Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 5

Sosha paused at the side of the road, drew the back of her hand across her brow to wipe away midday sweat. Her horse snorted and shook its head, tail swishing at flies. The summer day promised more heat and, from the closeness of the afternoon, hinted at an evening thunderstorm. She looked to her left at the fields that stretched off to the distance but could no longer see those her late husband had worked, which his family had possessed for generations. With Zaltos dead these five years, and only his aged parents living, it had fallen to her to keep the farm from being sold. The Goddess had refused—unreasonably, as far as Sosha was concerned—to grant Zaltos children to secure the future of his land. And so, with no one in the family but Mama Datasa, Papa Lorndo, and herself, they had made the difficult decision to rent the farmland to another family.

  She grimaced, remembering the arguments that had followed her husband’s death from a terrible accident. From the very beginning, his parents had berated her ... as if she could become pregnant simply by wishing it. To their minds, their beloved son and only child could hardly have been at fault. Zaltos had time and again assured her he thought otherwise. Brimming with simple faith, he believed the Goddess would answer their prayers in her own time. Time, Sosha thought ... time that had not been granted to Zaltos. Or to her.

  She squared her shoulders and lifted the reins, the village of Sweetwater not that far away. Her own parents had perished in a winter fever three years past and had left her with a modest house on the edge of the village. It was to this house she had brought Zaltos’s parents after it became glaringly apparent they would have to rent out their land or lose it. So now she lived in the village, her dead husband’s cantankerous parents her only company. She had a garden where she raised greens, an equally unimposing barn, and a small henhouse that sheltered a fair-sized flock of chickens. Today, she was returning from collecting rent that Ghanos paid her every month, money she would use to purchase bread, grain, meat, and milk for the household.

  A low groan startled her out of her thoughts. She halted her horse and listened. There it was again. She caught her breath and looked around, seeing nothing but the high grass by the roadside. A shiver ran down her spine. She was all too familiar with that sound: it could only be made by a human ... a human in pain. Sosha reined her horse off the road, half afraid of what she would find. She could hardly continue on. The tenets of the Sun Lord forbade humankind to ignore anyone in need.

  As she pushed into the tall grass, her horse suddenly shied, and she grabbed at the saddle to keep from falling. Nearly beneath her horse’s hooves she saw an injured man. God and Goddess! Dried blood covered the side of his head, and he lay sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung to his left side and the other reaching for—her eyes widened. Half hidden in the grass, a sword dully reflected the sunlight.

  Sosha shivered again, only this time glancing around in near panic. A sword! No one in Sweetwater carried swords. Knives they had in plenty, but the only swords folk in these parts ever saw hung at the sides of men who guarded traders from bandits or weapons carried by the occasional noble who happened to be passing through this area of Karse.

  She licked her lips, unsure for a moment what to do. Once again, she remembered the teachings she had received since childhood. She could not ignore this man’s plight. He was obviously in need of aid, more aid than she could provide. Somehow, she had to get him to the priest Beckor, who also served as village healer.

  Whispering a brief prayer to Vkandis Sunlord, she slipped from her saddle and slowly approached the man. Her skin tingled in apprehension; she was poised to retreat at the slightest hint of danger. Danger? She snorted inwardly. This fellow didn’t look as if he could harm anyone in his present condition. She stood only a few steps away, her mind racing. How was she to carry him to the village? He was a large man, broad shouldered. She could hardly lift him atop her horse, and he might not be able to walk. Swallowing her fear, she stooped, reached out, and gently touched his shoulder.

  He started at the touch, lurched to one elbow, his face turned in her direction. One very blue eye stared at her; the other was hidden by crusted blood. She jumped back at his sudden movement, gasping in surprise, but he made no move toward her, merely bowing his head and shaking it slowly as if to clear his thoughts.

  “Be you hurt bad?” she asked, proud her voice only trembled slightly.

  He shook his head again and then quickly reached out to where his sword lay. She backed away, now caught up in fear of what might happen next. His hand found the hilt of his sword, his fingers tracing down to the cross guards. Seemingly satisfied his weapon had not disappeared, he looked up at her again.

