The Unwilling Warlord loe-3

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The wizard was staring hungrily at the approaching tavern girl, and Sterren used that as an excuse to change the subject. “My lady,” he said in Semmat, “what shall we have, and at whose expense?”

  “You brought us here,” Lady Kalira said, “you pay for it. You wanted dinner, we’ll have dinner. What was the man in black saying?”

  “He asked a question about our offer. Wine with your meal?”

  Lady Kalira nodded.

  Sterren glanced at each of the remaining soldiers in turn, and each nodded. “Wine would be welcome,” Alder said.

  Sterren nodded back, then switched to Ethsharitic and asked the wizard, “Would you like wine with dinner?”

  The serving maid had reached the table, heard this final question, and saw the wizard’s nod.

  “We have several fine vintages,” she said. Her tone made it a question.

  Sterren said, in Ethsharitic, “The three barbarians wouldn’t appreciate it, and I can’t afford it, so I do hope my two guests will forgive me if we have the regular house wine and whatever you have for the house dinner tonight, rather than anything special. That’s for all six of us, unless...”

  He looked questioningly at the warlock, who made a small gesture of acquiescence with one hand. The wizard said, “That would be fine.”

  The tavern girl departed.

  “The nature of this proposed employment?” the warlock said.

  Sterren had carefully avoided being specific in his marketplace spiel, for fear of frightening off prospects, but he realized that the time for prevarication was past.

  He sighed. “I’m the hereditary warlord of one of the Small Kingdoms, a little place in the far south called Semma. I didn’t want the job, but I’m stuck with it. Semma is on the verge of war with two larger neighbors, and we’re doomed. The army is absolutely pitiful and badly outnumbered. We don’t stand a chance unless we cheat. In the Small Kingdoms, at least in Semma’s neighborhood, they don’t use magic in their wars; it’s considered dishonorable or something, it’s cheating. Well, I’m ready to cheat, because otherwise I’ll be killed for losing. So I’m here looking for magicians who can help us win this war. It shouldn’t take much, since there’s so little magic there and the soldiers will never have fought against magicians before.” He looked at the warlock, hoping that he wouldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand.

  “A war?” The warlock’s tone was calm and considering.

  Sterren nodded, encouraged that the warlock had not rejected the idea out of hand. He glanced at the wizard.

  She had hardly listened; her attention was on the door to the kitchen. It was an interesting door, with the skull of a small dragon mounted so as to form the top of the frame and the dragon’s lower jaw serving as a door-handle, but Sterren suspected the poor young woman was far more interested in what would be coming through that door than in the decor that gave the tavern its name.

  The wizard caught his eye and turned back to him. “I don’t care what the job is,” she said, sniffing and brushing a stray ringlet back over her shoulder, “if it won’t get me killed outright and you pay in gold. I’ll take it.” She hesitated, then wiped her nose and asked, “It won’t get me killed outright, will it?”

  “I certainly hope not,” Sterren said. “If we win, it won’t, but if we lose, you’ll probably have to flee for your lives.” He shrugged. “Fleeing shouldn’t be difficult; it’s wide-open country, and the kingdoms are so small it should be easy to get safely across a border before they can catch you.”

  The warlock nodded. “You say Semma is far to the south?”

  Sterren nodded again. “About as far to the southeast as you can get, really; from the castle’s highest tower you can see the edge of the World, on a clear day. I’ve seen it myself.” He stared at the warlock, a suspicion growing in the back of his mind.

  He had not really had time to consider his two prospective employees, but now he did.

  Warlockry was virtually unknown in Semma. He had no way of knowing for certain whether it would work there at all and he was quite sure it would be far less effective than it was in Ethshar. A warlock, therefore, would not be his preferred sort of magician.

  On the other hand, this particular warlock seemed very interested in going south.

  Sterren could guess what that meant. This particular warlock probably wanted to get as far away from Aldagmor and the Power’s Source as he could. He might have already had the first warning nightmares that meant he had pushed his warlockry to dangerous levels.

