Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Not the same thing,” the clerk said.

  “I know that.”

  “Ever make armor?”

  “A pair of gauntlets once.” That had been a special order for a farmer named Amaltrur, who had decided to see if iron gloves would do better than leather in protecting his hands from animal bites.

  “You said you'd made steel daggers?”

  Malledd nodded.

  The clerk considered for a moment, then said, “All right, we'll find a use for you. What we really need is swordsmiths, and we may not have time to train them up properly, but if you really do learn fast... well, if it doesn't work out, we can use you on repair work, or making armor.” He uncapped his inkwell, found a scrap of unused paper, scribbled a quick note, and handed it to Malledd. “Take this down to the end of that hall.” He pointed. Then he turned to Vadeviya.

  “And you?”

  “I'm Malledd's guide,” Vadeviya explained.

  The clerk shook his head. “Not here,” he said. “Sorry.” He beckoned to a guard.

  Vadeviya did not wait to be escorted out. “I'll see you later, Malledd,” he said.

  Malledd couldn't decide whether to thank the old man, to agree to meet later, or to simply say goodbye; in the end, he stood and watched silently as the priest departed. Then he turned, hesitating.

  They didn't need champions here; one good long look at the size of Seidabar, and the scope of its defenses, had convinced Malledd of that. He should probably have stayed home with Anva – in fact, he should probably turn around and leave and go back to her, right now. If he did not, there was no knowing how long he would be here.

  But the Empire said they needed smiths, and he had come this far. He sighed, and marched down to the end of the hall, the scribbled note in his hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The wind howled down from the north, carrying snow in great swirls of white through the camp. Rebiri Nazakri huddled in his black bearskin cloak, crouched on a maroon velvet cushion, shivering and watching as glittering flakes blew in under the black silk sides of his pavilion. The sun was still red in the west and he was already miserably cold.

  He could have built the fire up higher, but they were low on fuel; he could not afford to waste it. He could have used the red-glowing end of his staff to warm himself, but he might need that magic later, and renewing it would not be easy in this freezing wasteland. He could move to one of the buildings his army had occupied – they had captured a village that was well-equipped with snug, thick-walled stone-and-brick structures – but that would not suit his role as an Olnami warlord.

  The rest of his army had taken shelter in the village or the nearby farmhouses – or rather, the living portion of his army; the nightwalkers were not troubled by the cold and simply lay wherever they fell when the sun rose each day. Rebiri could have joined Aldassi and Asari and his other officers in what had been the village inn, but as the warlord, as the chosen one of whatever being guided him toward his destiny, he dared not.

  Although he did not know what god or spirit was directing him toward his long-sought vengeance on the Domdur, Rebiri did not want to risk losing its favor; it had chosen him because he was the rightful warlord of the Olnami, so he must be, in all ways, a warlord of the Olnami. The Olnami lived in tents and pavilions, in the living air, ready to move on at any time; they did not huddle inside piles of dead earth and stone.

  But nowhere in the Olnami lands did the wind blow so cold as it did on this accursed plain; nowhere back home did the snow sweep down from the sky for days on end, covering the sky in dead gray, covering everything below the sky, for as far as the eye could see, in gleaming white. Rebiri tucked his folded hands between his thighs, trying to warm them.

  Winter had come early. Perhaps it always came early here on the plain; the Nazakri did not know, and there were no natives he could ask. Those he had not slaughtered had fled.

  Of course, many had become nightwalkers and joined his army, and some of them might have enough of their hosts' memories to answer questions – but it didn't matter. Winter had come, and the rebel army would have to survive it and continue the westward march in the spring.

  At least the nightwalkers required no food, and only enough warmth that they not freeze into immobility – if that; they could always be thawed later. And the cold kept their stink to a minimum.

  The army had crossed most of the plain. Asakari had managed to coax that much information from somewhere – the Matuan scholars with their maps, perhaps, or the locals before they died, or the nightwalkers afterward. Rebiri did not trouble himself with the source; what mattered was that Asari said they had covered more than two-thirds of the distance from Ai Varach to Seidabar. Perhaps a hundred miles to the west lay the Domdur market town of Drievabor, where a bridge would carry them across the Grebiguata River; two hundred miles beyond that stood Seidabar.

  They could not advance in winter – the snow and cold would slow them too much. The nightwalkers were stiff and clumsy in the cold, and the living devoted much of their energy to simply keeping warm. They could not break camp, march, make a new camp, and gather sufficient food and firewood all in a single night, even with the shorter winter days. The skies were often cloudy, making the nights too dark to see, and they had no fuel to waste on torches or lanterns. They might manage a few quick moves of a mile or two, but regular nightly marches were out of the question.

  At least the thrice-accursed General Balinus and his Domdur would not be able to harass them in the snow. And when spring came another half a season should see them at the gates of Seidabar...

  No.

  Rebiri frowned, unsure whether someone had spoken – himself, perhaps – or whether he had simply thought that monosyllabic negative.

  But why would he have? He looked around the tent, puzzled. He was alone out here; he had sent his servants to warm themselves and prepare his supper, and they had not yet returned. It must have been his own thought – odd, that it had seemed so... so outside himself.

  He shook himself, as much to shake off the chill as anything else, and returned to his musings. Three hundred miles to Seidabar – perhaps as little as thirty nights' travel...

  No!

  Rebiri started and looked around wildly.

  “Who's there?” he demanded, reaching for his staff.

  Put that down. It irritates me.

  Rebiri stopped with his hand not quite touching the black wood shaft.

  He had not heard those words; he had felt them, in his heart, and he recognized that sensation, though it had never before been so clear, so strong, so explicit. This was the spirit of his destiny addressing him.

  Slowly, he drew his hand back and straightened until he was sitting bolt upright, his hands folded in his lap.

  “How should I address you?” he asked.

  It matters not. I am what I am, and what you call me cannot alter that in any way. Call me whatever you will.

  “But you must have a name! The nightwalkers say you are a god, and do not the gods have names?”

  I am a god. My name does not matter; it differs in every tongue.

  “But which god are you? Are you Olnami?”

  I am your god, Rebiri Nazakri, the god who guides you to your revenge. Need you know more?

  “No.” Whatever it was that conversed with him, he did not need to know any more than that. “Why do you speak to me now, after these many seasons of silence?”

  I have not been wholly silent for years, Nazakri – not since your son first brought you news of the New Magic.

  “But you never before spoke to me in words, O Lord.”

  Our bond strengthens. You are ready to hear me – and I have that to tell you which you have failed to heed without my words.

  “How have I failed, Lord?”

  You plan to push on to Seidabar too fast, Nazakri. You must be patient. You must wait until all is prepared, until the time is at its most propitious and my power greatest.

  “But my peopl
e have already waited so long, Lord!”

  The wait shall not be long. You shall reach Seidabar before another year has passed – but not in the spring. You and those living souls who follow you shall not cross the Grebiguata until high summer.

  “But... but why? Will that not give the Domdur time to prepare their defenses?”

  The Domdur have prepared their defenses for a thousand years, Nazakri; to shatter them you must strike when all is in position.

  “I don't understand.”

  You need not.

  “But then how am I to obey, if I do not understand? How shall I know when to cross the bridge at Drievabor...?”

  You shall not cross at Drievabor. Find another place.

  “But there is no other place! That's the only bridge!”

  You need no bridge. The means shall be there, wherever you choose.

  “Boats? Should we build boats?”

  The means shall be there when the time is right.

  “At high summer.”

  Yes.

  “How shall I know when the time is right?”

  You shall know, as you knew to go to Fadari Tu, as you knew to seek out the cave.

  “You'll tell me? Will you speak to me often, then? Am I to become your oracle?”

  Oracles are forbidden me now. It may be we shall speak again, or it may be that we shall not; I cannot foresee as yet which it shall be.

  The Nazakri found that a relief, in truth; he did not care to be a priest nor an oracle. It was sufficient, more than sufficient, to be the warlord of the Olnami.

  One more thing, Rebiri Nazakri.

  “Yes?”

  I do not demand you keep scrupulously to the old ways. You endanger yourself needlessly staying in this tent when the storms of winter approach. Take shelter when you must; to perish for the sake of a meaningless tradition, a tradition inappropriate to this land, does no honor to your ancestors.

  And then suddenly something was gone, and Rebiri Nazakri was staring straight ahead at the embers of a dying fire, glowing dully at the center of a black tent. The line of daylight beneath the pavilion walls had dimmed away, and streaks of snow melted darkly into the earth where it had been.

  The god, or spirit, or whatever it was, was gone, at least for now. Rebiri could not have said how he knew that, but he knew it beyond any possibility of doubt.

  He remembered its every word, though. He was to wait, not to cross the river until high summer – he would know when the time was right. He was to cross somewhere other than Drievabor.

  He reached for his staff, picked it up, and stared contemplatively into the smoky red crystal.

  “It irritates me,” the voice had said. And, “Oracles are forbidden me now.”

  What sort of a god would say such things? How could mere mortal magic trouble a god? What could forbid a god anything?

  Was the darkness bound in the staff something more than mere magic? Were there powers higher than the gods? And why was he to wait? Why was he to avoid Drievabor?

  Mysteries and puzzles. The Nazakri hated mysteries.

  Still, whatever the being that spoke to him, it was clearly strong, clearly knew things beyond mortal knowledge, and clearly wanted him to succeed in his quest for vengeance. Perhaps it was one of the Olnami gods, weakened by centuries of neglect and Domdur oppression, and the alienness of the darkness was enough to trouble it in its lessened condition, the edict of the Domdur gods enough to forbid it oracles.

  It knew Olnami traditions, certainly – and said he need not follow them all. That spoke well of its wisdom.

  He noticed that it had never said nightwalkers must not cross the river – only living souls were thus restricted. That was interesting, and presented several possibilities.

  He unfolded his legs and stood, straightening his bearskin robe. He lowered the staff, let it hang loose in his hand, and stared unseeing at the fire.

  He would, he resolved, do what the being had instructed him to do. He would do whatever was necessary to survive the winter and the spring, and he would then cross the Grebiguata in midsummer, somewhere north of Drievabor.

  And before a year had passed, he would be at the gates of Seidabar.

  He smiled, a fierce, strong smile, and the staff in his hand quivered and hissed.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “So has Apiris spoken out on behalf of Lord Duzon?” Malledd asked, looking at his fellow apprentice Darsmit.

  The two men were sitting in the apprentices' common room, in the stony depths of the Imperial Armory, eating their midday meal at the easternmost table. Fires blazed in the hearths at either end of the room, but the winter chill still seemed to seep in through the stone walls and collect in pools around their ankles.

  The apprentices ate in shifts, as their work permitted, and on this particular day, the first of Dirva's Triad, Malledd and Darsmit were the only two from their group eating this late. A group of eight or nine younger apprentices were chattering away near the western hearth, but Malledd and Darsmit ignored them.

  Darsmit shrugged at Malledd's question and swallowed a bite of chicken. “Not that I've heard,” he said. “Apiris hasn't spoken out about anything. He never does.” He bit into the drumstick again.

  Malledd frowned. He felt stupid here. It wasn't being reduced to a mere apprentice again that was responsible for this feeling; he was learning swordmaking quickly enough, and was already turning out a few decent blades. He was a good smith, and it wasn't all that different from some of the work he'd done in the past. It took patience and a steady hand and a good eye and a feel for the temper of the metal, but he had all that, and he knew that with practice he'd be able to make swords as well as anyone.

  No, he felt stupid because he knew so little of what was going on around him. The other apprentices all seemed to know all the latest rumors, the hottest gossip, every little detail of what went on in the Council Chamber and elsewhere in the Imperial Palace, and they all seemed to grasp the implications of each new tidbit instantly, while he, after two dozen triads in Seidabar, was still struggling to keep the names of the Empress' grandchildren straight – especially the four granddaughters; their names all sounded alike to him! He had no idea where the others heard all the news they brought to the common room discussions; sometimes it seemed as if they breathed it in with the very air of the city.

  He had never had any trouble keeping up with the gossip in Grozerodz, but the city of Seidabar was so utterly different that even now he was still learning the finer points of how to avoid embarrassing himself in the streets. He had had a few visits from Vadeviya, but the old man had brought no gossip or advice; he had insisted on talking about whether Malledd should reveal his identity as divine champion to someone to the point that Malledd had sent him away and refused to see him again.

  Malledd knew almost no one else in Seidabar, and that meant that he was as yet unable to pick up the news – except from his fellow apprentices.

  Which was, he supposed, as good a way as any to learn what was happening, even if he didn't understand where the reports originated. What was in the reports seemed more important – and there was plenty to think about in them.

  He had accepted that there were other claimants to the title of divine champion; it had come as a bit of a shock at first when that priestess had said that Lord Graush had suggested they find the holy champion and people had been turning up claiming to be him ever since, but now he thought it shouldn't have been. Hmar had always said there might be others, that the priests might have lied or been misled somehow, and sure enough, the other apprentice armorers knew of dozens of people who were considered possible recipients of divine favor, from the Empress' grandson Prince Bagar to a fellow who had been begging in the streets a year ago.

  So perhaps Malledd had come here for nothing – nothing except answering the call for smiths, at any rate. Perhaps he was no more the divine champion than most of the others who had claimed the title. Perhaps Vadeviya was deluded; Dolkout might not have
included him in the hoax, if hoax it was. Perhaps Dolkout himself had believed Malledd to be the true champion – but that didn't necessarily mean he was the true champion. One of these others might be, instead.

  If so, it would lift a great burden from Malledd. He could go home to Anva with a clear conscience once enough swords were made, and leave the Empire to its chosen defenders.

  This Lord Duzon seemed to be everybody's favorite candidate for the job of defender of the Empire. Malledd had never seen him, of course, since Duzon had left the city not long before Malledd's arrival, but he was said to be a handsome young noble of good family and fine reputation, a first-rate swordsman and well-known athlete. He would seem, by all accounts, to be a far better choice than some obscure smith. Malledd wanted very much to believe that Duzon was the chosen one.

  But shouldn't Apiris, the Archpriest and foremost spokesman of the gods, have said something, one way or the other, about Duzon's claim? Wasn't it a priest's job to answer questions and clear up doubts? Malledd chewed on chicken while he mulled over Darsmit's words.

  “Has anyone endorsed Lord Duzon, then?” he asked. “Any of the priests?”

  “What do the priests know of it?” Darsmit asked. He swigged sweet ale, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and added, “Since the oracles stopped talking the priests don't know any more than the rest of us. At least, that's what Apiris says.”

  “But was nothing said before the oracles fell silent?”

  “Not that I've ever heard,” Darsmit said. “But then, I don't know everything. My sister's betrothed to a guard who's been posted at the temple, so I hear a lot, but I don't hear everything.”

  That Darsmit's prospective brother-in-law was in the Imperial Guard at least explained where some of the news came from – but there it was again. None of the other claimants could produce oracular backing for their claims. Dolkout had said that those three oracles had named Malledd as the champion.