Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

Rury nearly blacked out from the waves of emotion. He tasted bile in his throat. His head felt as if it would explode. A big Tedrel in bronze and leather armor knocked Rury’s spear point aside with a shield rim and charged in. He hacked down and his sword bit into Rury’s spear shaft with a crack. The shaft buckled. Rury saw death in the warrior’s eyes, felt hate pouring from him as the Tedrel’s sword came up again. The noise seemed to mute and time slowed to a crawl as Rury brought up the splintered remnant of his spear shaft and blocked the sword coming at his head.

Something happened, clicking into place in Rury’s mind. The physical act of defending himself combined with the hurried training from Herald Erek and Sergeant Krandal’s words.

“Stay calm. Let the fear and hate turn to something else.”

He didn’t need to stop the feelings, he just had to let them divert as they flowed into and through him. The hammering in his head and the sickness in his gut vanished. He felt the rage and fear of two armies coming to him, and felt it refracting, turning into . . . something else.

He held up the broken spear shaft like a talisman with his left hand and fumbled for his sword. The Tedrel swung again, but stopped short as Sergeant Krandal’s spearhead hit the man’s shoulder. The thrust didn’t bite deep through the Tedrel’s armor, but it hung him up.

The hours of training kicked in. Rury gripped his own sword, fist up and blade-down, and swept it out of the scabbard, slashing across the Tedrel’s face. The cheek and nosepiece of the Tedrel’s helmet turned most of the cut, but Rury’s backhanded return stab took him just below the chin. The Tedrel dropped like a puppet with cut strings. His blood bathed Rury’s sword and spattered his surcoat, filling Rury’s nose with its coppery smell. A tidal flow of primal emotion roared into Rury, the greatest feeling of his young life. The dying Tedrel’s anger, fear and lust surged and churned inside him, turning to something that felt strangely like love. Love of his enemies. Love of battle. Love of killing. At that instant Rury Tellar became an angel of death.

Spears and pikes stabbed from behind and around him as Rury’s comrades fought to fill the gap left by his broken spear. Another Tedrel forced an opening with his shield and rushed at Rury, his war hammer swinging high. Rury calmly stopped the charge cold by thrusting the splintered end of his spear shaft into the warrior’s face, followed with a sword stab over the shield’s rim. Whether the sword struck the Tedrel’s face or throat, Rury couldn’t see. He heard the man cry out and felt him sag, but the Tedrel didn’t go down. Rury tried to draw the sword back, but it was stuck, jammed in bone or armor. He released the sword and wrenched the hammer from the man’s faltering grip, then brought it around to crash on the Tedrel’s helmet. The blow threw the man’s body back into the Tedrel line.

In the moment’s respite, Rury dropped the splintered spear shaft and had his buckler off his belt and up, still gripping the war hammer. The weapon was no nobleman’s decorative piece, just a steel head with a long, narrow hammer face and wicked points on back, sides and front, mounted on an oak haft nearly as long as his arm. Whatever its form, it was a hammer, and Rury had spent four years at the forge using one. Driven by his hard-trained muscle, the hammer rose and fell on the pressing Tedrel host. Armor and bone crushed. With nearly every blow a man went down. The Tedrel fought to get a return blow on Rury, but Sergeant Krandal bellowed orders, and the militia’s spears stabbed and clicked like giant, deadly knitting needles, taking down any Tedrel who gave Rury too much attention. Bodies piled before them, making a barrier that let their spears and pikes reach across to dart and tear.

Every Tedrel who died in pain and fear and rage fed energy into Rury. Every blow was like a lover’s touch, every scream a sweetheart’s whisper. He wanted it to never end. He would kill until no one lived on this bloody field, just to keep the song of love and death singing through him.

The Tedrels fell back a dozen steps, and arrows rained down on the Valdemaran line. Armor and luck proved good enough for the Oakdell militia, and they took little hurt. But the Tedrels had pulled back out of reach of his hammer, and Rury stood with impatient resentment.

The roar of battle eased for a moment, and he heard cries of commanders, getting louder as they relayed orders. Glancing to his left, Rury glimpsed the King’s banner plunging across the stream and deep into the Tedrel host. And then Sergeant Krandal was shouting at his back.

“Advance the line! The king is leading! Advance the line! Move up to support the king! Move it! Move it now! CHARGE!”