  Warlockry, as Sterren knew from his aborted apprenticeship, drew its power from a mysterious Source located somewhere in the Aldagmor region, a mountainous area far to the north of Ethshar, on the edge of the Baronies of Sardiron. A warlock’s power varied as the inverse square of the distance from this thing. A warlock’s power also increased with use; every spell a warlock cast made the next one a shade easier. Most magic worked that way, of course; most skills of any kind did. The effect was rather extreme with warlockry, however, because warlockry, unlike all other magic, also directly counteracted fatigue; magic not only didn’t tire a warlock, it revivified him, without limit.

  Except that there was a limit. When a warlock’s power reached a certain level, he began to have nightmares. From then on, every further use of warlockry caused more and worse nightmares, which could make life virtually unbearable.

  Eventually an afflicted warlock wouldn’t even need to be asleep to suffer these hideous visions and, in the end, every warlock ever known to have reached this point had died or vanished. Those who did not commit suicide were often seen wandering north, toward Aldagmor, usually flying, but then were never seen again.

  This was known as the Calling, because that was what the nightmares seemed to be: a horrible, supernatural summons of some kind that would draw a warlock either to Aldagmor or death, or both.

  What most warlocks did was, when the first nightmare hit, to move south or west, further from Aldagmor, and give up warlockry for good. The smarter ones would have been charging exorbitant fees in anticipation of this and could afford to retire in comfort.

  Sterren guessed that this warlock had pushed his luck, and had already had considerably more than one nightmare, so that he was now desperate to get as far from Aldagmor as possible, as quickly as possible.

  Whatever his reasons, the warlock might be either a great stroke of luck or utterly worthless, depending on just what power did remain to him in Semma, so very far from Aldagmor.

  Bringing him along would be a gamble, but after all, Sterren had always been a gambler.

  If any warlock could be of help in Semma, one already touched by nightmare, on the verge of the Calling, would surely be most likely. The Calling only came when warlocks reached the height of their power. In fact, one theory was that the Calling was something the gods used to remove warlocks who were becoming too powerful, who might damage the gods’ plan for the World.

  A lesser warlock would not be worth bothering with, but a really powerful one might be. He would surely be greatly weakened, but he would also be something that nobody in Ophkar or Ksinallion would ever have seen before.

  “Nightmares?” Sterren asked quietly.

  For the first time since Sterren had first seen him in the market, the warlock’s calm expression changed; he let a flicker of surprise at Sterren’s knowledge show. Then, slowly, he nodded.

  Sterren smiled slightly. He knew that the Calling gave the warlock reasons for coming south far more important than a pound of gold.

  That meant he would probably work cheap, far cheaper than his level of power might otherwise justify.

  “You’ll be coming, then?” Sterren asked.

  The warlock nodded again.

  Sterren turned to the wizard. “And you?”

  “What’s the pay, exactly? Are meals included?” Her voice shook a little. She looked at Sterren as she wiped her nose on her sleeve again.

  The serving maid chose that moment to return with a tray
holding six plates of stewed vegetables, tainted with only the smallest trace of mutton. A bottle of red wine and half a dozen stacked mugs were included, as well.

  Sterren and the two Semman soldiers distributed the plates, while the warlock sent the cups floating through the air to the appropriate places. At a gesture, the cork sprang from the bottle’s neck, and the bottle then settled itself in front of Lady Kalira.

  Startled, she picked it up and only after a moment’s hesitation did she begin pouring.

  Sterren threw the warlock a puzzled glance. If he had reached the threshold of nightmare, didn’t he realize that every additional use of warlockry would increase his danger? At least, that was what Sterren’s master, Bergan the Warlock, had said.

  The warlock saw the look and smiled slightly. “In honor of our imminent departure for more southerly climes,” he said, raising his cup as if in a toast.

  The others probably thought it was just a toast, but Sterren knew what the warlock meant. After keeping his magic in check, for hours, days, sixnights, even months, perhaps, he was allowing himself a little freedom, secure in the knowledge that he would soon be sailing away from whatever waited in the mountains and valleys of Aldagmor.

  Sterren put that out of his mind and turned to the wizard. “The pay,” he explained, “will include meals, and a hammock aboard ship, and a room in Semma Castle, possibly shared with others, but a bed of your own, at any rate. You’ll need to learn some Semmat, I’m afraid; virtually nobody there speaks a word of Ethsharitic. If we win our war, then the magicians involved, as a group, will be paid ten rounds of gold, and, a dozen choice gems, I can show them to you later, if you like, but not in a tavern like this. How this payment is to be divided up is yet to be determined; either the magicians can decide amongst themselves, or King Phenvel can divide it up as he deems appropriate. Would that suit you?”

  She nodded, sniffling.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, just what magic do you know?” Sterren inquired. Obviously, she knew no spells to keep a cold away.

  “Wizardry, of course,” she said.

  That was no surprise, but Sterren knew well that wizards came in a wide range of skills and power. “Much wizardry?” he asked.

  “Well...” She hesitated, then admitted what her soiled clothes and empty belly had already made obvious. “No, not really. A few spells.”

  “Not just tricks, though, I hope,” Sterren said, knowing he was prodding her on what was surely a sensitive subject.

  “No, real spells!” she snapped. “I am Annara of Crookwall and I am a full journeyman in the Wizards’ Guild; I served my six years as apprentice and I learned what my master could teach me!”

  Her flash of pride vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. “That wasn’t much, though,” she admitted, nervously tugging her hair back from her face.

  That was no surprise. Sterren nodded and poured himself wine.

  As they ate, the warlock and the three Semmans said nothing, while Sterren and Annara made polite small talk. Sterren inquired about her upbringing in Crookwall, while she, in turn, asked about Semma and was surprised to learn that he was a native of Westgate, rather than someplace more exotic.

  After the meal had been consumed, Sterren leaned back in his chair and looked across at Lady Kalira as he tried to decide what to do next.

  “Well, my lord,” Lady Kalira said, seeing his attention focused on her, “you have two magicians here, do you not?”

  Sterren nodded.

  “Is that sufficient, then?”

  Sterren guessed at what the Semmat word for “sufficient” meant. He glanced at Annara, who would give no details other abilities beyond admitting to “a few spells,” and then at the warlock, who had as yet given no name, who might well be totally powerless in Semma.

  “No,” he replied immediately, before even considering his own hopes for escape. “These two may help, but neither of them can provide any assurance of winning.”

  “Then you plan to try to recruit more?”

  Sterren nodded.

  “My lord, are you sure you have no other intentions?”

  He picked up her phrase to ask, “What other intentions might I have?” He eyed her cautiously.

  “Delay, perhaps.”

  “Baguir?” He did not recognize the word. He guessed it to be something like “escape,” but could not be certain. “What’s baguir?”

  “To put off, to stall, to hold back, to go slowly; I don’t know the Ethsharitic.”

  That was not the reply Sterren had feared and expected. “Delay?” he asked. “Why should I want to delay?”

  “I would not know, my lord, but your refusal to purchase any magical assistance in sailing hither, and your insistence that two magicians are not enough, would seem to imply that you are certainly in no hurry about this foolish, disreputable business.”

  He picked up her phrase again, without any very clear idea what it meant, save that it had a strong negative connotation. “This disreputable business may save Semma, my lady.”

  “Not if you continue to delay.”

  “I’m not delaying! Why should I?”

  “Well, my lord, it has occurred to me, in my more cynical moments, that if you can stretch your visit to this, your homeland, long enough, perhaps the war in Semma will be fought and lost before our return, and you can retire to a comfortable exile here.”

  Sterren stared at her. That possibility had never occurred to him.

  A very tempting possibility it was, too.

  He glanced quickly to either side, at the two other Semmans, the only ones in the tavern who could understand this Semmat conversation.

  Alder looked seriously upset; Dogal was calmer, but eyeing Sterren suspiciously.

  “I am not delaying,” Sterren insisted.

  “Then tell me, my lord, just how much longer we must remain here, and how many magicians you think to find.”

  “My lady Kalira, I’ve only just started! One hour in a... in one market is nothing! If we could find one magician I could be sure was powerful enough, that would be all we need; without that one, I think half a dozen might serve. To find the right ones, though, I have no way of knowing how long it will be!” Lady Kalira sighed. “My lord Sterren, let us speak frankly,” she said. “You know that despite your rank, I was sent here as your gaoler, to make sure that you did, in fact, return to Semma before the spring, when invasion is all but certain.”

  Sterren noticed Alder turn to stare at Lady Kalira as she said this; he had obviously not realized either that Sterren was still under suspicion by anyone but Dogal and himself, nor that an invasion was imminent.

  “You have managed to lose four of the six men set to guard you, though I am not sure how.”

  “They may come back,” Sterren interrupted.

  Lady Kalira held up a hand. “Yes, they may, but at present they are not here. Let me continue.” She glared at him.

  “Go on,” Sterren said.

  “As I was saying, you have very cleverly disposed of two-thirds of your escort already and acquired two of the magicians you sought, to confuse matters and perhaps, for all we know, to deceive the two guards remaining. We have no very clear idea what you have been discussing with them throughout this meal, since we don’t know Ethsharitic; you could have been planning your escape, with their connivance, under our very noses.”

  Sterren wished he had been bold enough to try it.

  “Now, you are demanding an effectively unlimited opportunity to stroll about the city, looking for a chance to slip away and hide from us in a city you know far better than we could ever hope to. I am sorry, but as your unwilling gaoler, I can’t allow it, we must set a term, at the end of which we will depart this place and sail homeward with all due speed. I would suggest that by noon tomorrow we be under way.”

  Sterren sat back and used a fingernail to pick the last remnants of his supper from between his teeth as he considered this.

  “I see what you mean, my lady,” he sa
id at last, “and I truly do understand. I do not suppose that you would accept my word that I will not escape, or delay until it’s too late.” To his own surprise, he realized that he really would be willing to give his word, and that he would keep it, as he always had. Semma was not really as bad as all that, and the idea of his soldiers being slaughtered was not an appealing one. If he could just find the right magic, he was sure he could win the war. It was a challenge, a gamble, and he wanted to meet it head on. He wanted to see if a little magic really could change a sure defeat into victory.

  And after it was over, maybe then he could desert.

  “No, my lord,” she said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t accept your word. After all, despite your noble ancestry and your apparent good intentions, what are you really but a merchant’s brat, brought up in the streets, accustomed to cheating at dice to earn your bread? How much honor can I expect from such as you?”

  Sterren smiled wryly, to hide how much Lady Kalira’s clinically exact description hurt him. “More than you might think,” he said, “But if you will not take my word, there is little I can do to make you believe me.” He sighed. “Until noon, though, is not enough. If you could give me three days...”

  He let his voice trail off.

  “Three days?” It was her turn to sit back and consider.

  “Today is the twenty-first of Snowfall,” she said. “You will agree, then, that we must all be aboard ship by nightfall on the twenty-fourth, ready to set sail with the next tide?”

  Sterren nodded. “Agreed,” he said.

  “You’ll promise not to attempt escape?”

  “You said that you can’t accept my word, but all the same, I’ll give it. I won’t try to escape before nightfall on the twenty-fourth of Snowfall.”

  “All right,” she said, “Three days, and then we drag you back to the ship.”

  CHAPTER 16

  By morning the month of Snowfall was living up to its name. It was snowing, and Sterren decided that Shiphaven Market was not going to be worth another visit. Instead, he left Annara and the warlock aboard ship while he, Lady Kalira, Alder, and Dogal all set out in the early gloom for the Arena and the Wizards’ Quarter.