Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

Riga had no idea what had come about. The elders and her father, seemed aware of these Heralds and the priest and were unbothered. Now, though, her father had ridden off, as had most of the men and some of the women, all those trained and able to ride.

“Sworddancer, you must guide a party,” the Swordmistress said.

“I am honored,” she replied at once. Honored and scared. At sixteen, she was a capable fighter and skilled, but lacked the wiles and polish of her elders. She flushed hotter than she already was, then chilled.

“You hide your nerves well,” Morle said with a grin. She continued more seriously. “I don’t ask this lightly. A great many people need us.”

“I’ll do what I can,” she agreed. They were asking an adult task.

“Then look at this map.”

Morle unrolled the scraped vellum across her table and pointed.

“We’re here,” Riga indicated. “Little Town is there.”

“Yes. And there are refugees down here.” Morle indicated the south. “The villages south of Paust Lake are being sacked and destroyed by Miklamar’s thugs.”

Riga understood. “They’re fleeing. We can’t support them in our lands, and we must hurry them through in case we need to defend our own borders. We also don’t want the attention they’d bring.”

“Very perceptive,” the Herald spoke at last. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” she replied, meeting his eyes and trying not to be shy, “but I’ve studied since I was four. A map and supply count tell me all I need to know.

“I will lead youths, I presume?” she asked of Morle. “I can’t imagine I’m to lead senior warriors.”

“A youth,” Morle replied, and Riga gulped. “This is scouting, not fighting. There are thousands of refugees, and we’re not a large outpost.”

They weren’t even truly an outpost, Riga groused. Gangibrog, meaning “Walking Town,” was a glorified camp with little besides docks. Nor would the local resources permit it to become much larger. They were a trading waystop. River barges came from the coast; lighters went across Lake Diaska to rivers inland. Her family had traded widely; then Father retired here to raise them after their mother died.

“May I take my brother?” she asked. “He’s strong and sharp when he listens.”

“And you’re loud and bossy when he doesn’t,” Morle chuckled. “Why him?”

“Because if he has to go with someone, he’ll feel safer with me, and he’ll make me feel better if not safer.”

“Ordinarily not. But you’re right. I’ve allowed each party five coins in supplies. Any others must come from your own hus. I wish I had better news.”

“I’ll manage. Who’ll watch our hus?”

“Someone will, I promise. I know you have no mother or sister, Riga. Hurry to Arwen and leave as soon as you can. She has your directions.”

“Yes, Mistress.” She bowed to both and left.

It was exciting and scary. Guiding wasn’t like war. However, two youths going into hostile territory made her guts twist. She might be trained as a warrior, but everyone understood that women guarded the hus and family. They were defenders, not campaigners, except in emergencies.

Erki was waiting, his gear a jumbled heap as usual.

“Erki, neaten that up and move your helm before someone steps in it!” she commanded. Not only that, but it would rust if left on the damp ground.

“I forgot!” he said. “Did you see me beat Sammi?” He grabbed his stuff quickly.

“No, but good. He’s a stone larger than you. Did Father see you?”

“Yes, he’s off on a ride.”

“We’re going, too, by ourselves. You have to do as I say.”

“I’ll try! Where are we going?” He almost jumped in glee. The boy never held still.

“We’re guiding refugees and I’m not sure yet. You’ll do more than try, too. This is real.”

“I’ll pack Trausti, then,” he said.

“Excellent idea. Keep a list.”

“Yes, Riga.” He took off at a sprint. He’d do that well, she knew. He was bright if impetuous, very much “boy.”

She headed for the river and bounded down the floating dock to check on their current workers. Most of them were off riding, too, with boys and old men shifting cargo from a barge to a lighter. The whole town was responding, and fast.

At their hus, she decided the fire was low enough to ignore, then fastened the place down for a trip or storm. Window shutters, back door, hang everything on hooks or shelves away from walls and floor, valuables into a chest in a stone hole under a bench. Then pack light. Blessi was a small horse and wouldn’t take more than Riga’s weight in cargo. Eir would manage more, since Erki was smaller. Trausti would have only supplies.

Erki could pack well, sometimes too well. She caught him stuffing extra clothes into the pack saddle.

“Good idea, but too much weight,” she said. “One change is all. We’ll have to hope to air out.”

“I already checked and oiled their hooves,” he said.

“Good,” she agreed. “I’ll be back. Get finished, please.”

She hurried down the planked timber street to Arwen’s warehouse. “Auntie” was good to all of them. She usually found a way to sneak some treats to the children.