Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

It certainly took Haven long enough to send a Mage; here on the Karsite border the battle had been raging for some time, and until recently had been limited to the more 'conventional' elements of warfares arrows, swords, knives. These were the things Jonne knew well. Levin-bolts and mage-lightning, these were better left to the magicians.

But Vanyel, he is no mere magician. If the stones I've been hearing are true, he could level the entire town of Horn with a glance.

Jonne walked with a lightness in his step and a gladness in his heart, both of which were unfamiliar feelings in this war-torn land. He'd grown up in the area, with Karse just on the other side of the valley, and he'd be-' come accustomed to the Karsites' occasional war threat. But Jonne and his family, comrades in arms and friends, had never felt as vulnerable as they had this war. Jonne's family owned a good piece of the land bordering Karse, including a number of crystal mines that were relatively untouched, so he had a personal interest in defending the border, as well as a patriotic one; lately the war had gone badly, and this was most certainly one of the reasons why Vanyel the Herald-Mage had been sent.

Perhaps there was another reason, which had nothing to do with the war, the Kingdom, or even with Vanyel's magical abilities.

Perhaps, Jonne thought, we were simply meant to meet.

There were other stories, about Vanyel's lovers, one in particular. They said he was shay'a'chern, that his loves were all young men. Jonne was in his thirtieth summer, had never married, but had also been drawn to the males of his village from an early age. He knew what he was long before puberty breathed new life into his body while torturing it with growth, but only recently he'd had a name for it: shay'a'chern. His experiences in youth and early adulthood were awkward, brief, and scarce, and had never grown into anything other than fumbling adolescent experiments. The last, of a few years before, with a young farmer having marital problems, might have become more than a single night. But the farmer had second thoughts, guilty thoughts con- nected to his religion, and had pushed Jonne out of his life and declared the whole affair a moment of weakness that he would not repeat. Jonne accepted the reaction, and his fate, resigned to a life of loneliness.

Then he started hearing stories about others, this Herald-Mage in particular, and he began to wonder if perhaps he might meet someone like himself, who would want more than a single night of physical pleasure. When his captain asked for volunteers to be the Herald-Mage's guide, he raised his hand immediately. Given Vanyel's mysterious and frightening reputation for destroying armies at a glance, no others offered their services. Which was just as well, as Jonne was the only one who knew the area, having grown up in this very forest.

Vanyel and other important Valdemaran officers had made camp on a hillside. Jonne looked back at the camp, now visible as a campfire in the forest; when Jonne had asked them why the camp was so far from the troops, Vanyel had replied that it was to draw any magical attack toward him, the Herald-Mage, and away from the troops, who were ill equipped to deal with such an attack. Jonne thought this a great act of bravery, or stupidity; since he had little experience in magical warfare, he withheld judgment. After all, he was a mere country lad, trained as a soldier, whereas Vanyel was a full Herald, and a Mage to boot, educated at the Collegium and, it was rumored, a close friend of the King himself.

Vanyel has survived many battles, magical and otherwise. He must know what he's doing, Jonne reasoned. Or he would not be here, filling in for five Herald-Mages.

After his brief introduction to Vanyel, the guardsman sensed something familiar behind the younger man's eyes. It was a look, a spark of recognition, that Jonne had seen maybe a dozen times in his life. It was a lingering gaze, normally brief between most men, but between shay'a'chern the gaze lasted a moment longer, just long enough to let the other know that yes, I know you, too. We are both . . . different.

The Guardsman also felt Vanyel's power behind the sexuality; Jonne had a slight Gift for Empathy and Mind- speech, but it was so unpredictable that he did not qualify for training. Occasionally the Gift would surface when his emotions were charged, as they were this evening.

Jonne bid him good evening with promises to return the next day. Yes, he knows. He is, he thought, trying not to let his joy show to the others gathered there.

The next day they would properly scout the Karse border, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the enemy, way off in the distance. War seemed to be a distant prospect now, as more pleasant thoughts occupied his mind as he made his way back to his company. Nearby was a system of caves he would show the Herald-Mage.

The path Jonne had taken passed along a ridge, below which was a sea of tents housing Valdemar's forces. Here and there was the occasional revelry, as this was Sovvan, which some insisted on celebrating despite the circumstances. The tents looked like shingles on a tiled roof, reflecting pale light from a full harvest moon. His own tent was down there somewhere, and as he began the descent to the valley, he even fantasized that some night very soon he may not be sleeping in it alone.

So long, Jonne thought. So very long. The Guardsman didn't want assume too much. After all, Jonne was no spring chicken anymore, and he had no way of knowing if the Mage would find an older man attractive, even if he was only five years his senior. Many years of sword training and a dislike for wine left him leaner and younger than his years; he made a point of staying in shape, not only to maintain his strength and stamina, but to keep himself physically appealing for that special man, wherever and Whenever he might happen along. Jonne wanted so much to believe that Vanyel was that man.

The path led downward, into a thicker part of the forest where the shadows darkened. Jonne hesitated before starting down it. Something felt wrong, very wrong ... the hair on his neck stood up.

Above the hill where Vanyel's group was camped, a dark stormcloud blotted out the moon. Lightning raced from it, striking the ground, rippling through the sky. There had been no sign of rain a mere hour before; wind whipped up from the south, racing up the valley and through the forest. Trees swayed around him, and he felt a surge of magic, evil magic, coming from Karse.

Jonne saw the magic for what it was, an attack from the south. On this night, of all nights, when we would least expect it, he thought in panic.

His first duty was with the company, but the rest of the army was still some distance away, and Vanyel's tent was much closer. Something called to him, drawing him

back the way he came. From the thunderclouds came another streak of lightning, followed by an enormous fireball, which struck the hillside, sending a cloud of sparks high in the air.

Gods, was that their camp? Jonne thought, breaking into a run. Have they been destroyed?

He didn't want to consider the possibility that Herald-Mage Vanyel was injured. But when he reached the camp, he knew someone had been hurt. Three of the tents were ablaze, and other Guardsmen were scurrying about, trying to put out the fires. The hair on the back of his neck raised again. Guardsman Jonne dropped to the ground and covered his head.

The concussion hammered through the ground he lay against. A wave of heat blazed over him, scorching the back of his hands covering his head. Behind him someone was screaming; another Guardsman was on fire, and others tried to wrestle him to the ground.

'Lord and Lady, what is attacking us?' someone shouted, but in the chaos Jonne didn't see who.

Jonne started to get up, but before he was fully on his feet, a voice resounded in his head:

:Guardsman, come help us,: came the distraught words. In the shadows cast by the flickering flames, Jonne saw a shape, which moved toward him. What he first took for a large man in Herald Whites turned out to be a white horse.

No, not a horse, Jonne thought. That is a Companion.

He knew enough about the Heralds and their partners to know that this was no mere horse, and was as intelligent as any man.

:Vanyel is injured,: the words sounded. :Come help us now.: