Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  A snort of laughter escaped Malledd.

  “So,” Baranmel continued, “the rest of us listened to the plan that Samardas and Ba'el presented, and we looked at one another in wonder that Samardas had convinced Ba'el, for by then we were all save my brother weary of war and eager for peace, but could not see how it might be achieved. Samardas told us, 'We must choose one tribe, and remove our favor from all others,' and we agreed – but how to choose the tribe? Vedal favored the farmers, Barzuar the hunters, Sheshar the fisherfolk; other gods each had their favorites; but at last we chose the Domdur, who lived on this hill where we now stand and in the lands to the north and west, who farmed on the plain and hunted in the forest and fished in the sea, and who favored no god over the others but praised us all equally. We withdrew our favor from all the world save the lands between Seidabar and Rishna Gabidéll, so that no magic worked outside those bounds save the black spells of the ungodly powers in the earth. Of old we had sometimes granted special favor to warriors among the many tribes, but now we agreed that there would be but one divinely-favored champion, a Domdur chosen according to certain rules, so that there might be no disputes among us. And Ba'el, eager for the holocausts Samardas had promised, supported our efforts.”

  Baranmel paused, grabbed a beer from a nearby hand, and drank before continuing.

  “For eight hundred years, then, the Domdur throve under our mutual auspices, and Ba'el had his wars as the chosen champions led the Domdur in the conquest of each other tribe, one by one, until all the world was subdued, united beneath the Empire. At last the rest of us looked down at a single peaceful nation and applauded, our goal accomplished.

  “But my brother, cursed be his name, looked down and slowly realized that he had been cheated – he had traded away an eternity of minor wars for a few centuries of pillage and bloodshed.

  “He went to Samardas and protested, but Samardas merely laughed. He complained to us all, and we shrugged our shoulders or turned away – the new peace pleased us!

  “But Ba'el was not yet finished. Power shifts slowly among the gods, and he was still mightiest of us all, though his prominence was waning. Further, he had been defeated by stealth, and he saw that any victory must likewise use more than simple brute force – war is strategy as much as strength. He summoned his allies, for he has never been wholly without his supporters, and began a subtle campaign.

  “Through his allies, he suggested that we begin to withdraw from our involvement with the Domdur. He argued that Samardas was using his prominence among the oracles to gain undue influence over humanity, and Ba'el was able to raise suspicion and gain enough support for his accusations that we, the gods in our councils, ruled that there would be an end to all oracles, to prophecy, to visions or divine guidance of any kind.

  “Through Dremeger, who cares not at all whether we have war or peace but only that things be built, my brother inspired the Diknoi to discover what you call the New Magic, to create a weapon with the potential to overthrow the Domdur.

  “And finally, in what I can only consider an act of treason, he guided Rebiri Nazakri to bargain with the ancient dark powers the gods long ago cast down, and to draw upon the darkness in the earth to destroy Seidabar.”

  “But he hasn't,” Malledd protested. “Seidabar still stands.”

  “If Ba'el has his way it won't for much longer,” Baranmel said. “You asked me to tell you the story of how you came here, and I haven't quite finished, though perhaps you can guess the rest.”

  “No, tell me,” Malledd said.

  “It's simple enough,” Baranmel said. “Those who see what Ba'el intends and oppose it wish him to be stopped; we want Rebiri Nazakri defeated and slain, the nightwalkers destroyed and the darkness again buried, Seidabar and the Domdur strong and united. We cannot speak to mortals through the old methods; our councils forbid it, and we cannot defy them. But it is in my nature to go among mortals and share their celebrations; Ba'el cannot prevent it even if he thought to, nor can any other among the gods. If it happens that I meet you here and speak to you, why, that's no violation of our covenants. If it happens that incidents have guided you here to Seidabar to meet me, that fate has seen fit to place you at the Imperial Palace when traitors have set it ablaze, that breaks no agreements. The gods are entwined in Fate and always have been. But beyond this, Malledd... beyond this, you're on your own. Ba'el cannot tamper with the mechanisms of the championship, but neither can we – we set it up that way a thousand years ago. You're free to do as you please with the gifts of strength and endurance and leadership that we've given you. If you fight for the Domdur, all well and good; if you don't, we can't force you.”

