by Tanya Huff
The Demon's Den and Other Tales of Valdemar
Copyright © Tanya Huff, 2018
First published as an ebook in 2018 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
“The Demon's Den” originally published in Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar, DAW Books Inc., 1997 and collected in Finding Magic, ISFIC Press, 2007.
“Brock” originally published in Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar, DAW Books Inc., 2003 and collected in Finding Magic, ISFIC Press, 2007.
“All the Ages of Man” originally published in Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar, DAW Books Inc., 2005 and collected in Finding Magic, ISFIC Press, 2007.
“Live On” originally published in Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar, DAW Books Inc., 2008.
“Nothing Better to Do” originally published in Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar, DAW Books Inc., 2009.
“The Time We Have” originally published in Finding the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar, DAW Books Inc., 2010.
“Family Matters” originally published in Under the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar, DAW Books Inc., 2011.
All rights reserved.
eISBN: 978-1-625673-56-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Tiger Bright Studio.
Published by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
49 W. 45th Street, 12th Floor
New York, NY 10036
awfulagent.com/ebooks
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Introduction
The Demon's Den
Brock
All the Ages of Man
Live On
Nothing Better to Do
The Time We Have
Family Matters
About the Author
Also by Tanya Huff
Introduction
I want to thank Mercedes Lackey for generously allowing me to publish these stories set in her world. If you’re reading, because you’re a Tanya Huff reader and are unfamiliar with the Valdemar books, I hope you give them a try. If you’re here because you’re a Valdemar fan and wanted to read the Jors stories all in one place, thank you. I hope you give my other work a try.
Now, how did this come about?
Back in the mid 1980s, I sold Child of the Grove to DAW Books; un-agented. I had no idea of how to get an agent, but I knew I should have one, so as I did rewrites and waited for Child to come out and wrote an outline for my next book, I poked at the agent thing. Now, DAW had recently published Mercedes Lackey’s Arrows of the Queen (1987 to Child’s 1988), and I thought to myself, here’s someone who’s just a little ahead of me publishing-wise, maybe she knows about this whole agent thing.
I honestly don’t remember how I got in contact with her. I suspect I asked someone at DAW to pass on my number. Point is, we talked. And Misty was very helpful. And then when I had copy edit questions, we talked again. Then we kept talking. Mostly email. Some letters. A few phone calls. I sent her my manuscripts; she sent me hers.
Back in the day, we printed our books on fanfold paper. For those of you too young to have ever worked with fanfold, manuscripts had to be separated a page at a time and the guide... um... edges had to be taken off before it was mailed it to the editor. When Misty and I mailed manuscripts to each other, we didn’t bother. Generally, I separated pages as I read, or I unfolded on one side of me and refolded on the other. One day, Fiona came home from work to find our small apartment full of paper. Misty had sent me Magic's Pawn and I was so completely enthralled, I read the entire book as though it were printed on one long page, allowing the un-fanfolded paper to billow up around me.
Then I sent Misty my response. I’m paraphrasing, it was a long time ago, but the gist of it was, “You know the silence that comes after an amazing performance, before the applause?
This is yours.”
So, I have some history with Valdemar.
Back in 1996, Misty told me about plans for an anthology of Valdemar stories and asked if I’d write a story for it. I was honoured to be asked, but wow, what a responsibility. People loved the Valdemar books and it wasn’t just the world building that needed to be right, but the feel. The Valdemar books are filled with hope, and joy, and characters learning to be better than they are. Could I do that?
Misty seemed to think so. She thought so seven times. (There’ve been more than seven anthologies, but I’d finished Jors’ story at seven and stepped away.)
This is where you get to decide if you agree.
There been some discussion among writers about collecting earlier work. Do we fix errors? Polish a little? Or do we leave them intact, as is, as a historical record? I come down on the fix and polish side. The original stories are out there, in print, if you want to read them; the historical record secured. This e-collection is my chance to do a little tweaking and make them even better than they were. The stories haven’t been changed, nor have the characters, but a few awkward clauses have been smoothed out, and a problem no one noticed the first time around has been corrected. Because I’m working from the submission manuscripts, not the published text, many commas have been moved. Or removed. Or both. You deserve the best. So does Valdemar.
January 2018
THE DEMON'S DEN
The mine had obviously been abandoned for years. Not even dusk hid the broken timbers and the scree of rock that spilled out of the gaping black hole.
Jors squinted into the wind, trying and failing to see past the shadows. :Are you sure it went in there?:
:Of course I'm sure. I can smell the blood trail.:
:Maybe it's not hurt as badly as we thought. Maybe it'll be fine until morning.: His Companion gave a little buck. Jors clutched at the saddle and sighed. :All right, all right, I'm going.:
No one at the farmstead had known why the mountain cat had come down out of the heights. Perhaps the deer it normally hunted had grown scarce. Perhaps a more aggressive cat had driven it from its territory. Perhaps it had grown lazy and decided sheep were less work. No one at the farmstead cared. They'd tried to drive it off. It had retaliated by mauling a shepherd and three dogs. Now, they wanted it killed.
