Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I ask that you trust me,” she said, loud enough to keep it public and diplomatic. “I know these plains, and they’re not just empty fields. I’ll speed you through and keep eye out for threats, animal or man.”

  Walten said in loud reply, “I call to follow her. We’d look silly stuck in a bog.” Riga wondered why he wasn’t in charge. He was much more mature and thoughtful. Politics.

  Jarek was clearly incensed, embarrassed, and offended, but he seemed to grasp that he was outmaneuvered. He nodded and clambered silently up to his wagon.

  “So lead us,” he said, grinning. He thought to be clever and leave the entire problem in Riga’s lap.

  Perfect.

  She smiled, mounted, and led the way. She pointed north and slightly east.

  Then she had to rush to help Erki gather their camping gear and Trausti. It detracted from her warrior presentation.

  She didn’t try to talk to Jarek, and cautioned Erki with hand signs to keep quiet. She couldn’t have them sounding like children, and nothing was going to warm this man up until she accomplished something.

  Of course, when one needed everything to go right, it would invariably go wrong. Shortly, a party became visible ahead. They were on tall horses with no wagons. A patrol.

  She’d gain nothing by withholding the information, and it was unlikely they’d suddenly turn east and clear the way.

  “Party ahead,” she said clearly and simply.

  “I wonder if it’s too late to turn west,” Jarek said loudly. “Men, arm up!”

  “Wait!” she called. “I will go and treat with them. Erki, take this,” she said, handing him the map satchel.

  She galloped ahead, both to avoid the tension of two armed parties meeting and to get away from Jarek’s scared but derisive laughter.

  She slowed to a canter once she had space. She watched the soldiers to see how they reacted. They faced her and kept moving at a walk. That was encouraging so far. She matched that pace. No need to rush to meet death.

  Gulping and sweating, she remembered her position. She was the warrior. Her duty was to protect these people. With that in mind, she sat tall in the saddle and approached, doing her best to look casually proud and secure in her status. They weren’t in livery, but that meant nothing. Her own people didn’t wear set colors.

  She brushed her bow with her fingertips. She might have to draw, shoot, and drop it before reverting to steel. She wished for one of the short, laminated bows of the plains people. Hers was a longbow of two horns with a center grip, stronger but awkward from horseback. She was a foot warrior, not a plains rider. She wished she had time to don her mail.

  Her opposite number was a bearlike man she knew she could never beat in any fight. She might cripple him, but even that was a long roll of the dice. Once inside bow range she had nothing but projection and attitude. Still, his bearded face and shaven head were visible because he was unhelmed. That was a helpful sign. His three compatriots followed his lead.

  “I am Riga of the Kossaki,” she said simply. No rankings here. They’d just sound silly. “I am guide and escort for these refugees.” She wondered which languages they spoke.

  “Balyat of the Toughs,” the man said in broken Danik. “What is your destination?” She could comprehend.

  “I won’t discuss that,” she replied. “It is north, as you see, and away from here. That’s enough for you.” Had she delivered that properly? She wanted to sound firm but not arrogant.

  “If you go that way, we won’t call you hostile,” he said. “But we don’t speak for our employer.”

  “Good to know we might only be killed for money, not for care, mercenary,” she said. Four of them. She might take the smallest down before she died, if she was quick. She held the shiver to a bare twitch.

  “Keep moving,” Balyat advised. “We report tonight.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, and meant it. With luck and speed, a few hours would have them safe. If not, at least they would suffer a quick, clean death from professional warriors, not the nauseating horrors of the Empire’s troops.

  “I hope not to meet again, Kossaki,” Balyat said and turned his mount.

  As she turned, she smiled slightly to herself. A renowned troop of mercenaries seemed to accept her as warrior, even though inferior.

  Civilians were harder to persuade, though. They always wanted to tell you how to conduct a fight, while not fighting themselves.

  The look on Jarek’s face as she returned was interesting. It wasn’t one of trust, but it might have a glimmer of respect.

  “Who were they?” he asked.

  “Oh, just some mercenaries,” she smiled. “I told them who I was, and they agreed to let us pass.” It wouldn’t have worked with most of the hired thugs on the peninsula, nor fealted troops. She wouldn’t share that, though.

  Erki looked ready to burst out with something that would wreck it. “Erki, take the rear for a bit, and keep watch,” she said to interrupt him. He nodded and trotted back.

  She turned further north and kept them driving until full dark. Jarek argued to keep going, but his own wife spoke up, and others. They were so exhausted the walkers staggered, and the riders could barely stand.

  It wasn’t any warmer that night, though the ground was flatter and the grass thick enough to offer some padding. They didn’t dare risk fire. They were a few miles from where the mercenaries had patrolled. Fire could mean the difference between being passed by a few hundred yards away or being seen from miles.

  Wake, and move. This distance had taken Erki and her under two days. It was taking three for the caravan, and that was at a speed that strained human endurance.

  Toward afternoon, they saw movement to the west, paralleling them. It took most of an hour to discern it was a larger caravan with outriders. Then a messenger bird swooped in, lit on Erki’s shoulder, to his delight and nervousness, and twittered, “Helloooo from Karlinooo.” It stretched out a claw with a tiny note bound to it.

  It was a rough map with a list of family groups. Riga read them off loudly. “Fenk the Smith, Nardin the Banwriht ... boneworker? It’s your language in our letters. Rager the Fitter.” She hadn’t talked much to the caravan members, but they muttered and exclaimed in relief that some of their friends and acquaintances were accounted for.

  The other caravan was huge. It must be a dozen families, perhaps an entire village. One of the half dozen escorts shouted and broke off. Riga gave a warbling shriek, and reined back.

  “Kari!”

  “Riga!” Her friend galloped up, and they hugged from horseback, sweaty and dusty and warm to the touch.

  “Gentles, this is my friend Karlinu the Quick, Scout Spear.”

  Jarek just grunted. Walten nodded, smiled, and said, “Hello.” The others offered greetings.

  Karlinu said, “Herald Bellan wants a tally. He’s here, and another Herald is in Gangibrog.”

  Riga gestured with her head and moved a bit forward. Kari nodded and paced her.

  Once out of earshot, Riga said, “I’ve barely heard of these Heralds before. Why are they so influential? Our entire town has stopped working.” She didn’t want to be presumptuous, but she had a vested interested as part owner of her father’s dock and transfer business. Their safety was also her concern, with all this attention.

  “Talk later,” Kari said. “Tally?”

  “Twenty-seven. And how is your mother the Swordmistress?” She changed subjects, since she wasn’t going to get an answer.

  “Frazzled and harried and snapping as if we’re at drill, even for mundane matters. It’s not just us. Knutsford is about, and the Ugri. The Morit as well.”

  “The Morit. I wonder if Brandur ...” She stopped talking and blushed.

  Karlinu laughed. “I expect your suitor will be there. But is it wise to be with a man you can easily best with sword?”

  “I don’t care. I like him, and he’s not much poorer than we.”

  “I must report. Hold on.” Kari reached in
to her horse’s pack and drew out a bird cage. It took her moments to inscribe a note and whisper another message while she attached the parchment to the bird’s leg sheath. “Fly home, fly home!” she said and tossed the bird skyward.

  “Fly hoooome!” it agreed, circling and heading west.

  Within the hour, the Herald came up personally. He wore riding clothes that were also white. His mount was a white stallion with vivid blue eyes. Riga hadn’t seen it closely before. Looking at it now, it seemed to stare at her and delve into her thoughts.

  “You seem to be doing well, Riga,” he greeted.

  She increased her pace and gave him a bare twitch of a rein finger. With a slow nod he moved to pace her. She waited until they had distance to speak.

  “They treat me as a girl,” she said, “except when things go bad. Every problem is mine. Either my advice is bad, or I’m naı̈ve ...”

  “They are villagers of a farming culture,” Bellan said. “You are a woman of a trading culture that grew from warriors. I knew this would be a problem, which is why I hurried to gather you all. You’ve done well, no matter how it feels.”

  “Now they’ll just feel you’ve taken over,” she groused. She wasn’t sure why she was sharing so much with this stranger. He exuded trustworthiness, though.

  “Of course,” he nodded. “But more importantly, they will be safe for now, and your people won’t be burdened with noncombatant refugees as you prepare. I can’t fight for you, but I can clear the field for you.”

  Riga didn’t like the sound of that. It made sense that Miklamar was heading their way, but still ...

  “Wouldn’t it make sense for your people to join us and fight here, before it reaches your lands?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Oh, Riga, Valdemar is weeks away by road, even as fast as my Companion can travel.” He patted the horse’s flank. “I’ll do what I can to help, but Miklamar is no threat to my nation. Our rulers are busy with things close to home. Nothing as important as an empire-building butcher, but far more immediate. It’s one of the tragedies of the world. Your people must deal with this as best you can. Still, I’m glad we were in the area and can offer some help.”

  He paused for a moment, as if listening to the air, or his horse. Riga took the time to consider his words. No, she didn’t think her remote town, nor even their small nation, were important worldwide. She’d hoped for more, though.

  “There is a war band ahead,” Bellan said.

  “Is it the mercenaries?” she asked, half in hope, half in dread.

  “They’re on foot, crossing us, probably from the coast road. We can outride them, but the refugees can’t.” Their wagons managed a walking pace at best in this terrain. The children and elders wouldn’t be able to keep up on foot.

  “Not the Toughs I met, then.”

  “Behind them may be more. We can’t detour that way. We also can’t wait. We’ll have to go through, then ride fast and through the night.” He seemed to shift back to the present. “Please come with me. We need to plan this.”

  “Yes, certainly,” she agreed. She turned and called, “Erki! Take point.”

  Riga nodded to the others as she approached. No one here saw her as only a girl. Most had felt her blows. Kari, Snorru, Rabal and his uncle Lar, three other men and two women, and the Grogansen boys.

  A dozen Kossaki, half youths and women, and the Herald. The army ahead was hopefully less than eight times that size, but might be the van of a far larger force.

  “What would you do, Sworddancer?” Lar asked. She realized things were being hashed out and she’d missed some of the talk.

  She breathed deeply and stared at nothing. A prayer cleared her mind and she thought.

  “I’d shoot arrows from distance and continue until closing. We should dismount close to cause surprise and hopefully break their ranks with fear of the horses.”

  “Not bad. We need wranglers. Nor do we want a long fight with infantry. We must hurt them and retreat fast, then look prepared to repeat it. Those levies won’t have the heart for a long fight against professionals, without the mercenaries.”

  “We’re to look like professionals?”

  “Worse,” Kari grinned. “We’re girls.”

  Girls with twelve years of training in horse, sword, bow, map, languages and business, Riga thought, and grinned back. No Kossaki would underestimate a youth. They were fighters, traders, and travelers from the time they could walk.

  She said, “Erki should wrangle and recover bows and glean points, but he’ll complain I’m being protective.” Of course, she was, but it made sense for him as youngest to hold back. He could also ride fastest if need be, to carry a message.

  “I’ll tell him,” Bellan said.

  “Also, we should fire off a shooting star.”

  “What good will that do?” Snorru asked. Our nearest element is hours away.”

  “They don’t know that. Act as if we expect overwhelming backup, and hit them hard. As Lar says, they won’t stomach a long fight.”

  “And best we scare them now,” Bellan said. “Soon enough Miklamar will want your port, also, if he’s not stopped.”

  “It might alert another patrol, too,” Rabal said.

  “It might. What do you think of that against its advantages?”

  “Yes, it’s risky,” Lar said. “But the mercenaries have reported by now. That’s probably why this force is crossing bare steppe toward the caravan.”

  “Yes,” Riga agreed.

  “Do it.”

  Riga and Bellan rode back to the caravan, now combined with the others.

