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  “Two, back!” Bellan shouted.

  She turned and ran, keeping low so javelins could fly over her. Then she saw Erki off to the side. He’d dismounted to recover a bow, and one stray fighter was closing on him.

  Her first thought was that it made no sense. The man was chasing a target of little value. She wondered if his plan was to take a hostage, or chase the horses off, but he was waving his polecleaver vigorously.

  Then raw pain and nausea flooded through her mind. He was going to kill her little brother.

  Tactics said she should stick with the element and her orders or she’d make the disparity of numbers worse. Tactics be damned. “Erki, your left!” she shouted to alert him, and dodged past Bellan’s mount. Erki turned and grabbed for his weapons.

  “Go, Riga!” Bellan said, acknowledging her, but she didn’t care. The first swing of that long weapon tore and splintered Erki’s shield to the boss. He stumbled back and raised his sword to block. The cleaver fell, met the sword in a dull clang. He dropped his weapon and howled, face contorted in agony, but he hadn’t been opened up yet.

  Then the soldier realized he was being flanked and turned. He had no time to swing, so he thrust. Riga caught the tip straight into the tough leather and wood of her shield, twisted into it. He made the mistake of trying to hold on to the haft, and wound up sideways to her.

  Her first swing hit too hard. She felt the blade bite and stick in his thigh, and had to fight it loose as he fell, kicking and screaming. Real battle was tremendously noisier and dirtier than the vollar, she thought as she followed up with a thrust to his torso.

  She retained enough presence of mind to make a sweep around herself. Some officer had drawn the force back into a bristling defensive formation. Kossaki javelins chunked into shields but rarely found a mark, and one of the Grogansens had recovered his bow. She was safe for the present.

  For a moment she thought Erki had lost an arm. He shrieked and squirmed and was painted with blood. A fresh bout of nausea started, and she grabbed for a bandage from her belt. It was only his thumb, though, or part of it. The blade had not been sharp and had mangled it. He might retain some use.

  She dropped her sword in front of her, slapped his helmet to draw his attention back to the world and shouted, “Use this!” as she thrust a bandage at him. He gasped in surprise and nodded, before she reached under his hips and heaved him back across his saddle and the added pain of moving set him screaming again. She bent, grabbed her sword, made another sweep, then grabbed his blade and Snorru’s bow. It was heavier than hers, but she’d draw it if she had to. She said, “Off hand!” and flipped Erki’s sword up to him as he tumbled upright. Then she turned back to the fight, clutching at her quiver. Her hands were sticky.

  Her first arrow wobbled. The bow needed heavier arrows than hers, but the range wasn’t great. She wondered where the brilliant flash of flame came from, then realized four shooting stars had been fired horizontally. Half the front rank clutched at their eyes and dropped their guard, during which Snorru, Lar, and the Grogansens charged in and speared any handy flesh, then jammed the points into shields and left them as they dove and rolled away. Those troops had to drop their shields, and she shot an arrow straight into the revealed mass. Two javelins followed.

  She put her third arrow into the officer riding down on them. It was a lucky shot. She’d been aiming for the torso and caught him in the throat, right under the helmet. No one could see luck, though, only a hit.

  He tumbled from his horse, and the fight was over, the foot troops retreating in ragged order, glancing back but with no heart to fight. They carried and dragged their wounded. Only two dead yet, four lame and being carried, perhaps twenty wounded, but infection would take others, unless their leaders were the type to waste healing magic on arrow fodder. She suspected not.

  Still, the caravan would have to move faster, even if it meant losing a wagon and any contents that couldn’t be shared in a hurry. Where those troops came from there would be others. There wasn’t time to properly loot, only to grab pouches, weapons, and the occasional helmet, and to recover a few bows and javelins.

  Snorru, mounted, led Erki by his left hand. The boy looked faint from pain and shock. They reached the caravan, and Snorru helped Erki down as Riga jumped from her saddle.

  Bellan caught up, grabbed Erki, inspected his hand in a moment, and shoved him down on the gate of a wagon.

