Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-102

by Mercedes Lackey

  The old man started another complaint. “Ain’t been this helpless since I got the white fever years back.” His face twisted. “I suppose that damn cat’s been piling up food for me.” The cat purred as if recognizing its name and rubbed against Garrad’s legs.

  To disguise his embarrassment, Ree extended a clawed finger toward the animal. It sniffed, then made an inquiring mew. “Yeah, I’m part cat these days.” Ree scratched behind the cat’s ears and smiled a little when the animal leaned into his tentative gesture. He nodded to the old man. “By the back door. Rats, mice, birds, and at least one rabbit.” He shrugged. “It’s a good thing it’s been cold.”

  Garrad grunted. “Sounds about right. Damn cat thinks he’s got to hunt for me as well as himself.” He studied Ree before he added. “Looks like he likes you. Normally he’d scratch anyone as ain’t family.”

  Ree wondered if he meant his family or the cat’s family. It seemed Garrad didn’t care for the affection of any creature he didn’t feel attached to. At least he liked Jem.

  Garrad was right about the snow, which started coming down shortly after, carried on a harsh wind. Over the next few days Ree had to do everything needed to get the place ready for a hard winter, from getting the hay in, to chopping wood, to repairing the henhouse roof—all with the old man barking orders from a wheelbarrow.

  Two weeks later, he was barking orders standing up and leaning on a stick, while that damn cat wended his way around his and Ree’s ankles. Jem wasn’t coughing as much, and his bones weren’t so obvious beneath the skin. He’d picked up on feeding the chickens and making bread every morning, too.

  When Garrad tried to scold him for this, it set off a staring match between two identical sets of blue eyes, and Jem had won.

  Jem and the horse were the only things the old man seemed to care for. He had not a good word for the people of the nearby town, and when Jem had said—after Garrad had spent half an hour telling Ree exactly what he’d done wrong when repairing the roof—that they could leave and he’d call the people of the town to look after Garrad, he’d started off a tirade. “Them? They never bothered even when I buried my wife. They let my son be taken off without trying to stop the Imperials. I’d rot in all the hells before asking them for help.”

  Sometimes, amid the orders and complaints, Garrad talked of how his farm had been much more prosperous, how the forest had once been a hunting reserve for the Emperor himself, but no one took care of it or even tried to keep it safe any more. There’d been talk in Three Rivers that bandits claimed whole duchies for themselves and the Empire did nothing to stop them. Hobgoblins came out of the woods and killed people and livestock until they were killed, Garrad told him. He’d lost half his cattle to hobgoblins before he got a pitchfork in one’s guts and sent its companions running for safer prey. When Ree shivered at that story, the old man gave his rusty laugh. “You got lucky, boy. Really lucky.”

  Ree couldn’t disagree, when he was warm and fed and had a safe bed for the first time in years, perhaps ever. His mother hadn’t lived so well, and the work was better than many of the things he’d done to survive. If the best he could hope for from Garrad was tolerance because of Jem, well, he could live with that. And he would, as long as he had it. Even though it made Ree sick to think about killing humans, he didn’t regret killing that one, no matter that he’d been too terrified to know what he was doing. The big bastard would have killed Jem, and Jem had brought back the little bit of human Ree still had.

  During a break between snowstorms, two weeks later, Ree was using a pitchfork to shove hay down from the loft to where it could be spread in the animal stalls when he heard the horse scream. He raced out of the barn, fork in hand. A creature that might once have been a bear stood over Garrad, and the horse reared and danced back from it. The thing’s white fur made it almost invisible against the snow.

  Before he could think, Ree found himself sprinting toward the thing. The fork left his hand, flew through the air.

  He heard Garrad scream, “No, Ree, no.”

  The three tines made a solid sound when they hit the creature and buried themselves deep in its chest. The horse fled, leaping the fence without slowing.

  Ree caught the handle of the pitchfork and shoved with all his strength. Scarlet blood sprayed the white fur, and the beast swung paws as big as Ree’s head. Step by step, Ree forced it back, away from Garrad, until it shuddered and collapsed.

