Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

He kept silent as they went, and she echoed his silence. Once, glancing over her shoulder to be certain he still sat upright, she caught him looking back at the road and then around, as if uncertain of his safety. She gnawed on her lower lip. Who was he? Where had he come from? And who were the two very large and angry men he had mentioned? She had seen no horse nearby and doubted he had walked this far out into the countryside from Vkandis only knew where.

One fact was certain: he did not hail from this area. He spoke in a cultured accent, and his clothing was far too fine to be owned by any of the villagers she knew. His boots were made of soft leather, the scabbard and his sword belt decorated in what might be silver. Even so, he did not seem to be of noble blood. Perhaps a retainer of some highborn house.

She sighed quietly. He held to his silence, and she was hesitant to pose any questions. Those could be raised by Beckor, for she had decided this man needed help that only the priest could provide.

Noon prayers to the Sunlord finished, Beckor stood next to his chapel at the center of Sweetwater. The village dozed now under the summer sun. The smithy was quiet; a low murmur of voices drifted out from the tavern. It was a peaceful time; the midday meal had passed, leaving a short period of rest before afternoon labor resumed. Not a soul stirred. He contemplated weeding his small garden but discarded the notion. Sunlight poured down out of a cloudless sky, the air beginning to thicken as if before a storm. Weeding could wait, at least until the day grew cooler.

Movement down the road that ran directly through the village caught his attention. Shading his eyes, he stared in surprise. What in the God’s green earth was Sosha doing with a stranger riding her horse? A sudden burst of light filled his vision, and he started at what he saw: Sosha, a man on her horse, and a large golden cat padding alongside. He blinked, and the cat disappeared as if it had never existed. Beckor hurried toward Sosha, trying without success to make out the man’s identity. Her face lit up, and she increased her pace.

“God’s greeting to you,” Beckor said, taking the reins from her. He looked up at the man, who now slumped forward in the saddle. The fellow stared down out of one eye, the other swollen and covered with dried blood. “Come with me. We need to get you out of this heat.”

“Oh, sun-ray,” Sosha said, her face flushed and beaded with sweat. “Found him by a field south of here. Can you help him?”

“I’ll try.” Beckor led the horse around to the side yard. He stopped by the door to his room at the back of the chapel. “Sunlord bless you,” he said to the man. “Are you able to walk?”

The man nodded and, moving deliberately, slowly dismounted. He caught himself, his knees threatening to buckle.

“God above,” Beckor breathed, reaching out to brush the black hair away from the man’s left eye. “Who did this to you?”

The man remained silent. Beckor put an arm around the fellow’s shoulder and led him to a shady spot beneath a tree. “Sosha, get some water. And there are clean rags and a jar of poultice in the top drawer of the chest in my room.”

She nodded and hurried off. Beckor helped the man sit, straightened, and glanced up at the sky. Who this man was, what he was doing so far from his usual haunts ... all those questions could be answered at a later time. Now, the most important task ahead was to treat his wound. Vkandis would provide guidance beyond that.

Sosha sat in the afternoon shade, staring at the stranger, who had finished a small meal she had provided from Beckor’s store. The blood cleaned from his face, medicine liberally applied, and a strip of clean cloth tied around his forehead, he looked in far better shape than when she had first seen him. The cut over his left eye proved not as deep as she had feared, but head wounds always bled heavily. His eye and the side of his face were swollen but, after careful inspection, Beckor had announced clear vision would return in a few days. The blood down his side had originated from his head wound, though deep purple bruises showed he had suffered more than one hard blow.

There was something about this man. She could hardly keep from gazing at him. He still kept silent, having said no more than ten words since arriving in Sweetwater. And yet, she felt oddly comfortable around him now, with Beckor close by.

The priest sat in the grass as the man drained the last of the water from his cup. Sosha waited patiently for Beckor to ask the questions that filled her mind.

“You have Sosha here to thank for bringing you to me,” the priest said. “Now, I think it’s time you tell us about yourself. Your name would be helpful.”

The man looked from Beckor to Sosha and back. “Torgon. My name’s Torgon. I’m from Sunhame. If I tell you more, I could be placing you at risk.”