The Summer Palace

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Sword sprang to his feet—he was not so far gone he couldn’t manage that—and strode across the table, but then stopped. His stumble had given the soldiers time to respond, and if he jumped off, he would be flinging himself onto raised spears. They were the simple wooden spears of Barokan, not the elaborate bone-shafted spears of the Uplands, but they were still effective enough.

  A spear jabbed at him, and he slashed with his sword, knocking it aside.

  In Barokan he would not just have knocked it aside, but he would have sliced it apart, or sent it flying from the soldier’s hands—but he was not in Barokan, and he had no magic here. He still had his years of training and practice, but he was facing a score of foes.

  “Stand aside!” he bellowed, hoping that the guardsmen were still sufficiently startled to obey without thinking.

  A few spears wavered, but no more than that.

  “Get me out of here,” Artil said loudly, tugging at Farash’s sleeve. Sword heard him clearly.

  “Wait,” Farash said, raising a hand and staring at Sword. “He’s alone, and you have two dozen soldiers!”

  “How do you know he’s alone?” Artil screamed. “Why would he be mad enough to come here alone? No, he has a scheme, he must!”

  Farash turned his gaze from Sword to the Wizard Lord. “But, my lord—”

  “Kill him!” Artil shouted. “All of you, honors and gold to whoever kills him!”

  With that, a dozen spears thrust forward, and Sword stepped back, his blade flashing from side to side as he deflected their jabs. Fortunately, they were hopelessly disorganized; this was not a situation they had been trained for. Sword recognized the captain of the guard, standing near Artil and Farash, who should have been taking charge; fortunately for Sword, he was instead listening to his superiors argue, and looking around as if expecting more attackers.

  Presumably the captain had heard the Wizard Lord’s suggestion that there were others, and had taken it to heart.

  “But—” Farash began.

  “It’s a trap, I’m certain of it! Now, get me out of here, before his trap is sprung!” Artil demanded.

  “I am the Chosen Swordsman, defender of Barokan!” Sword called, in the deepest, loudest, most commanding voice he could summon. “I am here to remove a Dark Lord—who would stand against me in this?”

  Most of the soldiers hesitated, but their leaders paid no attention; they were still talking amongst themselves. “My lord, how would it look, to flee while your men fight against the world’s greatest swordsman?” Farash said. Sword did not think he had really intended the question to be heard by everyone, but in order to be heard over the clatter of spears, the thump of boots, and the shouting of a dozen guards, Old Boss had had to speak quite loudly. “If he kills them—”

  “Why would he kill them?” Artil interrupted. “I’m the one he wants!”

  “But they’re the ones fighting him; you just ordered them to kill him.”

  The hesitation had passed. A spear narrowly missed Sword’s foot, and he decided he could no longer simply wait here atop the table, deflecting the spears; sooner or later the soldiers would gather their nerve and do something more than jab ineffectually. He stamped down on the spearhead, slamming it to the table, then stooped and thrust with his sword, jabbing it through the spearman’s shoulder. He still did not want to kill any of the soldiers if he could help it, but he could not just stand and wait. He needed to get through the crowd and strike at the Wizard Lord.

  The wounded soldier screamed and dropped his spear, then fell back against two of his companions.

  Another guardsman struck at Sword from behind, thinking he would be distracted, but Sword somehow heard the creak of leather and whirled, his bloodied sword slashing at this new attacker. The tip of his blade drew a bloody line across the man’s cheek, missing his eye by a fraction of an inch.

  “Get me out of here, now,” Artil growled. “If you won’t lead the way, Farash, then you will, Captain. I want to get back to Barokan!”

  That made sense to Sword; in Barokan the Wizard Lord would have his magic back, and however much he might say he wanted to rule without it, the man obviously put more trust in his magic than in anything else.

  “What about the men, my lord?” the captain asked.

  “Hold him off until we’re clear. Kill him if you can.” Artil threw a glance at Farash.

  “Don’t be stupid about it,” Farash added. “There’s no sense in getting killed.”

  With that, Artil and Farash turned and began moving quickly along the north wall toward the door, on their way out of the palace.

  [ 21 ]

  Sword watched his target trying to escape, and felt fury and frustration welling up in his heart. When another spear jabbed at him, he reached down with his left hand and grabbed it, tearing it from the surprised spearman’s hand. Then he stood, spun the spear around, and flung it at Artil’s departing back.

  He missed. He had never tried throwing with his left hand at all, and hadn’t had time to swap sword and spear. The missile passed close enough to the Wizard Lord’s ear to rustle his hair, but did not touch flesh.

  Given how little he had practiced with spears, Sword knew that was closer than he deserved.

  Artil screamed, though he was untouched, and ducked as he grabbed for the door.

  Growling at his own mistake, Sword tossed his sword to his left hand and reached for another spear, but it was too late—Farash had opened the door and hustled his master out of the dining hall. The captain of the guard had followed them to the door, and was now tapping several soldiers and sending them after the Wizard Lord, as his guards.

  Sword transferred the sword back to his right hand just in time to counter a fresh flurry of blows from the guards surrounding his perch. Most jabbed at his feet and ankles, trying to bring him down, and as long as he kept moving, he could dodge most of those, but sometimes a spearpoint was thrust up at him and had to be avoided or parried, and some of the attacks on his feet were sweeps, rather than jabs, or aimed well enough that they had to be turned.

  His boots received a few slashes, but as yet the flesh within was undamaged.

  Sword watched in furious frustration as the captain passed a few final orders to some of his men, too quietly for Sword to hear over the clangor of combat, then vanished through the door, closing it behind him.

  Sword desperately wanted to pursue the fleeing Wizard Lord, but for the next several minutes he was kept very busy, much too busy to escape the table. While some of the guards had followed the Wizard Lord, and others were hanging back and leaving the fighting to their comrades, eight or nine of the group seemed determined to bring down the Chosen Swordsman any way they could.

  Sword could understand that; after all, even if the Wizard Lord reneged on his promise of honor and wealth, it would be something to brag about to be the man who brought down the world’s greatest swordsman. He was determined to discourage them as quickly as possible, though, and to chase after Artil. He might yet catch up to him before he reached the boundary.

  And right now, he thought, would be a good time for this mysterious ally the ler had mentioned to do something. If the Thief was here, wasn’t there something he could do to help?

  Apparently not.

  “Any time, O ler,” Sword said, but there was no answer, from ler or Chosen or anyone else.

  Sword slashed at hands and arms and faces, stabbed at shoulders, trying to inflict wounds as bloody and painful as possible without killing anyone. Outnumbered as he was, though, he could not afford to be too fastidious, and did not hesitate to lop off one man’s hand at the wrist when no alternative other than being skewered presented itself.

  The man’s screams and the blood spurting from the stump of his arm were very effective in discouraging the others, and at last Sword was able to jump down off the table and start making his way toward the door.

  The guards in his path took a few halfhearted jabs at him, but kept outside his reach, so that he w
as able to get to the door uninjured, and without inflicting anything worse than a few superficial scratches. He turned, groping for the latch with his left hand while defending himself with the sword in his right.

  A half-circle of wary guards surrounded him, but did nothing to prevent him from opening the door. He thanked whatever ler or fate might be responsible for the good fortune that the captain had not locked it behind himself, or otherwise blocked it—Sword knew it did have a lock, but perhaps the captain had not had the key.

  He looked at the guards, trying to judge whether they would follow him, or try to spear him in the back when he slipped through the door. Was one of these men the Thief in disguise? He didn’t recognize any faces. Where was this supposed ally who the ler had told him had been so eager to help?

  Not in the dining hall, apparently, nor, when he made his move through the door, in the corridor beyond. The passage was empty. Sword ran toward the door to the gardens—there was nowhere else Artil and Farash and their handful of guards could have gone.

  “Where’s my ally?” he muttered, not really expecting a response here, above ground.

