Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

Tregaran bent to look at the man’s hands. A laborer’s calluses, not a swordsman’s. He lay near the trail of the missing villagers, so was likely one of them. Whatever caused this man to die, it was even less then the Herald. That, at least, could be laid to spying. This? He could think of no sane reason.

“Officers,” Tregaran said, “file the regiment by. Let them get a good long look at what they are fighting against. We march at dusk. Blood for blood. Strength and honor.”

The lead scout pounded in on a stolen . . . borrowed horse.

“Sir, Thirteenth regiment reports having secured the crossroads. They will drive on to the city’s edge. They expect to ring the Sunlord’s by dawn. No sign of the Thirty-first yet.”

The firecat beside him looked up. “Not to worry. Hergrim’s Thirty-first ran into more than they bargained for. Hardornan mercenaries, of all things, serving the Black. Most of the Black-robes’ mercenaries are dead, the rest scattered. In the name of the Good God, they’ll be at the city by dawn.” It stretched and yawned, its job done.

“All right,” Tregaran replied, to the scout. “Give the Warmaster the same report and tell him to bring up the rest of the regiment. Once we’ve secured the priory, we’ll drive onto the city.” He paused, looking over the scout’s shoulder. “Never mind, the warmaster’s here.”

The older man, also on a “found” horse, halted in a spray of dust. The animal heaved and swayed. Cogern didn’t so much ride horses as wrestle them.

“Sir,” he said, while trying to control his snapping mount, “scouts report a village ahead. The trail goes straight in. Big fires. You’ll see ’em on the horizon once you come up out of the wadi.”

Tregaran shook his head. “No, our line of travel is north against the priory. That’s were they’ve massed their strength.”

Cogern shook his, a broad sweeping “no.” “Sir, looks like the Black-robes are drawn out. Not at the priory. Troops, mebbe a couple hundred. Priests out doing the Fires. Scout says there are mebbe forty to fifty Robes down there, and villagers. Hundreds of them.”

Tregaran puffed out his cheeks, thinking. “Okay, the village. Second Battle for the assault, hold the other two in reserve. It’s going to be too tight in there for one than one Battle at a time.”

Cogern nodded, rapping out orders to the under officers. The regiment shook itself out, moving from traveling order to assault column, then picked up Cogern’s trot.

Tregaran, a little ahead with the scouts, crested the wadi, and saw the firelight glow from over the low hills. Pillars of smoke rose, then spread out forming a black layer like a roof over the burning. The lurid red flames flickered and danced against the smoke and clouds, giving the little valley a hellish cast.

Second Battle came clattering up behind him, shields at the ready.

One scout, momentarily highlighted against the flickering red background, swung a piece of cloth over his head. Any sentries placed were now dead.

Tregaran led his Battle forward, charging up out of the wadi, across the flat ground, and started up the slope to where the scout now lay hidden. He heard the rest of the Battle, some four hundred men, go to ground below them. They sounded like a herd of horses puffing and blowing after the exertion of climbing the hill.

He leaned his head up over the crest of the hill, and peered over. The outer portion of the village glowed eerily in the firelight. Flames from fires leaped high, at thrice the height of a grown man. The firelight threw more red than yellow, the bonfires set in a rough circle around the outer court. The same pillars of smoke all but blocked the view into the inner part of the village. Tregaran could see the impression of more fires but little details. The rising smoke formed a complete veil over the town square.

He shook his head. Karse, wood-poor as it was, lost a treasure in the fires that night. An entire forest had to have gone into creating this much burning.

A knot of troops, several hundred strong, came into view from the village center. They formed a rough line, facing the regiment behind the hill. They obviously meant to defend the village from the Nineteenth Foot.

“They’re onto us, sir,” said the scout.

“No kidding,” replied Tregaran, then waved the horncallers to him. “Pass the word: ‘Rise and Make Ready.’ No Horns.”

The hornsmen scattered, running along the line and preparing the units for the charge. The Battle drawn into three rough lines, stood ready.

Tregaran raised his sword over his head and cut it down sharply.

“First sally. Go!”