Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

“But,” said Isak, “you were raised and trained for it. It was meant to be a ruse, an elaborate lie, but it was well done. We’ve already sent our recommendation to the King, and we’re sure he’ll approve it. You are the Lady of Darkwall.”

Merris supposed she should raise more of a fuss, but the truth was, she agreed with him. It scared her—and well it should. Darkwall had a long way to go before it felt like home. But with her father’s help and maybe some assistance from the King as well, she could turn that poor broken valley into the prosperous domain it had pretended to be.

“And, of course,” Isak continued through the babble of her thoughts, “now the spell is broken and these lands are open to us again, Heralds will come here more often. In fact, his majesty wonders if Darkwall would be amenable to the presence of one of his own for a while, to help as needed and guide when he can.”

“I’m sure Darkwall would be pleased to accept such a gift,” Merris said. Her words were cool, but her heart was beating hard. “You’ll be coming to Darkwall, then? Are you well enough to travel?”

“I will be,” Isak said, “but I’m not the one the King has in mind.” His smile slanted toward Coryn. “There is one whose Internship is just about complete, who is ready for a posting. His Majesty wonders if, since he and his Companion have served Darkwall so well already, whether—”

It was the height of impoliteness to interrupt, and a gentleperson never let out a whoop, but Merris was guilty of the one and Coryn of the other. “Yes!” she said through his eruption. “Yes, we would be pleased.”

She glared at him. He scowled back. Then they grinned. Selena pushed between them, snorting and shaking rose petals from her mane. Let them never forget, her every move said, to whom the credit really belonged.

“Never!” they said together—then broke out laughing.

It was going to be a very interesting association.

Not only that, thought Merris. Partnership, too. And above all, and perhaps most best of all, friendship.

NAUGHT BUT DUTY

by Michael Z. Williamson

Michael Z. Williamson is variously, an immigrant from the UK and Canada, a twenty-year veteran of the U.S. Army and U.S. Air Force, a bladesmith, and a science fiction, fantasy, military fiction, technical author and political satirist. He lives near Indianapolis with his wife Gail, whom he helped graduate Army Basic Training at age thirty- six, their children Morrigan and Eric, and various cats that will assist in taking over the world any day now. He can be found online at

www.MichaelZWilliamson.com

and

www.SharpPointyThings.com

THE aftermath of a battle was always confusing and ugly. Arden rode through the fractured pockets of suffering, surveying everything with trained eyes. His concern was practical, casualties and effect; there was little pleasure in this aspect.

Pleasure came from a well-planned and executed attack, a lightning raid against a larger force that inflicted casualties while keeping his own troops whole, a good maneuver around the flank of a worthy foe, or a feint that misdirected an enemy so the Toughs cracked his shield wall or line of battle.

The burning huts, the moaning, writhing bodies and the indignities and rape weren’t pleasurable to any but the crass, the coward, or the pervert. A common soldier could be forgiven a few hours’ brutality in the aftermath, his partner’s blood still splashed on his tunic. But pain inflicted against helpless civilians as a punitive measure was the mark of a scared weakling.

Crass, coward, pervert, scared weakling. Those words well described the Toughs’ current employer, Lord Miklamar. Jobs had been few and far between, and it had been necessary to move farther south to find employ. But the quality of the ruler varied greatly, and Arden had little time to sound out prospects. His concern had been for good and reliable pay with enough action to keep his troops interested, not enough to wipe out them or his reputation. Here in Acabarrin, the petty lords paid well enough, and the action was steady. But with the King dead, the squabbling princes and heirs, vassal-lords and slavering, powermad seekers were carving the corpse of the Kingdom to nothing. He’d known nothing of Miklamar’s reputation when he accepted the contract. He despised the man now that he did.

Arden’s reputation, and that of the Toughs, was still safe. Barring an occasional looted trinket and scavenged arms and armor, his soldiers had left the village alone, and were drawn back up in formation awaiting his orders. The colors of a household unit they had not, but discipline, pride, and the poise of professionals they did.

Arden grimaced a bare fraction of an inch; watching six of Miklamar’s troops stretch a young woman, girl really, out on the ground. She screamed as they tore at her silken clothes. No mere peasant, she, but more likely the daughter of the chief or mayor, whatever he would be called around this land. Arden watched, acting as witness. Little he could do, other than remember the event. Nearby, others hacked a young man to pieces for the crime of having dared protect his house with a pruning hook.

Fire and blood tinged the air, turning the fresh breeze sickly sweet and metallic. Such a sunset was an ill omen for others. Arden turned his mount and headed out from the village, back past the lines of the allied force.

Ahead was the mounted figure he’d have to deal with, no matter how much it disgusted him. Shakis, the regional deputy to Miklamar, and the mind behind this battle. If “battle” could be applied to a bloody, one-sided slaughter and the present butchery.

He nodded in salute as he drew up. It was respect for the rank of the man who had bought his services, and nothing more. The gesture was not returned, which was as he expected.

“Lord Shakis, I see no point in brutalizing such peasants as these. It hardly seems worth the effort.” It was a hint, and far more diplomatic than he wanted to phrase it. “There are other enemies we could seek.”

Shakis gazed at him. The sneering contempt he had for the “mercenary” was concealed, but cut through to the surface anyway, flickering firelight from a blazing roof making it an even uglier caricature.

“It serves many purposes. The peasants will spread the word, that resistance brings only woe. It improves the take and the pay for my men. And it allows them some release, to take vengeance on enemy scum. It ensures they will have the right mindset for next time.”

My men, Arden thought. Only male soldiers here. Arden would say my troops, because one in twenty was a woman. That had been part of the contract negotiations, too, as had swearing fealty to their employer’s god. Arden had conceded on a temporary allegiance to their god, whose name he’d already forgotten, but had demanded his women warriors be kept. He would have canceled the bargain otherwise. All his soldiers were worthy, and he wouldn’t allow any suggestion otherwise.

The right mindset, he thought. That of the bully and the coward and the robber. His own sneering contempt was locked down deep. It was not something he would share. No successful mercenary did.

“After the evening’s Triumph, will there be another movement?” he asked evenly.

Shakis missed the sarcasm, or ignored it, and said, “There will. Two more towns along this front require attention. Each will be a harder fight. Are your men up to it?”

“My troops are,” he agreed. “If you are done with us for now, my troops and I will encamp for the night, about a mile south. We are in need of rest and to care for our gear and horses.”

“As you wish, though the revelry will last all night.” Shakis chuckled and licked his lips slightly. The man was handsome enough physically, but his demeanor would strike fear into any civilian wench unlucky enough to meet him.

Arden wished he’d known of that ahead of time.

“Rest, and care of our gear and horses,” he repeated. “We have our own revels planned.” With ale they’d brought and hired wenches who were part of the entourage. Women who didn’t require a fight and wouldn’t slice your throat if you passed out. Ale that wasn’t poisoned at the last minute, or badly brewed and rotten. Though the vengeance and poison were part of Shakis’ calculations, most certainly, so that he could exact a price in response. Unprofessional. A professional took pride in his work, but didn’t needlessly create more.

Another day, another battle. The town of Kiri. Arden scarcely remembered which were which anymore. It was easy to remember the towns where tough, honorable battles were fought. Likewise the ones where they’d rescued an employer’s forces. The little villages, however, were never memorable, which made him uncomfortable.