Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

Erki was too dazed to handle the bottle, and Riga helped him drink. He guzzled five times, and she pulled the bottle back. He needed help with the pain, but not enough to get sick. Then she took three burning swallows herself. Kari did, too, then Snorru. They swapped looks that combined compassion, fear, horror, and the bond that came only with shared battle.

After easing Erki into his saddle so he could rest, they rode another five miles before Bellan called a halt, well after dark. Everyone slept on wagons or under them, ready to fly if another troop came. Walten offered his wagon to the Kossaki youth, and slept underneath.

Erki cried and cried. He’d quiet down, drift fitfully to sobbing sleep, then some tortured nerve would jolt him awake to writhe and scream again. The herbs were supposed to lessen the pain and prevent infection, but hand injuries were among the most painful.

Riga cried, holding him tight in the damp cold amid dust and tools, comforting him. They were children, not warriors. They shouldn’t have to fight, certainly not Erki. He was barely lettered and just big enough to ride. She cursed Miklamar and his troops, the mercenaries, Jarek and his helpless bumtwits, the Swordmistress, Bellan. Couldn’t they fight their own battle and leave her out of it? She clutched her bear, not caring if anyone saw.

She realized part of her distress was fear of losing Erki, had the blow been better aimed. Or her father. Or herself. A warrior was willing to risk such things, but she wasn’t sure she was.

It was only a thumb! People lost worse in grindstones, forges, even looms. Bjark had lost two joints of fingers just last year. It could have been worse.

But this was Erki, and it had been in war. That made it different.

And it could have been worse.

In the morning, pressups and sword drill did nothing to loosen the knot in her shoulder or the ache on the side of her head. Erki looked groggy from shock and fatigue, but he’d stopped crying. He let nothing near his hand, though.

It took all day, but by dusk Lake Diaska was visible, the sun glittering off its windblown waves. Gangibrog was at the south point, Little Town, now part of the Kingdom of Crane, to the north. They pushed on, saddlesore and stiff, but with a huge burden lifted.

They stopped, late and exhausted to staggers. The refugees rolled up in blankets where they sat or sprawled and made snide but quiet comments about the Kossaki setting camp. Riga finished pitching the shelter quickly, despite working alone, disregarding their snickers. Tonight would be cold. They’d learn as they traveled north.

Erki looked unhappy, able only to hold a javelin while she drove spikes and dug them in. She shooed him in and crawled in alongside, with an extra blanket against the chill.

In the morning, the elders were locked in conference. They didn’t break for long minutes while the mist and dew burned off. Riga secured the gear and handed Erki a bowl of hard cheese and nuts.

“Thank you,” he said, staring at his bandaged thumb.

“I’m sorry.” If she’d been a moment sooner ...

“I wonder what it feels like to die?” he asked.

That was the type of question children asked parents. She wasn’t ready for it yet. And she knew what it felt like to kill.

Bellan finally came over with a wave for attention.

“We’ll have to split up. You’ll take Erki home, with the other youths. Now that they’re one group, we’ll take them north. The Morit will meet us.”

Riga choked a little and took a deep breath. She’d spent all night nerving up to continue, and now she was being replaced, just a girl again. She did want to go home, badly. She also wanted to finish the job. She’d completely forgotten that she and Brandur might meet, and that chance was also gone.

“I understand,” was all she could say.

“You’re named well, Sworddancer,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Morle was right to select you.”

Riding back wasn’t bad, with Kari and the Grogansens for company. Even Snorru, who’d always been a bit self-absorbed, treated Erki almost like his own brother. They made good time toward the road and saw lake barges towed by sail tugs. They passed occasional traffic at a run.

Once in town, she could see things returning to normal. The hus was open, too. Father was home!

They galloped alongside the planked road, heedless of the splattering muck, and she dismounted as he came out the door.

“Riga!” he shouted, grinning and arms wide. She charged up and leaped at him.

A moment later she said, “You’re squashing me.”

“I like squashing you,” he said, very softly. She started crying.

The fire was going, and he’d made a large pot of stew. It was so like being home, and so like being a girl again. She ate and warmed herself, peeling off layers. Meanwhile, Father looked at Erki’s thumb.

“Arwen has fresh herbs, not like the dried ones for the field. And it’s not much of a wound. You’ll get used to it and be able to work just fine. Remember this?” He showed one of his own injuries, a smashed fingertip.