“He’s been trying to convince me that that’s what it is,” the Seer said. “That the Wizard Lord told Boss that these were people who had to die, and Boss assumed that meant they were rogue wizards, and they weren’t. He might even be right—but who else would the Wizard Lord be called upon to slaughter? Common criminals are usually dealt with by local priests, you know that, unless they flee past the boundaries, and most aren’t stupid enough to do that—they know the old stories, they know the Wizard Lord probably won’t bother with any trials or mitigating circumstances, he’ll just kill them, while the town priests and magistrates generally won’t do anything more than a flogging unless their crimes are unspeakably vile. Oh, one or two fugitives, that could happen, certainly, but this was more than two killed, all at once. And you know Blade said he never trusted this Wizard Lord. I fear Blade was right, that innocents were slain five years ago and we did nothing.”
“We didn’t know. We still don’t, not for certain.”
“But it’s our duty to know! It’s what we were chosen to do!”
Breaker shifted uncomfortably, but before he could speak the Scholar said, “It is perhaps what you were chosen to do, but my role is to learn everything I can of the world, past and present, so as to advise you and the others how best to deal with the Wizard Lord.”
“Well, isn’t the murder of innocents a part of the world’s history, and a fit subject for your study?” the Seer demanded.
Before the Scholar could reply, Breaker asked, “If this happened, if the Wizard Lord killed innocent people, why didn’t we hear about it? Why wasn’t the news in every public house in the Midlands and every pavilion in the valleys? The guides carry gossip everywhere—why hadn’t the Scholar heard the true story somewhere?”
“That’s a very good question,” the Seer said.
“Indeed,” the Scholar agreed. “We have been discussing this while we awaited your arrival, and the only conclusion that seems to make sense is that there were no witnesses to the killings, no survivors to spread the word.”
“Except the Wizard Lord himself,” the Seer added. “I know he was there.”
“But wouldn’t these people be missed? Wouldn’t their families and townsfolk notice their absence? One person might disappear without anyone thinking it especially strange, but you said there were . . . You didn’t say. How many were there, three or four?”
“More,” the Seer said. “I don’t know how many.”
Breaker felt as if he had been punched in the gut. “More than four? The Wizard Lord murdered more than four people?”
“Killed them, yes,” the Scholar said. “Seer seems sure of that. We don’t know yet whether it was murder or execution, though.” Before anyone else could respond, he added, “Or self-defense.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” the Seer said. “You don’t summon a plague by mistake.”
“I concede that much.”
“We have to do something,” Breaker said, overwhelmed by the thought of half a dozen people dead at once.
“What we must do,” the Scholar said, “is determine the facts of the matter.”
“Talk to the Wizard Lord, you mean?”
“No. If he lied to Boss, he would lie to us,” the Seer said.
“But the Scholar would know, when he didn’t remember the lies.”
“That could take months,” the Scholar said. “And if the Wizard Lord has indeed given in to darkness, he could dispose of us all during those months.”
“But how? We’re the Chosen!”
“He might find a way, all the same.”
The Seer interrupted. “We aren’t going to talk to the Wizard Lord. We are going to go and see for ourselves what happened to those people.”
“But . . . I don’t understand.”
“I know where they died—my magic, the ler of location, will guide us there. It’s in the Galbek Hills—and yes, the Wizard Lord lives in the Galbek Hills, but the deaths were at the other end, about thirty miles east of his tower. We’ll go there. Then we can talk to the people nearby, and see what’s left, and perhaps my other magic will let us know more. I’m not omniscient, but I do sometimes see with more than just my eyes, even when neither the Chosen nor the Wizard Lord are involved.”
“And the Wizard Lord was involved, in this case,” the Scholar pointed out.
“When you say ‘we,’ ” Breaker said, “are you including me?”
“Yes, of course!” the Seer said, startled. “It might be dangerous, and neither of us is a fighter. We may need you to protect us. After all, you are one of the Chosen.”
“One of them. Will you be gathering the other five, then, before we set out?”
The Scholar snorted.
“No,” the Seer said. “That would take too long, and I’m not sure all of them would cooperate. And wouldn’t that be as good as shouting to the Wizard Lord, ‘We think you’ve gone mad!’?”
“What about the Leader, then? Isn’t it his decision? Shouldn’t he be involved?”
The Seer and the Scholar exchanged glances. “Ordinarily, you might have a case,” the Scholar said.
“But it was Boss who told me not to worry about these killings,” the Seer said. “He’ll be reluctant to admit he could have been fooled—and if he wasn’t fooled, if there’s really an innocent explanation, I’d rather not look like I’m a fool.”
“Besides, he’s nowhere near here,” the Scholar said.
“That’s true—he’s traveling well north of here, in the eastern Midlands,” the Seer said. “It might take months to catch up to him and bring him.”
“And I would prefer not to gather too big a crowd,” the Scholar said. “Even three of us traveling together might be viewed with some suspicion. Seer assures me that the Wizard Lord does keep track of us all—that incident with the spider shows as much.”
The explanations all had a superficial logic, but Breaker was not entirely satisfied. He had already had one of the Chosen mislead him, and for all he knew these two were even less trustworthy than the Old Swordsman. He had lived with the old man for months and still been deceived, while he had only just met these two—why should he trust them? He had a sudden momentary suspicion that the incident with the spider might have been staged; after all, he had no proof other than the Seer’s word that the Wizard Lord had been watching them, through the spider or otherwise. The Seer and the Scholar might be fooling him as part of some elaborate scheme—or perhaps the Seer had fooled the Scholar, as well; maybe there had been no mysterious deaths, maybe she had never told the Scholar the story about rogue wizards being executed.
Maybe these two weren’t really the Seer and the Scholar at all!
But that was absurd. Who would pretend to be the Chosen and make up such a tale? Why would anyone lie about such a thing? No, he had to trust these two—they were playing out their roles as he was playing his.
But they were not necessarily following the wisest possible course.
“Maybe we should split up, then,” he said. “We don’t want to arouse any suspicions. The Seer could go to investigate the killings by herself.”
“I want to know what happened,” the Scholar said.
“And I want witnesses along, to confirm my findings,” the Seer said. “Boss might not take my word for it if I find something bad, but he can’t ignore all of us. And the Scholar’s knowledge may be useful.”
“But do you really need me? You said you wanted protection, but wouldn’t three of us traveling together attract so much attention it would be more dangerous than if I just went home?”
The Seer stared at Breaker for a long moment, then said, “I want you to see what there is to see, Swordsman. After all, if our ruler has become a Dark Lord, it will be your duty to kill him.”
For a moment Breaker stared at her, unable to reply.
“It might be the Archer who kills him,” he said at last. “Or any of us, really.”
“In three of the five cases where a Dark Lord has been re
moved by the Chosen, the Swordsman was the one who actually killed the Wizard Lord,” the Scholar said.
“Well, there, twice it was someone else!” Breaker said with a gesture.
“Once the Beauty put a knife in his ribs,” the Scholar said. “That’s unlikely to work again. And the other time the Leader carried the Wizard Lord over a parapet, and both fell to their deaths on the rocks below—the Leader’s struggles, combined with previous injuries and the Thief’s removal of various talismans, prevented the Wizard Lord in question from flying away safely.”
“I heard that story,” Breaker said. “My grandmother told me about that. That was the Dark Lord of the Tsamas, two hundred years ago.”
“Two hundred and twenty-eight.”
Breaker ignored the correction. “He wasn’t killed by the Swordsman.”
“Nor was the Dark Lord of Kamith t’Daru. But the Dark Lords of the Midlands, of Tallowcrane, and of Goln Vleys were slain by Swordsmen.”
“Swordsman,” the Seer said, “you surely knew when you agreed to take your role that it would be your responsibility to kill the Wizard Lord if he went mad or gave in to evil.”
“Yes,” Breaker admitted, “but I never thought it would really happen—and certainly not so soon!”
“It may not have happened—but it’s our duty to find out. Our duty, all three of us.”
“But won’t the Wizard Lord notice the three of us traveling together?” He pointed at the Scholar. “He thought it would look suspicious!”
“Swordsman,” the Seer said gently, “the Wizard Lord is going to know what’s happening in any case. He’s the Wizard Lord. He has magic that keeps him informed of everything of significance in all of Barokan. He has magic that allows him to locate every rogue wizard. He can see and hear through any pair of eyes he wants—well, any living eyes that aren’t human. If he doesn’t already know our true names, he can learn them in an instant, and surely you know that means he can always find us. We can’t hide from him, and we can’t keep what we do a secret. He’ll know. The Chosen have never had the element of surprise in their favor; the Wizard Lord always knows when he’s been marked for removal.”
“The Chosen can use surprise in certain ways,” the Scholar objected. “There are ways to limit the effectiveness of the Wizard Lord’s divinations.”
“But still, every Dark Lord knows the Chosen are coming well before they reach him, even if he doesn’t know when or where or how.”
“Well, that’s true,” the Scholar admitted. “It’s inherent in the system, more or less.”
“But then won’t he try to stop us?” Breaker asked.
“Of course he will,” the Seer said. “And we’ll go on with the job all the same. That’s what makes the Chosen heroes, Swordsman—we’ll do what needs to be done, despite the danger.”
“You must have known it might be dangerous,” the Scholar remarked.
“Yes,” Breaker said. “Yes, of course—but somehow it seems much more . . . more real now, more frightening. There’s no way I can turn back, is there?”
“Not really, no,” the Scholar told him. “If you were ill or injured or old, you might contrive to pass the title of Swordsman on, but as you’re young and healthy I don’t think the ler would accept that.”
“You’ll come with us into the Galbek Hills,” the Seer said. “It’s your duty. And with any luck at all this will all turn out to be nothing, some legitimate action the Wizard Lord took as protector of Varagan.”
“I suppose,” Breaker unhappily agreed.
He was not entirely convinced; he was unsure of everything now, unsure of whether these people were really the Seer and the Scholar, unsure what the Wizard Lord might be up to, unsure whether the Old Swordsman and the wizards might have tricked him somehow. Was he really the world’s greatest swordsman, one of the Chosen, at all?
He didn’t know. Since leaving Mad Oak he had often felt as if he didn’t really know anything anymore, as if the entire world around him were shifting facades built upon mist and mud, liable to change or collapse or vanish at any moment. He had been told how everything was, told about the towns and roads, told about local customs and priest-hoods and ler, told about the Chosen and the Wizard Lord, but how could he be sure that any of it was true? Back home he had seen the barley grow every year, seen the crops respond to the priests, seen the summers come and the winters go, and he had known how everything worked, but out here in the wider world he could only rely on what he saw and heard, and had no experience to guide him in telling truth from falsehood.
“We’ll leave in the morning,” the Seer said. “We’ll go see what there is to see and settle this matter, one way or the other.”
Breaker didn’t answer.
“And Swordsman,” she added, “I’m not any happier about this than you are. Do you think I want to confront the Wizard Lord? I’m an old woman, I should be safely at home in Sedgedown watching my grandchildren grow up, but instead I’m wandering around the southern hills and risking the wrath of the most powerful magician in the world. He’s as likely to kill me as he is to kill you.”
“I know,” Breaker said quietly.
He wasn’t sure what was going on, wasn’t sure whether everything he had been told was the truth, but he really couldn’t see any way out. If he went home to Mad Oak, or anywhere else other than accompanying these two, he would be failing in his duty, failing to live up to the role he had agreed to.
He couldn’t do that, no matter how many doubts he had. He had agreed to this. His mother had warned him against it, he had had months to change his mind, and he had committed himself; he couldn’t turn around and run home now.
“We’ll leave in the morning,” he agreed.
“I’ll find the guide,” the Seer said.
And in the morning, although the Swordsman was no more certain of anything than he had ever been, the four of them—the three Chosen and their guide—set out southward.
Breaker cast an occasional longing glance over his shoulder, toward his distant home in the north, but he trudged resolutely south.
[15]
Their progress was uneven; the Seer knew where their destination lay, but not how to get there, and the guides they hired along the way only knew routes between towns. The Seer would indicate a direction and distance, and the guide would do his best to deliver them to the town farthest along that line, but sometimes that town would prove a dead end, forcing them to double back or veer miles off their intended path.
As summer neared its end the weather began to turn cooler—but not as fast as Breaker felt it should have. When he remarked on this the Seer and the Scholar stared at him blankly for a moment; then the Seer said gently, “Swordsman, we’re more than a hundred miles south of your homeland, perhaps more than two hundred. Winters are milder and arrive later here.”
“Oh,” Breaker said. He did vaguely recall hearing that the sun’s path across the sky passed more closely over the southern lands, and that the South was therefore warmer, but he had never expected to experience this firsthand; he had somehow assumed that those warmer lands lay thousands upon thousands of miles away, perhaps not in Barokan at all.
The journey itself was fairly uneventful; the guides knew their work, and in any case these hills seemed to harbor less danger, fewer hostile ler, than the northern lands—or perhaps the presence of three of the Chosen traveling together cowed the troublesome spirits with their partial immunity to magic.
The towns in which they stopped varied immensely in detail, but in time they all began to seem basically alike to Breaker. There would be a small priesthood that dealt with the local ler, a few tradespeople and shops clustered around the center, and dozens, or even a few hundred, of farm families working the land the priests had declared safe. The larger towns often had an inn, but the smaller ones made do with families willing to rent out extra beds.
And everywhere the three of them were quickly recognized as Chosen, regardless of whether any of them had ever be
fore set foot within the borders. Breaker wondered just what made it so obvious—were travelers so very scarce that any group of strangers with no clear purpose was assumed to be the Chosen?
But then he recalled that he wore a sword on his belt and made no attempt to conceal it, and that the Scholar (whom Breaker was learning to call Lore) and Seer did not look as if they had any legitimate business that would send them traveling about. He wondered what would happen if they actually denied their identity, or hid the sword and pretended to be traders of some sort.
But there was no reason to do so; the one person they might have wished could not locate them, the Wizard Lord himself, would always be able to find them magically, no matter what they did to hide or disguise themselves. Trying to conceal their true nature would most likely simply arouse suspicion.
Furthermore, performing sword tricks was the most convenient way to raise a little extra money along the way, to pay for bed and board and guides, and he could hardly hope that his audience would not realize he was the Swordsman when he demonstrated his superhuman skill with a blade.
Of course, this meant that he found himself answering the same questions over and over, responding to the same requests. Had he ever killed a man with his sword? Had he met the Wizard Lord in person? Could he outfight two men at once? Three? Four? Where did he get the sword he carried—had he made it himself? And he would be asked for lessons in swordsmanship—both skill with a steel blade, and skill with what nature had provided.
Not all the questions came up every time, and some required some thought. Even some of the common ones could take a new slant, on occasion.
In a village called Cat’s Whisker, in the town’s one public house, a boy not much younger than Breaker himself asked, “How did you come to be chosen to be the Swordsman? Were you born with some mark on your skin, or under a particular sign in the heavens?”
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