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

by Mercedes Lackey

  Then the man, too, had crumpled.

  Oh, no, you don’t! Marra thought, and hurried to his side. I’ve seen enough death lately.

  But then she froze, looking down at him. His face was finely drawn, almost thin, handsome in its own way, but rimmed with russet . . . fur. The tips of sharp fangs showed between human lips, and the tips of pointed animal ears poked through the tangled russet . . . hair? The horns she’d noted rising from his forehead were elegant, like twin spirals of ivory maybe a hand’s breadth long, definitely not what one expected to see on a human head.

  Marra swallowed dryly. His hands were such normal hands—but they ended in powerful, curving claws. Yet the rest of him seemed utterly human, clad in tunic and trousers that were tattered but clearly of fine weave. And he—

  And he was going to bleed to death if she didn’t stop maundering and did something to help him. A slash crossed his chest, and as Marra pulled the torn tunic aside to get at the wound . . . it was no longer bleeding. In fact, it was no longer there.

  A clawed hand caught her own. Before Marra could pull away, the man’s eyes shot open. They were that brilliant gold, wild and confused, and Marra said hastily, “It’s all right. You killed the—the thing.”

  The wildness faded, and suddenly those were purely human eyes despite the odd color, the eyes of someone who has lived with despair so long that it has become a companion.

  “Yes,” he said. “I remember now.”

  Releasing her, he sat up in one fluid movement.

  That voice! That musical voice—“You were the one following me! Why?”

  “I wanted to be sure you came to no harm.”

  “Oh, please. I’m not some fine lady with a noble protector.” Marra closed a hand about a rock, just in case. “Why were you following me?”

  The . . . man sighed. “If you must know, I was lonely. I . . . don’t get to see too many of my kind these days.”

  “Your kind?” she echoed warily.

  “Human, lady! I am—was a human, even as you!”

  “Of . . . course.”

  He stood, shuddering. “The night is almost here. Come, I’ll lead you to a safer place to camp.”

  Marra glanced about, wrapping her arms about herself. Forest, forest, and more forest, and all of it growing dark. With a sigh, she followed him since there didn’t seem to be much of a choice. Besides, he had saved her life . . . for whatever reason.

  “Who are you?” Marra asked suddenly.

  “No one.”

  “Oh, don’t be cute! If you really are as human as you claim, you have a name.”

  Was that a reluctant chuckle? “I can see that you have scant patience for fools. I am Albain Tandarek,” a slight, ironic bow, “at your service.”

  “Ah.” That was clearly a noble’s name. “I’m Marra.”

  He glanced back at her, as though about to ask what a village woman was doing wandering in the wilderness by herself, but said nothing.

  They walked on through the growing darkness in silence. But then he—Albain—whatever he was, stopped suddenly. ‘This looks like a good place for you to camp.”

  With that, he vanished into the gloom.

  “Hey! You can’t leave me like that! Hey!”

  Albain returned in only a few moments, his arms full of wood. “Surely you wish a fire?”

  “Surely I wish to know what’s going on. Who are you? I mean, really, not just a name. And why were you following me?”

  He sighed and squatted down, making a big show of arranging the firewood just so, clawed fingers neatly snagging stray tinder and putting each bit in place. “The second part I already told you: I was lonely. Besides, I didn’t like the idea of a woman alone, not here.”

  He clearly didn’t mean in an ordinary forest. “The, uh, thing?” Marra paused in the middle of lighting the fire. “The one you killed?” She heard her voice rise. “There are more of those?”

  “Very possibly.”

  “But then, but then,” Marra stammered in a rush of sudden, desperate hope, “officials, warriors, Heralds, someone’s bound to be coming to investigate!” And I won’t have to go so far to tell them about Darick!

  “How would they know?”

  “Wouldn’t you send word that . . . oh.” They’d think him a monster, too, and probably slay him before he could convince them otherwise. “They would. Magic, or . . .”

  Marra clicked flint and steel together once more in fierce determination. The fire burst into life, tinder first, then branches. As the light blazed up, Albain shrank back into the shadows, an eerie figure in the night.

