Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

To disguise his embarrassment, Ree extended a clawed finger toward the animal. It sniffed, then made an inquiring mew. “Yeah, I’m part cat these days.” Ree scratched behind the cat’s ears and smiled a little when the animal leaned into his tentative gesture. He nodded to the old man. “By the back door. Rats, mice, birds, and at least one rabbit.” He shrugged. “It’s a good thing it’s been cold.”

Garrad grunted. “Sounds about right. Damn cat thinks he’s got to hunt for me as well as himself.” He studied Ree before he added. “Looks like he likes you. Normally he’d scratch anyone as ain’t family.”

Ree wondered if he meant his family or the cat’s family. It seemed Garrad didn’t care for the affection of any creature he didn’t feel attached to. At least he liked Jem.

Garrad was right about the snow, which started coming down shortly after, carried on a harsh wind. Over the next few days Ree had to do everything needed to get the place ready for a hard winter, from getting the hay in, to chopping wood, to repairing the henhouse roof—all with the old man barking orders from a wheelbarrow.

Two weeks later, he was barking orders standing up and leaning on a stick, while that damn cat wended his way around his and Ree’s ankles. Jem wasn’t coughing as much, and his bones weren’t so obvious beneath the skin. He’d picked up on feeding the chickens and making bread every morning, too.

When Garrad tried to scold him for this, it set off a staring match between two identical sets of blue eyes, and Jem had won.

Jem and the horse were the only things the old man seemed to care for. He had not a good word for the people of the nearby town, and when Jem had said—after Garrad had spent half an hour telling Ree exactly what he’d done wrong when repairing the roof—that they could leave and he’d call the people of the town to look after Garrad, he’d started off a tirade. “Them? They never bothered even when I buried my wife. They let my son be taken off without trying to stop the Imperials. I’d rot in all the hells before asking them for help.”

Sometimes, amid the orders and complaints, Garrad talked of how his farm had been much more prosperous, how the forest had once been a hunting reserve for the Emperor himself, but no one took care of it or even tried to keep it safe any more. There’d been talk in Three Rivers that bandits claimed whole duchies for themselves and the Empire did nothing to stop them. Hobgoblins came out of the woods and killed people and livestock until they were killed, Garrad told him. He’d lost half his cattle to hobgoblins before he got a pitchfork in one’s guts and sent its companions running for safer prey. When Ree shivered at that story, the old man gave his rusty laugh. “You got lucky, boy. Really lucky.”

Ree couldn’t disagree, when he was warm and fed and had a safe bed for the first time in years, perhaps ever. His mother hadn’t lived so well, and the work was better than many of the things he’d done to survive. If the best he could hope for from Garrad was tolerance because of Jem, well, he could live with that. And he would, as long as he had it. Even though it made Ree sick to think about killing humans, he didn’t regret killing that one, no matter that he’d been too terrified to know what he was doing. The big bastard would have killed Jem, and Jem had brought back the little bit of human Ree still had.

During a break between snowstorms, two weeks later, Ree was using a pitchfork to shove hay down from the loft to where it could be spread in the animal stalls when he heard the horse scream. He raced out of the barn, fork in hand. A creature that might once have been a bear stood over Garrad, and the horse reared and danced back from it. The thing’s white fur made it almost invisible against the snow.

Before he could think, Ree found himself sprinting toward the thing. The fork left his hand, flew through the air.

He heard Garrad scream, “No, Ree, no.”

The three tines made a solid sound when they hit the creature and buried themselves deep in its chest. The horse fled, leaping the fence without slowing.

Ree caught the handle of the pitchfork and shoved with all his strength. Scarlet blood sprayed the white fur, and the beast swung paws as big as Ree’s head. Step by step, Ree forced it back, away from Garrad, until it shuddered and collapsed.

“Garrad?” Ree kept half an eye on the creature as he edged towards where the old farmer lay.

“Brownie.” Garrad sounded tired, not his normal half-growl. “I raised that horse from a foal.” He spoke between gasps, and his face had an unhealthy gray look. “Her dam was my boy’s horse. She’s all I’ve got left of him.”

“Get inside and rest.” Ree didn’t have to think about that. “I’ll go after the horse.”

“Not on your own.” Jem must have come from the house. “Not with things like that out there.”

Ree shook his head as they helped Garrad regain his footing. “Someone needs to look after Garrad, and you’re better at that than I am.”