  “Garrad?” Ree kept half an eye on the creature as he edged towards where the old farmer lay.

  “Brownie.” Garrad sounded tired, not his normal half-growl. “I raised that horse from a foal.” He spoke between gasps, and his face had an unhealthy gray look. “Her dam was my boy’s horse. She’s all I’ve got left of him.”

  “Get inside and rest.” Ree didn’t have to think about that. “I’ll go after the horse.”

  “Not on your own.” Jem must have come from the house. “Not with things like that out there.”

  Ree shook his head as they helped Garrad regain his footing. “Someone needs to look after Garrad, and you’re better at that than I am.”

  Jem’s mouth tightened, and his eyes got that hard, determined look Ree hardly ever saw. He said nothing.

  Rather than waste time, Ree slipped away while the younger boy was getting Garrad into his chair in the main room. If it started to snow again, he might never be able to follow the horse’s tracks.

  He found the horse easily enough—the mare hadn’t run far. She stood by a stand of half-frozen grass, nipping the few green blades free. Ree smelled nothing worse than horse. The animal let him get close before she lifted her head and snorted into his chest. Ree sighed and caught a handful of mane. He should have brought rope for a halter. “Come on, girl.”

  Ree kept talking softly as he walked her back through the dim, snow-covered forest.

  The snow in front of him erupted. The horse shrieked and tried to rear, almost wrenching Ree’s arm out of its socket. He struggled to free his fingers while the mound of shaggy white fur unfolded arms and claws that could gut him without effort.

  How did I miss it when I came this way before? Ree twisted from a clumsy slash, his head ringing and his arm and shoulder burning. The horse backed away, bringing Ree with it. Between the animal’s retreat and the white-furred beast’s attacks, Ree couldn’t untangle his hand from the horse’s mane. He struggled to avoid the creature’s claws—he couldn’t use his own.

  The creature howled. It lurched a step toward Ree and the horse, spun away. A sharp crack made it howl and lurch again. Ree pushed himself and the horse to the side as the creature lost its balance and fell toward them. He heard his shirt tear, smelled blood.

  By the time he’d got the horse standing still, his arm ached and he was shivering, but the creature lay on the snow with a pitchfork buried in its back. The handle quivered, but Jem stood steadily, reproach in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have left without me.”

  Ree swallowed. He couldn’t talk.

  “Oh, never mind.” Jem shook his head. “Let’s get back. I’ll bring ugly here—” He indicated the dead creature. “Fur like that should be worth something.”

  Ree wrinkled his nose as he stirred the furs in the barrel. The ammonia reek of the tanning mix made his eyes water and burned his nose. His shoulder still ached, a dull pain that flared every time he shoved the wooden paddle against bulky fur.

  He blamed Garrad’s sense of humor. “You killed ’em, boys, you can fix ’em.”

  The sound of arguing echoed from the nearest road. Ree looked up. It looked like a group of men approaching. He stepped away from the barrel to where he could breathe cleanly.

  Humans, none too clean. “Garrad, Jem! Company!” Ree returned to the tanning as soon as he’d called. He’d best not be too obvious.

  Jem supported the old man—whom he’d taken to calling Granddad—as he hobbled out into the field, his other hand clutching the walking stick Ree had carved him.

  The visitors r
eached the far fence at about the same time as Jem and Garrad did. Ree’s stomach tightened, but Garrad seemed unconcerned by the pitchforks and hoes his visitors brandished. “So what brings you folks up from the Rivers?”

  “Monsters came out the forest and killed two of Kederic’s best pigs.” The speaker was younger than Garrad, with dark hair graying at the temples. “We chased ’em off, but they came up this way.”

  Garrad snorted. “It took you all of a week to follow ’em? You’re a bigger coward than your da was, Meren Anders son, and that’s saying something.”

  The leader paled, and then flushed, then cast about, clearly wanting to say something. “So where did these strangers you’ve got come from?” He looked straight at Ree.