  That was the final strain on Marra’s already overworked nerves. “You enjoy being mysterious, don’t you?” she snapped. “Or is it that you’re busy feeling sorry for yourself?”

  He lunged forward with a snarl, fanged face clear in the firelight. “Shouldn’t I be?”

  Marra refused to flinch. “Look, I just lost my whole village to a bastard who thought it would be fun to wipe us out.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize . . .” He sat back, staring. “I am sorry, truly.”

  “I wasn’t married, or anything like that, but, but . . .” Marra fiercely wiped her eyes. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I don’t think you have the corner on self-pity.”

  “It’s not self-pity to mourn for others.” But then his voice hardened. “Who was it? Who led the attack?”

  Surprised, Marra said, “Lord Darick.” Damn him. “Why, do you know him?”

  She saw the faintest of flinches before he caught himself. “No,” Albain said, a second too late to be convincing. “But then, I’ve been alone in this forest long enough to be doubtful about a good many things.”

  “You do know him!”

  He sighed. “Put down the rock. I’m not his ally. The very opposite, in fact. Much to my disgust, he and I are related. And yes,” Albain added sharply, “I meant disgust. When I last saw him, he was a sadistic boy.”

  “And now he’s a sadistic man.”

  “Ironic that he’s the one who’s human.”

  “Self-pity,” Marra prodded.

  “Don’t I have the right? I don’t belittle your loss, truly. But at least you are not a monster.”

  She sniffed. “And you are?”

  “What do you call this?” A fierce sweep of clawed hands took in fangs, pointed ears, horns. “Just a few blemishes?”

  “Look, whatever happened to you, you clearly started out human.” She paused. “Which brings us back to my first question: What did happen?” When he looked at her in what might have been annoyance or surprise, Marra added honestly, “I know I’m prying. It’s none of my business. But, well, you’re not the only one who’s been alone and lonely.”

  “Ah. understandable.” Albain shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “The worst of it is that what happened was my own damned mistake. I’m not a wizard or a sorcerer, or anything so grand, but I do have some tiny powers. I . . . well, when the creatures started to appear, the result of a greater mage’s battle or experiment gone wrong, I thought I could be a hero. I thought I could take on some monstrous powers that would help me defeat the things.

  “As you see, I succeeded far too well.”

  “You can’t change back.”

  He snorted. “I can’t even kill myself. You saw how quickly my wounds heal.”

  “You didn’t answer me. There’s no way for you to change back?”

  Albain gave a sharp little laugh. “Oh, there’s one. Someone has to want to take on this appearance. Not very likely, is it? Never mind, Marra. On my word, which at least is still wholly mine, I’ll see you safely through the forest, and that’s the end of it.”

  No, it’s not, Marra thought with a touch of pity. You’re not the first man to make a mistake while trying to do the right thing. And I’ve never yet seen a mistake that couldn’t be corrected.

  One way or another.

  It was startling to realize that she cared. It was even more startling to realize
that she still could care.

  Albain caught them dinner—rabbit, which Marra was secretly relieved to see he ate cooked. After that, well, after that, she was just too tired to stay up all night worrying about what he might or might not do. Curling up, she slept.

  She woke with a start in the first dim light of morning, a clawed hand over her mouth. Before Marra could struggle, she saw Albain frantically gesture with his free hand. Silence! She relaxed ever so slightly, and he removed the hand from her mouth, whispering, “We’re not alone.”

  “Monster?”

  “Humans. We’re near a trail.”

  She sat bolt upright, mouthing, Darick? At his nod, Marra scrambled to her feet, suddenly so overwhelmed with rage that she was blind and deaf to all reason. She rushed forward, hardly aware of Albain trying frantically to stop her. They crashed out of the underbrush together, out onto the trail, right in front of men on horseback—Darick’s men, who were fighting horses gone mad with terror at Albain’s nonhuman scent.

  Good! Get them out of the way!

