Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (15 page)

The Companion nickered.

“Didn't think so,” Santar mumbled. He returned his gaze to the cave, seeing only as far as the moonlight could penetrate. It did not show him much. “Let me gather some weeds or pebbles, first. Something to drop and follow back out.”

The Companion shook his head wildly, silver mane flying.

A stranger's voice touched Santar's mind then: :I
will guide you.:

Startled, Santar whirled. “Who? Who . . . ?”

The Herald.
Santar had heard that Heralds had unusual powers, but it still took him inordinately long to figure out the obvious. “Can you hear me as well?”

No response. The voice gained a touch of urgency.
:Please come. Quickly.:

“I'm coming,” Santar promised. If this Herald was like those he had met, he would maintain grace under pressure, which meant he probably needed help a lot more than he would admit. Santar secretly wondered if he could do anything worthwhile to assist. He did have a way with horses and their wounds, but he had never tried his skills on humans. Nevertheless, he plunged into the cave.

The leathery flap of wings filled Santar's hearing, and the air became pungent with guano. A clotted mass of bats hurtled from the cave, wings beating furiously. Startled, Santar dropped to the floor, ears filled with the smack and cut of their wild flight. Silence followed, eerie with menace. Though glad the bats had gone, Santar could not help filling the intensity of the quiet darkness with unseen demons.

:Take your first left,:
the voice ordered.

Shocked from his own thoughts, Santar obeyed gratefully. He hoped the Herald would stay with him in spirit. He felt so much braver with a companion, even a disembodied, faceless one.
:All right.:
Santar concentrated on the thought, though the other gave no indication he received the message.

Santar veered leftward, keeping a hand lightly against each damp, musty wall. Better to glide his fingers through something disgusting than to risk losing his way.

Santar obeyed, passing up both opportunities to turn.

Santar did as the other suggested, still scraping the stone with his fingers. Though worried to interrupt the concentration of the one he sought, he tried tentatively,
:Can you understand me, too?:

:Yes,:
the other sent.
:Go right again.:

Santar did so.
:My name is Santar.:

Orrin was not kidding. Santar found himself suddenly entering a narrowing that seemed impassable. If he became wedged, they would both die in the dark, dank interior.
:Orrin, I can't fit.:

Santar had to keep reminding himself that he spoke with a Herald, one who desperately needed his help for survival. The idea that he might become stuck fast grew into obsession. Santar realized he alone could make that judgment; the Herald could not know the size of the man who had come for him.
:I can't make it, Orrin. I'm sorry.:

:Do what you must.:
Simple words, brave words, from one who had just condemned himself to death.

Santar knew he had to try. He could not banish his fear, but he could choose to ignore it. He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out fully, tightening his muscles and huddling into the smallest area he could manage. Then, he forced himself into the opening.

The rock crushed in on him, tearing furrows of skin from his chest and arms. He closed his eyes, trying to trick his senses into believing this deliberate act was the source of the darkness. He felt pinched, squeezed in all directions. Crushed empty, his lungs spasmed, seeking air. Panic trickled through him, sending his wits scattering. He forced himself onward, gathering his thoughts and binding them together into one solid goal—the rescue of a stranger for whom he had already risked so much.

Then, suddenly, the pressure disappeared. Santar popped into a cavern that seemed enormous after the constriction that had nearly held him fast.
:I'm coming,:
he sent.
:You were right. I made it through.:
His tunic had torn and now hung in two rags from his shoulders. Though irritating, he did not remove them. He might need the fabric to cushion some other movement or to use as bandages. For a moment he wondered how he would get back, especially towing another man. He brushed the thought side. First, he had to find that injured Herald.

When Orrin made no reply, Santar forced conversation. He had once seen a Healer do the same thing, keep his patient talking to assure he did not lose consciousness. Obliged to respond, the wounded man had had little choice but to attend the questions, no matter how silly or obvious the answers, which kept his mind working, awake, and focused.
:Your Companion brought me here.:

The Herald did not seem impressed.
:I'd guessed that. Next right, please.:

Undeterred, Santar continued.
:A remarkably handsome creature, in addition to being loyal and intelligent.:

:Best there is.:
Orrin's voice itself seemed to smile, distracted from the pain.
:I'm very lucky.:

:What's his name?:
Santar took the indicated right and suddenly found himself bathed in moonlight. Though still night, the contrast with the depthless cave interior seemed blinding. He blinked several times, gradually taking in the spray of stars across the bluegray sky, the skeletal hulks of trees waving in the wind, and the snarl of weeds and bushes that defined the Tangled Forest.

The Companion lifted his head and looked worriedly in Santar's direction.

“Oh, no!” Filled with a tense mixture of alarm and despair, Santar dropped to a crouch.
:I messed up. I lost you.:
Santar whirled, rushing back into the cave.
:I've gone in a circle. I'm sorry. You'll have to start over.:

Santar froze.
:Orrin. But that's your—:
Shoulders drawn up to his ears, he turned slowly to confront the stallion.
:You?:

The horse nodded.
:Yes.:

Santar could only stare incredulously. “Why?”

