The Wizard Lord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “No,” Breaker replied, as he had a hundred times before. “When the Old Swordsman asked who wanted the job, I said yes; that’s all.”

  “But that can’t be,” the lad protested.

  “Why not?” Breaker asked, amused.

  “Well, because how would the ler know you were worthy, without some sign marking you? What if a cripple had spoken up, or an old man, or a woman in disguise?”

  “The Old Swordsman did not ask any cripples or old men or women,” Breaker said. “He asked the young men of the village as we drank to celebrate the harvest. He could see we were fit and strong by the barley we had brought in. He saw me drink and dance that night, and he taught me the basics of wielding a blade in the days that followed, and if he had found me wanting he would have said so and moved on to the next town. There were no signs or portents; he offered me the role, and I accepted.”

  “But that isn’t right,” the youth insisted.

  Up to that point the conversation had been similar to a dozen others, but the boy’s persistence was new. “In what way isn’t it right?” Breaker asked.

  “The Swordsman is one of the Chosen,” the youth said. “But you said you weren’t chosen! You volunteered!”

  “I chose myself, perhaps.”

  “You say he asked the young men of your village—what if one of the others had said yes, instead of you?”

  “Then he would be the Swordsman now, talking to you here, and I would be at home—or dancing with Little Weaver in the pavilion, perhaps.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “He would have been chosen, and I would not. And if none of us had spoken up—and that might well have happened, had I not been in the mood I was in—then the Old Swordsman would have gone on to the next town, and the next, until someone agreed.”

  “What if two of you had volunteered at once? Or three?”

  “Then I suppose the Old Swordsman would have chosen between us, and picked the one he thought more promising. I don’t think I take your point, lad.”

  “You’re supposed to be the Chosen, the people fated to protect us from any Dark Lord! You’re supposed to have a destiny.”

  Breaker blinked silently at him before answering.

  “We are the Chosen,” he said, gesturing to take in himself and his two companions. “We were chosen by our predecessors, and chose to accept the roles they offered. The Chosen were created by wizards, boy, not by some mysterious destiny.”

  “But then how do you know you were chosen rightly? What if you’re the wrong people for your roles?”

  “Then you had better hope no Dark Lords arise,” the Seer said before Breaker could respond.

  “I took the job,” Breaker said, “and I’ll do it the best I can. I do have the wizards’ magic to help me, and the ler they bound to me, and that’s all the destiny any Swordsman has ever had.”

  “But you’re the Swordsman. You’re one of the Chosen. You’re supposed to be someone special, something more than an ordinary man!”

  “I am,” Breaker said. “I am the world’s greatest swordsman; the wizards of the Council of Immortals have bestowed that upon me with their magic.”

  “But you should have been special before!”

  Breaker started to ask why, then stopped, thinking back to that evening in the pavilion when Elder Priestess had brought in the wizards and the Old Swordsman.

  “I was,” he said. “I was willing.”

  “That’s not special!”

  “No one else in my town was,” Breaker said. “And I don’t think it was the first town he’d asked in.”

  “But it’s not enough!”

  “But it is.”

  “Just because you were willing? Because you said yes? That can’t be all . . .

  “Would you have said yes?” Breaker interrupted.

  The youth stopped in midsentence and stared at him.

  “If I were to have second thoughts—and believe me, I have—and decided that I did not care to be the world’s greatest swordsman anymore, that someone else should take the honor from me, and if I came and asked you whether you would do it—would you? And do not answer hastily, because I may well be serious in this. Would you accept the role, knowing that it would mean you would be forever set apart from ordinary folk, and that you might be called upon at any time to fight your way into the Wizard Lord’s stronghold and drive your blade through his living flesh and kill him?” Breaker had given that far too much thought of late, the image of the steel of his sword stabbing into a human body; he remembered what it had felt like to jab the Old Swordsman’s shoulder, and he had exaggerated that memory and imagined what it would be like to kill the Wizard Lord.

  It was not a pleasant thought.

  “I . . .” The youth looked at him uncertainly.

  “Would you?”

  By this time the entire room had fallen silent, and all eyes were upon the two of them. For a moment no one spoke.

  Then the youth’s gaze fell.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then do not chide me for being born without a caul, on a day of no astronomical distinction, to an ordinary mother and father.”

  “But you didn’t do anything to earn it,” the boy said.

  “Oh, yes, I did. I practiced for months.”

  “But you didn’t go on a quest or have any adventures . . .”

  “I worked long and hard. That’s more useful.”

  The boy shook his head, but said nothing more; while he was plainly not yet convinced, he had run out of arguments that he could put into words.

  Breaker turned away as someone else asked, “Do you need to use a particular sword, or could you fight with another one?”

  Breaker answered that, and a dozen other questions, but while he did a thought nagged at the back of his mind. The boy seemed dissatisfied because Breaker had not proven himself worthy by mystical means—but in fact, he had done exactly that by defeating the Old Swordsman in their staged duel. Why had he not mentioned that to the lad?

  Because, he decided, it hadn’t seemed important. What was important was that he had spoken up, saying he would take on the role, and that he had worked hard to learn it. The actual ritual conflict that convinced the ler to transfer their magical aid had been a mere formality.

  He thought perhaps he should explain this to the boy, but when he looked around during a lull in the questioning the youth had gone.

  And the following morning the three of them, Seer, Scholar, and Swordsman, accompanied by a local guide, continued on their southward journey.

  It was three towns, two guides, and four days later that they found themselves in a village so small it had no agreed-upon name, where the Seer’s inquiries about finding a guide to lead them just a little farther into the Galbek Hills encountered worried silence.

  “That way,” she said, pointing. “Perhaps half a day’s walk.”

  “Oh, we know where you mean,” the village’s one priest replied. “You mean Stoneslope. That’s the only town there. But you can’t get there anymore.”

  “Why not?” the Seer asked.

  “Because there aren’t any guides,” the priest explained. “The last one died five years ago.”

  “Five years?” Breaker looked at the Seer. “How did he die?”

  “She. She died in childbirth. Had the child lived . . . but it did not. Her family’s secrets are lost, and there are no more guides.”

  “Then how do the people of Stoneslope trade with the rest of Barokan?” the Scholar asked.

  “They don’t.”

  “Is there another route around the other side, perhaps?” Breaker suggested.

  “No. They no longer have any contact with the outside world. To the best of our knowledge no one has entered or left Stoneslope for five years now.”

  The three Chosen looked at one another.

  “What do we do now?” Breaker asked.

  “We go there without a guide,” the Seer replied.

  “But t
he ler! We don’t know the path, don’t know the dangers!”

  “We’ll just have to find our way. And our magic will protect us.”

  “Not from everything.”

  “From most ordinary dangers. And we know the path can be found,” the Seer said, “because it was, once.”

  “After all,” the Scholar said, “someone had to find the safe paths in the first place; no one is born knowing the route to another town.”

  “I suppose, but I’m no explorer . . .”

  “We were chosen to be heroes,” the Seer said, and the rebuke in her tone was unmistakable. “A hero does what he must.”

  Breaker sighed. “As you say,” he agreed.

  “Does this have something to do with the Wizard Lord?” the priest asked, looking from Breaker to the Seer.

  “Not everything the Chosen do need be in connection with the Wizard Lord,” the Seer said—which Breaker knew was true, but irrelevant.

  “Well, yes, but Stoneslope—the Chosen wanting to go to Stoneslope . . .”

  “And what does Stoneslope have to do with the Wizard Lord?” the Scholar asked.

  The priest looked startled. “Why, I assumed you knew. He was born and raised there. Back then he was sometimes called Feather, because he was so thin and frail—his father had said he was as light as a feather, you see. He was called other names as well, less pleasant ones—he wasn’t a popular child. He left home to learn wizardry when he was just a boy, younger than the Swordsman is now, and we never saw him again, but we would hear about him sometimes; when news came that he had been chosen as the Wizard Lord we were all quite excited, and wondered whether he might build a stronghold here.” He sighed. “But he built it all the way over near Split Reed, at the other end of the Galbek Hills. He never even visited us here. I know there were some in Stoneslope who wanted to apologize to him for not treating him better, but they never had the chance.”

  Breaker stood silent for a moment, absorbing this information.

  Somehow he had always had trouble with the thought of the Wizard Lord growing up somewhere. Obviously wizards started out as human as anyone, they weren’t born with talismans in hand and spells in their heads, but he never pictured them as children, growing up like anyone else. The Wizard Lord had had parents and neighbors, perhaps siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, and apparently enemies . . .

  He found it difficult to picture.

  And the Wizard Lord had killed people in or near Stoneslope, his old hometown—why? Who were they, and what had they done to deserve his wrath? Were they some of those people who had never had a chance to apologize? And was the guide’s death merely a coincidence, or had the Wizard Lord arranged that, as well, so that the rest of Barokan would not hear what he had done?

  No—surely, no Wizard Lord could be so petty as to kill a woman in childbirth just to keep a secret. Still, Breaker felt a certain foreboding; he hoped it was merely because he was among unfamiliar ler.

  “Well, now we know why no word got out,” the Seer said.

  “We don’t know,” the Scholar said. “We merely assume.”

  “But his own townsfolk? Perhaps his own kin? Could it really be?” Breaker asked.

  “We’ll find out,” the Seer said. “Tomorrow.”

  “Well, we will set out for Stoneslope tomorrow,” the Scholar corrected. “We may not get there for some time, if the way is difficult, and we may not learn the truth of what happened there immediately upon arrival. The natives may be reluctant to speak to us—after five years of isolation they may view any stranger as an invader.”

  “Or a savior,” the Seer suggested.

  “Indeed,” the Scholar agreed.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Breaker agreed.

  [16]

  As they set out across the grassy hilltop Breaker could not shake the feeling that he was being watched—and he suspected he probably was. The Wizard Lord could have eyes and ears anywhere, after all, and would certainly take an interest in three of the Chosen venturing out into the wilderness unguided, on their way to his own old home.

  And then there were the ler around them, here as everywhere in Barokan—and once they passed the boundary stone halfway down the far slope those ler would be wild, untamed, and unknown. No priest had bargained with them, no pacts bound them, no powers restrained them except for the protections inherent in being Chosen, and the three travelers were deliberately walking into their territory uninvited and unguided; ler of land, tree, and sky would undoubtedly be watching them.

  The people and priest of the nameless village had wished them well, but had declined to escort them to the border; the priest had admitted frankly, “We don’t want to see anything terrible happen to you—and if we watch you cross the border we might not be able to avoid seeing it.”

  The boundary marker was old, a rough block of black stone with markings so worn by wind and rain that Breaker could make no sense of them. He hesitated beside it and looked at the others.

  “Some ler prefer not to be bothered, and propitiatory rites only serve to wake and irritate them,” the Scholar said as he came up behind Breaker, “but the majority appreciate indications that we are aware of them and respect their power.” He knelt, bowed his head, and pressed his palms to the earth of the hillside below the black stone.

  “To whatever powers may dwell beyond this point,” the Scholar recited, “we give greetings, and offer peace. We wish you no ill, and intrude only because our duty compels us. Give us what guidance it may please you to give, ask of us what you will, and we will do what we may to speed our passage and fulfill your desires.”

  “I never heard that particular prayer before,” Breaker remarked.

  “I learned it from a Galbek guide years ago,” the Scholar said as he rose. “It seemed appropriate.”

  “Let us hope it was,” the Seer said. “That way.” She pointed.

  “That’s where Stoneslope lies?” Breaker asked. “I thought it was more to the west.”

  “It is, but that’s where the old trail was,” she replied. “I can sense it.”

  Breaker peered at the ground, and at the brush ahead. “I see no sign of a trail.”

  “After five years of disuse that’s hardly a surprise,” the Scholar pointed out.

  “Come on,” the Seer said, marching past the boundary stone.

  The three of them marched on into the wilderness, the Seer leading the way and Breaker bringing up the rear. Breaker could sense the change from tamed ler to wild immediately, and even more strongly than usual; the air seemed to almost buzz with hostility. The feeling of being watched grew more intense, and in fact every time he looked around Breaker seemed to glimpse eyes staring out at him from creatures perched on tree branches or crouching behind shrubs, eyes that would vanish the instant he saw them.

  He could feel other ler moving invisibly about them as well, and not merely inhabiting the surrounding landscape—the air seemed to be full of them. Every so often his skin crawled, or turned cool, as a spirit brushed against him. The world around him was alive, not in the calm and ordered fashion of a priest-managed town, or even a trail accustomed to a guide’s passage, but as chaotic and seething with life as a disturbed nest of hornets.

  Any journey outside the safety of the towns and villages meant crossing the territory of untamed ler, but this area’s intensity and alertness were unlike anything Breaker remembered. He wondered whether this was simply because no guide had come this way in years, or whether there was something more to it. Weeds and twigs tore at his legs, the ground was uneven beneath his feet, the breeze clammy on his skin even when no ler were making themselves obvious. And then he felt the eyes upon him again, and turned to look, and this time they did not vanish.

  “Oh,” he said, stopping where he stood. The others stopped, as well, staring up into the trees.

  They were just squirrels, Breaker told himself. Squirrels, and birds, and chipmunks, and snakes, and lizards.

  Nothing to be frightened of, sure
ly; there were no monsters, no great beasts, just the ordinary inhabitants of the wood—but they were all motionless and staring, their gaze fixed on the three travelers . . . on him, Breaker thought. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

  For a long silent moment everyone and everything simply stared; then a high, cracking voice broke the silence.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” a squirrel said, speaking in the Galbek dialect.

  Breaker let out a choking gasp of stifled laughter; the unexpected absurdity of a squirrel attempting to give them orders was too much to accept.

  But then, he knew it wasn’t really the squirrel speaking. He was fairly certain it wasn’t even one of the local ler. The urge to laugh vanished completely, and he stared up at the squirrel unhappily.

  He had not wanted this to happen. He had desperately hoped that they would go to Stoneslope and find a good, reasonable explanation of who the Wizard Lord had killed and why, and would share a laugh about their concerns and then go on about their separate business.

  But if there were a good, reasonable explanation, this squirrel would not be telling them to go away.

  “Lord,” the Seer said, “it is our duty to be here.”

  The squirrel cocked its head and peered down at them from its branch. “Why do you call me ‘lord’?” it asked.

  The Seer grimaced, and turned away in disgust; it was the Scholar who replied.

  “Lord, if the ler of this region made use of talking animals, not only would it have been reported in the local tales and legends, but this would not be wilderness. If ler will speak to us, then we can negotiate with them; if we can negotiate with them, then terms will be reached, sooner or later, and men and women will settle in the vicinity. This is how priesthoods begin.”

  “And what if the ler’s demands are too great?” the squirrel asked.

  “Lord, you know the practices followed in Drumhead and Bone Garden; what demands could possibly be too great, if those were not?”

  Breaker did not know what practices were followed in Drumhead and Bone Garden, but he had heard men and women calmly discussing the necessity of murdering an innocent child every year to please one set of ler, and visited two other towns that practiced human sacrifice as well, so he did not doubt that the Scholar knew of far worse—and he did not want to know the details.