Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (6 page)

Oh, well done!
Elyn thought with pride.
Get them to agree to a charter now, so that there are no quarrels about it after we’re long gone. Good thinking, Alma!

“It’s on my land!” Hardaker spat. “Ye’ve got no rights! And it weren’t me! ’Twas them! ’Twas all their ideer!”

“Oh, really?” Rod drawled.

And that was when one of the strangers finally caved in. “You demmed old bastard!” he snarled. “Sell us out, ye think?” He struggled a bit with his bonds, then gave up. “We heerd about ye Heralds. Ye’re hard but fair. Lemme tell ye what this old coot had up ’is sleeve. ’E found the gold, aye, an’ mined out ‘nuff t’ pay us with, but wouldn’ tell us where it was. Just told us to scare these turnip-heads out. An’ if’n he couldn’t scare ’em out, we was t’get rid of ’em—however.” There was a flicker of uncertainty in the man’s face then. “We nivver really reckon’d on hurtin’ no one, we figgered these clodhoppers would scare out right easy. But ... well,
he
was gettin’ impatient, an’ talkin’ ’bout gettin’ some’un else in here t’get rougher ...”

Now
Hardaker looked both furious and alarmed. “Was just talk! Meant t’give ye layabouts reason t’do what I paid ye fer!”

“That will be enough, old man,” Elyn said impassively. “What we’ve heard is enough for us.” She looked about at the villagers. “Do you consent to giving us the same rights of judgment as we would have in Valdemar?”

They looked at one another and then back at Elyn. “Put it in that there charter,” said Benderk, finally. “I’ fact ...” He scratched his head. “Reckon it’d be better all around if—c’n ye make us part of Valdemar?”

Elyn blinked. “Well,” she said cautiously, “yes. You folk aren’t actually part of any other kingdom. But the Crown would take a percentage from the gold from your mine—five percent, if I recall correctly—in exchange for things like a Guard detachment to keep it and you safe, and for twice yearly visits from Heralds, and—”

“And we mostly trade with Valdemar an’ the Crown’d take more than that fer trade taxes,” Benderk said shrewdly. “Aye, that’ll work.” He looked at Alma. “Draw up yer charter, missy. We’ll all sign it. What’s t’be done with this lot?”

He toed Hardaker.

“As subjects of Valdemar, I can declare his land and goods confiscated and turned over to you. He and these men will be taken to the nearest Guardpost—”

“—and men are on the way,” she continued smoothly, thanking the Havens for the swift mental communication between Companions. “Meanwhile, we will see to everything, including guarding these men for you.” She looked sternly down at Hardaker. “You, I am afraid, are going to be subjected to the Truth Spell to find out exactly how far your intentions toward these people were going to go. And we will find out exactly how many wrongs were originally on
both
sides.”

Some of the villagers had the grace to look embarrassed and a little guilty. But not so much so that Elyn feared anything terribly ugly was going to come out of the investigation.

“Nevertheless, I do not think it excuses the intent to drive people out of their homes,” she concluded.
“That
was an entirely immoral plan. Clever but immoral.”

“And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for you meddling Heralds!” the old man spat.

Elyn could only shake her head. “Let’s find a good place to lock this lot up,” she only said. “I want
him
confined away from the rest for his own safety.” She nodded at Rod. “Take charge of that, will you?”

“Gladly.” Rod prodded them to their feet with a toe. “ Get going, you.”

“And well done, all of you.” She finally allowed herself to smile.

And then felt a nudging at her shoulder blade, and turned to look into Ryu’s big brown eyes.

“Ru-rer row?” the
kyree
asked plaintively.

“Supper!” Arville said, his expression identical to Ryu’s. “We’re
starving!”

Oh, kill me now,
Elyn sighed.

An Unexpected Guest

Sosha paused at the side of the road, drew the back of her hand across her brow to wipe away midday sweat. Her horse snorted and shook its head, tail swishing at flies. The summer day promised more heat and, from the closeness of the afternoon, hinted at an evening thunderstorm. She looked to her left at the fields that stretched off to the distance but could no longer see those her late husband had worked, which his family had possessed for generations. With Zaltos dead these five years, and only his aged parents living, it had fallen to her to keep the farm from being sold. The Goddess had refused—unreasonably, as far as Sosha was concerned—to grant Zaltos children to secure the future of his land. And so, with no one in the family but Mama Datasa, Papa Lorndo, and herself, they had made the difficult decision to rent the farmland to another family.

She grimaced, remembering the arguments that had followed her husband’s death from a terrible accident. From the very beginning, his parents had berated her ... as if she could become pregnant simply by wishing it. To their minds, their beloved son and only child could hardly have been at fault. Zaltos had time and again assured her he thought otherwise. Brimming with simple faith, he believed the Goddess would answer their prayers in her own time. Time, Sosha thought ... time that had not been granted to Zaltos. Or to her.

She squared her shoulders and lifted the reins, the village of Sweetwater not that far away. Her own parents had perished in a winter fever three years past and had left her with a modest house on the edge of the village. It was to this house she had brought Zaltos’s parents after it became glaringly apparent they would have to rent out their land or lose it. So now she lived in the village, her dead husband’s cantankerous parents her only company. She had a garden where she raised greens, an equally unimposing barn, and a small henhouse that sheltered a fair-sized flock of chickens. Today, she was returning from collecting rent that Ghanos paid her every month, money she would use to purchase bread, grain, meat, and milk for the household.

A low groan startled her out of her thoughts. She halted her horse and listened. There it was again. She caught her breath and looked around, seeing nothing but the high grass by the roadside. A shiver ran down her spine. She was all too familiar with that sound: it could only be made by a human ... a human in pain. Sosha reined her horse off the road, half afraid of what she would find. She could hardly continue on. The tenets of the Sun Lord forbade humankind to ignore anyone in need.

