Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  A roomful of scholars to stop a mad wizard's undead army – it hardly seemed a fair match.

  At least, he thought sardonically, the scholars were making some progress. A few dozen claimants had already been eliminated, at least tentatively. The scholars had reported that every prior champion had been male, over five and a half feet in height, and a native speaker of the Domdur tongue, though some were not of the pure Domdur blood. Every woman, every man under five and a half feet, and every person whose milk tongue was something other than Domdur had been asked to go away. Most of them had obeyed.

  Vrai Burrai, the eccentric inventor of the New Magic and master of the Imperial College, had been a popular candidate until it was pointed out that Burrai's native language was Diknoi. He spoke Domdur so fluently that people tended to forget his origins. He didn't go away; he argued that since the Domdur Empire was now the same thing as the world that all languages were now Domdur tongues. Lord Graush didn't accept this, nor did Duzon, but there was no point in arguing it beyond a certain point.

  Duzon had thought he had found a way to eliminate Burrai, though. The old stories all agreed that the champions had great stamina, especially in battle; Duzon had suggested testing that, at least for those who were actually in Seidabar, with a run around the city walls, and had succeeded in eliminating several candidates who could not cover the entire distance without collapsing.

  Vrai Burrai was not one of them. Duzon suspected that he had only managed to complete the run by using his infernal New Magic, but he couldn't prove it, nor could he prove that such a use would disqualify the Diknoi.

  Quite aside from Vrai Burrai, about three dozen contenders remained. Duzon himself was one of them. Naturally, he was a full-blooded Domdur and had spoken the true tongue from his cradle, though he'd picked up a smattering of other languages as well; he stood fully six feet in height, and any number of young noblewomen, including the infamous Lady Vozua and even one member of the Imperial Council, would attest to his masculinity. As for the run around the walls, he'd always prided himself on his strength; when some of his contemporaries made much of a languid, weary style, Duzon had refused to join in. He was willing to drape himself gracefully and fashionably on couches or against pillars, but he had never made any attempt to disguise his own robust health. He'd scarcely been breathing hard when he completed the circuit.

  Prince Bagar, the Empress' youngest grandson and Duzon's own first cousin once removed, was another contender. The scholars had pointed out that never before had a descendant of a reigning monarch been chosen as champion, but this was not considered conclusive. After all, Prince Greldar had been a reigning emperor's half-brother. Bagar had joined in the run, and had successfully completed it, though he had been exhausted by the time he staggered across the finish line.

  Lord Kadan had been suggested as a candidate, and though Kadan himself had said that was foolish, he hadn't been ruled out. No one had tried to make him run anywhere or prove anything, though.

  General Balinus, who was currently leading the Domdur armies in holding off the rebel forces until the volunteers of the new Imperial Army could be assembled, had also been suggested and had not been ruled out. In fact, Duzon rather liked the idea.

  He liked the idea of himself as the champion even better, though.

  The rest of the would-be champions were a motley crew of younger sons of minor nobles, village strongmen, and wild-eyed dreamers. Duzon knew that technically, he, too, was a younger son of a relatively minor noble – it had been three generations since his family had held a seat on the Council, their hereditary post as lords of Snauvalia was virtually meaningless under the current regime, and his father's post as imperial representative in Rishna Gabidéll, while lucrative, didn't impress anyone. True, a cousin on his mother's side had managed to marry Prince Zolous and bear the Empress six grandchildren – including Bagar – but Daunla had done nothing to elevate the rest of the family. They remained minor nobility.

  Duzon didn't class himself with the others, though. He had felt all his life that he had a destiny, that some great purpose awaited him. He had been at the Council meeting when Lord Graush had said the champion should be found, and he was certain that this was the workings of fate, or the gods – or both; the question of whether there was any fate other than the whims of the gods he left to the priests.

  He wanted to get on with it, to confront his fate, not to sit here in Seidabar, stagnating while Graush and his scholars deliberated, and while Lord Kadan, nudged into action at last, gathered, prepared, and launched an immense army to confront Rebiri Nazakri and his Olnamian rebels.