  “We’ll be fighting, then cutting across fast and continuing,” Bellan told them.

  “We will arm up, then,” Walten said, looking old but sounding firm.

  “No, you should move fast and protect your families if it comes to that.”

  Jarek nodded, and Riga steamed. He didn’t question Bellan. Had she given the same advice, she knew he’d have argued.

  Bellan said, “Northwest, and fast. There are towns. Stop only for feed and water, and be sure they know the threat. From Little Town, head north to the rivers.”

  “Start that way now,” Riga said. “We’ll catch up and guide you later.”

  Then she turned, not wanting to know what they thought, and trying not to care. She saw a blue and yellow shooting star scream up: Snorru’s colors. It crackled and burst, visible for miles. She grabbed for her mail, and shimmied in. Then she helped Erki with his quilted staghide. It was loose on his frame, but it wouldn’t be for long. Handsome boy, she sighed. She worried more for him than herself.

  One in seven, she thought. Wound or kill one in seven, and all but the most dedicated force would retreat. There were seventy-two troops, eight across and nine deep, with two mounted officers. They had bills and spears mostly, with shields, and leather armor. They were not elite, but they were definitely professional, even if levied.

  They needed to wound about one each, if they didn’t lose too many themselves, though desperation gave them determination.

  The troops looked nervous as they approached. The small Kossaki force approaching with weapons drawn was either insane or expected backup beyond the hundred militiamen in the caravan. The shooting star suggested backup. Where was it, though? Riga watched them cast glances about and ripple their neat formation.

  Bellan quietly said, “First line, dismount, shoot on my order. Second line, prepare to charge.” He wore gorgeous mail with iron joints, and a polished helm.

  She swung from the saddle, drew an arrow, and stood next to Blessi.

  “Shoot. Charge.”

  She nocked, drew, loosed, and shot again. She had three arrows in the air before he called, “Hold!”

  Their timing and discipline were good. The other half of their force and Bellan had galloped ahead and were dismounting right in the faces of the enemy, hurling javelins as they did so.

  The troops moved their shields in response. Only a couple shouted from wounds. A
score of arrows and a half-dozen javelins used for that. It was amazing how expensive battle was.

  Riga dropped her bow and sprinted forward, un-slinging her shield and drawing steel. She saw Erki gathering reins and backing, cajoling the horses. They were holding up well in the fight, and he was earnest in his task. She saw all that live steel, and her knees went weak. Sparring with blunt steel in the vollar was nothing like ugly strangers who wanted you dead. Her helmet was loose, but there was no time to adjust it.

  The enemy spread out for envelopment and slaughter, and Bellan pointed to the left. She moved over that way, between Kari and Snorru. Lar tossed a javelin right past her, to break their line into clumps. One flinched as it caught on his shield and made the mistake of reaching over to unstick it. She reached him, snapped out her sword and took a chunk from his arm. He staggered back howling and got in the way of his mates.

  The troops had numbers and were trained to follow orders. They had discipline but not the years of precision and skill she’d learned. She deflected a raised pole and got in close to thrust at anything exposed. The three nearest all turned to face her and started jabbing. It turned into a deadly dance.

  This was how she’d earned her name. Father had always taught her that if you were blocking, you should also be attacking, if attacking, also moving. One foot should be aground for balance, one shifting, and both arms fighting. The shield boss could also bash, its binding smash, its broadness conceal your movement from your opponent. The sword could threaten as well as strike. Silence and noise were each intimidating. Moving targets were harder to hit. She’d inflicted no lethal blows yet, but her opponents, four so far, were cut and bleeding. A gimp arm took a warrior out of the fight and was easy to score. If they wanted to stick them out, she’d cut them. She was smaller, lithe, agile, and used to fighting one to one as well as en masse.

  “One, back!” Bellan called, and Kari and Snorru turned and whipped away. She gulped and tingled in fear. Knowing it was planned didn’t make it easier to be left in front, face to face with angry strangers. They pushed forward, seeing the Kossaki retreat and believing they had won.