The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3) Page 5

  “Gather two cords of firewood and deliver it to the camp before dark,” Falon commanded.

  “Pardon?” Gearalt asked, finally looking surprised.

  “Two cords plus a dozen winter hares or two bucks, or it’s the knotted rope for every man who left the manor without my permission,” Falon said with narrowed eyes. “Three lashes each.”

  “You want us to scout, gather firewood, and hunt all while on the march,” the Sergeant demanded.

  “I’ve heard how the forager squad is a resourceful unit with unique skills, that the foragers are so valuable that minor things like discipline, obedience and respect for their commander can be put aside at times. Show me the resourcefulness of your men Sergeant,” she said with forced calm.

  “To hear is to obey, Sir Knight,” the Sergeant bit out the words before stomping off.

  Falon waited until he was outside of easy eavesdropping range and then snorted.

  However, true to his word, the Foragers not only managed to deliver the two cords of firewood, the dozen hares and three deer—although only one of them was a buck—they also managed to deliver three new recruits at the same time.

  Of course, this feat was made possible due to the fact that they steered the main column to a campsite that just so happened to be the, now former, residence of the new recruits. And they along with all their remaining firewood stocks had been appropriated by the foragers for Swan Battalion use.

  As the locals had been slowly starving in their huts for the past few weeks, the new recruits weren’t very particular about what was taken or where they were going. So long as their bowls were filled with stewed meat.

  “These people only live a few days’ march from the manor,” Falon said, more upset with the fact the peasants had been so close to the manor and didn’t have enough to eat than the fact the foragers hadn’t had to lift so much as a finger, let alone an axe, to get that firewood. “How could they be in such dire condition?” she glowered.

  Looking around at the new recruits—who were clearly excited to be joining a group that would feed them—Falon almost felt disgusted with herself.

  “And what about their women folk?” she questioned.

  “The manor could only feed so many extra mouths, let alone provide sleeping space with our numbers added on,” Tug explained. “The Captain decided to only take in those families that clearly didn’t have the food stocks or firewood to survive the winter.”

  “I know that!” Falon growled, and then sharply reined herself in. “I remember the reasoning but I thought we sent out enough patrols that this sort of things wouldn’t happen.”

  “Unfortunately the Prince only allocated us so many supplies before we departed Ice Finger and the food stocks locally were less than ideal,” Tug Bad Scales said gently, papering over any number of large factors—such as the fact that if they hadn’t had a great deal of luck with the hunt it’s likely that these peasants would not have been the only ones starving at this time. “As it is, our supplies are very low. It’s a good thing we left the manor when we did.”

  “Another shrewd plan of our fearless leader…former leader, that is, sending us early in order to save his people from starvation,” Falon said lightly but on the inside she couldn’t help feeling a touch of bitterness. It would have been nice to be involved in the planning and strategy session. If only so she could learn.

  “I’m sure that was a concern of the captain’s,” Tug said agreed.

  “It would have been nice if he would have mentioned it! Then maybe I could have done something about these starving peasants!” Falon said indignantly, waving her had at the peasants still busy gulping down steaming hot broth.

  “Lieutenant Falon,” Gearalt saluted smugly as he joined her. “Resourceful enough for yer?”

  “Don’t get cocky on me just yet, Sergeant,” Falon growled, although in truth she had to admit that they done exactly what she’d asked them to. “Although it was done in just about the laziest way imaginable, you’ve met my expectations…if just barely.” She warned.

  “I’m sorry if the ten winter hares we brought in fell short of the dozen the Lieutenant requested; hopefully the pair of squirrels and trio of grouse we bagged can make up for our shame,” the Sergeant said with a straight face.

  Falon grimaced.

  “Oh, get out of here,” she scolded before pausing, “and tell your men ‘good work’ from me, personally. They came through.”

  Gearalt snorted and turned to go.