  With your quarry.

  Startled, Sword almost stumbled. “He is?”

  Yes.

  “Can’t he do something? Can’t he kill the Wizard Lord?”

  Not yet.

  Sword slammed through the next door, out of the palace, and saw the last of the guards jogging through the palace gate, with the captain calling something to them. He sprinted after them.

  “Well, if he doesn’t do something soon, it’ll be too late,” Sword told the ler. “If the Wizard Lord reaches Barokan, he’ll have his magic back, and we won’t have a chance.”

  There was no reply. Sword tore open the gate the captain had just closed, and charged through; Artil and Farash were some distance away, and had broken into a run, with the little band of soldiers running close behind them.

  Sword ran hard across the plain after them, along the trail toward the head of the canyon, and Artil’s party ran as well, staying ahead of him—though he was, very slowly, closing the distance.

  The absurdity of the situation did not escape him, that more than half a dozen armed men were fleeing one tired man with a sword, but absurd or not, that was the situation. Yes, he was the world’s greatest swordsman, at least when he was in Barokan, but he was not in Barokan, he had no magic, and if it came to a pitched battle, as he hoped it would, he would be severely outnumbered. His success was hardly assured, but he had no other option.

  And he didn’t need to defeat all of them. He just needed to get past them and kill the Wizard Lord. After that, if they wanted to, he supposed they could kill him—but they would have nothing left to fight for, so he hoped they would see reason.

  He was closing with them—but much too slowly, and he was growing very tired indeed. Remembering what had happened to his pursuers in Morning Calm, where the local ler had softened the ground beneath them until they were almost sucked into the earth, Sword gasped out, “Can’t you do something? Can’t you stop them somehow?” The ground here was rocky, and sucking Artil and company down was probably impossible, but perhaps there was a way. . . .

  Stop them? The tone of the response carried an air of wonder and confusion that Sword had never heard before, as if the spirit that spoke had never imagined the possibility of intervening among humans.

  Perhaps it hadn’t.

  “Yes!” Sword shouted. “Can’t you keep them from going down the trail through the canyon?”

  For a moment he thought the ler would not answer, but then came the reply.

  Yes.

  “Then do it!”

  As you will.

  For a few seconds nothing more happened, save that the men continued to race across the plateau; the Wizard Lord’s party had reached the head of the canyon and was turning west, down the defile. Sword thought the ler had misunderstood him somehow, or misjudged their own abilities.

  But then a rumble sounded, and the ground shook. Sword stumbled, tottered, and then regained his footing as the ground stilled and a roar and a cloud of dust rose up from the canyon.

  Artil and Farash did not slow; if anything, they accelerated, vanishing down into the canyon. Sword tried to quicken his own pace. The earthquake, impressive though it was, had not stopped them. Sword bit his lip, resisting the urge to shout imprecations at the ler that had so misjudged its capabilities. It had tried, at any rate.

  But then he made the turn into the canyon, and saw what the earthquake had accomplished. The ler had done more than try.

  A hundred yards ahead the stone sides of the canyon had crumbled. A wall of fallen rock closed off the trail. Artil and Farash and their guards were running down into a dead end.

  And not being blind, they knew it. They slowed.

  Sword slowed as well. He did not need to run anymore; his prey was trapped.

  “Prey.” Sword smiled bitterly to himself at his choice of words. By his best count, made during the pursuit, they still outnumbered him eight to one—ten, if he counted Artil and Farash. All of them were tired from the long run, but he was still suffering the aftereffects of his winter deprivations, and had already fought his way through their companions.

  And he was fairly certain those companions were following him, though not in any great hurry, so that in time, perhaps half an hour, he would be surrounded by dozens of foes.

  Still, these eight were turning at bay, ready to defend themselves and their masters. They were clearly disinclined to attack, though; they were taking up purely defensive postures, making no move to escape the canyon. Artil and Farash had their backs to the rock wall; the soldiers had formed up into two lines of four in front of them.