  “If I do fight, what happens?” Malledd asked.

  Baranmel shook his head. “I can't tell you that,” he said. “I can make no prophecy outside the blessings that are mine to give – and you, I'm afraid, are not to receive those. But I can say that the forces involved are very nearly in balance. Ba'el grew very, very powerful during the years of the Domdur expansion, and his allies are many. Rebiri Nazakri may indeed have the power to destroy Seidabar and throw the world into renewed chaos and endless war – Ba'el will not allow him to rule in the Domdur's stead if he wins, as that would defeat the whole purpose. If he wins the coming battles then the Empire will be destroyed, and the world will know no peace for centuries, if ever. But you may indeed have the power to stop him. Ba'el will do everything he can to prevent you from doing so, yet you might prevail.”

  “'May,'“ Malledd said. “'Might,' you tell me?”

  “Yes, 'may' and 'might.' Beyond that I cannot say. But you are the champion – not of all the gods, but of the Domdur.”

  “That's not a great comfort,” Malledd said.

  Baranmel shrugged. “It's the truth. The wise don't seek comfort in the truth.” His serious expression vanished as he dropped his storyteller's guise and stood up straight. “I seek it in beer,” he said. “Hey, over here!” He beckoned, turning away from Malledd. “My mug's empty! And where's the music?”

  The piper smiled and raised his pipes, and the drummer jumped up on a chair by the barrels as Baranmel swooped out into the room, grabbing a girl in each arm.

  Malledd watched him go.

  It was plain, now, what the gods wanted him to do – most of them, at any rate. He could no longer claim ignorance or uncertainty. He was the divine champion, chosen defender of the Empire, and they did want him to fight Rebiri Nazakri.

  But he was free to refuse – and he was not going to rush off to join the battle. He was a smith, not a warrior.

  Furthermore, Baranmel had not said where he was to fight, here in Seidabar or out on the eastern plain. The god had clearly implied that Malledd's presence at the time of the fire had been arranged; shouldn't he stay in Seidabar in case there were further attacks from within?

  He hesitated, debating whether he should run after Baranmel to ask more questions.

  The god was gulping ale, pouring with one hand and tossing a giggling young woman in the air with the other.

  If Baranmel had had more to say, he would surely have said it. How could Malledd expect to coax any more sense out of him now?

  Besides, what had the gods done for him to earn his devotion? He was no mere underling, begging to know what he could do to please his masters; he was a free man. When his duty was made plain, he would do it. If the gods did not tell him to go, then he need not go. After all, the Imperial Army's main body was still encamped in Agabdal. Would he be of any use without them?

  He needed to think about it all. There was no need to hurry.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Lord Duzon, seated astride his horse, looked along the line of soldiers, then down at the torchlit water. “Stand ready!” he called. “Here they come!”

  Onnell, fifty feet to Duzon's right and a hundred feet to the left of General Balinus and the Biekedau Regiment's Colonel Blodibord, shifted his feet uncomfortably and lifted his sword. He was wearing his boots, despite
standing knee-deep in the river, so that nightwalkers would not be able to chop at his unprotected feet – but he was beginning to wonder if he'd made a mistake, since the boots had filled with water and made his movements slow and awkward. That was probably just as dangerous as wading barefoot.

  He wondered whether he could step back out of line long enough to pull off the boots. He glanced up at Lord Duzon...

  Then a nightwalker's head burst up through the surface of the Grebiguata, flinging water in Onnell's face – the monster had knelt down and crept up much closer than Onnell had expected, then stood up suddenly, splashing his foe.

  Onnell chopped blindly back and forth with his sword while he blinked muddy water from his eyes; he swept his left sleeve across his face and opened his eyes just in time to see the nightwalker grinning through rotted lips as it swung an axe at Onnell's chest. Onnell's sword had hacked into the nightwalker's left side between two ribs, and there wasn't time to pull it free and parry; Onnell ducked to his right, yanking at his sword, and felt the axe pass over his left ear.