  “However!” Falon warned as soon as he turned away, “now that I’ve seen the results I’m expecting more of the same tomorrow. Tell your foragers not to rest on their laurels and be ready to head in advance of the rest of the battalion in the morning. Sleep well!” she finished cheerfully.

  “Bastard,” muttered the Sergeant in a voice ‘almost’ low enough to escape her ears, but all her senses had been slowly heightening ever since she had started practicing her witchcraft last fall. “Bright and early, Lieutenant,” he finished sourly, this time loud enough for all to hear.

  “That’s the spirit!” she said, happily pouring salt in the proverbial wound as she cheered him on his way. It might be harsh on the foragers to be both scouts and vanguard twice in a row, but then again who asked their Sergeant to so obviously butt heads with their new top leader like some kind of thickheaded billy goat? Besides, much as she hated to admit it, they were probably her best unit to scout and gather materials along the way to Ice Finger.

  With a new spring in her step, Falon set off on a walk around camp to make sure her people had everything they needed before bedding down. Fortunately, between Tug’s preparations and the Gearalt’s foraging, they had enough blankets, coats and firewood to keep the men from freezing during the night.

  “Everything alright, Sir Rankin?” Ernest inquired, slogging through the slush that was starting to form now that several fires had been placed throughout the area surrounding the peasant’s hut, and their life giving heat began to melt the snow around the nearly two hundred men.

  Falon stiffened and had to resist the urge to look around for this mythical Rankin Knight before remembering that the only so-called ‘knight’ in this outfit was hers-truly.

  “Ha ha, very funny, Mr. Farmer,” Falon said.

  Ernest snorted. “Now that’s funny,” he laughed, “not even my father’s a mister. Maybe a Goodman, on a good day, but we’re not part of the lower gentry like ye, Falon,” he said, shaking his head with a grin.

  “Just so as you know how it feels when the shoe is on the other foot,” Falon retorted.

  “But there’s one difference here, Lieutenant,” Ernest said with a straight face.

  Falon looked over at him suspiciously but refused to walk into that pit trap and maintained her silence.

  Seeing that she wasn’t about to step into whatever he was planning anytime soon, Ernest blithely decided to continue anyway.

  “The difference is…” he then paused with a false air of long suffering, “that at least the knight shoe actually belongs to ye, Fal!” he finished with a flourish then added. “No matter how much the toe pinches and binds, or—”

  “Oh shut it, Ernest Farmer,” Falon said with disgust.

  “As my lordly Lieutenant commands,” he riposted with a deep, arm-waving bow. He must have been attempting to ape how courtiers and heralds in a formal court must have acted, but all he succeeded in was overbalancing and landing on his duff with a thump.

  Flushing with anger she started to turn red in the face. “Are you trying to get our necks stretched,” she finally growled once she’d calmed down, “it was one thing to tease me back when I was just part of a Squire’s family about being a lordly person. But now that I’m a landless Knight, someone powerful might take offense if you start cracking wise about it, Ernest,” she scolded.

  “Who’s out here to hear us?” Ernest asked, sounding confused and pausing after to look around.

  “I don’t mean right here and now, but you�
�re forming bad habits that need to be nipped in the bud before you lose your head,” she declared.

  “As you command, Lieutenant,” Ernest said but she could tell that although he was finally giving outward agreement it was only lip service. In short, he was putting on a front.

  Unfortunately, while she could and would keep scolding him she could tell that it probably wasn’t going to do much good. Boys! They were just so stupid. Hopefully he would wise up later on but she had her doubts.

  “Anything else, Lieutenant?” Ernest asked with a hint of stiffness.

  “Oh go on and get out of here,” she replied crossly, “it’s clear as day you’re not ready to listen to anything I have to say nor for that matter what’s good for you.”

  Falon watched as Ernest limped over to his shared tent by the wagon and then with a huff turned to check on the status of her own tent. The sun was going down and with it came a sharp drop in the temperature. It wasn’t just cold, it was freezing and the longer she stood still here the more miserable she felt. Anger could only carry her so far; right now she either needed to keep moving or get out of the chill.

