Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar (28 page)

“Hold! Dress your ranks!” Sergeant Krandal snapped back to the militia. “I don’t know why, but that’s King Sendar coming to call. You lot follow my lead and show some respect, or you’ll all spend the next week wishing you had!”

Sergeant Krandal turned back just as the group pulled up. He saluted and dropped to one knee. Clinking and rustling indicated the militia was following his example.

Rury dropped to a knee with the rest. With the mindless rote of drill paused, he immediately felt the feelings of those around pressing on his mind. The militia were awed and a little apprehensive. Sergeant Krandal was mostly curious. From the king, Rury sensed an almost overwhelming weight of worry and sadness, but in front of it, like an army’s standard in the charge, rode a spark of hope and pleasure.

King Sendar sat his Companion, leaned forward on the saddle, and smiled warmly.

“It’s good to see you back in the field, Sergeant Krandal,” the King said. The militia’s eyes widened.

“It’s good to be back, Your Majesty,” replied Sergeant Krandal. “I may be getting old for this game, but I’m your man and Valdemar’s to the end of it.”

“I know that,” said the king, “and I’m grateful.” He raised his eyes to take in the rest of the militia. “I’m grateful also, to every man and woman standing for our kingdom against the Tedrel. You may guess that I know your sergeant of old. I know, then, you are well trained. I see you are well-armed. This battle’s outcome will depend on each of you.
I
depend on you. I know you will not fail me or Valdemar.”

Rury felt his heart swell with pride, and sensed the same from his comrades. This was a king to follow, a king to fight for!

King Sendar sketched a salute to Sergeant Krandal, wheeled his Companion, and he and his entourage cantered back to the road.

All save one. One Herald, with the insignia of the Communications branch on his surcoat, remained behind. His Companion shifted with a delicate grace as he dismounted.

Sergeant Krandal walked over and saluted the Herald, then bowed deeply to his Companion, and it seemed to the gawking militia that the shining Companion returned the bow.

“My greetings to you, Lady Deanara.” said Krandal. “You look even lovelier than usual.” The Herald’s companion dipped her head gravely and snorted.

“Dee says it’s always a pleasure to meet the legendary Sergeant Krandal,” said Erek, “and when’s lunch?”

“We break in fifteen minutes or so,” said Krandal with a grin. He turned back to the ranked militia.

“Back to work, people! You heard His Majesty. He’s depending on you to save the kingdom. But don’t get big heads about it!”

 

They sat on the grass in the common area between the company cook fires and the drill field. Lunch was cracked grain boiled with bits of sausage and what vegetables might be available, a staple of the Guard in the field. The troops had a dozen nicknames for it. The commonest and least profane was “Thunder Mud.”

“The cooks are trying to kill us with this stuff,” said Aed. “They sure cooked this until it’s dead.”

Sergeant Krandal snorted. He pulled a tiny bottle from his belt pouch, undid the stopper, and sprinkled a bit of reddish-orange powder on his food.

“Never let the cooks hear you gripe about the food,” he said. “If you do, don’t eat camp soup after that. Besides, any dish loses a lot when it’s made for five hundred at a time. Perking it up’s your problem.”

“What’s that stuff, Sarge?”

“Ground Karsite peppers. Guaranteed to put a little zip into anything the Guard dishes out.” He restoppered the bottle, tasted his food, and nodded.

“Sarge,” said Aed, looking to where Rury and Erek sat apart, with the Herald’s white Companion standing behind, “is Rury in trouble?”

“We’re all in trouble,” muttered Sergeant Krandal. “It’s just that we might be able to help Tellar with some of his.”

 

Herald Erek seemed likable enough, but Rury had never met a Herald before, let alone had the personal attention of one. He was nervous.

“Guardsman Tellar,” said Herald Erek after they got settled, “can I call you Rury?”

“Uh, sure,” said Rury. “Am I in trouble or something?”

Erek smiled slightly. “Not with me, you’re not. I’m just here to help with a problem you may have.”

Rury felt the Herald’s sincere concern, but he still didn’t like where this was going. “I’m, uh, not sure what you mean.”

“Let me make a guess,” said Erek. “You think everyone around you is trying to climb into your head, or that maybe you’re just going crazy.” Erek’s voice stayed calm, but it took control not to laugh aloud at Rury’s open-mouthed, goggle-eyed response.

