Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

proud.

Thoughts of her mistress brought Mola crashing back to reality. Charlin would never know about her success if she did not hurry and find those healing clovers. Maybe it’s not a fool’s mission. Maybe my dream meant something. Maybe I really can make my Herald strong again.

Grinning, Mola balled up the ruined clothes and shoved them into the pack. She would have rather burned them; but, without their corroborating filth and stench, she doubted anyone would believe her. With a lot of effort, she had managed to clean equally disgusting stains from the effects of her mistress in the past.

Mola looked up. The sun no longer glared down at her, partially blocked by the rocky peaks. The way had grown steeper, stonier; and she could see the crags not far above her, the ones from her dream. If she squinted, she believed she could even see greenery dotted with bits of pink. Using the makeshift spear as a walking stick, tossing the pack back over her shoulder, Mola started up the more sharply rising slope.

Mola had only taken a few steps when she noticed a dark figure towering above her on the path ahead. For a moment, she mistook it for an enormous man in a fur coat. Then, it opened its mouth in a growling roar, and she realized she faced a large and angry-looking bear.

Mola went completely still, afraid to move. A scream bubbled up in her throat, but she forced herself to swallow it. Loud noises infuriate bears. She could not remember where she had heard that, but it did not seem worth challenging. Unable to move, she dredged up other lore: Playing dead doesn’t work, bears can climb trees, they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them, bears can’t run downhill.

That last bit of advice seemed useful in a way the others did not. Spinning on her heels, Mola broke into a terrified run, back the way she had come.

Behind her, Mola heard the creature roar again, then the slam and rattle of heavy paws behind her. It can’t run. It can’t run downhill. The advice cycled through her head in a desperate chant. Yet, to her ears, the bear was moving. And swiftly. She dared a look behind her. Not only was the bear running downhill, but it was clearly gaining on her. In a moment, it would have her.

The scream Mola had suppressed tumbled out, unbidden. Another followed. And another. Not knowing what else to do, she ducked her head and came to an abrupt stop.

The bear launched itself, landing where Mola would have been if she had still been running. Thrown off- balance, the bear lost its footing, stumbled, slid partially down the hill, then tumbled a few steps further. Mola tensed to run back up, cursing whoever had assured her that bears could not run downhill. If she survived this, she would do whatever it took to counteract that myth. And punch that person in the lying face.

Before Mola could take a step, the bear gathered its paws back under it. Running now, Mola realized, only made her a target. Gathering her courage, she jabbed the makeshift spear toward the animal.

The bear reared back up. As the spear rushed toward it, it slammed a massive forepaw against the pole. The branch shattered. The biggest pieces flew in opposite directions, rattling down toward the mountain’s base. Bits of wood showered Mola.

“Demons!” Disarmed, Mola stood, rooted in panic, as the bear ambled toward her. She could read murder in its dark eyes, smell the fetid odor of its breath, see the teeth and claws that would maul her from existence.

:Move!: The voice in Mola’s head was not her own, but it mobilized her just the same. Shrugging the pack from her shoulder, she grasped it by the strap and swung it at the bear.

The pack slammed the beast in the face.

Roaring, the bear caught the pack in its teeth. Its nose twitched. The pack crashed to the ground, and the deadly claws ripped into it instead of Mola.

Move! This time, Mola chastised herself. Her supplies would not distract it long. Whirling, she tore back up the mountainside, desperately seeking the rockiest cliffs. Grass turned to stone beneath her feet, and she staggered up onto a crag.

Not as far away as she had hoped, the bear ripped through the remains of her pack, then raised its head. Nostrils twitching, head swiveling, it finally found her and loped effortlessly toward her.

Mola leapt from her perch to a higher crag, then another. She hunkered down, gaze never leaving the animal, hands mindlessly raking stones and small boulders into a pile around her.

Shuffling directly beneath Mola, the bear rose on its hind legs to stare at her.

Heart pounding, Mola found herself now more angry than frightened. How dare it want to kill me. I’m no helpless rabbit to be eaten on a whim. Grabbing a large stone, she hurled it at the bear.

The rock hit the bear squarely on the cheek. Enraged, it rose taller, roared louder. Took a menacing step toward her.

Mola threw another rock, and another, pelting it with anything she could get her hands around. “Go away!” she yelled. “Leave me alone, you stupid, smelly beast!”

The pain only infuriated it more. Its roars echoed. Its ears pinned tightly to its head. It roiled the air with maddened swipes of its massive paws.

Struggling with a boulder, Mola drew together all the strength she could muster and, with the help of her higher position, sent the rock crashing into the bear’s chest. It hit with a loud thud, driving the creature backward and to its haunches.

That proved enough. The bear whirled and fled, seeking less dangerous prey.

Mola sank to the crag, out of both ammunition and energy. She did not know how long she lay there, but the sky had greatly darkened by the time she opened her eyes, as the sun slipped behind the mountain. Weeds tickled her nose, green and leafy, filled with pink flowers. Pink flowers. Mola sat up. Pink flowers? She started to laugh. She lay in a patch of five-leafed clovers. I found them! Thank the gods, I found them.

Mola seized the clovers by the handful and shoved them into her pockets until they bulged. Only then she rose, and nearly tumbled from the crag. Her legs had gone as shaky as slender twigs in a wind storm. It took her inordinately long to clamber down from the rocky ledge. But, once there, she dropped to the ground and rolled like a child down the grassy mountainside.

My dream was real! I found the clover! None of the pains in Mola’s body, nothing she had suffered, could take away the joy of that moment. She still had a slog back through a swamp that might contain another drake. She might not find her mount waiting when she returned, and she would have to drag her weary, painful bones all the way home. Yet, none of that mattered. She had survived a drake and a bear. She would make it home. She would save Charlin and prove that she had some worth, even without the Gifts of the Heralds and Healers.

Mola slammed into something hard and stable that brought her to an abrupt halt. She lay for a moment in utter uncertainty, hoping for a rock, worried for another bear. Dizzily, she focused on the unwavering thing that had blocked her path. Two blurry white pillars stood in front of her.

Pillars? I’m inside. Tears welled in Mola’s eyes. It was all a dream? Just a big, fat, stupid dream? Disappointment flooded through her, erasing the happiness that nothing else had managed to dispel. Yet, the grass remained green beneath her. The terrible odor of swamp still filled her nostrils. Her pockets protruded. She looked up the long, white pillars to a sweet pink nose and two blue eyes studying her curiously. Mola was still on the mountain, at the feet of a Companion.

“Rexla?” Mola tried, hoping Corry had changed his mind and come to rescue her.

The horse-like creature lowered its head to whuffle into Mola’s face.

Though the Companions all resembled one another, with their white coats, silvery hooves, and enormous blue eyes, years of helping in the stable allowed Mola to notice their differences as easily as a mother distinguishes her identical twins. She sat up, waiting for the vertigo to disperse. Now, she recognized the creature in front of her. It was Melahar, Elborik’s colt, who had not yet Chosen.

“I’m sorry, Melahar. Forgive me, I was dizzy from rolling. And I just fought a—” Mola crinkled her eyes in confusion. “What are you doing here, Melahar?” She did not expect an answer. Companions could not directly communicate with those not Gifted.

:I’ve come to Choose.:

“Oh.” Mola looked around, trying to find the Herald lucky enough to bond with Elborik’s son. She had not seen another human on the cliffs.

:Don’t be stupid, Mola. I Choose you.: