The Wizard Lord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Pick it up.”

  Breaker hesitated, then closed his other hand on the worn black leather of the grip.

  It fit perfectly into his hand, as if it had been made for him, or as if he had used it every day for a season. He turned his wrist and the blade flashed upward like a startled bird—still cold, but now alive and eager.

  “It’s so light!” he exclaimed.

  “It’s a good sword,” the Swordsman replied. “It feels lighter than it is.”

  Breaker essayed a few cautious moves with the sword, turning it this way and that, as the Swordsman watched. Breaker glanced at the older man, who gestured for him to continue.

  Still hesitant, Breaker took a few swings at an imaginary foe, and could sense the sword’s chill pleasure in being used this way. He closed both hands on the hilt for a long swooping chop at the air.

  He was vaguely aware as he did that the Swordsman was moving away. The traveler bent down as Breaker clove the air with a wild swing. . . .

  And then the Swordsman was in front of him, a long willow twig in hand, and the stick was thrusting toward Breaker’s eyes. Instinctively he swung the sword around, chopping at the green stick, but somehow the twig moved around his blade and still came at him, as if it had writhed like a snake.

  And then the tip of it touched the tip of his nose and pulled away, and he stepped back, trying to gather his wits. The sword in his hand wanted him to do something, but he did not know how to respond.

  The willow twig slashed at the back of his hand, a stinging blow, but Breaker held on to the sword and twisted it around to face this attack.

  “Oh, excellent!” the Swordsman said, stepping back and raising his stick to vertical. “You didn’t drop it, you didn’t try to use your empty hand—for a barley farmer who never held a sword before, nor saw anyone wield one, that was excellent!”

  “What?” Breaker said, feeling very stupid. The weapon he held seemed suddenly ordinary, just another metal tool.

  “My dear lad, you do have a swordsman’s instincts. You have a natural talent. The wizards’ ler who guided me to you have served us both well.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I am telling you, my boy,” the Swordsman said patiently, “that you have the inborn ability you need. You have the instincts to work with the sword’s ler. With my training and the necessary magic, by spring you will be the world’s greatest swordsman—and I can go home and live out my life in peace!”

  Breaker looked at the Swordsman, then down at the sword in his hand.

  “Oh,” he said.

  It had never really occurred to him that he might not have the ability. What he had doubted was whether he truly wanted to be one of the Chosen.

  And he still wasn’t entirely certain of that, but at this point, after being told that he was indeed chosen by ler and not simply a random volunteer, he was not about to admit it.

  [4]

  An hour later Breaker was exhausted, sweating despite the coolness of the air, and very unsure of his own abilities, despite the old man’s praise. The Swordsman had taken the sword from his hand—without asking, and without Breaker intentionally releasing it—and had then sheathed the blade and given the youth a willow twig, so that they were evenly matched.

  The twig’s ler was warm and green and soft, completely unlike the sword’s, but still, it fit his hand and was about the right length.

  The old man had then demonstrated that he could do things with his hands and a willow stick that Breaker would never have thought possible. He could move it with a degree of speed and precision more reminiscent of Harp’s hands plucking strings in one of her fastest reels than of anything else Breaker could think of; he could put the point on any portion of Breaker’s body in seconds, no matter how Breaker might dodge or twist or struggle, or how fiercely he might wave his own willow twig about trying to ward off the touch.

  An hour of waving a willow twig left Breaker shaken and shivering, as tired as if he had been hauling heavy loads uphill.

  And at the end of it the Swordsman looked at him, nodded, and said, “That was good. Be here again tomorrow, and we’ll work on it some more.” Then he turned and marched back into Elder Priestess’s house.

  Breaker wordlessly watched him go, then angrily flung the willow twig aside and stalked around the house to the village square. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, then rubbed at the spot on his chest, right over his heart, where the Swordsman’s stick had jabbed him repeatedly.

  “Breaker,” someone said.

