The Ninth Talisman

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The others were probably marching up the other four streets that led out of the plaza. They hadn’t located him; they were clearing the area. Perhaps they had realized their spy wasn’t coming, and had gone to an alternate plan.

  If he took on those other soldiers now he would be exposing himself to the archers, and he did not think he could take on all of those soldiers and win. The spearmen could corner him and stand back while the archers peppered him with volleys of arrows, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to block all of them.

  He lowered his hand.

  “Ready!” someone shouted.

  Sword turned to see that the torchbearers had set their bundles of straw around Beauty’s house, and the spearmen had formed up in a square surrounding the building as best they could, given its location. The dozen women had taken up positions around the front door, weapons poised.

  “Light!”

  And four torches were thrust into bundles of straw, which flared up with a roar.

  Sword stared in horror; weren’t they going to give the Chosen inside a chance to surrender? He knew the Wizard Lord hadn’t mentioned any such offer, but Sword had assumed that surely, Artil would prefer to take the Chosen alive, to retain as much of his own magic as possible.

  Apparently Artil was more serious than Sword had thought about giving up magic entirely. Sword’s hand crept up over his shoulder once again.

  The stamping of the archers suddenly stopped; Sword threw a quick glance back at them to see them ranged across the street, watching their comrades and the leaping flames. He turned his own attention back to the house, preparing to rush in and save his companions.

  It was already too late. The fire had spread impossibly, unnaturally fast, and Sword realized that the Wizard Lord’s magic was helping it grow. Wind was swirling unnaturally around the house, rippling the dust in the street and pulling the flames upward along the walls, and ancient sap seemed to be oozing from the wood and bursting into flame as well. Smoke billowed around every shuttered window and barred door. The crackling of the torches had become a great roar.

  The house must be empty, Sword told himself as the fire spread and smoke billowed up, it must be. His companions could not be inside there. Azir and Babble would have fled when they heard the soldiers coming, wouldn’t they?

  But then the front door swung open and two women came staggering out, coughing and sobbing, hands raised in surrender. Sword started forward.

  He had no time. He had barely begun to move when the waiting swordswomen cut the two fleeing Chosen down, chopping at them as if the swords were giant cleavers; there was no grace or skill to it at all, only butchery. Sword froze, and stared in shocked disbelief. Blood sprayed, some hissing as it scattered across burning straw. Azir shi Azir managed a single piercing scream as she fell; Babble was saying something, but Sword could not hear it over the shouting and the roar of the blaze.

  Then both were lying on the ground, the swordswomen still hacking at them, and Sword saw Babble’s head jerk and roll to one side in a totally unnatural fashion.

  Sword saw that the head was no longer attached to her body, and knew that Babble, the Speaker of All Tongues, Gliris Tala Danria shul Keredi bav Sedenir, was dead.

  And Azir shi Azir ath Lirini kella Paritir jis Taban of Bone Garden, the Seer of the Chosen, who had once been called Feast but had freed herself from that fate, was dead as well, after just six years in her role. Sword had not acted quickly enough to save them; he had not really acted at all.

  His hand closed around the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it; he tried to force himself to think rationally, despite his rage and horror. He desperately wanted to draw his blade and use it to avenge his companions, but the line of archers was there behind him, waiting for him to reveal himself. He hesitated.

  And an arrow appeared in one swordswoman’s eye; she dropped in her tracks, her bloodied sword falling from her hand as she crumpled to the hard-packed earth of the street.

  Sword stared. He knew that just moments earlier he would have reacted to this death with outrage, but he had just seen the woman chop two of his friends to pieces. Even now, as the swords woman lay on the dirt beside them, she was still fully human in appearance despite the shaft projecting incongruously from her eye, while Azir and Babble were little more than bloody meat.

  A second swordswoman spun and fell, an arrow through her throat.

  Sword had not seen where the arrows came from, had not heard the snap of a bowstring over the chaos of the fire and panicking Host People, but he knew whose arrows they were. He had seen that fletching before—and who else could it be?

  A third swordswoman fell dead, an arrow through her heart. Someone one was shouting orders again, and a few of the soldiers were pointing back toward the plaza, the direction from which the arrows had come.

  A fourth swordswoman had ducked back, weapon raised, as she saw what had befallen her fellows; it did her no good, as a fourth arrow speared through her chest. She staggered back a single step, then slumped to the ground.

  A fifth fell, and a sixth; the survivors were screaming, falling back, taking shelter behind the spearmen. A seventh took an arrow between the shoulder blades and fell into a spearman’s arms.

  But then the remaining five women were cowering behind cover of one sort or another—mostly their male companions—and the arrows stopped.

  For a second Sword wondered if the Archer might be done; after all, he surely couldn’t have enough arrows to kill all the Wizard Lord’s soldiers. Then a torchbearer let out a shout and fell, an arrow piercing his chest.

  The other torchbearers went down in quick succession after that, but more people were shouting commands and pointing; the Archer’s position had definitely been located, and the remaining swordswomen were out of his line of fire.

  Every beat of Sword’s heart was telling him to draw his sword and spring to his comrade’s aid, to defend Bow and avenge Seer and Babble, but his head still had those relayed words ringing in it—”stay alive, stay free.”

  And that last instruction: “Sword, Bow, anyone—if you get a chance, kill him.”

  These guards and soldiers weren’t the real threat; they were tools, swayed by the Wizard Lord’s power and magical persuasion. It was the Wizard Lord himself, Artil im Salthir dor Valok seth Talidir, who most deserved to die—and it was Sword’s duty to kill him.

  Which he could not do if he died alongside Bow.

  He took his hand from his sword, and stepped back, trying to blend into the background.

  The spearmen were forming up into three lines, two of the surviving swordswomen crouching behind them; the other three women, Sword realized, were in an alley just north of Beauty’s house, where Bow presumably could not see them.

  The line of archers had turned, and now Sword heard the snap of a bowstring as one of them loosed an arrow at Bow.

  Bow’s response was so quick it was almost as if the archer’s own arrow had turned in midflight; it took him in the neck, and he let out an inhuman croak as he crumpled.

  Three more bowstrings twanged, and then a dozen, and then at a shouted order the archers broke their line and scattered to either side as the spearmen began marching back toward the plaza—toward Bow.

  When they had passed his own position Sword could see that those two swordswomen were still following them, half-crouched and uncertain; he could no longer stand it. Orders or not, logic notwithstanding, he had to act. He drew his sword and sprang forward.

  It was much easier killing than disarming; there was no need for the sort of care and precision he had used before. He slew both women in seconds by slashing their throats, and then began on the back row of spearmen.

  The others stopped their advance and tried to turn on him, but because he was in their midst the result was chaos. He could strike out with impunity, since he was alone, while the spearmen were tangling with each other and had to be careful not to stab their fellows. He had killed or seriously wounded perhaps half of the
m when the first arrow whirred past his ear.

  For an instant he thought it was Bow coming to his aid, but then more arrows flew, forcing him to duck, and he realized that the Wizard Lord’s archers were now shooting at him, untroubled by the presence of their own spearmen.

  In fact, one of the spearmen went down with an arrow in his shoulder even as Sword recognized the situation.

  It was time to go, Sword decided. It was time to flee, to stay free. He had done enough to give Bow time to escape, and he had helped avenge poor Azir and Babble. There was no point in dying here, no need to slaughter the remaining soldiers, even if he could. They were not the true enemy; the Wizard Lord was—and perhaps Farash inith Kerra, if he had had a hand in planning this, if perhaps he had poisoned this Wizard Lord’s mind.

  Sword whirled, knocking a lowered spear down and aside so that it tripped another man, creating a moment of utter confusion, and used that to cover him as he fled back up the street, running as hard as he could, bloody sword bare in his hand.

  His flight was not random, though—he had chosen his route carefully. He was headed for the alley where the last three swordswomen had taken shelter.

  He found them sitting side by side against a wall; three slashes of the sword disposed of them. Only the third even had time to lift her own blade in an ineffectual parry before he was done.

  And then he concentrated entirely on running and dodging, twisting and turning through the back streets of Winterhome until he was certain he had, at least for the moment, outrun his pursuers.

  [ 25 ]

  Sword sat in the dirt with his back against the stone wall of one of the immense guesthouses, and wiped the last traces of blood from his blade. Then he lay the weapon across his lap. Sheathing it on his back was too awkward while he was sitting, and he was too tired to get up.

  The banner flying from the guesthouse showed a ring of five golden stars on a red background. Sword had no idea which Uplander clan that might represent, and didn’t much care. Whoever it was, they were still up above the cliffs, and would not be arriving until the approach of winter; the Wizard Lord had returned to Barokan at least a month, perhaps two, before the Uplanders would.

  That meant it would still be at least a week or two before the Host People came to prepare the guesthouse for occupancy, and until then it would be shuttered and empty. The only people who might find him here would have to be actively looking for him.

  Of course, there undoubtedly were people looking for him. After all, he and Bow had slaughtered more than a score of the Wizard Lord’s troops.

  Sword shuddered.

  He had trouble believing it had really happened. All those people, dead in the street. Azir and Babble, hacked to pieces as he watched.

  And he, personally, had killed a dozen or so.

  He didn’t even know how many he had killed; that was so appalling he had trouble accepting it, but the thought of carefully working through his memories step by step to count his victims was even worse.

  He remembered when he was first considering accepting the role of the Chosen Swordsman, how his mother had asked him, “You want to be a killer?”

  He had told her that no, he didn’t intend to kill anyone, that the Chosen had not been called upon in a century and there was no reason to think they would ever be called upon again—and yet here he was, eight years later, and not only had he killed the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, who unquestionably deserved it, but now he had hacked his way through a whole company of guards. The streets of Winterhome were red with blood.

  How could he ever face his mother again?

  How could he face anyone again? How was he going to survive this?

  At least the question of whether the Wizard Lord needed to be removed was settled. The Wizard Lord and the Chosen were openly at war now, and the Wizard Lord had struck the first real blow, capturing two and killing two of the eight Chosen.

  Capturing at least two, and killing at least two. Sword realized he didn’t know what had become of some of the others.

  Boss, the Leader, was captured. Lore, the Scholar, was captured. Azir, the Seer, was dead; Babble, the Speaker of All Tongues, was dead.

  But Bow the Archer had still been alive and free last he saw. He had no reason to think the Beauty had been caught. And Snatcher, the Thief—what had become of him? Sword had no idea. He had still been on the roof of the Winter Palace last Sword saw; he had not followed his companion down to the street.

  And, Sword realized, he had no way to find out where any of the others were. The Seer was dead. A part of her magic had been the ability to always know where the eight Chosen were in Barokan, and where the Wizard Lord was, at any given time. That had not been all of her magic, but it was the heart of it. It was the Seer’s duty to guide the gathering of the Chosen, when it became necessary.

  The Speaker had been able to ask questions of ler, and sometimes send messages through them as well, which had been helpful in locating and gathering the Chosen—but she, too, was dead. Her hold on those rats and squirrels that had carried messages had undoubtedly broken when she died.

  So how would the surviving Chosen find each other now? None of the other six had any magic that would serve in any obvious way. He was the master of blades and sticks, with superhuman speed and strength in combat, while Bow was the master of projectiles and adept at stealth and the art of ambush; neither of those would help them find the others. Beauty could distract almost any adult male, and coax him to do what she wanted, but that was of no obvious use. Snatcher could move unseen and unheard, could get through locks and guards, but he still needed to know where to go.

  Boss had made plans to regroup, but those plans had assumed that the Seer was still alive, and Beauty’s home still standing. They no longer applied.

  And there was the whole question of whether they dared regroup, with the Wizard Lord’s men hunting them.

  There was some very small hope in the knowledge that the Wizard Lord had no more magical means of finding them than they had of finding each other. His magic would normally have let him locate them all, but now they were doubly safe. Each of them wore several ara feathers, which would guard them against magic, and in any case the Wizard Lord’s ability to detect their whereabouts was dependent upon the Talisman of Warding, one of the eight Great Talismans. The Talisman of Warding was magically bound to the Seer’s talisman, the Talisman of Sight, and with the Seer’s death both those talismans would have lost their power, at least temporarily.

  The Speaker’s death would have rendered her device, the Talisman of Tongues, inert, which would in turn have neutralized the Talisman of Names. The Wizard Lord would no longer be able to instantly determine the true name of anyone and anything in Barokan.

  That was a huge part of his power—or rather, it would have been for any other Wizard Lord, but the Dark Lord of Winterhome did not rely on magic for his power. He relied on his servants and his soldiers, and the deference everyone automatically gave to his position.

  The Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills would have been relatively harmless and almost defenseless without the talismans of Warding and Names, but his successor was another matter entirely.

  Artil still had six presumably working Great Talismans, of course, as well as the mysterious Talisman of Trust and all the ordinary, lesser magic he had had when he was an ordinary wizard, before becoming the Wizard Lord. He had taken Boss and Lore alive, which meant that the Talisman of Glory and the Talisman of Memory were still working—he could not learn new true names without effort, but he could still recall every one he had ever learned previously. The Talisman of Glory gave him an aura of authority and power that made it hard for anyone—well, anyone but the Chosen—to disobey or defy him.

  He had the Talisman of Strength, paired with Sword’s own Talisman of Blades, which meant he had superhuman strength and endurance.

  He had the Talisman of Health, the Talisman of Weather, and the Talisman of Craft, as well, though whether they still function
ed depended on whether or not Beauty, Bow, and Snatcher, respectively, yet lived.

  That was plenty of magic, even if he had lost one-fourth of his power.

  And he had his soldiers and servants, and he probably had most of the population of Barokan on his side. His roads had brought wealth and wonders, he had removed several assorted menaces like the Mad Oak, and his talk of a brighter, richer future had enthralled many people. The Chosen had been cast as obstacles in the path of this beautiful progress. This Wizard Lord hadn’t killed innocent villagers the way Galbek Hills had; he hadn’t flooded out crops or blasted guides with lightning. He had allowed a hot summer and daylight rains, but really, how seriously did most people take that? Sword had heard several people say they found the rains a pleasant novelty. Artil im Salthir had killed most of Barokan’s wizards, but who cared about wizards? To most people, wizards weren’t really people; they were the monstrous villains in old ballads like “The Siege of Blueflower.”

  Whereas Sword and Bow had killed people—not innocents, necessarily, but men and women who were simply doing what they had been told to do. Those swordswomen had butchered two of the Chosen, but all twelve of them had been slain in return, along with the four torchbearers and an indeterminate number of archers and spearmen.

  And all those dead men and women had families and friends, as Babble did not. Sword was not sure whether Azir shi Azir might still have half-siblings living back in Bone Garden, but if she did, it was virtually certain that they would not care about her death.

  The dead soldiers would probably leave a score or more of grieving households. In the past the ordinary people of Barokan had always welcomed the Chosen, and on those few occasions when the Chosen had found it necessary to remove a Wizard Lord only those directly under the Wizard Lord’s magical sway had tried to prevent the Chosen from carrying out their mission, but Sword wondered whether that would be true this time.

  For centuries, Dark Lords had tried to find a way to subvert the established order and make their own power absolute, and the Chosen had always ensured their failure, but Sword wondered whether Artil im Salthir might have finally found a way to do it, simply by relying on popular support rather than magic.