“Are you?” Sword demanded.
“No, I . . . maybe, yes, we can discuss it. . . .”
Sword saw the disgust on the faces of some of the soldiers, but none of them turned, none of them spoke. They were still ready to face Sword’s blade.
And that, Sword realized, was why he could not simply accept Artil’s resignation, even if it was genuinely being offered. Even if he gave up the Eight—no, the Nine Great Talismans, Artil im Salthir would still have his army, he would still have a populace that adored him, and he would still be the man who had ordered the deaths of a dozen wizards and three of the Chosen.
“You would give up your position if I swore not to harm you?” Sword asked, as much to distract Artil and the others as because he really cared about the answer. He wanted to find some way to get at the Wizard Lord without hacking through those eight men; the guards were relatively innocent in this. Even if they had been involved in carrying out the murders Artil had ordered, they had been under his influence.
And it was Artil that Sword wanted dead. Artil was responsible for all this. The others were just an obstacle to be overcome.
And he needed to overcome them quickly, before the rest of the soldiers, or any of the Wizard Lord’s other attendants, arrived to further complicate the situation.
“My position? No, no, I didn’t mean that,” the Wizard Lord said, glancing at the captain of the guard. “I meant that I would consider relinquishing my magic. After all, I don’t need it, Barokan doesn’t need it. The time for magic is past.”
Artil was perhaps not so oblivious to the soldiers’ reaction as Sword had hoped.
“It’s not enough,” Sword said.
“And of course, provision would be made for the remaining Chosen,” Artil said quickly. “You seem to have found a place for yourself here in the Uplands, Sword—and magic!” He gestured at the fallen rocks behind him. “You have Uplander magic, as no one ever has before! I would be happy to aid you in claiming the role of Wizard Lord here, as a counterpart to my own role in Barokan. And your compatriots would be welcome to join you. I would give you the Summer Palace, if you like, as your own residence—”
“Because I’ve damaged it so badly you no longer want it? You offer me your cast-off rubbish?”
“Nonsense! You’ve barely touched it! A few ruined furnishings are nothing; they can easily be replaced.” The Wizard Lord seemed to be regaining his composure, looking and sounding more like the man Sword remembered. “I’m sure it could be made quite comfortable, and suitable for year-round occupancy, with very little effort, and naturally I would provide the labor and materials in recompense for whatever wrongs I may have done you. When we find the Beauty, we would of course send her up to join you here.” He smiled, a little unsteadily. “I know the two of you are good friends. And the Leader and the Scholar would be freed, of course.”
Sword stared at the man in disgust. Artil was offering not just the palace, but things he had no claim to—the Uplands, and the Beauty—as bribes for sparing his life. Wealth, power, sex, he was willing to give Sword all of them.
Or so he said.
And Sword did not believe him for an instant. Artil would offer anything, promise anything, and then have him killed anyway, Sword was certain of it.
“You would give me all this?” he asked.
“I would,” Artil lied, smiling.
“And you would give up the Great Talismans?”
The smile vanished. “I don’t think that would be necessary. You would be safe from my magic up here—”
“I think it would be necessary,” Sword interrupted, moving a little to his left, positioning himself for a charge.
“Perhaps I was hasty!” Artil said, raising his hands as if to fend something off, and his tone had changed again, shifting back toward the panic Sword had heard back in the dining hall.
“Or perhaps you knew there are some lies no one would believe,” Sword suggested.
“All right, Sword, listen to me. What good would it do to kill me?” The panic was gone again. “We both know which of us is considered a hero in Barokan now, and it’s the one who gave the people roads and trade and safety, not the man with a big knife who’s said to have chopped off women’s hands and mutilated petty criminals.”
“Those stories are lies.”
“Can you prove it? People believe them. And even if they didn’t, what of it? I built the roads, not you, and you did cut up a dozen of my soldiers in Winterhome last year. There were witnesses to that, plenty of them.”
Sword growled.
“So here’s an agreement I will swear to, if you accept it, swear on my own soul and by my true name. If you go away, if you stay away from Barokan, I won’t pursue you, I won’t do anything to you. I really will give you the Summer Palace if that’s what it takes to get rid of you, and I really will let the Beauty join you here, if she’s still alive and chooses to. I don’t care what you do to the Uplanders, I don’t know whether you really have magic or if the rockslide was just a trick, and I don’t care—just swear you’ll leave me alone, and I’ll swear to leave you alone. No one needs to die. We can each live our own lives. Please, be reasonable!”
“You would swear to this in Barokan? Swear by your soul and your true name?”
“Yes, I would.”
This time, Sword believed him. He was not entirely sure why. An oath by his true name would be binding on Artil so long as he was in Barokan; to break it would be to cast himself outside all law, to make himself the enemy of all ler, all nature—if he even could break it; there were some who believed it was not physically possible to break such a vow.
So long as he was in Barokan. Sword was not sure any oath would be magically binding outside Barokan’s borders, and Artil had already demonstrated that he was capable of getting around magical limitations by leaving his homeland. He had given the command to kill the Council of Immortals while he was at the Summer Palace, and the Seer, whose magic would ordinarily have alerted her to such murders, had therefore been unaware that any deaths had been ordered.
But Sword didn’t think Artil intended any such treachery this time. He thought the Wizard Lord’s offer was sincere. He was offering Sword his freedom, and peace between them.
It would leave Artil as undisputed master of Barokan, of course, while Sword would have to survive one hellish winter after another. Boss and Lore would presumably stay in Artil’s dungeons, while Babble and Bow and Azir would definitely still be dead. There would be no check on what the Wizard Lord might do; if he wanted slaves, he would have all of Barokan under his thumb. If he wanted an enchanted harem, like the one Farash had kept in Doublefall, he could have it, and no one would object.
And Sword couldn’t allow that, not even if it meant his own death. He had sworn to protect Barokan from any Wizard Lord who went bad.
“No,” he said.
“What?” Artil blinked in surprise.
“No!” Sword repeated. “No oaths, no agreements, no compromises. You, guardsmen, step aside!”
“Kill him!” Artil shrieked, pointing at Sword as his calm vanished again.
One of the soldiers raised his spear and made a halfhearted rush; Sword knocked the weapon aside and drew a line of blood across the man’s cheek—but his defense was sloppy, obviously not the effortless work of the Chosen Swordsman. He felt his gut tighten; if these soldiers had any sense at all, they would recognize that the Wizard Lord had told the truth, and Sword’s Barokanese magic did not work here.
“There’s no need to shed anyone’s blood but his!” Sword called out, pointing at Artil with his free hand. “If you fight me, you may stop me, you may not, but either way, you can be sure that some of you would die in the process—is it worth your lives to defend this treacherous, lying wizard? You all heard us just now, his promises and deceit.”
No one answered, but Sword saw hands tighten on weapons; swords were raised, spears hefted. Obviously, these men did consider it worth risking their lives. The
y had spent too much time in the presence of the Wizard Lord’s power, his ability to sway the hearts and minds of those around him with the magic of the Talisman of Glory.
Some of these men would have to die.
Unfortunate, but unavoidable.
And it would need to be soon, before the other soldiers arrived and overwhelmed him with sheer numbers. Sword turned his wrist and braced his back foot, preparing to charge.
He might die as well, of course—in fact, it seemed very likely. He was tired and weak and outnumbered eight to one; a single lucky blow would bring him down, and once he was down, those spears would make short work of him. He had survived the Upland winter, but he would not survive this. He had accepted that.
He was about to launch himself at the Wizard Lord when a new voice spoke.
[ 22 ]
“Wait!” Farash called, raising his hands. “Everyone, wait! I have an idea!”
Startled, Artil turned to look at his advisor. Puzzled, Sword stood, waiting, still slightly crouched. The soldiers stopped advancing; some glanced at Farash, some at their captain, while others kept their eyes on Sword.
Sword wondered just what Farash had in mind; did he think he could persuade the two of them into some sort of agreement? Surely, Farash knew that of all the people in the world, he was the only one Sword trusted even less than he trusted Artil.
It might just be a ploy to delay Sword until the other guards arrived, but even Farash deserved a chance to speak; after all, if Sword did kill Artil and survived, and the guards continued to fight, he intended to kill Farash next. The man had a right to say a few last words, if only to further condemn himself.
“Captain!” Farash said, holding out a hand to the guard’s commander, who happened to be the nearest of the soldiers. “Give me your sword!”
Artil threw Farash a final glance, then turned his attention back to Sword. “Give it to him,” he said without looking at the captain.
“My lord, I—,” the soldier began.
“Give it to him!” Artil interrupted. “I don’t know what his idea is, but I trust him—give him your sword.” He glanced sideways. “And you, give me that,” he said, snatching a spear from the hand of another soldier.
The captain still hesitated.
“Hurry up,” the Wizard Lord said. “His Uplander allies might be here at any moment.”
“As will more of your own men, my lord,” Farash said as the captain reluctantly handed over his sword, hilt-first. “Which is why I can wait no longer.” He hefted the sword, adjusted his grip—and then swung around and plunged his blade into the Wizard Lord’s back, thrusting it through him so that the point jabbed out of his belly.
Blood spurted. Artil’s eyes flew wide, his hands flew up, and he let out a dull croak; if he had meant it to be words, Sword had no idea what those words might have been. He released the spear he had just grabbed, and it rattled to the stony ground.
Sword stared in incomprehension. He could see it all very clearly, see the bloody point of the borrowed sword thrusting out of Artil’s chest, but his mind refused to accept what he saw.
And then, as Farash inith Kerra yanked the sword back out, Artil im Salthir crumpled, bending at the knees and waist, folding down and then sprawling to one side upon the rocky ground. Red blood poured from his pierced body, pooling beneath him.
As Sword and the stunned soldiers watched, Farash stepped forward and swung the sword like an ax, chopping through the Wizard Lord’s neck. The blow did not entirely sever his head, but did cut through the spine, leaving no possibility that Artil could still be alive—and incidentally, badly chipping the sword’s blade.
For a moment, no one else moved; everyone simply stared at the bleeding corpse, and the man standing over it holding a bloody sword.
Then Sword recovered from his astonishment and strode swiftly forward, brushing aside the unresisting men and weapons who blocked his path, until he stood a few feet from Farash. There he stopped, and raised his sword to the other man’s throat.
He did not understand what had just happened, but he intended to. The Wizard Lord was dead, and that was good—but Farash had done it, Farash the traitor, Farash, the monster who had so hideously abused his power as Leader of the Chosen. That could not be good, could it?
It had to be a trick, a trap of some sort, a deception.
A rush of anger swept through the Swordsman; killing Artil had been his duty! How dare Farash deprive him of it?
Then he recognized that as the insanity it was—Farash had very probably just saved Sword’s life. Farash had told Sword long ago that he wanted to make amends for the evil he had done; did he think this was the way to do it?
Was it a way to do it?
“Sir . . . ,” a guardsman began uncertainly.
The captain’s hand fell to his empty scabbard, then away. He stared at his own sword in another man’s hand, covered in his master’s blood. The Chosen Swordsman had paid no attention whatsoever to the fact that the man he was confronting was armed; in the torrent of emotion, it hadn’t seemed important.
Farash opened his hand and let the red blade dangle loosely. “Drop your weapons,” he ordered. “All of you.”
“Do as he says,” Sword barked.
The captain nodded, one hand raised.
Reluctantly, most of the soldiers complied, in spirit, if not literally—spears were lowered carefully to the ground, and swords were sheathed, rather than dropped. Two or three men stubbornly held on to their arms, but did not approach the Swordsman or their late master’s chief advisor.
Sword stared at Farash’s familiar, hateful face, trying to read his expression, but he could make nothing of it. The man was not smiling, or frowning; he simply looked tired.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he was somehow relieved?
“I suppose you think I’ll spare you now,” Sword said, pressing the tip of his blade against the skin of Farash’s throat.
“I don’t know what you’ll do,” Farash said. “I hope you’ll spare me.”
He met Sword’s gaze with no sign of fear.
“I assume you changed sides to encourage me in that?”
“No.”
Sword waited a few seconds, to see whether Farash would explain himself further, but no explanation was forthcoming.
“You knew I would triumph, I take it? You saw something I’ve missed, perhaps? Recognized the Thief among these men?” He gestured at the surrounding soldiers.
Farash shook his head. “To the best of my knowledge, the Thief is still in Winterhome. If all has gone according to plan, he’s in the Winter Palace at this very moment, trying to find a way to free Lore and your Leader from Artil’s dungeons.”
“You know that?” Sword asked sharply.
“I helped arrange it,” Farash said. “I didn’t change sides, Sword; I have been on your side since shortly after I gave up the role of Leader. If you will allow me, I will prove it.”
“How?”
Farash gestured toward his throat. “If you will allow me?”
Reluctantly, Sword lowered his blade.
Farash said, “Thank you.” Then he bent down and laid his bloody sword by the Wizard Lord’s corpse. Straightening, he displayed his empty hands. “I am unarmed, as you see—and you are a far better swordsman than me even without your magic, I’m sure.”
“I think so,” Sword agreed.
“Then trust me for just a moment.” He reached into his tunic and drew out a small round object—a coin. “This,” he said, holding it up, “is the Talisman of Treachery, which must be borne by the ninth Chosen Defender of Barokan, and no other.”
Sword recognized that it was, indeed, the mate to the coin that the Wizard Lord had shown him and called the Talisman of Trust. The bearer of this talisman, if it was genuine, was indeed the ninth of the Chosen. Sword blinked. “You?”
Farash nodded. “I, my friend and erstwhile companion, am the Chosen Traitor. So long as I carried this, and so long as the Wizard Lo
rd carried the Talisman of Trust, and so long as we were within the borders of Barokan, he could not mistrust me. That was my magic. No matter what you told him, no matter what I had done, no matter what I did, the Wizard Lord could not believe me capable of betraying him.”
“But you did betray him,” a new voice said. Sword turned.
The captain who had given Farash his sword was speaking. “You betrayed and murdered him!”
“Well, of course I did,” Farash said. “He was a Dark Lord, and as one of the Chosen, under the oath I swore to the Council of Immortals, it was my duty to kill him.”
“But he was the Wizard Lord! He wasn’t a Dark Lord—he built the roads and canals, and slew the monsters and the evil wizards—”
“They weren’t evil,” Farash said, cutting him off. “They were just wizards. And he had them all killed for nothing—they were as bound by the Talisman of Treachery as he was, and could not reveal my identity or nature. He was demanding the impossible of them.”
“He was the Wizard Lord, sworn to protect Barokan from rogue wizards!”
Farash sighed. “They weren’t rogues. And the Chosen had done nothing to harm him, yet he took two of them prisoner and killed three of the others.”
“Three?” Sword asked. “You’re sure?”
Farash turned his attention back to the Swordsman. “Three,” he said. “He tracked poor Bow down months ago. The hunt was long and bloody—Artil must have lost at least twenty men before they finally caught up with Bow and butchered him.” He shook his head sadly. “I tried to distract him, get him to call off the pursuit, but I couldn’t do it.”
“Why didn’t you just kill him?” Sword demanded. “If he trusted you, and you were right there beside him all this time, why didn’t you simply borrow a sword and run him through, as you did just now?”
“I couldn’t,” Farash said. “Oh, believe me, I wanted to—I even tried, twice, to slip into his bedroom and cut his throat. But I couldn’t. Just as the magic would not let the Council identify me, or let the Wizard Lord mistrust me, it would not let me harm him when acting alone.” He grimaced. “Even though you never told the Council why you wanted me removed as Leader, they didn’t entirely trust me, Sword. They knew you must have had reasons for demanding I give up my role as Leader, so they put strong restrictions on me. None of my magic was ever under my own control; it was all bindings. And the binding on me was that I could not harm the Wizard Lord unless he was under attack by others of the Chosen. I had to be in the presence of another of the Chosen, and that other had to be trying to kill him, before I could act against him openly.”
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