The Demon's Den and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Tanya Huff

  “Is this it then?” Jors asked as he lifted the pack. He appreciated the older Herald's ability to travel light. He never carried more than the bare necessities himself.

  “Don't be absurd... no, silly... no, ridiculous, boy. There's three more already down there.” Fingers white around the carved head of his cane, Tamis wobbled out into the hall. “We're not riding circuit, we're going to a wedding.”

  *

  Verati was the closest Jors had ever seen to a stout Companion.

  :I wouldn't think that quite so loudly, Heartbrother.:

  Jors shot a near-panicked glance at Gervis, standing saddled and waiting in the yard. :She can't hear me, can she?:

  :Of course not, but your face gives your thoughts away.:

  Tamis lifted his forehead from where it had been resting against the creamy white forehead of his Companion and shuffled aside, steadying himself on the bridle. “Herald Jors, this is my lady, Verati.”

  Jors bowed.

  Verati inclined her head carefully so as not to topple her Herald.

  :She says that was remarkably graceful considering your inclination to dive into rose bushes.:

  :Why does everyone keep harping on that!:

  :Because things are so quiet there's not much else happening. And speaking of harping, one of the younger Bards has composed a rondeau. It's quite good although I'm not sure ‘befores’ is actually a word.:

  :Befores?:

  :To rhyme with Jors, of course.:

  :Of course,: Jors sighed.

  *

  It took forever to get out of Haven as Tamis seemed to know everyone they passed.

  “Move too fast and miss the point of travel,” Tamis snorted when Jors mentioned it. “Everyone has a story. And you're thinking, why should I care about everyone's story. What adventures could a cobbler... no, a butcher... no, a whore have that would be worth telling? That's the trouble with the young. They think there's only one story and they're the hero in it.”

  “I don't...”

  “You'd be surprised,” Tamis continued, interrupting Jors' protest. “Surprised, I tell you, if you took the time to listen. Back in my day, we listened or we got what for. I remember Shorna, one of my yearmates, she'd never ridden before she was Chosen, and one day, during a class, she went right off over her Companion's head, and Herald Dorian, she was the instructor, she said, well, at least it's a nice day. Shorna was so mad Dorian would say it was a nice day after she landed on the grass like that.” He nodded so vigorously, he began to topple, and Verati had to sidestep to keep him in the saddle. “It was a nice day though,” he added thoughtfully. “They're all dead now, you know, except for me. It's no fun getting old, boy. Although...” he gave a wet cough that Jors realized, after a moment, was meant to be a chuckle. “...it beats the alternative.”

  :Speaking of old; how long can he stay mounted?: Jors wondered as Tamis greeted a water seller with a question about her father.

  :Verati won't let him fall.:

  :Not what I meant. Riding, even riding a Companion, can't be easy on old joints, and I'd like to at least be out of the city before we have to stop for the day.:

  In the end, Willow, the younger of their two mules, got them moving, objecting to the crowd at the Haymarket with a well-placed kick. Jors made a mental note to thank her with a carrot at the first opportunity.

  *

  The South Trade Road offered a wide selection of inns between Haven and Kettlesmith, and for a while, Jors was afraid they'd be staying in all of them. What had seemed like a ridiculously generous amount of travel time up in the Dean's office now made more sense.

  Tamis was an early riser, but only because he napped for an hour or two after they stopped at midday and went to bed while the chickens were foraging for one last meal in the inn yards. Jors spent his evenings grooming both Companions. Verati had a disconcerting way of falling asleep the moment he put brush to withers, but then, Verati had a disconcerting way of falling asleep whenever they stopped, her head falling forward until her breath blew two tiny, identical divots out of the dusty ground.

  They let Verati set the pace, and Tamis either talked about Heralds long dead...

  :And Shorna was so mad Dorian would say it was a nice day after she landed on the grass like that.: Jors' silent chorus followed the inflections of the older Herald's voice exactly.

  :Does he not remember he told this story?: Gervis wondered.

