Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  Glad to find himself on dry land, Santar leaped from the horse and wrapped his arms around the nearest tree. We made it! Gradually, the doubts raised by his earlier thoughts intruded. The torrent had carried them far enough downstream that he could no longer find the road. The horizon cut a crescent from the lowest edge of sun, giving the woods a gray-orange cast that seemed supernatural. Over the bubble of water, he could hear a softly rising chorus of bugs punctuated by other, unidentifiable sounds. Demons. Santar shivered in his soaked clothing and looked to the Companion.

  The horse pawed the ground, clearly anxious. He nudged Santar toward the woods.

  Santar swallowed his fear. A Herald’s life depends on me. On us. He appreciated the company, though it had dragged him here in the first place. He remembered how the stallion had given him the chance to back out at the fording. He had chosen to continue to save a man’s life. To trust the horse’s instincts meant believing time of the essence. For the Companion to opt for sped, over preparation and skill, had to mean the Herald lay close to death. The horse, he felt certain, would know.

  Though the urge to remount prodded strongly, Santar resisted. In the dark forest, he could see and lead safely better than any horse. He only wished he had had time to grab a lantern, or even just a tinderbox as the forest supplied plenty of torches and kindling. He pushed through the underbrush, tense as an overwound lute string, the horse moving quietly at his heels. The woods smelled of damp moss and pungent berries, close and green. Branches swept across his face, stinging; and he tried to hold them aside for his larger companion. A whirring sound appeared and disappeared at intervals, grinding at his nerves. An owl cut loose above his head, sending him skittering forward in a rush. Stop it. Stay calm. Accustomed to regular horses, Santar tried to maintain the appearance of self-control. The animal might sense his fear, and a panicked horse became a deadly and unpredictable weapon.

  Forcing himself to appear calm gradually resulted in a true inner peace. Santar surrendered himself to the mission. For whatever reason, the Companion had chosen him to rescue the Herald, an enormous responsibility. At first, he had believed it sheer coincidence, but he discarded that thought. Companions had a good people sense. It could have approached anyone else in the town, or his brother, but had selected him. Whether Santar saw the quality in himself or not, the Companion had; and he would not betray the stallion’s trust nor the life of its Herald.

  The animal’s nose poked Santar’s right side, steering him leftward. The moist nostrils tickled the inner part of Santar’s elbow, and he could not help smiling through his fear. He allowed the horse to steer him in this manner, blazing a trail through the Tangled Forest that anticipated deadfalls, brush too thick to penetrate, and trees packed too closely for a large horse to squeeze around. A gray glaze descended around them, deepening the forest shadows to unsettling darkness. The black flies and mosquitoes swarmed in a biting cloud that followed their every movement. Chilled, Santar wished his tunic at least had sleeves.

  As the night wore on, Santar battled exhaustion. He had worked a full day in the stables since sunrise, hauling bags and bales, cleaning stalls, wrangling horses; and he had missed the evening meal. The bugs and the cold seemed to drain his vitality along with his blood. Yet, the Companion steered him ever onward with delicate nudges that displayed need but forced nothing. Santar wished for supplies but refused to bemoan them. Somewhere out there, an injured man needed him. Or woman, Santar reminded himself. The Heralds, he remembered, come in both varieties.

  The journey continued as fatigue became a leaden weight across Santar’s shoulders. He longed to sit for just a few moments. His eyes glided shut, and he forced them open in time to avoid walking into a towering oak. Worries about demons receded, replaced by a solid fight against the sleep that threatened to overwhelm him. Just putting one foot ahead of the other became an all-encompassing battle. Only the realization of a life dependent on his own kept him going. He found himself blundering into dead-ends and copses, uncertain how he had gotten there. He forced himself onward, every step a victory, and hoped he would catch a second wind when he finally reached the ailing Herald.

  Suddenly, the stallion gave Santar a hard nudge that drove him to his knees. Moonlight glared into his eyes, blindingly bright after the vast expanse of dark forest. In front of him lay a craggy mountain that seemed to touch the very sky. Santar closed and opened his eyes, but the towering monstrosity remained, a dozen others beyond it. Groaning, Santar staggered to his feet and willed himself forward, preparing to climb.

