Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

The old man started and peered across the fire at him. “What do you know about it, boy?”

“You said wanting to be a Bard would have broken your heart.”

“I did? Well, it would have. Couldn’t carry a tune if my life depended on it. I never forget a story though, and there’s so many stories that are forgotten. You wouldn’t believe the stories I found going through the old reports, stories about Heralds long dead who lived lives that should be remembered. Not because they made the great heroic gestures—those, they get put to music to inspire a bunch more damned fool heroics—but because they did what needed to be done. Those are the stories that should live on. But if you write a report that holds just the facts and has none of you in it, well, that’s you gone, isn’t it?” Tamis snorted. “Heralds don’t die in bed, now do they?”

“Well, you’re not dead yet.”

Verati opened one sapphire eye.

:She doesn’t think you’re funny,: Gervis translated helpfully.

At Herald’s Hill, Tamis stirred three spoonfuls of honey into his breakfast tea and told a full common room the story of the merchant they’d met at Dog Inn. Later, while loading the mules, Jors saw a carter in the inn yard checking his axles.

:Oh, look, the moral of the story.:

:Chosen, that’s ...: The pause continued long enough that Jors turned to look. Gervis tossed his head, looking a little sheepish. :Okay, it’s actually pretty funny.:

At Crescent Lake, Tamis told the story of a farmer he’d met back when he’d been riding Circuit and the girl he’d spent twelve years wooing.

:He remembers every detail about that but he can’t remember my name?:

:Or that he told us about Shorna falling off her horse?:

:What does Verati talk about while we’re walking?: Jors wondered, setting the pack on Willow’s pad.

:How the roads were straighter and carrots were sweeter when she was young.:

:And I bet mules were better behaved,: Jors muttered, dodging a flailing hoof.

On their own, even with a mule, Jors figured he and Gervis could have made Crescent Lake to Hartsvale in one long day. Tamis and Verati didn’t do long days.

When it started to rain about mid-afternoon. Jors pulled an oilskin cloak out of Tamis’ bag, tucked it around him, and gave some serious thought to riding all night. He wanted to get Tamis out of the damp as soon as possible.

:Do you think Verati could do it?:

:I think she would try for her Herald’s sake, but she is also very old. We’ve been traveling for some time, and she is more tired than she will admit to.:

:All right, then, I’ll build a lean-to.: He repeated his plans out loud as he dismounted.

“You’re fussing.” Tamis’s protest would have held more heat had he not begun to cough.

“Gervis hates getting wet.” Which had the added benefit of being the truth. His Companion had a cat’s opinion of water.

“You’re handy with an axe.”

“My family are foresters.”

“My family are foresters,” Tamis repeated, rubbing a gleaming drop of mucus off the end of his nose. “What kind of a story is that?”

“A very short one,” Jors grunted as he drove the first of the stakes into the ground.

No children ran out to greet them as they entered the north end of the village late the next day.

Gervis lifted his head. :I smell smoke.:

:So do I.:

Verati stopped so suddenly Willow trotted up her lead rope and smacked into a gleaming white haunch. Tamis, wrapped in every piece of dry clothing he had remaining, looking more like a pile of white laundry than a person, pulled his cane from the saddle ties. “Something’s wrong.”

Then a dog started barking and, between one heartbeat and the next, men and women spilled out of the houses, children watching wide-eyed from windows and doors.

“Heralds! Thank the Lady you’ve come, we’ve had ...” The heavyset woman out in front rocked to a halt and frowned. “Uncle Tamis?”

“Who were you expect ...” The querulous question turned into coughing, his cane tumbling to the ground as he clutched at the saddle horn with both hands.

“What happened here?” Jors snapped, pitching his voice to carry over the coughing and the babble of voices it provoked.

“Quiet!” The heavyset woman turned just far enough to see that she was obeyed, then locked her attention on Jors. “Raiders,” she growled. “They hit around noon, when most were out in the fields and no one much here to stand up to them. Eight or nine of them rode in and tossed a torch onto Kervin’s roof. Same group as has been hitting the farms—ride in and set a fire, grab a lamb here or a chicken there, and ride out thinking no one can touch them. But Bardi—that’s Merilyn and Conner’s youngest girl ...”

A man and a woman, neither of them young, pushed forward through the crowd and stared up at him with grieving eyes.

“... well, she’s a dab shot, and she put an arrow into three of them. Knocked one out of the saddle, hit one in the meaty part of the thigh, and the third up in the shoulder. Well, they didn’t like that, did they? And the one on the ground, I’m guessing he was a brother or something close to him they called their leader because when they saw he was down, and folk were starting to run in, they grabbed her.” Thick fingers closed around a handful of air. “Grabbed her and rode off.”

So much for peaceful and quiet. Jors cursed himself for thinking it ever had to end. “The raider Bardi shot, do the others think he’s dead?”

“No, he was thrashing and yelling.”

“So they’ve probably taken her to trade. Her for him.”

“Then why not do it? Then and there?”

“You said she injured two of them? It’s hard to drive a bargain when you’re in danger of bleeding to death. They’ve ridden just far enough to tend their wounds, and they’ll be back.” He glanced west, at the sun sitting fat and orange just above the horizon. “Tomorrow.”

“So we wait?” A voice from the back of the crowd.

“No!” Tamis answered before Jors could.

“No,” Jors agreed, cutting him off. There was no need for more detail than that. And everyone knew it. Twisting around, he untied the lead line and began tossing unnecessary gear to the ground. “Which way?”

“East. We tried to follow, but they’re on hill ponies, tough and fast, and we lost the trail in the rock. Nearly lost two of our own as well.” Her voice grew defensive. No one wanted the Herald to think they’d given up too soon. “The hills are treacherous if you don’t know them. They do.”

“We can handle the hills.” He checked that his quiver was full. “I’ll find them.”

“We’ll find them,” Tamis protested, struggling to free himself from his wrappings, Verati shifting her weight to keep him from falling. “When I was a boy, I all but lived in those hills. I know their stories!”

:Chosen . . .:

:I know.:

But fate intervened before Jors had to speak as another coughing fit nearly pitched the old Herald out of the saddle. Would have pitched him out of the saddle had the heavyset woman not moved close enough to support his weight.

“Take care of him,” Jors told her. He swept his gaze over the gathered villagers, who needed hope as much as anything. “I’ll mark the trail for those who follow.”

Then Gervis spun on one rear hoof and headed east.

Easy enough, even as the daylight faded, to see where a group of mounted men left the track, following a deer trail into the trees.