Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Gifts? You need training to use them effectively, and, as you happen to be about the right age to begin, you should get started right away. There's a way station about a half-day's journey from here. Usually a Herald passes by every few days, on patrol for the outlying villages, and he can take you to Haven.'

'Training? Haven? Gifts? But I don't know anything about anything. How can I be a Herald? Who's going to believe that I can be anything but a brigand?'

Vanyel let his hand drop to Treyon's shoulder, and for several seconds, the boy actually felt the older man's hand steadying him. 'I do. Treyon, you can't stay here, not with us,' he said, cutting off Treyon's startled protest. 'You need to be around others, to learn all that Yfandes and I don't have time to teach you. Besides, Haven is the place where you're needed, not here.'

'That's all well and good, but what about my needing someone?' Treyon said, sniffing back his tears and looking away at the ground.

Vanyel knelt down beside him, catching the boy's downcast stare with his own gaze. 'I'm not going anywhere. Granted, Haven is far away, but if your Gifts manifest like I think they will, pretty soon you'll be able to Mindspeak with me as if I were standing beside you. And by that time, maybe you'll have been Chosen by a Companion of your own.'

Treyon was silent for several seconds, then raised his head again, feeling truly hopeful for the first time since he had entered the forest. 'I guess we'd better get going, then.'

'Let's not rush off quite so quickly. You'll stay with us another night, and we'll set off in the morning.' Vanyel said, smiling.

Treyon smiled in return, and the trio walked into the forest, leaving the charred patch of dirt, and the new leaves of grass that were already sprouting behind.

 Vkandis'  Own

by Ben Ohlander

Ben Ohlander was born in Rapid City, South Dakota, and has since lived in eight states and three foreign countries. He graduated from high school in 1983, after spending a period of time in military school for various infractions. He enlisted in the Marines, where he served for six years as an intelligence analyst and translator in such places as Cuba and Panama. He has since completed a degree in International Studies, been commissioned as an Army Intelligence Officer, and works as a freelance writer. His hobbies include chess, rugby, fencing (the kind not involving stolen goods), and politics. He has coauthored novels with David Drake and Bill Forstchen for Baen Books, as well as several short stories. He is currently developing several independent projects. Author's Note: This story takes place after the events chronicled in Arrow's Fall and before Storm Warning.

Colonel Tregaron, commander of His Holiness' Twenty-First Foot, was hot, tired, and very pleased as he surveyed the long line of marching infantry. The regiment had made good time, in spite of a sun hot enough to boil a man's brain inside his skull, thick clouds of choking dust that rose with every step, and short water rations. It pleased him that he had yet to lose a single trooper to the heat, even after nine days crossing the badlands, and another twenty trekking from the Karse- Rethwellan border. Most caravans, fat with water and rich food, couldn't make that claim. He shook his head, grimly amused that His Holiness would transfer regiments in High Summer when 'Beastly' was the gentlest adjective useful in describing the heat. Still, when the Son of the Sun called, the army marched.

An infantryman, seeing him grin, hawked and spat. 'You like eatin' dust, Colonel?'

Tregaron raised his hand, one soldier to another. 'It can't be any worse than your hummas, Borlai. I'm surprised your squadmates haven't strung you up as a poisoner.' The troopers around the luckless soldier laughed as he mimed taking an arrow in the chest. 'I'm struck!' Borlai cried.

Tregaron made a mental note to eat with First Battle that evening, the better to ensure no lasting insult came from his ribbing. Morale had remained high, in spite of the miserable conditions, and he had no desire to see even a small wound fester for want of tending.

He glanced over each rank as it passed, looking for the small signs and minute sloppiness that marked declining morale or increasing fatigue. Some pikes sloped a little more loosely than the prescribed thirty-degree angle and an occasional head drooped, but that was to be expected, considering each soldier carried, in addition to a full fifty-pound kit, three days' extra field rations, water, extra throwing spears, and either a mattock, pick, or shovel to dig fortifications. It was no wonder Karsite soldiers called themselves 'turtles,' for they all carried their houses on their backs.

Several veterans, seeing Tregaron, raised their fists in salute as they passed. A weak cheer rose from the ranks as he doffed his plumed helmet and returned the gesture.

'Aye, lads,' he said. 'Save your wind for the walk. We've a bit to go before you can laze about.' That drew a laugh. There was trouble on the Hardorn border, bad trouble, and even the rawest recruit had heard the rumors of massacred caravans and slaughtered villages. He knew, sure as night followed day, that there would be hard fighting along the frontier before the fall rains swelled the Terilee River and blocked passage. Vkandis willing, he thought, we'll make the Terilee by nightfall and be dug in before the bastards know we're there.

He unrolled the grimy travel map he used to plot their daily course. Its scale was too small for any real detail now that they were close to their destination, but the scouts had provided good reports of what lay ahead.

He ran one dirty finger across his short, pointed beard as he studied the map. The Terilee River, hardly more than a stream this time of year, marked the border between beloved Karse and Ancar's Hardorn. It had seen its waters colored red more than once in the past year as the Usurper's bandits raided across its brackish waters. Bodies from those fights were said to have floated as far as Haven, in distant Valdemar.

His staff, walking alongside the regiment, joined him as he rerolled the small map and bent to pick a stone out of his sandal. Cogern, the Twenty-First's Master of Pikes and responsible for the order of the regiment, stopped beside him. Tregaron saw backs stiffen and pikes straighten. They might respect him, but they feared Cogern.

It was well they did. The sergeant had a truly horrible , visage. The Pikemaster had been lucky his helmet's gorget and bar nasal had deflected the Rethwellan's blow, or he'd have received more than a maiming and a harelip. Tregaron, then a green lieutenant, had fully expected the Master to feed the sacrificial Fires. He remembered his quiet amazement when the old soldier had not only recovered, he'd returned to duty.

He shook his head. That fight had been almost twenty years ago. He would never see the south side of forty again. Cogern had fifteen years on him, yet the older man did his daily twenty miles, hit the pells, and led the charges with more energy than men half his age. Tregaron had no doubt that twenty years after he was worm-food, Cogern would still be offering tithes to Vkandis Sunlord and defeating Karse's enemies.

The Commander and the Pikemaster stood silently together a long moment, while the staff waited patiently. Their horses, led by cadets, shifted and fidgeted in the hot, dry air.

'They look good,' Tregaron ventured.

Cogern spat and grinned. 'They'd better,' he lisped, 'if they know what's good for 'em.' He took off his helmet and ran his hand over his scarred head. Runnels of sweat, trapped by the helm's padding, ran down his face, cutting tracks in the caked dust. Drops fell from his chin to stain his rich scarlet sash. 'What idiot moves a regiment across the northlands in summer?' he asked scornfully.

Tregaron smiled. 'When the Son of the Sun says 'March,'' he started.

Cogern snapped his fingers. 'Bugger the Son of the Sun,' he snorted. 'The fat bastard's lapping up chilled wine and making doe eyes at the acolytes while we grunt along out here.'

Tregaron laughed at the aptness of the blasphemy. 'You'd best lose that notion before a priest hears you.'

'Bugger them, too,' Cogern repeated, but softly and with a quick look around.

'How are the recruits holding up?' Tregaron asked, moving the conversation back onto safe ground.

Cogern rubbed his forehead. 'This stroll's melted the city fat offa'em faster than drill and pells.' He paused, weighing his words. 'Their weapons drill ain't upta' par, but it ain't bad either. Not for pressed troops, anyway.'