  :I don't think so.:

  :He called me Arrin this morning.:

  :At least Arrin was a stallion. He called me Janis.:

  ...or slumped back against the high cantle and dozed in the saddle. Dozing, Jors discovered, did not cut into actual nap time.

  When they reached Dog Inn and the turn east to Herald's Hill, Tamis decided to join Jors in the common room for their evening meal.

  “Are you sure? Your digestion wasn't too happy after lunch.”

  “Stop fussing, boy. My digestion is none of your business... no, responsibility... no, concern.”

  Given how early they were eating – Tamis' digestion also had strong ideas about eating too late – even the presence of two Heralds couldn't fill the room. Four equally elderly locals played Horses and Hounds at a table on the other side of the small fire, and tucked into a corner, a merchant waited with no good grace for the smith to repair a cracked axle on his wagon.

  “That's apple wood.” Tamis sniffed appreciatively as he settled. “Can't beat the way it smells as it burns. Why didn't you mention that in your Appleby report?”

  “I never noticed it.”

  “Of course you didn't. What are you doing?”

  He'd been pulling the crusts off the thick slices of brown bread. Unless there was stew or soup to dip them into, previous meals had taught him Tamis couldn't handle crusts. Waving one of the slices, he tried to explain. “I'm uh...”

  Tamis snatched it out of his hand. “Stop fussing.”

  “So, Heralds.” The innkeeper settled at their table expectantly. “What news?”

  “It's quiet,” Jors told her. “The borders are peaceful, trade is good, and even the weather has been fine.”

  “He writes his reports the same way,” Tamis sighed. “Accurate but not exactly memorable.” He took a long swallow of ale, having previously announced that ale worth drinking should be dark enough to see a reflection in, coughed a bit, then smiled at the innkeeper broadly enough to show he still had most of his teeth. “You want a story, I'm afraid you're stuck with me.”

  :Oh no.:

  :What is it, Chosen?:

  :Tamis is about to tell a story. I bet you a royal it's either Shorna or Terrik up the tree.:

  It was neither.

  “...and although he may have defeated the first rose bush, the second, I fear, was the victor. Everyone has a story, boy,” he added after a moment. “You can thank me for not mentioning your name.” He likely thought the laughter would cover the comment. And it would have had Tamis' voice not been at his usual compensating-for-being-mostly-deaf volume.

  On the other hand, Jors reflected philosophically, even the merchant with the cracked axle seemed to have cheered up.

  *

  “...and Shorna was so mad Dorian would say it was a nice day after she landed on the grass like that.” Tamis gave his wet cough chuckle and tossed a stick into the fire. “I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  :Gervis...:

  :Verati does not see that there is a problem.:

  :But...:

  :She says, age is not a problem. It just is.:

  Jors glanced over at the elderly mare, providing a warm support behind Tamis' back and wondered if, all things considered, she was the best judge. :What do you think?:

  He felt Gervis' mental sigh. :I think I'm tired of hearing that story.:

  “I wanted to be a Bard, you know,” Tamis said suddenly. “Good thing my lady arrived when she did or all that wanting would have broken my heart.”

  “Your family didn't want you to be a B
ard?” Jors asked after it became obvious Tamis wasn't going to continue.

  The old man started and peered across the fire at him. “What do you know about it, boy?”

  “You said wanting to be a Bard would have broken your heart.”

  “I did? Well, it would have. Couldn't carry a tune if my life depended on it. I never forget a story though, and there's so many stories that are forgotten. You wouldn't believe the stories I found going through the old reports, stories about Heralds long dead who lived lives that should be remembered. Not because they made the great heroic gestures – those, they get put to music to inspire a bunch more damned fool heroics – but because they did what needed to be done. Those are the stories that should live on. But if you write a report that holds just the facts and has none of you in it, well, that's you gone, isn't it?” Tamis snorted. “Heralds don't die in bed, now do they?”

  “Well, you're not dead yet.”

  Verati opened one sapphire eye and glared at Jors.

  :She doesn't think you're funny,: Gervis translated helpfully.

  *

  At Herald's Hill, Tamis stirred three spoonfuls of honey into his breakfast tea and told a full common room the story of the merchant they'd met at Dog Inn. Later, while loading the mules, Jors saw a carter in the inn yard checking his axles.

  :Oh, look, the moral of the story.:

  :Chosen, that's...: The pause continued long enough that Jors turned. Gervis tossed his head, looking a little sheepish. :Okay, it's actually pretty funny.:

  At Crescent Lake, Tamis told the story of a farmer he'd met back when he'd been riding circuit and the girl he'd spent twelve years wooing.

  :He remembers every detail about that, but he can't remember my name?:

  :Or that he told us about Shorna falling off her horse?:

  :What does Verati talk about while we're walking?: Jors wondered, setting the pack on Willow's pad.

  :How the roads were straighter and carrots were sweeter when she was young.:

  :And I bet mules were better behaved,: Jors muttered, dodging a flailing hoof.

  *

  On their own, even with a mule, Jors figured he and Gervis could have made Crescent Lake to Hartsvale in one long day. Tamis and Verati didn't do long days.

  When it started to rain about mid-afternoon, Jors pulled an oilskin cloak out of Tamis' bag, tucked it around him, and gave some serious thought to riding all night. He wanted to get Tamis out of the damp as soon as possible.

  :Do you think Verati could do it?:

  :I think she would try for her Herald's sake, but she is also very old. We've been travelling for some time, and she is more tired than she will admit to.:

  :All right then, I'll build a lean-to.: He repeated his plans out loud as he dismounted.

  “You're fussing.” Tamis' protest would have held more heat had he not begun to cough.

  “Gervis hates getting wet.” Which had the added benefit of being the truth. His Companion had a cat's opinion of water.

  “You're handy with an axe.”

  “My family are foresters.”

  “My family are foresters,” Tamis repeated, rubbing a gleaming drop of mucus off the end of his nose. “What kind of a story is that?”

  “A very short one,” Jors grunted as he drove the first of the stakes into the ground.

  *

  No children ran out to greet them as they entered the north end of the village late the next day.

  Gervis lifted his head. :I smell smoke.:

  :So do I.:

  Verati stopped so suddenly Willow trotted up her lead rope and smacked into a gleaming white haunch. Tamis, wrapped in every piece of dry clothing he had remaining, looking more like a pile of white laundry than a person, pulled his cane from the saddle ties. “Something's wrong.”

  Then a dog started barking, and between one heartbeat and the next, men and women spilled out of the houses, children watching wide-eyed from windows and doors.

  “Heralds! Thank the Lady you've come, we've had...” The heavyset woman out in front rocked to a halt and frowned. “Uncle Tamis?”

  “Who were you expect...” The querulous question turned into coughing, cane tumbling to the ground as he clutched at the saddle horn with both hands.

  “What happened here?” Jors snapped, pitching his voice to carry over the coughing and the babble of voices it provoked.

  “Quiet!” The heavyset woman turned just far enough to see that she was obeyed then locked her attention on Jors. “Raiders,” she growled. “They hit around noon, when most was out in the fields and no one much here to stand up to them. Eight or nine of them rode in and tossed a torch onto Kervin's roof. Same group as has been hitting the farms – ride in and set a fire, grab a lamb here or a chicken there, and ride out thinking no one can touch them. But Bardi – that's Merilyn and Conner's youngest girl...”

  A man and a woman, neither of them young, pushed forward through the crowd and stared up at him with grieving eyes.

  “....well, she's a dab shot, and she put an arrow into three of them. Knocked one out of the saddle, hit one in the meaty part of the thigh, and the third up in the shoulder. Well, they didn't like that, did they? And the one on the ground, I'm guessing he was a brother or something close to him they called their leader, because when they saw he was down, and folk were starting to run in, they grabbed her.” Thick fingers closed around a handful of air. “Grabbed her and rode off.”

  So much for peaceful and quiet. Jors cursed himself for thinking it ever had to end. “The raider Bardi shot, do the others think he's dead?”

  “No, he was thrashing and yelling.”

  “So they've probably taken her to trade. Her for him.”

  “Then why not do it? Then and there?”

  “You said she injured two of them? It's hard to drive a bargain when you're in danger of bleeding to death. They've ridden just far enough to tend their wounds and they'll be back.” He glanced west, at the sun sitting fat and orange just above the horizon. “Tomorrow.”

  “So we wait?” A voice from the back of the crowd.

  “No!” Tamis answered before Jors could.

  “No,” Jors agreed, cutting him off. There was no need for more detail than that. And everyone knew it. Twisting around, he untied the lead line and began tossing unnecessary gear to the ground. “Which way?”

  “East. We tried to follow, but they're on hill ponies, tough and fast, and we lost the trail in the rock. Nearly lost two of our own as well.” Her voice grew defensive. No one wanted the Herald to think they'd given up too soon. “The hills are treacherous if you don't know them, and they do.”

  “We can handle the hills.” He checked that his quiver was full. “I'll find them.”

  “We'll find them,” Tamis protested, struggling to free himself from his wrappings, Verati shifting her weight to keep him from falling. “When I was a boy, I all but lived in those hills. I know their stories!”

  :Chosen...:

  :I know.:

  But fate intervened before Jors had to speak as another coughing fit nearly pitched the old Herald out of the saddle. Would have pitched him out of the saddle had the heavyset woman not moved close enough to support his weight.

  “Take care of him,” Jors told her. He swept his gaze over the gathered villagers, who needed hope as much as anything. “I'll mark the trail for those who follow.”

  Then Gervis spun on one rear hoof and headed east.

  *

  Easy enough, even as the daylight faded, to see where a group of mounted men left the track, following a deer trail into the trees.

  :What are you going to do when we catch up?: Gervis asked, barely slowing.

  :Depends on what we find.:

  :If that woman is right, there's at least eight of them.:

  :But two of them are wounded.: Bending low in the saddle, he tried not to think of what the others might be doing.

  :Verati isn't happy.:

  :We were sent with them to keep th
em safe. Safe does not include tracking armed raiders through hill country at night. I know her heart is willing, but...: Underbrush pulled at his boots. Gervis was larger than the horses they followed and was breaking a path a blind man could see. :We'll bring them a story with a happy ending. That'll have to do.:

  When they emerged onto one of the long ridges of rock that ribbed through the hills, the sky was a deep sapphire blue and long dark shadows hid the trail. Jors dismounted, found a scar where a hoof had scraped lichen off rock. :South-east:

  He nearly missed the point where they left the rock to go east again, but Gervis caught the scent of fresh blood, and a spattering not yet entirely dry showed the way.

  :I smell smoke.:

  :They must have lit a fire. They've made camp then, and we're close.:

  The camp, when they found it, looked almost familiar. Jors checked his mental maps. Unless they'd traveled a lot farther from the village than he thought, they were still some distance from the border, but there was no mistaking the pattern of fire and picket line and the way the weapons had been set, butts to the ground, points crossed.

  :They're army, or ex-army. Hardorn lancers.: Bow in hand, he moved carefully closer. :I'm betting some bright officer came up with a way to use their troublemakers to their advantage. It's why they took the girl. Why they'll want their man back so badly. I bet their first order was not to get caught.:

  :I don't see the girl.:

  :Neither do I. We have to get closer.:

  He lifted a foot and set it down again as a rough voice growled, “I may miss you in this light, but I'll not miss the big white horse. You keep him calm, and you do what I say, and you might just survive this.”

  :Gervis?:

  :Crossbow bolt up in under my jaw. Point touching skin.:

  Companions were fast and moved in ways a man seeing a horse wouldn't expect. But were they faster than a finger tightening around a crossbow trigger? Jors couldn't risk that.

  :How did he move in so close?:

  :I don't think he moved in, I think we stopped right beside him.: