Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  “What if I freeze up?”

  “I doubt that’ll happen. Let your training and reflexes take care of things while you deal with it. Herald Erek taught you ways to handle the Empathy, right?”

  “Yeah, Sarge, but I’m not sure if I can make them work.”

  “Then turn in and practice until you sleep. I can handle the rest of the watch, and I want you fresh tomorrow.”

  “Sarge, I don’t . . .”

  “That’s an order, Tellar,” Sergeant Krandal said gruffly. “Go.” His tone softened. “It’ll be all right.”

  Krandal watched Rury trudge off, then muttered under his breath, “I hope.”

  Half a candlemark later, Erek and Deanara appeared at the edge of the firelight. Sergeant Krandal waved them in silently.

  “Well?” he said, barely above a whisper.

  Erek swung off Deanara, sighed heavily, and sat down. He replied in equally soft tones.

  “I didn’t get much farther than you did, Sergeant. The brass isn’t about to pull one young pike soldier off the line this late in the game. I’m sorry.” Behind him, Deanara gave a snort of disgust.

  “I’m not surprised,” Sergeant Krandal replied. “Guard policy is like Guard cooking. What’s best for the army is usually hard on the individual soldier.”

  Erek nodded. “I did point out that an untrained Empath probably wouldn’t survive the coming battle, and that the intensity and volume of emotion he’d face would leave him dead or insane.” He sighed heavily. “They said there are hundreds, maybe thousands of young soldiers in this army who won’t survive the battle, Empaths or not.”

  “They’re right. So, what’s to be done?”

  “I spent what time I could teaching him shielding techniques. It wasn’t much, but we have to hope it will do. We’ve simply run out of time. Can you shift him in the unit?”

  “I could, but he’s one of my best. And if he’s capable of what you say, and he panics, he could take the whole unit with him. If he breaks, I’d just as soon it be where I can see him. I’ll shift things so I’m behind him in the second line.”

  “So you can help if there’s trouble?”

  Sergeant Krandal stared into the fire a moment.

  “So I can help him. And if it’s the only way, so I can stop him.”

  Rury kept running the shielding exercises through his head as they donned armor in the dim light of predawn. Armor in the Guard was never completely uniform, even within units, except for what it had to protect. Leather and metal leggings covered Rury from crotch to foot. He pulled on a padded vest with separate, quilted sleeves, and over that a leather jerkin with small, overlapping iron plates stitched inside. More leather and metal covered arms and elbows, and an armored cowl covered throat, shoulders, upper back and chest. He looped the baldric suppporting his short sword over his left shoulder and secured it with a wide belt that also supported his water bottle, rations pouch, buckler and dagger. Reinforced leather gauntlets and a plain, well-made helmet finished the outfit. Rury bent and picked up his spear. He consciously felt the armor’s weight only for a moment. Sergeant Krandal had been drilling them in full kit since before they’d marched out from Oakdell.

  The sergeant appeared, wearing his armor as naturally as if it were his skin. Stepping close to Rury he spoke barely above a whisper.

  “Remember, relax and let the training do the job. If you feel fear, let it go to something else.”

  The sergeant stepped back and looked around at the militia, then smiled grimly.

  “Boys and girls,” he said, “it’s time to go be soldiers. Marching order, column of fours!”

  They marched to the company’s muster point, then trudged to the valley in the dim red light of pre-dawn. The upright rows of their shouldered weapons rippled as they moved, like a field of grain waving deadly in the breeze. A crow cawed harshly at their passing.

  They reached the shallow stream marking Valdemar’s border with Karse and arrayed themselves there. Rury stood on the front line with Aed and Snipe to either side. Behind him were Sergeant Krandal and the others, their presence reassuring. Perhaps five-score paces to his left Rury could make out the King’s standard fluttering bravely in the breeze. To either side stretched the armored ranks of Valdemar.

  Muttering rippled through the Valdemaran ranks, as the Tedrel Army crested the opposing hilltop. They came, and came, and kept coming, armor glittering in the morning sun. The measured tread of their march was like muffled drums.

  “That may be the scariest thing I’ve ever seen,” muttered Aed.

  “That’s because you aren’t them, looking at us.” replied the sergeant. “Look close. The front ranks aren’t squared off and hard lined like the ones behind. See how the officers are riding close on them. The Tedrel are running their mongrel hounds out ahead. Those boys in front are nervous.” He raised his voice. “I’ve seen more than my share of fighters, and you people are better than that lot.” He grinned wryly. “Though it looks like it will be a while before we run out of Tedrels.”

  Rury knew the sergeant was trying to buck them up. Still, he was glad of the confidence in Krandal’s voice. As the Tedrels filled the far slopes, the mutterings in his head grew to a low roar, even through the shields he tried to raise. The voices were back, and this time every voice was shouting hate and rage and desire for his death. For the first time in his young life, Rury seriously thought about the possibility of death, and that today he might die.

  “Nice to see somebody remembered to invite the Tedrels,” joked Aed. “So what do we do now?”

  “We stop jabbering like a bunch of first-fight rookies, for starters,” growled Sergeant Krandal, “then we settle in and wait. Stand easy.”

  The morning crawled on. The sun was well up now, glinting off the dew on the grass. Soldiers in the line held their positions, occasionally shifting their feet or drinking sparingly from water bottles.

  Suddenly there was a cry as the Tedrel lines started moving. Their front ranks left the main body and advanced toward the little stream just ahead of Rury. They moved at a trot that sped up as they came down the slope.

  “Dress your ranks!” shouted Sergeant Krandal. “Hold in place.”

  The Tedrels were up to a run, now, a wordless roar coming from their throats. Thousands on thousands charged down the hill, shaking the ground. Rury felt the vibration through his boot soles.

  “Level weapons!” The front line of Tedrels reached the stream, lurching and splashing across.

  “Hold steady!” Sergeant Krandal could barely be heard over the noise. “Hold the . . .” The rest was lost in crash, screams and drumming thunder as the lines slammed together and two armies each leaped for the other’s throat. On either side of Rury, Tedrel fighters, unheeding of danger or unable to check their rush, impaled themselves on spear and pike points. For every Tedrel who did, two more fought to get past the spears and close with the fighters of Valdemar. The roar of clashing arms and screaming soldiers was deafening.

  Rury nearly blacked out from the waves of emotion. He tasted bile in his throat. His head felt as if it would explode. A big Tedrel in bronze and leather armor knocked Rury’s spear point aside with a shield rim and charged in. He hacked down and his sword bit into Rury’s spear shaft with a crack. The shaft buckled. Rury saw death in the warrior’s eyes, felt hate pouring from him as the Tedrel’s sword came up again. The noise seemed to mute and time slowed to a crawl as Rury brought up the splintered remnant of his spear shaft and blocked the sword coming at his head.

  Something happened, clicking into place in Rury’s mind. The physical act of defending himself combined with the hurried training from Herald Erek and Sergeant Krandal’s words.

  “Stay calm. Let the fear and hate turn to something else.”

  He didn’t need to stop the feelings, he just had to let them divert as they flowed into and through him. The hammering in his head and the sickness in his gut vanished. He felt the rage and fear of two armies coming to him, and felt
it refracting, turning into . . . something else.

  He held up the broken spear shaft like a talisman with his left hand and fumbled for his sword. The Tedrel swung again, but stopped short as Sergeant Krandal’s spearhead hit the man’s shoulder. The thrust didn’t bite deep through the Tedrel’s armor, but it hung him up.

  The hours of training kicked in. Rury gripped his own sword, fist up and blade-down, and swept it out of the scabbard, slashing across the Tedrel’s face. The cheek and nosepiece of the Tedrel’s helmet turned most of the cut, but Rury’s backhanded return stab took him just below the chin. The Tedrel dropped like a puppet with cut strings. His blood bathed Rury’s sword and spattered his surcoat, filling Rury’s nose with its coppery smell. A tidal flow of primal emotion roared into Rury, the greatest feeling of his young life. The dying Tedrel’s anger, fear and lust surged and churned inside him, turning to something that felt strangely like love. Love of his enemies. Love of battle. Love of killing. At that instant Rury Tellar became an angel of death.

