The Wizard Lord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Pick up your talisman,” the blue-robed wizard said. “If you want to retire, then so be it, but until a replacement is found you are still the Chosen Seer.”

  Reluctantly, the Seer stooped, retrieved the smaller of the two crystals, and stepped back.

  Breaker turned a pointed gaze on the Leader, who took the hint.

  “And I, too, feel I must resign,” Boss said, tossing a golden talisman to the ground. “My plans were inadequate, and we only triumphed through good fortune and the Swordsman’s skill. I will remain as Leader until my successor is found, but I trust that will be no longer than necessary.” He threw Breaker a brief, venomous glare.

  For a moment an awkward silence fell; then the blue-robed wizard asked, “Anyone else?”

  “I feel I acquitted myself reasonably well,” Lore said.

  “I’m not ready to quit!” Bow snapped.

  “Not quite yet,” the Beauty added.

  “I’ve only just accepted the role,” Breaker said.

  “The ler—no. I’m staying,” Babble said.

  “All right, then,” the wizard said. “Tell us what happened.”

  For a moment no one spoke; then Breaker told the Seer, “You start. Five years ago.”

  The Seer nodded, and began.

  The story, such as it was, took a little over an hour to tell; the Scholar took over from the Seer, the Speaker from the Scholar, the Leader from the Speaker, and finally the Swordsman from the Leader. The last two lied, telling the story they had agreed upon rather than the truth, but no one seemed to notice.

  When the tale was done there was a brief silence; then a wizard called, “Very well, then, I think that was all in order, and we’ve agreed that three of the Chosen are to be replaced and the other five to continue. The next order of business, then, is to choose the new Wizard Lord.”

  “Wait,” Breaker said. “Before you go any further, I must ask—do we still need a Wizard Lord?”

  “Of course we do!” someone called, and a murmur of agreement ran through the little crowd.

  “Why?” Breaker insisted. “There haven’t been any rogue wizards in centuries!”

  “But there would be, without a Wizard Lord,” the Red Wizard replied. “Just as more Wizard Lords would become Dark Lords were it not for the Chosen.”

  “Would there? How many wizards are there? A few hundred? Surely . . .”

  Breaker’s planned speech was cut short by startled laughter. He blinked, and looked around, trying to see what was funny.

  “A few hundred?” a wizard called. “Are you blind, Swordsman?”

  “Perhaps he can’t count that high,” another suggested. “After all, you don’t need numbers to use a blade.”

  “I don’t understand,” Breaker said.

  “Swordsman, how many of us are here?”

  “Nineteen. But this is the Council of Immortals . . .”

  “The Council of Immortals is made up of all the wizards there are, Swordsman,” the blue-robed leader explained gently. “This is all of us.”

  “But that’s not . . .” Breaker looked for the female wizard who had accompanied the Old Swordsman to Mad Oak, and spotted her standing by one of the torches. “She said . . .”

  She held up a hand. “I know, that’s not what I told you. We were talking about centuries ago, though, when the Council was first formed, and back then it did not include every wizard. It’s only in the past hundred and fifty years that we have all been members.”

  “But then—there are only nineteen wizards in all Barokan?”

  “So far as we know, yes,” the Red Wizard said. “It’s the Wizard Lord’s job to track down and kill any others.”

  “But they aren’t all rogues . . . !”

  “Yes, they are,” another wizard said. “By definition. Our forefathers decided a century and a half back that it would be better for everyone if all wizards joined the Council, and with the Wizard Lord’s aid, they did not make it optional.”

  “There are just nineteen?” the Archer said.

  “You need a Wizard Lord to control nineteen wizards?” Breaker said.

  “Well, there were hundreds when the system began,” the old woman who had come to Mad Oak said. “But our numbers have dwindled.”

  “Then hasn’t the need for a Wizard Lord dwindled, as well?” Breaker said. “Shouldn’t we see what happens without one, rather than once again giving someone the power to kill entire towns and flood whole regions?”

