The Demon's Den and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Tanya Huff

  There'd be no point in bluntly saying, “Brock, you're not a Herald.” The townspeople said that all the time, shaded in every possible emotion from amusement to rage, and it had no effect.

  “Brock, do you know what makes a person a Herald?”

  “Heralds help people. Heralds can cry. Heralds tell when bad things happen.” He beamed proudly. “I remember the new things.”

  “Yes, all those things make a Herald, but...”

  “I'm a good Herald.”

  “...but there's other things.”

  Brock twisted in the saddle to look at him, and Calida adjusted her gait to prevent a fall. “Heralds wear shiny white.”

  “Yes...”

  He looked down at his grey sweater, then looked back at Jors, smiling broadly. “Clothes are on the outside.”

  :And a Herald is on the inside.:

  :I get it.:

  A sapphire eye rolled back at him, distinctly amused. :Just trying to help.:

  “Brock, all those things are part of being a Herald, but the most important part is being Chosen by a Companion. You don't have to be a Herald to be a really good person, but you do have to be Chosen. Do you understand?”

  Brock nodded. “Companions have Heralds.”

  “You don't have a Companion.”

  “Yes!” He bounced indignantly, lost a stirrup, and nearly went off. “Have Calida,” he continued when he was secure in the saddle again.

  “But she's Herald Isabel's Companion. Herald Isabel is letting you ride her.”

  “No. Calida is letting.”

  :He's got you there.:

  Jors sighed. “Riding a Companion isn't the point, Brock. You're not Calida's Herald.”

  “Not her Herald,” Brock agreed, his smile lighting up his whole face. “A Herald.”

  Between the less-than-successful conversation and the glowering sky, Jors had picked up a pounding headache. They rode without speaking for a while, Brock humming tunelessly to himself. Finally, more to put an end to the humming than for any real desire to know, Jors turned in the saddle and said, “So, you were going to tell me how you saved Rock.”

  “Kids were hurting him.” Brock's placid expression turned fierce at the memory. “I made them stop.” Although he wouldn't defend himself, he seemed quite capable of defending the helpless. “He was hungry. I counted his bones. One, two, three, four...”

  “Where did he come from?” Jors interrupted, unsure of how high the other man could count and not really wanting to find out.

  “Don't know. Now, he is my friend.” The broad brow furrowed as he searched for words. “Some mean people aren't mean now because he is my friend.”

  That was hardly surprising. Rock was a big dog. Probably a hunting dog of some kind, who'd gotten separated from his pack and managed to finally find his way back to people. “Why did you call him Rock?”

  “So when kids are mean, it doesn't matter.”

  “I don't understand.”

  Brock stared down between Calida's ears and chanted, “Brock, Brock, dumb as a rock.” Then he grinned and turned just far enough in the saddle to meet Jors' gaze. “Rock isn't dumb. I fooled them.”

  He looked so proud, Jors found himself grinning in return. “Yes, you did. That was very smart.”

  “I am a smart Herald.”

  It was a good thing he didn't need affirmation, because Jors had no idea of what to say. :And now,: he sighed quietly as large drops of cold water began splashing against his leathers, :it's raining.:

  :I know. I'm getting wet.:

  :So am I.:

  :I'm bigger. There's more of me, so I'm more wet.:

  In a very short time all four of them were so drenched there was little point in comparisons. Fortunately, as they crested a rise in the trail, the tanners' holding came into sight on the other side of a small valley. Neither Companion needed urging toward the river running through the valley center although they both stopped well back from the bank. The water was brown and running fast, the log bridge nearly awash.

  :What do you think? Is it safe?:

  Gervis stepped cautiously out onto the edge of the logs. :If we move quickly.:

  But Calida hesitated.

  :What is it?:

  :Calida says the river's already undermining the bridge supports. That the bridge is going to wash away.:

  :Tell her that if it does, better we're all on the side with shelter. I'm half drowned and half frozen and Brock's got to be colder still. She's got to get him out of this weather.:

  Eyes wide, the mare stepped up beside Gervis, who took her arrival as his cue to leap forward. One stride, two, three. As Jors watched anxiously from the other shore, Calida slowly followed, placing each hoof with care.

