Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

Ben Ohlander was born in South Dakota in 1965 and grew up in Colorado and North Carolina. After completing high school, he did a stretch in the Marines before attending college in Ohio. Upon graduation, he was commissioned as an officer in the Army Reserve, and is now serving on active duty in eastern Iraq. In his civilian interludes he works as a data analyst, part-time writer, and cat owner. He currently lives in southwest Ohio.

COGERN, Warmaster of the Nineteenth Foot, Hero of the Regiment, and Beloved of V’kandis, paced in the blazing desert sun. A distant smudge on the horizon drew his eye. He watched it a while as it spread laterally. The thought of an attacking force crossing the high desert at noon fell into folly, but he looked for it anyway. Folly, served judiciously, could be well employed. He’d employed it himself.

The smudge resolved itself. Not infantry. Dust storm. Typical weather for this time of year, but one of his least favorite things about his home country. He often wondered why they fought so hard to defend the place. The oft-heard comment was that the sun was the gift of V’kandis . . . too bad he’d been so generous. Dust storm looked like it would pass them by.

He wiped the sweat that rolled down his scarred head with his dog rag and checked the sentries. They were all alert and jittery. The village that lay hard by the oasis should have been brimming with life . . . children playing, women coming down for water. The presence of two thousand soldiers in the area should have meant a steady stream of fruit sellers, merchants, and the odd maiden intent on trading favors for silver.

Now, nothing. No bodies, no sign of the haste or force. Just no villagers. The place had been abandoned, as though everyone—man, woman, and brat—had simply walked away. The empty village wasn’t central to their being there, but it felt bad.

Cogern wiped his brow again, tracing a clean streak in the dust that marked his forehead. He hated mysteries, especially when his regiment lay vulnerable . . . sprawled, with armor shed, in the thin shade of the date palms that clustered close to the oasis. He didn’t need to look back to know that most men slept while others diced or talked quietly. All moved as little as possible.

He glanced to his right, seeing movement. A soldier made water, catching the fluid in a small bowl for the chirurgeon, who stood nearby. Cogern shook his head and stepped over. He would have dismissed the Valdemaran as a quack, just another foreigner with strange notions . . . had it not been for the man’s skill with the arrow-spoon and scalpel. Cogern knew little about the chirurgeon, only that Tregaran had taken his service after some vague indiscretion back home. Cogern appreciated the man’s skill and soft hands, but not his motives. That made him bear watching.

Cogern shook his head in polite disbelief as the man swirled the water in his bowl. The chirurgeon believed a good deal in piss.

“See, the dark water here?” the Valdemaran said, his accent mauling Karse’s more sophisticated sibilants. His head and the trooper’s leaned together, peering into the bowl. “These are your humors, growing cloudy. You need to keep them flushed out. Dark-yellow or brown mark a sure sign that your body’s fluids are clogging up. Yellow is liver humor, light-colored, not so bad. Dark yellow, is bad. Brown worse.”

Cogern, interested in spite of the obvious quackery, craned his head a little, to better see. “Then what?”

The quack with the soft hands looked at him and smiled. “Ah, Warmaster. A little interest? If the humors get too thick, aren’t kept flushed out, then they back up and clog the heart. You die.”

The trooper looked worriedly into his bowl. “Ahm I gunna die?” His homespun accent and credulity gave away his country roots.

The chirurgeon glanced sideways and smiled. “A laxative, a quick lancet to the wrist vein to bleed a little, and as much water as could be drunk oft fixes the imbalance.”

The trooper paled. “Ah, lancet?”

The quack smiled. “Maybe not the lancet. Drink as much water as you can hold, and bring your bowl to me tonight. If it’s clear, we’ll hold the lancet for now.”

The trooper nodded once and moved away. Cogern smiled as the lad headed for the Oasis.

The chirurgeon grinned. “The water seems the most needful. The laxative is only if the stools dry out and become too firm. The needle . . .”

Cogern understood. “Soldiers trade in blood, and hate to see their own shed. The trooper will drink to bursting to avoid being bled. Clever.”

Cogern didn’t have any use for chirurgeons, but he did admit this one knew his trade better than most. Most proved no better than butchers, and far too many enjoyed the blood shed. Though, to be honest, he did keep track of the color of his water now. No man but an enemy would bleed him, but drinking a little more water every now and again didn’t seem to hurt. As for the rest. “Feh. Pure quackery.”

The chirurgeon, understanding he’d been dismissed, eased away.