The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Ours is not to reason why; ours is just to bleed and die,” Sir Orisin intoned. “For our faith, our honor, and the man to either side of us, we’ll hold the line.”

  Turning his horse, he walked it back to the Swan column.

  With that cheerful thought ringing in her ears, Falon glumly followed along behind the other knight. She was not only going to have to be ready to fight, but she was going to have to be ready to lead—again. But even worse, she was going to have to keep an eye on their headstrong new leader and try to mitigate any damage he might do.

  “Can someone just kill me now?” she complained bitterly, only to feel goose bumps run up her back at the realization that there were likely going to be hundreds of men eager ready and willing to carry out her idiotic request. Quickly making the sign to avert misfortune, she offered a hasty prayer to the gods asking them to ignore her latest brain smashingly stupid utterance before urging her horse to a better pace.

  She was a woman with things to do, and she needed to get ready before her people would be ready to fight another major battle.

  Dear gods, she prayed that peace and goodwill among men—and especially their leaders—would breakout like an unstoppable rash. It was likely the only way to stop all the death and bloodshed she’d grown used to marching under the Prince’s banner.

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

  “Well, there they are,” Ernest groaned, looking up at the enemy army deployed outside the gates of the large town. The town sat next to a small river that ran along its backside.

  “No need to sound so cheerful, Ern!” Duncan laughed eagerly, although to Falon’s attentive ear it was obvious that underneath the bravado ran an undercurrent of well-deserved fear. “We’ll smash this braggart Baron who dares to defy our king and refuse to pay his fair share of the taxes. Didn’t you hear? Social justice is on our side; the Prince himself said it. Today, we are all social justice warriors. If you think about it, all we’re really doing is forcing that rich bloke over there to finally pay his fair share! How many times did we have to pay our taxes back at the farm and wish that once, just once, some rich fellow with the world at his fingertips had to suffer even just half as much as we did? Well now’s our chance to see it firsthand!”

  Falon slapped a hand to her forehead. “Duncan, you idiot,” she snapped, unable to stand it anymore, “social justice warriors? When did the Prince ever say that? I sure didn’t hear it.”

  “Well…it’s all over the army,” he said defensively.

  “Putting words into the Prince’s mouth and spreading rumors about it is a surefire way to get yourself killed!” Falon shouted. “And furthermore, why you are so eager to die over some other man’s taxes is beyond me.”

  “Hey, I just want that rich sod to pay his fair share. What’s wrong with that?” he grumpily defended.

  “Were you born this way, or did your mother drop you on your head as a child?” Falon said with a roll of her eyes. “Social justice? This is going to be an army of poor blokes on our side having at it with a bunch of poor blokes on the other—probably farmers themselves for the most part—fighting and killing one another until the rich boys in the back decide that enough is enough. When that happens, our side either gives up or the other side sends over a big fat whopping chest full of gold. If that’s your idea of fighting for social justice, your bright plan to force the rich to pay their fair share, then count me out! I’m not nearly as eager to die in some rich man’s war as you seem to be!”

  “Hey, you’re twisting my words around and…and…and don’t you talk about my mother that way!” he stammered, at first confused but finally roaring with anger as he cast around and found a cause that he could wholeheartedly fight her on. To wit: his mother dropping him on his head as a baby turning him into the idiot he was today. “Nobody dropped me on my head—ever!”

  “Apologies to your mother,” Falon said sweetly, “it seems there was nothing she could have done; you were destined to be a natural born idiot. Social justice, my heavily-perfumed posterior.”

  “You…you…you…” spluttered Duncan.

  “Duncan, settle down. You really did sound like you were about ready to die just so long as the Baron paid up,” Ernest sighed, finally cutting into the growing squabble, “and you, Falon; there’s no cause to rain yellow water all over Duncan’s parade. So long as he’s fired up, he’ll fight better out there than if he thinks we shouldn’t be here in the first place. There’s no reason to take away his motivation just because you’re upset with the Prince. So settle down the two of you.”

  “Hey!” Duncan and Falon protested simultaneously.

  “He started it,” Falon said sullenly.

  Duncan snorted—loudly—and Ernest rolled his eyes before they turned back to stare at the large enemy force with the walled town at their back.

  “If they draw back into the town, they’re going to be a tough nut to crack,” Duncan said finally.

  “If they were going to do that they wouldn’t have left the Baron’s Keep; that’s the strongest fortification in the barony,” Falon said, casting a sidelong look of contempt at the older boy.

  Then they had to break it up at the sound of Sir Orisin clomping up behind them.

  “News?” Falon asked, shifting from the frame of thought of someone who was just watching a pageant to that of a young woman who had to actually take part and lead the Fighting Swans.

  “Nothing official, but it looks like thy Prince is stirring from his camp,” Sir Orisin said, pointing to where a rather large party was riding their horses away from the direction of the Prince’s enormous tent.

  “They just got it set up and now they’re leaving that monster behind. What was the point?” Falon said with disapproval.

  “Looks like the Prince is going to parley with the Baron,” Orisin observed.

