Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

A faint echo of a surprised shout startled her—she guessed it was close to where they had rested. And they had not hidden which fork of the trail they had taken. The path widened, and she bent forward over the mare’s neck, urging her into a steady canter, the kyree falling behind them. The soft pounding of hooves on grassy sod filled her ears, the mare’s mane lashed her face, and a strange exhilaration swelled up within her. So this was what adventuring felt like! The horses behind her, the frightened cubs, the kyree mother all vanished from her head, drowned by this wild delight. She wasn’t even aware of guiding the mare out of the woods until they were on the road and the sound of the hoofbeats changed. Still entranced by the strange joy, she pushed the mare to a full gallop, thrilling to the rise and fall of each stride and the power of the horse beneath her.

Only when they rounded the last corner and approached the fenced areas and the guardhouse did she ease back in the saddle, bringing the mare down to a canter, a trot, a walk.

The guard on duty hailed them but recognized the horses and Laeka almost in the same breath. The cubs stayed hidden in the cage, and when Laeka glanced back, she saw that the kyree appeared a great deal smaller and more doglike. Smothering a smile, she nodded to the guard, ignoring the question in his face.

She took the horses to one of the farther corrals—shamefacedly making use of the block to dismount on the way there and nearly losing her feet anyway. Meros appeared out of nowhere, and she was silently grateful for his aid as they pulled down the cage, placing it in a nearby tack shed before unsaddling the spent horses and brushing them down, their only words soft murmurs of praise to the horses.

When the horses were finally made comfortable, Meros walked to the stable, his arms full of sweat-laden tack while Laeka went back to the shed.

The kyree had gathered her family, ready to return to the forest.

“Will you be safe?” Laeka murmured.

:We cannot go to our cave, but I know of another place where we can stay until the little ones are more grown and able to travel longer distances. Foolishly, I had wanted to live away from the Pack, but . . : She tilted her head towards the cubs. :I believe I shall rejoin them.:

“Fair travels to you then, and may Agnira watch and bless you and yours.”

:And the same to you and yours.: The kyree turned and herded her pups ahead of her, crossing the pasture toward the woods. Just before they slipped under the fence and between the trees, she looked back.

:I am Rheena, of the Hyrrrull Pack. I name you Friend to the Pack, for we are in your debt. We shall return to repay our debt.: She turned again and nudged the cubs before her.

:And I still want to hear how you met Cousin Warrl.: The plaintive Mind-voice drifted back from the tree-line, and Laeka laughed aloud as she walked stiffly back toward the house. A hot bath, she thought, as hot as I can stand it. I haven’t ridden like that in many years—and there’s a reason for that.

Passing the private corral, Laeka paused while the brood mares pushed against the fence in front of her, their eager noses stretched out for her strokes and gentle scratches. It was good to know that she had helped save the kyree’s cubs. But it was better to be home again.

The Sword Dancer

by Michael Z. Williamson

Michael Z. Williamson was born in the United Kingdom and raised in Canada and the U.S. A twenty-three-year veteran of the U.S. Army and U.S. Air Force combat engineers, he is married to a reserve Army combat photographer who is also a civilian graphic artist. They have too many cats and two children who have learned how to fight anything, including zombies, from the age of four.

Riga Gundesdati, called Sworddancer, swigged from her bottle and pushed her helmet back on. Tendrils of flaxen hair obscured her eyes until she pushed them under the sweat-soaked leather padding.

All the students were working especially hard. Swordmistress Morle was watching, and some Herald from far Valdemar stood at the Yorl’s spot, studying them.

“Fight!” called the judge. Her new opponent, Ruti, looked nervous, so she charged.

“Yaaaaaah!” she shouted, and he hesitated. She swung her wooden practice sword and dropped her wrist, aiming for his thigh. He blocked and leaped, defensive, cautious, and timid. This fight was over, even if he didn’t know it.