  He turned to see his sister Harp standing in the break between Priest’s house and the village shrine, and for an instant he wondered what she might have been asking the ler; then he remembered that that passage could be used as a shortcut down to the blacksmith’s forge and the smith’s adjoining house, a house that was also home to the old blacksmith’s youngest son, Harp’s friend and perhaps future husband Smudge.

  A visit there was far more likely than consulting priests or ler.

  “Hello, Harp,” Breaker said.

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “Yes. You?”

  She didn’t bother to answer, but fell in beside him as they walked up the winding lane.

  It was a beautiful day, a gentle breeze rippling leaves that were just beginning to turn to red or brown or gold. The sky above was richly blue, arching from the pavilion atop the ridge in the southwest to the distant cliffs in the east. The fields at the foot of the slope were bare and dark, and some of the village children were picking through the debris left by the harvest, looking for barleycorns to chew or scraps they could incorporate into toys or games. The trees beyond the farthest field hid the river and docks from sight, but Breaker knew they were there, marking the boundary of Mad Oak, the edge of his family’s world.

  The weather and Harp’s presence swiftly eased his temper, and the view down the ridge reminded him of his place in Mad Oak, and that becoming one of the Chosen would mean a place in the wider world beyond.

  “So,” Harp said, as they left the square, “are you serious about this?”

  “About what?” He didn’t really need to ask, but he wanted to hear her say it.

  “About becoming the next Swordsman.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but rubbed absently at the bruise on his chest.

  “I’m not sure,” he said at last, as they passed the house adjoining their own. “I thought I was, but I keep changing my mind.”

  “It’s a big decision,” Harp agreed.

  Breaker nodded.

  They stopped in front of the family home by silent mutual consent, and stood for a moment. Then Breaker said, “I don’t want to be just a barley farmer all my life. I don’t want to be just the kid who broke things.”

  “You don’t have to be,” Harp said. “I was called Spiller when I was little, you know, and everyone thought I’d just be a farmwife like our mother, raising beans and children, canning and sewing and cooking.”

  “And you think you won’t be? You won’t just marry Smudge and grow beans and barley, and bear his children?”

  “Oh, I might—but when was the last time anyone called me Spiller?” She smiled.

  “That’s different. You’ve been playing the harp since . . . well, since . . .”

  “Since I was ten, and you were six,” Harp finished. “Thirteen years. And no one’s called me Spiller since I was twelve.”

  “It’s a little late for me to take up anything like that, then. I never had your ear for music.”

  “You never tried.”

  “I never wanted to.”

  “But you want to wield a sword?”

  “I don’t . . . well, I . . .” He frowned, remembering the cold ferocity of the blade when he first held it, and the exhausting hour with the willow branch. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “Erren,” she said, “tell me what you do know. What do you want? Not just what you don’t want, but what you do.”


  Startled by the almost-forbidden use of a piece of his true name, which demonstrated just how seriously Harp took this question, Breaker hesitated a moment longer to gather his thoughts. Hearing that bit of his real identity spoken aloud seemed to help, and at last he said, “I want to be a part of something bigger than Mad Oak. I want to see more than Mad Oak. Sometimes it feels as if I’m closed in here, trapped in this place, caught between the ridge and the river, as if the ler are holding me here against my will, and I need to escape. But I don’t want to just wander aimlessly around Barokan, like a rogue wizard—I have roots here, I know that, my true name tells me as much. I want to stay here, but at the same time I want to see more, to be more. I want to see the ocean, and the Midlands, and the salt marshes, and to stand at the foot of the Eastern Cliffs to see how high they truly are—but not as a stranger; as someone who belongs there, just as I belong here. I want a role, a place in the world, but a bigger one than growing barley in Mad Oak. It’s not enough, being here. I see Joker and Brokenose and the rest, and they’re fine here, they’re happy, they don’t want anything more, but I do.

  “But I don’t know what.”

  “Just more, huh?”

  “Yes. And becoming one of the Chosen—how much more could there be? I would be a part of all of Barokan, not just Mad Oak or Longvale.”

  “So that’s why you agreed to be the Swordsman?”

  “Yes. But then—there’s the whole thing about killing. A sword is made for killing—I was holding a sword earlier, and I could feel how cold and hungry it was, how ready to kill. It’s not like a hunter’s arrows, where the prey’s ler surrenders itself to feed us—the sword is meant to take that which no one wants to give, and that frightens me a little. I don’t want to kill anyone. And if I don’t, if I’m not ready to use the sword as I’m meant to, then what am I really accomplishing by being one of the Chosen? Killing the Wizard Lord is what they’re chosen for, after all. And that means they’re useless, really—the Chosen don’t do anything.”

  “They will if there’s another Dark Lord.”

  “But there won’t be.”

  “Because the Chosen are there. It’s like some of the priests you hear about, in other towns—they do things to stop the ler from doing things. They offer prayers and sacrifices and rituals not to make the crops grow or the game come close, but so the ler won’t carry off the children or blight the land. If they weren’t there, the towns would be just as uninhabitable as any wilderness. And if the Chosen weren’t there, the Wizard Lord could turn dark in an instant, and no one would stop him.”

  “But why would he turn dark?” He waved a hand at the sky. “Look at the weather he gives us! It’s beautiful. He’s doing fine. Why would that ever change? Most people don’t go about stealing and raping and murdering, even if they have the chance.”

  “The wizards did, though, in the old stories. Maybe it’s something about being a wizard, about binding ler with talismans. Or maybe it’s just that some people are like that, even if we aren’t, and they would go stealing and raping and murdering if they had the chance. A few do, you know, despite everything, and the Wizard Lord hunts them down to bring them to justice, so we know such people still exist. Perhaps there are many more of them, but knowing that the priests and the Wizard Lord would catch them keeps most of them from doing anything bad—but if one of them were the Wizard Lord . . .”

  “So don’t choose people like that to be Wizard Lord.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe you can’t tell them in advance, even with magic.”

  “It still seems . . .” He groped for a word, and finally said, “. . . clumsy.”

  “The system’s worked for hundreds of years. So the question is, do you want to be part of it? Or would you rather not have the responsibility? If you don’t want to be a farmer or a musician, there are still plenty of other choices besides being the world’s greatest swordsman. You could become a guide, maybe, or a bargeman, if you want to travel.”

  Breaker nodded. He had sometimes thought about exactly those options.

  “The Swordsman says I have the ability, though,” he said, remembering the feel of the sword in his hand. It had felt strange, but somehow right.

  “Did he?”

  Breaker nodded. “He tested me this morning. In fact, we practiced for an hour. With sticks.” He grimaced. “He hit me a lot.”

  “Well, after all, he’s not just a swordsman, but the world’s greatest swordsman. He can defeat anyone. But he said you have the ability you need?”

  “He did.”

  “Then maybe the ler led him here deliberately. Maybe you’re meant to be the next Swordsman.”

  “Or maybe he’s lying—he wants to retire and will take the first willing candidate, no matter how inept I am.”

  “Maybe. But he’s one of the Chosen. He’s supposed to be a potential hero. Would he lie and shirk his duty?”

  “He might,” Breaker said, without much conviction.

  “I suppose he might. So what it comes down to, baby brother, is whether you trust him, and whether you trust yourself to be one of the Chosen, and whether you want to be the Swordsman. If you’d be satisfied being a guide—well, the Greenwater Guide has no heir that I know of, and they don’t ever have to kill anyone.”

  “Well, maybe if some fool of a traveler wandered off and offended the wrong ler . . .”

  “Even then, it wouldn’t be the guide’s job—he’d just let nature take its course. So which would you rather carry—ara feathers, or a sword?”

  “Most guides only ever learn and work one or two routes. The Chosen protect all of Barokan.”

  “Yes. It’s quite a responsibility.”

  Breaker stood silently for a moment, considering, and remembering the morning’s experiences; then he smiled and shrugged.

  “Someone has to do it,” he said. “It might as well be me.”

  Harp smiled back, and the two entered the house.

  Perhaps an hour later their mother, known in Mad Oak as White Rose, returned and saw Breaker seated at the kitchen table.

  “So you’ve given up on that foolishness?” she demanded, without preamble.

  Breaker did not pretend to misunderstand her. “On the contrary,” he said. “I’ll be practicing with the Swordsman for an hour every day until he feels I’m ready, and then a wizard will transfer the magic to me, and I’ll be one of the Chosen.”

  She started to open her mouth to argue, then saw the expression on his face.

  “You’re sure, then,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “Even if it means killing a man.”

  Breaker had had time to prepare for this. “If the Chosen are ever sent to kill the Wizard Lord, Mother, I think we can all be sure he deserves it. It hasn’t happened in a century, and it probably won’t happen in my lifetime—but if it does, then yes, I’ll kill him if I must. This is a good role, an important role.”

  She stared at him for a moment, and he gazed steadily back.

  “Well,” she said at last, “you’re nineteen, you’re a man—I can’t stop you. But I think you’re being a fool.”

  “Someone has to do it,” Breaker said, as he had to Harp. “It might as well be me. And if that makes me a fool, then so be it—I’m a fool. But remember, we live in peace, untroubled by rogues or bad weather, because the Wizard Lord watches over us—and we can trust him to do that because the Chosen watch over him. I learned that from you, Mother. Am I a fool to do my part to maintain that peace?”

  White Rose sighed.

  “I hope not,” she said. “By all the ler, I hope not!”

  [5]

  Breaker’s mother was the last to reconcile herself to her son’s new calling, but by midwinter even she had finally accepted it, at least to the extent of allowing the Swordsman to move into the family home, so that his trudging through the snow would not delay the daily practices—and so the town’s unexpected long-term guest would not impose on Elder Priestess any more than he already
had. White Rose knew better than to needlessly aggravate the town’s senior interlocutor with ler.

  The two wizards who had accompanied the Swordsman had left after just three days in Mad Oak. Once they were certain that the Swordsman had found his successor they had no further business in town, and Mad Oak had little to entertain visitors.

  “Call us when the time comes,” the woman had said, handing the Swordsman a talisman, which he quickly pocketed. Then she turned to the guide and said, “To Greenwater, then!”

  For the first month after the wizards departed half the village expected Breaker to give up; it became a popular amusement among the townsfolk of all ages to come watch the practice sessions and see an old man with a blunt stick repeatedly embarrass big strong Breaker, regardless of whether the youth was wielding a similar stick, a real sword, or almost anything else that came to hand. Time after time, when the two of them squared off after the day’s lessons, the Swordsman demonstrated that he could hit Breaker anywhere he chose, at any time he chose, with either a stick or a sword.

  By the end of that first month, however, it sometimes took him two or three tries before he connected, and the townsfolk had largely stopped speculating on how soon Breaker would abandon his pursuit of a role among the Chosen.

  In the first few days some of the other young people of Mad Oak had challenged Breaker to mock duels after seeing his poor showing against the old traveler; most of them were startled to discover that in fact Breaker was not slow or clumsy at all, and could match or better most of his opponents from the very first. After a month Breaker could usually fetch any challenger a sound blow on the side of the head within the first minute of combat, and the impromptu stickfights ceased. Some of the village wits began to mockingly call Breaker “the Young Swordsman,” rather than using the nickname he had borne for a dozen years.

  But as the practice sessions continued, the mockery faded. By midwinter, when White Rose invited the visitor to sleep in the loft, calling her son the Young Swordsman was no longer a joke at all.