Under the Vale and Other Tales of Valdemar Read online

  Lo’isha found himself quite busy. While he couldn’t fault Kerowyn for handing the problem off, and it did involve his people, it was quite an interesting one, with all that entailed.

  “So, Teren, what are we to discuss today?” He took the empty chair and noticed it was a different one. The piles of parchment had moved.

  “The same as we’ve discussed every day for the last two weeks. Nerea.”

  “Yes, she’s quite the item.”

  “A pest. Sweet, pretty, too clever for her own good, and a pest.” Teren twiddled a quill in his fingers.

  “The language lessons?” he guessed.

  “That, and still being here, and loitering around. I suggested she stay in Bolton. I offered to pay for quarters across town, to make some distance.”

  “She would refuse, of course.”

  “She did.” Yes, Teren was most agitated, and on such a fine day.

  “Is she affecting his studies?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed, and I’ve been watching. It is disruptive to others, though, on top of his existing differences as a foreigner.”

  Lo’isha kept calm and reassuring. “Well, I should think that would be good for the other trainees. They’ll have to deal with such matters in the field, after all.”

  “Indeed. I would just prefer their practice problems be more organized.”

  “You can’t send her away,” he pointed out.

  “I know.” Teren stood and looked out the window. “I’d hoped she’d get bored and leave, or he’d realize he’d grown apart from her. Something. If anything, they are reconnecting and throwing sand in everyone’s shoes.”

  “Then perhaps now is a time to walk barefoot and enjoy the sensation.”

  Teren said, “Walking barefoot also involves thorns.”

  “Then walk carefully,” Lo’isha offered his friend with a smile. “I have a feeling these thorns will be trodden down by many feet.”

  “Let me show you the city,” Keth’ said. While it wasn’t home, it was a fascinating place, and he was eager to introduce her to some of the more interesting foods.

  “Whatever you like,” she said with a smile. It caught him off guard.

  He offered an arm and led the way toward the horse and animal market, figuring to stop at the Compass Rose just beyond it. It wasn’t the cheapest, but it didn’t attract lowlifes, and the usual clientele wouldn’t be surprised to see a pair of Shin’a’in.

  They were almost to the market when he realized why her smile had concerned him.

  There was a glint.

  They’d both grown in a year, and she felt like a part of him. Then he realized he felt the same way. Even if he did agree with the Collegium’s rules, and he’d only admitted to understanding them, this was something he wanted more.

  “The Ashkevrons do have some fine horses,” Nerea said. “We have better, but not by much, and no others I’ve seen come close.”

  “Well, they do buy ours and breed them.”

  “Certainly, but it takes more than stock. It takes care and raising.” Her energy never faded. He’d always liked that.

  There were a lot of horses here today. It must be some market day. There were wagons, carts, horses with pannier saddles, mounts for nobles and the wealthy, and draft horses for farmers. Some of the wagons contained oats, nuts, apples, and other fare meant for the animals, and several stores had displays of combs and brushes. There were also saddles, tack and clothes for riders, and even a carpenter’s display of stable making. The place smelled of fine horseflesh, and he enjoyed it.

  “Some very fine creatures,” she said, smiling. She was relaxed, he realized, and comfortable for now. With food and fine weather, there was nowhere he’d rather be.

  Which was odd; this place was not home. He could speak the language well enough to get by, but it still felt foreign.

  Rather than ponder it, he decided to just enjoy the day. Her hand was warm as she clutched his. Her shoulder brushed him every couple of steps. He was comfortably fed and had no pressing worries for the day.

  It was at that moment that the Star-eyed saw fit to give him pressing worries.

  A cart-hitched horse suddenly stepped sideways, reared up, and came down in a limping gallop. His cart knocked a stall askew, spilled some contents—bags of feed—and rode over the collapsed legs of the vendor’s display.

  The horse was clearly hurt, right rear leg tipping the ground as the rest clattered on the cobbles. People dove from its path, shouting and screaming. Other animals shied and whinnied, backed and sidled, until carts crashed and tangled in a huge mess. It would take hours to sort out. It had happened in moments.

  The chaos spread as other horses and even smaller animals caught the whiff of panic. Their instincts fought their restraints, and the din of it all was astounding.