  Picking up her increasingly numb feet, she marched over to her campsite and gratefully accepted a steaming hot cup of mulled cider from her dutiful clerk who was carrying out some of the duties of a valet or squire. Emphasis on ‘some,’ but most definitely not all seeing as she didn’t need any males barging into her tent to help her dress or undress. Those might be the traditional duties a Knight expected from his servants, but they were traditions she would gratefully do without.

  Chapter 7: Is this a Fighting Company or a Northern Migration?

  Seven toes, two fingers, and five days later the Swans were within striking distance of the Castle. More surprising than the lost appendages was that they’d only lost three members of the Ice Fox tribe, dead or disappeared along the trail.

  This of course led to a new problem: the large number of camp followers trailing the column.

  She knew that she’d agreed to let the Ice Fox tribe members follow but instead of shrinking, if anything, the numbers of women, children and elders had swelled after they’d left Sir Smythe’s new Manor.

  As Falon dumped her small chamber pot onto the ground and kicked snow over the smelly contents, she looked over and watched with hooded eyes as the tail end of the column went past.

  Snatching hold over the reins of her mount, Falon, after using snow to clean the pot and storing it atop the saddle bag at the back of the animal, swung up into the saddle. “Yah!” she yelled.

  After rejoining the column and working her way forward, she spotted the Imperial Training Master.

  “Darius!” she called out, motioning him over with a fur-mitted hand.

  “Lieutenant?” the former Imperial asked, striding over.

  “We need to do something about the camp followers,” she said without preamble, “I know I agreed to allow them to join the tail end of the march, but this is just too much.”

  “What do you want to do?” Darius asked after a moment’s reflection, his voice serious.

  “I don’t know,” she said in frustration, “how many warriors did we recruit from the Snow Fox anyway?” she demanded, hoping that with more information she could make a better decision.

  Darius mulled it over his lips moving silently before looking back at her. “Officially we had twenty five sign up with the battalion. But with the three that went missing on the march, I’d say we’re down to twenty two,” he said judiciously, “however…I’ve noticed that since we set off there must be at least twice that many men now.”

  “By the Lady,” Falon grumbled with exasperation, “twenty two warriors? There couldn’t have been a hundred Snow Fox tribals at the manor, warriors included. But since we left the manor the camp followers must have swelled to close to two hundred—and that’s with the barbarian warriors marching with the rest of the Swans. That means they’ve more than doubled!”

  “You want I should run the extras off?” Darius asked, his expression unreadable.

  Falon glared at him. She was getting tired of being tested. Hadn’t she fought in two major battles, foraged across the countryside, led her war band to loot and victory time and again, as well as faithfully followed all the commands given her?

  “Since that would spark an uprising—and after I gave my word their dependents could march with us too—no. I do not want to kick the women and children out to freeze in the cold,” Falon snapped. “What I do want is a solution everyone can live with—including the contents of my soup pot! Our rations, what few of them we have, are meant to feed fighters in the service of Lamont and the Prince, not the hungry mouths of savage children from the frozen northland.”

  “Refusing to feed them would engender the same result as kicking them out,” Darius said evenly.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Obvious,” Falon sneered at him even as she silently wondered what the word ‘engender’ meant, “I already figured that out!”

  “This is probably why no few of your under-officers expressed reservations when you decided to include the Snow Fox’s dependents in the march,” Darius rebutted.

  “Am I talking to the wrong person?” Falon demanded. “I thought I was here to get advice from my senior sergeant, but if all you’re able to do is say ‘I told you so,’ I’ll take my leave and figure things out myself!”

