Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

Tomar smiled. He looked ahead at the large stand of trees, just about where he remembered it from his earlier days in Karse. The light was fading fast, and the sooner he and Keesha found a place to camp, the better he would feel. He had seen no one on his journey through the borderlands thus far, only a remote farm or two. Aside from that, he imagined they would encounter few people. He still felt it a bit risky to be riding as a Herald into a country that had been an enemy for so long, despite all the reforms of the Son of the Sun.

And yet, given the choice of venturing into his native land disguised and riding a horse of no distinction, he had been unwilling to leave Keesha behind. Oh, Keesha could ghost after him, but the physical closeness of Companion and rider was one thing Tomar did not want to lose.

:Nor do I,: Keesha said. :It would have been lonely without you on my back.:

The warmth of their bond filled Tomar’s heart with joy. How could anyone be more fortunate than to have been Chosen by such a being as Keesha? Wise—so very, very wise—elder partner in all he did, she filled an inner space he had not realized lay empty.

Reaching the edge of the trees, he rode a bit to his left, then cautiously urged Keesha forward down the trail he found. The light was getting chancy enough that he did not want to risk a fall on uneven ground. It grew darker under the trees, and he radiated his concern to his Companion.

:Do you think—:

:Chosen!: Keesha’s Mindspeech was suddenly urgent. :Horses ahead. We need to get out of this place. This could be very bad for us!:

Tomar came alert in an instant. He reined Keesha around. :Where?:

Keesha screamed.

It was a scream of both a horse and the mental cry of a Companion. Tomar grabbed for the saddle as Keesha reared. A heavy weight tore him from her back. He landed hard on the ground, partially smothered by two large men who pinned him down. His last view of Keesha was of his Companion racing off toward the edge of the grove. He heard the thrum of an arrow being released as a searing blow of pain ripped across his consciousness.

Blackness filled his mind.

Doron stared at the bound Herald who lay unconscious by the fire. Vomehl had returned, his head hanging and a sour look on his face. He’d loosed several arrows, but he knew he’d hit the hell-horse only once.

Hell-horse. Doron grimaced. The Son of the Sun had said there were no hell-horses, no demon-riders. Most everyone in Karse would be slow to change long-standing beliefs about the Heralds of Valdemar and their unnatural mounts. But change they must, because it was the will of Vkandis, spoken through the Son of the Sun.

Ferrin sat next to the Herald, a calculating expression in his dark eyes. Chardo and Jergen had passed out waybread, and everyone had settled down to eat. Doron kept glancing at the Herald. There was something familiar about the man, but Doron couldn’t place it. Chewing the last bit of waybread, he washed it down with a cup of water from the stream. Damn! What was it? Why was this Herald so familiar?

“What you goin’ t’do with ‘im?” Vomehl asked.

“What d’you think?” Ferrin answered. “Ransom ’im. ’Magine his folk will pay a pretty price to get ’im back again.”

Doron wiped his nose to keep his expression hidden. Oh, yes. A pretty price. And just who could they find who’d negotiate that?

The Herald groaned slightly and stirred as best he could, bound as he was with stout ropes. Ferrin leaned over, grasped the man by his hair, and lifted his face to the firelight.

“What you be doin’ here?” he demanded.

“Think he understands you?” asked Jergen.

“Don’t know,” Ferrin growled, throwing an icy look in Jergen’s direction. “Maybe.”

“And maybe not.”

Ferrin hissed something under his breath and let the Herald’s head fall back. But in that short time, Doron suddenly realized why the Herald seemed so familiar. It was his face, the set of his eyes, his chin, his cheek bones. Take away the passage of time that changed the features of anyone who survived childhood and what was left? He could swear he’d seen this man before, years back, when both of them were young.

When he’d escaped the Fires himself because his own witch-powers hadn’t grown strong enough for the priests to notice.

The small birthmark over the Herald’s right eye convinced him.

Vkandis protect! This man was his cousin!

Tomar opened his eyes and winced in pain from the blow to the back of his head. Firelight flickered across the features of those who had ambushed him. Sitting directly next to him was a big man whose face was unforgiving as a slab of rock. The other men were of all sorts: tall, short, light-haired and dark. One and all, they went clad in rough-spun clothes, their boots scuffed and worn, but their weapons were clean and appeared well cared for.