Changing the World

by Mercedes Lackey

  An infuriated shriek pulled Jors from his reflections and sent a small flock of birds up through the canopy, wings drumming against the air.

  :There! Did you hear it?:

  :Given that I haven’t gone deaf in the last ten paces, yes, Chosen, I heard it. But that didn’t sound like an infant.:

  :No.: Jors had to admit it did not. :Whatever it is, it sounds furious. And if there’s also a baby . . . :

  As Gervais picked up his pace, Jors readied his bow. He was reasonably proficient with a sword—he wouldn’t be riding courier if he weren’t—but even the Weapons Master agreed there were few currently in Whites who could match his skills as an archer. It came from wanting to eat while growing up, as foresters depended on the woods for most of their meat. Small game, large; by the time Gervais had appeared outside the palisade with twigs tangled in his mane and an extraordinarily annoyed expression on his face, Jors had learned to place his arrows where they’d do the most good.

  But there were predators in the woods as well, and it wasn’t unusual for the hunters to find themselves hunted by something just as interested in a meal.

  :I smell smoke.:

  Jors flattened against the pommel as Gervais took them off the main track onto what might have been a path, might have been a dry water channel. Either way, branches had not been cleared for a man on horseback.

  He could smell the smoke now too, but it wasn’t the heart-stopping scent of leaves and twigs and deadfall going up, it was more pungent. Slower. Familiar . . .

  “Charcoal burner!” he said just as they emerged into a clearing.

  There, the expected cone of logs over the firepit. There, the expected small . . . well, in all honestly, hut was probably the kindest description. A little unexpected to see three scruffy chickens in a twig corral by the hut, but eggs were always welcome. Completely unexpected to see the half-naked toddler straining to reach the firepit, held back by a leather harness around his plump little body and a rope tied to a cedar stake.

  The toddler turned to face the Herald and his Companion; tiny dark brows drew in, muddy fists rose, and he shrieked.

  In rage.

  :Well?: Gervais said after a long moment.

  :It’s a baby. I’m not . . . I don’t . . . : He sighed and swung out of the saddle.

  The toddler stared at him in what could only be considered a highly suspicious manner and shrieked again.

  “Hey there, little fellow.” Jors kept his voice low and nonthreatening, as he would when approaching a strange dog. And he’d rather be approaching a strange dog. Two strange dogs. A pack of strange dogs. He’d know exactly what he had to do to rescue this child from a pack of dogs; he just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with a child alone.

  :I doubt he’s going to bite.:

  Jors realized the fingers on his outstretched hand were curled safely in. :But you don’t know that for sure,: he muttered as he uncurled them. “It’s okay little guy. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to help.”

  Blue eyes widened as the toddler stared past him. Leaning against the support of the harness, he scrambled around about twenty degrees of the circle the rope allowed him until he faced Jors, hands reaching out and grabbing at the air. “Ossy!”

  “Ossy?” Glancing back, Jors thought Gervais looked as confused as he felt. “Ossy . . . horsey! He thinks you’re a horse.” The shrieking picked up a distinctly proprietary sound, interspersed with something that could have been me or could have been random eee noises, Jors wasn’t sure. :Come a little closer and see if he’ll quiet down.:

  The noises changed to happy chortling as Gervais moved slowly and carefully close enough for the toddler to throw himself around one of the Companion’s front legs. It wasn’t exactly quiet, but it was definitely quieter.

  :He’s sticky.:

  :Is that normal?: Jors wondered, heading for the hut.

  :How should I know?: The young stallion sounded slightly put out. And then a little panicked. :Chosen? Where are you going?:

  :To look for his parents. They can’t be far.: If they were, Jors intended to have a few official words with the sort of people who’d wander off leaving their child tethered to a stake in the deep woods. Might as well tether out a sacrificial goat.

  And speaking of goats, as he came up to the hut, he could see a bored- looking nanny staring at him from the back of the chicken corral, jaws moving thoughtfully around a mouthful of greenery. The fodder in the pen, still green and unwilted, suggested the parents were . . .

