The Ninth Talisman

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Sword called to his ox and gave the plow a jerk, setting it hard in the ground; he had been planning to take a break at the end of the furrow in any case, so there was no harm in being polite and seeing what this little popinjay wanted. He rubbed his aching hands together, then turned to address the stranger.

  “Why?” he called, as the young man approached.

  “I have a message for him,” the stranger said as he stopped at the side of the field. Sword was relieved that at least the fellow had the sense not to simply walk out onto freshly turned soil; he looked like a bit of a fool. That cloak was excessively gaudy, even by the new standards brought on by the sudden availability of exotic fabrics and dyes, and his manner was absurdly pompous.

  “Where is he?” the stranger demanded.

  “I don’t think the Swordsman is expecting any messages,” Sword replied, amused.

  “Well, he’ll get this one all the same,” the messenger said cheerfully. “At least, if he’s still alive and fit.”

  “Fit enough,” Sword said. “What’s this message, then?”

  “Are you his secretary, perhaps? Why should I tell you?”

  Sword grimaced. “I’m no one’s secretary,” he said. “I’m Erren Zal Tuyo, the Chosen Swordsman. What’s the message?”

  The messenger looked suddenly uncertain. “You’re the Swordsman?” he asked.

  “I’m the Swordsman. What were you expecting, then? Do I not match the description they gave you?”

  “They gave me no description,” the stranger said. “But you hardly look like a great swordsman. You’re not much older than I am, and I expected someone more . . . lithe. Besides, you don’t have a sword.”

  Sword judged the age difference to be at least a few years. He sighed deeply.

  “Nonetheless, I am the Chosen Swordsman. Why would I carry a sword while plowing?” He frowned. “You know, I don’t think I’m interested in your message after all. I should get back to work.”

  “Oh, I think the Swordsman will be interested in this one,” the young man said, puffing out his chest. “Now, can you direct me to him?”

  “I told you, I’m the Swordsman.”

  The messenger waved a hand dismissively. “Show me some evidence of this unlikely claim, then. To me, you appear nothing but a half-witted young farmer amusing himself by attempting to fool me.”

  Sword grimaced. “Why would I do that?”

  The stranger shrugged. “Boredom, perhaps? Or curiosity about the nature of the message I bring.”

  Sword was, in fact, becoming mildly curious. “Who’s this message from? What do they want?” he asked. He was quite sure the message was not from the Wizard Lord; Artil would have used an animal, rather than a human messenger. Everyone in Mad Oak knew him by sight, and would have come in person. That left the other Chosen, the wizards, or people who had some foolish idea that the Swordsman worked as a hero for hire.

  Any of those was possible, though.

  “That’s for the Swordsman to know. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I think I’m bound back up to the village, to find a more honest informant—I’ve clearly been misdirected.”

  “No, you haven’t. I really am the Swordsman. Anyone in Mad Oak would direct you back here.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  Sword frowned again. He looked along the verge of the field, and spotted one of the sticks used to support the bean crop, half-buried in the earth. It had been cast aside, presumably, when the last crop was harvested, and left lying there. “Do you have a sword?” he asked. Even now, with the availability of cheap northern steel and the scattered reports of bandits on the roads, very few people carried swords, but Sword thought he had seen something under the messenger’s outer robe, and the man certainly gave the impression of being the sort of braggart who would go armed. “Or some other weapon?”

  In answer, the messenger flung back his cloak. A broad belt of fine black leather circled his waist, and a gold-trimmed hilt thrust up from a black scabbard. “If you think I’m fool enough to give you my sword, and leave myself unarmed so that you can rob me . . .”

  “I don’t want your sword,” Sword interrupted. “But if you’d throw me that stick, I’ll show you I’m the Swordsman.” He pointed. Then he caught himself, and laughed. “Though I don’t know why I bother. It would serve you right if I let you ramble about the countryside looking for some other Swordsman for the next half-month.”

  The messenger frowned at the farmer, then took four steps over to the stick. He kept his eyes on Sword as he bent down and picked up the discarded beanpole.

  It was a peeled branch a little less than three feet long; the messenger could see nothing strange about it. He tossed it gently, and Sword snatched it out of the air.

  “Choose the order,” Sword said, as he tested the stick to make sure it hadn’t rotted much. “Knee, elbow, belly, throat—which one first?”

  “What?”

  Sword brandished the stick. “Choose one,” he said. “That’ll be the first place I touch you.”

  “And what will that prove—that you’re quick with a stick?” The man’s pompous manner had faded considerably.

  “Pick one,” Sword insisted. “Then draw your sword and try to stop me.”

  “Belly,” the messenger said, clearly annoyed. “Belly, knee, elbow.” Sword nodded. “Three each, right-left-right. Now draw your sword.”

  “This is ridiculous. I might hurt you.”

  “You won’t,” Sword said. “And if you do, it serves me right.”

  “Well, that’s the truth!” the messenger said. He reached across and slid his blade from its sheath.

  Sword watched the way the man moved, watched the way his hand turned as he drew, watched the sunlight sparkle on the polished steel blade; he waited until the man fell into a halfhearted guard position.

  Then he attacked, moving in low and outside, coming up under the messenger’s guard, poking the stick into the man’s belly.

  Startled by Sword’s speed, the messenger reacted awkwardly, bringing the sword down far too late to stop a second jab.

  Then Sword’s stick swung clear, tapped the back of the sword simply for emphasis, and struck at the messenger’s right leg, tapping hard just below the kneecap.

  The sword moved, but the stick had already gone, sliding down past the messenger’s hand and wrist, tapping him on the inside of his right elbow.

  “You forgot the throat,” Sword said, as he brought the beanpole up and around and under the messenger’s chin.

  The messenger stepped back, sword flailing. Sword made two more quick jabs to the belly, one from below and one from above, then went for the left knee.

  “Wait!” the messenger said, finally managing a parry that delayed Sword’s strike at his left elbow for perhaps half a second. That startled the Swordsman; the messenger was faster than he looked. Ignoring the request, Sword did not wait, but finished his second series with a slash across the messenger’s throat that would undoubtedly leave a mark.

  “Blast it!” the messenger said, trying unsuccessfully to counter.

  The messenger was very quick, and now that he had focused on the action he had a knack of moving in ways Sword did not expect; presumably the ara feathers dangling from the back of his head helped with that by blocking his spirit from Sword’s magic. As a result the third series of touches took a few seconds longer, but the end was never in doubt. Sword finished it off with a flourish by touching the messenger on each cheek, then whipping the stick around his wrist and knocking the sword from his hand.

  Then Sword straightened up, his beanpole raised in salute, as the disarmed messenger stared at him.

  “How did you do that?” the young man demanded.

  “Practice,” Sword said. “Or magic, if you prefer. Now, what’s this message?”

  The messenger blinked at him. Clearly, there could be no further question that this was the man he had been sent to find. He hesitated, clearly unsure whether to retrieve his sword, the
n decided it could wait.

  “The Leader of the Chosen wants to see you.”

  Sword grimaced and tossed the stick aside. He had been afraid of that. “Oh, plague and ague,” he said. “You’re sure?”

  “Well, yes,” the messenger said, startled. “Of course. I’d hardly say so if I weren’t.”

  “You’re certain it was her, and not some fraud?”

  “Absolutely. Who could make a mistake about such a thing?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Sword said. “What does she want, then? Has the Wizard Lord done something terrible?”

  “She didn’t tell me,” the messenger said. “I mean, she didn’t explain why; she just said I should come to Mad Oak and fetch you. Tell you that she’s in Winterhome and wants you to meet her there.”

  Sword snorted. “It’s the Wizard Lord, of course—what else could it be?”

  “I don’t know,” the messenger said.

  An unpleasant thought struck Sword. He had been avoiding the traders in the village square, and the merchants in the pavilion, so it was entirely possible he had missed some important news—or perhaps this message was the news. “Is it still Artil?” he asked.

  “Is what still what?”

  “Is Artil still the Wizard Lord?”

  The messenger blinked. “I . . . I believe that’s the Wizard Lord’s name, yes. I don’t really know, I always just called him by his title. . . .”

  “He hasn’t died and been replaced in the past year?” Sword demanded.

  “I . . . um . . . no, not lately,” the messenger said, obviously confused by the question. “Not for years, not since you killed the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills.”

  “Then what’s he done? Carried off unwilling young girls, or buggered the wrong priests? Slaughtered a town or two, as Galbek Hills did? Please don’t tell me she thinks there’s something unforgivably wrong with building roads and bridges, or killing monsters.”

  “I don’t know,” the messenger said, a trifle desperately. “Really. She just told me to fetch you.”

  “Damn,” Sword said. He turned to look at the ox, waiting patiently in the traces. He sighed again. “Let me finish up here,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the pavilion this evening, and we can leave in the morning.”

  The messenger hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

  Sword nodded back, jerked the plow free, and returned to his work. The messenger stood watching silently for a moment, then turned and left, looking greatly deflated.

  When Sword arrived at the pavilion the sun was low in the west and Younger Priestess was lighting the lanterns, murmuring a quiet invocation to the ler of fire and light as she did so. A few traders sat along the west wall, their goods displayed on cloths laid on the plank floor, talking quietly among themselves; no customers were in sight. A young couple sat on the terrace bench by the south door, heads bent toward each other, the man whispering in the woman’s ear. Sword did not recognize them immediately, and guessed they were travelers of some sort.

  The messenger in the green-and-gold robe was nowhere to be seen.

  Mildly puzzled, Sword leaned on the terrace rail, looking out over the valley, wondering where the man was. That bright cloak of his ought to stand out almost anywhere.

  The far ridge was vividly green in the late-afternoon sun, and seemed to sparkle with gold; Sword was unsure whether that was ler moving among the trees, or merely a trick of the light. The Eastern Cliffs were a dark line in the distance, the sky above them intensely blue, and he remembered those vast plains atop them. He leaned out and peered to the southeast, wondering whether he could spot the Summer Palace from this distance. He never had yet, but he kept thinking it should be possible.

  Then he heard a rustling and shuffling, and he turned, hoping to see the messenger’s bright cloak. Instead he saw that the couple from the bench had risen, and were walking toward him. He turned to greet them, then blinked.

  The young man was the messenger. He had removed his gaudy robe, rearranged his hair, and dressed himself in plain linen and brown leather, and had somehow acquired a female companion, but now that he was upright, his face no longer hidden, Sword recognized him.

  It was more than just the change of clothing and position, Sword realized; the man had shifted his stance, the way he held himself, the shape of his shoulders and angle of his neck. Sword remembered also how the young man had moved during the earlier display of swordsmanship. A suspicion began to stir, and Sword quickly reviewed certain roles. He glanced at the woman, then back to the man.

  He was still not entirely certain, but Sword bowed to the couple as they drew near. “The Thief, is it?” he asked.

  The young man bowed in return. “Indeed,” he said quietly, with a quick glance around the room to see that no one else was listening. “They call me Snatcher.”

  Sword turned to the woman. She had a round face, and was just a little on the plump side; her hair was cut square at her shoulders, dark and straight.

  “And this would be—the Seer, perhaps? Or the Leader?”

  The Thief turned his head, waiting for his companion to reply. For her part, the young woman studied Sword’s face intently before saying, “The Seer.” Her voice was soft, and not entirely steady.

  “That seemed the most likely,” Sword said. “You would know where I am; the Leader would not. So you were sent to find me—but why was it the Thief who came to the fields alone?”

  He had addressed the question to the Seer, but it was the Thief who replied, “She thinks I’m the braver of us.”

  “It takes courage to speak to me?”

  “Indeed it does. You are something of a legend, after all, as the man who slew the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills. It was you who demanded that our predecessors yield up their roles among the Chosen, and whose demands were all met, for reasons we don’t understand. You would seem to have something more to you than merely the ability to wield a blade.”

  Sword took a moment to absorb that, then looked at the Seer.

  She turned her eyes away.

  Sword did not press the issue; instead he asked the Thief, “Why are you here at all? Why did she not come alone?”

  “I was afraid,” the Seer murmured, before the Thief could reply.

  “She doesn’t go anywhere alone,” Snatcher added.

  “But why you? Why not a hired guide? There are plenty of them eager for work.” Now that roads connected so many places, the old guides were no longer really needed simply to get a person safely from one town to the next, and their knowledge of the displaced local ler was useless, but many of them were still escorting travelers along the high-ways, serving as guards and advisors.

  “She doesn’t trust anyone but the Chosen.”

  “And you were available, while Bow was not? Or Lore?”

  “Lore is once again at the Summer Palace, and she doesn’t trust Bow. Boss is busy in Winterhome, Beauty doesn’t like to travel, and I suspect Babble, wherever she is, is too busy listening to the voices to be any use.”

  Sword had not intended to bother asking about the female Chosen; he knew that many women didn’t like to rely on other women to protect them, though he did not entirely understand that attitude. He glanced at the Seer, whose eyes were still turned down and away.

  He did not bother asking why she distrusted Bow; he remembered enough of the Archer’s past behavior to see why she might not. “Then everyone else is already gathered for whatever this mysterious purpose is?”

  “Five of us are; not you or Lore or Babble. We’ll be fetching Babble next.”

  Sword leaned back against the terrace railing and asked, “Why?”

  The Thief and the Seer exchanged glances. “Why what?” the Thief asked.

  “Why are we gathering? Has the Wizard Lord done something terrible?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then why are you here, asking me to go to Winterhome?”

  Snatcher cocked his head. “Because Boss told us to,”
he said.

  “And is that reason enough? Has she told you why she wants us to attend her?”

  A trace of a smile appeared on Snatcher’s face. “You haven’t met her, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps I’ll just suggest that you might want to. Purely out of curiosity. And she wants to meet you.”

  Sword frowned and looked at the Seer. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “We came to bring you to Winterhome,” she murmured. “You’re the Chosen Swordsman; we want you to help us.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “It’s what I know.”

  Frustrated, Sword began to wonder if he had been too hasty in believing this pair to be the new Thief and the new Seer. When last the Chosen had been gathered there was no doubt about why, and the Seer had been only too happy to explain that the Wizard Lord had killed several people, and had lied about who they were. This pair seemed determined to keep their reasons to themselves.

  Could these two be impostors, trying to lure him somewhere?

  But who would want to do that? No, they were probably just who they claimed to be, but young and inexperienced. They had obeyed the Leader without thinking.

  But she might have told them something, or the Seer might know something herself. “Has the Wizard Lord killed someone?” he asked the Seer. Part of her magic was that she would know whether he had, just as she always knew where in Barokan all the Chosen were, and where the Wizard Lord was.

  She lowered her gaze again and shook her head. “Not yet, that I can see,” she whispered. “Not himself.”

  Sword stared at her for a moment. It was not the actual words that swayed him, but how she said them.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll leave in the morning. You can sleep here in the pavilion, or in my mother’s loft, whichever you prefer.”

  [ 14 ]

  Both of them chose the loft.

  Sword had intended to introduce them to his mother and siblings honestly, but the Thief forestalled that by pushing forward and bowing over his mother’s hand as she stood in the kitchen door, studying the unexpected new arrivals.