  Ree let the paddle fall and stalked over to where Garrad and Jem stood. “I’m not human enough for you?” His voice shook with a fury that surprised him. “You can see clear up this valley from town, I’m told. Three cold days without smoke and not one of you humans thought to see if anything was wrong? Not even for valuable livestock? Without us there’d be nothing alive here.” He spat the words out as though they tasted bad. “No need to worry about those creatures, either.” He turned his back on the men—a deliberate act of contempt that made the skin between his shoulders crawl—and stomped back to the barrel, where he used the paddle to heave one of the half-tanned furs out.

  The white fur glittered in the cold light, sun catching on every drop of water. Ree let it drop back in with a splash.

  Garrad spoke before anyone else could. “They’re not strangers. They’re my grandsons,” he growled. “My boy sent ’em to me. Being with the army, he couldn’t come himself, but he made sure I’d have someone who didn’t need to be nagged into seeing I was well. Who wouldn’t ignore others as needed help.”

  The lead townsman gaped. “You ... They never came through town.”

  “ ’Course not.” Garrad sniffed. “What with bandits and all, much too risky.” He raised his walking stick and poked the leader’s stomach with it. “So you can get yourself back to your Amelie and stop bothering me with your nonsense.”

  If there was any more conversation, Ree didn’t hear it. His eyes stung. His grandsons, he’d said. Not just Jem, but Ree. Jem looked like the family. Jem might be a gift of the gods. But Ree didn’t even look human. Ree wasn’t anyone’s gift.

  After a while, he heard Garrad’s limping gait approach. “Them furs should be fine a while without turning. Come on in and get something to eat.” Garrad paused a moment, then added, “Son.”

  Ree swallowed. He had to blink several times before he dared turn to look at the old man. Jem’s smile made it harder. “Thanks.” He swallowed again. “Granddad.”

  Haven’s Own

  by Fiona Patton

  Fiona Patton lives in rural Ontario, Canada, with her partner Tanya Huff, an ancient chihuahua, and a menagerie of cats. She has five heroic fantasy novels out with DAW Books:

  The Stone Prince

  ,

  The Painter Knight

  ,

  The Granite Shield

  , and

  The Golden Sword

  in the Branion Series and

  The Silver Lake

  , the first book in the Warriors of Estavia series.

  The Golden Tower

  , the second book in that series, is due out in September of this year. She has published thirty-odd short stories, most with Tekno.Books and DAW. She is currently working on the third book in the Warriors of Estavia series tentatively titled

  The Shining City

  .

  There was no hint of smoke on the morning breeze. Standing in the window of the tiny back bedchamber he shared with three of his brothers, Hektor Dann of the Haven City Watch took a tentative breath of the crisp autumn air before staring out past the rows of tenements and shops to the blackened area at the far end of the street. A fire had swept through the crowded iron market a month ago, destroying many of the tents and stalls and killing half a dozen people, including Hektor’s own father, Sergeant Egan Dann. No one had known how the fire’d started but there were always rumors.

  Reluctantly, his gaze turned to the roofs of Candler’s Row to the east. Iron Street and Candler’s Row had been at odds for years, with street fighting and vandalism breaking out every few months, but nothing like this had ever happened before. Angry mutterings of retaliation from the street’s more vocal hotheads had kept the watchhouse on full alert. Something was going to blow; everyone knew it. It was only a question of when.

  As if on cue, a pounding on the door interrupted his thoughts.

  “Move it, Hektor, or we’ll be late.” His oldest brother’s voice, the familiar impatient temper masking a more recent hint of barely controlled anger beneath it.

  “I am movin’, Aiden.”

  “Then move faster. The Captain wants us at the watchhouse early in case things get out of hand.”

  “I know.”

  “Then know faster.”

  Aiden’s footsteps stomped down the hall and, with one last glance out the window, Hektor followed.

  Avoiding the tottering charge of his three-year-old nephew, Egan, he made his way through the flat’s narrow hallway to the front room, accepting a cup of tea and a piece of bread and honey from his sister-in-law, Aiden’s wife, Sulia. Then, crossing to the main window, he bent down and kissed his mother on the top of the head.

  Setting her embroidery to one side, she rose to straighten the collar of his blue and gray watchman’s uniform.

