The Wizard Lord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He could have interrupted her mumbling and asked her to say more, but as usual, her behavior put him off.

  They had been traveling together for some time now, and Breaker knew that she was not insane, despite appearances, but at times it was difficult to remember that. It was hard to believe that she had lived fourteen years under this constant barrage of inhuman chatter without genuinely going mad. Unlike the Archer or himself, the Speaker had no daily task she had to perform to satisfy her ler; instead the requirement was that she could never stop hearing them, could not simply learn to ignore them. How she slept was a mystery, how she retained her sanity a much greater one. Breaker knew that he should listen to her when she spoke, but he was never comfortable doing so.

  The Seer, with her motherly impatience, seemed much easier to believe—and besides, whether he had ever actually led anyone or not, Boss was the Leader of the Chosen and they were supposed to follow him.

  “This way,” the Seer said, and Breaker shrugged off the Speaker’s words and followed.

  Winterhome, he discovered, was huge—but largely empty with the Uplanders gone. There were three streets of the great shelters, each miles long, radiating to the west, southwest, and northwest from a central plaza; to the east of the plaza a gigantic steep slope of broken stone led up toward the only break in the Eastern Cliffs, a trail zigzagging across it. Where most of the world was green and inviting now that the sun was above the cliffs, this slope was mostly reddish brown, though here and there a few patches of moss and lichen showed that the rocks were not utterly lifeless.

  To the north and south of the square lay the homes and businesses of the Host People—or at least those who were not employed as live-in caretakers of the clan houses. When the travelers reached the plaza the Seer dismissed their guide, and led the way into the tangle of streets and alleys to the south.

  Here, at last, the streets were inhabited, and Breaker got his first real look at the Host People.

  He was not particularly impressed; they all wore black from head to toe, with tight black hoods hiding their hair and ears. The few visible women added a black scarf pulled up over their mouths and usually their noses, as well; the men wore bristling beards instead.

  The men’s garments were tunics and breeches, cut generously, but bound at wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles with black garters to keep their clothing from getting in the way. The women’s floor-length robes, on the other hand, were great baggy swirling things, almost tentlike, that were worn loose, without any sort of belt or binding; combined with the hoods and scarves it was impossible to tell what any of the women actually looked like. Wrinkles around the eyes gave some clue as to age, but beyond that all the females were simply interchangeable black shapes of varying size.

  In all his travels so far, from Mad Oak to Stoneslope and Seven Sides to Winterhome, Breaker did not think he had ever seen less attractive feminine attire. There had been towns where he was not permitted to see the women at all, and others where women walked the streets stark naked, but never before had he encountered garb so utterly unappealing. He wondered whether this was ordained by the local ler, or was a purely human aberration.

  “Do you know why the women dress like that?” he asked the Scholar quietly.

  “For protection,” the Scholar replied. “When the Uplanders come down from the plateau—well, you’ve got a lot of eager, active young men who are accustomed to roaming freely across wide areas who are suddenly thrust into close quarters with nothing much to occupy their time. They get bored and need outlets for their energy. Add in young women who are outside the protection of their clan system, and you’ve got a recipe for trouble—everything from rude remarks to outright rape and even murder. Hasty marriages, fatherless children . . .” He shrugged. “Not that those don’t happen anyway, of course, but at least they’re not common.”

  “But the women are still there,” Breaker protested.

  “But the Uplanders can’t tell the pretty girls from the grandmothers. Easier to talk to their own women, who don’t dress like that—or to the Host People’s whores, who also don’t.”

  Breaker glanced around, and saw no exceptions to the smothering black garb. “They don’t?”

  “Indeed they don’t, not when they’re making themselves available—which they aren’t right now, with the Uplanders not here, so you can stop looking.”

  “I wasn’t . . .” Breaker began, then stopped. He grimaced. “All right, but I was merely curious about what they do wear.”

  “Furs, usually. The Uplanders find fur exotic, since ara and other birds dominate on the plateau and there are no fur-bearing beasts up there. And after all, it’s in the winter that the Host People play host.”

  “If you two are done ogling the women,” the Seer said, “Boss is in here.” She pointed at an open door.

  There was no signboard, no hanging tankard, no shop window, no bell, nothing to indicate that this place was open to the public; Breaker hesitated.

  The Archer did not; he stepped forward and marched into the building. The Seer followed. Warily, Breaker and the Scholar stepped in; then Breaker paused on the threshold to make sure the Speaker was accompanying them.

  Once she was past him, Breaker turned and found himself in what was plainly an ordinary inn or tavern; half a score of black-clad customers were scattered about several tables and benches, most of them holding pewter mugs. They had apparently been gathered around the one person not wearing black, a handsome man in his thirties who wore a tooled-leather vest over a fine white blouse, but all had now turned to stare at the newcomers.

  The man in the leather vest had turned, as well. He was tall and muscular, though not quite a match for Bow or Breaker, with black curly hair and a magnificent black beard. Brown eyes and white teeth shone as he smiled at the newcomers, and Breaker felt an irrational urge to smile back—the man’s charm was undeniable.