:Why?:
Even as he asked the question, Santar understood the answer.
:Your Herald—:

:My Herald,:
Orrin repeated, then added,
:is you. I Choose you.:

“Me?” The reply was startled from Santar.
:Me.:
he repeated internally.
:Herald Santar?:
He shook his head to awaken himself from what had to be a dream, then looked into the blue eyes of the very real, dazzingly gorgeous white stallion in front of him. He had aspired to owning a horse half this fine, and now he had a Companion as a lifelong friend, so much more than a possession or a mount.

“Thank you,” Santar breathed. “Thank you for Choosing me.”

Orrin lunged like a striking snake, caught Santar's britches, and hurled him into the air. Santar barely managed to twist before he found himself, once again, unceremoniously dumped, belly first, astride the Companion.
:Come on,:
the horse sent.
:Let's go home.:
Turning toward Valdemar, he trotted into the forest.

Mounted on “the best there is,” Santar scrambled onto the stallion's withers and forgot to worry about demons.

Toward the end of the second day of struggling her way through the forest, Marra was certain she was being followed.

The question was, by what?

Marra was not exactly young anymore, not exactly slim and heroic in shape or manner. Just an ordinary woman, she thought wearily, not anyone to be followed by, well, whatever. A four-legged predator would already have tried an attack, and a two-legged one, the bandit sort, would have had no reason not to have done the same. As for Lord Darick's men . . .

Marra bit her lip. That was done and over. She was the last survivor of what had been a peaceful village, and if she hadn't collapsed after burying . . . what she could . . . she wasn't going to break down now. She couldn't afford to collapse. Someone had to deliver the story of that unprovoked raid to whatever authorities she could reach, even if it did mean pushing on through she had no idea how much wilderness.

Marra was doing her best to keep heading in the right direction. If she could only reach the shore of Lake Evandim, she could, hopefully, follow it along to civilization, or at least a real road. At least, Marra thought, she knew woodcraft and could forage for food easily enough. And at least Darick had had the . . . good taste to attack in warmer weather, so she didn't have to worry about freezing to death.

Damn him. Damn him and his men and his idea of—of burning down a village over an accidental insult—ha, no, he burned it down for
fun!

For a minute she had a flash of imagined satisfaction, seeing white-clad Heralds declaring Darick's guilt, hearing him proclaimed a criminal and punished as a murderer. . . .

Might as well imagine herself a Herald while she was at it, with one of those snowy-bright Companions, or maybe—

Marra whirled, hands clenched on the branch she was using for a walking staff. “All right, whoever you are, I know you're there. So stop being childish and either step forward where I can see you, or get the hell away from me!”

She waited, heart pounding. The forest had gone utterly still, shocked into silence by her shout.

Then a male voice, low but so musical it gave her a little shiver of delight said, “Your pardon. I shall bother you no longer.”

“Who—what—”

No answer. Marra waited, but whoever had been following her really must be gone now, because the birds were resuming their cheerful noise. Warily, wondering, Marra moved on.

But night fell swiftly in the forest, and even though a glance upward told her that the sky was still bright with sunlight, down here it was already twilight. She'd better start thinking about stopping for the night.

Another glance upward, and Marra froze, wonderstruck. Far overhead, two gryphons were sporting in the air, so high in the dazzling blue that they looked small as birds. The sunlight glinted off their golden coats and wings, and for a moment more, she stood motionless, holding her breath.

Then they were gone, soaring down the wind, and with a sigh, she began hunting for a place to camp till morning. It really was growing dark, and in a hurry, too—

Suddenly, a . . . thing was on her with a roar, hurling her to the ground under a mass of dark fur. Fangs glinted, and Marra, gasping, managed to get the staff up in time to have them clash together on the branch, splintering it, as she struggled to get free before sharp talons could rake her or—

Suddenly the thing roared again, in pain this time, and the suffocating weight was gone from her. Marra caught a glimpse of a man—no, not a man, not with those curling horns, or those clawed hands. But whatever he as, he was fighting the creature, saving her, and Marra looked wildly about for some way to help him. Pebbles, twigs, nothing like a good solid rock.

She grabbed the largest branch she could find, and whaled the creature over the head with it. The branch broke, and the thing whirled to her, snarling. Marra thought wildly,
Wonderful, now it's
really
mad!

But she'd given the—the man the chance he needed. He had other weapons than claws, evidently, because a blade glinted, then stopped glinting, red with the thing's blood. The creature lunged, the man—whatever he was—cried out in pain—

Then the creature fell, twitching, and then lay still. Over the crumpled mound of dark fur, eyes golden as a gryphon's stared at her for an instant.

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.