  It was only when she was looking up at Darick, who had managed to stay on his horse, that the truth penetrated Marra’s mad rage—she was trying to attack an armed man with nothing but her bare hands. He couldn’t have recognized her as one of the villagers, just as a madwoman trying to tear him apart, and Marra saw the glint of the sword that was about to cut her down—

  “Oh, hell,” said a voice.

  Clawed hands pushed her out of he way. Albain lunged at Darick, Darick’s horse decided enough was enough, and suddenly Albain, Darick, and Marra were on the ground. She grabbed the first weapon that came to hand, another rock, and started beating at Darick with it. His flailing arm caught her a sharp blow to the head, and she lost her grip on the rock. She heard Albain . . . roar, no other word for it, and saw those clawed hands rake at Darick.

  Yes, but his men—if they have bows—

  Only a few had managed to stay on their panicked horses, but those few did, indeed, have bows. Marra struggled to her feet, shouting wildly, “Shoot and your lord dies!”

  “The monster’s already slain him!” one of them shouted back.

  Marra whirled. Albain had drawn back, shaking, clearly horrified at his own brutality. No, Darick wasn’t dead . . . yet. But Albain’s claws had done some ugly work on his throat and chest.

  He won’t be in that body much longer.

  And then the idea hit her with a force that nearly staggered her. Marra threw herself down beside Darick, snapping, “Do you want to live? Well? Do you want to live?”

  A pain-filled, terrified glance flicked her way. Darick managed a nod.

  “Would you be invulnerable? Would you be immortal? Wait, watch this!”

  Marra clawed the startled Albain’s hands, drawing a few beads of blood. Darick gave a choked cry of wonder as the scratch neatly sealed and disappeared. Then the wonder turned to a frantic gasping, as his lacerated throat couldn’t get in enough air.

  “Choose!” Marra cried. “Take this immortality, or die! Which? Life or death—and the ghosts of the villagers you slew? Choice!”

  “ ’mortl’ty. Chos’n.”

  The words were barely understandable. But—

  —it was enough and—

  —there was mist everywhere and—

  Suddenly the mist was gone. Marra heard the men gasp and stared at Albain, terrified that she might have done something wrong. But he . . . he was human, fully, normally human.

  The monster that had been Darick snarled its shock, clenching its clawed hands, then scrambled up and raced off into the forest.

  “Did you see?” Marra cried to the men. “Did you see your lord? He is a monster!”

  They couldn’t argue with her, not after what they’d just seen. With shouts of horror, they crashed off through the forest after him.

  Albain . . . stood. Just stood.

  “Are you all right?” Marra asked carefully.

  He looked down at his human hands, flexing them in wonder, then turned to give her an equally wonderstruck look. “You—he—Powers, oh Powers, lady, I would never want to be on the wrong side of your anger. But thank you, thank you, and thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Marra said, and to her utter embarrassment, burst into tears. She felt Albain’s arms go about her, and thought, A village woman and a lord?

  Well, stranger things had happened.

  Indeed they have, Marra thought, and shifted position so that Albain could kiss her more easily.

  Trance Tower Garrison

  by Fiona Patton

  Fiona Patton was born in Calgary Alberta in 1962 and grew up in the United States. In 1975 she returned to Canada, and after several jobs which had nothing to do with each other, including carnival ride operator and electrician, moved to 75 acres of scrub land in rural Ontario with her partner, four—now six—cats of various sizes and one tiny little dog. Her first book, The Stone Prince, was published by DAW Books in 1997. This was followed by The Painter Knight in 1998, The Granite Shield in 1999, and The Golden Sword in 2001, also by DAW. She is currently working on her next novel.

  The Ice Wall Mountains were ablaze with color. The pink-and-orange glow of the setting sun crowned the tops of the pine trees and feathered across the foothills and plains like wisps of fire. It settled over the slate roofs of Trance Tower Garrison, the northernmost outpost of King Valdemar’s young realm, and gleamed off the pikes and helmets of the surrounding force which had poured through the mountain passes at the first hint of spring.

