The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3) Page 2

  Bending over, she started to undo the laces of her footwear. But instead of an easy removal, what ensued was a fearsome struggle that pitted seemingly unyielding wet leather against sheer, brute strength.

  Finally, with one last heave, the troublesome boot slipped free with a pop. Leaning back in her chair and straightening with relief, she extended her leg. Wiggling her toes and stretching her foot this way and that, Falon moaned with relief at the pleasant sensation of an elevated, unencumbered foot.

  For a long minute, all she did was sit there luxuriating in the pleasant sensation of foot-freedom before the other one started to throb, protesting at its increasingly cramped confines when its sister was already wiggling freely.

  With a sigh that turned into a grunt she leaned down to take off the other boot when there was a knock on the door.

  Shaking her head irritably, she ignored it.

  Whoever it was went from a proper knocking to a hammer-fisted pounding.

  “Who is it?” she yelled in exasperation.

  “It’s Ernest,” the boy on the other side of the door called out.

  “Go away!” she exclaimed as she turned back to dealing with the recalcitrant boot.

  The door pounding restarted in earnest.

  “Ernest!” she shouted angrily.

  “The Captain wants to see you!” the boy—no, the young man—called back through the door.

  For half a moment she was floored and then, snatching up the boot she’d just taken off, she threw it at the door.

  “I just got back,” she all but whined before picking back up the boot and staring at it with dissatisfaction, “what does he want?”

  “How am I to know the Captain’s mind?” Ernest retorted. He waited a beat before asking impatiently, “You coming or not?”

  “Hey, what am I, chopped liver?” Falon retorted. “Is that any way to talk to your Knight?”

  “A Knight maybe...Sir Falon,” Ernest said, waiting half a beat before adding that last bit sardonically.

  Falon snorted.

  “Can ye open this thing and let me in? It’s kind of hard to carry a conversation through the door,” Ernest pleaded.

  She snorted even louder. But after a moment’s thought, she leaned over and pulled up the handle.

  “It’s not latched,” she called out.

  After a moment the door opened, and Ernest paused in the door. “Ye look cold, wet, and miserable, Sir Fal,” the former farm boy turned Swan Battalion Warrior said critically.

  “Well thank you, Mr. Obvious,” Falon rolled her eyes.

  Ernest eyed her and then shook his head. “Need any help?” he asked.

  Silently, she extended her still-booted foot, “Please.”

  “Here we go,” Ernest said, reaching down and grabbing her boot with both hands.

  “Careful!” Falon yelped in protest as Ernest practically pulled her out of the chair as soon as he started reefing on the boot, “I’m not some rug you can take out to beat during spring cleaning!”

  “Stop squirming and just hold still,” Ernest grunted, readjusting his grip on her leg.

  Seizing hold of the seat of the chair, she held on for dear life until finally he succeeded.

  “Aahhh,” she said, feeling a stab of pain followed by sweet relief as her second and final foot came free.

  “Easy as pie,” Ernest said with a grin.

  She looked over at him deadpan for a long moment and then pulled back her foot and kicked him.

  “Hey,” Ernest said, hopping backward.

  “You deserved that one,” she informed him.

  “Ask a fellow to help and then abuse him, why don’t you?” Ernest grumped.

  “Learn to live with it,” Falon sniffed, standing up and slipping on a pair of leather moccasins. She wouldn’t dare wear them outside the manor; they’d be soaked through within the first three steps, or her toes would have been frozen through. But for use in the manor they would work just fine.

  “Typical abuse of power from the ol’ lord of the manor,” Ernest said with a lifted brow.

  “Dream on. I’m neither a lord nor the owner of this manor,” Falon said flatly, “that’s Captain Sir Smythe.”

  “Yet,” Ernest said, “You’re not a lord yet.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I think you’re letting delusions of my grandeur go to your head. Sure, I was ordained a Knight. But do you see any manor here?” she retorted and then colored realizing she was in the still damaged remains of one, “You know what I mean! My knighting was an aberration, a freak of nature. Besides all that,” she continued, speaking over Ernest when he tried to talk, “I don’t own land. I’m not a Lord—I’m not even a Free Knight! Just a lieutenant in what is perilously close to becoming an outright mercenary company.”