  “Where?” His voice was not what she suspected. It was deep, calm, and only slightly edged with a thinness she attributed to pain. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Sosha. I’ll try to get you help, but we be a ways from the village. Can you stand? Got a horse here, if you can ride.”

  He slowly rolled onto one side, drew up his knees, and tried to stand. She heard him cursing softly, obviously unsettled at his weakness.

  “Lord of Light,” he murmured, “I can’t see out of my left eye.”

  “Healer will take care of that,” Sosha observed, hoping she was right.

  He grunted something under his breath.

  “You lost a lot of blood,” she observed, still poised to run. The side of his green tunic was stained with it. She couldn’t tell if it was from his head wound, or whether he had another cut somewhere else. “You need a healer. Sooner the better.”

  “You’re right about that,” he muttered, lifting a hand and gingerly touching the cut on his forehead. He stared down at his fingers, which had come away sticky with blood. Suddenly, he glanced around, as if looking for something or someone. “Have you seen any strangers recently?”

  She thought back. “Only been on the road a short while myself. Seen no one. Farmer passed a while back on a wagon, but nothing else.”

  “Two men,” he said, still unsteady on his feet. He felt his side, grimaced, and looked up and down the road. “Two very large and angry men.”

  “Ain’t seen anyone like that. Now, you be in need of help. Sweetwater be a short ride from here. Think you can make it to my horse?”

  “Sweetwater? That’s the name of your village?”

  “That be it.” A sense of frustration filled her. “You coming or not? Going to keep bleeding here by the side of the road?”

  He managed to look slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. You’re only trying to help. I think I can ride. But what about you?”

  “You ain’t in a race,” she said. “I’ll walk beside.” He reached down and picked up his sword, tottering for a moment as if on the verge of falling. Sheathing the weapon with an unsteady hand, he once again touched his forehead, flinching in pain.

  Trusting he had no thoughts of harming her, she turned to her horse and led the animal close. The man slowly followed, still a bit unstable on his feet. Her horse backed up, the scent of blood disturbing it, but she had the reins firmly in hand.

  “Stirrups too short for your long legs,” Sosha said. “Want me to let them out?”

  He shook his head, winced at the motion. “I’ll be all right.” He grasped the saddle and slowly pulled himself astride.

  She shrugged, turned, and led the horse back to the road. The sun beat down on her head, and she could taste the salty sweat on her upper lip. After he seemed to be settled firmly in the saddle, they started toward the village at a slow walk.

  He kept silent as they went, and she echoed his silence. Once, glancing over her shoulder to be certain he still sat upright, she caught him looking back at the road and then around, as if uncertain of his safety. She gnawed on her lower lip. Who was he? Where had he come from? And who were the two very large and angry men he had mentioned? She had seen no horse nearby and doubted he had walked this far out into the countryside from Vkandis only knew where.

  One fact was certain: he did not hail from this area. He spoke in a cultured
accent, and his clothing was far too fine to be owned by any of the villagers she knew. His boots were made of soft leather, the scabbard and his sword belt decorated in what might be silver. Even so, he did not seem to be of noble blood. Perhaps a retainer of some highborn house.

  She sighed quietly. He held to his silence, and she was hesitant to pose any questions. Those could be raised by Beckor, for she had decided this man needed help that only the priest could provide.

  Noon prayers to the Sunlord finished, Beckor stood next to his chapel at the center of Sweetwater. The village dozed now under the summer sun. The smithy was quiet; a low murmur of voices drifted out from the tavern. It was a peaceful time; the midday meal had passed, leaving a short period of rest before afternoon labor resumed. Not a soul stirred. He contemplated weeding his small garden but discarded the notion. Sunlight poured down out of a cloudless sky, the air beginning to thicken as if before a storm. Weeding could wait, at least until the day grew cooler.

  Movement down the road that ran directly through the village caught his attention. Shading his eyes, he stared in surprise. What in the God’s green earth was Sosha doing with a stranger riding her horse? A sudden burst of light filled his vision, and he started at what he saw: Sosha, a man on her horse, and a large golden cat padding alongside. He blinked, and the cat disappeared as if it had never existed. Beckor hurried toward Sosha, trying without success to make out the man’s identity. Her face lit up, and she increased her pace.

  “God’s greeting to you,” Beckor said, taking the reins from her. He looked up at the man, who now slumped forward in the saddle. The fellow stared down out of one eye, the other swollen and covered with dried blood. “Come with me. We need to get you out of this heat.”

  “Oh, sun-ray,” Sosha said, her face flushed and beaded with sweat. “Found him by a field south of here. Can you help him?”

  “I’ll try.” Beckor led the horse around to the side yard. He stopped by the door to his room at the back of the chapel. “Sunlord bless you,” he said to the man. “Are you able to walk?”

  The man nodded and, moving deliberately, slowly dismounted. He caught himself, his knees threatening to buckle.

  “God above,” Beckor breathed, reaching out to brush the black hair away from the man’s left eye. “Who did this to you?”

  The man remained silent. Beckor put an arm around the fellow’s shoulder and led him to a shady spot beneath a tree. “Sosha, get some water. And there are clean rags and a jar of poultice in the top drawer of the chest in my room.”

  She nodded and hurried off. Beckor helped the man sit, straightened, and glanced up at the sky. Who this man was, what he was doing so far from his usual haunts ... all those questions could be answered at a later time. Now, the most important task ahead was to treat his wound. Vkandis would provide guidance beyond that.

  Sosha sat in the afternoon shade, staring at the stranger, who had finished a small meal she had provided from Beckor’s store. The blood cleaned from his face, medicine liberally applied, and a strip of clean cloth tied around his forehead, he looked in far better shape than when she had first seen him. The cut over his left eye proved not as deep as she had feared, but head wounds always bled heavily. His eye and the side of his face were swollen but, after careful inspection, Beckor had announced clear vision would return in a few days. The blood down his side had originated from his head wound, though deep purple bruises showed he had suffered more than one hard blow.

  There was something about this man. She could hardly keep from gazing at him. He still kept silent, having said no more than ten words since arriving in Sweetwater. And yet, she felt oddly comfortable around him now, with Beckor close by.

  The priest sat in the grass as the man drained the last of the water from his cup. Sosha waited patiently for Beckor to ask the questions that filled her mind.

  “You have Sosha here to thank for bringing you to me,” the priest said. “Now, I think it’s time you tell us about yourself. Your name would be helpful.”

  The man looked from Beckor to Sosha and back. “Torgon. My name’s Torgon. I’m from Sunhame. If I tell you more, I could be placing you at risk.”

  Sunhame? Sosha straightened at that piece of information. Sunhame lay over four days’ walk from Sweetwater. What was he doing this far from home? And what risk did he pose?

  “That tells me little,” Beckor said, “aside from your name. Why would you be placing us at risk? Who have you angered enough to ride you down this far away from Sunhame?”

  Torgon’s mouth tightened.

  “It’s ours to decide whether we’ll take a risk by helping you.” Beckor cocked his head and held his gaze steady. Sosha looked from the priest to the man named Torgon, her heart doing an absurd quick beat. Beckor reached out and touched the man’s knee. “Tell us. Perhaps we can help.”

  Torgon barked a short laugh. “Against the two who ambushed me? Unless you have some bully boys or men-at-arms hidden in this village, you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you could guess.”

  Insulted, Sosha drew her head back. “We be not defenseless here,” she said. “Lot of our menfolk be big and sometimes mighty mean.”

  Beckor laughed quietly. “She’s right about that. Get a few of them in their cups, and you’ll behold a sight or two. Who are these men?”

