The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3) Page 15

  With narrowed eyes, Tulla stared into the darkness until, with a loud and final harrumph, she stormed back into her tent.

  Tonight had been nothing short of a disaster.

  Chapter 28: Marching into the Lands of the Great Frog

  Falon felt a great sense of relief at entering the lands of the Baron Froggor on time. That feeling was tempered only by the uneasy feeling in her stomach that said maybe they—meaning, the entire Princely army, not just the Swans—shouldn’t have been out here in the first place.

  For what reason were they ready to go to war? Taxes and rebellion against the crown. From the response of the first village of Baron Froggor they marched through, the inhabitants had no idea their lord was out of favor with the royal family, let alone in direct conflict.

  Of course, it could all be a ruse. But, knowing Prince William’s tendency to pick fights and escalate affairs—affairs that should have been settled one-on-one—into conflicts between armies, she doubted it.

  Rebels that didn’t know they were in rebellion, fighting wars over taxes that hadn’t been paid yet. It all felt…less than strictly honorable. Even if the Prince was technically in the right, why did Falon and the people that followed her from one battle into the next have to fight and die? Was the cause really worth it, or were the stated reasons really only a cover for the real reason they were here? She didn’t know.

  Sadly, as a mere lieutenant—even one who’d been recently knighted—hers was no reason why hers was just to do or die. And with Prince William’s record of accomplishments, it was more likely war and death than peace suddenly breaking out.

  “Thinking deep thoughts, Lieutenant?” Darius asked as he walked up beside her.

  “Just thinking about warfare and our leader’s moral character,” Falon said glumly.

  “A dangerous pastime for any soldier, but doubly so for an officer,” Darius replied promptly.

  “Yeah,” Falon said lethargically.

  “My advice is not to think too deeply about things that you can’t do anything about,” Darius said gravely.

  “Tell me,” Falon said turning to the Imperial-training-master-turned-battalion-senior-sergeant, “do you ever wonder about just why it is we’re fighting?”

  Darius’s brows lifted, “I try not to.”

  “I’m serious,” Falon said with irritation.

  “So am I,” Darius riposted evenly.

  Falon was taken aback. “But why? Why wouldn’t you want to know why we’re fighting?” She couldn’t believe that anyone would deliberately dig a hole to put their head in and then ignore the world around them.

  “Once upon a time there was a young recruit who’d recently joined the Imperial army. He was full of questions just like you are now,” Darius said, “and he was also full of ambition and curiosity, two of the greatest threats to a soldier’s life and career imaginable. His regiment was soon sent out to the provinces where they were ordered to restore order with a rebellious governor who hadn’t been paying his taxes. Eager to make a name for himself, all he could think about was clashing with enemy soldiers and proving himself on the battlefield. Quite the proper dream of martial glory wouldn’t you say?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it so far,” Falon said cautiously, realizing that the story was almost certainly about Darius—and that it was going to end with a twist to it that she just as certainly wasn’t going to like.

  “When we marched in, do you know how many times our regiment clashed with rebel forces?” he asked.

  “No idea,” Falon replied.

  “Not once,” Darius said.

  Falon blinked. “Okay,” she said slowly.

  “You see, the Governor was holed up in the provincial capital with those military units that had chosen to support him. He knew that his forces were too strong for us to storm the city without committing more of the army than the Emperor could afford at that time, and he wanted to negotiate better terms for himself, his House and, incidentally, the Province.”

  Falon nodded to show that she was following along.

  “It was a rich province, and the Governor was certain that the Emperor would rather have a smaller portion of a rich harvest than a greater share of the much smaller, war-torn remnants…he was wrong,” Darius said, holding her gaze.

  Falon swallowed but continued to meet and hold his gaze.

  “Instead of proving himself in glorious combat against rebel forces, that young soldier and his unit were sent into the rich farmlands of that province and ordered to burn the fields of every farm in the region,” Darius said, his voice cold and unfeeling as he spoke.

  “The farms…?” Falon echoed.

  “You see, the Governor had calculated wrong. The Emperor would much rather have a large slice of a smaller pie than to surrender part of his rights to an ambitious territorial magnate. Incidentally, that winter nearly half the population of that region starved to death,” Darius said pitilessly.

  “That’s horrible!” Falon cried out in dismay, disgust and instinctive rejection.

  “That’s exactly what that young soldier thought. If it hadn’t been for military discipline and the strict punishment meted out to those that deserted or refused orders—meaning death by execution—he would have refused to carry out orders,” said Darius, who then closed his eyes.

  “He would have done the right thing,” Falon said indignantly, “he should have deserted.”

  “It would have been right for him, but wrong for the Empire and would have led to a death toll so large that it would have made the death toll inside that province pale in comparison,” Darius said with a painful expression. “You see, unbeknownst to that soldier, although it was revealed later, there was a cabal of governors and important magnates in the Empire who were receiving bribes and taking foreign monies to support a rebellion that would have torn the Empire apart. Pitting brother against brother and father against son, while all around them the greedy kingdoms, barbarian hordes, and lesser powers waited to tear into the Empire’s bleeding corpse. So yes, the soldier that young man became would have slept better at night, presuming he survived the impending civil war. But everything he professed to fight for would have been destroyed.”

  “That’s…awful,” Falon said feeling repulsed at that kind of choice.

  “After that, the Governor was no longer in a position to fund a well-armed rebellion. Imperial investigators were able to infiltrate the cabal and the back of the rebellion was broken for a generation,” Darius said, his mouth turning down. “The saddest part was that if the cabal really had the best interests of the Empire at heart. They had the funds and ability to import enough food to feed the starving farmers of the province. But they were more interested in their own personal wealth and self-interest and, shortly after the rebellion was cut off, the entire organization fell apart.”

  “Even though—” Falon said after a moment.

  “Would you prefer one village burn or everyone in the half the kingdom was killed?” Darius asked.

  “But…but,” Falon repeated, trying to think her way through it.

  “And that’s why I prefer not to think too deeply about what we’re doing,” Darius said with a sigh.

  “But doesn’t that require you to trust your leaders to do what’s right?” Falon said crossly, finding her way back to the core of her argument and, like a dog with a bone, she determined to work her way down to the core of the issue.

  He patted her on the shoulder twice before giving one last slap and turning away. “You’ll notice I’m not in the Imperial army anymore,” he said walking away with his shoulders slumped.

  Falon made to retort, but she felt bad that Darius was so obviously down because of their talk. For a long moment she was lost wondering if everything in real life was as twisted as in Darius’s tale. She honestly didn’t know.

  Then she decided that it was all too big for her. All she could do was live her life, and she needed to do it as honorably as she was able to. I
f the Emperor, the Governor, or the Cabal in that story had acted with honor then none of that probably would have happened.

  In the end, all she could do was her best leaving the rest of in the hands of the gods. That’s what they were there for after all: to handle those problems that were too big or too hard for humanity.

  In the end she resolved to pray more often and live her life as honorably as she could. Maybe, if that young man in Darius’s story had acted differently, he wouldn’t have had to leave his country and maybe even just maybe those poor farmers could have been saved.

  They would never know, but it just didn’t make sense to Falon that an entire region must be sacrificed to save the whole. It was one thing if foreigners attacked and leveled the region, but it was quite another thing if it was done by the very army sworn to protect them.

  Still mildly confused, but feeling as if somehow something had been resolved, Falon felt much better that evening as she helped set up her own tent.

  After dinner was done and she was stretched out, yawning on the bedroll in her tent as she read her father’s journal, the magic thorns tattooed around her neck began digging in and squeezing her neck until she felt like the life was being ripped out of her. Her hands flew up to her neck in short-lived panic as her fingers dug into her skin until blood started to trickle, but nothing helped.

  Then, without warning, the constriction suddenly loosened until she could breathe again. Shortly thereafter, it relaxed entirely.

  “Help,” she croaked, breathing in and out in big harsh gasps until her body recovered and the fear subsided.

  “What was that?” she asked, feeling her neck gingerly. But other than where she’d scratched herself, there was nothing. In fact…she felt lighter than she had since the day she was forcibly tattooed y Tulla.

  Fighting her fear, Falon closed the book, put it away, leaned over to blow out the candle, and placed the candle on the campaign desk. She decided to head out to a nearby campfire for some company.

  It was suddenly feeling a lot darker inside her tent than she was used to.

  Muirgheal, Witch of the Two Wicks, gathered her cloak around herself as she stood and watched the camp below her begin to stir with life.

  The birds cawed loudly in the trees, led by one particularly annoying crow.

  Her mouth quirked; crows were so boring and uninteresting. Humming under her breath, she started to put her mind in a trance-like state while she drew the thin, broken-tipped stub of a knife—which was all a working witch could afford nowadays—and began to notch a small stick.

  After spending everything she could beg or borrow in order to come free her daughter, it was unlikely she would be able to replace something like her knife with something better. The only way she could see to upgrade would be if she stumbled upon a replacement on her journey home.

  Home. Her heart twisted in her chest at the thought, inevitably bringing to mind cherished memories of her one and only daughter. For a long moment she was tempted to go down and meet her daughter, to ensure herself one last time that all was well and Falon was safe. But then she pursed her lips.

  She had no place in an army. For what good reason would any mother have to walk to the ends of the earth, up to the frozen edge of the twisted northlands themselves, to see her child? She knew it would end badly if she was spotted and recognized by the Wicks men who stayed near her daughter.

  Besides, it was better this way. If she stayed she would only be interfering. Falon walked the path of the Thorn for now and she should—she must—face her ordeal on her own. Anything Muirgheal did now would only interfere with that. Freeing her daughter from that evil hag was nothing short of duty as far as she was concerned. Restoring balance and freedom of choice to her little ones is an obligation carried by every true witch and mother.

  In the end, and perhaps as important as any other factor which she had considered in recent weeks, she knew nothing of swords and armies.

  As her fingers worked whittling notches into the wood with her little knife, the obnoxious crow finally seemed to lose interest and took its noisy self elsewhere. Then, like silent death on wings, a spotted white owl took its place and Muirgheal smiled. Waiting until after it had snatched a field mouse, landed on a branch, and torn the little vole’s head off, she reached out with the last powers of the waning moonlight and extended her arm.

  The wise old owl gave her a long, considering look before swooping down to take a perch on her arm, convinced that there was something good to eat.

  Muirgheal heaved a sigh of relief even as moments later the owl’s talons gripped her arm with the same deadly force it had used to snatch its verminous meals, and she winced. Emptying her mind, she slowly reached out until she felt the small warm mind glow that was the owl even as she over turned her other hand and offered the creature a fresh rabbit’s leg.

  The owl hesitated before regally stretching forth a claw and taking the rabbit leg from her. That was the moment her magic caught on its little mind and the owl cocked its head. Trilling to it soothingly, the Witch carefully explained what she wanted in a language the raptor understood. Moments later, its beak struck the rabbit’s leg tearing off flesh and the deal was struck. With only the slightest resistance to her overture, the owl had agreed to carry out one service for one leg of meat.

  Impressing the image of her daughter and the route to her tent, Muirgheal awkwardly tied off a small leather amulet to the stick she’d been notching. Then, waiting until the owl was full of its meal, she placed the stick into the owl’s waiting grip.

  Prompted by an upward thrust of her arm, the owl surged back into the air.

  “Warm night breezes under your wings, my little friend,” she said, watching as it circled overhead before winging its way down to the camp. Wishing it a good flight, she gathered her patched and threadbare cloak around her and turned away.

  She didn’t want to interfere but there were certain things her daughter needed to know. Among those things was that no matter how bad things became her mother would always be there for her when she was needed. That, too, was a mother’s job.

  Falon heard something scratching and screeching on the top of her tent.

  The noise dragged her from a well-contented sleep. It was too loud for a mouse or other small creature, and it simply would not stop.

  “Go on! Get out of here!” she yelled, but the only response was another screech as it scratched the top of her tent.

  Eyes grudgingly opening, her gaze landed on her still-sheathed sword. Grabbing it but not bothering to draw it from the scabbard, she staggered bleary-eyed out the tent flap. She soon saw a large white night owl perched on the top of her tent pole, its pose regal and uncaring as she waved her still-sheathed sword wildly in the air.

  She didn’t try to hit the creature, even though she probably should have tried. Camp roasted owl would be a nice treat over the hard tack and jerky porridge they’d been having for breakfast the last few days.

  Despite her antics, the Owl just looked down at her regally like she was a poor performing subject.

  “Alright, you’re just asking for it now,” Falon growled and—just as she had placed her hand on the leather sheath of her sword and was starting to think about turning a perfectly elegant looking bird into fried wings and roasted thighs to go with her porridge—the Owl spread and beat her wings.

  The avian rose into the air just outside reach of her sword, Falon watched as a feather floated downward. The beautiful white feather was moments away from her hand and consuming all of her attention when the owl opened its talons and, out of nowhere, a stick fell on her head.

  “Ack!” she flinched, over-balancing and then falling onto her rump in the front of her tent. “You!” she cried, shaking her sword at spotted white night owl as it winged away with a screech.

  “Bird brain,” she sniffed, picking up the stick. She was about to throw it at the bird when she spotted something tied to the end. “Wonder what we’ve got here?” she muttered, hal
f-intrigued despite herself. For half a moment she thought about taking whatever it was off the stick and then launching the stick at the owl anyway. But by the time she looked back up again the owl was definitely out of stick-throwing range. Too bad, she sighed.

  Intrigued despite herself, she turned her attention to whatever it was stuck on stick and soon discovered a leather necklace, the kind used to hold…her hand went to her throat.

  It was an amulet of a deer, carved from a deer antler. The graceful line of the neck and the crack toward the bottom were exactly like the one Mama Muirgheal always wore.

  Standing up, she looked around.

  “Mama?” she called loudly, only to be greatly embarrassed as the eyes and cocked heads of a couple of other early risers turned her way. She irritably waved them off and hurried around the backside of the tent the amulet clutched in her hand, the stick forgotten in the scant grass outside her tent.

  Not seeing any sign of her mother, Falon’s hand clenched squeezing the little deer amulet tight.

  Stalking back in front of the tent, she almost went back inside to think before remembering the stick. After a moment’s hesitation she bent down to pick it up. It was an ordinary looking stick, though someone had clearly worked on it a little bit…

  As her hands ran up and down the stick, she was reminded of her mother’s winter teachings and her hand froze. The witches of old used to carve notches in sticks to pass on the old knowledge before the New Blood and their parchments and papers had replaced them and her mother had force her to learn this old system of…well, writing was the closest thing to it. Although they used symbols and…