belatedly tacked on a, “Lieutenant Falon.” But it didn’t sound like he was very concerned at all with her correction.

  Falon lifted an eyebrow starting to get irritated. If at first she had subconsciously wanted to avoid confrontation, she was now beginning to burn with the desire to set the sergeant straight.