Jors grinned. He had other nights like last night to look forward to and days of cheerful conversations combined with an enthusiastic welcome to whatever the road ahead might bring, and a high-energy approach to life that definitely got results since a village-wide party turned out to solve a petition about a disputed pig.
His grin faded as a muscle twinged in his back.
“Havens,” he sighed, as he realized what the next few months would bring, “I’m too old for this.”
Gervais’ weight was suddenly no longer a comforting presence at his back but rather a short, sharp shove.
The water in the pond was as cold as it looked.
WAR CRY
by Michael Longcor
Michael Longcor is a writer and singer-songwriter from Indiana who wrote a dozen songs for the Mercedes Lackey album,
Owlflight,
released by Firebird Arts & Music. He’s also had stories appear in the Mercedes Lackey anthologies
Sun In Glory
and
Bedlam’s Edge
. Here, he tells the tale of a young Valdemaran soldier with a dangerous problem facing his first big battle and the bloody, final clash of the Tedrel Wars.
RURY Tellar pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders and stared into the yellow heart of the campfire. The blanket and the Valdemaran Guard surcoat were enough to keep off the night’s cool, but still he shivered. His throbbing head didn’t dim the whispering feelings crowding in; feelings of doubt, fear, hope, despair, cheer, loneliness and sadness—the massed feelings of an army camped close on the eve of battle.
It had started three weeks ago, soon after his seventeenth birthday and the call for the Oakdell village militia to march off and join the main army. The intruding feelings were very faint at first, like the not-quite-words heard late at night in the settling of an old house. They’d grown steadily stronger and now they constantly jostled his thoughts. His head ached with the pressure of other people cramming in. Sometimes he felt like his brain was the anvil from the blacksmith shop where he’d apprenticed, with strangers’ feelings hammering and ringing on it like the smith’s sledge.
Around him were the night sounds of an army encamped. Thousands of soldiers shifted in sleep, muttered in dreams, coughed, or whispered curses. The air smelled strongly of campfire smoke and more faintly of horse dung. Ten paces away, Aed snored in the tent alongside Milo and Snipe. Rury would likely have to nudge space to lie down between them when he finally turned in.
They’d been in the big camp for two days, waiting for the Tedrel army to come over the border. Somehow the brass hats knew the Tedrels would cross near here, and there would be plenty of them. Camp gossip said this would be the last battle of the Tedrel Wars, one way or another.
Rury was tired, but trying to sleep made it easier for the feelings of others to crowd in. It was better, a little, to sit and stare at the dying fire until his eyelids drooped and his head nodded.
At first he’d mentioned the headaches to the others, but stopped because his comrades might think he was shirking, or crazy, or worse, scared. He was scared. He’d do his best, though, no matter how afraid he felt. But he could feel when people around him were afraid, and their feelings ran through him, adding to his own fears.
It didn’t help to know the rest of the unit was scared, too, except for maybe Sergeant Krandal. They were all young and scared and afraid to let it show, afraid of looking like cowards. Last night Princess Selenay herself had briefly visited the company campfire, shadowed by her bodyguard. She was young and lovely, and seemed brave and genuinely interested in them. Rury knew, even if the others didn’t, that she was afraid of what was coming, too, no matter how brave her words.
“Trouble sleeping again, Tellar?” Rury jumped as Sergeant Krandal stepped into the firelight. It glinted on the silver-gray in his close-trimmed beard and the white horse of the Valdemaran arms on his blue surcoat. He was no taller than Rury, but built square and solid, where Rury was lean young muscle.
“Uh, just thought I’d get a little quiet time, Sarge.” Rury shrugged. “Aed’s snoring shakes the tent, and Snipe talks in his sleep.”
Krandal smiled and shook his head. “Still having trouble with the headaches?”
“Ah, they come and go,” said Rury. “Uh, maybe I better turn in anyway.” He got up and walked to the tent. “G’night, Sarge.”
“Good night, soldier.” Sergeant Krandal said softly. He was concerned, and not for the boy’s health. Mit Krandal had seen twenty-eight years of Guard service and thousands of young soldiers before his retirement to Oakdell two years ago. Rury Tellar was a good kid; well-liked, big and strong, with good fighting moves and the makings of a fine soldier. Krandal knew all the symptoms of a youngster facing his first fight, but Tellar’s problem seemed more complicated and serious than that. He banked the fire and started walking. Instead of heading for his own tent, he steered toward the fires of the command tents a hilltop away. It was time to call in some help.
Even this late, the tents of the Communications and Intelligence sections bustled with candle-lit activity. Couriers came and went with the less pressing reports and orders. Urgent dispatches were sent off by the few Heralds who could make objects disappear, then reappear elsewhere. Others pored over big maps, keeping track of units, supplies, and numbers. They waded through seas of unrelated information, assembling tiny bits into bigger bits, and fitting it all into a hazy, incomplete picture of how things were.
Herald Erek Ranwellen pushed aside the reports scattered about his folding camp table, brushed away a stray lock of light-brown hair, and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. He felt ages older than his twenty-six years. His white leathers were mostly clean, but he longed for a bath and change of clothes. He should have turned in an hour ago like his Companion, Deanara.
He looked up at the sound of nervous throat-clearing to see a door sentry at attention before him.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Herald,” said the soldier. “But there’s a sergeant from the Pikes outside wantin’ to see you.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, sir. He just said to say you still owe him for turning a whiny little rich boy into a passable good soldier.” The sentry’s mouth barely twitched. “His words, sir, not mine.”
Erek’s eyes widened. He smiled broadly, to the sentry’s wonder.
“Sergeant Krandal?” said Erek. “ ‘Iron Mit’ Krandal’s outside? Send him in, man, send him in!”
Sergeant Krandal’s snap to attention and salute were parade-ground perfect, as was Erek’s response. The grins and strong handshake that followed were less than regulation.
“Sergeant Krandal! I’ll never get used to you saluting me.”
“Aye, Erek . . . er, Herald.” Sergeant Krandal’s eyes twinkled. “Who’d have thought the company’s biggest slacker would be chosen as a Herald. You even turned out a good soldier.”
“Thanks to you, Sergeant.”
“Maybe,” said Krandal with a crooked grin. “A few hundred laps around the parade ground in full kit didn’t hurt either.”
“How is your lady wife?” asked Erek.
A shadow of pain crossed Sergeant Krandal’s face.
“There was a fever, two winters past. She . . .” He looked away and waved weakly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No way you would have. Anyway, I’m not here socially.”
“What is it?”
“I need a favor.”