  “I don’t know,” Ernest said slowly, “ye certainly have an imperious nature, and clearly ye like to tell everyone what to do—”

  “’Imperious nature,’ my foot,” she growled, “I’ll show you ‘imperious’ the next time you sass me. I’m a lieutenant, so of course I have to tell people what to do—that’s my job! For a person you like to upbraid for acting ‘lord of the manor,’ you sure don’t seem to take that lord, me, or what I say to you very seriously, Ernest.”

  “Just like a lord,” Ernest nodded knowingly.

  “If that were true, you’d be facing the knotted rope,” Falon waved him away. Then, turning to give him an extra hard ‘push’ out of her room when he moved too slow for her tastes, added, “Get out of here; I have to go see the Captain.”

  “I’m a-gettin’,” Ernest laughed, jumping out of her room and through the door utilizing the extra force of her push. He landed haphazardly on his good leg and grabbed hold of the wall for support, causing her to feel a slight tinge of remorse—which quickly disappeared as soon as she saw the smile on his face.

  “You…” she scolded, shaking her head before unwillingly revealing a smile of her own. Snatching back up her sword with one hand and her winter cloak with the other, she walked out of the room with long, ground-eating strides. She’d learned early on not to head out without sufficient gear to ward off the unreasonably frigid winter cold.

  Chapter 3: A Last Discussion with Smythe

  -Knock-

  -Knock-

  She knocked on the door twice before standing and waiting for a reply.

  “Come in,” came Captain Smythe’s hoarse voice. A moment later there was a cough and the sound of someone clearing their throat.

  “Yes, Sir,” she said, reaching down for the door latch and then pushing the door open.

  Stepping into the crowded room, she skirted around a pair of wet wolf furs, over a pile of half rotted spear shafts—with spearheads still attached—and noted with a critical eye that less than three fourths of the spearheads appeared broken or in need of repair. Moments before stepping on a large bearskin rug, she heard the sound of snoring and shaking her head tiptoed around the rug wrapped sleeping figure of Smythe’s nephew.

  “Bit of an obstacle course I know,” Smythe coughed one more time in the back of his hand before gesturing toward a tripod wooden chair. There was a medium-sized travel pack slung over it, in serious need of repair, but she sat there anyway.

  Gazing at the travel pack and thinking of the amount of needlework that would be needed to close the holes and reinforce the shoulder straps, she was silently thankful that she was no longer even nominally responsible for the maintenance of Sir Smythe’s gear. Not that she’d done much to begin with, but thankfully that job now entirely belonged to Smythe’s nephew and newly minted squire: Doolie.

  “Sit down, Rankin,” Smythe barked hoarsely, the sound of a frog evident in his throat.

  “Hope the cough’s okay, Captain,” Falon said with some concern.

  “The cough…I’ll be fine. The Wench gave me an herbal infusion that seems to be working. Believe it or not, I’m much better than I was yesterday, Lieutenant,” Smythe grumbled, making a sour face
as he reached over and took another chug from the mug of tea sitting on the desk.

  “Glad to hear it, Captain,” she nodded happily.

  His mouth worked silently for a moment before he sighed. “That may just be the last time you call me ‘Captain,’ Rankin,” the rough and grizzled middle aged warrior grunted.

  Falon blinked. “Pardon me, Sir?” she asked cautiously.

  “You heard me, Rankin,” Smythe said, reaching down and tossing a scroll with a broken seal on it to the desk.

  “Yes, Sir,” she replied with absent minded contriteness.

  With a questioning look and answering nod of permission, the young woman masquerading as a man in order to fulfill her family’s military duty reached over and picked up the parchment.

  “I’m sorry to say that those of us staying here in this…frozen wasteland are going to miss you and the rest of the company as you march off to your bright new destination, Sir Falon,” Smythe said with a hint of weariness combined with just a touch of sourness in his voice.

