Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-101

by Mercedes Lackey

  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 an
d 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.

  “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.

  Now if they can just keep quiet.

  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, wh
ere 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.”