If I Were a Herald

Chapter 22

Herald Death

Disclaimer: The idea of a Herald Death totally belongs to Mercedes Lackey. The song totally belongs to me. I couldn't find a song for this chapter, so I made one up. The me in the story doesn't yet know about the song… we'll see how she reacts when she finds out. Although I believe by then she'll have more important things on her mind. Valdemar belongs to Misty… Jacoby belongs to me… and if you try to steal him, I will kill you. Because he's mine! All mine! And together we will take over the world! Mwahahahaha!

This is the chapter you've all been waiting for! Read and enjoy—and don't forget to review!

A/N (11/26/05): Wowee. Over twenty chapters—and over seventy thousand words. Won't be too long now before I reach a hundred thousand. And it's not even the end of November.

Damn fanfiction.mort! It's being abysmally slow. So far I've gotten three reviews for Chapter 20, but no hits. So how did my esteemed reviewers manage to review? Meanwhile I'm trying to research Domesday Book for a class paper. Anybody have any suggestions for resources? And just for the record, I thought briefly of calling this chapter "Song of Roland," because it's me being Taileffer and they sang that song as they were going to the Battle of Hastings… then I thought how long that thing was, and decided I'd pass.

Syl: To accommodate your wishes, I am including bits of the aftermath of Herald Kali's "keep it in your pants" speech. Thanks for your suggestions!

Fireblade: Oh, right. I forgot about mono. I was just remembering my own most recent illness—luckily just a cold—which I believe I got from kissing a guy at a party. New College is a lot more concerned with STDs than with mono. People share glasses all the time, and no one ever gives any warnings about that. But we've gotten the "free condom" speech, which includes warnings about STDs—oh, I've lost count of the number of times. But a lot.

Nawyn: I'm only kind of doing NaNoWriMo. I mean, I started this story in October, and it ain't gonna be finished by the end of the month. But I'm using NaNoWriMo as an excuse to work on the story instead of writing papers, which is what I really should be doing.

She wears the garb of blackest night,
With sword strapped to her side.
She knows no line 'twixt wrong and right,
No moral will abide.

The Herald Death is calling,
Your time is drawing near.
Our enemies are falling,
And like you they know the fear.

Like Shadow-Lover, never seen
By day's encumbering light.
This Herald with her eyes so keen
Works only in the night.

The Herald Death is calling,
Your time is drawing near.
Our enemies are falling,
And like you they know the fear.

And so we call her Herald Death,
For death is what she brings;
While still we pray with every breath
To hear her as she sings.

The Herald Death is calling,
Your time is drawing near.
Our enemies are falling,
And like you they know the fear.

Her songs bring light and life to we
Who needs must live in dark;
Her songs of sunshine and the sea,
Of lightning strike and spark.

The Herald Death is calling,
Your time is drawing near.
Our enemies are falling,
And like you they know the fear.

She sings of death and woe and pain,
But also love and light.
And tries with every song to gain
Her most beloved night.

The Herald Death is calling,
Your time is drawing near.
Our enemies are falling,
And like you they know the fear.

And yet a Herald still is she,
This elfin maid so fair.
Our country's health foremost must be
Her only drive or care.

The Herald Death is calling,
Your time is drawing near.
Our enemies are falling,
And like you they know the fear.

The death she deals comes but to those
Who would destroy this land.
Our Herald dearest therefore chose
To deal justice with her hand.

The Herald Death is calling,
Your time is drawing near.
Our enemies are falling,
And like you they know the fear.

Roald never did get a chance to braid a medal into Lyrna's mane. He was too busy taking care of other details to do with the assassination attempt. Like why anyone would want to assassinate him. I got caught up in it as well. Someone needed to question the assassins who'd fled and been caught. The other Heralds just weren't up to the job. They saw the necessity, of course, but they didn't want to be the one to inflict the torture.