  Then Nerea stepped into the street.

  Keth’ knew what she intended and took a half step to grab her, then decided he would only make it worse. He had no doubt she knew what she was doing, but he wasn’t sure the horse did.

  Three people buffeted him as they darted past, urgently clearing the street and seeking somewhere out of reach of rearing hooves and twisting wagons.

  Then the horse, a very handsome dapple, reached Nerea at a near-gallop still dragging the remains of the cart. She stood calmly, stepped aside just enough to avoid it, and stroked his flank with her fingers.

  He slowed haltingly and stumbled two steps forward as the tilting cart’s momentum shoved at him.

  Nerea walked around him, fingers tracing his muscles. After the dapple was calmed, she stepped over to a dun mare. Nerea held a hand to her muzzle, and she quieted. Then a roan stallion dropped, relaxed and stepped out of the wreckage of a pushcart yoke. The waves of calm rippled out, where waves of panic had flowed only breaths before.

  Nerea turned back to the dapple, walked around, and touched his injured leg. He raised it at once, and she studied his hoof. Taking out her belt knife, she pried something long and sharp out of the frog. Releasing the foot, she patted the dapple’s flank.

  And Keth’ smiled, because he knew what could keep her here, near him and near the horses.

  He would stay here and finish his studies, because Mind-magic, and Animal Speaking, ran through his people. It was inevitable others would show their talents, and possibly more of them. He’d be needed to teach those children of the Shin’a’in who had Mind-magic and who could not or would not leave the Plains. Nerea would stay here until then and teach the Valdemarans about horses, for wisdom ran both ways.

  He also understood why the day had been so sweet, even though Valdemar wasn’t his home. Nor, anymore, were the Plains.

  Home was where Nerea was.

  “So, how are our lovebirds doing? More importantly, has Nerea started home yet?” Teren asked Lo’isha hopefully, after serving the Shaman some tea.

  Lo’isha smiled at him.

  “I think that is a vain hope, my friend. She does not look as if she is leaving anytime soon. If she were easy to dissuade, she would have never left the Plains in the first place.”

  Teren sighed and leaned against his desk. “What am I going to do with them?”

  “Why do anything? They will solve their own problems and have indeed begun to do so.” Lo’isha calmly sipped his tea.

  “What do you mean?” asked Teren suspiciously. He had the feeling that he wasn’t going to like this.

  “After that incident at the horse market, Nerea has received more offers for work and horse training than she knows what to do with. She isn’t going anywhere,” he repeated.

  “What about Keth’? Has he spoken to you at all?”

  Lo’isha sat back and steepled his fingers.

  “Yes, he has asked me about becoming a teacher on the Plains. He believes his talents lie not with Valdemar but with his—our—people. He’s not entirely wrong. Her talent, of course, is a latent power manifesting itself. There will be others. He can hardly be the only one needing to be trained in
Mind-magic. Since the Storms there is now no reason not to. My people would learn better from one who has the proper attitude; magic is not to be meddled with but controlled and tempered.”

  “But he is supposed to be a Herald! Anyone a Companion chooses has to be a Herald!” Teren was agitated. He’d thought Lo’isha concurred with him.

  “Why? ‘There is no one true way.’ It’s time to change. Not every Shin’a’in with power can trek to Valdemar, and certainly they can’t remain here. At some point, we must have our own schools. In the meantime, he will be an intermediary, learning here, then mentoring others. Perhaps one day he will return to the Plains.”

  Teren said, “That’s not what he wants.”

  Lo’isha replied, “Nor is it what you want. Nor even what I’d want, if I had a choice. None of us do, though. The Storms have blown the slate clean for us down on the Plains.”

  He took a final sip of tea and placed the cup down on a clear spot amid the clutter.

  “I believe they have for Valdemar as well.”

  Fog of War

  Ben Ohlander

  Gonwyn pressed the bloody, filthy rag down onto where his teeth had been broken by the arrow hit. The helmet’s cheek-piece had saved his life, but pain from the splintered molars flared as he tried to stanch the bleeding. He spat more blood and fragments onto the leafy ground. Distant fighting flared up, the rattle of combat carried across the torn ground. His part of the field might have gone quiet, but fighting still raged in the center and on the left.