  “Let’s do this fast. Riga, can you hold him? And Kari.”

  “I can,” she said, voice cracking and tears blinding her. She grabbed his arm, pinned it down, and leaned her weight on it. Kari did the same on the left, as Erki panicked and started thrashing. Only his feet could move, drumming and kicking on the wagon deck. She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears and nose. Snorru ran up and shoved a leather rein between his teeth for him to bite on. Riga heard his cries, and under them, the sound and smell of battlefield surgery. His screams hit a crescendo as Bellan said, “That’s it. Only one joint. You’ll still be able to work and fight. Drink this.” He handed over a leather bottle as he turned to help bandage Lar’s arm. There were several moderate wounds.

  Erki was too dazed to handle the bottle, and Riga helped him drink. He guzzled five times, and she pulled the bottle back. He needed help with the pain, but not enough to get sick. Then she took three burning swallows herself. Kari did, too, then Snorru. They swapped looks that combined compassion, fear, horror, and the bond that came only with shared battle.

  After easing Erki into his saddle so he could rest, they rode another five miles before Bellan called a halt, well after dark. Everyone slept on wagons or under them, ready to fly if another troop came. Walten offered his wagon to the Kossaki youth, and slept underneath.

  Erki cried and cried. He’d quiet down, drift fitfully to sobbing sleep, then some tortured nerve would jolt him awake to writhe and scream again. The herbs were supposed to lessen the pain and prevent infection, but hand injuries were among the most painful.

  Riga cried, holding him tight in the damp cold amid dust and tools, comforting him. They were children, not warriors. They shouldn’t have to fight, certainly not Erki. He was barely lettered and just big enough to ride. She cursed Miklamar and his troops, the mercenaries, Jarek and his helpless bumtwits, the Swordmistress, Bellan. Couldn’t they fight their own battle and leave her out of it? She clutched her bear, not caring if anyone saw.

  She realized part of her distress was fear of losing Erki, had the blow been better aimed. Or her father. Or herself. A warrior was willing to risk such things, but she wasn’t sure she was.

  It was only a thumb! People lost worse in grindstones, forges, even looms. Bjark had lost two joints of fingers just last year. It could have been worse.

  But this was Erki, and it had been in war. That made it different.

  And it could have been worse.

  In the morning, pressups and sword drill did nothing to loosen the knot in her shoulder or the ache on the side of her head. Erki looked groggy from shock and fatigue, but he’d stopped crying. He let nothing near his hand, though.

  It took all day, but by dusk Lake Diaska was visible, the sun glittering off its windblown waves. Gangibrog was at the south point, Little Town, now part of the Kingdom of Crane, to the north. They pushed on, saddlesore and stiff, but with a huge burden lifted.

  They stopped, late and exhausted to staggers. The refugees rolled up in blankets where they sat or sprawled and made snide but quiet comments about the Kossaki setting camp. Riga finished pitching the shelter quickly, despite working alone, disregarding their snickers. Tonight would be cold. They’d learn as they traveled north.

  Erki looked unhappy, able only to hold a javelin while she drove spikes and dug them in. She shooed him in and crawled in alongside, with an extra blanket against the chill.

  In the morning, the elders were locked in conference. They didn’t break for long minutes while the mist and dew burned off. Riga secured the gear and handed Erki a bowl
of hard cheese and nuts.

  “Thank you,” he said, staring at his bandaged thumb.

  “I’m sorry.” If she’d been a moment sooner ...

  “I wonder what it feels like to die?” he asked.

  That was the type of question children asked parents. She wasn’t ready for it yet. And she knew what it felt like to kill.

  Bellan finally came over with a wave for attention.

  “We’ll have to split up. You’ll take Erki home, with the other youths. Now that they’re one group, we’ll take them north. The Morit will meet us.”

  Riga choked a little and took a deep breath. She’d spent all night nerving up to continue, and now she was being replaced, just a girl again. She did want to go home, badly. She also wanted to finish the job. She’d completely forgotten that she and Brandur might meet, and that chance was also gone.

  “I understand,” was all she could say.

  “You’re named well, Sworddancer,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Morle was right to select you.”

  Riding back wasn’t bad, with Kari and the Grogansens for company. Even Snorru, who’d always been a bit self-absorbed, treated Erki almost like his own brother. They made good time toward the road and saw lake barges towed by sail tugs. They passed occasional traffic at a run.

  Once in town, she could see things returning to normal. The hus was open, too. Father was home!

  They galloped alongside the planked road, heedless of the splattering muck, and she dismounted as he came out the door.

  “Riga!” he shouted, grinning and arms wide. She charged up and leaped at him.

  A moment later she said, “You’re squashing me.”

  “I like squashing you,” he said, very softly. She started crying.

  The fire was going, and he’d made a large pot of stew. It was so like being home, and so like being a girl again. She ate and warmed herself, peeling off layers. Meanwhile, Father looked at Erki’s thumb.

  “Arwen has fresh herbs, not like the dried ones for the field. And it’s not much of a wound. You’ll get used to it and be able to work just fine. Remember this?” He showed one of his own injuries, a smashed fingertip.

  Riga moved away, not wanting to see it again. She hung her clothes, mounted her mail and helm on their stand, and set about cleaning her sword.

  Before she took over the ledgers, she might have to be a warrior. She’d trained for it all her life, but she’d never thought to actually use it, beyond a tavern brawl or a mob of thieves at quayside, the occasional bandits or brigands. It was a cold thought.

  Meanwhile, she was home with her family, a soft bed, her toys and crafts, and a chance to be a girl again, for the little time she could.

  Broken Bones

  by Stephanie D. Shaver

  Stephanie Shaver lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her cats and her computers. When she isn’t working, cooking, wrestling with her lawn, or writing, she’s out in the woods climbing something or frantically checking for ticks. Her day job involves creating online games for Simutronics, where she acts as a lead designer and creative know-it-all for the fantasy-based MMORPG Hero’s Journey. You can find out more about her at her website, www.sdshaver.com.

  “So. There I was—”

  “A likely story.”

  The Bard paused, inky nib poised over parchment. She hadn’t even written two words. “Do you want this report or not?”

  She could hear the smirk in the Herald’s voice. “Can’t you just skip to the good part?”

  “They’re all good parts!”

  “Oh, fine then. You may continue.”

  “You,” she said, stabbing her quill at the air, eyes still fixed on the parchment, “could test a Companion’s patience.”

  “And often do.”

  Lelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She took a big gulp of ale, then a deep breath, and squared her shoulders.

  “So,” she said, scribbling once more. “There I was. Halfway to the middle of north nowhere, freezing my delicate Bardly bits off.”

  Lelia’s teeth would not stop chattering. She had tried clenching them to make it stop, but that only made her feel like her teeth were going to crack from the strain.

  I don’t remember the north being this cold when I was younger, she thought as she trudged forward. Mid-morning had started out warm, the snow melting a little, but by afternoon the temperature had plummeted, freezing what had thawed. Irregular gusts howled out of Sorrows to the north. Sunset threatened, casting hues of apricot and blush across the road.

  “Sweet Kernos,” she muttered into her scarf, “I’m too young and precious to die.” Every breath she took tasted of greasy wool and the cold egg and onion pie she’d eaten for breakfast.

  “I’m sure your overall adorableness is an important deciding factor for Lord Death,” a sweet voice said.

  Lelia glanced in the direction of the speaker, and felt only a distant and winter-numbed surprise at seeing her best friend from the Collegium walking beside her, dressed out in the lightest summer Scarlets.

  “Oh, hey, Maresa,” Lelia said. “Out for a stroll?”

  Maresa snorted.

  “I know. You’re not really here.” Lelia returned to focusing on trudging through the snow.

  “Ah, but maybe I am?”

  The voice had changed, and when Lelia looked again, it was her brother Lyle—more appropriately dressed in leather Whites—forging down the road with her.

