“How do you feel, Rury?” said Erek.
“My . . . head hurts.” Rury replied. “But not like before.”
Sergeant Krandal let out a long breath.
“At least you’re alive, lad.”
“I heard what you said,” said Rury to Erek. “I didn’t mean to send those feelings back out to everyone. It was like catching a red-hot iron. You just want to throw it back.”
“I’m sorry you had to bear that, Rury,” said Erek.
“I’m glad it happened, I guess.” replied Rury. “I don’t think I liked what I was feeling before that. Or maybe I liked it too much. When it hit me, it was like a basin of iced water in my face when I was having a nightmare.” He paused and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “And you’re right, I can’t sense other people’s feelings now.” Another thoughtful pause. “Is it true the King is dead?”
“It’s true,” said Erek soberly. He raised an arm and pointed to where a small group of riders picked their way down to where King Sendar lay fallen. At their head rode Princess, no, now Queen Selenay. “King Sendar’s dead, but his kingdom still lives, and the Princess; thanks to you and all of us who fought today.”
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” said Rury from where he lay. “And I don’t want to kill. I just want to go home.”
Erek smiled sadly. “That’s all any of us wanted, Rury. Perhaps when you sent out that cry we all truly realized what the Tedrel would take from us. Maybe that’s why we won out in the end.”
“Well,” grunted Sergeant Krandal, “right now none of us look like we won.” He reached up a hand and grimaced as Erek hauled him to his feet. “I’m getting too old for this.” He tried his injured leg, winced, and balanced on his good one while Erek helped Rury up.
In the distance a body wrapped in the King’s banner was borne and carried up the hill by Heralds and officers, followed by a young, new Queen. None noticed three ragged men and a Companion, upon whom the tide of battle may have turned, limping slowly away.
Years passed, and old veterans remembered their own golden valor, a heroic king and a brave, beautiful girl made queen. The memory of a searing cry piercing the thunder of war faded, until it was less than the distant calling of crows on a battlefield far from home.
STRENGTH AND HONOR
by Ben Ohlander
Ben Ohlander was born in South Dakota in 1965 and grew up in Colorado and North Carolina. After completing high school, he did a stretch in the Marines before attending college in Ohio. Upon graduation, he was commissioned as an officer in the Army Reserve, and is now serving on active duty in eastern Iraq. In his civilian interludes he works as a data analyst, part-time writer, and cat owner. He currently lives in southwest Ohio.
COGERN, Warmaster of the Nineteenth Foot, Hero of the Regiment, and Beloved of V’kandis, paced in the blazing desert sun. A distant smudge on the horizon drew his eye. He watched it a while as it spread laterally. The thought of an attacking force crossing the high desert at noon fell into folly, but he looked for it anyway. Folly, served judiciously, could be well employed. He’d employed it himself.
The smudge resolved itself. Not infantry. Dust storm. Typical weather for this time of year, but one of his least favorite things about his home country. He often wondered why they fought so hard to defend the place. The oft-heard comment was that the sun was the gift of V’kandis . . . too bad he’d been so generous. Dust storm looked like it would pass them by.
He wiped the sweat that rolled down his scarred head with his dog rag and checked the sentries. They were all alert and jittery. The village that lay hard by the oasis should have been brimming with life . . . children playing, women coming down for water. The presence of two thousand soldiers in the area should have meant a steady stream of fruit sellers, merchants, and the odd maiden intent on trading favors for silver.
Now, nothing. No bodies, no sign of the haste or force. Just no villagers. The place had been abandoned, as though everyone—man, woman, and brat—had simply walked away. The empty village wasn’t central to their being there, but it felt bad.
Cogern wiped his brow again, tracing a clean streak in the dust that marked his forehead. He hated mysteries, especially when his regiment lay vulnerable . . . sprawled, with armor shed, in the thin shade of the date palms that clustered close to the oasis. He didn’t need to look back to know that most men slept while others diced or talked quietly. All moved as little as possible.
He glanced to his right, seeing movement. A soldier made water, catching the fluid in a small bowl for the chirurgeon, who stood nearby. Cogern shook his head and stepped over. He would have dismissed the Valdemaran as a quack, just another foreigner with strange notions . . . had it not been for the man’s skill with the arrow-spoon and scalpel. Cogern knew little about the chirurgeon, only that Tregaran had taken his service after some vague indiscretion back home. Cogern appreciated the man’s skill and soft hands, but not his motives. That made him bear watching.
Cogern shook his head in polite disbelief as the man swirled the water in his bowl. The chirurgeon believed a good deal in piss.
“See, the dark water here?” the Valdemaran said, his accent mauling Karse’s more sophisticated sibilants. His head and the trooper’s leaned together, peering into the bowl. “These are your humors, growing cloudy. You need to keep them flushed out. Dark-yellow or brown mark a sure sign that your body’s fluids are clogging up. Yellow is liver humor, light-colored, not so bad. Dark yellow, is bad. Brown worse.”
Cogern, interested in spite of the obvious quackery, craned his head a little, to better see. “Then what?”
The quack with the soft hands looked at him and smiled. “Ah, Warmaster. A little interest? If the humors get too thick, aren’t kept flushed out, then they back up and clog the heart. You die.”
The trooper looked worriedly into his bowl. “Ahm I gunna die?” His homespun accent and credulity gave away his country roots.
The chirurgeon glanced sideways and smiled. “A laxative, a quick lancet to the wrist vein to bleed a little, and as much water as could be drunk oft fixes the imbalance.”
The trooper paled. “Ah, lancet?”
The quack smiled. “Maybe not the lancet. Drink as much water as you can hold, and bring your bowl to me tonight. If it’s clear, we’ll hold the lancet for now.”
The trooper nodded once and moved away. Cogern smiled as the lad headed for the Oasis.
The chirurgeon grinned. “The water seems the most needful. The laxative is only if the stools dry out and become too firm. The needle . . .”
Cogern understood. “Soldiers trade in blood, and hate to see their own shed. The trooper will drink to bursting to avoid being bled. Clever.”
Cogern didn’t have any use for chirurgeons, but he did admit this one knew his trade better than most. Most proved no better than butchers, and far too many enjoyed the blood shed. Though, to be honest, he did keep track of the color of his water now. No man but an enemy would bleed him, but drinking a little more water every now and again didn’t seem to hurt. As for the rest. “Feh. Pure quackery.”
The chirurgeon, understanding he’d been dismissed, eased away.
“Quit stalling, man,” Cogern said to himself, as the quack stepped away to check on the next man. “Time to get it over with.”
He crossed to the colonel’s tent, passed between the sweating sentries with a nod, and entered. Inside, he drew himself up into full attention. “Sir, the warmaster requests permission to speak!”
Colonel Tregaran groaned once, then sat up on the low cot. He shook out the drowsiness and pulled the sleeping rug around his shoulders. He felt a twinge in the left shoulder, where the Hardornan’s arrow had pierced the shield. He rubbed it ruefully. Sweat burst out of every pore, even from that small movement. He squinted at the warmaster.
Cogern’s sudden affliction of formality did not bode well. He glanced at the shade outside, and shadows in the distance. Not much into the second watch of
the day. Not even noon, and the heat already a blast furnace.
“Wine?” he asked, bending to pour some of the thin, sour stuff into a camp cup. “No?” He pointed toward the village with his chin. “Any sign?”
Cogern shook his head once. “No. Scouts have been out all morning. Solid trail, sir, going back up into the wadis, but no idea of why. Doesn’t look like a threat. It’s just . . . strange.”
“Yes,” Tregaran agreed, “but it’s part of the reason we’re here.”
He felt Cogern relax. The commander’s duty to set the orders, the warmaster’s to keep them. Cogern was used to being aware of his colonel’s thoughts, though, and Tregaran’s refusal to include the warmaster this time had chafed the older man.