  Spears and pikes stabbed from behind and around him as Rury’s comrades fought to fill the gap left by his broken spear. Another Tedrel forced an opening with his shield and rushed at Rury, his war hammer swinging high. Rury calmly stopped the charge cold by thrusting the splintered end of his spear shaft into the warrior’s face, followed with a sword stab over the shield’s rim. Whether the sword struck the Tedrel’s face or throat, Rury couldn’t see. He heard the man cry out and felt him sag, but the Tedrel didn’t go down. Rury tried to draw the sword back, but it was stuck, jammed in bone or armor. He released the sword and wrenched the hammer from the man’s faltering grip, then brought it around to crash on the Tedrel’s helmet. The blow threw the man’s body back into the Tedrel line.

  In the moment’s respite, Rury dropped the splintered spear shaft and had his buckler off his belt and up, still gripping the war hammer. The weapon was no nobleman’s decorative piece, just a steel head with a long, narrow hammer face and wicked points on back, sides and front, mounted on an oak haft nearly as long as his arm. Whatever its form, it was a hammer, and Rury had spent four years at the forge using one. Driven by his hard-trained muscle, the hammer rose and fell on the pressing Tedrel host. Armor and bone crushed. With nearly every blow a man went down. The Tedrel fought to get a return blow on Rury, but Sergeant Krandal bellowed orders, and the militia’s spears stabbed and clicked like giant, deadly knitting needles, taking down any Tedrel who gave Rury too much attention. Bodies piled before them, making a barrier that let their spears and pikes reach across to dart and tear.

  Every Tedrel who died in pain and fear and rage fed energy into Rury. Every blow was like a lover’s touch, every scream a sweetheart’s whisper. He wanted it to never end. He would kill until no one lived on this bloody field, just to keep the song of love and death singing through him.

  The Tedrels fell back a dozen steps, and arrows rained down on the Valdemaran line. Armor and luck proved good enough for the Oakdell militia, and they took little hurt. But the Tedrels had pulled back out of reach of his hammer, and Rury stood with impatient resentment.

  The roar of battle eased for a moment, and he heard cries of commanders, getting louder as they relayed orders. Glancing to his left, Rury glimpsed the King’s banner plunging across the stream and deep into the Tedrel host. And then Sergeant Krandal was shouting at his back.

  “Advance the line! The king is leading! Advance the line! Move up to support the king! Move it! Move it now! CHARGE!”

  Like a hunting dog released from its leash, Rury scrambled up and over the slick line of Tedrel bodies, trailed closely by the rest. There was a shock of wet and cold on feet and shins as they splashed into the shallow stream, now running a muddy crimson. Past the opposite bank stood a locked line of Tedrel shields. This time it was the soldiers of Valdemar who crashed into a line of steel. Rury gave it no thought. He only wanted to regain that wonderful feeling that came with killing.

  His hammer crashed down on a Tedrel’s wooden shield, splintering the arm that supported it. Another blow smashed a helm. The rest of the militia were with him now, exploiting gaps made by Rury’s relentless blows. The Tedrel line gave ground before the young demon with the hammer and those terrible, thirsting spears.

  “No!” thought Rury. “Stay! Stay and let me love you!” He smashed the shield of a lone Tedrel left in an opening cleared of live enemies. The shield sagged down, but before Rury could strike the killing blow a spear head thrust past him and took the Tedrel cleanly. As the man fell, Rury felt the rage of a child whose toy was taken.

  Take my kill, will you? Thwart my love? Rury turned to see Aed pulling back his spear.

  Then let you be my love! Rury smiled as he raised his hammer.

  Far up the line the King’s banner trembled and fell. Rury drew back his hammer, ready to send it smashing down on Aed’s helmet.

  Instead, lightning struck Rury.

  A bolt of searing emotion ran through his mind and body, rushing through his veins, so intense he felt his fingers and toes must be sparking and flaring. It was a wave of feeling that screamed of pain, despair, death and the loss of loved ones.

  OUR BELOVED! OUR CHOSEN! THEY HAVE KILLED THE COMPANIONS! THEY HAVE SLAIN THE KING!

  It was too much! Too much power. Too much pain and raw emotion. Rury’s mind reflexively redirected the bolt, casting it back out across the battlefield. His legs buckled and he sank to his knees, felt the hammer pulled from his grasp. He heard savage screaming as he fell, something about the King’s death. He glimpsed Aed swinging the war hammer wildly, and Sergeant Krandal roaring wordlessly, running into the enemy ranks with his spear gripped high.

  And then the dark closed in.