So that job fell to me. The Empath. Well, actually, to be fair, I volunteered for it. I figured I'd already gone through torture, so I could bear whatever of my own techniques spilled over through the psychic atmosphere. Sort of like the red ladies in Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth. I'd forgotten what they were called. Besides, I was just cold and calculating enough not to be swayed by their pained expressions. And maybe—hopefully—it wouldn't come to that. Unlike the other Heralds, I had no compunctions against reading minds without the owners' permission. It was like spying; sometimes the end justified the means. As long as one took into account the whole picture.

But I wasn't too busy to hear the aftermath of my "keep it in your pants, children" speech. The other Heralds were offended by my attitude, and the healers assured me that they had spells to get rid of any STDs that might be around. Oh, okay. So that's why Misty's characters could afford to be such sluts. There were no such things as STDs. Just like in romance books. For crying out loud, I thought her fantasy was supposed to be the realistic kind, not the escapism kind.

After one particularly heated discussion with my elder son over whether I was going to change my attitude (the answer was no; I had reasons other than STDs for wanting him to practice abstinence until he was older), I figured that facing assassins would be much easier than dealing with teenagers. So I went down to the dungeons to question the prisoners.

"Hello, scum," I greeted them. I was wearing my demonspawn Herald outfit, the one that was all black leather and made me look like Death incarnate. Herald Death. What they would have called Alberich if he'd worn this—if he would wear this, excuse me. He had yet to exist. But the name suited me even more than it suited him. In a way, Herald Kali meant Herald Death. Goddess of Death.

There were four of them. Two of them looked like they weren't going to last much longer. The other two glared at me defiantly. "What do you want?" asked the taller one. He had tangled black hair, and basically looked ill-kempt. Dirt smudged his face, and dried blood ran in a streak down his arm.

"I want you to tell me why you tried to kill King Roald."

His lips remained firmly shut. His companion followed his example. The two wounded just stared at me through glazed eyes.

"I'm warning you, I can get very nasty." I launched an attack on his mind as I made my threat. His shields were too strong for me.

"You're a Herald," he said with contempt. "You wouldn't mistreat a prisoner."

"Not in this costume, I'm not." I spoke softly, with just enough of a hint of danger to make them sit up and take notice. I turned my mental attentions to the other prisoners. The other uninjured man had not a hint of MindSpeech and thus was naturally shielded. Finally I hit pay dirt—one of the glassy-eyed ones had strong MindSpeech but only enough shielding to keep his thoughts to himself. It wasn't too hard to break through his shields, and then his mind was an open book.

:King Roald wouldn't condone your tactics: Lyrna muttered disapprovingly.

:It isn't up to him.: I used MindSpeech so the prisoners wouldn't overhear. It was an effort to remember to do so. :I'm getting the information in the most convenient way. These people are assassins. If I treat them with the respect due them as humans, I could put Roald—and all of Valdemar—in danger.:

They had been sent by a mage who called himself Mortimer. He had sent these men to kill King Roald in order to send Valdemar into chaos so Mortimer could move in and take over. Apparently Mortimer didn't know about my buddies the Vrondi. He just knew that Valdemar had no mages inside its borders to dispute his power.

"Where is Mortimer now?" I demanded. His plot to take over Valdemar had been foiled, but that didn't mean he wouldn't make another. And even if he gave up, he was still dangerous. There were innocent people dying at this very moment because of him. He was evil. Mortimer delenda est. Mortimer must be destroyed.

Again the lack of response, but the answer flashed in my victim's mind. He had last seen Mortimer in the west, across Lake Evendim. He had been heading toward the port town of Belt in order to barter passage into Valdemar.

I would just have to get there first.

As soon as the Council session ended, I asked—and received—Roald's permission to go after the man responsible for the assassination attempt.

My things were packed and ready to go in under an hour. I had my fiddle and a couple of old, tattered outfits courtesy of the free table and various shopping expeditions. I arranged for Jorjie and Corwin to take care of the kids during my absence. There was just one thing left. If I was going to face a mage, I needed a focus-stone. Especially if I had to call down Final Strike.