  The sword came free, but Onnell had lost his balance. He fell sideways into the river, catching himself with his right hand, his sword slapping down through the water to the muddy bottom, his face just a few inches above the rippling surface.

  The nightwalker's two-handed grip on his axe shifted, and he swung again, chopping straight down.

  Onnell gulped air as he let his elbow collapse. He fell down into the water, beneath the axe's swing, and rolled blindly down the underwater slope, holding his breath.

  He stopped abruptly when he slammed against the nightwalker's legs, throwing the undead creature off-balance and sending it splashing back into the water.

  Onnell shoved himself on top of the thing, grabbed the point of his sword in his left hand while his right still held the hilt, and rammed the blade down onto the nightwalker's neck as if he were chopping vegetables.

  Thick fluid spilled out into the water, blinding him, but he could tell that the water had slowed him, the blade hadn't cut deeply. He chopped again and again as the nightwalker flailed about, the axe bursting up out of the water and then back under as its wielder tried to cut at Onnell's back.

  Then Onnell felt his sword strike bone. The pressure in his chest and the burning in his water-filled nostrils told him he had no time to spare. He threw his weight onto the sword, feeling the blade cut into the palm of his left hand.

  The nightwalker's neck parted with a snap, and Onnell was lying face-down atop a headless, lifeless corpse in two and a half feet of water. He pushed himself upward and gasped for air as his head cleared the water.

  He shook water from his hair and eyes as he rose to his knees and looked around.

  To left and right, his companions were battling the nightwalkers – and ahead another nightwalker was practically on top of him, this one in a woman's gaunt, decaying body, wearing the tattered, dripping remnants of a Matuan courtesan's silk gown, with long black hair hanging in wet ropes, a heavy sword held incongruously in one of its tiny hands. It was raising the sword as if to plunge it into Onnell's chest.

  Onnell ducked sideways again. With his left hand he snatched the axe from the hand of the corpse beneath him, and with the right he jabbed his sword at his new foe.

  The dead courtesan's sword scraped down Onnell's left side, while his own sword punched up through her chest.

  Onnell on his knees was almost as tall as the nightwalker was standing upright, and the sword through her body held her so that she couldn't dodge; as she raised her sword for another blow, Onnell chopped left-handed at her throat and lopped her head off with the axe.

  He stood, kicked the corpse off his blade, and turned to face a third attacker.

  Pin with the sword, chop with the axe – Onnell found that to be an effective method for disposing of nightwalkers. Most of them were not particularly good swordsmen; after all, they were evil spirits, who would scarcely have had a chance to learn swordsmanship, and most of them occupied the bodies of civilians, who would not have had any training, either. Onnell was no master, but he handled a blade far better than any of the nightwalkers he encountered.

  Of course, the nightwalkers didn't have to be good to be effective, in most cases. They had the advantage of being immune to pain and unconcerned with their own destruction. The black force that animated a nightwalker wasn't destroyed by beheading; it was merely inconvenienced, freed of physical form until Rebiri Nazakri could capture it and install it in a fresh corpse.

  By the fifth attack Onnell had switched the axe to his right hand, the sword to his left, and was trying to fight his way to the left, where the nightwalkers seemed to be making their best progress.

  Although he had little time or energy to spare for thought, that didn't seem right to Onnell. Lord Duzon and the Company of Champions were to the left; surely, they should be more effective against the nightwalkers than ordinary volunteers! Still, it was to the left that he saw nightwalkers splashing ashore, saw soldiers in red and gold falling back, heard men screaming – and nightwalkers never screamed. As often as not they smiled as they died, which Onnell found unnerving at first.

  He got used to it quickly, however.

  “Fall back!” he heard someone yell, but he didn't recognize the voice, didn't know if the order was meant for the Imperial vanguard or the nightwalkers. He ignored it as he jammed his sword through a nightwalker's back and chopped at its neck, then ducked a blow from another of the undead.

  This wasn't going the way it was supposed to. The idea had been that by showing they were ready and waiting, the Imperial soldiers would discourage the nightwalkers from making a serious assault. Then, in the morning, the vanguard would march back up to Drievabor, cross the bridge, and destroy the enemy once and for all – though it would have meant a fast forced march after an almost sleepless night; the bridge was fifteen miles to the south. Fight, march thirty miles, and fight again, all before sunset – that hadn't been a very appealing prospect, but it would have meant victory.

  But that had assumed the nightwalkers would be discouraged. No one could expect the vanguard to march thirty miles and fight again after a serious, night-long battle.

  The nightwalkers didn't seem very discouraged. In fact, they seemed to be making their way ashore despite the best efforts of Onnell and his companions.

  He swung the axe wildly to clear himself some room, then turned to find his next foe.

  The nightwalker behind and to the right had ducked under Onnell's swing, just as Onnell had avoided its attack; now the two of them stood crouching, knee-deep in the churning black river, and faced each other.

  “Ready to give up?” the nightwalker asked, grinning – a grin exaggerated by its shriveled, rotting lips. Its voice was rasping and harsh. Water ran unheeded from its river-soaked hair across its unblinking black eyes.

  “Go back to your wizard!” Onnell muttered – he didn't want to waste energy in shouting. “You're not getting past us!”

  “Maybe not tonight,” the nightwalker agreed. “Come Midsummer's Day, though, we'll be at the gates of Seidabar, and you'll either be lying headless in the Grebiguata, or marching with...”

  Onnell struck without warning, moving as suddenly as he could, plunging forward with his left arm extended, impaling the nightwalker just below the ribs.

  “...us,” the thing concluded, as it made its counterstrike, only to meet the blade of Onnell's axe. Bone snapped, and the nightwalker's curved sword flailed wildly upward as the axe shattered the creature's wrist.

  Something cut at Onnell's shoulder from behind; he ignored the pain long enough to dispatch the squirming enemy his sword had pinned, then whirled to find Timuan and a female nightwalker in combat mere inches away. Both their swords were red; he couldn't tell whether the nightwalker had taken a swipe at him in passing, or whether Timuan's blade had struck him unintentionally.

  It didn't matter; he tore his sword free of the headless corpse beside him and rammed it through the
throat of Timuan's opponent.

  She made a hissing sound – probably all she could do with her windpipe severed – and turned, slicing her own neck further. Onnell's axe then scissored with the sword to finish her off.

  “Thanks,” Timuan said. He was shaking with the madness and exhaustion of battle. Both men then turned, looking for fresh opposition.

  They found none – the lines of nightwalkers advancing out of the river were gone. Instead, the enemy had pushed up from the river onto the bank and coalesced into a mass, a walking graveyard, clustered around Lord Duzon and the Company of Champions.

  The Champions were afoot, Onnell saw, their horses cut out from under them. There didn't seem to be as many of them as there should be.

  “Come on,” Onnell said, advancing toward the massed foe.

  “Are you crazy?” Timuan asked. “Look at them all!”

  “And look at our men in there!” Onnell said.

  Timuan looked, and saw blades flashing in the torchlight, saw blood on arms and blades and faces. He looked away, and saw the river black with whorls of blood, bodies bobbing and drifting in the churned-up water. He looked farther, and saw men standing here and there along the river, some on the shore, some in the water, all of them looking dazed and weary.

  “What about them?” he said, pointing.

  Onnell turned, and thought at first that Timuan was pointing at the opposite shore, where neat lines of nightwalkers stood watching the battle. The enemy still had reserves.

  Then he realized that Timuan had meant the other Imperial soldiers.

  “Come on!” Onnell cried to them, waving his sword and gesturing toward the surrounded Champions. He sloshed up the bank.

  A few of the others followed him – but Timuan did not; he stood and watched, too stunned and weary to fight any more.