  The standing army that had served the Empire well for so long was not enough, and could not be spared from its regular duties at garrisons all over the world. The call had gone out, just a few triads ago, for volunteers to form the largest army since Faial put down the last resistance against Domdur rule, back in 854.

  When this new Imperial Army was gathered there should be a champion to lead it. Kadan had stalled the collection of his forces for some time, apparently in hopes Lord Graush would provide one, but now the army was being assembled, and it would not be long before the vanguard of that army headed east to join General Balinus' regulars and confront the foe.

  Maybe, Duzon thought, he should just head east himself – but without the official title of the Empire's defender, what would he be able to do? General Balinus would surely not take his word about being the divine champion, and past champions, as he knew, had succeeded not so much through their own personal prowess as by inspiring and leading the ordinary Domdur soldiers.

  Those soldiers wouldn't follow his lead just because he looked dashing in his scarlet cloak and could run the city wall in good time; they'd want someone to confirm that Duzon was, indeed, the chosen of the gods. Past champions had had the priests and oracles to confirm their claims, and the priests nowadays would confirm nothing but their own uncertainty.

  Lord Graush had taken it upon himself to replace the priests in identifying the champion, and until his scholars reached a conclusion, Lord Graush would not say that Duzon or anyone else was the champion. But perhaps another authority could be found. Lord Kadan was eager to have someone who could rally his soldiers – General Balinus was doing his best, but he was not a young man, and Duzon had the impression that he did not capture the imagination of the common soldiers. Perhaps if Lord Kadan were approached properly...

  It was, Duzon decided, worth a try, and in any case he was sick of staying here, in Graush's hall, watching scholars' pens scratching. He turned and marched out through the foyer and onto the street, his cloak flapping.

  There he paused, blinking in the bright sunlight. He glanced up; at least two dozen moons were overhead, barely discernible in the blue of the sky. Three human shapes were more plainly visible – New Magicians, flying about over the city.

  Why weren't they in the east, he asked himself, fighting Rebiri Nazakri and his walking dead?

  He lowered his head and answered his own question – they were presumably still here for much the same reasons that he, Duzon, was still here. They hadn't been sent yet.

  He clapped his hat on his head, the broad brim hiding the moons and magicians, and strode onward.

  The streets were mobbed; men and women were hurrying everywhere, hauling bundles. Duzon saw the livery of a dozen great houses, as well as the red-and-gold uniforms of the Imperial Army, scattered in the crowds. Two officers were directing a troop of poorly-dressed young men in a trot down the avenue, while women and children scurried out of their path – new recruits, not yet in uniform, Duzon supposed.

  The Palace of the Army was even busier than the streets; Duzon had to shoulder his way past crowds of men just to get in the door, past men in rags, men in finery, men in the uniforms of common soldiers and senior generals, coming and going or waiting in various lines. The scuffle of so many boots on the marble floors was like distant thunder or rolling surf, and the dirt from all those boots had covered
the fine inlays in a thick layer of brown grit; the wall hangings seemed to have been dulled and dimmed simply by being breathed on too much.

  Duzon had never spent very much time in the place, but he knew his way around it. It had always been one of the quieter and cleaner government buildings; it was rather a shock to see it like this. He hadn't had a chance to stop in lately; his time had been devoted to Lord Graush's studies, or to maintaining his social connections. One couldn't neglect the ladies, after all, especially when one happened to catch the beauteous eye of a Councillor like Lady Vamia, and a rushed seduction was hardly satisfying.

  He was rushing now, though. He hurried through the halls and antechambers, past lines waiting everywhere.

  One of the longest lines was waiting to talk to Lord Kadan's scheduling secretary, to make appointments. Duzon frowned. He'd been waiting long enough, waiting on Lord Graush; he didn't want to wait through that line for Lord Kadan.

  That was easy enough to avoid, he decided; he simply didn't wait. Instead he walked to the door of the secretary's office, pushed past the man there with a matter-of-fact, “Pardon me,” then announced to the secretary, “I've just come from Lord Graush. I must speak with Lord Kadan at once about the identity of the divine champion.”

  The secretary looked up from his appointment book. “Just a moment,” he said.

  Another man was bent over the desk and appointment book; he looked up as well. Duzon thought the fellow looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place him.

  The secretary and the other man returned to the book and conferred quietly for a moment; then the secretary wrote something on a page, returned his pen to the inkwell, and put the book aside.

  “Thank you,” he said. He rose, and announced to the waiting crowd, “I will be back in a quarter of an hour.” Then he marched across the room and joined Duzon at the doorway. “This way,” he said.

  Duzon followed the secretary down a passage and up a stair, along a curving corridor and past a pair of guards to a door. There the secretary knocked.

  “Come in,” Lord Kadan's voice called.

  The secretary opened the door, and gestured for Duzon to enter. When Duzon obeyed, the secretary called over his shoulder, “A young man from Lord Graush to see you, my lord.” Then he closed the door, leaving Duzon in the room with Lord Kadan.

  The room was a spacious office, paneled in dark wood, with fine many-paned windows on two sides and bookshelves on the other two. Much of the space was taken up by a huge wooden object midway between desk and table in design, and two people were bent over several large maps that were spread out on this table.

  One of them was Lord Kadan, Commissioner of the Imperial Army and Councillor to Her Imperial Majesty. The other wore the white robe of a priest; Duzon didn't recognize her. Kadan looked up from the maps.

  “Duzon, isn't it?” he said. “Graush sent you?”

  Duzon snatched off his hat and bowed slightly. “To be honest, my lord,” he said, “Lord Graush did not send me – though I confess I allowed your secretary that impression. I said I came from Lord Graush, and that's true, but he did not send me.”

  Kadan glanced at the priestess, who kept her expression carefully blank. Both of them straightened up and faced the interloper.

  “Graush would have you beaten and thrown in the gutter for that,” Kadan remarked. “For using his name to get in here under false pretenses, I mean.”

  “Indeed he would, my lord,” Duzon agreed solemnly. “And you might well do the same, but I hope you'll at least give me a chance to justify my deception first.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Duzon bowed again – not so much out of genuine respect, but to give himself another second to phrase his thoughts. When he rose, he spoke.

  “My lord,” he said, “Lord Graush and all his scholars have been unable to find a way to identify the divine champion. Apiris and his priests – and priestesses, lady – swear they have no way of identifying the gods' own choice, since the gods will no longer deign to address us directly. Yet a champion would be of great value to us; a champion could rally troops disheartened by the foe's black magic, a champion would be a rallying point, a sign that while the gods no longer instruct and command us, yet do they still favor the Domdur over all nations, as a father will favor a grown son.”

  He paused, to judge Kadan's reaction, but could not read the older man's face.

  “Go on,” Kadan said.

  Duzon nodded. “Notice, though,” he said, “that I say a champion, I do not say the one true champion. If the gods will not tell us who the true champion is, then neither will they tell us if we have chosen wrongly. Let us then simply choose a champion! You, sir, as master of the Imperial Army – were you to pronounce yourself satisfied that some individual is indeed the champion, and were Graush and Apiris to neither deny nor confirm your claim, what then? Would not the people believe you? Or if you could bring an endorsement from someone even higher than yourself perhaps – Prince Granzer, or... well, I'd not be so bold.”

  “I doubt the Empress is going to get involved in this,” Kadan said drily.

  “Of course,” Duzon agreed quickly. “But your own word would surely be enough in any case, my lord! Think of the boost for morale if a champion were to be paraded before our troops in the east, if that champion were to lead them into battle against the vile foe!”

  “And if that so-called champion were to get himself killed?” Kadan suggested. “That would be worse than if we never found him. If you think people are worried now about being abandoned by the gods, imagine if we proclaimed our champion and some grinning nightwalker ripped his head off. We'd have a full-scale panic and a rout.”

  “Ah,” Duzon said, caught off-guard. He hadn't thought of that. The rest of his speech, half-formed in his head, shriveled and vanished.

  “I take it, Duzon, you were nominating yourself for the role of champion,” Kadan said.

  Duzon bowed, sweeping his hat dramatically. “Immodest though it may be, my lord – yes, I was.”

  Kadan nodded, eyeing him with interest.

  “You see, though, why I can't proclaim you to be him.”

  “Regretfully, my lord, I do. I would gladly swear to do my best not to get killed, but I can scarcely bend the whims of fate.”

  “I take it, though, you're certain that neither Graush nor Apiris would attest that you're not the champion?”

  Duzon hesitated, then bowed to the priestess. “My lord,” he said, “I cannot speak for Apiris, but perhaps, when I have had my say, this young lady will do so. As for Lord Graush, I have been three years in his service, in the quest to locate and identify the god's chosen, and I have kept myself fully apprised of the results of his research. Those results, my lord, are minimal. Lord Graush knows little more about the divine champion than the lowliest hedge-wife telling tales to her brats; in fact, much of what he's done is to un-learn what little he thought he knew. For a thousand years the gods have chosen their champions, and in all that time there's been no discernible pattern, no visible logic to the choices whatsoever. The astrologers have found no signs in the moons or stars at the times of the various births, the geomancers see no connection in the places, the genealogists can make no links of blood or heritage. Some champions have been marked out at an early age, others not until adulthood; some bore physical signs of their distinction, while others could blend into any crowd unnoticed. My lord, the gods' choices seem to have been the merest whim; whatever criteria they employed, we cannot begin to discover. Lord Graush knows this, yet he has his scholars searching for something we've missed. At present, he would hesitate to deny that the Empress herself might be the champion!”

  Kadan stroked his beard, then glanced at the priestess.

  She caught the look. “My lord,” she said, “we priests make no claim to special knowledge, now that the oracles have fallen silent. There may be some mention, somewhere in some temple's records, of who the champion is to be; other than that, we know less than Lord G
raush.”

  “So if I did declare someone to be the champion, and he performed up to expectations, no one would argue with me?” Kadan asked.

  “It's the performance to expectations that's difficult,” Duzon suggested. “When I came here I hadn't thought that a problem, but I must confess, were my head removed, I expect I would die, and that would not be suitable. While champions are human and susceptible to injury, dying in the line of duty without first slaying the Olnamian wizard would, I believe, be an unfortunate violation of precedent.”

  “Have no champions ever been killed, then?”

  “Oh, on the contrary,” Duzon replied. “At least three appear to have died in battle, but in each case only after the battle was won and the foe destroyed.”

  “Hmph.” Lord Kadan stroked his beard, then demanded, “How many viable candidates have you and Lord Graush got?”

  “Ah... about three dozen, perhaps two score,” Duzon replied, startled.

  “Suppose I sent all of you east,” Kadan said. “Suppose I said that Ba'el had come to me in a dream and said that the champion was among this group, but that the god had refused to name him.”

  Duzon cocked his head to the side as he considered the idea, and he smiled.

  “You'd have three dozen good fighters,” he said, “and at least some of the boost for morale. Were any of us to perish prematurely, you'd but say, 'Well, he wasn't the one, was it?'“

  “And one of you might actually be the champion, complete with divine gifts,” Kadan agreed. “I'd think that in time it would show.”

  “I think it might,” Duzon agreed. “If by nothing else, the last of us left alive must needs be the champion, no? Since you'll surely put us in the thickest of the battle, it might well come to that.” He glanced down at his hat. “Need I fear that beating, and the gutter, then?”

  Kadan smiled.

  “I think not,” he said. “I've got a better penalty for your impertinence, Duzon.”