Fortunately, it seemed that Alyise was less affected.
“Hey.” He set his saddle down with exaggerated care. “You had some of that, too!”
“Some,” she agreed, the dimples appearing. “Come on inside.”
Her hand was warm on his arm. Then it was warm under his tunic. And her mouth tasted warm and sweet. And . . . Wait a minute. He pulled back although his hands, seemingly with a mind of their own, continued working on her laces.
“I don’t think . . .”
Her eyes gleamed. “What?”
He couldn’t remember.
The bunk hit the back of his legs and he was suddenly lying down holding a soft, willing body.
His Companion’s mental voice held layers of laughter.
Actually, for a while, he wasn’t able to say anything much at all.
Jors stood staring down at the pond watching the early morning sun tease tendrils of fog off the icy-looking water, trying to work the kinks out of muscles he hadn’t used for far too long. Alyise was as enthusiastic in bed as she was about everything else and he’d been hard-pressed to keep up.
He guessed he had been a bit of an ass about that whole position of power thing. Still . . .
Put that way it sounded a bit insulting.
There didn’t seem to be one. Jors leaned against his Companion’s comforting bulk and thought about it.
He wasn’t Jennet.
Alyise was a Herald. That made her responsible for herself.
Donnel said his Chosen was glad he was a young man.
They had well-defined roles in the villages.
There was no reason for them not to continue sharing a bed as long as they both remained willing. No reason at all for it to detract from his ability to teach what he knew or learn what she offered.
Jors grinned. He had other nights like last night to look forward to and days of cheerful conversations combined with an enthusiastic welcome to whatever the road ahead might bring, and a high-energy approach to life that definitely got results since a village-wide party turned out to solve a petition about a disputed pig.
His grin faded as a muscle twinged in his back.
“Havens,” he sighed, as he realized what the next few months would bring, “I’m too old for this.”
Gervais’ weight was suddenly no longer a comforting presence at his back but rather a short, sharp shove.
The water in the pond was as cold as it looked.
WAR CRY
Michael Longcor is a writer and singer-songwriter from Indiana who wrote a dozen songs for the Mercedes Lackey album,
released by Firebird Arts & Music. He’s also had stories appear in the Mercedes Lackey anthologies
and
. Here, he tells the tale of a young Valdemaran soldier with a dangerous problem facing his first big battle and the bloody, final clash of the Tedrel Wars.
RURY Tellar pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders and stared into the yellow heart of the campfire. The blanket and the Valdemaran Guard surcoat were enough to keep off the night’s cool, but still he shivered. His throbbing head didn’t dim the whispering feelings crowding in; feelings of doubt, fear, hope, despair, cheer, loneliness and sadness—the massed feelings of an army camped close on the eve of battle.
It had started three weeks ago, soon after his seventeenth birthday and the call for the Oakdell village militia to march off and join the main army. The intruding feelings were very faint at first, like the not-quite-words heard late at night in the settling of an old house. They’d grown steadily stronger and now they constantly jostled his thoughts. His head ached with the pressure of other people cramming in. Sometimes he felt like his brain was the anvil from the blacksmith shop where he’d apprenticed, with strangers’ feelings hammering and ringing on it like the smith’s sledge.
Around him were the night sounds of an army encamped. Thousands of soldiers shifted in sleep, muttered in dreams, coughed, or whispered curses. The air smelled strongly of campfire smoke and more faintly of horse dung. Ten paces away, Aed snored in the tent alongside Milo and Snipe. Rury would likely have to nudge space to lie down between them when he finally turned in.
They’d been in the big camp for two days, waiting for the Tedrel army to come over the border. Somehow the brass hats knew the Tedrels would cross near here, and there would be plenty of them. Camp gossip said this would be the last battle of the Tedrel Wars, one way or another.
Rury was tired, but trying to sleep made it easier for the feelings of others to crowd in. It was better, a little, to sit and stare at the dying fire until his eyelids drooped and his head nodded.
At first he’d mentioned the headaches to the others, but stopped because his comrades might think he was shirking, or crazy, or worse, scared. He
It didn’t help to know the rest of the unit was scared, too, except for maybe Sergeant Krandal. They were all young and scared and afraid to let it show, afraid of looking like cowards. Last night Princess Selenay herself had briefly visited the company campfire, shadowed by her bodyguard. She was young and lovely, and seemed brave and genuinely interested in them. Rury knew, even if the others didn’t, that she was afraid of what was coming, too, no matter how brave her words.
“Trouble sleeping again, Tellar?” Rury jumped as Sergeant Krandal stepped into the firelight. It glinted on the silver-gray in his close-trimmed beard and the white horse of the Valdemaran arms on his blue surcoat. He was no taller than Rury, but built square and solid, where Rury was lean young muscle.
“Uh, just thought I’d get a little quiet time, Sarge.” Rury shrugged. “Aed’s snoring shakes the tent, and Snipe talks in his sleep.”
Krandal smiled and shook his head. “Still having trouble with the headaches?”
“Ah, they come and go,” said Rury. “Uh, maybe I better turn in anyway.” He got up and walked to the tent. “G’night, Sarge.”
“Good night, soldier.” Sergeant Krandal said softly. He was concerned, and not for the boy’s health. Mit Krandal had seen twenty-eight years of Guard service and thousands of young soldiers before his retirement to Oakdell two years ago. Rury Tellar was a good kid; well-liked, big and strong, with good fighting moves and the makings of a fine soldier. Krandal knew all the symptoms of a youngster facing his first fight, but Tellar’s problem seemed more complicated and serious than that. He banked the fire and started walking. Instead of heading for his own tent, he steered toward the fires of the command tents a hilltop away. It was time to call in some help.
Even this late, the tents of the Communications and Intelligence sections bustled with candle-lit activity. Couriers came and went with the less pressing reports and orders. Urgent dispatches were sent off by the few Heralds who could make objects disappear, then reappear elsewhere. Others pored over big maps,