Problem was, I had no idea what my focus-stone might be. I really didn't know that much about my Mage-Gift. I was Adept-class—or maybe just Master-class; no, only Adepts could build Gates. At least I was pretty sure that was the case. So I was Adept-class, but lamentably untrained. And as for focus-stones, well, nothing that I'd read had told me how to predict what focus-stone went with what mage.

:Try emerald: Lyrna suggested.

Hey, it was as good an idea as any I could come up with, and I already had an emerald on me, in the form of my high school class ring. I focused my mage-power through it and performed a simple candle-lighting spell. Unlike my previous experience, when the flame might appear a foot from the candle and go out instantly, this time the candle lit on the first try. Perfect. Now I just had to find an emerald large enough to accommodate a Final Strike.

So it was off to market for me, with a sackful of silver coins—and a handful of gold—to supplement my "minstrel's cache" of copper. I would have to get something that was easily concealed—preferably a necklace that I could hide under my collar. One of the vendors had just the thing, and after hurried negotiations, I handed over half my gold to him in exchange for the heavy chain with emerald pendant. Then it was back up on Lyrna and ride like the devil toward the western border.

The ride around Evendim involved going through k'Vala territory—a perfect opportunity for me to learn how to use my Mage-Gift properly. But I didn't have time to stop and chat. Some instinct drove me onwards, knowing that I would need the extra time to prepare for Mortimer's arrival.

I dismounted Lyrna outside the limits of the town of Belt. It wouldn't do for a poor minstrel to ride in on a Companion. So I bound my breasts—just a precaution, not like anyone would notice them anyway—strapped my belongings on my back, and trudged toward the gates of the town.

Belt was a port town much like many of the others we'd passed by on our way here. It had sturdy walls facing the lake in case of pirate attack, but in recent years had outgrown them and now lay sprawled around them like a haphazard camp.

There was a lakeside inn and tavern named the Gentle Doe. The innkeeper's name was Yendo, and he was very willing to hire a traveling minstrel in exchange for room and board, with meals and drinks on the house. Yendo had a young son, Kilany, who had just turned twelve. Kilany had a fascination for all things pirate, and listened in awe to my songs and stories. For his father's sake, I did my best to convince him that pirates were much better when viewed from a distance. So I told him all the details, about how they killed their victims, and how they themselves went hungry when they ran out of food. What food they had wasn't that great, either.

I sang songs that I knew and liked, but also took requests. I always take requests. As long as I know it, I'll sing it. But there were definitely some songs that only I knew that became instant hits. "What's a Guy Gotta Do?" was one such song. "What's a guy gotta do to get a girl in this town? Don't wanna be alone when the sun goes down. Just a sweet little something to put my arms around. What's a guy gotta do to get a girl in this town?"

As I became more comfortable in my role as Taileffer, I even began to hit on the girls. Called them "darling," "sweetheart," and "love." Even sang them songs—the bawdier, the better. I did a rendition of "Balls to Your Partner" complete with pelvic thrusts. The lasses loved it. I suppose it helped that I made a rather dashing lad.

Meanwhile I prowled the streets for news of Mortimer. He was definitely heading this way. He was cutting a swath through small towns and villages, leaving the inhabitants either dead or enslaved. Another two weeks and he would arrive here. Then I would have to deal with him.

Free of the watching eyes of the Vrondi, I had the opportunity to practice my Mage-Gift in secret. However, I had to be careful always to shield, or Mortimer might find out what I was doing.

I was roaming the streets in the dead hours after midnight when I found him. Not Mortimer. A pirate. Moaning in pain in a dank, dark alleyway. Only the light of the moon to illuminate his figure. And what a figure it was. A rip in his white shirt, visible because his crimson vest was thrown open wide, revealed the firmly corded muscles of his chest and a six-pack to die for. I stepped closer.

Something thick and wet splashed under my foot. Blood, from the smell. Lots of blood. The tangy metallic scent filled my nostrils. If it all came from him, he didn't have much longer to live. But damned if I was going to stand there and let him die.