  The Companion gave Santar another abrupt nudge that, once again, dropped him to his knees. Rocks stabbed into flesh, and a trickle of blood stained his britches. Pained, tired, irritated, he turned on the horse. “I’m going, already. I’m going!”

  The Companion nickered, pawing up divots of muddy weeds. He tossed his head.

  Santar glanced ahead, only then noticing the dark mouth of a cave etched against the rocky cliffs. Suddenly the horse’s intention became clear. “He’s in there?”

  The horse whinnied, head bobbing.

  Santar felt a warm wash of relief that he would not have to fight his way up the mountains, tempered by the realization that he would have to enter a dark cave alone and without a light. The stallion could never fit inside, which made sense. If he could, he would have scooped up the Herald and assisted or carried him to safety rather than dragged some stable boy through demon-infested forest and high water to the Herald. Santar sucked in a deep breath, releasing it in a slow hiss. “All right. I’m going in.” He rose and picked his way to the entrance, staring into the black interior. “Any chance you could help me find my way around inside?”

  The Companion nickered.

  “Didn’t think so,” Santar mumbled. He returned his gaze to the cave, seeing only as far as the moonlight could penetrate. It did not show him much. “Let me gather some weeds or pebbles, first. Something to drop and follow back out.”

  The Companion shook his head wildly, silver mane flying.

  A stranger’s voice touched Santar’s mind then: :I will guide you.:

  Startled, Santar whirled. “Who? Who . . . ?”

  :Come. I’ll guide you.:

  The Herald. Santar had heard that Heralds had unusual powers, but it still took him inordinately long to figure out the obvious. “Can you hear me as well?”

  No response. The voice gained a touch of urgency. :Please come. Quickly.:

  “I’m coming,” Santar promised. If this Herald was like those he had met, he would maintain grace under pressure, which meant he probably needed help a lot more than he would admit. Santar secretly wondered if he could do anything worthwhile to assist. He did have a way with horses and their wounds, but he had never tried his skills on humans. Nevertheless, he plunged into the cave.

  The leathery flap of wings filled Santar’s hearing, and the air became pungent with guano. A clotted mass of bats hurtled from the cave, wings beating furiously. Startled, Santar dropped to the floor, ears filled with the smack and cut of their wild flight. Silence followed, eerie with menace. Though glad the bats had gone, Santar could not help filling the intensity of the quiet darkness with unseen demons.

  :Take your first left,: the voice ordered.

  Shocked from his own thoughts, Santar obeyed gratefully. He hoped the Herald would stay with him in spirit. He felt so much braver with a companion, even a disembodied, faceless one. :All right.: Santar concentrated on the thought, though the other gave no indication he received the message.

  Santar veered leftward, keeping a hand lightly against each damp, musty wall. Better to glide his fingers through something disgusting than to risk losing his way.

  :Skip the next opening to the left, then the one to the right.:

  Santar obeyed, passing up both opportunities to turn.

  :Now go right.:

  Santar did as the other suggested, still scraping the stone with his fingers. Though worried to interrupt the concentration of the one h
e sought, he tried tentatively, :Can you understand me, too?:

  :Yes,: the other sent. :Go right again.:

  Santar did so. :My name is Santar.:

  :Orrin. Skip the next right, then go right again. Careful, it’s a tight fit.:

  Orrin was not kidding. Santar found himself suddenly entering a narrowing that seemed impassable. If he became wedged, they would both die in the dark, dank interior. :Orrin, I can’t fit.:

  :You’ll fit. Trust me.:

  Santar had to keep reminding himself that he spoke with a Herald, one who desperately needed his help for survival. The idea that he might become stuck fast grew into obsession. Santar realized he alone could make that judgment; the Herald could not know the size of the man who had come for him. :I can’t make it, Orrin. I’m sorry.:

  :Do what you must.: Simple words, brave words, from one who had just condemned himself to death.

