Mary Herbert - Valorian

“How can you say that?” another soldier said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I’m going to miss the place—the cold, the wind, the heat and the fleas in the summer, no town in sight for league after league after league. Why would we want to trade that for a comfortable billet in Tarnow?”

One man slapped the eagle emblem on his chest, grinned, and said, “By the sacred bull, I’ll be glad to see Tarnow again. I haven’t been home in ten years.” The speaker, a dark-haired soldier, slid off his seat to stretch out full length on his back. “Say, Sarturian, has General Sarjas said when we’re being withdrawn?”

A grunt escaped the sarturian’s lips as he retrieved the flask of wine. “You think the commanding general of the Twelfth Legion discusses his plans with mere sarturians?”

“No, but you must have an opinion. You’ve been around long enough to figure out officers.”

The sarturian shifted his position and snorted. “No one understands officers. . . still, I’d say we’ll pull the garrison out by late summer. The legion’s supply wagons have to get over Wolfeared Pass before snow blocks the trail.”

Three of the legionnaires grinned at each other. It wasn’t often they could get information out of their closemouthed sarturian, and this was a chance too good to let pass.

Under the tree, Valorian leaned back, his heart pounding. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Breathlessly he remained still, closed his eyes, and willed the soldiers to continue talking.

“So which way do you think we’ll go home?” the short Tarn probed his leader. “North through Chadar to Actigorium or south through Sarcithia to Sar Nitina?”

There was a long silence that dragged out until the soldiers began to think the sarturian wasn’t going to reply. Finally he shrugged and said, “I’d lay my money on the southern route. It’s longer than going through Chadar, but it’s easier than risking General Tyrranis’s political traps. He’d sell his wives to have a full legion under his jurisdiction. If we want to get back to Tarnow without delays, we’d better go by way of Sar Nitina.” He took a long swallow of wine as if to end the conversation and passed the flask on to the next man.

“Then why are we going to Actigorium to see General High-and-Mighty Tyrranis?” asked a soldier.

The dark-haired Tarn snickered. “General Sarjas doesn’t see things as clearly as our sarturian, so he’s probably sending us for the general’s written permission to cross Chadar just in case he decides to go that way. Isn’t that right?” he demanded.

The sarturian cocked an eyebrow at him. “You have a big mouth, Callas.”

Callas pulled his lips into a triumphant grin. “I am right! Well, I don’t care which way we march as long as we get out of those plains. Gods, I miss cities.” Suddenly he noticed the fourth soldier sitting quietly across the fire, looking glum. “What about you, Marcus?” he jibed. “You haven’t said a word. Aren’t you glad to be going home?”

“Not this way!” the older man said bitterly. “The Twelfth Legion has never retreated, and yet here we are about to abandon a perfectly good fortress and withdraw because our all-powerful emperor can’t even hang on to what his father left him!”

“Keep such thoughts to yourself, Marcus,” the sarturian growled. “Talk like that can separate your head from your shoulders.”

The old soldier gestured angrily. “It’s the truth and you know it! Ab-Chakan is the last occupied fortress on the plains. When it’s abandoned, Tarn will lose the entire Ramtharin Plains.”

The short Tarn shook his head. “The plains have given us nothing more than grass, copper, hides, and a few miserable slaves. We can find those anywhere. Better to lose a distant, unprofitable province than our own homeland.”

“The loss of the province isn’t so bad,” Marcus agreed. “It’s the cost that angers me—the loss of pride and honor for the legion, the loss of confidence and respect in the empire. The man who sits on the throne of Tarn is throwing away a mighty realm out of weakness, stupidity, and—”

“That’s enough!” commanded the sarturian sharply. “You don’t need to shout your views across all of Chadar.”

The soldiers fell quiet. Although Valorian kept his eyes shut, he could sense their attention had abruptly turned toward him.

“What about the clansman?” he heard one soldier ask softly. “Do we kill him or let him go?”

“Let him go. The meat was worth his life,” answered the sarturian.

“What if he’s heard everything we’ve said?”

Their leader laughed a sharp sound of derision. “He’s a clansman. He can’t do anything about it, and the rest of the empire will know soon enough.”

Even the sarturian’s scorn couldn’t stifle the thin smile that twitched across Valorian’s lips. Fully alert now, the hunter continued to feign sleep while the Tarnish soldiers bedded down under their blankets and the fire died to embers.

When the men were snoring and the clearing was dense with mist and darkness, the clansman rose from his place under the tree. He retrieved his saddle and slipped away silently into the night.

At dawn, Valorian found Hunnul in a meadow down the valley, not far from the clearing where the Tarnish soldiers were beginning to stir. The hunter whistled to the stallion, and he watched with satisfaction as the big horse came cantering toward him, his mane and tail flowing like black smoke. Quickly he saddled Hunnul, then turned his mount south, away from his home camp.

Valorian had some time to think about what he had heard that night as he tried to sleep in the meager shelter of a thicket. He mulled over the soldiers’ words with growing excitement until he had decided to extend his hunt. His family’s winter camp lay to the north, and he had already been gone longer than he had intended; his wife, Kierla, would be worrying. But he still had no meat, and somewhere—to the south, he believed—was a pass—the only pass he had ever heard of that was low and wide enough to allow wagons to travel over the towering Darkhorn Mountains. He would hunt to the south. Perhaps if the gods were watching over him, he would find both meat and the pass.

For two more days, the hunter rode south toward the borders between Chadar and Sarcithia, deep into country where he had never traveled before. He studied the unfamiliar peaks with the practiced eye of a man born in the shadows of the mountains and saw nothing that resembled a usable pass. He searched for game, any game that would feed his people, but he didn’t even see a hoof print. The rain continued to fall from a low, dismal roof of clouds, washing the streams out of their banks, turning the earth to glutinous mud, and washing out all signs of game. Valorian’s clothes and gear grew sodden, and even his skill as a woodsman couldn’t coax the soaking wood to flame.

On the third day, he turned Hunnul deeper into the foothills. Throughout the morning, they rode higher and higher into the skirts of the towering Darkhorns toward a tall, bare ridge that afforded an unobstructed view of the long range of peaks.

“If we don’t find something soon, Hunnul, we’ll have to go back home empty-handed,” Valorian remarked as the horse struggled up the steep slope of the ridge.

Hunnul scrambled up to the top of the crest before he paused to snort as if in reply. His sides heaved with his exertion, and his nostrils flared red.

Valorian patted the stallion’s damp neck. He saw nothing strange in talking to his horse as if to a good friend. Hunnul was an intelligent animal and seemed to understand much of what his master said to him. The hunter only regretted that the stallion couldn’t respond in kind. He spent so much time on horseback, it would be pleasant to have someone to talk to once in a while.