  “Really??” she asked looking over at him. “And we’re a battalion, Sir,” she belatedly reminded.

  “Well we’ll certainly miss your swords come spring when the tribes start to feel their oats and all that,” said the Captain.

  This transfer wasn’t anything new, in fact it had been expected for months now, but having the day arrive suddenly and out of the blue like this was unexpected. The day the Swan Battalion officially mobilized, leaving behind the Captain—now a landed Knight Lord of this Manor and territory—had finally arrived.

  “I see,” she said, unrolling the scroll and quickly scanning its contents.

  “You’re to mobilize your remaining men and muster them over at Ice Finger Keep as soon as possible. Which, in this old ‘former’ Captain’s opinion, should be in one to two weeks, Lieutenant,” said the old warhorse.

  “I’m sure we’ll manage…but isn’t it ‘Captain’ now?” she asked pausing a beat before adding, “and what’s this business about ‘remaining men’?”

  “As thou’ll see in yon scroll,” Smythe said pointing at the parchment in her very hand, “the Prince give me permission to recruit among the surviving Swans as heavily as I deem necessary.” After saying this, the middle aged warrior leaned back in his chair placing his hands over his belly with satisfaction.

  “Can the Prince do that?” Falon asked, surprised to hear a hint of sharpness in her voice. Since when did she come to care so much about being a warrior and leader of men that she felt threatened when someone tried to snatch them away from her? “The Battalion was sponsored by Lord Lamont and, as I recall, your feudal grant runs through the Baron of Ice Finger—not his Royal Highness.”

  “If you look at the bottom, the grant of permission was countersigned by the new Baron,” Smythe said, leaning forward and taking his hands off his belly and thumping a thick, calloused finger on the wooden desk. “Any man with me that wants to sign on with the new outfit is free to do so,” his voice deepened as he spoke, “though I do feel a bit poorly about thinning the ranks of his lordship Lamont’s fighting company. Most of the men who’ll be staying were recruited by me personally, and the company itself was forwarded to crown in lieu of other service or tax. There might be legal technicalities I don’t know about, but as a practical matter the Swan Company is at the service of the Prince and under his orders unless and until Lamont recalls it. As a practical matter, lad, his Lordship isn’t going to rock the boat and tell the Prince what he can or can’t do with this detachment. As he has no members of the Swan bloodline, I highly doubt he’d do so even if the Prince stood up the entire company and executed half the men for no reason at all—or even if he decided to send us forward unsupported to storm a castle by ourselves while the rest of the army watched from the sidelines. Something you need to reconcile yourself to is the fact that, aside from a few social constraints, we’re all of us dancing in the palm of his hands. The sooner you come to grips with that, the better off you and the men under you will be.”

  “I see,” she mumbled, feeling her belly sour at the thought that her life and the lives of her men were in the palm of Prince William’s hand. Unlike many others, she knew far too well the character of their Prince Marshal and exactly how the new Baron of Ice Finger had come to be elevated.

  “Another thing to keep in mind, at least as it regards the new rank: it’ll be Acting Captain at best, and I wouldn’t count on keeping it for any longer than it takes you to march the men over to Ice Finger. Unless you’ve got more of a hold over the Prince or someone in his court than I’m aware of,” at this he gave her a sidelong glance his eyes slightly hooded; this no doubt a reference to her surprise elevation to the Knighthood at the express order of the Prince. “I also expect the Prince to take this chance to put his people into the company and secure his control, at least temporarily.”

  “What? Unbelievable. And we’re a battalion not a company,” Falon said, her face falling because despite her words she found herself believing this very much. What had she worked all this winter and the better part of the previous year, building up the Swans, to only see it raided by the Captain for his personal fighting tail—and then to be taken over by the Prince?

  “Maybe now, but not for much longer I’d say,” Smythe said pausing to mull it over before giving a decisive answer. “Most of my half of the battalion, the First Company, are coming with me. Between that and our losses during the fall and this winter, we’ll be back down to reinforced company strength.”

  Frustrated at these words, Falon felt a sudden flash of anger and her mouth lit off without her thinking too deeply about it. “Not if I recruit it back up to strength before we get to Ice Finger,” she said firmly.

  “There’s no way that’ll happen,” Smythe said dismissively.

  Falon arched a brow, meeting his look and holding it.

  “I may only be the Acting Captain from now until the Swans reach the Prince, but during that time I can recruit whoever I want,” she said, sticking out her jaw.

  “I don’t see how that’ll help you. What are you going to do, recruit a few starving peasants along the way?” he sneered.

  “How about I start with the Ice Fox tribe, and add those starving peasants as needed afterwards,” she said mulishly.

  The color started to rise in the Captain’s face. “You can’t trust those savages,” he said angrily, “taking a few here and there is one thing. A handful of restless warriors eager to leave the tribe won’t threaten your command, but I don’t care if the whole tribe has supposedly personally surrendered to you—you bring in enough of them to build back up our strength and, at best, thou’ll get thy throat cut in the middle of the night!”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Falon said refusing to back down, “besides, it’s my command now and if it’s a mistake then I’ll be the one to bear the consequences good or bad.”

  Smythe looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel before sitting back in his chair in disgust. “If you want to get thyself killed, that’s yer call,” Smythe grunted irritably, clearly not reconciled with the decision but recognizing that in a short while he would no longer have a say in how things were run. “Still…you’re right: it’s your mistake to make,” he said, his Old Blood accent finally settling back down, “on a more practical front, have you considered what will happen if you take the majority of their surviving men with you? I certainly won’t keep them here after you leave. They respect you because you accepted their surrender. While you and their warriors are gone, the women and children will either starve or be absorbed by another tribe. Moreover, I’m sure the savages who’ve signed up with you so far know this.”

  This was definitely a concern, andFalon’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I’m sure I can figure something out,” she said after a moment’s consideration.

  “Think fast, Lieutenant; the men are relying on you to keep them from having their throats slit in the middle of the night by half-mad savages boiling over with
concern over their families,” Smythe said witheringly before dismissing the subject. “As for mobilizing the men staying with the Swan, it’s time you got with your command team and started to get the ball rolling.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Falon nodded.

  “I told you: as of now I’m no longer the captain of this outfit. It’s time to man up and show you have what it takes, Sir Falon.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Falon said, unable to suppress a hint of sourness. She stood up abruptly.

  “Remember, Rankin: everyone in the company will be relying on you, and only on you, as soon as you step out from this territory. Don’t disappoint me,” Smythe said sternly, a hint of wistfulness and regret crept into his voice as he spoke.

  “For all of less than a week,” Falon muttered darkly, but nodded nonetheless and then saluted before turning to go.

  “Oh, and one last thing, Rankin,” the Captain said just as she reached the door causing her to pause and look over her shoulder at him.

  She cocked her head.

  “Nice beard,” he smirked.

  Falon’s face turned beet red and in response, Sir Smythe threw his head back and roared with laughter. Shaking with silent fury she clenched her fists together and turning around stalked through the door. As soon as the weather turned she was ripping this farce of facial hair masquerading as a beard out of her face with her own two hands!

  “Don’t make a mess of my company, Rankin! If you screw up, I’ll personally come down from this icy hellhole to tear off your head and use it to play handball. You hear me, Rankin?” Smythe stopped laughing long enough to yell at her before once again bursting out into deep belly laughs.

  “It’s a battalion!” she quietly seethed in a ferociously low voice. She couldn’t wait until she and the men of ‘her’ Swan Battalion where packed up ready and out of Smythe Manor for good. “Use my head for handball, is it,” she silently swore at the man who cursed her and swore revenge if she destroyed ‘his’ company with one hand and used the other to plunder that very same company for any man he could get. He was a hypocrite, that’s what he was. Big old, lumbering hypocrite that bullied others using his strength and position to do it, too—a pox on his entire house!