  Erek limped as he picked his way across the wreckage of the battlefield, closely followed by Deanara. His uniform and the Companion’s trappings were torn and dirty, here and there stained with blood. Communications and Intelligence people weren’t supposed to be front line troops, but after the Valdemaran reserves had been ordered out to intercept the Tedrel cavalry ravaging the countryside, every Valdemaran who could hold a weapon became a combat soldier. Even with his mental shields up, he’d felt the call of grief and rage that marked the King’s death. He and Dee had thrown themselves into the battle as ferociously as any. Erek wasn’t certain who had channeled that wave of emotion, but he had an idea, and he had to find out.

  Around them was what the worst of the nine hells must look like on a sunny day. Nothing in the universe is so horribly, totally messy as the aftermath of a battle. The metallic smell of blood and pungent aroma of feces from the dying and dead hung in the still air. The injured moaned and screamed. Figures on the ground writhed or lay much too still. Others like Erek and Deanara picked their way across ground littered by broken weapons, discarded armor, and awkwardly sprawled bodies. It was difficult getting through some sections without walking on limbs, torsos or faces. The former front lines were marked by raggedly piled rows of dead, like windrows of cut hay ready for harvesting.

  He found them twenty paces or so beyond one of the largest piles, to the right of what had been the Valdemaran center. Sergeant Krandal sat sprawled in a small cleared area, bareheaded and with part of his armor stripped off. Rury lay with his head cradled in the sergeant’s arms, sobbing like a child. Both were bloodstained and filthy. Sergeant Krandal looked up at the Herald’s approach.

  “How did you fare, Sergeant?” said Erek.

  Sergeant Krandal gave a pained, crooked smile. “Better than we might have hoped. We gave far better than we took, but we did take losses. Six dead that I know of. Aed took an ax to the shoulder. Lots of walking wounded. Dortha’s got the rest out with the company, mopping up.” He winced and shifted his seat, and Erek saw the sergeant’s outstretched leg seeping blood through a crude bandage ripped from a surcoat. “I took a scratch on the thigh, enough to make me stay put.” Krandal looked down at Rury, who was quiet now, like a child who had cried itself almost to sleep.

/>   “The boy seemed to master that empathy thing about the time they closed with us. He fought like a Karsite demon after that. That was mostly why we weren’t overrun. Then right after the King died, when we all somehow knew he’d been killed, I was filled with grief and rage like I’d never known. That’s when I saw the boy go down. He wasn’t struck down, just dropped like he was dead. There wasn’t time to check on him then. We were all too busy trying to rip out the Tedrels’ throats with our teeth. At least that’s what it felt like. It was as if the boy’s demons burned him out and jumped to all of us.”

  Erek knelt and laid a hand on Rury’s forehead as if checking for a fever. Deanara snorted gently and drew nearer, and Erek reached back and laid his free hand on her velvety nose. He drew breath sharply after a moment, removed his hands from Rury and Dee, and stood up.

  “Find something?” said the Sergeant, frowning. Erek sighed.

  “Dee thinks he was something like a conduit for what you and I and everyone else felt. I agree. When the King was killed, when he and his bodyguard and their Companions and the other mounts were being cut down, the Companions knew it. Those directly involved felt their Chosen pierced and dying, felt the pain and panic and death of their fellows. They put out a combined mind-scream that must have hit Rury like a thunderbolt. My guess is he threw it back out over the army, probably translated somehow so that even the least sensitive Valdemaran could understand it.” Erek stood stiffly.

  “We can’t find any trace now of his Empathic talents. I think you’re righter than you know when you say his demons burned him out. What he did was an instinctive reaction, but that’s how we all felt the King’s death at the same instant. Whether or not he meant to do it, it helped turn the tide of the battle.”

  Krandal stroked Rury’s head like a concerned mother. The boy’s breathing evened out.

  “Will he recover?”

  “We need to get him to the Healers. You, too, for that matter. He’ll certainly be affected, but no youngster goes through a war unchanged. With help and time, I think he’ll be well enough.” Erek paused and frowned. “We’d best keep this to ourselves, at least for now. The Companions will know, and some of the Heralds, but they won’t gossip about it. I’ll pass it on to those in the Guard with a need to know.” Erek stopped abruptly as Rury opened his eyes and raised himself up on an elbow.