  Sword crouched a little and began stalking forward, sword raised, in a pose intended solely to intimidate. “Anything more you can do for me?” he asked the Uplander ler as he marched toward his enemies. “Bring down more rocks, on their heads this time?”

  No. Our strength is gone. The rockslide used it all.

  “Well, thank you for that much,” Sword said. “It’s more than I’d hoped for.”

  There was no answer.

  “Who is he talking to?” Artil shrieked, loudly enough that Sword could understand him perfectly. “He has allies! Invisible ones, perhaps—or Uplander magic!”

  “My lord, he can’t—”

  “Uplander magic! That’s how he survived the winter, how he brought down these walls—he’s an Uplander wizard, come to punish me for intruding on their land!”

  “My lord, he’s the Chosen Swordsman, not any sort of wizard.”

  “But not up here! In Barokan he’s Chosen, but the Chosen have no magic here, any more than I do.”

  Judging by their faces, that admission startled several of the soldiers. A few were clearly unhappy to hear that their master had no magic to call on; a couple made the jump to understanding that the eight of them were facing an ordinary man, not the infamous magical monster who had single-handedly defeated twenty-five men, and smiled fiercely.

  “Stand ready,” the captain said quietly.

  “Are you sure of that?” Sword called. “Just because your magic doesn’t work here, why do you assume mine doesn’t?”

  “Because the Scholar told me that!” Artil shouted back.

  “You think the Chosen Scholar wouldn’t lie to the Dark Lord of Winterhome?”

  “But he didn’t! Any magic you have is Uplander magic! Your magic couldn’t have caused that rockfall!”

  “Oh, I didn’t cause it at all!”

  Artil threw Farash a terrified glance.

  Sword felt a twinge of pity; what had happened to the man in the months since they had last seen one another? Artil had always been obsessively worried about dying at the hands of the Chosen, but he hadn’t been panicky, hadn’t been openly scared like this.

  “Who else is with you, then? The Thief? The Ninth? The Archer and the Seer and the Speaker are all dead, the Leader and the Scholar a
re secure in my dungeons, and the Beauty could do little for you here, but I never found the Thief or the Ninth. What is the Ninth, then—the Destroyer?”

  “Do you think I’m fool enough to tell you?” Sword snapped back, doing his best to hide his anger and dismay at learning of Bow’s death. He had suspected as much, the Uplanders had said as much, but he had still hoped the reports were wrong.

  The Wizard Lord, though, would know, and if he was lying, if his apparent panic was an act, then Sword had completely misjudged him. No, the Archer was surely dead.

  The Thief and the Beauty still lived, though—that was good to know.

  Was Snatcher one of the eight men guarding the Wizard Lord? Sword didn’t see anyone who looked anything like the Thief; all these men were bigger, heavier than Snatcher. But then where was the ally the ler had promised him? Was there really a ninth Chosen after all?

  He had closed most of the distance between himself and the soldiers now; he stopped and called, “You men! I don’t want to harm any of you. I’m charged by my oath as one of the Chosen Protectors of Barokan to kill the Dark Lord of Winterhome, but I wish no one else ill. Step aside now, and I will let you go unscathed.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Artil shouted. “He’s lying! He’ll kill you all!”

  “I am not the liar here!”

  “Swordsman, wait, wait!” Artil called. “Listen to me! You don’t need to do this!”

  Sword’s eyes narrowed. “Are you offering to abdicate?”

  That was a possibility he had not given any serious thought; he had never believed Artil would ever consider giving up his position. The Council of Immortals had told the Chosen that a Dark Lord could choose to give up peacefully, and surrender all his magic in exchange for being permitted to live, and in fact three Dark Lords had done so in the centuries since the system was created, but Sword had never for a moment believed that Artil im Salthir might be the fourth. It just wasn’t in his character as Sword knew it.

  But then, this desperate, pleading coward before him was not the man Sword thought he knew. Whatever had broken his spirit might have caused him to reconsider retiring.