  There was a mutter among some of the wizards, but the blue-robed leader said firmly, “No. The system has worked for seven centuries, and I am not going to abandon it just because we happen to have had a ninth Dark Lord.”

  “But we don’t need it, and another Dark Lord could be a disaster!”

  “And how likely is it that we’ll see another Dark Lord in our lifetimes? The system works, Swordsman—the Wizard Lord went mad, and the Chosen removed him, just as they were meant to. If there were no Wizard Lord, who knows how many people might have been killed or enslaved by wizards, or killed by storms or famines? We had more than a hundred years of peace and plenty—one small town and a few floods are not too high a price for that.”

  At the mention of enslavement Breaker glanced at Boss, who did not meet his gaze; then he turned back to the wizards.

  “I think you’re wrong,” he said. “I think the Wizard Lords have outlived their purpose. I don’t know why there are so few wizards now, compared to our ancestors’ times, but whatever the reason, it makes a Wizard Lord an unnecessary danger!”

  “It’s because so many of the ler have been collected, or tamed by the priests, or softened by the mere presence of so many people nearby,” a short, dark wizard in the back began. “There are fewer truly wild powers . . .”

  “Never mind that,” the blue-robed wizard snapped, holding up her hand. “It’s none of his concern—he’s merely the Swordsman. We have no obligation to answer to him.”

  “I just killed your Dark Lord!” Breaker protested.

  “And that was your duty, your role,” the wizard replied. “Thank you for performing it effectively—but it gives you no right to question us.”

  “I killed a man because your Council has propped up an ancient and unnecessary system . . .”

  A sudden gust of wind whirled around him, unnaturally intense, snatching the breath from his mouth, and Breaker staggered back. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

  “Stop it!” the Council’s leader ordered over her shoulder. “He is the Chosen Swordsman, and entitled to our respect, if not our obedience. Release him!”

  The wind stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

  “You see why we need a Wizard Lord?” the blue-robed wizard said, more gently. “We can’t be trusted. We know that. So we set one of us up to keep the others in check, and you eight are chosen to keep him in check. Thank you, Swordsman, for your service. Thank you all, O Chosen. Deliver now the Wizard Lord’s talismans, and take your own with you, and go about your business.”

  “You’ll exorcise the dead in Stoneslope?” Breaker demanded. “And see to it that the Seer, the Thief, and the Leader are replaced?”

  The Council’s leader sighed. “We will—and if you were not already the Swordsman, I’d make you the new Leader! You seem to take the role upon yourself.”

  “That’s because . . . someone must, and Boss has—there are reasons he does not speak,” Breaker said. He glanced around at his six companions.

  “You’re doing fine,” the Archer said. “You killed the Dark Lord, so you get to speak for us here, so long as we agree with you—and so far, Sword, you haven’t said a word I can’t accept.”

  “There are things here I don’t understand,” the Beauty said, “and I have nothing more to say until I do understand them.”

  “I have no right to say anything,” the Seer said. “We should have been here five years ago. I should have been at their side in the tower. Let the boy speak for us all.”

  “I am
listening,” the Speaker said. “My role is misnamed, for my task is always to listen, more than to speak.”

  “It’s all too soon for me,” the Scholar said. “Perhaps a year from now I’ll know what to make of it.”

  “It’s as he said,” the Leader agreed, glancing at Breaker. “There are reasons I don’t speak.”

  “It seems there may be more to the tale than you told us,” the blue-robed wizard said.

  “There’s nothing more to tell you,” Breaker said. “Anything we haven’t said is private, and while you may choose us, you do not own us.”

  “That’s rather the point, in fact,” the Red Wizard agreed. “Let them go, Azal, and let us get on with choosing our new lord.”

  “Let them deliver the talismans,” the Council’s leader repeated.

  “Swear you’ll see that Stoneslope’s ghosts are freed,” Breaker said.

  “I will swear it,” the Red Wizard said. “I will go there myself, and bring whatever priests or others I find necessary to set the souls of the dead at peace. I swear by my own soul—is that good enough, Swordsman?”

  “Thank you,” Breaker said, with heartfelt gratitude. “And the three will be replaced? Then that’s enough—I’ve had enough of all of this, and am eager to go home.” He pulled out the little silver blade he had taken from the Wizard Lord’s body and tossed it to the ground beside the orb and crown, then turned and walked away from the fire, the wizards, and the others, toward the waiting wagon.

  The Seer and the Leader followed him, and the rest, in turn, added their captured talismans to the collection before leaving the Council of Immortals.

  The Chosen spent another night in the Dark Lord’s tower; the wizards’ meeting ran late into the night, but did eventually end. In the morning Breaker arose to find the maids gossiping—some of the wizards had already departed, and others still slept in the catacombs beneath the tower, but the news had somehow been conveyed that the red-clad wizard, the man Breaker knew simply as the Red Wizard, was to be the new Wizard Lord.

  The system would continue.

  He ate a hearty breakfast from the dead Wizard Lord’s pantries, bathed in a stone tub filled by the maids, and then dressed in his cleanest clothes—which were shabby and dingy, as he had been long upon the road. Still, he felt better than he had in some time. There would be a new Wizard Lord, yes, but the Red Wizard seemed a reasonable choice—Breaker remembered how polite he had been when he first arrived in Mad Oak, how he had deferred to the priestesses and tried not to trouble the ler.

  Perhaps it would be another century before next the Chosen were called upon to remove a Dark Lord.

  It was a new day, a new era—and he was free to go home to Mad Oak, or to go anywhere he chose. His job was done.

  He was on the muddy, snowy hillside practicing his swordsmanship for the hour the ler still required of him when the Beauty emerged from the tower and headed toward him. Her face was wrapped in a black scarf, as always, but he could see her eyes, and he almost thought he could smell the subtle natural perfume of her hair. She watched solemnly as he slashed an imaginary opponent to ribbons, and when at last he stopped, stepped back, and began wiping the blade she approached.

  “I wanted to say goodbye,” she said. “I’ve talked one of the wizards into flying me back to Winterhome, so I won’t be traveling with you.”

  “Oh,” Breaker said.

  He had been thinking of suggesting that she accompany him back to Mad Oak, but now that seemed overly bold. Instead he said, “Perhaps I could visit with you there.”

  “Erren,” she said quietly, “I am twice your age.”

  “Oh,” he said again.

  She was right, he knew she was, but still, the sight of her eyes and the sound of her voice . . .

  “It’s not your fault,” she said, “and if I were ever tempted by youth and vigor, believe me, you would receive very serious consideration—you are a fine young man. But I am not young.”

  He nodded; on some level he knew she was right, but his body, his heart, did not agree. His pulse had quickened just from her presence.

  “Something happened in the tower, when you killed the Wizard Lord, that you haven’t told us about,” she said. It was not a question, and he did not answer.

  For a moment they looked one another in the eye; then she asked, “Is it anything I should know?”

  “You shouldn’t need to,” he said, “but ask me again a year from now.”

  She nodded.

  The silence between them grew awkward after that, and at last, almost simultaneously, they turned and went their separate ways.

  By midday the Chosen were scattered, each bound for his or her home, alone or in the company of wizards. Breaker turned down offers of magical aid and set out northward alone, on foot.

  [36]

  Breaker had passed through Redclay on his way south, and remembered the inn there as a convivial place. He looked around with a smile as he stepped inside, out of the snow.

  “Hey, Swordsman!” someone called. Breaker nodded an acknowledgment.

  “Took you long enough to kill him,” another voice called. “The whole town was almost washed away! And old Barga’s house was burned to the ground by that lightning stuff.”

  Breaker’s smile vanished. “We did the best we could,” he said.

  “Well, you should have done better.”

  “I didn’t see you doing anything to help,” Breaker retorted angrily.

  “Why should I? It’s your job, you and your magic sword! It’s not like it’s hard, killing a wizard when his magic can’t hurt you!”

  “I still had to get there, through all the storms,” Breaker pointed out.

  “You couldn’t get some wizard to fly you there? Hire one as a guide?”

  Breaker frowned. He ignored the question as he found a seat. He ignored other questions and comments as he ordered a mug of beer and drank it in silence.

  Yes, it was his job—but he had done it as best he could, despite all the difficulties, despite storms and hardships and betrayal. He could have just gone home, like the Thief, but he hadn’t.

  And there was no way he could say that without sounding as if he were whining or boasting. His mood, so cheerful when he entered, had quickly become as sour as the local beer.

  The innkeeper was friendly, at any rate, and when he ordered a second beer the man asked, “Staying in Redclay long?”

  Breaker shook his head. “Just tonight. Then it’s off northward—do you know a good guide heading north?”

  “I thought the Chosen didn’t need guides anymore.”

  “We don’t really, but they can be helpful.”

  “Where are you going, then?”

  “Mad Oak, up in Longvale.”

  “Ah. Never been there—is it nice?”

  “I grew up there.”

  “So you’ll be visiting family?”

  Breaker smiled bitterly.

  “No,” he said. “I’m going home to stay.”

  “Really? They need a swordsman there, or a hero?”

  “No. I’ve had enough of heroism. I’m going to grow barley.”

  “All done being the Chosen Swordsman, then?”

  “I hope so,” Breaker said, lifting his mug. He gulped beer. “By all the ler, I hope so!”

  Spring was in full bloom by the time Breaker and the Greenwater Guide made their stooping dash past the mad oak and arrived at the familiar boundary shrine. The guide marched on past, but Breaker paused there and looked over the town.

  It had not really changed, he knew, but it looked different to him now, all the same. It seemed smaller, for one thing. The oak and fieldstone construction looked rustic, almost crude. The pavilion built into the side of the ridge was almost exotic in the way it combined all the town’s public buildings, from warehouse to dance hall, in a single structure, and the houses scattered along the slope below looked inefficient and almost random in how they were arranged, though he knew that it was actually the result
of building them on the most level bits of land, because the ler here did not approve of digging out foundations.

  Not all ler were so picky as these, he knew now.

  And there below the town were the freshly planted fields, stretching down to the river, and there were the priestesses, walking through the fields talking to the ler, just as they always had, and shadows moved behind them as the ler flitted about in their peculiarly visible way.

  “Is there a problem?” the guide asked.

  Breaker shook his head. “No,” he said, “just looking at the place.”

  “Hasn’t changed much, has it?”

  “No.” Breaker knew that Mad Oak hadn’t changed—but he had.

  He walked on, and followed the guide to the pavilion. He knew he could have gone straight to his parents’ home, but he preferred to take a little time to adjust to being back first.

  Later, he was glad he had done so. Hearing the news from Digger in the pavilion and learning that he was not the only one who had changed was easier, he knew, than hearing it from his mother or sisters would have been.

  His father was dead—a fever had taken him during the winter, despite Elder’s best efforts. The ler insisted that Grumbler’s time had come, and did not heed human entreaties.

  Harp had married Smudge, as expected, but Little Weaver had married Brokenose, and Curly had married Joker, and Breaker had not expected either of those.

  As news of his return circulated through Mad Oak, townspeople began to appear at the pavilion, ostensibly to welcome him home, but somehow Breaker did not find their reactions to his presence very welcoming.

  Little Weaver and Brokenose arrived together, and her first words were “You didn’t say how long you would be gone—I thought it might be years!”

  “If the Dark Lord had had his way, it would have been forever,” Breaker replied, looking at her and remembering the Beauty’s face, knowing as he did that the comparison was horribly unfair—though in fact, Little Weaver fared better in the mental match than most women would have. “Congratulations on your marriage, both of you!”

  Curly did not need to say anything to explain her marriage; her protruding belly was more than enough. Breaker gave her a kiss for old times’ sake and wished her well.