The Wizard Lord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  This whole business of becoming one of the Chosen suddenly seemed like a mistake. Setting himself up as one of the judges and executioners over someone who could make a rabbit speak from more than a hundred miles away was surely unspeakably foolhardy; how could anyone in his right mind accept such a role?

  “Is there . . . I mean . . .”

  “I’m hurting the rabbit’s throat,” the rabbit said. “No more.” Then it turned and hopped away a foot or so before turning back to watch.

  The youth hesitated—but then the Old Swordsman arrived, Black Coat at his side, just as the sun’s light flared golden above the cliffs, and the air buzzed with sudden tension. The Young Swordsman turned to face him.

  In turning he noticed the hawk perched on a convenient rooftop, still watching him. Was that another vantage point for the Wizard Lord? Was it another wizard using similar magic to observe the duel? And the priest’s cat really did seem unnaturally intent.

  Were there others? Mice under the shutters, spiders in the eaves?

  The Old Swordsman seemed to have missed the excitement of the talking rabbit, and he was ignoring the murmuring of the crowd, the muttered questions, the nervous edge, the tinge of near-panic in the air. His attention was entirely on his opponent, and he seemed more determined, more there, than Breaker had ever seen him.

  “Are you ready, boy?” the Old Swordsman said, drawing his sword. Breaker raised his own blade.

  “Forswear the aid of your ler!” he called, remembering his role.

  “With the ler’s consent, I have left my talismans on my bed,” the elder man said, “and this man beside me has driven away other ler that might have aided me. You face nothing but my own skills—which will be more than enough, I have no doubt! I think it will be spring, at the very least, before you are ready to take my title!”

  Breaker hesitated, but then he reminded himself that the old man was trying to make it look good, trying to make everyone believe the fight was honest. He had promised to give Breaker an easy opening, an opportunity to show what he could do and prick the older man’s upper arm.

  Just draw first blood, and he would be declared the world’s greatest swordsman, one of the Chosen, with the magic to make the claim true. He fell into the stance he had been taught, left foot back, right foot forward, left knee straight, right knee bent.

  “A moment,” the wizard Black Coat said, stepping forward, hands raised. “If this is to be done, let it be done properly.”

  The Young Swordsman relaxed slightly, lowering his weapon.

  The wizard stood between the two combatants, and gestured to them to indicate the starting positions they should take. Then he announced, “We are here today to see whether this young man, a scion of the town of Mad Oak in the central region of Longvale, son of the man called Grumbler and the woman known as the White Rose, can prevail in armed combat against the man reputed for many years to be the greatest swordsman in all Barokan. By the request of both participants, I and my fellow wizards, as members of the Council of Immortals charged with overseeing the choosing of Barokan’s defenders, and all the priests of Mad Oak, as representatives of the place of this combat, have called upon the ler of earth and sky, of blade and bone and blood, of steel and fire, to refrain from all interference—let this battle be settled only by the strengths and skills of mortal men! Is it so agreed?”

  The answer was not spoken but felt, as if a great wave had rolled through the air, carrying the word yes.

  “And do the combatants agree that this bout is to be decided by the first drop of blood shed, and that no further proof will be asked in determining the victor?”

  “We do,” the Old Swordsman said; Breaker hastily agreed.

  “And is it understood by all that the victor shall be proclaimed the greatest swordsman of Barokan, and shall become the possessor of the talisman and powers granted to the holder of that title by the Council of Immortals, and shall accept the role of one of the Chosen Defenders of Barokan, and swear by his true name to fulfill the duties of that role?”

  “Yes.” This time the word was spoken aloud by both men—and the rabbit.

  “Then when I lower my arm, let the bout begin.” Black Coat stepped back and raised one arm high, while the two swordsmen raised their swords and assumed fighting stance.

  Then the wizard’s hand dropped, and the Old Swordsman’s blade came jabbing at him, and Breaker focused all his attention on his sword and his opponent, forgetting about rabbits and wizards and everything except defending himself.

  The old man had said he intended to make it look good, and he had obviously meant it; he was pressing the youth harder than he ever had in training or practice, and the former Breaker gave ground, stepping back. He did not drop his defense for an instant, though; steel clashed and whickered, but neither point nor edge touched him.

  Breaker had not expected so fierce an assault. He wanted it to “look good,” yes, but the way the old man was pressing him a single slip might send the old man’s sword through his arm, or put a gash in his cheek. For several seconds he could do nothing but defend; he had no time to consider an attack of his own, as he was far too busy remembering the lessons he had been taught over the preceding months, and putting everything he had learned about defense to the test.

  Keep the blade high, never overextend, always be aware of his surroundings so as not to stumble and so no unexpected second foe could take him by surprise, anticipate the blows rather than reacting to them, if possible move to the side and not back when dodging, trust his reflexes . . . there was so much to keep in mind! He focused himself on using it all.

  It was enough, but just barely; several of the old man’s blows were close enough that Breaker could feel the wind of their passage, and he was fairly sure one cut a lock of hair from his head—it was a good thing hair couldn’t bleed.

  At last, though, the assault seemed to falter, and Breaker ventured a quick jab.

  The Old Swordsman turned it easily.

  Breaker was puzzled—and somewhat frightened. Hadn’t the Old Swordsman set all this up so he could lose, and give up his duties as one of the Chosen? Why, then, was he fighting so hard? He was attacking as fiercely as he did in practice, if not more so—had he changed his mind?

  Or had the whole thing been a ruse, perhaps? Was Breaker to be a blood sacrifice to the ler of swordsmanship, so that the Old Swordsman could carry on? He had heard of such magic, of how some ler required such sacrifices. Maybe this was a requirement of the role, like the daily hour of practice—perhaps every so often, every five or ten years or whatever, the Swordsman must prove his worth by slaying a worthy foe.

  Breaker’s arm almost shook at that thought, and the tip of his blade wavered; it seemed far too likely. He had believed everything the old man had told him, but what if it had all been a pack of lies, meant to lure him into this fight, where he could die in ritual combat?

  If that was what was happening, then Breaker knew he was doomed, but he had no intention of making it easy for the old man—and maybe he was worrying about nothing, maybe the wily Chosen was really just making it look very, very good. He shifted his grip slightly, to keep sweat from affecting his hold on the weapon; despite the cold his hands were damp. Even as he kept his eyes on his opponent’s wrist and shoulder, he tried to think of tricks he had learned, anything he might use to win this fight.

  Or just to survive it, if the Old Swordsman really had betrayed him and meant to kill him.

  The older combatant lunged. The tip of the Old Swordsman’s blade missed the younger’s ear by no more than an inch, and the Young Swordsman told himself to stop worrying about such things and concentrate on the matter at hand—the duel. Whether his opponent was fighting to the death or to first blood didn’t really matter at this point; against so superior an opponent Breaker had to fight as if he were fighting for his life. He countered the thrust, only to have his blade knocked aside once again. He brought it back in line in time to parry an attack.

 
“Well done,” the rabbit called loudly, in its squealing, inhuman voice.

  The Old Swordsman started and glanced aside, and the Young Swordsman lunged, and the point of his sword jabbed through the old man’s leather coat and into the flesh of his shoulder.

  The crowd gasped.

  Startled, both fighters froze for an instant, and then, as if at an agreed-upon signal, simultaneously stepped back, pulling the blade from the older man’s shoulder.

  The tip of the sword gleamed red in the morning sun, plain for all to see. The air hummed with the magic of waiting ler.

  “I believe I’ve won,” Breaker said, his voice unsteady. He felt slightly ill. He had not intended to strike the shoulder; such a wound could be far worse than the pinprick in the arm that he and the old man had discussed.

  But he hadn’t had much choice—and even now, he remained wary, afraid that the old man might resume the fight.

  Why had the Old Swordsman fought so determinedly? Why hadn’t he left a better opening? Breaker felt himself starting to tremble in reaction; his stomach was churning.

  At least the wound did not seem too serious; blood was seeping through the leather, and undoubtedly there was a great deal more beneath, but the Old Swordsman clearly still had the use of his arm and was neither screaming in pain nor writhing in agony.

  “Yes, I believe you have,” the old man said unhappily, clapping his left hand to his bleeding shoulder.

  “You don’t sound pleased,” Black Coat said, stepping forward. “Having second thoughts?”

  “I might be, at that,” the old man said, glancing at the rabbit.

  The Young Swordsman’s eyes followed the elder’s gaze in time to see the animal turn and hop away.

  There was clearly something going on here he didn’t understand, but he did not want to admit that and ask about it in front of half the village. “Now what?” he said.

  “Now,” the wizard said, stepping forward and throwing an arm around the youth’s shoulders, “we must bind you to the talismans and their ler. You are now the greatest swordsman in Barokan, as demonstrated by your victory, and must therefore be one of our Chosen Defenders—let us now confirm that with the spirits of blood and steel.” He turned Breaker toward his parents’ house. “How much of your true name do you know?”

  “A few dozen syllables, perhaps.”

  “We will need it for the magic, as much of it as you can remember—the ler care nothing for the names we humans give each other.”

  “I know that,” Breaker said, allowing himself to be set in motion, his bloodied sword still in his hand. He looked at his defeated opponent, who was stripping off his pierced coat to allow Younger Priestess access to the wound, and at his own family, who were stepping aside wordlessly to allow him past.

  His parents’ expressions were unreadable, while Spider and Fidget were staring at him with frank openmouthed awe. Harp had vanished, fled somewhere during the fight, though Breaker—the Swordsman, now—had not seen her go and was unsure why she had left. Smudge and Digger were gone, as well.

  No one had rushed forward to congratulate him—not his parents, nor his sisters, nor Little Weaver nor Curly, nor Joker nor Brokenose nor any of his other friends. All but Harp and Digger were there in the crowd, watching, but none of them had said a word, no one had applauded his victory. They were just staring at him silently as the black-coated wizard led him away.

  He wasn’t sure exactly what he had expected, but he thought there ought to be more enthusiasm than this.

  “So tell me as much of your true name as you can,” the wizard said. “I will need to recite it, so I had best start learning it.”

  “Erren Zal Tuyo,” the new Swordsman began; then he stopped.

  The wizard glanced at him, startled. “You must know more of it than that!”

  “Of course I do, but . . .” He gestured at the silent audience they were passing.

  “Ah, I see,” the wizard admitted. “We’ll wait, then.”

  Ten minutes later they were in the loft bedroom where the Old Swordsman—now the former Swordsman—had been staying, a room that had been Harp’s when the family had no houseguest. The wizard closed the trapdoor and pushed a chest over onto it, since there was no lock.

  “Now,” he said, turning to the Swordsman, “what was that name again?”

  “Erren Zal Tuyo kam Darig seveth Tirinsir abek Du po Wirei Shash-Dubar hyn Silzorivad,” the young man replied. The air seemed to shimmer as he spoke, and he felt the sounds tugging at something inside him, even though he did not know what they really meant or even what language they were. He had not spoken the names aloud in well over a year, not since Elder Priestess had last renewed his ties to the land and soil of Mad Oak, and while any true name attracted the attention of the ler he did not remember the effects ever being anywhere near so strong before.

  “Ah,” the wizard said, nodding and apparently untroubled by any untoward phenomena. “If I interpret that correctly, you have a destiny, though I can’t say what it might be—perhaps merely the one you achieved today by establishing yourself as one of the Chosen. And then I suppose we have the four cardinal ler that attended your birth, while Silzorivad must have been the spirit present in your mother’s womb at the moment of conception. Shash-Dubar . . . I don’t know that. A local spirit, perhaps? Some connection to your father?”

  “My mother says Elder Priestess told her it has to do with the months she was pregnant with me.”

  “She may be right. Do you know any more?”

  “No. Just that. Elder Priestess might . . .”

  The wizard held up a hand. “It should serve. Your destiny and the four ler are the essential parts.” He leaned his staff against a table and opened a large purse that hung from his belt; Breaker noticed that the drawstring writhed unnaturally. The wizard paid no attention to the animated cord as he began drawing out talismans.

  When he had brought forth a dozen of his own he turned and added them to the collection already lying on the narrow bed. There were tiny carved figures in wood and stone, baked-clay tokens in a dozen assorted shapes, things of beads and wire, waxed feathers and vials of precious oils—at least a score in all.

  And at the center was a tiny triangular silver blade, no more than three inches long, that shone with a fierce intensity, as if catching a flash of summer sun—but this was winter, and the sun still hung low above the Eastern Cliffs, and the room in which they stood had only a single window, facing north.

  “That’s the one you’ll need to carry, Erren Zal Tuyo,” the wizard said, pointing to the blade. “That’s the core around which the magic will be wrapped.”

  “What if I lose it?” Breaker asked, gazing uneasily at the gleaming device.

  “Oh, I don’t think you can,” the wizard replied. “The ler will see to that.” He adjusted the arrangement on the bed, then stepped back and looked it over.

  “That should do,” he said. “Now, stand here, and look at the blade.” He gestured to indicate the spot he meant.

  Breaker obeyed, and stood staring down at the bed as the wizard began to chant incomprehensible words in an unfamiliar language.

  The surge of power was immediate; the air hummed with magic, and colored light shimmered across the talisman-covered bed, gold and red and blue. Breaker felt suddenly dizzy, and started to step back, but when his attention shifted from the little silver blade a wrenching, stabbing pain thrust up from his spine and through his head. His eyes watered, and his vision blurred, so that the only thing he could see was that talisman.

  He focused on it again, and the pain vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, but his vision was not restored; all he could see was the shiny bit of metal there on the brown blanket. He locked his gaze grimly on to it as the wizard’s voice droned on.

  He heard his own true name, the name the ler knew him by, the name that described his soul and defined his place in the world of spirit, in the chant, and he felt something happen; now it was not merely the threat
of pain that kept him staring intently at the talisman, but a sudden inability to imagine ever again seeing anything else. This was where he belonged, and what he was meant to be, meant to do—staring at the talisman was what his entire life had led up to, what he was for. The glowing silver filled his vision, as big as the world and everything in it, and the wizard’s voice had become a chorus filling his ears, the one human voice accompanied by a thousand that were definitely not human.

  His hands and feet were numb; the skin of his face felt burning hot. Time ceased to pass in any rational way; every second was an infinity. He was a part of the talisman, no longer aware of any other existence.

  And then he was no longer aware of anything at all.

  [8]

  The new Swordsman did not so much awaken as gradually become aware of his surroundings.

  He was lying in his own bed, fully dressed—in fact, he still had his boots on, though his coat had been removed. He was lying on his back, staring up at the blue flowers his mother had long ago painted on the plaster ceiling of his room. His hands were at his sides, and both were clutching something; his right hand was closed on something hard and cold, while his left held something sharp and hot. He had no memory of how he had gotten down from the loft and into his own room at the back of the house.

  And all through him he could feel the rushing of . . . of something. He didn’t have a name for it. It wasn’t heat or cold or raw magic, nor was it any of the natural emotions or physical sensations he was familiar with. It was something numinous, something of ler, but he could not give it a name.

  He blinked, his first conscious movement since he had lost himself in the wizard’s chant, and that seemed to break some small part of the spell; he could still feel the rushing, and his hands still held whatever they held, but he was once again entirely himself, the young man called Breaker—or the Young Swordsman.

  He raised himself up on his elbows and looked around.

  The thing in his right hand was the hilt of a sword, one of the two the Old Swordsman had brought—hardly a surprise, since they were the only swords in Mad Oak. He raised the blade and looked at it, then let it fall at his side.