  Torgon spread his hands apart, as if giving in. “All right. The risk is yours. I am, or was, a retainer to Lord Jhasko. He’s a merchant with a heart cold as winter who bought his way to a title. I also served as his bodyguard and messenger.” He glanced around as if he feared other ears could hear. “I doubt there’s a shady deal made under the Sunlord’s eye he hasn’t taken to a level that only the lowest of men would contemplate. I was privy to his secrets, don’t you see. And the last secret I had knowledge of was the worst. Jhasko’s greed for gold had corrupted him past the point I could tolerate. And, trust me, I’d tolerated a good lot before. This time, he wanted me to murder his chief rival.”

  Sosha lifted a hand and covered her mouth. Murder? Sunlord protect them all! There might be rare outbursts of violence in Sweetwater, but those usually resulted from too much ale or downright jealousy. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ended up badly hurt. And, as far as she knew, no one in recent memory had ever contemplated cold-blooded murder.

  “Rest assured,” Torgon said, “I may have cooperated in some less-than-honorable deeds at Jhasko’s orders in the past, but murder ...” His face hardened. “I refused. It wasn’t the response Jhasko expected. He ordered me a second time, and again I refused.”

  Something cold unwrapped itself from Sosha’s heart. This man was no murderer. She bent her head, stared at her hands crossed in her lap, then looked up. “Be you serious? He asked you to kill someone just because they angered him?”

  Torgon snorted. “Angered him? It was less and more than that. His chief rival threatened to take business away from Jhasko. And that could not be tolerated. Jhasko had tried different schemes to undermine this rival, but they hadn’t worked. As far as he could see, the only remedy was to remove the rival and bring down the competing house.”

  “Ain’t right!” Sosha murmured. “Vkandis Sunlord don’t take kindly to murder.”

  “And?” Beckor prompted.

  “And he dismissed me from his service. Told me to be gone from Sunhame before dawn of the following day.” Torgon drew a deep breath. “I’d not only lost my livelihood but doomed myself. I knew too much. I’d participated in deeds that could have imprisoned me for years. My only thought was to gather what belongings I could take and leave Sunhame as quickly as possible. Of course,” he added, “Jhasko couldn’t let it go at that. He’d have me chased down and killed. He feared I’d tell those in power what he’d done in the past.”

  Sosha glanced at Beckor and saw a change of expression cross his face. “Then those men you told of—”

  “Assassins,” Torgon said, glancing her way. “Professional killers. They followed me out of Sunham
e. I thought I had enough of a lead on them, that I’d disguised my trail well enough. Obviously, I was wrong. They caught up to me by a field and left me as you, Sosha, found me.” He grinned slightly. “However, one of them now goes with a sword stroke to his right leg, though unfortunately not enough to cripple him.”

  Sosha looked up at the sky, darkening now with approaching clouds. “Where be these men now?”

  “Vkandis only knows. With luck, they’ll believe they killed me. I think what saved my life was six or seven men coming down the road. They looked like farmers or hired hands. Even two assassins wouldn’t want to chance their luck against that many burly fellows armed with the God only knows what.”

  A cold shiver ran down Sosha’s spine. “Be they still ’round here?”

  Torgon shrugged. “Likely,” he admitted.

  Sosha looked to Beckor, hoping he would relieve her fears with a few words of comfort.

  “Now I see,” the priest said softly, dashing those hopes, “why you warned us of the risk we take in helping you.” He straightened, set his shoulders, and smiled briefly. “Well, what’s done is done. There are places we can hide you until the danger passes.”

  “They’ll go looking for my body,” Torgon objected. “If they want to be hired by Jhasko again, they can’t return to Sunhame without some proof they killed me.”

  Beckor nodded. “Then we’ll give them proof you died.”

  “But that be lying!” Sosha exclaimed.

  “There are worse things than lying in the Sunlord’s sight. Murder and attempted murder offend him far more than a lie spoken to protect another person from death.”

  The following morning, Zaltos’s parents still asleep and her attendance at the rising sun celebration over, Sosha gathered up grain for her chickens. The sun rose in a sky rinsed clear by nighttime rain. She opened the door to the henhouse and slipped inside, greeted by happy clucking and rustling of feathers. Scattering the feed, she picked up her wooden pail, shut the door, and eased inside the barn. Her horse lifted its head and nickered softly from its stall.