Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  Thoughts of her mistress brought Mola crashing back to reality. Charlin would never know about her success if she did not hurry and find those healing clovers. Maybe it’s not a fool’s mission. Maybe my dream meant something. Maybe I really can make my Herald strong again.

  Grinning, Mola balled up the ruined clothes and shoved them into the pack. She would have rather burned them; but, without their corroborating filth and stench, she doubted anyone would believe her. With a lot of effort, she had managed to clean equally disgusting stains from the effects of her mistress in the past.

  Mola looked up. The sun no longer glared down at her, partially blocked by the rocky peaks. The way had grown steeper, stonier; and she could see the crags not far above her, the ones from her dream. If she squinted, she believed she could even see greenery dotted with bits of pink. Using the makeshift spear as a walking stick, tossing the pack back over her shoulder, Mola started up the more sharply rising slope.

  Mola had only taken a few steps when she noticed a dark figure towering above her on the path ahead. For a moment, she mistook it for an enormous man in a fur coat. Then, it opened its mouth in a growling roar, and she realized she faced a large and angry-looking bear.

  Mola went completely still, afraid to move. A scream bubbled up in her throat, but she forced herself to swallow it. Loud noises infuriate bears. She could not remember where she had heard that, but it did not seem worth challenging. Unable to move, she dredged up other lore: Playing dead doesn’t work, bears can climb trees, they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them, bears can’t run downhill.

  That last bit of advice seemed useful in a way the others did not. Spinning on her heels, Mola broke into a terrified run, back the way she had come.

  Behind her, Mola heard the creature roar again, then the slam and rattle of heavy paws behind her. It can’t run. It can’t run downhill. The advice cycled through her head in a desperate chant. Yet, to her ears, the bear was moving. And swiftly. She dared a look behind her. Not only was the bear running downhill, but it was clearly gaining on her. In a moment, it would have her.

  The scream Mola had suppressed tumbled out, unbidden. Another followed. And another. Not knowing what else to do, she ducked her head and came to an abrupt stop.

  The bear launched itself, landing where Mola would have been if she had still been running. Thrown off-balance, the bear lost its footing, stumbled, slid partially down the hill, then tumbled a few steps further. Mola tensed to run back up, cursing whoever had assured her that bears could not run downhill. If she survived this, she would do whatever it took to counteract that myth. And punch that person in the lying face.

  Before Mola could take a step, the bear gathered its paws back under it. Running now, Mola realized, only made her a target. Gathering her courage, she jabbed the makeshift spear toward the animal.

  The bear reared back up. As the spear rushed toward it, it slammed a massive forepaw against the pole. The branch shattered. The biggest pieces flew in opposite directions, rattling down toward the mountain’s base. Bits of wood showered Mola.

  “Demons!” Disarmed, Mola stood, rooted in panic, as the bear ambled toward her. She could read murder in its dark eyes, smell the fetid odor of its breath, see the teeth and claws that would maul her from existence.

  :Move!: The voice in Mola’s head was not her own, but it mobilized her just the same. Shrugging the pack from her shoulder, she grasped it by the strap and swung it at the bear.

  The pack slammed the beast in the face.

  Roaring, the bear caught the pack in its teeth. Its nose twitched. The pack crashed to the ground, and the deadly claws ripped into it instead of Mola.

  Move! This time, Mola chastised herself. Her supplies would not distract it long. Whirling, she tore back up the mountainside, desperately seeking the rockiest cliffs. Grass turned to stone beneath her feet, and she staggered up onto a crag.

  Not as far away as she had hoped, the bear ripped through the remains of her pack, then raised its head. Nostrils twitching, head swiveling, it finally found her and loped effortlessly toward her.

  Mola leapt from her perch to a higher crag, then another. She hunkered down, gaze never leaving the animal, hands mindlessly raking stones and small boulders into a pile around her.

  Shuffling directly beneath Mola, the bear rose on its hind legs to stare at her.

  Heart pounding, Mola found herself now more angry than frightened. How dare it want to kill me. I’m no helpless rabbit to be eaten on a whim. Grabbing a large stone, she hurled it at the bear.