“What . . . how . . . ?”

“It’s all right,” said Erek. “May I touch your arm for a moment? It should help me help you.” Rury held out his left arm in reply. Erek grasped Rury’s wrist. His Companion, whom he’d introduced as Deanara, left off nibbling grain from a canvas bucket and swung her head to where Erek could place his free hand on her nose. Rury felt a gentle coolness brush his mind. A few moments passed and Erek released Rury’s wrist.

“I was almost certain, but Dee confirms it.” Said Erek. “you have a strong Gift of Empathy. I have a touch of it myself, though my major Gift is Mindspeech.”

“It doesn’t feel like a Gift,” said Rury, “More like a curse.”

“That’s because you haven’t learned how to keep other peoples’ feelings out. It can go both ways, too. If you have strong emotions of your own, you can influence others around you.”

“You mean like the rest of the militia?”

“Yes, especially with feelings like fear. They could feel afraid for no reason other than you’re afraid.”

Rury didn’t want to think about what that might mean in a fight; the entire militia panicking because of him.

“Is there a cure?”

Erek chuckled, but cut it off. “Sorry. It’s not a disease, so there’s really no ‘cure’. You can make it easier for yourself, though, and safer for your comrades. You need to learn ways to shield your feelings from others, and keep the emotions of others out.”

“I could do that?” Rury looked like he’d been reprieved from a death sentence, which was just what Erek was trying to do.

They spent the rest of lunch break running over simple techniques. Rury seemed more relaxed at the end of it. Erek hoped it would be enough. Keeping out the random jitters of his comrades was one thing. Shielding against the raging emotions of two armies locked in mortal combat would be an entirely different beast.

 

The night was clear and cool, with stars twinkling in a black sky. No one looked at the stars. Soldiers glanced away from their fires toward the Karsite border, where an orange glow marked the encamped Tedrel horde. Tension and suppressed fear, thick and heavy, pushed through Rury’s best attempts to shield his mind. His own fear kept intruding on his efforts to block out emotions of those around him.

Sergeant Krandal stood and stretched, wincing.

“Better hit the bag, people,” he said. “We don’t want to oversleep the party tomorrow.”

“Sarge,” said Snipe, “I heard the next company over is sleeping in their armor. Should we?”

The sergeant shook his head. “No, not unless you’re sure you can actually sleep that way. If you have any clean, dry clothes with you, especially underclothes, change into those. Wouldn’t hurt to keep your boots on either.” He looked around. “Tellar and I will take first watch. The rest of you turn in.”

They shuffled and muttered back to their tents. Sergeant Krandal had Rury take a position on the company’s tent line, facing away from the banked fire. After noise from the tents settled down, he appeared at Rury’s side.

“You might not feel like talking, Tellar,” he said, “but tell me true, how’s that empathy thing going?”

“It’s better, Sarge. Really, it is.” He paused, wondering if he should go on.

“But you still feel afraid,” Sergeant Krandal said.

“Well . . . yeah, kind of.”

“You’ll be fine, lad.” The sergeant smiled. “Every sane soldier is afraid at some time or another. It’s what separates the good soldiers from the dead ones. A little fear is Nature’s way of making you pay attention. If you feel afraid, use it. Stay calm and let it turn to something else, something you can use.”

“What if I freeze up?”

“I doubt that’ll happen. Let your training and reflexes take care of things while you deal with it. Herald Erek taught you ways to handle the Empathy, right?”

“Yeah, Sarge, but I’m not sure if I can make them work.”

“Then turn in and practice until you sleep. I can handle the rest of the watch, and I want you fresh tomorrow.”

“Sarge, I don’t . . .”

“That’s an order, Tellar,” Sergeant Krandal said gruffly. “Go.” His tone softened. “It’ll be all right.”

Krandal watched Rury trudge off, then muttered under his breath, “I hope.”

Half a candlemark later, Erek and Deanara appeared at the edge of the firelight. Sergeant Krandal waved them in silently.

“Well?” he said, barely above a whisper.

Erek swung off Deanara, sighed heavily, and sat down. He replied in equally soft tones.

