The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3) Read online

  “Alright, enough shenanigans!” Falon cried rounding on the men. “You heard the man: continue with what you were doing. We’re heading out of here.”

  “Thanks,” the armsman said, looking embarrassed and in a lower voice such that only she and he could hear he said, “my lord advised me to make haste and inform you as soon as his highness the Prince informed him.”

  Falon nodded. “Word came down from the quartermaster’s office early this morning. We’ve been preparing ever since,” Falon said, not adding that it was probably because of this very reason. If the army only marched once the various sub-commanders were personally informed by the Prince, who in turn got around to telling their various units decamping from Ice Finger Keep at their individual leisure, the process might have taken all day.

  Well, it still might take all day, she decided, looking at the other units judiciously. Then let’s say they might not have all got on the road until tomorrow.

  “I shall inform his lordship of your timely response to his orders,” the Armsman said a bit stiltedly.

  Really? Falon thought crossly as she shot the Armsman a mildly disgusted look.

  “We’ll be out of here on time,” she said with some bite and then took a breath. “And thank his lordship for the notification,” she added more normally.

  The Armsman nodded sharply and, pulling on the reins, turned his horse and around and with a ‘Yah!’ a pair of boot heels to his mount he took off back in the direction of the keep.

  Her eyes followed him until he was gone, then she turned back to her unit.

  “Alright, “a nearby sergeant shouted, “enough standing around gaping and jawing like the fools you are. Move it out!” Falon silently noted hadn’t bothered to chivy the men along until after listening to whatever information the messenger had to relay himself.

  She turned irritated eyes in his direction and he exploded into in a fury of shouts and kicks to encourage his men along.

  When the last band in the former campsite had mustered into what they were trying to pass off as a formation, and had just marched out of camp, Falon swung herself up on her horse.

  Listening to the drums and horn calls of other units and comparing it to her own, she became jealous. With one last look at the camp, and the grand fortification behind it, Falon sighed and resigned herself to yet another campaign season following a war-hungry Prince. All the while she was wondering what exactly she had to do to get her hands on some drummers that could actually hold a beat? Her small, pitiful band of part time music makers were just going to have to step up their game, she finally decided, and she had already begun planning on a schedule of practice sessions in the evening.

  Chapter 17: On the March

  “What is this muck?” Falon shouted as her horse nearly mired itself in two and a half feet of thick mud—and other, less identifiable materials.

  “Someone get the officer a rope!” shouted Darius just before her horse gave a powerful lunge and managed to reach the side of the mire pit that had suddenly appeared in the middle of their previously near frozen road. One moment there had been a snow-and-ice-covered road, and the next her mount was sinking and sliding into a mud pit.

  “No need,” she called out as her horse finally dragged itself out the side of the pit.

  “You all right, Lieutenant?” Darius asked hurrying to her side.

  “I’ll live,” she snapped, “what happened to this road? One minute everything was fine and the next…sploosh, and we’re struggling for our footing. I was half afraid he was going to break a leg,” she said, finally looking down with concern at the legs of her gelding.

  Darius smiled sourly. “The cavalry is in front of us. Word on the road is the Prince sent his chargers out a day in advance of the rest of us,” explained the Senior Sergeant.

  “This is the result of them leading us a day ahead?” Falon asked, appalled.

  “No.” Darius said with utter certainty, “there was a sudden snow flurry a half hour ago; it must have covered the road with fresh snow which is why we didn’t see it. I’d say…,” he paused and looked at the mud pit appraisingly, “that the infantry ahead of us couldn’t do this. It had to have been the cavalry and, if I’m any judge, I’d say the cavalry is no more than two maybe three hours ahead of us.”

  “Son of a pig!” Falon cursed all nobles everywhere—and their ardent lackeys, the men-at-arms of the heavy cavalry, “the Prince sent them out ahead so they wouldn’t ruin the road for the rest of us and I bet they decided to stop for an early lunch, started complaining about the pain in their noble posteriors which hadn’t been in a saddle all winter, and promptly decided to stop for the rest of the day and set up camp. Combine that with leaving camp late, long after the cock crowed, and here you have it,” she concluded, waving an arm dramatically at the scene of the crime.

  “In my opinion, nobles—and especially Princes—are more concerned with the legs and feet of the cavalry than they are those of us marching in the mud and the blood and the tears, which is probably why they were sent out early. But your analysis of what the cavalry did after leaving the Keep is probably spot on,” he agreed.

  “Son of a pig,” she repeated anger replaced with sourness. “Since I doubt complaining about it would do any good, all that’s left to be done is mark the mire so the rest of the units can march around it. Something,” she flared, “which the companies ahead of us should have done already!”

  “They very well might have,” Darius soothed, “but with the snow we might not have seen it.”

  “Uh huh,” Falon said doubtfully, “then make sure to use wooden stakes at least three feet tall so they’re not covered with another sudden ‘snow flurry’.” She cast her eye around the area and then snorted. She couldn’t see hide nor hair of any markers. In her opinion, either they only existed in the overly forgiving mind of the former Imperial or else the unit directly in front of them had pulled them out along the way in order to mess with her battalion. “Well, let’s keep moving,” she instructed pulling her horse off to the side to give him a rest.