  The rock hit the bear squarely on the cheek. Enraged, it rose taller, roared louder. Took a menacing step toward her.

  Mola threw another rock, and another, pelting it with anything she could get her hands around. “Go away!” she yelled. “Leave me alone, you stupid, smelly beast!”

  The pain only infuriated it more. Its roars echoed. Its ears pinned tightly to its head. It roiled the air with maddened swipes of its massive paws.

  Struggling with a boulder, Mola drew together all the strength she could muster and, with the help of her higher position, sent the rock crashing into the bear’s chest. It hit with a loud thud, driving the creature backward and to its haunches.

  That proved enough. The bear whirled and fled, seeking less dangerous prey.

  Mola sank to the crag, out of both ammunition and energy. She did not know how long she lay there, but the sky had greatly darkened by the time she opened her eyes, as the sun slipped behind the mountain. Weeds tickled her nose, green and leafy, filled with pink flowers. Pink flowers. Mola sat up. Pink flowers? She started to laugh. She lay in a patch of five-leafed clovers. I found them! Thank the gods, I found them.

  Mola seized the clovers by the handful and shoved them into her pockets until they bulged. Only then she rose, and nearly tumbled from the crag. Her legs had gone as shaky as slender twigs in a wind storm. It took her inordinately long to clamber down from the rocky ledge. But, once there, she dropped to the ground and rolled like a child down the grassy mountainside.

  My dream was real! I found the clover! None of the pains in Mola’s body, nothing she had suffered, could take away the joy of that moment. She still had a slog back through a swamp that might contain another drake. She might not find her mount waiting when she returned, and she would have to drag her weary, painful bones all the way home. Yet, none of that mattered. She had survived a drake and a bear. She would make it home. She would save Charlin and prove that she had some worth, even without the Gifts of the Heralds and Healers.

  Mola slammed into something hard and stable that brought her to an abrupt halt. She lay for a moment in utter uncertainty, hoping for a rock, worried for another bear. Dizzily, she focused on the unwavering thing that had blocked her path. Two blurry white pillars stood in front of her.

  Pillars? I’m inside. Tears welled in Mola’s eyes. It was all a dream? Just a big, fat, stupid dream? Disappointment flooded through her, erasing the happiness that nothing else had managed to dispel. Yet, the grass remained green beneath her. The terrible odor of swamp still filled her nostrils. Her pockets protruded. She looked up the long, white pillars to a sweet pink nose and two blue eyes studying her curiously. Mola was still on the mountain, at the feet of a Companion.

  “Rexla?” Mola tried, hoping Corry had changed his mind and come to rescue her.

  The horse-like creature lowered its head to whuffle into Mola’s face.

  Though the Companions all resembled one another, with their white coats, silvery hooves, and enormous blue eyes, years of helping in the stable allowed Mola to notice their differences as easily as a mother distinguishes her identical twins. She sat up, waiting for the vertigo to disperse. Now, she recognized the creature in front of her. It was Melahar, Elborik’s colt, who had not yet Chosen.

  “I’m sorry, Melahar. Forgive me, I was dizzy from rolling. And I just fought a—” Mola crinkled her eyes in confusion. “What are you doing here, Melahar?” She did not expect
an answer. Companions could not directly communicate with those not Gifted.

  :I’ve come to Choose.:

  “Oh.” Mola looked around, trying to find the Herald lucky enough to bond with Elborik’s son. She had not seen another human on the cliffs.

  :Don’t be stupid, Mola. I Choose you.:

  :Me? You Choose me?: Only then it occurred to Mola that she had used Mind-hearing, Mindspeech.

  :The clover made the Herald stronger!:

  Mola pulled a handful from her pocket and looked at the drooping plants. “But I haven’t even delivered it yet.” The significance of the words penetrated deeper. “Charlin is better? She’s better?”