It appeared that he was already unconscious. I quickly opened my Gift of Empathy so I could feel his pain. It seemed to be centered in his left leg, the one closer to me. I knelt beside him, heedless of the blood staining my trousers, and found the wound. Yikes. It was ugly, alright. And it'd require stitching. But I didn't have needle and thread.

That problem was easily enough solved. A bit of Fetching to get the needle, and I used his hair for thread. It was something I'd read about in a book. It should prevent infection. But first, just to make sure, I Fetched a mug of ale from the Gentle Doe. Poor Yendo would probably be startled out of his wits, but he'd get over it. The ale went on both hair and wound. The pirate screamed. Now he was awake. A good sign—it meant that if I staunched the wound he might have a chance.

"What the devil are ye tryin' to do to me?" he demanded, sounding almost alive. The voice sounded very familiar, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out where I'd heard it before. And I would have remembered that face, with its hard, chiseled lines to put Captain Jack Sparrow to shame.

"I'm saving your life. Now be still. You've lost a lot of blood." Too much blood. His pulse was weak. That he was still alive right now was a wonder. My revised guess was that he wouldn't last another fifteen minutes unless he got some fluids in him, and fast. I thought it over as I stitched him up. Water wouldn't do—it was too likely to have some sort of bacteria. And alcohol would mess with his system far too much.

"Don' bother," he said, his voice weaker than it had been a few moments before. He was fading fast. "I be a dead man. Get away from me if ye know what's good for ye."

"Listen, pirate. If I say you're going to live, then you're going to live. Savvy?" Blood. Blood would work, probably better than water as a fluid, since blood was what he'd lost. I could only hope that my blood was clean enough, and his body wouldn't reject it. There was no way to inject it intravenously, so he'd have to drink it.

"I ain't gonna live. A'ready los' too much blood."

"I'm going to give you some more." Before I could think about what I was going, I pulled out a knife and sliced my wrist. Blood flowed freely from the wound. I held it to the pirate's mouth. "Drink."

He coughed and sputtered. "I ain't a bleedin' vampire!"

"Well, you are a bleeding human, so just shut up and drink."

When he still refused to drink, I held his nose until he had to swallow or risk suffocation. After that he decided to behave. Which left me free to notice how his lips were sending tingles of pleasure up my arm. It was a cool winter night, but suddenly it seemed that it was as warm as midsummer. And all those other things that romance books talk about. The spark of electricity. A desire for him to kiss me all over. A pool of warmth in my "nether regions," as they liked to call it. My goodness. I hadn't responded to a man like this in—well, ever. My teenage years had been decidedly unhorny. I hadn't wanted sex, I'd wanted kids. Well, sex, too, but the kids more than the sex.

It must be the loss of blood, I thought desperately. Yeah, that's it. I can't think because I've given him all my blood. Hell, I don't even know his name.

To borrow another cliché, he seemed to read my thoughts. Or maybe it was just that the blood flow from my wrist was slowing. He pulled away. This time I let him. He seemed stronger now, no longer in danger of imminent demise. "I'm Captain Jacoby o' the Bloodred Falcon. An' ye?"

"Taileffer. The minstrel." It struck me as slightly absurd that we were sitting—or, in Jacoby's case, lying—in a puddle of his blood, making our introductions as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary.

:I like the way he looks at you: Lyrna commented. In the background of her mind I could hear her munching happily on some grass; she must have found a nice meadow where she could stay. :Now there's a good prospect for bedroom fun.:

:Lyrna, he thinks I'm a guy: I protested. :If he's attracted to me like this, that must mean he's shaych.:

:There's nothing wrong with being shaych.:

:No, of course not. It just means that when he find out I'm a girl, he won't want me. And he'll probably blow my cover.:

Jacoby's eyes fluttered shut, making the argument moot. I stood up. Two steps later I fainted, as the blood left my head in a rush.