Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

“Quit stalling, man,” Cogern said to himself, as the quack stepped away to check on the next man. “Time to get it over with.”

He crossed to the colonel’s tent, passed between the sweating sentries with a nod, and entered. Inside, he drew himself up into full attention. “Sir, the warmaster requests permission to speak!”

Colonel Tregaran groaned once, then sat up on the low cot. He shook out the drowsiness and pulled the sleeping rug around his shoulders. He felt a twinge in the left shoulder, where the Hardornan’s arrow had pierced the shield. He rubbed it ruefully. Sweat burst out of every pore, even from that small movement. He squinted at the warmaster.

Cogern’s sudden affliction of formality did not bode well. He glanced at the shade outside, and shadows in the distance. Not much into the second watch of the day. Not even noon, and the heat already a blast furnace.

“Wine?” he asked, bending to pour some of the thin, sour stuff into a camp cup. “No?” He pointed toward the village with his chin. “Any sign?”

Cogern shook his head once. “No. Scouts have been out all morning. Solid trail, sir, going back up into the wadis, but no idea of why. Doesn’t look like a threat. It’s just . . . strange.”

“Yes,” Tregaran agreed, “but it’s part of the reason we’re here.”

He felt Cogern relax. The commander’s duty to set the orders, the warmaster’s to keep them. Cogern was used to being aware of his colonel’s thoughts, though, and Tregaran’s refusal to include the warmaster this time had chafed the older man.

Cogern leaped like a stone-lion at Tregaran’s opening, his bottled frustration spilling over. “Sir, what in the nineteen hells are we doing here?” Having started, his carefully rehearsed speech abandoned him, and the rest tumbled out in a heap. “We left our post, followed you across the high desert in summer, and laagered within a night’s march from Sunhame. Why?”

Tregaran took a sip of wine, making a face at the sour bite. He looked down at the cup and the slightly oily surface of the liquid inside. He smiled, and made the decision to give it to the warmaster straight up. “The Black-robes have assembled a force . . . an army really . . . and are preparing to overthrow the hierarchs, and put one of their own on the Sun Seat.”

Cogern prided himself on being unflappable, no matter the provocation. The slight widening of his eyes equaled most others’ dropping jaw. He sat on the camp stool without being bid and reached out blindly. Tregaran smiled and handed him the cup. Cogern drained it, held it out for a refill, and emptied it as well. Tregaran watched Cogern work it out.

“But Laskaris must surely know. Won’t he put a stop to it?” The warmaster shook his head, answering his own question. “No, he’s too busy buggering boys, and the hierarchs are either too drunk to notice or well paid to look the other way.” He chewed his lip, thinking. “The Black-robes will ‘save’ the faith, and our precious god hasn’t put in an appearance so say what he thinks.” He shook his head. “It’s that simple. So, what’s to stop them?”

Cogern played the role of the simple soldier, not too bright really, proof you didn’t need brains to survive in the army. Tregaran knew the act for what it was. Not much got past the warmaster’s washed-out blue eyes. He wouldn’t have made thirty-five years in the line if it did. His blunt face, hare-lipped scar, and lisping gravelly voice all hid a quick and ready mind.

He let his silence answer for him. Tregaran reached for a second battered cup and poured more sour wine.

The warmaster’s eyes tracked him, working it out. “Us?” A pause. “Us. Bugger me.” He looked hard at Tregaran, sensing more to this.

“Why do we care? Laskaris the boy-lover, or some Black-robe. Thinning the herd among the Heirarchs has been a long time coming.”

Tregaran nodded grimly. “It won’t be just Laskaris, or even the Hierarchs who will die. When the Black-robes strike, they will have to take down all of the ministries, decapitate the entire government. They know that the Red-robes will have no choice but to fight. So, the Black shall strike down the Red. ALL of the Red-robes in Sunhame. I can’t allow that.”

Cogern exhaled deeply. There it is. The real reason. “So, then. This is for her.”

Tregaran looked long and hard at him. “Yes. For Solaris.”

Cogern’s jaw firmed. He flashed back to the miracles performed, the regiment’s adoration, Tregaran’s increasing attentiveness during the months she had traveled with them. He had his own suspicions about the colonel’s motives, but they owed her . . . dammit, HE owed her.

Cogern stretched his arms, corded muscle stretching. “Who else knows?”

Tregaran shugged. “Not sure. Delrimmon of the Thirteenth is close, I think a couple others. Hergram of the Thirty-first, probably.”

Cogern’s face grew grim. “So, no orders, then.” It was not a question.

Tregaran’s pursed lips and single head shake made the word unnecessary. “No orders.”