  Melahar reached down and gently ate the clover off of Mola’s palm: :No, Mola. I’m afraid Charlin’s dead.:

  A boulder hurled at Mola’s chest could not have hit her harder. :But ... how can that be? You said the clover made the Herald stronger.:

  :And it did, my Herald. It made you stronger.: Melahar nosed through Mola’s pocket for more clover. :Your mind channels were just open enough for me to send you the dreams. It took this journey to fully activate them.:

  Absently, Mola pulled out a huge batch of clover for her Companion and reveled in the soft touch of Melahar’s nose against her hand. My Companion. I have a Companion. She threw her arms around the delicately arched white neck, spilling the clover to the ground. Joy beyond what she had ever known surged through Mola and, with it, an incredible sense of responsibility. :Melahar, can you help me find Corry’s knife? I need to return it.:

  Melahar whinnied. :He said not to worry about it.:

  :He said ... You mean he was ... in on it?:

  :They all were. I had to spread the word. Otherwise, you might have talked one of them into going instead of you.:

  Mola flushed scarlet. She had tried to do exactly that.

  :Corry would have done it. He’s sweet on you, you know.:

  The warmth spread from Mola’s cheeks to the roots of her hair. Now that she had her own Companion, a relationship with him became a real possibility.

  :And then the journey would not have made the right Herald stronger.:

  :Me.:

  :Yes.:

  :I’m a Herald.: To Mola, the words seemed more like random sounds. Such a thing could not be true.

  :You will be once you finish your training. I had to take a bit of poetic license.:

  :And the clover. Does it really have healing properties?:

  A wicked sense of excitement wafted from Melahar. :It heals my cravings. I love that clover.: He lowered his head to pick up the bits Mola had dropped. :Hop on, soon-to-be Herald Mola. I sent your other mount home.:

  Mola did not need a second invitation. She scrambled onto Melahar’s back, feeling like the tallest person in the world. “Home, trusty mount!”

  Melahar raised his head proudly. :There’s not a bear, nor a swamp drake, that could stop us.:

  The Cheat

  by Richard Lee Byers

  Richard Lee Byers is the author of over thirty fantasy and horror novels, including Unclean, Undead, Unholy , The Rage, The Rite, The Ruin, and Dissolution. A resident of the Tampa Bay area, the setting for much of his horror fiction, he spends a good deal of his leisure time fencing and playing poker. Visit his Web site at richardleebyers.com.

  Falnac was nervous. I could tell by the way he kept swallowing.

  I put my hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Use what we practiced,” I said. “Leap into the distance, feint to the groin, and finish on the outside.”

  “Yes, Master Selden,” he whispered.

  “And if the two of you wind up close together, stay there and stab like a madman. Alsagad’s taller than you. Close quarters will make him awkward.”

  I could have said more, but a swordsman about to fight for his life can only retain so much advice. Indeed, given that this was Falnac’s first duel, it was an open question whether he’d remember anything I’d just told him, or anything from his six years of lessons, either.

  When they deemed the light sufficient, the seconds called the duelists to a patch of ground where there were no tombstones to trip them up. As they advanced, Dromis caught my eye. He was Alsagad’s fencing master as I was Falnac’s, and the protocol of dueling required that we treat one another with stately courtesy. Instead, the big man with the curling mustachios, pointed beard, and hair all dyed a brassy, unnatural yellow gave me a sneer, as if to assert that my teaching and my student were so inferior to his that Alsagad’s victory was assured.

  For a heartbeat, it made me want to see Alsagad stretched out dead on the dewy grass, and then I felt ashamed of myself. Like many quarrels, this one had materialized over a trifle, and any decent man would hope to see it settled by, at worst, a trifling wound.

  The seconds gave the principals the chance to speak words of reconciliation, and of course, being proud young blades of Mornedealth, they didn’t. So Alsagad’s second whipped a white kerchief through the air. That was the signal to begin.

  The duelists circled one another while waking birds chirped, a cool breeze blew, and dawn stained the river on the far side of the graveyard red. Then Falnac sprang forward.

  His blade leaped at Alsagad’s crotch in as convincing a feint as I’d ever seen. But the move didn’t draw the parry it was meant to elicit. Instead, Alsagad simply cut into Falnac’s wrist. My student’s blade fell from his hand.

  The seconds opened their mouths to shout for a halt, but they were too slow. Alsagad slashed Falnac’s neck.