  “Really doubtful,” she replied to her figment, “but nice try. Still, I know you wouldn’t go anywhere without your horse.”

  Her twin smiled at her, that heartbreaking, guileless smile that made her want to beat him over the head with a gittern and tell him to be more careful, dammit. He was safely out of gittern range, however, riding the Exile’s Road on the tail end of his first circuit with his mentor, Herald Wil.

  “Oh, I could really be here,” Lyle said. “You’ve read enough stories. You know that strange things regularly transpire between twins.” The vision blurred, and he became a shade taller, his features sharper and his gray eyes less trusting. The Whites stayed the same. In his place was—

  Lelia stopped, her narrative stalled.

  “What?” the Herald asked.

  “I am debating whether this bit is relevant,” she replied. “I was definitely hallucinating. My brother. Maresa . . .”

  You. She toyed with the pendant around her neck.

  “Too much time alone,” he said sagely.

  “That, and I was half-starved, I couldn’t feel my extremities, and I’d been walking for candlemarks in the wind. My head had all sorts of reasons for dipping me into a vat of crazy.”

  Her hand trembled with the name it was still poised to write—then she set the paper aside and reached for a clean sheet.

  “Might be relevant,” she muttered to herself. “Might not. I’ll know later.”

  She picked up the story a little further down the road.

  “Lelia, you need a warmer jacket, and you should eat more.” The hallucination had kindly returned to being her brother, his lips curved in a beatific smile. “You can’t suffer for your work if you’re dead.”

  “You think about yourself!” she growled back. “I’m not the one hoofing it around Evendim Sector under the tutelage of the Herald most likely to smother a burning orphanage with his own body!”

  “Hickory,” Lyle replied.

  “What?” she said, whipping her head in his direction—but no, he really wasn’t there. There may have been twins born with bonds strong enough to let their minds touch across massive distances, but Lyle and Lelia’s was not one of them.

  This may all be delirium, but at least it’s a sensible delirium, she thought. The hallucination was right—it killed her to spend money on anything, but if she didn’t acquire a better jacket, it would just flat out kill her.

  She shut her eyes against the glowing white snow and breathed in deeply.

  A whiff of woodsmoke—hickory—caught her olfactor
y attention. Too real to be another waking dream. Squinting northward, she was pretty sure she could see a smudge of smoke against the horizon.

  Village. Fire. Inn? Hopefully. Someone to make me clothes? Maybe. Her mouth watered. Food.

  It took another half-candlemark for the promise of a village to resolve into something other than woods-moke and hope. It was not unlike many in this region: slate-roofed, large enough to sport a palisade, and with a central building in the square that was most certainly an inn.

  She’d have wept for joy, if not for the fact that she was pretty sure her tears would have frozen on her cheeks.

  “That’s how you wound up in Langenfield,” the Herald said.

  “I was aiming for Waymeet.”

  Stony silence.

  She sighed. “I know. I missed by a few miles.”

  A polite cough.

  “Okay, I missed by a lot.” She took a long draught of ale. “Doesn’t matter. The ultimate goal is to get to Sorrows.”

  “About that. Why?”

  She shrugged. “One of my teachers at the Collegium always drilled into me to live Valdemar. Go to the battle sites, the weird forests, smell the smoke in the resin down at Burning Pines. I wanted to do that.”

  She turned her mug. It was only one side of the jewel of truth. Just enough to convince an inquisitive Herald.

  “And, as always, I wanted a song,” she added, flashing another facet.

  “Oh?”

  “Found it, even.” She grimaced. “I just didn’t know it when I first met her.”

  Lelia staggered into the inn, and the middle of an argument.

  “You ain’t listening!” a tall, powerfully built young man was saying to a petite blonde woman with greasy hair, tunic, and trews. He wasn’t quite yelling, but it was clear he was building up to that point. “There’re no bones on my hearth and none in my scrap pile!”

  The girl flushed. “You were cooking a ham just last night—”