  He froze, one hand on the stretched hide that covered the opening to the hut.

  :Chosen?:

  :I heard.:

  Moaning.

  He found the charcoal burner no more than ten feet out from the clearing, pinned to the ground by the jagged end of a branch through his chest. Jors could do a field dressing as well as any Herald, maybe better than a few as he spent so much time out on the road, but not even a full Healer, present when the accident happened, could have changed the outcome. With the branch in the wound, the charcoal burner died slowly. Pulled free, he’d bleed out instantly.

  Looking up, Jors could see the new scar where the deadfall had finally separated from the tree. The charcoal burner had probably passed under it a hundred times, forgot it was up there if he’d even noticed it at all. It wasn’t easy to see a branch hung up in the high canopy—Jors had lost an uncle to a similar accident when he was eight. Could remember the tears on his father’s face as he carried his brother’s body back in through the palisade.

  The charcoal burner was older than Jors expected, midthirties maybe, allowing for the rough edges of a hard life—although it couldn’t have helped that he’d been slowly dying since the branch had pinned him. When Jors knelt by his side, he opened startlingly blue eyes.

  The knowledge of his imminent death was evident in the gaze he locked onto Jors’ face as he fought to drag air into ruined lungs. “Torbin?” he wheezed. “My son?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Take . . . to sister. Rab . . . bit Hole.” A callused hand batted weakly at Jors’ knee, leaving smears of red- brown against the white. “Prom . . . ise.”

  “My word as a Herald. I will put your son in your sister’s arms.”

  He held Jors’ gaze for a long moment, then closed his eyes and sighed.

  He didn’t breathe in again.

  The only evidence of a woman inside the hut was a faded ribbon curled up on a rough shelf. Jors set it on the pile of the charcoal burner’s possessions, wrapped them in the more worn of the two blankets on the pallet, and tied the bundle off. Without a mule—and mules were more trouble than they were worth in the deep woods—he couldn’t carry much more than his own gear, but Torbin’s inheritance from his dead father and his missing mother was so tiny he didn’t feel right leaving any of it behind.

  While Jors buried his father—the soft, deep loam making an unpleasant job significantly easier than it might have been—Torbin had fallen asleep curled up against Gervais’ side, still secured by the rope for safety’s sake. Herald and Companion both had agreed he was too young to get any sort of closure from seeing the body. Although given that their combined experience with small children could be inscribed on a bridle bell with plenty of room left over for the lyrics to Sun and Shadow, Jors could only hope they’d made the right decision.

  As he stepped out of the hut, Torbin’s head popped up from under the other blanket. He blinked sleepily and screamed.

  :He’s hungry.:

  :How can you tell?:

  :He sounds hungry.:

  He sounded furious as far as Jors could tell. :What do I feed him?:

  :The goat needs milking.:

  He looked from the goat, who continued to chew on the last few bits of fodder, to his Companion. :How do you know?:

  :She’s leaking.:

  Jors had never milked a goat, but he’d been around, and he’d seen goats milked, and how hard could it be? After all, goats producing milk wanted to b
e milked.

  Although he couldn’t prove that by this particular goat.

  As Torbin’s screams increased in both volume and duration, Jors finally managed to tie the goat to a hook on the side of the hut and get the small pail he’d found hanging from the hook more or less in position under the leaking udder, but it wasn’t until Gervais moved close enough to catch the nanny’s gaze and hold it that he actually managed to get his hand around a teat.

  :I’m beginning to think the Collegium needs to add a few more practical courses,: the Companion said thoughtfully as Jors decanted the frothy milk into a mug with a carved wooden spout.

  :I’d have been willing to lose an hour of instruction in court etiquette,: Jors admitted, handing the mug to Torbin. He’d found the mug in the hut and had to unpack it from the blanket bundle.

  The child clutched it with both hands, sat down on his bare bottom, and began to drink.

  With Torbin occupied—and blessedly quiet—Jors dealt with the fire pit and released the livestock.