  Falnac collapsed with blood spurting from the new and fatal wound. Dromis crowed and shook his fist in the air. “Yes!” he bellowed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “That murdering little whoreson,” I said. I reached to refill my cup and knocked the wine bottle over.

  Marissa’s scarred, long-fingered hand caught it before it could spill. The close-cropped hair framing her heart-shaped face was inky black in the dim candle-light of the tavern. “You’re drunk,” she said.

  “It was murder!” I insisted.

  “If no one had called the halt, then Alsagad was within his rights to keep fighting. And he was a boy, too, wasn’t he, no doubt as frightened and frantic as Falnac.”

  “Don’t bet on it. All of Dromis’ pupils are arrogant and vicious.”

  “And yours aren’t? Mine are, and thank the gods for it. Otherwise, they wouldn’t pay good coin to learn to kill.”

  I shook my head. “There’s a difference, and you know it.”

  “I suppose. By all accounts, Dromis himself is a ruffian, and brutish fencing masters turn out brutish swordsmen. There’s no great mystery in it.”

  “The mystery lies in how they win duel after duel. If you’d seen that feint—”

  “Yes, you said it was very pretty.”

  “Better than pretty. Perfect. Even you would have gone for the parry. But Alsagad didn’t.”

  Marissa sighed. “I admit, I’d love to find out exactly what Dromis teaches that makes his disciples so formidable. Hell, I may need to find out to go earning a living. Students have started leaving me to study with him. I imagine it’s happened to you, too.”

  “Now that you mention it.” I took another swig of the tart white wine. “And maybe my students are wise to desert me, if I can’t prepare them to defend themselves.”

  Marissa rested her callused fingertips on the back of my hand. “People die in duels for all sorts of reasons, including sheer bad luck. Falnac’s death is sad, but it’s no reflection on you.”

  “It is if Alsagad cheated and I didn’t catch him. I’m supposed to be an expert on every aspect of dueling, including treachery and sleights.”

  “Is that what you think? Dromis is helping his pupils cheat?”

  “They win and win and win, don’t they, even when facing swordsmen with more experience. How else can you account for it?”

  Marissa took a drink, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “I don’t know. It’s hard to believe that Dromis’ system is really so much
better than everybody else’s. Maestros may claim to know secret invincible techniques—I’ve done it myself to drum up trade—but you and I know that’s mostly rubbish. There are only so many ways to stick a blade in another man’s carcass.

  “But if Alsagad did cheat,” she continued, “I don’t see how he could have managed it except by magic, and I assume you were on guard against that.”

  “Yes.” For a moment, reminded of its presence, I felt the round shape of the talisman beneath my shirt. It should have grown hot if Alsagad were carrying a beneficial enchantment on his person or sword, and cold if anyone had cast a curse on Falnac. “Still, I’m not a wizard. It’s possible someone slipped something past me.” I suddenly wanted to be sober, and took a deep breath in a futile attempt to become so. “I’m going to find out.”

  “Stick your nose into Dromis’ business, you mean.”

  “Yes. If he and Alsagad conspired to deny Falnac a fair fight, then they truly are murderers according to city law, and I’ll see them hang for it.”

  “Thus mending our tattered reputations and drawing our strayed students back to us. I like the idea in principle, and you do have a knack for solving puzzles.”

  Or at least I’d had some luck at it. Enough that, when people sought my services as a hiresword, a trade I still practiced from time to time to supplement the money I earned teaching, it was often as much for the sharpness of my eyes and wits as the keenness of my blade. “Why do you say you like it in principle?”

  “Because I’m sure Dromis is at least as jealous of his secrets as any other maestro. And if his methods empower his students to kill yours, then it’s possible they would also enable him to do the same to you. So watch your back.”

  I tracked down Olissimal where I should have expected to find him: in the mansion of Falnac’s kin. I had no doubt that, supported by his ivory crutches, he’d hovered over the boy’s corpse for a long time, ogling the wounds. Now, gray eyes bright, twisted, stunted leg propped on a leather footstool, he sat in a corner savoring the more rarefied nectar of everyone else’s grief.