A/N: Am I good at cliff hangers, or what? Probably not, but here y'all go, let me know what you think. Thanks, TheRealProtector!
Francesca looked around; they needed to get somewhere under cover. Looking up, she saw not one hurrok, but ten.
"Get under the trees," she called to the other pages. Most of them had already stared to run. Heastif and Turmot had been the ones to get the worst of the hurrok slash – Heastif was trying to help Turmot stand. Two more of the monsters dived, glancing around she seized several rocks and hurled them at the immortals. She hit them, the pulled up from the dive with a scream and others rushed at her. Francesca ran and dove for the bow and quiver that Marrek had dropped – she felt something rake her back and shoulders. She made the first shot without aiming – it grazed one of the creatures, but otherwise did no damage.
She covered the pages with the bow – the older pages now doing the same, as Heastif and Turmot made it to the scarce cover of the trees.
"Where's the horn," Traver asked Turmot, who'd been carrying it.
"Slashed the cord," the boy gasp, as one of the other pages wrapped his leg to stop the bleeding. "Couldn't grab it."
"Here," Francesca shoved the bow and quiver into Traver's hands and dropped the other packs she carried.
"What are you doing?" Marrek demanded, grabbing her arm. She glared at him.
"I'm the quickest," she told them. "I'm going to grab the horn and try to summon help. Let go."
"Maybe we should just stay put," Gavin suggested.
"If we do that then there's no telling when help will come, or if those two," Francesca pointed to Heastif and Turmot, both of whom were bleeding heavily. "Will still be alive when help does come."
"You're hurt," Traver pointed out.
"It's a scratch, not even bleeding that bad." She disagreed, peering at the sky. The hurroks were circling the area. "Look, I see where the horn fell. I'll take a spear, and if they come too close I can defend myself. I'll have a bit of cover," she looked at Traver. "I'll be fine."
"Let her go," Heastif croaked out. He was the page in charge of their group. "That's the most I've ever heard her say," he to the other pages. "She must be sure that she can do it."
Francesca took a deep breath. Shakith, she prayed silently. Please let me live through this, please let the others be alright. She took off; she ran straight towards the lone tree whose roots the horn had fallen among. She heard the flap of leathery wings, and the scream of triumph from several of the immortals. She dove towards the tree, expecting at any point to feel talons sink into her. Instead she heard a hurrok scream in pain and surprise. She snatched up the horn and blew several hard blasts, before turning to see the attacking immortals. The lead hurrok was trying to shake a golden-brown furred creature off its face.
Rain had three set of claw sunk into the immortal's face, the other raked at eyes and sensitive ears. Another hurrok landed in front of the one that Rain clung to. Francesca lunged forward, sinking the spear into the creature's horse-like neck.
"Rain," Francesca snapped at the bobcat. "Move, to the trees." The cat obeyed, a pages' arrow took care of the hurrok, the creature had been half-blinded. Francesca ran to the tree cover, arrows flew at the immortals that dove for her.
She slumped to the ground, breathing hard. Rain walked over and gave her a cat-grin. "Crazy creature," she mumbled at him. She glanced up and found several of the other pages staring at her. She held up the horn. "Told you I'd get it," she said, some of them grinned. She handed the horn to Marrek, who went the edge of the trees, to blow the signal to summon help. Francesca stood, she didn't want to, but if she didn't then the boys might think she can't handle the situation. She walked over to Heastif and Turmot; they were still bleeding and none of the pages had any of the magical gift.
She peered at the boys. "How bad are you?" she asked.
Neither of the boys answered; they were clearly in pain, their jaws clenched and eyes closed. Turmot was pale normally, his skin looked like wax, and Heastif was ashy. Francesca bit her lip; in theory, she knew how to sew up a cut, but she'd never done it for real. If she didn't try, the boys would die for sure.
"Traver," she called to her friend. "Toss me my pack." He did, and she dug through it until she found the small set of needles and thread that she carried with her through habit more than anything else. Looking at the injured boys she said. "I can sew up your slashes, but there's nothing to numb the pain…"
"Do it," grunted Heastif. Francesca nodded, and carefully threaded her thickest needle, before she unwrapped the slashes on the boy's arm. She poured water over the long cut. Taking a deep breath, she began, moving steadily – it reminded her vaguely of sewing leather, which was not something she had much practice with. She finished more quickly than she expected, and poured a bit more water over the area before rewrapping it.
"How did you know how to do that?" Francesca jumped a bit and glanced up at Gavin. She licked her lips and moved next to Turmot.
"I knew the theory," she admitted. "I've never done this before, but at least now the bleeding will slow."
"You did almost as good as the healers in my tribe," Heastif told her. "Their stiches aren't always that even."
"They probably didn't have a covey of old women screeching at them when their embroidery stiches weren't just so," she replied absently, already starting on Turmot.
Not long after she finished, the pages' teachers arrived. Glancing around, Francesca found that Rain was nowhere in sight. None of the hurroks escaped the attack. Later, when the Lord Padraig and the Shang masters' examined the stiches on the two senior pages demanded to know who had sewn up the wounds. When the pages reported the Francesca had, she was asked where she learned how to sew up wounds.
"I was never taught, my lord." She told the training master; she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep.
"Then how did you know what to do," the training master demanded.
"I know how to sew," Francesca responded tiredly. She didn't know the Wildcat was behind her until a hand pressed on her hurrok scratches. She hissed a flinched away from the touch.
"You need those wounds seen to," the Wildcat told her firmly, before leading the tired girl away. As soon as her cuts had been cleaned and bandaged, Francesca fell into her bedroll and dully noted that the other pages from her group had done the same.
The next morning, Francesca woke early. The first thing she did was go to the latrine, after that she changed clothes, using the bedroll for cover. Standing she stretched carefully, and headed to the small lake. Heastif joined her there after some time. Neither of them said anything for a while, content to stare at the lake. From their position they could see the place the hurroks had attacked them.
"Thank you," the boy told her calmly. Francesca glanced at him in surprise; Heastif had not made the same comments most of the other Bazhir in page training had – telling her and Fianola that they had no place in fighting.
"For what," she asked.
"You saved my life by sewing up that cut."
"I just did what anyone else would have done if they had the material." She told him, he shrugged.
"Maybe, maybe not," he responded. He turned to walk away.
"Heastif," the boy looked at her. "Can I ask you something?" He nodded. "The other Bazhir pages have told me at one point or another that I should take my place behind the veil, but you never have. Why?"
He looked at her, head tilted to one side. Squinting at the rising sun he answered. "Several decades ago, before all of the Bazhir tribes made peace with your people, my tribe found two travelers fighting hill bandits. One of them was the Burning Bright One, who with the Night One had defeated the Nameless Ones. Enemies of my people," he clarified, seeing Francesca's confusion. "They were welcomed into our tribe after a trial. My people called her the Woman Who Rides Like a Man. She later became our shaman, and trained to women to replace her." He shot her a grin. "The Bloody Hawk is considered a strange tribe."
"Lady Alanna is a member of your tribe," Francesca asked, surprised, the Bazhir nodded. "I see, thank you, for telling me."
After the incident with her group, the training camp was tame – she had expected at least one of the pages to mention Rain, but none of the others said anything. They were packing up to leave, when Gavin walked over to her. On general principle, she stayed away from the boy, he wasn't his brother, but they were raised by the same people. Also, boys were strange when it came to pride – family pride, personal pride; injuring a boy's pride was a heinous crime in many eyes.
"You know," Gavin said quietly. "I've been trying to figure out since we started training, where I'd heard your name before."
"Is that so," Francesca said blandly, "and have you?"
"Yes," Gavin told her calmly. "You're the girl my father considered as a match for my brother." He paused, to see if she would say anything. Francesca remained silent. "If I remember correctly, my brother was furious when you reject the match so fully – he was of the mindset that you had no right to reject he match." Again Francesca said nothing. "Why did you reject him? He was the golden boy. Perfect if you asked anyone." There was bitterness in his voice.
"He was a bully, and altogether a horrid person," Francesca told him flatly. "Everyone knows that the Chamber cannot be affected and that it never lets those that are unworthy become knights – it found Joren wanting in one respect or another." Gavin blinked at her. "I rejected the match because I knew what I wanted my life to entail, and marriage would have made it impossible. Let alone marriage to a conservative." Gavin was silent for a long time, when Francesca glanced up again, he was gone.
As they headed back to the capital, Francesca rode between Alan and Fianola. Francesca was thinking, not really paying attention to her friends' banter. They were now third-years, one step closer to becoming squires – it was still odd to think that they were the same age. She would be eighteen before she became a squire. As though the thoughts summoned it, a vision slammed into her.
"Francesca!" the girl turned to find Fianola bouncing, eyes bright with excitement.
"What," she asked her friend.
"A knight just approached me!" the newly made squire all but squealed. Francesca had to bit her lip to stop from laughing.
"Who," she asked, not telling her friend that Alan had beaten her to getting a knight master.
"Sir Nealan of Queenscove," Fianola told her. "He's the lady knight's best friend, that's almost as good. And I have a knight master before Alan, so I win our bet."
"That's great," Francesca told her. "But… Alan wins the bet."
"What, no. Who?"
"Sir Raoul," Fianola scowled.
"That's cheating," the squire grumbled, Francesca chuckled.
"What do you think," Fianola demanded of Francesca. The girl blinked.
"Er, about what?"
"I'm betting Alan that when we become squires, I'll get a knight master first." Francesca began to laugh, whenever one of her friends asked what was funny, the laughter increased. The irony was too perfect.
A/N: Wow, so… Two chapters in as many days… Jeeze I didn't realize I had so much free time. Well, let me know what ya'll think.