Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (19 page)

“Compliments of the commander,” she said. “Now, to us, eh? For years of loyal service, every one of us, and to Jem and Karl. They'd have been proud of the job we did on their boy whatever happens in the mornin'.” She took a deep drink, then passed it to Ernie.

“To duty. Harn?”

“To Ander Harrow. Phen?”

The younger man smiled. “To mountain cats, and to Companions.”

Finally the bottle passed to Andy. He held it cradled in his hands for a log time until Norma nudged him.

“C'mon, boy, finish the toast.”

Andy held the bottle up, feeling the liquid inside slosh about inside. “To Trance Tower Garrison,” he said thickly. “I never thought I'd . . .” he stopped, his jaw working, “I never thought I'd have to leave it, but if I do, I will.” He took an abrupt drink, then turned away so the others couldn't see his face.

“Good enough,” Ernie answered.

 

The next day dawned cool and damp. The cook doled out the last of the potatoes fried up with the last of the mutton, then the garrison lined up, weapons ready, facing the main gate. Commander Dravin sat on his horse before them, his swords drawn. He didn't speak, just cast his gaze across the faces of his soldiers as if memorizing their features, then nodded once. The sergeant-at-arms gave the order, the gate was flung open, and Trance Tower Garrison attacked.

The enemy was surprised, but not for long. It rallied quickly and then it was hand-to-hand combat on the northern plain.

Protected at the center of the Gray Squad, Andy moved as fast as he could for the foothills. Somewhere out there he knew the others were doing the same, ringed by a circle of swords and spears. They made three hundred yards, then four, then five, before by sheer weight of numbers the enemy penetrated their defenses. Harn was the first to fall. Then Phen. When Norma went down, Andy leaped forward, but a great ax-wielding man jumped between them and, with a scream, Andy closed with him. He never saw Ernie take the blow aimed for his back, but he heard him fall.

The battle raged unabated throughout the morning. Trance Tower had something to fight for now and they broke wave after wave of enemy troops sent against them. In the face of their ferocity, the enemy began to falter, and when a white flash entered the fray, kicking and slashing with hooves like silver lightning, they broke and ran.

The cry went up, “For the Herald!” as Commander Dravin led Trance Tower Garrison after them.

Two hundred yards from the foothills, Andy sank to his knees in relief.

 

It seemed like hours later than he managed to struggle to his feet and survey the damage though it was really only a few moments. Harn was dead, Ernie was dying, and Phen was so badly wounded that he probably wouldn't last the day, but what was probably worse, Tara and Mac lay together on the northernmost edge of the battlefield. They'd almost made it to the hills. Almost.

Breathing hard, Andy knelt beside Norma. Taking her hand in his, he squeezed her bloodied fingers until her eyelids fluttered open.

“Did we beat 'em?” she asked hoarsely.

He nodded, his gaze blurred by tears. “Yeah.”

“Then . . . what are you waitin' for? Git.”

“I can't leave you like this.”

“I'll mend. Takes more than the likes . . . of them to put an Anzie in her grave. I said, git.”

There was a whicker behind them and Andy turned slowly.

Twenty paces away the Companion stood, staring at him with its brilliant blue eyes. This close, it was dazzingly white in the sunlight and he could barely look at it without squinting. He moved forward.

The Companion and the Guardsman looked into each other's eyes for a long time, and then Andy's mouth quirked up.

“I told them it wasn't me,” he whispered, his tone a combination of relief and disappointment.

The Companion turned its attention away, sweeping its bight gaze over the battlefield, clearly searching, then turned back to stare into Andy's face once again.

He nodded his understanding. “Yes,” he said, laying one weary hand on its back. “I'll help you find that Herald of yours.”

 

They reached Garet Barns a few moments later. He was lying on his back, his eyes wide with shock, his hands pressed tight against his side. Blood seeped through his uniform tunic to pool darkly beneath him. His face was ashen, but when he looked up into the Companion's eyes, a bit of the color returned.

Andy shook his head. “Shoulda known.” He knelt. “C'mon, lemme see it.”

His gaze still locked on the Companion's eyes, Garet allowed the other youth to examine the wound.