  She was done breaking trail with her horse for the time being. Better the men slip and slide in the mud of any more undiscovered sinkholes than to have her horse or one of her unit’s other few animals break a leg.

  It was going to be a long march to the midlands at this rate.

  By the Lady, she just hoped they cleared the pass before any more surprises—like, oh, say a sudden late season blizzard closed in for the next two weeks, forcing the army to turn back for Ice Finger.

  With her fingers crossed, she watched as the recently expanded Fighting Swans flailed its way down the road. Looking at the new recruits, every one of which had at least been given basic footwear and a simple-but-thick coat, she could see that they had a lot of work to do. Not only to knock the rust off her veteran survivors, but to beat the new guys into shape.

  In light of that consideration, she realized that the longer it took to get to the midlands the better off they’d be. Just so long as they could get through the pass first.

  At least this time when it came to marching through the kingdom and foraging off the land, she had an idea of what she was supposed to do. Which was a hundred times better than back when she’d been just a clueless Squire’s heir, so that was something. She wasn’t quite as much the fool she’d been at the beginning, even if still not the veteran she needed to become unless the Prince suddenly received an attack of conscience and released them, or Lamont decided they’d done enough and called them home.

  Fat chance of that, she thought, snorting and turning her eyes and ears back where they should be which was on the warriors ready to fight under the Swan banner. Engaging in wishful thinking was only going to get people killed. She had to stay focused if she ever wanted to get back home in one piece.

  Chapter 18: A Woman Standing Outside in the Cold

  Standing in the middle of a hamlet—which was really nothing more than a small trading post just outside the entrance to
the pass that led up into the frozen north lands of Dog Keep, the Frost March, and the seat of the kingdom in the north, Ice Finger Keep—stood a woman in a thick, heavily-patched robe. Both the cowl and the hood of her robe was up to cover her face and head, keeping her warm but also concealing her features from random passersby.

  She’d walked up to the spot more than a month ago, but had been stopped by the impassable road that led through one of the only mountain passes into the northlands. And while taking a rest from the trials of the road had been gratefully received after a handful of days, its pleasures had soon paled and her feet had started to itch. Now, however, she stood and watched as a long line of men slowly emerged from between the massive rocks that formed the entrance and, she supposed when looked at from the other end, exit of this pass.

  She could have been back on the road two days earlier, but her intuition had told her that this would have only added several days each way to her journey. If she simply sat still for a handful of days then her quarry would come to her, and so it had turned out. For two days after the pass cleared, the Prince’s Army had come marching out just as she had predicted.

  With hungry eyes, she looked for two figures amongst the hoard of men and camp followers trundling onto the road below the little hamlet.

  One she desperately wanted to see, but likely wouldn’t—or, rather, would but only from a distance unless something went terribly wrong—while the other she knew not the face or bearing of, but would winkle out even if she had to die in the attempt. Others might say that finding a person you didn’t know would be impossible with this many people, but not for her.

  You see, she was a witch—and like called to like.

  Moreover, no one ensorcelled her daughter and got away with it—not unless that person was that daughter’s mother.

  Then it was time. She stepped down the trail that would allow her to join the long trail of camp followers, to all appearances just another women seeking the food and protection of the Prince’s Army.

  It would be soon, but there was no rush. Her powers were strongest at night…during the witching hour.

  Chapter 19: Tulla Summons her Apprentice

  Madame Tulla stood outside her tent, even though her bones were aching, and lit the brazier. After the flames were good and high, she reached into a pouch at her waist and tossed in two big double handfuls, one at a time, into the fire. The flames flared and sent up a nice-smelling, pink smoke into the air.

  Then she squatted down and while she waited fed little twigs and pieces of wood she’d gathered along the trail into the fire to keep herself warm.

  After far too long for an old woman’s taste, when she’d far rather be resting after a long hard day’s walk, a cloaked figure appeared from out of the dying sunlight that heralded dusk.

  “You called for me?” the figure asked in a melodious voice, throwing back her hood and tossing her head to settle her hair down below her shoulders. She looked confident and serene, as if the whole world owed her and that it was simply her due that she lay claim to whatever her eye fell upon.

  She was progressing with each passing day, but such youthful arrogance required temperance—temperance which the elder of the pair was happy to dispense.

  “How go matters with the Prince?” cackled the old woman with a wicked gleam in her eye.

  The serenity on the younger woman’s face cracked and then curdled like a taste of bad milk, and that expression was like sweet morning dew to the older woman.

  “I’ve secured the attention of one of ‘gallant young men’ of the court,” the young woman said sourly, “but though I’ve been in his presence twice now, the Prince so surrounds himself with wine and hussies. It’s hard to catch his attention without openly insulting my current suitor. I might have tried despite that if he didn’t currently have his eye so set on the Frost March’s widowed baroness. I’m afraid the time is not yet ripe.”

  “All fruit has a season; there’s no need to rush to pluck it early and bite into something sour,” Tulla advised after a moment’s thought. “I sent thee there mainly to learn the manner of the enemy. To learn his ways so that thou will be familiar when it is time to strike; that’s all I require. There’s no need to do anything thou do not wish.”

  “I will succeed with the Prince and secure the future of our people!” the young woman said fiercely.

  “How have the potions I made for you been working?” Tulla asked, switching the topic.

  “A little dollop in his wine cup, and afterwards the young master believes he is the gods-given hero to all of womankind. But except for the occasional sound or half incoherent word, all he does is sit there and drool on the couch for half a candle mark,” the young witch said with a moue of distaste, “I’ve hardly even had to use a working to cloud his mind, so eager is he to take the wine from my hand first.”

  “Exactly as it was intended when I brewed it,” the Old Branch Witch said with deep satisfaction, “however, be frugal with the use of the mind-clouding magics. If it’s too recent or powerful, those ivory towered home invaders can winkle it out,” she warned.

  “I know better than to give the White Tower Wizards even so much as a hint of real magic,” the younger woman said with a sniff.

  “Good,” Tulla said with satisfaction, “remember, securing a royal bastard for a bloodline curse on the whole family is all well and good, and will serve as a useful sacrifice for the cause. But we can’t allow our burning desire for revenge to cloud our judgment. Although they deserve that and so much more, our most important task, my young apprentice, is and must be to rebuild the witch guard, protect our people and with luck, time and the proper candidate,” here she gave the younger woman a significant look, “see the rise of a new Witch Queen who will lead them out of bondage, cast off their shackles and throw down the accursed invaders who even managed to cast a curtain over the moon!”

  “You mean…” the apprentice witch asked with a catch in her voice.

  “Thou art not my only pot bubbling in the hearth,” Tulla said, sitting back and patting her belly complacently, “first thou must finish thy basic instructions and grow into a full-fledged witch, then we will see if thou have what it takes to pass the trials and join the guard.”

  “I will succeed!” cried the younger witch before quickly lowering back down her voice. “And,” she added quietly, “I will free our people and become the first Witch Queen in almost a hundred years.”

  “Ambition is good—arrogance is not,” Tulla said sharply, “there is no certainty you have what it takes to become an Earth Witch, let alone join the guard or pass the trials to become a Queen. Focus on the tasks at hand.”

  “I will. I swear it!” the young woman smiled modestly even as her eyes shone with an inner radiance.

  Tulla threw her head back and cackled into the sky. Her plans were finally, after many long years, coming to fruition. The only thing that spoiled this nearly perfect moment was when she idly cast her thoughts toward her other talented apprentice. When she did so, she felt a vague premonition of danger that seemed to grow the longer she dwelt on it with her preternatural senses.

  With a loud ‘harrumph,’ Tulla cast a beady glare into the growing darkness around her tent.

  “Mistress?” asked the young woman.

  “Be gone, you one,” Tulla said callously, “my bones ache and I have wards to set before I can sleep.”

  Nodding cautiously, her apprentice carefully withdrew, slinking away into the darkness while Tulla stomped into her tent to gather her things.

  Chapter 20: Foraging

  The sound of crying, shouting and in general large and growing commotion taking place at the farm in front of her caused Falon Rankin, Lieutenant and Knight extra-ordinary to sigh with resignation and reluctantly turn the head of her horse before kicking it in the ribs.

  “Yah!” she shouted urging him to the farm. Even though what she really wanted to do was slowly walk it until the all the hullabaloo disappeared entirely, or
better yet just ride on. But she was an officer and a gentlewoman—or, in this case, playing the role of a gentleman—and duty demanded she go and receive a double helping of verbal abuse.

  When she pulled up next to the barn, she saw a large male farmer who was being held with by one of her Swans on either arm. He didn’t look like he was trying to put up much of a fight. Meanwhile, a woman Falon presumed to be his wife was playing tug-of-war with one of her men.

  Holding with both hands onto a large, yellow squash like it was a pot of gold, and cursing the hapless young man who was valiantly trying to tug it out of her grasp—and only succeeding in dragging her further down the muddy path leading from the barn to the company wagon—the woman creatively reviled eight generations of his family.

  “What’s going on here?” Falon sighed.

  “Thieves! Pirates! They’re stealing the winter crop,” shouted the farm wife.

  “Since we’re inland, you mean bandits. Pirates are only found on open water. And yes, while they’re neither pirates, bandits nor thieves, these men are requisitioning your crops for the Prince’s army. You’ll be given a parchment and chit for the food, which can be turned over to any reeve or tax farmer in exchange the next time your taxes come due,” Falon stated firmly.

  “Don’t just stand there, you moron!” the farm wife shouted at her husband. “After they’re done with the winter squash they’ll be after the seed corn. Fight! Are you man or a useless, shriveled husk? Fight, curse you!” Putting words to action, and ignoring Falon’s words entirely, the farm wife twisted around, dug her heels in and futilely tried to pull the winter squash—Swan warrior still attached—back into the barn.

  “Technically, that would be rebellion against the crown,” Falon advised calmly, looking over at the farmer as his wife continued to berate her husband, the warrior and the world in general.