  Standing on the eastern ramparts, Corporal Norma Anzie of Gray Squad, one of Trance Tower’s senior sentinels, spat toward the ground.

  “That’s one big friggin’ army,” she noted sourly.

  The gray-haired man standing beside her gave a brief nod. “Yep.”

  “And it looks like they’re plannin’ to stay.”

  “Yep.”

  “A long time.”

  “Me’be.”

  She glared over at him. “Don’t be strainin’ your voice box now, Ernie.”

  H shrugged. “Me’be not so long,” he elaborated after a moment.

  “How do you figure?”

  “The King’ll send help.”

  “Only if he gets word.”

  “Bessie got through.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  His eyes narrowed. “She got through,” he growled.

  Raising her hands, Norma dropped the subject. After the first trickle of soldiers had come over the mountains, the garrison commander had sent his lieutenant galloping for the capital. As the trickle’d become a flood, he’d sent half a dozen more. All but one, Ernie’s niece, Bess Taws, had been returned to them as a headless corpse thrown down before the gate—including the lieutenant. Bess was their only hope but, after nearly a month with no sign of aid, only Ernie still believed she’d made it through. Her expression grim, Norma squinted southward.

  “How long do you figure it takes to get to Haven?” she asked.

  Ernie shrugged. “Ridin’ hard, eight, me’be nine days.”

  “Less if she could get a boat down the Terilee River.”

  “Yep.”

  “How long to raise a relief force?”

  “Dunno. Depends.”

  “A couple of weeks?”

  “More like a couple of months, me’be.”

  With a scowl, Norma peered up at the tiny line of enemy troops bringing supplies over the mountains. With the harsh northern winter just past, Trance Tower’s own stores were low. If it took another month, it wouldn’t matter if Bess had gotten through or not. The garrison would be out of food.

  “You’d think there’d have been a paymaster or a supply wagon or somethin’ come from Haven before now, anyway,” she snarled.

  “Me’be there has been,” Ernie answered in an ominous voice.

  As one, they glanced toward the main gate. Neither could se the dark, fly-covered bloodstains from where they stood but that didn’t stop them from l
ooking.

  “How long before they’d be due back do you figure someone might go lookin’ for them?”

  “Dunno. A while, I guess.”

  Returning her attention to the force below, Norma shook her head. “With a friggin’ army that big,” she muttered, “you’d think somebody would’ve noticed it by now.”

  Ernie just shrugged.

  The sound of shouting pulled their attention back inside the garrison.

  “What the . . . ?”

  From their vantage point they could see a knot of people behind the west barracks, shouting at—cheering on—Norma amended, two struggling figures. There was a glint of golden hair as one had his head knocked back from a well-placed blow, and Ernie swore.

  “Garet!”

  “Blast! You know that means Andy.”

  Ernie was already halfway to the stairs.

  “Little . . . I told him . . . come on,” he puffed angrily.

  Andy ducked a wild swing, drove his fists into the other youth’s unprotected right side in a quick flurry of blows, then danced back with a tight smile. Although Garet was older and larger than he, no one at Trance Tower was faster. Around him, the growing crowd began to chant his name, and the smile snapped off. Time to finish this before the noise drew the wrath of the sergeant-at-arms down on them. He pressed forward.

  Sixteen-year-old Ander Harrow had been born in the garrison. His mother had died in childbirth and his father and three others had been caught in a rockslide when he was nine. Jem and Karl Harrow’s remaining squad-mates had raised the boy together, bringing him into the Guard at twelve, protecting him, teaching him, but mostly just trying to keep him out of trouble.

  Garet Barns had joined the garrison two years before, and although they were not friends, at eighteen he was the closest to Andy’s own age, which meant that when Andy was bored or just itching to cause mischief he either sought Garet out to manipulate him into some scheme, or goad him into a fight. Garet had a quick temper that could always be counted on to flare up with the right words and Andy always knew the right words.

  Now, his blue eyes narrowed, Garet watched the other youth weave back and forth in a parody of feints and counter feints, then struck out. His fist connected right where he planned. Andy went flying into the crowd.