  “Seer!” he said. “And Lore! What brings you here? And who—oh, wait, I recognize Babble, and that fellow looks like Bow. Is this other our new Swordsman, then?”

  “I am,” Breaker acknowledged—and he felt an odd warmth as he spoke those words.

  “Then have you all journeyed here to introduce us? It hardly seems as if you all needed to come!”

  “That’s not why we’re here,” the Seer began.

  The Leader held up a hand, and she fell silent. “Then perhaps this is not the best place to speak,” he said.

  “Perhaps . . .”

  “Then come.” He gestured.

  A moment later Breaker was following the Leader up a set of stairs he had not even consciously noticed, not quite certain how he had come to be there. The man called Boss had taken control of the situation from the first, giving no one an opportunity to argue; he had instructed, and they had obeyed. The six Chosen had suddenly become the cooperating team Breaker had always thought they should be.

  But now Breaker was not sure whether he was entirely pleased about that. Yes, it was good to have a leader who could actually lead, good to have everything falling into place, but this assumption of authority seemed a bit sudden. Being part of a team was good; being a subordinate on a team was not quite so clearly beneficial. Breaker liked to think he could make his own decisions.

  Although he knew that far too often of late, he hadn’t. He had just gone along with what was expected of him, playing out his role as the Swordsman, doing what the Seer and the Scholar wanted him to do. He had followed them halfway across Barokan without serious argument, but now that he was being guided by the Leader, the man he was supposed to obey, he balked?

  He grimaced at his own foolishness.

  And then the six of them were in an upstairs room, one that held them all well enough, but was somewhat crowded with half a dozen people in it. All of the new arrivals found places for themselves—the Speaker and the Scholar sat on the bed, the Seer took the room’s only chair, the Archer settled on the windowseat, and Breaker perched himself on a trunk. The Leader closed
the door, then turned and leaned against it.

  “Now,” the Leader said, “since there’s really only one reason I can think of that three-fourths of the Chosen would be gathered together, I assume someone’s heard something terrible about the Wizard Lord, and you want a decision on whether or not we need to remove him. I don’t think that’s something we want to discuss in front of the Host People, or anyone else but ourselves, so I’ve brought us up here—but you know they’ll figure it out quickly enough, word will be all over Winterhome in an hour, and the Wizard Lord himself will know by morning.”

  “He already knows,” the Seer said.

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Absolutely. We’ve spoken to him. And we told at least one of our guides, come to that, so there’s no secret to keep.”

  The Leader nodded. “Then there’s no element of surprise to consider, and it may not matter if rumors are all over Barokan. That would seem to mean there’s no need to rush. So I’ll be happy to hear all about whatever atrocity has been alleged, but first let’s take a minute to get to know our own situation.” He pointed at Breaker. “Stand up, Swordsman, and tell us about yourself.”

  Breaker rose. “What would you like to know?” he asked.

  “To begin with, what’s your name?”

  Breaker glanced at the Speaker, then said, “I’m called Sword now; for most of my life I was known as Breaker.”

  “Those aren’t your name.”

  “No, of course not. My people don’t use true names.”

  The Leader nodded. “And where are those people? Somewhere in the northern valleys?”

  “A town called Mad Oak, in Longvale,” Breaker acknowledged.

  “And old Blade showed up there, asking for someone to replace him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you volunteer?”

  “Someone had to do it.”

  The Leader looked at him for a long moment; Breaker looked calmly back. Then Boss nodded again. “I see,” he said. “Someone had to—but why you?”

  “Because no one else was speaking up.”

  “And the glory of being the world’s greatest swordsman, one of the eight Chosen . . . ?”

  Breaker smiled. “That didn’t hurt.”

  “And you had no ties holding you to Mad Oak?”

  Breaker shrugged. “I had friends, and my family, and I had never seen anywhere else, but nothing that prevented me from taking on the role.”

  “Family? You’re married? Children?”

  Breaker was genuinely shocked. “Oh, no, of course not! But there are my parents and my sisters.”

  “Ah. Of course. So you trained with old Blade, and fought him and won—how did that go?”

  Breaker frowned. “That was . . . odd. I cut him worse than I had intended—he was distracted and dropped his guard. The Wizard Lord spoke up during the fight, you see. Through a rabbit.”

  “Did he? How do you know it was the Wizard Lord, and not some other magician? Perhaps one of your local priests wanted to ensure your victory, as a matter of local pride.”

  Breaker blinked.

  “Our priest couldn’t do that,” he said.

  “Another wizard, perhaps?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Breaker admitted. “No one else mentioned that possibility, though—not Blade nor the wizards present.”

  “Perhaps they were fooled as well—or perhaps some of them were part of the scheme.”

  “Or perhaps it really was the Wizard Lord,” the Seer interjected. “Boss, can we get down to business?”

  “In a moment. I like to know who I’ll be working with.” He looked around at the others. “I’ve met the rest of you, of course, though I don’t know as much about some of you as I would like. I notice that the Thief isn’t here, nor the Beauty—why is that, Sword?”

  “The Thief wouldn’t come,” Breaker explained. “She says she regrets ever taking the role, and she won’t leave her husband and children. As for the Beauty, we found you first.”

  “Fair enough. Where is the Beauty, Seer? Up north? Out on the coast?”

  “That way,” the Seer said, pointing. “About half a mile.”

  The Leader blinked in apparent surprise. “Is she?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had no idea! Interesting.” He smiled. “Well, then, we’re all accounted for, and I’m sure I’ll get to know all of you as well as I could ask if we do indeed join forces to destroy the Wizard Lord, so let me get to the point. Lore, tell me what this is about.”

  “The short version, or with all the details?” the Scholar asked.

  “The short version, for now—we can fill in the rest later.”

  Lore nodded. “When the Seer and I compared notes recently, we realized that the Wizard Lord had lied to us about killings he performed in Stoneslope, about five years ago. You’ll remember that the Seer discussed those with you at the time—well, we discovered that the explanation he gave could not be true. We felt we had to investigate further. The new Swordsman was nearby, and we thought it might be useful to have a good fighter along, since there might be dangers, so we met with him, and asked him to accompany us to Stoneslope to explore the situation.”

  “The short version, Lore.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Boss. The short version is that Stoneslope isn’t there anymore; five years ago the Wizard Lord slaughtered every man, woman, and child there in revenge for what he saw as childhood abuse.”

  “He did.”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  The Scholar looked confused, and glanced at the Seer for support. “We saw their bones,” he said. “We saw the burnt-out remains of the village. We felt the ghosts that linger there. We talked to the people of the neighboring village. And we talked to the Wizard Lord, who admitted what he had done.”

  “So you know the village was destroyed, and the people killed—but how do you know it was the Wizard Lord who did it?”

  “He said so,” Lore replied, baffled. “Through a crow.”

  “And how do you know this crow . ..”

  “Save your breath, Boss,” the Seer said. “I was there, and it was the Wizard Lord speaking to us—and don’t ask how I know, because you know how I know.”

  “Ah. Your magic.”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know that he spoke the truth, through this crow?”

  “Why would he lie?” Breaker asked, puzzled.

  “I remember every word,” the Scholar said. “Every word, just as he spoke them. You know what that means.”

  The Leader nodded. “All right, then, he did it—he killed everyone in his home village. And for that you believe we should remove him, am I correct?”

  “You know you are,” the Seer said.

  “Then let me ask—why?”

  [22]

  The others stared at the Leader in astonishment.

  “What do you mean, why?” the Seer demanded. “Because he’s a murderer, a butcher, who killed dozens of innocent people, and he needs to be removed before he does it again!”

  “But what makes you think he would ever do it again?” the Leader asked. “After all, he has no other enemies, does he? And by your own account it’s been five years since the killings; has he killed anyone else in those five years?”

  “No,” the Seer said.

  The Archer glanced at her, startled. “No rogue wizards or other wandering criminals?”

  “No one,” the Seer said. “I’m certain of it.”

  “But shouldn’t he have?” the Archer persisted. “Weren’t there any fleeing murderers? In all the old stories . . .”

  “The stories sometimes exaggerate,” the Scholar said. “Most of them are about events that happened centuries ago, even if the tellers may say otherwise.”

  “The Wizard Lord hasn’t killed anyone since the slaughter in Stone-slope,” the Seer insisted. “Perhaps he should have killed someone, I can’t tell that, but he hasn’t.”

 
“Then why not recognize this one instance as a special case?” the Leader asked, spreading his hands. “He’s been a good Wizard Lord otherwise—the weather has been pleasant, the crops good, there are no reports of bandits or disorder. Why is this so unforgivable?”

  “He killed babies, Boss. He killed his own aunt, and his betrothed, and his first girl. He’s a monster.”

  “Seer, it is his duty as Wizard Lord to kill those who deserve to die. We have all of us made him a monster, if that’s what he is, because that’s what we need to protect us from ourselves . . .”

  “That’s ridiculous,” the Archer said, interrupting. “We didn’t make him anything. The Council of Immortals made him, and made us to keep him in check.”

  “And he is held in check—he has killed no one for five years!”

  “Boss,” the Seer said, “I held a baby’s skull in my hand. It takes more than five years of mercy to atone for what he did—it takes a life.”

  “Agreed,” the Archer said. “He has to die.”

  “The devastation in Stoneslope was quite impressive,” the Scholar said. “And while he made no attempt to deny it, which is good, he made no apology for it, either. He still felt that he was justified in slaughtering his entire village, and furthermore he said that if we attempted to remove him from power he would kill us. I do not believe we can trust him to behave himself in the future, five years of good behavior notwithstanding.”

  “He deliberately killed innocents,” Breaker said. “We are supposed to punish him for that. The ghosts in Stoneslope are . . . they want . . .”

  “The souls of the dead cry out for vengeance,” the Speaker interrupted, her singsong startling everyone. “The ler of the lost yet linger, seeking justice for their slayer.”

  “Yes,” Breaker said. “They do. I felt them.”

  “As did I,” the Seer said.

  “And I,” the Scholar confirmed.

  “All of you agree, then,” the Leader said. “Then why did you come here?”

  “Because you’re our leader,” the Seer said. “It’s your duty to lead us against him.”