Cogern leaped like a stone-lion at Tregaran’s opening, his bottled frustration spilling over. “Sir, what in the nineteen hells are we doing here?” Having started, his carefully rehearsed speech abandoned him, and the rest tumbled out in a heap. “We left our post, followed you across the high desert in summer, and laagered within a night’s march from Sunhame. Why?”
Tregaran took a sip of wine, making a face at the sour bite. He looked down at the cup and the slightly oily surface of the liquid inside. He smiled, and made the decision to give it to the warmaster straight up. “The Black-robes have assembled a force . . . an army really . . . and are preparing to overthrow the hierarchs, and put one of their own on the Sun Seat.”
Cogern prided himself on being unflappable, no matter the provocation. The slight widening of his eyes equaled most others’ dropping jaw. He sat on the camp stool without being bid and reached out blindly. Tregaran smiled and handed him the cup. Cogern drained it, held it out for a refill, and emptied it as well. Tregaran watched Cogern work it out.
“But Laskaris must surely know. Won’t he put a stop to it?” The warmaster shook his head, answering his own question. “No, he’s too busy buggering boys, and the hierarchs are either too drunk to notice or well paid to look the other way.” He chewed his lip, thinking. “The Black-robes will ‘save’ the faith, and our precious god hasn’t put in an appearance so say what he thinks.” He shook his head. “It’s that simple. So, what’s to stop them?”
Cogern played the role of the simple soldier, not too bright really, proof you didn’t need brains to survive in the army. Tregaran knew the act for what it was. Not much got past the warmaster’s washed-out blue eyes. He wouldn’t have made thirty-five years in the line if it did. His blunt face, hare-lipped scar, and lisping gravelly voice all hid a quick and ready mind.
He let his silence answer for him. Tregaran reached for a second battered cup and poured more sour wine.
The warmaster’s eyes tracked him, working it out. “Us?” A pause. “Us. Bugger me.” He looked hard at Tregaran, sensing more to this.
“Why do we care? Laskaris the boy-lover, or some Black-robe. Thinning the herd among the Heirarchs has been a long time coming.”
Tregaran nodded grimly. “It won’t be just Laskaris, or even the Hierarchs who will die. When the Black-robes strike, they will have to take down all of the ministries, decapitate the entire government. They know that the Red-robes will have no choice but to fight. So, the Black shall strike down the Red. ALL of the Red-robes in Sunhame. I can’t allow that.”
Cogern exhaled deeply. There it is. The real reason. “So, then. This is for her.”
Tregaran looked long and hard at him. “Yes. For Solaris.”
Cogern’s jaw firmed. He flashed back to the miracles performed, the regiment’s adoration, Tregaran’s increasing attentiveness during the months she had traveled with them. He had his own suspicions about the colonel’s motives, but they owed her . . . dammit, HE owed her.
Cogern stretched his arms, corded muscle stretching. “Who else knows?”
Tregaran shugged. “Not sure. Delrimmon of the Thirteenth is close, I think a couple others. Hergram of the Thirty-first, probably.”
Cogern’s face grew grim. “So, no orders, then.” It was not a question.
Tregaran’s pursed lips and single head shake made the word unnecessary. “No orders.”
Cogern stood. “Sir, I want to make sure that I understand what we’re for. We commit treason here, just by moving without orders. We strike against V’Kandis’ own priests, and if the army splits, then we start a civil war. A civil war to protect one middle-ranking priest?”
Tregaran met his gaze, long and level. “Yes.”
Cogern shugged and took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m in. Never liked any of those bastards anyway.” He rubbed his hand over his face, touching the harelip. “How d’ya know all this?”
Tregaran smiled, measuring how far Cogern was out of depth by his lack of “Sir’s”. The warmaster, even in the worst battle, the line broken, and enemy in the camp, would never let the honorifics slip. Tregaran nodded over to the firecat, who lay curled up on the camp chest, quietly watching. He had finally gotten used to the ’cats ability to simply . . . be overlooked. He gestured to it, a sort of “Well?” Cogern’s eyes followed his hand.
The cat chose to be noticed.
Cogern took a deep breath, air hissing between his gapped front teeth, as he registered its presence. “Is that a firecat? A real firecat? It told you?”