As she pushed into the tall grass, her horse suddenly shied, and she grabbed at the saddle to keep from falling. Nearly beneath her horse’s hooves she saw an injured man. God and Goddess! Dried blood covered the side of his head, and he lay sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung to his left side and the other reaching for—her eyes widened. Half hidden in the grass, a sword dully reflected the sunlight.

Sosha shivered again, only this time glancing around in near panic. A sword! No one in Sweetwater carried swords. Knives they had in plenty, but the only swords folk in these parts ever saw hung at the sides of men who guarded traders from bandits or weapons carried by the occasional noble who happened to be passing through this area of Karse.

She licked her lips, unsure for a moment what to do. Once again, she remembered the teachings she had received since childhood. She could not ignore this man’s plight. He was obviously in need of aid, more aid than she could provide. Somehow, she had to get him to the priest Beckor, who also served as village healer.

Whispering a brief prayer to Vkandis Sunlord, she slipped from her saddle and slowly approached the man. Her skin tingled in apprehension; she was poised to retreat at the slightest hint of danger. Danger? She snorted inwardly. This fellow didn’t look as if he could harm anyone in his present condition. She stood only a few steps away, her mind racing. How was she to carry him to the village? He was a large man, broad shouldered. She could hardly lift him atop her horse, and he might not be able to walk. Swallowing her fear, she stooped, reached out, and gently touched his shoulder.

He started at the touch, lurched to one elbow, his face turned in her direction. One very blue eye stared at her; the other was hidden by crusted blood. She jumped back at his sudden movement, gasping in surprise, but he made no move toward her, merely bowing his head and shaking it slowly as if to clear his thoughts.

“Be you hurt bad?” she asked, proud her voice only trembled slightly.

He shook his head again and then quickly reached out to where his sword lay. She backed away, now caught up in fear of what might happen next. His hand found the hilt of his sword, his fingers tracing down to the cross guards. Seemingly satisfied his weapon had not disappeared, he looked up at her again.

“Where?” His voice was not what she suspected. It was deep, calm, and only slightly edged with a thinness she attributed to pain. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Sosha. I’ll try to get you help, but we be a ways from the village. Can you stand? Got a horse here, if you can ride.”

He slowly rolled onto one side, drew up his knees, and tried to stand. She heard him cursing softly, obviously unsettled at his weakness.

“Lord of Light,” he murmured, “I can’t see out of my left eye.”

“Healer will take care of that,” Sosha observed, hoping she was right.

He grunted something under his breath.

“You lost a lot of blood,” she observed, still poised to run. The side of his green tunic was stained with it. She couldn’t tell if it was from his head wound, or whether he had another cut somewhere else. “You need a healer. Sooner the better.”

“You’re right about that,” he muttered, lifting a hand and gingerly touching the cut on his forehead. He stared down at his fingers, which had come away sticky with blood. Suddenly, he glanced around, as if looking for something or someone. “Have you seen any strangers recently?”

She thought back. “Only been on the road a short while myself. Seen no one. Farmer passed a while back on a wagon, but nothing else.”

“Two men,” he said, still unsteady on his feet. He felt his side, grimaced, and looked up and down the road. “Two very large and angry men.”

“Ain’t seen anyone like that. Now, you be in need of help. Sweetwater be a short ride from here. Think you can make it to my horse?”

“Sweetwater? That’s the name of your village?”

“That be it.” A sense of frustration filled her. “You coming or not? Going to keep bleeding here by the side of the road?”

He managed to look slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. You’re only trying to help. I think I can ride. But what about you?”

“You ain’t in a race,” she said. “I’ll walk beside.” He reached down and picked up his sword, tottering for a moment as if on the verge of falling. Sheathing the weapon with an unsteady hand, he once again touched his forehead, flinching in pain.

Trusting he had no thoughts of harming her, she turned to her horse and led the animal close. The man slowly followed, still a bit unstable on his feet. Her horse backed up, the scent of blood disturbing it, but she had the reins firmly in hand.

“Stirrups too short for your long legs,” Sosha said. “Want me to let them out?”

He shook his head, winced at the motion. “I’ll be all right.” He grasped the saddle and slowly pulled himself astride.

She shrugged, turned, and led the horse back to the road. The sun beat down on her head, and she could taste the salty sweat on her upper lip. After he seemed to be settled firmly in the saddle, they started toward the village at a slow walk.

He kept silent as they went, and she echoed his silence. Once, glancing over her shoulder to be certain he still sat upright, she caught him looking back at the road and then around, as if uncertain of his safety. She gnawed on her lower lip. Who was he? Where had he come from? And who were the two very large and angry men he had mentioned? She had seen no horse nearby and doubted he had walked this far out into the countryside from Vkandis only knew where.

One fact was certain: he did not hail from this area. He spoke in a cultured accent, and his clothing was far too fine to be owned by any of the villagers she knew. His boots were made of soft leather, the scabbard and his sword belt decorated in what might be silver. Even so, he did not seem to be of noble blood. Perhaps a retainer of some highborn house.

She sighed quietly. He held to his silence, and she was hesitant to pose any questions. Those could be raised by Beckor, for she had decided this man needed help that only the priest could provide.

 

Noon prayers to the Sunlord finished, Beckor stood next to his chapel at the center of Sweetwater. The village dozed now under the summer sun. The smithy was quiet; a low murmur of voices drifted out from the tavern. It was a peaceful time; the midday meal had passed, leaving a short period of rest before afternoon labor resumed. Not a soul stirred. He contemplated weeding his small garden but discarded the notion. Sunlight poured down out of a cloudless sky, the air beginning to thicken as if before a storm. Weeding could wait, at least until the day grew cooler.