Just my luck to be riding circuit up here in the great white north. Jors swung out of the saddle and pulled his gloves off with his teeth. :How am I supposed to shoot it when I won't be able to see it?: he asked, unstrapping his bow.
Gervis turned his head to peer back at his Chosen with one sapphire eye. :It's hurt.:
:I know.: The wind sucked the heat out of his hands, and he swore under his breath as one of the laces of his small pack knotted tight.
:You wounded it.:
:I know, damn it. I know!: Sighing, he rested his head on the Companion's warm flank. :I'm sorry. It's just been a long day, and I should never have missed that shot.:
:No one makes every shot, Chosen.:
The warm understanding in the mindspeach helped.
The cat had been easy to track. By late afternoon, they'd known they were close. At sunset, they spotted it outlined against a grey and glowering sky. Jors had carefully aimed, carefully let fly, and watched in horror as the arrow thudded deep into a golden haunch. The cat had screamed and fled. They'd had no choice but to follow.
The most direct route up to the mine was a treacherous path of loose shale. Jors slipped, slammed one knee into the ground, and somehow managed to catch himself before he slid all the way b
ack to the bottom.
:Chosen? Are you hurt?:
Behind him, he could hear hooves scrabbling at the stone and he had to grin. :I'm fine, worrywart. Get back on solid ground before you do yourself some damage.:
Here I go into who-knows-what to face a wounded mountain cat and he's worried that I've skinned my knee. Shaking his head, Jors struggled the rest of the way to the mine entrance, then turned and waved down at the glimmering white shape below. :I'm here. I'm fine.: Then he frowned and peered at the ground. The cart tracks coming out of the mine bumped down a series of jagged ledges, disappeared completely, then reappeared down where his Companion was standing.
:I don't like this.:
If he squinted, Jors could easily make out Gervis sidestepping nervously back and forth, a glimmer of white amidst the evening shadows. :Hey, I don't like this either but...:
:Something is going to happen.:
Jors chewed on his lip. He'd never heard his usually phlegmatic Companion sound so unsettled. A gust of wind blew cold rain in his face and he shivered. :It's just a storm. Go back under the trees so you don't get soaked.:
:No. Come down. We can come back here in the morning.:
The storm probably had him a bit spooked, and he didn’t want to admit it. The Herald sighed and wished he could go along with his Companion's sudden change of mind. :I can't do that.: As much as he didn't want to go into that hole, he knew he had to. :I wounded it. I can't let it die slowly, in pain. I'm responsible for its death.:
He felt a reluctant agreement from below and, half wishing Gervis had continued to argue, turned to face the darkness. Setting his bow to one side, he pulled a small torch out of his pack, unwrapped the oilskin cover, and, in spite of wind and stiff fingers, got it lit.
The flame helped a little. But not much.
How was he supposed to hold a torch and aim a bow? This was ridiculous. But he'd missed his shot, and he couldn't let an animal, any animal, die in pain because of something he'd done.
The tunnel sloped gently back into the hillside, the shadows becoming more impenetrable the further from the entrance he went. He stepped over a fallen beam and a pile of rock, worked his way around a crazily angled corner, saw a smear of blood glistening in the torch light, and went on. His heart beat so loudly, he doubted he'd be able to hear the cat if it should turn and attack.
A low shadow caught his eye, and against his better judgement, he bent to study it. An earlier rockfall had exposed what looked to be the upper corner of a cave. In the dim, flickering light, he couldn't tell how far down it went, but a tossed rock seemed to fall forever.
The wind howled. He jumped, stumbled, and laughed shakily at himself. It was just the storm rushing past the entrance; he hadn't gone so far in that he wouldn't be able to hear it.
Then his torch blew out.
:Chosen!:
:No, it's okay. I'm all right.: His startled shout still echoed, bouncing back and forth inside the tunnels. :I'm in the dark, but I'm okay.: Again, he set his bow aside and pulled his tinderbox from his belt pouch with trembling fingers. Get a grip, Jors, he told himself firmly. You're a Herald. Heralds are not afraid of the dark.
And then the tunnel twisted. Flung to his knees and then his side, Jors wrapped his head in his arms and tried to present as small a target as possible to the falling rock. The earth heaved as though a giant creature deep below struggled to get free. With a deafening roar, a section of the tunnel collapsed. Lifted and slammed against a pile of rock, Jors lost track of up and down. The world became noise and terror and certain death.
Then half his body was suspended over nothing at all. He had a full heartbeat to realize what was happening before he fell, a large amount of loose rock falling with him.
It seemed to go on forever; turning, tumbling, sometimes sliding, knowing that no one could survive the eventual landing.
But he did. Although it took him a moment to realize it.
:Chosen! Jors! Chosen!:
:Gervis...: The near panic in his Companion's mindspeach pulled him up out of a grey and red blanket of pain, the need to reassure the young stallion delaying his own hysteria. :I'm alive. Calm down, I'm alive.: He spit out a mouthful of blood and tried to move.
