Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

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.”

“Thrust! Recover! Advance! Thrust!” Sergeant Krandal’s voice cracked out the commands, and the Oakdell militia sweated through pike drill. Rury’s tunic was damp under his armor, his hands sweaty on the spear shaft. They drilled two hours a day with the larger company, then Sergeant Krandal had them on the field for an extra hour after that. They needed it. The spears were half again as long as Rury, and the pikes even longer. They had to work together as a unit or people got hurt, even in drill.