“It's not terrible,” Andy pronounced after a minute. Taking off his own tunic, he used his knife to cut his shirt into strips, then bound up the wound. “All right, let's get you up. That lot won't keep runnin' all day.” Arms wrapped about the other's chest, he drew Garet to his feet. The Companion knelt and somehow Andy managed to get him onto its back. It stood carefully. Then, one hand holding the other youth by the belt, Andy nodded.

“Let's go.”

They made their way slowly across the battlefield, careful not to step on any of the wounded. Friend and foe alike watched them go in silence, and the ones that could, saluted as they passed.

 

They reached the south road without incident. Still shocky, Garet rode without speaking and, deep in his own thoughts, Andy hardly noticed his surroundings until a white blur flashed between them and a stand of pine trees. Looking up, Andy stared straight into a pair of brilliant sapphire eyes. The world fell away beneath the intensity of its gaze and all he could think to say was,“Oh. There were two of you.”

The second Companion whickered softly. After a few moments it nudged him gently. Then it nudged him harder.

The fist Companion pawed the ground and Garet stirred. “Andy? The garrison? We have to keep moving.”

“Right.”

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Andy carefully mounted up. They had miles to travel before he could pause to wonder at the sudden change in his life. They had to get to the capital, warn King Valdemar, and come back with an army to save what was left of Trance Tower, but suddenly it all seemed possible. Smiling down at . . . Lillia, he nodded.

“All right. I'm ready to go now.”

Together, they headed down the south road toward Haven.

Vess writhed in his bed, screaming.

His body was on fire—his body
was
fire—locked in the process of agonized immolation. He arched in pain and horror as his skin and bones melted—

And it was gone.

Vess sat up, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily. He was in a Waystation inside the village of Solmark. It was morning. He was not a woman dying alone in a forest; he was a Herald, here on business for the Crown.

That wasn't just a nightmare,
he thought.
That was—what the hells
was
that?

He was shaking as he dragged himself out of bed and dressed. He felt a curious emptiness within, as if someone had cracked open his chest and scooped out his insides.

As if a part of me just died,
he thought, unsure of where the thought came from.

He paused, momentarily disoriented by Kestric's voice in his mind.
:Yes?:

He nodded.
:I'm fine.:

:Something like one. I'll be okay. I need some air.:
He straightened his collar, brushing out the front.
:I need to do what I came here for.:
He sucked in a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders on exhale.

:I'm sure. I don't think it'll get better with more sleep.:
He rubbed the back of his neck.
:It's the damn Pelagirs. I never have good dreams, this close to them.:

Vess had no illusions of being the next Windrider—his Mage-Gift, in comparison to some of the other,
real
Herald-Mages, was pretty pitiful—but the sliver of active Mage-Gift he
did
have made him sensitive to local magic. It was more a bane than a boon—it was distinctly unpleasant to be able to simultaneously
see
magic and be completely helpless to affect it.

His other Gifts more than made up for where the supposedly superior Mage-Gift had failed him. He was one of the strongest Mindspeakers in the Heraldic Circle—strong enough to use it as a weapon. A touch of Empathy coupled with a noble upbringing had also made him a viable member of the King's inner circle.

Viable enough that, for the last six months, he'd effectively
been
the King's Own, sans the title, the senseless attacks on his reputation, and Jastev, the Grove-born stallion. He'd been in that uncomfortable, ill-defined position of King's closest adviser ever since the
real
King's Own, Nadja, had stopped being able to get out of bed in the mornings.

Vess shook his head, trying to disperse his brooding thoughts.
:I am,:
he said.
:I should stop.:
He opened the door, the cool hand of early dawn caressing his face.
:Want to come along with me on my walk?:

He felt a pleasant surge of affection from Kestric—the closest the Companion could come to a hug.
:As if you had to ask.:

The gate to the stockade was pushed up for the day, and in the light of the new morning Vess could see now why they'd needed to gather up five men last night to get it open. It was composed of entire tree trunks planed, caulked, and lashed together to form a formidable barrier that could be dropped at a moment's notice.

The Waystation was built inside the stockade—to put it outside amid the unpredictable dangers of the Pelagirs would have been suicide. Not to mention a constant hassle. Pelagir plants grew with preternatural quickness. The Waystation would have been overcome by greenery within a few short years.