Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar (27 page)

“Jack. That wash apples jack.” He wasn’t drunk. Heralds did not get drunk on duty even at impromptu Harvest Festivals where the apple juice wasn’t. Which he wouldn’t have had any of had Alyise not handed him a huge mug just before they left to toast the celebration and the celebrants.

Now the night was spinning gently around him and he suspected that getting the Companions settled for the night was going to be interesting.

Fortunately, it seemed that Alyise was less affected.

“Hey.” He set his saddle down with exaggerated care. “You had some of that, too!”

“Some,” she agreed, the dimples appearing. “Come on inside.”

Her hand was warm on his arm. Then it was warm under his tunic. And her mouth tasted warm and sweet. And . . . Wait a minute. He pulled back although his hands, seemingly with a mind of their own, continued working on her laces.

“I don’t think . . .”

Her eyes gleamed. “What?”

He couldn’t remember.
:Gervais?:

The bunk hit the back of his legs and he was suddenly lying down holding a soft, willing body.

His Companion’s mental voice held layers of laughter.
:Say that like you mean it, Heart-brother.:

Actually, for a while, he wasn’t able to say anything much at all.

 

Jors stood staring down at the pond watching the early morning sun tease tendrils of fog off the icy-looking water, trying to work the kinks out of muscles he hadn’t used for far too long. Alyise was as enthusiastic in bed as she was about everything else and he’d been hard-pressed to keep up.

He guessed he had been a bit of an ass about that whole position of power thing. Still . . .

:What is it, Chosen?:
Gervais’ velvet nose prodded him in the back.

Put that way it sounded a bit insulting.
:Well, no.:

There didn’t seem to be one. Jors leaned against his Companion’s comforting bulk and thought about it.

He wasn’t Jennet.

Alyise was a Herald. That made her responsible for herself.

Donnel said his Chosen was glad he was a young man.

They had well-defined roles in the villages.

There was no reason for them not to continue sharing a bed as long as they both remained willing. No reason at all for it to detract from his ability to teach what he knew or learn what she offered.

Jors grinned. He had other nights like last night to look forward to and days of cheerful conversations combined with an enthusiastic welcome to whatever the road ahead might bring, and a high-energy approach to life that definitely got results since a village-wide party turned out to solve a petition about a disputed pig.

His grin faded as a muscle twinged in his back.

“Havens,” he sighed, as he realized what the next few months would bring, “I’m too old for this.”

Gervais’ weight was suddenly no longer a comforting presence at his back but rather a short, sharp shove.

The water in the pond was as cold as it looked.

R
URY Tellar pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders and stared into the yellow heart of the campfire. The blanket and the Valdemaran Guard surcoat were enough to keep off the night’s cool, but still he shivered. His throbbing head didn’t dim the whispering feelings crowding in; feelings of doubt, fear, hope, despair, cheer, loneliness and sadness—the massed feelings of an army camped close on the eve of battle.

It had started three weeks ago, soon after his seventeenth birthday and the call for the Oakdell village militia to march off and join the main army. The intruding feelings were very faint at first, like the not-quite-words heard late at night in the settling of an old house. They’d grown steadily stronger and now they constantly jostled his thoughts. His head ached with the pressure of other people cramming in. Sometimes he felt like his brain was the anvil from the blacksmith shop where he’d apprenticed, with strangers’ feelings hammering and ringing on it like the smith’s sledge.

Around him were the night sounds of an army encamped. Thousands of soldiers shifted in sleep, muttered in dreams, coughed, or whispered curses. The air smelled strongly of campfire smoke and more faintly of horse dung. Ten paces away, Aed snored in the tent alongside Milo and Snipe. Rury would likely have to nudge space to lie down between them when he finally turned in.

They’d been in the big camp for two days, waiting for the Tedrel army to come over the border. Somehow the brass hats knew the Tedrels would cross near here, and there would be plenty of them. Camp gossip said this would be the last battle of the Tedrel Wars, one way or another.

Rury was tired, but trying to sleep made it easier for the feelings of others to crowd in. It was better, a little, to sit and stare at the dying fire until his eyelids drooped and his head nodded.

At first he’d mentioned the headaches to the others, but stopped because his comrades might think he was shirking, or crazy, or worse, scared. He
was
scared. He’d do his best, though, no matter how afraid he felt. But he could
feel
when people around him were afraid, and their feelings ran through him, adding to his own fears.

It didn’t help to know the rest of the unit was scared, too, except for maybe Sergeant Krandal. They were all young and scared and afraid to let it show, afraid of looking like cowards. Last night Princess Selenay herself had briefly visited the company campfire, shadowed by her bodyguard. She was young and lovely, and seemed brave and genuinely interested in them. Rury knew, even if the others didn’t, that she was afraid of what was coming, too, no matter how brave her words.

“Trouble sleeping again, Tellar?” Rury jumped as Sergeant Krandal stepped into the firelight. It glinted on the silver-gray in his close-trimmed beard and the white horse of the Valdemaran arms on his blue surcoat. He was no taller than Rury, but built square and solid, where Rury was lean young muscle.

“Uh, just thought I’d get a little quiet time, Sarge.” Rury shrugged. “Aed’s snoring shakes the tent, and Snipe talks in his sleep.”

Krandal smiled and shook his head. “Still having trouble with the headaches?”

“Ah, they come and go,” said Rury. “Uh, maybe I better turn in anyway.” He got up and walked to the tent. “G’night, Sarge.”

“Good night, soldier.” Sergeant Krandal said softly. He was concerned, and not for the boy’s health. Mit Krandal had seen twenty-eight years of Guard service and thousands of young soldiers before his retirement to Oakdell two years ago. Rury Tellar was a good kid; well-liked, big and strong, with good fighting moves and the makings of a fine soldier. Krandal knew all the symptoms of a youngster facing his first fight, but Tellar’s problem seemed more complicated and serious than that. He banked the fire and started walking. Instead of heading for his own tent, he steered toward the fires of the command tents a hilltop away. It was time to call in some help.

 

Even this late, the tents of the Communications and Intelligence sections bustled with candle-lit activity. Couriers came and went with the less pressing reports and orders. Urgent dispatches were sent off by the few Heralds who could make objects disappear, then reappear elsewhere. Others pored over big maps, keeping track of units, supplies, and numbers. They waded through seas of unrelated information, assembling tiny bits into bigger bits, and fitting it all into a hazy, incomplete picture of how things were.

Herald Erek Ranwellen pushed aside the reports scattered about his folding camp table, brushed away a stray lock of light-brown hair, and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. He felt ages older than his twenty-six years. His white leathers were mostly clean, but he longed for a bath and change of clothes. He should have turned in an hour ago like his Companion, Deanara.

He looked up at the sound of nervous throat-clearing to see a door sentry at attention before him.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Herald,” said the soldier. “But there’s a sergeant from the Pikes outside wantin’ to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, sir. He just said to say you still owe him for turning a whiny little rich boy into a passable good soldier.” The sentry’s mouth barely twitched. “His words, sir, not mine.”

Erek’s eyes widened. He smiled broadly, to the sentry’s wonder.

“Sergeant
Krandal
?” said Erek. “ ‘Iron Mit’ Krandal’s outside? Send him in, man, send him in!”

Sergeant Krandal’s snap to attention and salute were parade-ground perfect, as was Erek’s response. The grins and strong handshake that followed were less than regulation.

“Sergeant Krandal! I’ll never get used to
you
saluting
me
.”

“Aye, Erek . . . er, Herald.” Sergeant Krandal’s eyes twinkled. “Who’d have thought the company’s biggest slacker would be chosen as a Herald. You even turned out a good soldier.”

“Thanks to you, Sergeant.”

“Maybe,” said Krandal with a crooked grin. “A few hundred laps around the parade ground in full kit didn’t hurt either.”

“How is your lady wife?” asked Erek.

A shadow of pain crossed Sergeant Krandal’s face.

“There was a fever, two winters past. She . . .” He looked away and waved weakly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No way you would have. Anyway, I’m not here socially.”

“What is it?”

“I need a favor.”

 

“Thrust! Recover! Advance! Thrust!” Sergeant Krandal’s voice cracked out the commands, and the Oakdell militia sweated through pike drill. Rury’s tunic was damp under his armor, his hands sweaty on the spear shaft. They drilled two hours a day with the larger company, then Sergeant Krandal had them on the field for an extra hour after that. They needed it. The spears were half again as long as Rury, and the pikes even longer. They had to work together as a unit or people got hurt, even in drill.

They’d learned the basics of spear and pike back home, but there the militia’s main job was fighting bandits and peacekeeping. The weapons were more likely to be sword, bow, or staff. The Guard, however, had decreed they were pike soldiers, so Pikes they had to become. For Rury, one good thing about drill was getting some small respite from the massed feelings pressing in. Those around him mostly suspended thought and feeling as they concentrated on the barked commands and responses.

“Rest in ranks,” ordered Sergeant Krandal. The four rows of militia grounded the butts of their weapons gratefully and leaned on the shafts. The sergeant walked around the formation to face them. He upended the spear he carried and thrust it upright into the trampled sod.

“It took some doing to get these toys.” He patted the short sword hanging off his right side, and the buckler, a small round shield two hand-spans in diameter, clipped at his left. All the militia members carried the same. “So you will oblige me by being proficient with them.”

He had them lay down spears and walked them through various drills, drawing the sword with either hand and getting the buckler off the belt and up. They’d had months of training back home using larger shields and longer swords, and they were improving rapidly.

Aed Karlan, the group’s self-appointed jester, muttered sidewise to Rury, “It’s not enough we have to slog around with armor and pigstickers. We get to haul extra gear, too.”

“You have questions, Karlan, or just gas?” said Sergeant Krandal. Aed flushed and stammered.

“Uh, just wondering, Sergeant. Why the extra weapons if the army thinks we’re pike soldiers? Not that I mind ’em, but it’d be nice having a full-size sword and shield.”

“That’s simple enough,” Sergeant Krandal replied. “Two lines of spears backed with two of pikes are a bit thin against a massed rush. Put a big force of heavies against you, or even an equal force whose front line cares more about running over you than staying alive, and you people will be playing kissy-face with the Tedrel. If that happens,” he pointed at Aed’s weapons, “those will give you a fighting chance. And there’s no way to carry full-size weapons and still fight a spear in close order without getting hung up on your comrades.” The sergeant smiled thinly. “I approve of soldiers asking questions.” Aed looked relieved as Krandal continued, “but not soldiers talking in ranks. Karlan, you get wood and water duty tonight.” Aed’s look of relief melted.

“Dortha, front and center!” A dark-haired young woman broke ranks and came on the double. “Run them through reverse-draw drills.” Dortha was no-nonsense and as good a fighter as the men. After joining up she’d silenced snickers from the boys with a ready kick to the knee if they were lucky, somewhat higher if they weren’t. She quickly got them into the rhythm of the drill, drawing the sword with blade reversed and pointing down, slashing up and across an enemy’s face, then immediately sweeping back to stab face or throat.

Sergeant Krandal noticed the unit sneaking looks off behind him. He glanced back to see a small group of horsemen, most on brilliantly white mounts, turn off the camp road at the end of the drill field and trot toward them. The sunlight glinted off the armor and crown worn by the group’s leader, and off the coat of the Companion he rode. Behind him a horseman bore the blue-and-silver standard of the King of Valdemar.