  “Don’t forget today’s sweets day,” she reminded him, tucking a pennybit into his hand.

  “I won’t.”

  “Did Jakon and Raik remember to leave their money on the dresser before they went on shift last night?”

  Hektor nodded. “I’ve got theirs an’ Aiden’s,” he answered, then frowned as Sulia handed him three pennybits, one each for her, Egan, and their youngest, Leila, who was just six months old.

  “We’ve got plenty, Suli,” he offered. “You don’t have to put any in now.”

  “Never you mind what I put in now,” she said sharply. “And don’t you let Aiden bully you into givin’ these back to me either. He paid the whole of the rent yesterday.”

  “He did.”

  As one, they glanced at the empty chair at the head of the kitchen table without speaking.

  “You knew he would, Hektor,” Sulia said gently. “He’s the oldest. It’s his duty.”

  “I didn’t know he would,” Hektor grumbled. Short-tempered and wild, Aiden had never been easy to get along with. Marriage and children had done little to change him, and since their father’s death, he’d been even more unpredictable. Aiden was also going to blow; it was also only a question of when. But hopefully it wouldn’t happen in front of the family.

  Now, smoothing his own expression, Hektor turned and held his hand out to his only sister, Kasiath, sitting with their grandfather beside the small coal stove, blonde head and gray head bent over a bird tucked in a wooden box. She handed him a full penny with a serious expression that belied her thirteen years.

  “Peachwing’s ailin’,” she said in answer to his questioning expression. “The herbalist is makin’ up a packet of medicines for her and one for Granther. Can you pick ’em up after your shift? We’d have asked Jakon and Raik, but they’re guardin’ the iron market rebuild first thing this mornin’,” she added quietly.

  He nodded. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, peering down at the bird.

  “She misses her clutch. We moved ’em to the trainin’ coop yesterday.”

  Beside her, their grandfather snorted. “I’ve told ye a thousan’ times, girl, birds don’t miss their littles when they leave. It’s mites.”

  Kasiath just patted him on the arm. “Course they miss ’em, Granther,” she said. “They just don’t show it the same way people do. But she’s also got mites,” she agreed. “She’s s’posed to be lead messenger bird for the watchhouse next week,” she ad
ded, returning her attention to Hektor. “But she can’t ’less we get the mites cleared up.”

  Hektor jiggled the money in his hand. “Can’t you pay the herbalist in eggs?” he asked. “Not from your messenger birds,” he added swiftly when both sister and grandfather gave him a dark look. “But your pigeons’ve gotta have few to spare?”

  “Oh, aye, if you wants to go without your breakfast tomorrow,” his grandfather snapped.

  “There are a few extra,” Kasiath allowed in a mollifying tone, “but we didn’t think you wanted to keep ’em at the watchhouse over your shift.”

  “We didn’t think they’d still be there, is what she meant,” their grandfather snorted. “T’was different in my day. You could leave a fortune on the front step, and no one’d look twice at it. Nowadays, with your Da gone, there’s no order up there. Them greedy ba ...” He broke off at Kasiath’s reproachful look, hunkering down in his shawl with a barely audible mutter.

  “I’ll get ’em,” Hektor promised, then turned with an attempt at a stern expression to his youngest brother, eleven-year-old Padreic.

  The boy studiously kept his eyes on the pig’s bladder ball he was mending until Hektor coughed pointedly. “That’s all right, Hek,” he said without looking up. “I don’t need any sweets this month.”

  “Don’t need?”

  Padreic shrugged, then glanced up with a rueful expression. “I don’t have a pennybit,” he admitted.

  “You got paid last week,” Hektor reminded him. “And I saw you put money on the mantle.”

  The boy just shrugged again, and Hektor sighed. “You gave it away, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “To Rosie.”

  With a shake of his head, Hektor reached into his pouch for another pennybit, then stopped as Aiden’s hand came down heavily on his arm.

  “Rosie earns her own money,” he said shortly.

  Both younger brothers nodded in resentful obedience, but when Aiden turned his back, Hektor quietly added a pennybit anyway.