Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

Torbin screamed, “Ossy!” again, and with both arms up and reaching for the Companion, he actually lay still long enough for Jors to tie off the last piece of rope.

:Chosen, that looks . . . :

“Yeah, I know. There must be a trick to it.” But as unusual as it looked, it seemed to be holding, so Jors lifted Torbin up into his arms, then tried not to drop him as one flailing foot caught him squarely in a delicate place.

Getting into the saddle while holding a squirming child away from further contact with that delicate—and bruised—place ranked right up there as one of the more difficult things Jors had ever accomplished.

Tucked securely between the Herald and the saddle horn, legs sticking straight out, Torbin bounced once and twisted around to look back behind them as Gervais moved out of the clearing.

Jors barely managed to catch him as he tried to fling himself from the saddle.

“Pa-Ah!”

Your papa is dead, but his last thought was of you, and I promised him I’d take you safely to your aunt, was a bit complex for a child of Torbin’s age. :What do I say to him?: Jors demanded holding the struggling child close, his ears ringing.

:He does not want to leave his father.:

:Yeah, I got that.:

:You cannot explain, you can only comfort.:

One hand rubbing small circles on Torbin’s back, the other hanging on for dear life, Jors murmured a steady stream of nonsense into the soft cap of tangled curls until Torbin reared back and, still screaming, slammed his forehead against Jors’ mouth.

:I don’t think this is working.: Jors admitted, leaning out to spit a mouthful of blood down onto the trail.

:Try a lullaby.:

:He’ll never hear me.:

:Not with his ears; he’ll hear you with his heart.:

After twenty-one repetitions of the only lullaby Jors knew, Torbin finally cried himself to sleep, his eyelashes tiny damp triangles against his flushed cheeks.

Jors sent up a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening that the exhausted child would sleep until they reached the settlement, and, as he stayed asleep while Gervais’ steady pace ate up the distance, Jors half thought his prayers might actually have been answered.

“What is that smell?” Head up, Jors turned his nose into the breeze which, weirdly, seemed to lessen the impact. “Okay, that’s strange.”

Torbin squirmed and giggled, nearly pitching forward as he reached out to grab a double handful of Gervais’ mane. The odor got distinctly stronger.

The Companion stopped walking. :I think,: he began but Jors cut him off.

“Yeah, I know.” The smear of yellow brown on the thigh of his Whites was a definite clue. “I bet that’s going to stain.”

It was amazing how much poop one small body had managed to produce. Jors distracted Torbin through the extensive clean up—involving most of their water, half a dozen handfuls of leaves, saddle soap, and his only other shirt—by feeding him slices of dried apple every time he opened his mouth. He buried the soiled cloth by the side of the trail.

:You know, if we carried this with us, we could probably use it to keep predators away from the camp at night.:

Gervais snorted. :It would keep predators away from this whole part of the country, but I’m not carrying it.:

Smiling, in spite of everything at the tone of his Companion’s mental voice, Jors patted down the final shovel of dirt and turned to see . . .

“Where’s Torbin?” He’d left the child tucked between Gervais front feet, chewing on a biscuit.

:He’s right . . . : Gervais turned in place, his hooves stirring up little puffs of dirt. :He was right here!:

:You were supposed to be watching him!:

:I was watching him!:

Jors swore and dove for his sword as a patch of dog willow by the side of the trail shook and cracked and Torbin shrieked. Gervais used his weight to force the thin branches apart, then Jors charged past him and nearly skewered the goat who had followed them from the clearing and was currently being fed the remains of a slobbery biscuit by a shrieking toddler.

Apparently, sometimes the shrieking was happy shrieking.

It became distinctly less happy when Jors attempted to remove Torbin’s arms from around the goat’s neck. Only Gervais’ intervention kept him from being bitten—by the goat, although Torbin had teeth he wasn’t afraid to use.

:Are you hurting him?: