Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

“That’s not what the smithy said. Said he saw your daughter-in-law bring a man into town. That’s the man we’re looking for.”

For a moment, Sosha thought her legs would crumple. “I surely did,” she said in a small voice. The stranger whirled around and faced her. “Near dead when I found him.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “And where is he now?”

“Don’t know,” she replied, begging Vkandis’s forgiveness for the lie. “Took him to our priest.”

“Then that’s where we’re going,” he growled, grabbing her arm. “Get moving!”

“Take your hands off her!” Papa Lorndo sputtered. “You can’t—”

“Keep your mouth shut!” the man snapped. “Be glad I’m in a good mood!”

He propelled Sosha around the house and down the road toward the chapel. In the early twilight, she could see the harshness of his face, the glint of his eyes. Sunlord ... Sunlord! Protect me now!

His worst fears surfaced when Beckor saw the other stranger coming toward the chapel, one burly hand wrapped around Sosha’s upper arm. The poor woman looked both terrified and utterly determined. The moment was now. It all came down to the plan he had put in place the night before.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he exclaimed, putting all the outrage he could into his voice. “You don’t treat young women like that!”

The man released Sosha, who rubbed at her arm, her eyes pleading for Beckor’s help. “What did this priest tell you?” he asked his companion.

“That Torgon’s dead. Died yesterday. Says he buried him.”

“Huh. Smithy didn’t say whether he was dead or alive when she brought him into the village.” He glared at Beckor. “We need to know if he’s dead or not.”

“Why?” Beckor demanded. “Are you kin?”

“No. Friends. We’ll have to answer to his family. We need to see his body.”

Beckor shook his head. “Small honor you give to me and those who have died. You’d have me disturb his grave?”

The man with the wounded leg stepped closer to Beckor. “Take us there.”

The command dripped ice. Beckor shrugged, took Sosha’s hand. “Everything will be all right,” he said. Then, glancing at the two assassins: “Follow me, if you’re still determined to violate the dead.”

“Need a shovel,” the taller of the two said. “You got one, priest?”

“Around back. We have to go that way to the field where he’s buried.”

Sosha’s heart pounded so loudly she knew Beckor and the two men could hear it. How was Beckor going to prove an empty grave contained a man who was very much alive and, if he had listened to her, hiding in the hayloft of her barn? She voiced another silent prayer to Vkandis and followed Beckor as he led the way to the field of burial.

“There,” Beckor said, pointing to the edge of a cleared field. “That’s where I buried him.”

The taller of the two men stared at the newly turned earth. He rolled his shoulders and began to dig. Sosha watched, fascinated and terrorized, unable to turn away, even if she had wanted to. As the digging continued, time seemed to slow down. Finally, the shovel hit something and the man began to work around it.

“What did you find?” the other stranger asked.

“Damn ... think it’s a boot.”

“Let me see.” The wounded assassin pushed forward. “Looks like his.”

The taller man moved up toward the middle of the grave and began to dig again. Sosha glanced at Beckor, but the priest stood calmly, his face expressionless.

Once again, the assassin’s shovel found something. He scraped at what he had unearthed. “Green tunic. Got blood on it. Must be his.” He started to dig around what he’d discovered. “Gah!” he exclaimed, his eyes narrowed. “The stench!”

Both men drew back from the grave, their faces screwed up in disgust.

“What did you expect?” Beckor asked. “Bodies rot. Especially in this heat.”

The two strangers stared at the priest. Sosha couldn’t help but stare, too.

“Now,” Beckor said, “do you mind if we cover him again? The Sunlord will be none too pleased with this night’s outcome.”

The taller of the two men dropped the shovel. “We’ll leave that to you.”

Something moved behind the wounded man’s eyes. Sosha couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or relief. “We’ll tell his family,” the man said, sounding somewhat deflated. “Sorry to have caused trouble.”

“We heard there have been bandits in this area,” Beckor said, pointedly not accepting the apology. “That’s why we’re on guard when we work in the fields.”

The other assassin nodded, taking his cue from his companion, the bluster drained from his voice. “It was a large number of them. The three of us couldn’t fight them off. Thank you again. We’ll be leaving now.”

“Tonight?”

To Sosha, the priest sounded as concerned as someone would be at the prospect of travelers riding out in pitch darkness.

“We were supposed to be at Faroaks yesterday, but we kept hunting for our companion. It’s not that distant. Even bandits sleep. Now that we know Torgon’s dead, we can continue on.”

The wounded man nudged his companion. “And we have to make sure his family is notified. They’ll be grief stricken.”