Most of the rock that had fallen with him seemed to have landed on his legs. Teeth clenched, he flexed his toes inside his boots and almost cried in relief at the response. Although muscles from thigh to ankle spasmed, everything worked. :I don't think I'm even hurt very badly.: Which was true enough as far as it went. He had no way of telling what kind of injuries lurked under the masking pressure of the rock.
:I'm coming!:
:No, you're not!: He'd landed on his stomach, facing up a slope of about thirty degrees. He could lift his torso about a handspan. He could move his left arm freely. His right was pinned by his side. Breathing heavily, he rested his cheek against the damp rock and closed his eyes. It made no difference to the darkness, but it made him feel better. :Gervis, you're going to have to go for help. I can't free myself, and you can't get to me.: He tried to envision his map, tried to trace the route they'd taken tracking the cat, tried to work out distances. :There's a mining settlement closer than the farmstead, just follow the old mine trail, it should take you right to it.:
:But you...:
:I'm not going anywhere until you get back.:
“I'm not going anywhere,” he repeated to the darkness as he felt the presence of his Companion move rapidly away. “I'm not going anywhere.” Unfortunately, as the mountain pressed in on him, and all he could hear was his own terror filling the silence, that was exactly what he was afraid of.
* * *
It was hard to hear anything over the storm that howled around the chimneys and shutters, but Ari's ears were her only contact with the world, and she'd learned to sift sound for value. Head cocked, tangled hair falling over the ruin of her eyes, she listened. Rider coming. Galloping hard. She smiled, smug and silent. Not much went on that she didn't know about first. Something must've gone wrong somewhere. Only reason to be riding so hard in this kind of weather.
The storm had been no surprise, not with her stumps aching so for the past two days. She rubbed at them, hacking and spitting into the fire.
“Mama, Auntie Ari did it again.”
“Hush, Robin. Leave her alone.”
That's right, leave me alone. She spat once more, just because she knew the child would still be watching, then lifted herself on her palms and hand-walked towards her bench in the corner.
“Ari, can I get you something?”
Sometimes she thought they'd never learn. Grunting a negative, because ignoring them only brought renewed and more irritating offers, she swung herself easily up onto the low bench just as the pounding began. Sounded like they didn't even dismount. She couldn’t wait.
“Who can it be at this hour?”
Her cousin, Dyril. Answer it and find out, idiot.
“Stone me, it's a horse!”
The sound of hooves against the threshold were unmistakable. She could hear the creak of leather harness, the snorting and blowing of an animal ridden hard, could even smell the hot scent of it from all the way across the room – but somehow it didn't add up to horse.
And while the noises it was making were certainly horse-like...
From the excited babble at the door, Ari managed to separate two bits of relevant information; the horse was riderless, and it was nearly frantic about something.
“What colour is it?”
It took a moment for Ari to recognize the rough and unfamiliar voice as her own. A stunned silence fell, and she felt the eyes of her extended family turned on her. Her chin rose, and her lips thinned. “Well?” she demanded, refusing to let them see she was as startled as they were. “What colour is it?”
“He's not a it, Auntie Ari, he's a he. And he's white. And his eyes are blue. And horses don't got blue eyes.”
Young Robin was obviously smarter than she'd suspected. “Of course they don't. It's
not a horse, you rock-headed morons. Can't you recognize a Companion when you see one?”
The Companion made a sound that could only be agreement. As the babble of voices broke out again, Ari snorted and shook her head in disbelief.
“A Companion without a Herald?”
“Is it searching?”
“What happened to the Herald?”
Ari heard the Companion spin and gallop away, return and gallop away again.
“I think it wants us to follow it.”
“Maybe its Herald is hurt and it's come here for help.”
And did you figure that out all on your own? Ari rubbed at her stumps as various members of the family scrambled for jackets and boots and some of the children were sent to rouse the rest of the settlement.
When, with a great thunder of hooves, the rescue party galloped off, she beat her head lightly against the wall, trying not to remember.
“Auntie Ari?”
Robin. Made brave, no doubt, by her breaking silence. Well, she wouldn't do it again.
“Auntie Ari, tell me about Companions.” He had a high-pitched, imperious little voice. “Tell me.”
Tell him about Companions. Tell him about the time spent at the Collegium wishing her Blues were Grey. Tell him how the skills of mind and hand that had earned her a place seemed so suddenly unimportant next to the glorious honour of being Chosen. Tell him of watching them gallop across the Companion's field, impossibly beautiful, impossibly graceful – infinitely far from her mechanical world of stresses and supports, and levers and gears.
Tell him how she'd made certain she was never in the village when the Heralds came through riding circuit, because it hurt so much to see such beauty and know she could never be a part of it. Tell him how, after the accident, she'd stuffed her fingers in her ears at the first sound of bridle bells.
Tell him any or all of that?
“You saw them, didn't you, Auntie Ari. You saw them up close when you were in the city.”
“Yes.” And then she regretted she'd said so much.
* * *
:Chosen! I've brought hands to dig you out.:
