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.
He opened his left hand to find the silver talisman clutched to his palm; he closed the hand again.
He was not alone in the room; his mother was sitting on his one chair, watching him. She had that familiar worried expression she wore whenever one of her children was ill, whether from eating too many sweets or angering the ler or whatever other causes might put a child to bed with aches and fever.
He glanced at the window and asked, "What time is it?" Then he reconsidered, and without waiting for a reply asked, "What day is it?"
"It's still the same day," his mother said. "It's a little after noon."
"Oh, good," he said, sitting up. "That's not bad."
"Not bad? You were unconscious for hours! Even when that black-coated wizard and the Old Swordsman and your father hauled you down the steps you didn't so much as stir!"
"I wasn't exactly ... well, I was unconscious, I suppose, but it... I can't explain. It's magic."
"Of course it's magic!" she snapped. "You've gone and gotten yourself involved in things you shouldn't, you have wizards putting spells on you and Elder Priestess arguing with half the ler in Mad Oak about you, you defeated the world's greatest swordsman in battle—of course it's magic! It's a wonder you're still alive and have your own soul!"
He grinned, and asked, "How do you know I still have my own soul?"
"Erren Zal Tuyo, do you think I don't know my own son?"
The sound of the first three elements of his true name was a shock; he could not recall ever having heard his mother say all three of them aloud before. People in Mad Oak didn't do that. The mysterious rushing seemed to swirl and eddy at the psychic impact.
"I suppose you do," he admitted, still smiling. "Though I'm not entirely sure / do anymore! That spell—it connected me to the ler, to everything, and it took me a while to remember who I was and find my way back. I wouldn't have been surprised if it had taken a few days, or even months."
"So it's all worked, then?"
"I think so."
"And you're the Swordsman? The world's greatest swordsman? One of the Chosen?" "I think so."
"And now you're ready to go kill the Wizard Lord if someone asks you to?"
Breaker's cheerful mood dimmed at that question. "I suppose I am," he said—but as he spoke he remembered the talking rabbit, and how the Wizard Lord had been reluctant to hurt the creature's throat by forcing it to continue its unnatural speech. That was hardly the act of a cruel or thoughtless man; Breaker could not easily imagine why he might be called upon to kill such a man.
But as he remembered the fight he was reminded of other questions. Why had the Old Swordsman fought so fiercely, when he had come to Mad Oak and spent months in preparation specifically to lose that very duel? Why had the Wizard Lord's rabbit spoken up when it did, startling the Old Swordsman and giving Breaker the opening he needed?
; Why did the Wizard Lord live virtually alone, out in the wilderness? He had not dared ask that before, but now ...
"Where's the Old Swordsman?" he asked. "I need to talk to him ..." He belatedly remembered thrusting a sword point into the man's shoulder. "Is he all right?" He glanced down at the sword in his right hand, and saw that yes, it was the same weapon, and a bit of his opponent's blood was still streaked on the tip, though someone had wiped away the worst of it.
"He's packing up," White Rose said. "Younger Priestess cleaned the wound and started it healing, and one of those awful wizards used her magic to call a guide, who said the southeastern road should be passable at least as far as Green-water; he's on his way here from Ashgrove now. He and the old man should be ready to go first thing in the morning."
"He's leaving? Just like that?"
"He got what he came for. You're the one with the magical job now, one of the Chosen; he doesn't belong here anymore. He's just an old man going home to his family."
"I didn't think he had any family."
"Well, he's going somewhere," his mother said angrily. "He's not staying here in Mad Oak; we've had quite enough of him."
"I thought... the roads ... I mean, I still have more to learn ..." Breaker's voice trailed off as he realized he wasn't sure of the truth of his own words.
"Not from him, you don't. He's leaving."
"I need to talk to him." Breaker sprang to his feet and flung the sword onto the bed, then marched past his mother and out the door of the room.
The steps to the loft were on the line between stairs and a ladder, very steep but not quite vertical; Breaker scrambled up them as his mother called after him worriedly, "Is it safe to leave your sword down here?"
Breaker ignored the question as he clambered up through the open trap and looked around.
The Old Swordsman—the former Swordsman—was sitting on the edge of the bed, studying something he held in his hand. He looked up at Breaker's entrance. "I suppose you have more questions about how it all works, now that you know what it feels like," he said, before his replacement could speak.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 Page 8
