Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Tregaron didn't envy the 'recruits' who filled out the Twenty-First's ranks. They'd used their victory parade through Sunhame to 'volunteer' some of the capital's less wary citizens into Vkandis Sunlord's service. Many of the newest lambs had lost their stunned expressions and had settled into the regiment's training routine, which for them included fighting drills and weapons practice after marching a full day and after building the night's camp and surrounding fortifications.

Two lambs had keeled over dead so far, and Cogern had reported they'd probably lose another before they got to the border. The press-gangs were supposed to only draft hale men and a few women, but were also given quotas and limited time. Occasionally, they cut corners, placing the burden on the trainer. The training process usually weeded out the hopeless cases before the

fracas started. It pained him to lose troops for any reason, but having them die due to sloppy recruiting rankled him.

One cadet holding the horses mumbled to another. They laughed together. Tregaron stared at him a moment before he remembered the lad's name. The boy, Dormion, was the son of a southlands freeholder sent to the army to avoid the Tithe and, very possibly, the Flames.

'Eh?' Cogern snapped, 'what was that?'

'Urn, I said,' said the lad, visibly unhappy to have drawn the Pikemaster's undivided attention, 'that they don't, uhh, have press-gangs in Valdemar.' He paused uncertainly. 'Sir,' he concluded lamely, after the silence lengthened.

Cogern feigned a look of utter surprise. 'How would you know anything about Valdemar?' He stared at Dormion with the horrified intensity of a man watching a large and potentially deadly insect crawling up his arm.

The other cadets sidled away, leaving Dormion, gulp- , ing and pale, alone. 'I read it, Pikemaster, in the Chronicles.'

'In Val-de-mar,' Cogern said, drawing out each syllable sarcastically, 'they don't have to fight. That gives them certain luxuries we can't afford.' He looked disgusted. 'A reading cadet. What will they think of next?' The old sergeant glared at the boy with an expression fierce enough to cow the bravest veteran. 'This ain't Valdemar, boy, and you'd best get that through your head! Now get back in your place.'

Dormion, pleased to have escaped with little more • than a tongue lashing, scuttled away to rejoin the other cadets.

'I'm surprised you let him off so easily,' Tregaron said softly. 'Usually you just cuff them flat.'

Cogern scratched his nose with one ragged nail. 'Most of 'em 'are fish. Not real bright, and just waitin' for hooks in their mouths and knives in their guts. Once't a while you get one who sees beneath things. Them's worth keepin' an eye on.' He sighed. 'I just wish't I

could keep him out of the damned books. He's got too much to learn in too little time for that folderol.'

He met Tregaron's eye. 'I saw the same thing in another lad some years back. Even took a sword for 'im, just to give 'im a chance't grow up.'

Tregaron, embarrassed, took the worn rope reins from the cadet and led the gelding toward the standards that followed the lead battle. The regiment's flags marked both the commander's location in the formation and the relics that were the unit's pride.

The lacquered ivory boxes contained the femur of the regiment's first commander, a lock of hair from Torlois the Prophet, and a finger bone from Vkorion, who, before he had become Son of the Sun three centuries before, had struck off his own hand as a tithe for Vkandis. Each relic box also contained a certificate of authenticity signed by a senior priest. Tregaron suspected one pedigree was more the result of bribery than accuracy; Vkorion would have to have had at least a dozen fingers on the severed hand alone to accommodate all of the 'verified' relic bones.

Pride stirred in his chest when he saw the regiment's stained and tattered banner. The standard, a gold sun bursting on a scarlet background with the number 21 in blue thread stitched across the center, was flanked by the smaller gold, scarlet, and blue guidons of the regiment's three battles. A fifth bearer carried the pole to which the tokens and names of the Twenty-First's thirty-odd victories had been affixed.

Behind that, by itself, came the Oriflamme, the cloth-of-gold standard that was the mark of His Holiness' favor. The regiment had paid hi blood for the right to carry the 'Flamme, but it was a distinction that Tregaron would just as soon have forgone.