“I didn’t get much farther than you did, Sergeant. The brass isn’t about to pull one young pike soldier off the line this late in the game. I’m sorry.” Behind him, Deanara gave a snort of disgust.

“I’m not surprised,” Sergeant Krandal replied. “Guard policy is like Guard cooking. What’s best for the army is usually hard on the individual soldier.”

Erek nodded. “I did point out that an untrained Empath probably wouldn’t survive the coming battle, and that the intensity and volume of emotion he’d face would leave him dead or insane.” He sighed heavily. “They said there are hundreds, maybe thousands of young soldiers in this army who won’t survive the battle, Empaths or not.”

“They’re right. So, what’s to be done?”

“I spent what time I could teaching him shielding techniques. It wasn’t much, but we have to hope it will do. We’ve simply run out of time. Can you shift him in the unit?”

“I could, but he’s one of my best. And if he’s capable of what you say, and he panics, he could take the whole unit with him. If he breaks, I’d just as soon it be where I can see him. I’ll shift things so I’m behind him in the second line.”

“So you can help if there’s trouble?”

Sergeant Krandal stared into the fire a moment.

“So I can help him. And if it’s the only way, so I can stop him.”

 

Rury kept running the shielding exercises through his head as they donned armor in the dim light of predawn. Armor in the Guard was never completely uniform, even within units, except for what it had to protect. Leather and metal leggings covered Rury from crotch to foot. He pulled on a padded vest with separate, quilted sleeves, and over that a leather jerkin with small, overlapping iron plates stitched inside. More leather and metal covered arms and elbows, and an armored cowl covered throat, shoulders, upper back and chest. He looped the baldric suppporting his short sword over his left shoulder and secured it with a wide belt that also supported his water bottle, rations pouch, buckler and dagger. Reinforced leather gauntlets and a plain, well-made helmet finished the outfit. Rury bent and picked up his spear. He consciously felt the armor’s weight only for a moment. Sergeant Krandal had been drilling them in full kit since before they’d marched out from Oakdell.

The sergeant appeared, wearing his armor as naturally as if it were his skin. Stepping close to Rury he spoke barely above a whisper.

“Remember, relax and let the training do the job. If you feel fear, let it go to something else.”

The sergeant stepped back and looked around at the militia, then smiled grimly.

“Boys and girls,” he said, “it’s time to go be soldiers. Marching order, column of fours!”

They marched to the company’s muster point, then trudged to the valley in the dim red light of pre-dawn. The upright rows of their shouldered weapons rippled as they moved, like a field of grain waving deadly in the breeze. A crow cawed harshly at their passing.

They reached the shallow stream marking Valdemar’s border with Karse and arrayed themselves there. Rury stood on the front line with Aed and Snipe to either side. Behind him were Sergeant Krandal and the others, their presence reassuring. Perhaps five-score paces to his left Rury could make out the King’s standard fluttering bravely in the breeze. To either side stretched the armored ranks of Valdemar.

Muttering rippled through the Valdemaran ranks, as the Tedrel Army crested the opposing hilltop. They came, and came, and kept coming, armor glittering in the morning sun. The measured tread of their march was like muffled drums.

“That may be the scariest thing I’ve ever seen,” muttered Aed.

“That’s because you aren’t them, looking at us.” replied the sergeant. “Look close. The front ranks aren’t squared off and hard lined like the ones behind. See how the officers are riding close on them. The Tedrel are running their mongrel hounds out ahead. Those boys in front are nervous.” He raised his voice. “I’ve seen more than my share of fighters, and you people are better than that lot.” He grinned wryly. “Though it looks like it will be a while before we run out of Tedrels.”

Rury knew the sergeant was trying to buck them up. Still, he was glad of the confidence in Krandal’s voice. As the Tedrels filled the far slopes, the mutterings in his head grew to a low roar, even through the shields he tried to raise. The voices were back, and this time every voice was shouting hate and rage and desire for his death. For the first time in his young life, Rury seriously thought about the possibility of death, and that today he might die.

“Nice to see somebody remembered to invite the Tedrels,” joked Aed. “So what do we do now?”

“We stop jabbering like a bunch of first-fight rookies, for starters,” growled Sergeant Krandal, “then we settle in and wait. Stand easy.”