The ’cat, its tail kinked in annoyance, stretched and hopped down from the chest. “Yes.” The creature’s voice sounded clearly in their heads, irritation clear to them both. “IT told him, and IT is hungry . . . and as you haven’t even a saucer of milk for IT, IT is going to find ITS own damn dinner.” It stalked out of the tent, stiff-legged, tail still bent and flicking, a semaphore for a feline snit. “IT. Peasants.”
Cogern jumped in his seat as the ’cat’s mental voice sounded clearly in their heads, the offended tones fading as the avatar, insulted, stalked away. “What’s got his tail in a kink?” He looked back at Tregaran.
Tregaran shook his head. Cogern was, if nothing else, flexible. In the space of a few moments the warmaster had moved from an empty village, placed himself in opposition to the strongest force in the land, and insulted the avatar of the god himself, without seeming to show the slightest concern.
He smiled, then reached into his pack for the carefully rolled map.
“You’re gonna love this.”
Tregaran, followed by Cogern and the regiment’s officers, jogged hard up the hill. The late afternoon sun lay almost directly behind them throwing long, red shadows. They closed quickly on the ring of scouts who stared down at what Tregaran first took for a pile of laundry. The circle parted for them.
The townsman lay staked out in the sand, naked alongside the trail of the missing villagers. His belly had been opened and the entrails carefully removed, so carefully that none had torn, and there remained astonishingly little blood. The man had most likely died from the exposure of being staked out, rather than the vivisection. The corded muscles and death rictus gave evidence of the man’s agony.
The scout who’d marked the back-trail stood nearby. His hands shook and his face was still pale, even after vomiting into the sand. Tregaran didn’t blame him. He was little more than a boy, a stock thief saved by a stint in the army from Karse’s rough justice. Tregaran looked at his pale face and shaking hands, and wondered if the boy thought keeping his hand now seemed a bargain.
Cogern toed the body with his boot, breaking into Tregaran’s thoughts. “What does this mind you of?”
Tregaran was a few seconds late. Mindalis, a scout leader, piped in first. “The man we found up by the border, Warmaster. The man with the horse.”
“Yeah,” Cogern said, in a troubled voice. “All we need is a horse’s head on a pike, and this’d be a perfect match.” He looked at Tregaran under his brows. “Absolutely perfect. This could be the same guy.”
Tregaran studied the body, comparing it to a body found in the borderland hills where Karse and Valdemar came together in the regiment’s Terilee River sector. The dead Herald, staked and tied out . . . not naked, but wit
h his white leathers still about him to show what he had been. He had similarly been tied, flayed, and left to suffer unto death. Identically tied, once Tregaran saw what to look for.
“The Herald was little more than a boy,” Tregaran said slowly. “Whatever secrets he held would have been given up early in the torment. What had taken place after that had been for fun.”
Yet, the Herald’s surgical pain looked nothing to the outrages visited on the horse. The animal had been torn apart, by a hatred strong enough to shatter equine bones. The animal’s head, blue eyes open, set on a spearstave.
He returned to himself and shivered. Cogern’s marking the spear as Karsite, and the presence high on the border where Karse’s brave defenders protected them from the demon horses of Valdemar. The official version had paled when faced with the reality. They did not protect Karse from the demons . . . they protected the demons. A hard moment, the worst of his life.
Tregaran bent to look at the man’s hands. A laborer’s calluses, not a swordsman’s. He lay near the trail of the missing villagers, so was likely one of them. Whatever caused this man to die, it was even less then the Herald. That, at least, could be laid to spying. This? He could think of no sane reason.
“Officers,” Tregaran said, “file the regiment by. Let them get a good long look at what they are fighting against. We march at dusk. Blood for blood. Strength and honor.”
The lead scout pounded in on a stolen . . . borrowed horse.
“Sir, Thirteenth regiment reports having secured the crossroads. They will drive on to the city’s edge. They expect to ring the Sunlord’s by dawn. No sign of the Thirty-first yet.”
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