Free Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar by Mercedes Lackey

terrorized, unable to turn away, even if she had wanted to. As the digging continued, time seemed to slow down. Finally, the shovel hit something and the man began to work around it.
    “What did you find?” the other stranger asked.
    “Damn ... think it’s a boot.”
    “Let me see.” The wounded assassin pushed forward. “Looks like his.”
    The taller man moved up toward the middle of the grave and began to dig again. Sosha glanced at Beckor, but the priest stood calmly, his face expressionless.
    Once again, the assassin’s shovel found something. He scraped at what he had unearthed. “Green tunic. Got blood on it. Must be his.” He started to dig around what he’d discovered. “Gah!” he exclaimed, his eyes narrowed. “The stench!”
    Both men drew back from the grave, their faces screwed up in disgust.
    “What did you expect?” Beckor asked. “Bodies rot. Especially in this heat.”
    The two strangers stared at the priest. Sosha couldn’t help but stare, too.
    “Now,” Beckor said, “do you mind if we cover him again? The Sunlord will be none too pleased with this night’s outcome.”
    The taller of the two men dropped the shovel. “We’ll leave that to you.”
    Something moved behind the wounded man’s eyes. Sosha couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or relief. “We’ll tell his family,” the man said, sounding somewhat deflated. “Sorry to have caused trouble.”
    “We heard there have been bandits in this area,” Beckor said, pointedly not accepting the apology. “That’s why we’re on guard when we work in the fields.”
    The other assassin nodded, taking his cue from his companion, the bluster drained from his voice. “It was a large number of them. The three of us couldn’t fight them off. Thank you again. We’ll be leaving now.”
    “Tonight?”
    To Sosha, the priest sounded as concerned as someone would be at the prospect of travelers riding out in pitch darkness.
    “We were supposed to be at Faroaks yesterday, but we kept hunting for our companion. It’s not that distant. Even bandits sleep. Now that we know Torgon’s dead, we can continue on.”
    The wounded man nudged his companion. “And we have to make sure his family is notified. They’ll be grief stricken.”
    “Oh ... that’s true. Don’t worry about us, sun-ray. And, girlie,” he said, glancing at Sosha, “sorry I scared you.”
    She lifted her chin and stared back at him, struggling to keep her face expressionless. The two assassins nodded farewell, turned, and left the field. Only when she could no longer see them in the gathering darkness did she allow tears to roll down her cheeks.
    “Now, now ... you’ll be all right.” Beckor put an arm around her shoulders. “They’ll be gone soon.” He lowered his voice. “Where’s Torgon?”
    “Up in the hayloft,” she replied, matching his hushed words. “I warned him.” A shift in the evening breeze made her gag. “Lord of Light! What be in that grave?”
    “Besides Torgon’s boots, tunic and breeches?” A small smile tugged at Beckor’s face. “Rotted vegetables, meat that’s gone bad ... anything vile I could find to fill them with. You see, Sosha, ofttimes we see what we expect to see, even when it’s something else.”
    Relief descended like a flood. She wiped at her tears and, ignoring propriety, hugged the priest.
    His smile broadened. “Let’s cover this up and then I’ll walk you home.”
     
    After the two assassins had ridden out of Sweetwater, Beckor joined Sosha in her barn. Holding a shielded lamp in his hands, he watched Torgon slowly climb down the ladder, favoring his left side in his descent.
    “For what you’ve done for me, sun-ray,” Torgon said, after Beckor had explained all that had happened, “I can’t thank you enough.” He turned to Sosha. “And you ... you were very brave. My undying thanks to you also.”
    Beckor noticed how their eyes met and held. He remembered his dream. Keep these two together, the