Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

So they were civilians, not a threat, he told himself, clarifying the strategy in his mind. He was playing games with his orders, and the risk was great. He probably wouldn’t die at this point, though both revenge and charges of atrocity could lead that way. He might destroy a company that had a decades-long reputation for honest fighting. If this worked, he would indeed have employ, and stories told for generations. But the chance for death or disgrace as an oathbreaker hung on the other side of the balance.

But some lords were beneath any contempt. Duty bound him to a contract. Only honor could make him respect a man.

The two burly “civilians” closed on him, and he pointedly ignored them. They were dressed in battle leather and well scarred. Professionals themselves. They had orders, and perhaps they understood those orders. If they didn’t raise weapons, he was under no compunction to fight them under any oath he or the Toughs had ever sworn. “We fight only armed men.” But if they did, he would perforce respond in kind. All his troops had their orders, all would obey . . . but a panicky moment could lead to a close-quarters bloodbath with horrific results for all.

All three of them knew how it must play out, and the scene would replay across the front. Arden could not decline to engage, could not offer to surrender to unarmed men. If asked, he’d have to refuse.

As he drew back for another blow, one of the two lunged at him. He spun, shifted, and made to take a swing. His trained reflexes prepared to strike a blow that would cleave a man.

Then the ground shifted and he tumbled, cracking his head against his helmet as he crashed. His sword arms flew above his head, and bashing fists broke his grip. He kicked, snapping his right foot in a blow that elicited a pained grunt. The fists rained down on his chest, driving the breath from him.

“Mercenary, you are disarmed! Will you now surrender to Lord Namhar’s courtesy?”

“I will,” he said.

There was no dishonor in surrender once unable to fight, and he’d followed his orders exactly. His employer—former employer—had been the lowest filth imaginable. To be captured thusly should make him feel proud. It didn’t.

Surrender. The Toughs didn’t surrender. A wrenching pain that wasn’t physical tore at him. Certainly, the fight had been honorable, but it was a defeat in the employ of a weakling. That cost dearly in reputation, in pride, in selfrespect. Not to mention the hundreds of townsfolk who had been killed.

“I am to offer you employ with Lord Namhar, at Guild scale and with a bonus of one fifth. Or else you may have free passage to our northern border.”

He heard the words, but there was no pleasure in him. He’d won this battle for his honor by losing the battle in the field. Even though he’d planned it that way, it was dizzying, shocking.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. One of the two had rushed to join a group of fellows beating Balyat to the ground. The bulky warrior needed six of them to restrain him before he finally acceded. Arden couldn’t help but grin. It restored some small breath of life to the unit that even disarmed they fought so hard.

His remaining escort was panting for breath and bleeding from nose and lip. Arden had acquitted himself well enough, though he would have a hard time convincing himself.

“I am Captain Onri,” his captor said. “If you will give your word of honor to be peaceable, I will escort you to Count Namhar.”

“My word you have, Captain,” Arden said, feeling a slight rise from the depths his soul had sunk to. He walked away from the village, smiling. He had lived through his oath to a coward. He had lost by his oath to a good man.

LANDSCAPE OF THE IMAGINATION

by Mercedes Lackey

Mercedes Lackey is a full-time writer and has published numerous novels, including the best-selling Heralds of Valdemar series. She is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator.

TARMA’S stomach growled, and she tried to appease it with a long drink of water.

It wasn’t fooled, and growled again.

The problem with being a low-level mercenary pair without an impressive reputation was that sometimes you wound up at the end of a job in a place where your talents weren’t needed. And when that place was as law-plagued as this one . . .

They’d escorted a very nice old lady to the timid niece who was going to take care of her in her old age. An exceptionally low-paying job, but one that Kethry’s sword Need had insisted that they take. Appropriately, as it had turned out, since the poor old woman evidently bore a striking resemblance to a very wealthy old woman in the same town, and kidnappers had decided erroneously that they were one and the same.