Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (7 page)

Movement down the road that ran directly through the village caught his attention. Shading his eyes, he stared in surprise. What in the God’s green earth was Sosha doing with a stranger riding her horse? A sudden burst of light filled his vision, and he started at what he saw: Sosha, a man on her horse, and a large golden cat padding alongside. He blinked, and the cat disappeared as if it had never existed. Beckor hurried toward Sosha, trying without success to make out the man’s identity. Her face lit up, and she increased her pace.

“God’s greeting to you,” Beckor said, taking the reins from her. He looked up at the man, who now slumped forward in the saddle. The fellow stared down out of one eye, the other swollen and covered with dried blood. “Come with me. We need to get you out of this heat.”

“Oh, sun-ray,” Sosha said, her face flushed and beaded with sweat. “Found him by a field south of here. Can you help him?”

“I’ll try.” Beckor led the horse around to the side yard. He stopped by the door to his room at the back of the chapel. “Sunlord bless you,” he said to the man. “Are you able to walk?”

The man nodded and, moving deliberately, slowly dismounted. He caught himself, his knees threatening to buckle.

“God above,” Beckor breathed, reaching out to brush the black hair away from the man’s left eye. “Who did this to you?”

The man remained silent. Beckor put an arm around the fellow’s shoulder and led him to a shady spot beneath a tree. “Sosha, get some water. And there are clean rags and a jar of poultice in the top drawer of the chest in my room.”

She nodded and hurried off. Beckor helped the man sit, straightened, and glanced up at the sky. Who this man was, what he was doing so far from his usual haunts ... all those questions could be answered at a later time. Now, the most important task ahead was to treat his wound. Vkandis would provide guidance beyond that.

 

Sosha sat in the afternoon shade, staring at the stranger, who had finished a small meal she had provided from Beckor’s store. The blood cleaned from his face, medicine liberally applied, and a strip of clean cloth tied around his forehead, he looked in far better shape than when she had first seen him. The cut over his left eye proved not as deep as she had feared, but head wounds always bled heavily. His eye and the side of his face were swollen but, after careful inspection, Beckor had announced clear vision would return in a few days. The blood down his side had originated from his head wound, though deep purple bruises showed he had suffered more than one hard blow.

There was something about this man. She could hardly keep from gazing at him. He still kept silent, having said no more than ten words since arriving in Sweetwater. And yet, she felt oddly comfortable around him now, with Beckor close by.

The priest sat in the grass as the man drained the last of the water from his cup. Sosha waited patiently for Beckor to ask the questions that filled her mind.

“You have Sosha here to thank for bringing you to me,” the priest said. “Now, I think it’s time you tell us about yourself. Your name would be helpful.”

The man looked from Beckor to Sosha and back. “Torgon. My name’s Torgon. I’m from Sunhame. If I tell you more, I could be placing you at risk.”

Sunhame? Sosha straightened at that piece of information. Sunhame lay over four days’ walk from Sweetwater. What was he doing this far from home? And what risk did he pose?

“That tells me little,” Beckor said, “aside from your name. Why would you be placing us at risk? Who have you angered enough to ride you down this far away from Sunhame?”

Torgon’s mouth tightened.

“It’s ours to decide whether we’ll take a risk by helping you.” Beckor cocked his head and held his gaze steady. Sosha looked from the priest to the man named Torgon, her heart doing an absurd quick beat. Beckor reached out and touched the man’s knee. “Tell us. Perhaps we can help.”

Torgon barked a short laugh. “Against the two who ambushed me? Unless you have some bully boys or men-at-arms hidden in this village, you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you could guess.”

Insulted, Sosha drew her head back. “We be not defenseless here,” she said. “Lot of our menfolk be big and sometimes mighty mean.”

Beckor laughed quietly. “She’s right about that. Get a few of them in their cups, and you’ll behold a sight or two. Who are these men?”

Torgon spread his hands apart, as if giving in. “All right. The risk is yours. I am, or was, a retainer to Lord Jhasko. He’s a merchant with a heart cold as winter who bought his way to a title. I also served as his bodyguard and messenger.” He glanced around as if he feared other ears could hear. “I doubt there’s a shady deal made under the Sunlord’s eye he hasn’t taken to a level that only the lowest of men would contemplate. I was privy to his secrets, don’t you see. And the last secret I had knowledge of was the worst. Jhasko’s greed for gold had corrupted him past the point I could tolerate. And, trust me, I’d tolerated a good lot before. This time, he wanted me to murder his chief rival.”

Sosha lifted a hand and covered her mouth. Murder? Sunlord protect them all! There might be rare outbursts of violence in Sweetwater, but those usually resulted from too much ale or downright jealousy. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ended up badly hurt. And, as far as she knew, no one in recent memory had ever contemplated cold-blooded murder.

“Rest assured,” Torgon said, “I may have cooperated in some less-than-honorable deeds at Jhasko’s orders in the past, but murder ...” His face hardened. “I refused. It wasn’t the response Jhasko expected. He ordered me a second time, and again I refused.”

Something cold unwrapped itself from Sosha’s heart. This man was no murderer. She bent her head, stared at her hands crossed in her lap, then looked up. “Be you serious? He asked you to kill someone just because they angered him?”

Torgon snorted. “Angered him? It was less and more than that. His chief rival threatened to take business away from Jhasko. And that could not be tolerated. Jhasko had tried different schemes to undermine this rival, but they hadn’t worked. As far as he could see, the only remedy was to remove the rival and bring down the competing house.”

“Ain’t right!” Sosha murmured. “Vkandis Sunlord don’t take kindly to murder.”

“And?” Beckor prompted.

“And he dismissed me from his service. Told me to be gone from Sunhame before dawn of the following day.” Torgon drew a deep breath. “I’d not only lost my livelihood but doomed myself. I knew too much. I’d participated in deeds that could have imprisoned me for years. My only thought was to gather what belongings I could take and leave Sunhame as quickly as possible. Of course,” he added, “Jhasko couldn’t let it go at that. He’d have me chased down and killed. He feared I’d tell those in power what he’d done in the past.”

Sosha glanced at Beckor and saw a change of expression cross his face. “Then those men you told of—”

“Assassins,” Torgon said, glancing her way. “Professional killers. They followed me out of Sunhame. I thought I had enough of a lead on them, that I’d disguised my trail well enough. Obviously, I was wrong. They caught up to me by a field and left me as you, Sosha, found me.” He grinned slightly. “However, one of them now goes with a sword stroke to his right leg, though unfortunately not enough to cripple him.”

Sosha looked up at the sky, darkening now with approaching clouds. “Where be these men now?”

“Vkandis only knows. With luck, they’ll believe they killed me. I think what saved my life was six or seven men coming down the road. They looked like farmers or hired hands. Even two assassins wouldn’t want to chance their luck against that many burly fellows armed with the God only knows what.”

A cold shiver ran down Sosha’s spine. “Be they still ’round here?”

Torgon shrugged. “Likely,” he admitted.

Sosha looked to Beckor, hoping he would relieve her fears with a few words of comfort.

“Now I see,” the priest said softly, dashing those hopes, “why you warned us of the risk we take in helping you.” He straightened, set his shoulders, and smiled briefly. “Well, what’s done is done. There are places we can hide you until the danger passes.”

“They’ll go looking for my body,” Torgon objected. “If they want to be hired by Jhasko again, they can’t return to Sunhame without some proof they killed me.”

Beckor nodded. “Then we’ll give them proof you died.”

“But that be lying!” Sosha exclaimed.

“There are worse things than lying in the Sunlord’s sight. Murder and attempted murder offend him far more than a lie spoken to protect another person from death.”

 

The following morning, Zaltos’s parents still asleep and her attendance at the rising sun celebration over, Sosha gathered up grain for her chickens. The sun rose in a sky rinsed clear by nighttime rain. She opened the door to the henhouse and slipped inside, greeted by happy clucking and rustling of feathers. Scattering the feed, she picked up her wooden pail, shut the door, and eased inside the barn. Her horse lifted its head and nickered softly from its stall.

“Torgon?” she called softly. “Be you awake?”

“I am,” came his voice from the shadows. He crawled out from a pile of straw, strands of it clinging to his hair. The swelling had gone down from his face and he moved less stiffly.

“Brought you some breakfast.” She pulled a large sausage and a piece of herb-bread wrapped in cloth from the bottom of the pail. “Hope you don’t mind a few kernels of grain. Had to feed the chickens.”

He unwrapped the bread and sausage. “That’s good,” he mumbled, his mouth full.

She watched him eat, her mind wandering to the night before. Beckor had hidden Torgon in his room, out of sight from anyone who might come looking. After sharing the evening meal with Zaltos’s parents, Sosha returned to the chapel to find Torgon clad in different clothes. Gone were his boots, his blood-stained tunic, as well as his breeches. Beckor was off somewhere, so she waited with Torgon for him to return. They said little to each other, she still somewhat shy in his presence and he wrapped in what must be his memories of violence.

When Beckor reappeared, he refused to say what he had done to give proof Torgon was dead. If she didn’t know, ignorance would provide protection from questioning. Then, under the cover of night, she led Torgon to her house and left him in the barn. Unsheathing his sword, he placed it close at hand and settled down half-hidden by the pile of straw.

Now, as she stood beside him, she felt a creeping unease. Last night, she had trusted Beckor and whatever it was he had planned, but that was then. Today was now, and she feared the two assassins might come to Sweetwater searching for their prey.

“Just ain’t right,” she said, looking up into Torgon’s face. “Nobody should kill nobody for no reason.”

“I certainly won’t argue with you,” he replied. He touched his forehead, wincing slightly. “Some things are even too dark for a lout like me.”

“Don’t think you be a lout,” she protested. “Now keep quiet in here. Sorry for such a boring place.”

“Boring’s good when the alternative is facing frustrated assassins.” His eyes met hers. “You need to take care. Go about your business as if it was a day like any other. And don’t hover around the barn. I’ll be all right. If anyone passes by, forget you ever saw me.”

 

The sun hung low on the western horizon when two men rode into Sweetwater, to all appearances travelers headed in the direction of Sunhame. Beckor watched them from the front door of the chapel. Big men both, clad in leather and fully armed. Oddly enough, they led a riderless horse. Then, from his vantage point, he could see one of them had his right thigh wrapped in a torn rag.
Sunlord protect!
he thought.
It’s the assassins who tried to kill Torgon!
Beckor studiously avoided looking in their direction. They halted by the tavern, dismounted, and went inside—simple wayfarers looking for a place to spend the night before continuing their journey.

Beckor murmured a prayer to Vkandis Sunlord. The game had begun, and he hoped he had prepared a proper ending to it. Something strange had been set in motion when Sosha had found Torgon wounded by the side of the road. And he couldn’t discount the dream that had come shortly before sunrise. He had seen Sosha standing next to Torgon, and between them, tail curled around front paws, sat a large golden cat. Golden? For a brief moment, the cat had grown in size, to be transformed into a Firecat! Words that were not words filled Beckor’s mind:
Keep these two together.

Dusk approached, and he entered the chapel to prepare for the sunset service. He clad himself in his vestments, slipped the heavy gold chain of a sun-priest around his neck, and returned to the altar, waiting for the villagers to assemble. One by one, they filed through the open doors and took their accustomed places. He sought and found Sosha, met her eyes and nodded. But arriving last of all, the two assassins entered the chapel, quiet and respectful as any resident of Sweetwater would be.

Beckor tensed at the sight but turned toward the altar, the words of the sunset service coming easily to his lips. Inwardly, he voiced another prayer for the God to grant the villagers safety and to protect the man and woman his dream had revealed as being somehow of great importance.

 

Sosha arrived at the service later than she would have liked, as Zaltos’ father had taken to bed with a slight fever. After dosing him with willow-bark tea, she left him to the care of his wife and hurried toward the chapel. Torgon had eaten his fill earlier, not stirring from the barn all day. He seemed a different person, clad now in a homespun shirt, patched pants, and scuffed but serviceable boots. Only his eyes were the same, startling blue against the tan of his face. She had been unable to keep her mind from him all day. Through all her chores—gathering eggs, feeding and watering her horse, and pulling weeds from the garden—she kept thinking of him.