  Santar knew he had to try. He could not banish his fear, but he could choose to ignore it. He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out fully, tightening his muscles and huddling into the smallest area he could manage. Then, he forced himself into the opening.

  The rock crushed in on him, tearing furrows of skin from his chest and arms. He closed his eyes, trying to trick his senses into believing this deliberate act was the source of the darkness. He felt pinched, squeezed in all directions. Crushed empty, his lungs spasmed, seeking air. Panic trickled through him, sending his wits scattering. He forced himself onward, gathering his thoughts and binding them together into one solid goal—the rescue of a stranger for whom he had already risked so much.

  Then, suddenly, the pressure disappeared. Santar popped into a cavern that seemed enormous after the constriction that had nearly held him fast. :I’m coming,: he sent. :You were right. I made it through.: His tunic had torn and now hung in two rags from his shoulders. Though irritating, he did not remove them. He might need the fabric to cushion some other movement or to use as bandages. For a moment he wondered how he would get back, especially towing another man. He brushed the thought side. First, he had to find that injured Herald.

  When Orrin made no reply, Santar forced conversation. He had once seen a Healer do the same thing, keep his patient talking to assure he did not lose consciousness. Obliged to respond, the wounded man had had little choice but to attend the questions, no matter how silly or obvious the answers, which kept his mind working, awake, and focused. :Your Companion brought me here.:

  The Herald did not seem impressed. :I’d guessed that. Next right, please.:

  Undeterred, Santar continued. :A remarkably handsome creature, in addition to being loyal and intelligent.:

  :Best there is.: Orrin’s voice itself seemed to smile, distracted from the pain. :I’m very lucky.:

  :What’s his name?: Santar took the indicated right and suddenly found himself bathed in moonlight. Though still night, the contrast with the depthless cave interior seemed blinding. He blinked several times, gradually taking in the spray of stars across the bluegray sky, the skeletal hulks of trees waving in the wind, and the snarl of weeds and bushes that defined the Tangled Forest.

  The Companion lifted his head and looked worriedly in Santar’s direction.

  “Oh, no!” Filled with a tense mixture of alarm and despair, Santar dropped to a crouch. :I messed up. I lost you.: Santar whirled, rushing back into the cave. :I’ve gone in a circle. I’m sorry. You’ll have to start over.:

  :The Companion’s name . . . is Orrin.:

  Santar froze. :Orrin. But that’s your—: Shoulders drawn up to his ears, he turned slowly to confront the stallion. :You?:

  The horse nodded. :Yes.:

  Santar could only stare incredulously. “Why?”

  :I needed to know you were up to the job, someone who can push himself to his limits, who will do so for the good of a sick or injured stranger.:

  :Why?: Even as he asked the question, Santar understood the answer. :Your Herald—:

  :My Herald,: Orrin repeated, then added, :is you. I Choose you.:

  “Me?” The reply was startled from Santar. :Me.: he repeated internally. :Herald Santar?: He shook his head to awaken himself from what had to be a dream, then looked into the blue eyes of the very real, dazzingly gorgeous white stallion in front of him. He had aspired to owning a horse half this fine, and now he had a Companion as a lifelong friend, so much more than a possession or a mount.

  “Thank you,” Santar breathed. “Thank you for Choosing me.”

  Orrin lunged like a striking snake, caught Santar’s britches, and hurled him into the air. Santar barely managed to twist before he found himself, once again, unceremoniously dumped, belly first, astride the Companion. :Come on,: the horse sent. :Let’s go home.: Turning toward Valdemar, he trotted into the forest.

  Mounted on “the best there is,” Santar scrambled onto the stallion’s withers and forgot to worry about demons.

  In The Eye Of The Beholder

  by Josepha Sherman

  Josepha Sherman is a fantasy novelist and folklorist, whose latest titles include: Son of Darkness; The Captive Soul; Xena: All I Need to Know I learned from the Warrior Princess, by Gabrielle, as translated by Josepha Sherman; the folklore title Merlin’s Kin; and, together with Susan Shwartz, two Star Trek novels, Vulcan’s Forge and Vulcan’s Heart. She is also a fan of the New York Mets, horses, aviation, and space science. Visit her at www.sff.net/people/Josepha.Sherman.