Beneath Vkandis' Stainless Banner clustered three flint-eyed Sun-priests, the Oriflamme's guardians when it went into the field and the source of Tregaron's worries. Two were from the capital, sent as much to counter Hardorn's magic as they were to protect the flag from dishonor. They wore full priestly regalia, their golden

Sun-in-Glory medallions glinting against their black court robes.

The third was a woman, a fact itself of some note in Vkandis' patriarchal priesthood. She wore the simple red cassock that marked her a common parish-tender, even though she was alleged to be at least as powerful a mage as the Black-robes.

Tregaron knew little about her—only that she had been a provincial prefect drafted when the third member of the capital's troika had died of apoplexy. Darker campfire rumors suggested he had died while demon-summoning, a common enough practice among the Black-robes, even if Tregaron didn't believe the story. The Black-robe Priests had warded the northern borders with summoned creatures until Ancar's magi had driven them back.

The tension between the woman and the Black-robes from Sunhame was thick enough to slice and serve on flatbread. He knew the church hierarchy was rife with factional strife, but seeing it made him nervous. All three were above his authority, and he had no doubt that each , had the clout to forward a report that, if bad, could cost him his regiment, if not his life.

His worst nightmare was that if the woman reported well of him, the others might speak poorly, to spite her, or vice versa. In either case there would be a black mark against him with His Holiness, and no amount of military skill or booty would erase the stain. He hoped they would judge him only by how he did his duty, but he couldn't be certain their acrimony wouldn't affect their judgment where he was concerned.

He nodded to the three. The woman pleasantly returned his greeting, making a small gesture of blessing. He found her handsome, though with a mannishly square jaw and sharp features. Her eyes, though not as soft as liked, were warm and friendly, and her generous mouth seemed more given to smiles than frowns.

The Black-robes, by contrast, looked stonily forward, their expressions set in harsh disapproval. Tregaron kept his face expressionless. In small things could big things be judged. The provincial had been arguing with her

counterparts. Again. Great, he thought dryly, and I thought the army would keep me OUT of politics. Fool. He felt like the man in the proverb who, when caught between fire and flood, ran back and forth, unable to decide whether to bum or drown.

'I still don't see how all of this skulking and sneaking benefits Karse,' the woman said waspishly, continuing what Tregaron was certain was a long-running argument. 'Ancar's troops raid us at will, and we do nothing!'

The Fighting Twenty-First isn't 'nothing,' lady, Tregaron thought, even though generally he agreed with her. Hardorn had been testing them, and their response so far had been tepid. It seemed a bit inconsistent that a raid from Rethwellan merited a six-month campaign by a dozen regiments while Hardorn earned-—one footsore command.

The older Black-robe made a rude face. 'His Holiness predicted peace, Solaris,' he said to her, as though addressing a small child. 'So peace there shall be!'

'You know as well as I that Lastern couldn't scry for a sunny day, much less Ancar's intent,' Solaris replied, her voice dripping scorn. 'It's a meaningless augury and a meaningless peace. Ancar's eventually going to conclude we're too timid to fight—and then you'll have a full scale war. Try to hide that under a proclamation!'

'You go too far!' Havern hissed. 'Continue your blasphemy and I'll have you before an Ecumenical Court.'

Tregaron, overhearing more of the exchange than he wanted, blanched. She had spoken treason, and his life might very well stand forfeit for it. She could have him killed to cover her lapse, or Havern might order him executed to snuff the chance he'd repeat what he'd heard. Fire and flood indeed, he thought grimly, flaying and the rack is nearer the mark. Cogern turned away, mumbling something about adjusting the trumpeters. Tregaron followed, but wasn't quite quick enough to miss Solaris' quiet laugh.

'I'm sorry, Havern,' she said, her voice quiet in what might charitably be called contrition had her voice not