  Wood screamed a protest as the bridge supports caved.

  The huge logs dipped and skewed out from the bank, dragged by the river.

  Calida half-reared as her front hooves scrambled for purchase in the mud.

  Brock bounced over the cantle and disappeared.

  “No!” Jors threw himself to the ground. Stumbling to the Companion's side, he grabbed the mare's saddle and heaved. Step by step, as she managed to work her way forward, he worked his way back until, to his amazement, he saw a very muddy Brock holding on with both hands to Calida's tail, his feet in the river. A heartbeat later, with solid ground beneath all four of them, he dropped to his knees and gathered Brock up into his arms.

  “Are you all right?”

  He looked more surprised than frightened and returned the hug with wet enthusiasm. “I fell.”

  “I know. The bridge broke.”

  Brock twisted around to look and clutched at Jors' arm. “I'm sorry!”

  “It's okay. It wasn't your fault.” His heart slamming painfully against his ribs, Jors grabbed a stirrup and hauled himself onto his feet. “Come on, we're almost there.”

  The tanners' holding looked deserted as they stumbled up to the buildings. Jors called out a greeting, but the wind and rain whipped the words out of his mouth.

  Brock grabbed his arm. “Smoke,” he said, pointing to the thin grey line rising reluctantly from a chimney. “I'm cold.”

  “Me, too.”

  All thoughts turned to a warm fire as they made their way over to the building, the Companions crowding in close under the wide eaves.

  :We'll be right back as soon as we find someone.:

  :Hurry, Chosen.: Gervis sounded completely miserable. Covered in mud almost to his withers, his mane hanging in a tangled, sodden mass, he looked very little like the gleaming creature who'd left the Waystation that morning. Calida, if anything, looked worse.

  Jors considered leaving Brock with the Companions, but the other man's breathing sounded unnaturally hoarse, so he beckoned him forward as he tried the door. The sooner he got him inside the better.

  The door opened easily. It hadn't even been latched.

  “Hello?”

  Stepping inside wasn't so much a step into warmth as a step into a space less cold. It looked like they'd found the family's main living quarters, although the room was so dim it was difficult to tell for sure. The only light came from a small fire smouldering on the fieldstone hearth and a tallow lamp on the floor close beside a cradle.

  “No.” Brock charged across the room, trailing a small river in his wake. “No fire beside baby!”

  Remembering what Lorrin had told him about Brock and babies, Jors held his position by the door. The younger of two, what he knew about babies could be inscribed on the head of a pin with room left over for the lyrics to Kerowyn's Ride.

  Squatting, Brock picked up the lamp. “No fire beside baby,” he repeated, began to rise, and paused. “Baby?” Leaning forward, he peered into the cradle.

  “Is it all right?” The lamp and the fire together threw barely enough light for Jors to see Brock. He couldn't see the baby at all.

  Setting the lamp down again, Brock stretched both hands into the cradle. When he stood and turned, he was holding a limp i
nfant across both palms, his broad features twisted in sorrow. “Baby is dead.”

  :Jors!:

  Jors spun around as the door slammed open and five people surged into the room. They froze for an instant, then the man in front howled out a wordless challenge and charged.

  Bending, Jors captured his attacker's momentum, then he straightened, throwing the other man to the floor hard enough to knock him breathless. The immediate threat removed, he faced the remaining two men and two women. “I am Herald Jors. Who is in charge here?”

  “I am,” the older woman snarled.

  The hate in her eyes nearly drove Jors back a step.

  He didn't need Brock's whispered “mean lady” to know who she was. It took an effort, but he kept his voice calm and understanding as he said, “The child was dead when we arrived.”

  “Dory came to say the babe was sick, not dead,” she spat as the younger woman ran silently forward and snatched the body from Brock's hands. “The Moonling killed him.”

  “He did not...”

  “You're here, and he's there,” she sneered. “You can't see what he did.”

  Spreading his hands, he added a mild warning to his tone. “And you weren't even in the building. I understand this is a shock...”

  “You understand nothing, Herald.” She placed a hand on the backs of the two remaining men and shoved. “Have the guts to support your brother!”

  They sprang forward, looking like nothing so much as a pair of whipped dogs.

  “Jors?”

  He ducked an awkward blow. “Outside, Brock. Now!” If anything happened to him, the Companions would get Brock to safety.

  “There's two of you and one of him, you idiots! Don't let him protect the half-wit!” :Chosen?:

  :It's all right.:

  Fortunately, neither man was much of a fighter. Jors could have ended it quickly, but as they'd just suffered a sudden terrible loss and weren't thinking clearly, he didn't want to do any serious damage. After a moment, he realized that had it not been for the old woman goading them on, neither would have been fighting. Maybe I should have Gervis deal with...

  He'd forgotten the first brother. The piece of firewood caught him on the side of the head. As he started to fall, he felt unfriendly hands grab his body.

  “No!”

  Then the hands were ripped away, and he hit the floor. Two bodies hit the floor after him, closely followed by the third.

  “Never hit a Herald!”

  “Get up, you cowards! That's a Moonling – not a real man!”

  “But, Ma...”

  “He killed my grandson!”

  Hers. Jors thought muzzily. Not grief. Anger. Anger at the loss of a possession.

  “You never loved him!”

  Apparently, the child's mother agreed.

  “You always complained about him! You said if he didn't stop crying you were going to strangle him! If anyone killed him...”

  “Don't you raise your voice to me, you cow. If you were a better...”

  “ENOUGH!”

  The doors slammed open again. Hooves clattering against the floorboards, the Companions moved to flank Brock. From Jors' position on the floor, it looked as if there were significantly more than a mere eight muddy white legs.

  “Don't lie there with your idiot mouths open! They're just horses!”

  “They're not just horses, you stupid old woman!”

  :Gervis?:

  :I'm here, Heartbrother.:

  Jors felt better about his chance of recovery. Gervis was angry, but not frantic.

  “A baby is dead. Is time for crying, not fighting. A Herald is hurt. You hurt a Herald.”

  :Is that Brock standing up to the mean lady?:

  :It is.:

  :Good for him.:

  “You will cry, and you will make the Herald better!”

  “I will not.”

  No mistaking that hate-filled voice.

  “Then I will.”

  Nor the voice of the child's mother.

  For the first time, Brock sounded confused. “You will cry?”

  “No. I will help the Herald.”

  :Out of spite...:

  :You need help, Heartbrother. Your head is bleeding. Spiteful help is still help.:

  Jors got one arm under him and tried to rise. :If you say...:

  :Chosen!:

  His Companion's cry went with him into darkness.

  *

  Jors woke to the familiar and comforting smell of a stable. For a moment, he thought he'd dozed off on foal-watch, then he moved and the pain in his head brought everything back. :Gervis!:

  :I'm here.: A soft nose nuzzled his cheek. :Just open your eyes.:

  Even moving his eyelids hurt, but he forced them up. Fortunately, the stable was dark, the brightest things in it the two Companions. He could just barely make out Brock tucked up against Calida's side, wrapped in a blanket and nearly buried in straw. :How long?:

  :From almost dark to just after moonrise. Long enough I was starting to worry.:

  He stretched up a hand and stroked the side of Gervis' face. :Sorry.:

  :The young female made tea for your head. There's a closed pot buried in the straw by your side.:

  The tea was still warm and tasted awful, but Gervis made him drink the whole thing. :I take it we're in the stable because you and Calida wouldn't leave me?:

  :The old woman said the young woman could do as she pleased, but not in her house. I do not want you to be in her house.: The obvious distaste in the young stallion's mental voice was hardly surprising. Even on short acquaintance the old woman was as nasty a piece of work as Jors ever wanted to get close to. :Brock told two of the young males to carry you here.:

  :He just told them what to do and they did it?:

  :They are used to being told what to do.:

  :Good point,: Jors acknowledged.

  :And,: Gervis continued, :I think they were frightened when they realized they had struck down a Herald.:

  :They knew I was a Herald!:

  :Knowing and realizing are often different. Had the blow struck by the child's father been any lower, they would have killed you, and that frightened them, too. They were thankful Brock took charge. He saw you were tended to, he was assured you would live without damage, he groomed us both, and then he cried himself to sleep.:

  :Poor guy. Good thing he was there. If he hadn't been, I wouldn't have put it past the mean lady to have finished the job and buried both our bodies.:

  :The Circle would know.:

  :We'd still be dead. Is this why Calida insisted on bringing him?:

  :She has told her Chosen we need no assistance and convinced her not to ride to the rescue. The Herald Isabel agreed, but only because she felt the townspeople would lay the blame on Brock.:

  :That's ridiculous.:

  Gervis sighed, blowing sweet, hay-scented breath over Jors' face. :There is already much talk against him taking a Companion.:

  All of which he needed to know, but didn't answer his question. About to ask it again, he stopped short. :Calida can reach Isabel from here? I couldn't reach you from here!:

  :Nor I you.:

  He sounded so put out by it, Jors couldn't prevent a smile. :Never mind, Heartbrother. Calida and her Chosen have been together for many years; when we've been together for that long, I'll hear you if I'm in Sorrows and you're in Sensholding.:

  :I'd rather we were never that far apart.:

  Jors wrapped one hand in Gervis' silken mane. :Me either.:

  :Sleep now, Chosen. It will be morning soon enough.:

  When Jors opened his eyes again, weak autumn sunlight filtered into the stable. An attempt to rise brought Gervis in through the open door. He pulled himself to his feet with a handful of mane, and throwing an arm over his Companion's back, managed to get to where he could relieve himself.

  :The old woman made them bury the child this morning.:

  :They're only a day's ride from town; they can't wait for a priest?:

>   :The bridge is gone. The priest cannot come.: He pawed the ground with a front hoof and added. :I don't think the old woman would send for a priest even if he could come.:

  :Do you know where they are?:

  :Yes.:

  Jors took a deep breath and, holding it, managed to swing himself up on Gervis' bare back. :Let's go, then.:

  The tanners had a graveyard in a small clearing cupped by the surrounding oak forest. When Jors arrived, the three men had just finished filling in the tiny hole. As Jors stopped, half hidden by a large sumac, Brock wiped the tears from his face on Calida's mane and stepped up to the grave.

  “There is no priest. I will say goodbye to the baby.”

  “I'm not listening to a half-wit say anything,” the old woman snarled. She turned on one heel and started down the hill. “I only came to see the job was done right. Enric, Kern, Simen; back to work, there's hides to be sammied.”

  Two of the three moved to her side, the third looked toward the young woman and hesitated. “He was my son, Ma.”

  “He was my son, Ma.” She threw it mockingly over her shoulder. “Look around you, Simen. I've buried a son, two daughters, and a husband besides, and it don't make hides tan themselves. Stay and listen to the half-wit if you want.”

  “Dory?”

  She lifted stony eyes to Simen's face. “Better do as your ma says,” she sneered. “'Cause you always do as your ma says.”

  Scarred hands curled into fists, but they stayed at his side. “Fine. I'll go.”

  “I don't care.”

  “Fine.” But when he turned, Brock was in his way. Jors tensed to urge Gervis forward, but at the last instant, for no clear reason, he changed his mind.

  “Stay and say goodbye.” A heavy shove rocked him in place, but didn't move him. “Stay.” And then gently. “Say goodbye to baby.”

  Simen stared down into Brock's face, then wordlessly turned back to the grave.

  Brock returned to his place and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “Sometimes,” he said, “babies die. Mamas and papas love them, and hug them, and kiss them, and feed them, and they die. Nobody did anything bad. Everyone is sorry. The baby wasn't bad. Babies are good. Goodbye, baby.”

  “His name,” Simen said, so quietly Jors almost missed it, “was Tamas.”

  Brock nodded solemnly. “Goodbye, Tamas. Everyone is sorry.” He lifted his head and stared at Tamas' parents standing hunch-shouldered, carefully apart. “Now, you cry.”