  He nudged Rath with his heels, and they moved together up the draw,and through the trees. The Companion, fastidious about her hooves, stepped around the windrows of fallen bodies. Tedrel and Valdemaran lay commingled, embraced in death.

  He crossed into the rally point, well behind the lines . . . at least until the lines had moved and brought heavy fighting. The low mounded hill and its sparse trees stank of blood and loosened bowels, thick with the stench of death. Nearby wounded had been gathered here, at least until the Tedrels had swept the Valdemaran forces back. Now, the injured felt no pain.

  He thought Adreal lay dead, propped against a tree with a bloody blanket pressed to his middle. The Herald Master opened his eyes and reached for his notched sword, bringing it up in defense before he recognized Gonwyn.

  Gonwyn slid out of the saddle and moved closer. Claris, Adreal’s Companion, came into sight, lamed by a gashing wound in her left rear leg. The skin lay open, exposing the muscle beneath. Blood slicked the Companion’s side, running from haunch to hock.

  “Where the hell was our support?” Gonwyn asked. “It was raining anvils on us over there.”

  Adreal half-smiled at him. “You sound like you have a mouth full of marbles.”

  Gonwyn made an apologetic gesture toward his blood-crusted face. “Got hit by a spent arrow. Lost most of the afternoon asleep in a warm pile of dead other people. Was missed by the Tedrel looters.”

  “There’s your answer.” Adreal shook his head. “Tedrel happened. Their cavalry never showed. The Lord Marshal took all the reserves and our horse to go deal with something clever the Tedrels thought up. They took all the Heralds who were controlling movement on this side. They went out of play just as they would have been useful.”

  Adreal coughed as he shifted his weight against the tree. “You do know that King Sendar was killed?’

  Gonwyn winced as he brushed his tongue over the damage. “Yes.” It came out as “yeth.” “I heard he was down but was back up. Rath told me he was killed when I came to. What happened?”

  Adreal shrugged and coughed again. A thin spittle line of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His tone remained dry and normal. “Don’t know the full of it. He took what body of troops was near and charged into the center. Cracked it. Most of the Tedrel forces fell on that wedge. Just about everyone in that charge was killed, but it took the pressure off the flanks.”

  “What about the Heir?” Gonwyn asked.

  “Alive.” Adreal wiped his hand across his face. Gonwyn could see the sweat even in the cool air. “Selenay is alive. I heard Alberich got her out before that part of the line got swamped. There was some kind of assault or raid. He got her out.”

  Gonwyn spat again and reached into Rath’s saddlebags for sour field wine. He rinsed his mouth, winced at the astringent bite, then offered the bladder to Adreal. The Herald refused with a shake of his head.

  “He didn’t turn on us?” Gonwyn asked. “I always thought he was too good to be true.”

  “Nope. Mr. ‘Hide in Haven’ was all over the map today, bad cess to the Tedrels. He got Selenay out after Sendar died, kept the attack going in the face of the King’s fall, and led the regrouping in the absence of the Lord Marshal.”

  “Where’s Talamir, then? Where’s the King’s Own?”

  “He was near Sendar when he went down. They got Tavar.” Both men shared a glance, first at Adreal’s Claris, then at Gonwyn’s Rath. The ultimate horror for a Herald, the loss of bond and blood, of a Companion’s fall. Gonwyn knew both that he would take his own life if Rath fell, and that they talked about a dead man.

  They both glanced as the fighting on the left side of the Valdemaran line grew more intense. Distant horns followed by a giant crash as two forces came together.

  That took Gonwyn by surprise. “Lord Maybe got off his ass?”

  Adreal laughed without mirth. “No. Once Sendar fell, the center went mad with fury, and most of the inner parts of the line bent inward. Commanders farther out on the flanks held back. Either they had farther to go, or there were local problems.” He didn’t say what Gonwyn had heard again and again through camp rumor . . . that the less reliable commanders were to be put the farthest on the flanks.

  Adreal ignored his expression and continued. “Sorcha went to Lord Maybe to press home on that side and avenge the King. The rage was on them, too. Sorcha was arguing with him, and Maybe was saying “maybe,” when something the size of a crow came and took his head off.” He smiled grimly. “Sorcha’s Elissa was impressed, and Companions don’t impress easy.” Adreal coughed again. “That Eastholder Sergeant . . . Split-Face . . . took over, and two candlemarks later rolled up their right side like a carpet. This was midafternoon. You can still hear that part of the fight.”

  Gonwyn was surprised. “Not one of Maybe’s officers? They brought enough.”

  Adreal smiled. “Have you seen that bastard? Looks like he got his mug cut in half with an ax? Would you tell him no?”

  Gonwyn shook his head. “I saw him once, when I was running messages for Colonel Perfect Boots. You’d need stones the size of catapult shot to go up against him. ”

  Adreal shrugged then, though it cost him. “I think the Lord Marshal put him there deliberately. You should have heard Maybe squawking about command interference. Threatened to take the matter to the King.”

  “Anyway . . .” Adreal picked up a broken arrow and drew in the dirt. “Split-Face broke through their right side and is driving into their center and rear. Their entire right side collapsed, with many routing into the center. Most of that was thrown over by Sendar’s charge. What’s left of the Tedrel right wing folded back like a gate, but Split-Face ripped right through that. He’s now somewhere back in there, cheerfully tearing their rear echelons to shreds.”

  Gonwyn tried to whistle and settled for a wince. “He’s that good?”

  Adreal shrugged. “Seems so. They’re outnumbered, but I’ve never met an Eastholder yet with enough brains to do basic math. It probably hasn’t occurred to him yet that they should be getting swamped. They’re all still in a blood fury, so that helps.”

  He made more marks to show the original Valdemaran lines, then scratched them out. “If we could hold, then we might be the anvil to their hammer, but as it stands, he’s pushing them all into us.”

  A wounded Guardsman approached with a water bottle and a loaf. Gonwyn took the bottle and gratefully swigged from it. He sluiced out a mouthful of pink-tinged water before he
drank. He considered the bread, the state of his mouth, and passed on the loaf. It was not a hard choice.

  “Can Sorcha hold him up, give us time to reknit?” he asked.

  Adreal stabbed the arrow into the dirt map. “No. She went down a little after midafternoon. With Eiven dead, she was our last link to the far flank on that side of the line.”

  Gonwyn winced. “Eiven and Selim. Sorcha and Elissa. That’s seven pairs today.”

  “Eight” Adreal corrected. “Morevon got hit with one of those floating, flaming bastards. Pinned him and Elath to the ground.”

  Gonwyn made no response for a long moment. “It’s been a rough day for the Companions Field.”

  Adreal laughed again, a dry humorless laugh. “It’s been a rough day for us all.” He stabbed the arrow into the ground. “There, I’ve shown you mine, you show me yours.”

  Gonwyn wiped Adreal’s marks with his boot. He absently noted that blood had already stained the leather. He flexed his stiffening hand.

  “Not much to tell”, he said, “I was on the ass-end of the line supporting Captain Arland’s Guards Regiment,and a herd of Orthallen’s militia. This morning I was all the way past where the oak grove burned, watching for Tedrel cavalry trying to push our flanks. We were still holding in our original deployments. The militia gave a good account of themselves. They broke the shock troops well enough. There was no serious effort to turn our flank . . . they were just keeping us in play at first.”

  Gonwyn made more marks to show the evolving fight. “We’d started to give ground after we got intelligence that the Tedrel cavalry was missing and to watch our flanks. Arland had just refused his line to double spears on the right, when every damned Tedrel ever born washed over us. I saw the Terilee in flood once, rising up a dike. That’s how it felt. Arland called me and his scouts in at that point.”

  He laughed. “Ormona was Mindspeaking for Arland and called for reinforcements. She got, ‘Sorry, they’re busy. Good luck.’ ” He stabbed the dirt with the arrow.

  “The line bent, but we were doing okay. Then we got word that Sendar was down, and Orthallen . . . he commanded the bulk of the militia . . . ordered everyone back to the second rally line. Disengaging in the middle of a fight is damned hard, and while the militia was doing well, they weren’t up to this. Arland’s regiment got sorted out, but the militia shattered like a dropped pot.”