  Toward the end of the second day of struggling her way through the forest, Marra was certain she was being followed.

  The question was, by what?

  I don’t need this. Really, I don’t.

  Marra was not exactly young anymore, not exactly slim and heroic in shape or manner. Just an ordinary woman, she thought wearily, not anyone to be followed by, well, whatever. A four-legged predator would already have tried an attack, and a two-legged one, the bandit sort, would have had no reason not to have done the same. As for Lord Darick’s men . . .

  Marra bit her lip. That was done and over. She was the last survivor of what had been a peaceful village, and if she hadn’t collapsed after burying . . . what she could . . . she wasn’t going to break down now. She couldn’t afford to collapse. Someone had to deliver the story of that unprovoked raid to whatever authorities she could reach, even if it did mean pushing on through she had no idea how much wilderness.

  Marra was doing her best to keep heading in the right direction. If she could only reach the shore of Lake Evandim, she could, hopefully, follow it along to civilization, or at least a real road. At least, Marra thought, she knew woodcraft and could forage for food easily enough. And at least Darick had had the . . . good taste to attack in warmer weather, so she didn’t have to worry about freezing to death.

  Damn him. Damn him and his men and his idea of—of burning down a village over an accidental insult—ha, no, he burned it down for fun!

  For a minute she had a flash of imagined satisfaction, seeing white-clad Heralds declaring Darick’s guilt, hearing him proclaimed a criminal and punished as a murderer. . . .

  Might as well imagine herself a Herald while she was at it, with one of those snowy-bright Companions, or maybe—

  Marra whirled, hands clenched on the branch she was using for a walking staff. “All right, whoever you are, I know you’re there. So stop being childish and either step forward where I can see you, or get the hell away from me!”

  Oh, smart. You’ve just announced where you are to anyone in earshot.

  She waited, heart pounding. The forest had gone utterly still, shocked into silence by her shout.

  Then a male voice, low but so musical it gave her a little shiver of delight said, “Your pardon. I shall bother you no longer.”

  “Who—what—”

  No answer. Marra waited, but whoever had been following her really must be gone now, because the birds were resuming their cheerful noise. Warily, wondering, Marra moved on.

  But night fell swiftly in the forest, and even though a
glance upward told her that the sky was still bright with sunlight, down here it was already twilight. She’d better start thinking about stopping for the night.

  Another glance upward, and Marra froze, wonderstruck. Far overhead, two gryphons were sporting in the air, so high in the dazzling blue that they looked small as birds. The sunlight glinted off their golden coats and wings, and for a moment more, she stood motionless, holding her breath.

  Then they were gone, soaring down the wind, and with a sigh, she began hunting for a place to camp till morning. It really was growing dark, and in a hurry, too—

  Suddenly, a . . . thing was on her with a roar, hurling her to the ground under a mass of dark fur. Fangs glinted, and Marra, gasping, managed to get the staff up in time to have them clash together on the branch, splintering it, as she struggled to get free before sharp talons could rake her or—

  Suddenly the thing roared again, in pain this time, and the suffocating weight was gone from her. Marra caught a glimpse of a man—no, not a man, not with those curling horns, or those clawed hands. But whatever he as, he was fighting the creature, saving her, and Marra looked wildly about for some way to help him. Pebbles, twigs, nothing like a good solid rock.

  She grabbed the largest branch she could find, and whaled the creature over the head with it. The branch broke, and the thing whirled to her, snarling. Marra thought wildly, Wonderful, now it’s really mad!

  But she’d given the—the man the chance he needed. He had other weapons than claws, evidently, because a blade glinted, then stopped glinting, red with the thing’s blood. The creature lunged, the man—whatever he was—cried out in pain—

  Then the creature fell, twitching, and then lay still. Over the crumpled mound of dark fur, eyes golden as a gryphon’s stared at her for an instant.