  But what Falon observed was that about half the knights and other men on horses around the Prince were splitting off. In ones and twos they began taking position in front of the various units along the length of the army.

  “I think we are about to be joined by Lord Casper. How wonderful,” Falon said.

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” said Ernest.

  “Yeah, you didn’t really think they were going to let you remain in command while anything important was going on did you, Fal?” laughed Duncan.

  Falon turned to glare at him but, not only didn’t that seem to bother the dirt clod, what made her even madder was that when Sir Orisin turned his flinty gaze upon him the dirt clod paled and quickly straightened.

  “I mean, Lieutenant Falon, Sir,” Duncan said stiffly.

  “Humph!” said Orisin, turning away dismissively.

  “Humph,” Falon echoed the Raven Knight sourly, if for different reasons. After this battle was over she’d find a way to get revenge on the dirt clod. When she got mad—and she was the second most accomplished warrior in this fighting battalion—he just laughed, but when Sir Orisin gave him a simple look he instantly changed his tune?

  Silently plotting her revenge, she watched as a separate party came out from behind the Baron’s lines and moved to meet the Prince’s party in the middle of the field between the two armies.

  Chapter 32: The Prince Parleys the Toad

  “Ho! Is the Prince among you?” asked a Herald, moving about twenty feet in front of the nearly-stopped Baronial party, which brought him to the near mid-point between the Baronial and Princely groups.

  “Tell the Toad that Prince Marshal William Stag is here to parley with him,” the Prince replied dismissively.

  “The standard of Baron Froggor’s House is that of the Great Frog—not a toad,” retorted the Herald.

  “Whatever,” William said, waving a hand in the air irritably as if annoyed by the buzzing of a mosquito or some other insect.

  The Herald colored. “So be it!” he said angrily, “I will return to tell my lord that the architect of this week’s aggression in the midla
nds, Prince William, is present and accounted for.”

  “Just bring your lord quickly. I’ll have my men set up a campaign table for us to sit at,” the Prince said coldly and, with a gesture, ordered his men to begin preparations.

  An angry-looking, silver-bearded man bearing a protruding gut—but who despite this didn’t seem the least bit fat—stomped over and glared at the campaign table.

  “Bring out your Baron,” Prince William said to the other man as if speaking to a flunky when in fact he recognized the man as none other than the Baron Froggor.

  “Hmph! I am the Baron,” the other man said coldly, as if speaking to a simpleton, “which you might have known if you’d paid the least attention the more than dozen times we’d both been present at court.”

  Prince William flushed with anger. Who was a minor baron from the rich fields of the midlands to upbraid him like that? Forget that he had only been pretending, Froggor was no royal tutor to dare take a Prince to task!

  It was time to show this lord the difference between Baron and Prince.

  Chapter 33: Negotiations Break Down over the issue of taxes

  “You forget yourself, Baron,” the Prince shot back, “just like your sister—who parades around in opulence while your peasants starve and your taxes to the King go unpaid! I am here to correct your family’s willful disloyalty! You feel you are beyond the reach of anyone and anything—a notion I am here to refute!”

  “I have all my parchments and receipts in order,” grumped the Baron. “So is it the non-existent complaints of my fat and happy—and most definitely not starving—peasants? The taxes—which I’ve paid for in full excepting only that which was owed last fall, for which I received a deferral until this spring which give me two months’ time? Or the snide ravings of an upset beauty—your sister—who cannot bear to see another women in a prettier gown than she? Which is the cause for you bringing an army onto my lands?! I’m afraid the only one here in need of correction is yourself.”

  “So you admit it, you brazen cur!” Prince William pounded on the table, ignoring everything but what he wanted to hear, “and just as I have just proclaimed: you are in arrears! Pay up or face the wrath of a Prince betrayed!”

  “The King himself has given me a temporary stay in order that I might build a bridge. No one has been betrayed, least of all you. Furthermore, I resent the slur of being called a cur,” snapped the Baron.

  “Oh, my father, is it?” the Prince mimed, being taken aback before leaning down and thumping the table twice. “Then show me the Royal Seal. If father has given you his personal permission, I will admit my folly and beg a pardon but,” his voice lowered dangerously, “if you cannot do so, then pay up immediately or be counted an oath breaker.”

  “First, I do not accept your terms and refuse to swear any oaths to you—either now or in the future. Second, here is the extension with the royal treasurer’s seal,” Baron Froggor said self-importantly as he produced the document.

  William glanced at it and then sneered. “I see not my father’s seal; you claimed the King had given you permission but all I see is the seal of your cousin!” cried the Prince angrily. “What will you do for your next trick, swear the sky is green when in fact it is blue? You, sir, are an oath breaker!”

  “What!?” spluttered Froggor. “He is a distant cousin! This is a simple extension signed by the King’s own treasurer, a man who hates me. A man, I’ll remind, who tried to go to war with me on three occasions over one pretext or another. And I have broken no oaths because I have sworn none,” he roared.

  “A deep plot intended to swindle the crown, no doubt,” William said dismissively and then shouted back. “And now you even go so far as to claim you have sworn no oaths; is your oath of loyalty to the King of such small importance that it simply slipped your mind, or have you just declared yourself a rebel and a traitor in front of your Prince?” he turned to a harshly scolding tone. “Baron, even if I believed you about the gold—which I don’t—it is spring, the tax is due, and I am here to collect it! The time has come for the rightful repayment and still, the gold rightfully owed my father—the King—has gone unpaid. As a man of honor, I demand you re-swear your oath of loyalty to the members of the Royal Family and give the gold over into my hands. I implore you to that which is right before you—force me into a corner and I’ll have no choice but to teach you a lesson you’ll not soon forget!”

  “I think we’re done here. I will not bandy words around with a man who turns black into white for his own material gain,” Froggor said coldly. “I will say, though, that you are definitely your mother’s son—long may she rot in the shallow grave she was placed in!”

  “You go too far!” shrieked the Prince. “Swindle my father, insult my mother, and think you can walk away from it? I will meet you on the field, Froggor!”

  The baron scoffed loudly. “Let us see if your thirteen hundred ragamuffins—equipped with spears, assorted farm tools and leathers—can overcome my eight hundred highly trained armsmen clad in steel and each holding a good sword! Then we’ll talk again,” rebuked the Baron, “but for now we will let this argument be settled on the field of honor!”

  “Fifteen hundred and more! Do not look down on my army,” the Prince cried, “you are outnumbered two to one and I’ll gladly see you in hell!”

  “So be it,” the Baron said turning on his heel and storming toward his people. “Horns!” he shouted.

  “Drummers!” cried the Prince, throwing one arm in the air and using his other to draw his sword and brandish it over his head.

  “What word, Lord Prince?” asked Lord Declan, hurrying forward even though he had most likely heard every word of their exchange.

  “War!” shouted Prince Marshal William Stag with a happy grin on his face, one that belied his former look of anger and outrage over the insult to his mother.

  Chapter 34: The Thunder of the Drums

  The drums thundered through the crisp air before pausing for half a second and then resuming as the drummers fell into a rhythm.

  Falon’s left leg started to quiver—like it always did when it sensed great danger.

  “It seems that negotiations went awry,” Sir Orisin said heavily.

  “I hate war,” Falon said with a shiver and then turned to the Knight, “we must make our final preparations for the battle. If you could once again lead the Raven men personally sworn to me, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “Uilliam and his boys are fine men; I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said with a nod.

  “I’m placing you and them behind the tribals; you can stiffen their spines if they start to waver,” she instructed.

  “Not the company of shifters and gaol sweepings?” Sir Orisin asked with surprise. “That’s the unit most likely to balk right before the clash, but a hardened country knight who knows his way around a battlefield and isn’t afraid to enforce discipline might stave off trouble before it can start…it might go better if you’re considering stiffening them yourself. And they need stiffening, Sir Falon.”

  Falon knew that parking her fresh-faced, small statured appearance behind the new men wasn’t going to inspire fear, probably quite the opposite if she were honest with herself. But she still managed to smile proudly while shaking her head. “Don’t worry; I’ve made other arrangements. I want you there with those tribals just in case the battalion splits under enemy attack. If that happens, you’ll need to take command of whatever remains of that company—if anything remains,” she added grimly.

  “A heavy task…but under the promise of a Lieutenant’s share for this battle I’ll vow will fight with all my power,” Sir Orisin said.

  Falon was momentarily surprised at his mercenary ways before blinking and nodding.

  “A lieutenant’s share it is, unless the Captain repudiates it,” she agreed, willing to pay him a fair share but not take the risk of having to turn over her entire share to him if things fell apart later on under Captain Casper’s scrutiny. Captain C
asper…didn’t just even the name sound strange? The man hadn’t marched a single day with the unit, and somehow he was to be their commanding officer?

  “I so vow. I’ll take it,” Sir Orisin said after a moment and then dragged himself into his saddle with the help of Duncan who was standing by. “Yah!” he shouted, putting his horse in motion.

  Moments later, Sir Casper—followed by his fifty men at arms—arrived at her position.

  “I hereby assume command of the Swan Battalion, Sir Falon,” Sir Casper said with great dignity, his eyes watching her like a hawk for the slightest twinge of reluctance or resistance.

  “The command is yours, Lord Casper,” Falon said formally.

  Casper fractionally relaxed, his eyes slanting over to a group of armsmen that had started to circle around behind her. The men nodded and then started to shift back around to his side.

  Falon’s eyebrows lifted. “One can never be too careful,” Lord Casper explained wryly, “now then, I’ll prepare to take my post in the center of the battalion. You may accompany me if you wish.”

  “Just long enough to explain our deployment to you if I may, Captain Casper,” Falon said cautiously.

  Casper smiled and for once it seemed genuine. “By the Lady, but it feels nice to hear the word Captain addressed to me after how many years of waiting,” Casper said, his mouth quirking. “And by all means: explain our situation.”

  “As you know, the drums are calling us to battle and unless I miss my mark they’ll soon change to a forward march rhythm, so I’ll try be brief,” Falon said, and right before she launched into her explanation she remembered where she was and what she was doing and she actually froze.