  Darius sighed. “Look, I don’t have a simple answer for you. You agreed to let the tribal dependents march with us,” he raised a hand to stop her from interjecting, “I don’t mean this as a rebuke. It’s simply a fact that makes things more difficult. They’re here with your permission and, as such, it’s going to be much harder to send them away or reduce their numbers without bloodshed.”

  “And the fact that they cheated and brought more than twice the expected number?” she said tightly. “I didn’t mind the original number so much, but this is too much. We simply can’t afford it. And no, for the record, I do not want a blood bath with fathers and mothers slaughtered in front of their screaming children.”

  “In fairness, the Snow Fox have been bringing in extra meat along with the extra mouths,” Darius said.

  “Which is just great for as long as we’re in lands they’re familiar with,” Falon said, having already considered that angle. “But once we move south and they’re not so familiar? Or worse, what about when we pass through some noble’s lands or a royal forest where hunting is the same as poaching?”

  “The only thing left is to put a limit then. That’s all I can think of,” Darius said finally, “set a maximum number of dependents per man and tell the Snow Fox that if they want more than that number, they’re going to have to sign on more warriors. They may all decide to walk if they don’t have enough men to support the whole tribe, but it gives us the best chance to avoid an uprising.”

  “And if they bring in enough warriors to support another two hundred dependents?” Falon asked rhetorically.

  “Then I guess you’ll have learned a lesson that not every blade is worth the price you pay to get it,” Darius said, his voice respectful but his eyes mocking.

  “Either I come in short or we march in looking like a migration instead of a fighting company,” Falon groaned, wondering what her superiors in the Prince’s army were going to think if she came into camp accompanied by a horde of savage women and children. “I think I may have let sympathy and the need for fighting power cloud my judgment,” she finally admitted.

  “The burdens of command are heavy,” Darius agreed.

  “Oh, go carry out my commands,” Falon ordered angrily.

  “Lieutenant?” Darius lifted an eyebrow, clearly asking just what command she was referring to.

  “Since it was your idea, you get to be the one to break the good news to our tribal allies,” Falon gloated, the corner of her mouth turning up as she finally got the chance to share some of the misery with her chief under officer.

  “That hardly seems—” Darius began.


  “Fair?” Falon asked cutting him off. “As you’ve told me many times, very little’s fair in this life—and nothing in the army is.”

  “I was going to point out that I might not be the best ambassador to the savages, but I could just as easily ask how many dependents you command that they are able to bring with them,” Darius retorted.

  “Three,” Falon decided abruptly, “they can have three per warrior so long as they can keep up with us on the march. And any man that drops out after we leave the north gets his tattoo to be marked as a deserter and has to leave behind his weapons and armor when he goes.”

  “That might not be enough,” Darius mused.

  “It should probably be two, or even one. As it is I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to the Prince and his Captains,” Falon declared. “So the Snow Foxes can take either it or leave it. At this point I simply don’t care. But anyone who stays and isn’t a warrior will be expected to set up camp, move baggage, and in general do everything we need that doesn’t involve fighting. Oh, and another thing,” she said as Darius started to turn away.

  “Yes,” Darius said.

  “Tell Gearalt to step up his recruitment efforts. I don’t care if they’re half-starved and don’t know one end of the sword from another. We’re going to reach Ice Finger by the end of the day. We should have a few days to fatten the recruits up and start to teach them basic militia skills and tactics,” Falon ordered, hoping that if she had enough warm bodies that she could offset all the women and children she was packing with her.

  “On it,” said the Imperial.

  Chapter 8: Ice Finger Patrol

  “Halt! Who goes there?” demanded the leader of a group of two dozen armed and armored men as they stepped out of the trees to block the road.

  “Ho!” Falon called out, raising her hand and thankful that she’d decided to take a place up at the head of the column now that they were almost to the Keep.

  “State your business!” shouted a plate mail armored Knight—or Lord—placing a hand on the hilt of his sword and glaring at Falon and the hundreds of men behind her like they were lice ridden miscreants who had just had the gall to dirty up his town.