  :Will they be safe?:

  :I’d put that chicken up against a Change-lion.: Sucking at a bleeding, triangular wound pecked into his left thumb, Jors dug a travel biscuit from his saddle bags and handed it to Torbin just as the child put down the now empty mug and opened his mouth to scream. :I think I’m getting the hang of this.:

  :We need to bring the goat with us.:

  :We what?:

  :We were a day from the settlement when we rose this morning, and it is now past midday. The child will need to be fed again before you can give him over to his aunt.:

  :I was figuring I’d tuck him up in front of me and we’d concentrate on speed rather than . . . :

  :Safety?:

  Torbin’s possessions having been secured with his behind the high cantle, Jors took a moment to beat his head gently against the saddle. Gervais was right. Alone, he might risk a gallop in poor lighting along a rough track bracketed with branches ready to slam the unwary to the ground, but he couldn’t risk it while holding a child. If it were later in the day, he’d suggest they stay the night, but it was high summer, and he hated the thought of wasting the five, maybe six hours of daylight remaining. :If we move as quickly as possible and make no stops, we should get there before full dark. I really don’t want to camp while responsible for this child.:

  :Agreed. Chosen? The child is leaking.:

  Still gnawing happily on the travel biscuit, Torbin now sat in a spreading puddle.

  There had been two square pieces of cotton spread out on bushes behind the hut. Jors hadn’t realized what they were for until it became obvious that, as practical as it was to allow Torbin to run half naked around the clearing—or more specially around the part of the clearing his lead line gave him access to—it was significantly less practical to have him up on the saddle in that condition. Releasing him from his harness, Jors carried the child over to the half full water barrel and scooped some of the sun-warmed water over his muddy bottom.

  Torbin stared at him for a moment in shock, let loose a sound that would have shattered glass, had there been any glass in the immediate neighborhood, and made a run for it. Given the length of his legs, he was surprisingly fast.

  Once caught, he objected, loudly, to having his bottom covered.

  “This is ridiculous,” Jors muttered, holding the struggling child down with one hand and securing the folded cloth with the other. “I mean it’s not that I have an inflated idea of my own importance but there has got to be someone better qualified to do this than me.”

  :You are the only one here.:

  Torbin screamed, “Ossy!” again, and with both arms up and reaching for the Companion, he actually lay still long enough for Jors to tie off the last piece of rope.

  :Chosen, that looks . . . :

  “Yeah, I know. There must be a trick to it.” But as unusual as it looked, it seemed to be holding, so Jors lifted Torbin up into his arms, then tried not to drop him as one flailing foot caught him squarely in a delicate place.

  Getting into the saddle while holding a squirming child away from further contact with that delicate—and bruised—place ranked right up there as one of the more difficult things Jors had ever accomplished.

  Tucked securely between the Herald and the saddle horn, legs sticking straight out, Torbin bounced once and twisted around to look back behind them as Gervais moved out of the clearing.

  Jors barely managed to catch him as he tried to fling himself from the saddle.

  “Pa-Ah!”

  Your papa is dead, but his last thought was of you, and I promised him I’d take you safely to your aunt, was a bit complex for a child of Torbin’s age. :What do I say to him?: Jors demanded holding the struggling child close, his ears ringing.

  :He does not want to leave his father.:

  :Yeah, I got that.:

  :You cannot explain, you can only comfort.:

  One hand rubbing small circles on Torbin’s back, the other hanging on for dear life, Jors murmured a steady stream of nonsense into the soft cap of tangled curls until Torbin reared back and, still screaming, slammed his forehead against Jors’ mouth.

  :I don’t think this is working.: Jors admitted, leaning out to spit a mouthful of blood down onto the trail.

  :Try a lullaby.:

  :He’ll never hear me.:

  :Not with his ears; he’ll hear you with his heart.:

  After twenty-one repetitions of the only lullaby Jors knew, Torbin finally cried himself to sleep, his eyelashes tiny damp triangles against his flushed cheeks.

  Jors sent up a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening that the exhausted child would sleep until they reached the settlement, and, as he stayed asleep while Gervais’ steady pace ate up the distance, Jors half thought his prayers might actually have been answered.

  “What is that smell?” Head up, Jors turned his nose into the breeze which, weirdly, seemed to lessen the impact. “Okay, that’s strange.”

  Torbin squirmed and giggled, nearly pitching forward as he reached out to grab a double handful of Gervais’ mane. The odor got distinctly stronger.

  The Companion stopped walking. :I think,: he began but Jors cut him off.

  “Yeah, I know.” The smear of yellow brown on the thigh of his Whites was a definite clue. “I bet that’s going to stain.”

  It was amazing how much poop one small body had managed to produce. Jors distracted Torbin through the extensive clean up—involving most of their water, half a dozen handfuls of leaves, saddle soap, and his only other shirt—by feeding him slices of dried apple every time he opened his mouth. He buried the soiled cloth by the side of the trail.

  :You know, if we carried this with us, we could probably use it to keep predators away from the camp at night.:

  Gervais snorted. :It would keep predators away from this whole part of the country, but I’m not carrying it.:

  Smiling, in spite of everything at the tone of his Companion’s mental voice, Jors patted down the final shovel of dirt and turned to see . . .

  “Where’s Torbin?” He’d left the child tucked between Gervais front feet, chewing on a biscuit.

  :He’s right . . . : Gervais turned in place, his hooves stirring up little puffs of dirt. :He was right here!:

  :You were supposed to be watching him!:

  :I was watching him!:

  Jors swore and dove for his sword as a patch of dog willow by the side of the trail shook and cracked and Torbin shrieked. Gervais used his weight to force the thin branches apart, then Jors charged past him and nearly skewered the goat who had followed them from the clearing and was currently being fed the remains of a slobbery biscuit by a shrieking toddler.

  Apparently, sometimes the shrieking was happy shrieking.

  It became distinctly less happy when Jors attempted to remove Torbin’s arms from around the goat’s neck. Only Gervais’ intervention kept him from being bitten—by the goat, although Torbin had teeth he wasn’t afraid to use.

  :Are
you hurting him?:

  :No, I’m not hurting him.: He managed to pry one handful of goat hair out of the grubby fingers, but it was almost impossible to hold that hand and pry open the other.

  “Ossy!”

  “That’s right, Torbin. Horsey.”

  :Is is wise to lie to the child, Chosen?:

  :It’s not a lie, it’s a simplification.: “Torbin, do you want to ride on the horsey?”

  “Ide ossy!”

  “Then you have to let go of the goat.” The goat aimed a cloven hoof at Jors’ ankle as he bounced the toddler and made clucking noises that didn’t sound remotely like a Companion’s hooves against hard packed dirt, but the combination was enough to convince Torbin.

  “Ossy!” Releasing the goat, he squirmed out of Jors’ grip and wrapped himself around Gervais’ front leg.

  :He’s still sticky.:

  Practice made getting up into the saddle this second time a little easier.

  :Fast as you can, Heartbrother. We’re down to half a canteen of water, one cloth, and . . . : “Ow!” :Why does he keep hitting me there?:

  :Perhaps he wants to make certain you never have children of your own,: Gervais sighed as he lengthened his stride.

  They reached the settlement just as dusk was deepening into dark. Like all family compounds in the deep woods, it was surrounded by a strong palisade designed to protect against both wild animals and bandits who might consider that isolation meant easy pickings. The gate was already closed, but Jors wasn’t too concerned.

  He was not only a Herald, he was a Herald holding a small child.

  Followed by a goat.

  Steadying Torbin with one hand, he rose in the stirrups and hailed the settlement. He caught a quick glimpse of a blond head over the wall by the gate, then his entire attention was taken up by the sudden need to stop Torbin from crawling up Gervais’ neck to chew on his ears. At least he assumed that was the intended destination as “Ears!” seemed to be one of the words being shrieked during the struggle.

  By the time he managed to pay a little more attention to his surroundings, Gervais had entered through the palisade, the gate was swinging shut behind them, and a middle-aged woman was plucking Torbin from the saddle saying, “Oh, the poor wee mite! No wonder he’s unhappy, he’s wet.”