Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He didn't even know why he was still in Seidabar. The latest rumors said that the Imperial Army had been delayed again, and that the Council was now debating whether or not to send it at all, but people were dying out there fighting the nightwalkers. He knew that, and for the past few days it had been gnawing at him. Baranmel had not told him to go, but it was plain now that the Grebiguata was where the battle was being fought.

  But right now he had more immediate concerns – an unfinished sword and the Master's call.

  “Yes, Master?” he asked when he was near enough to be heard without shouting.

  “Malledd, I've been asked to send you to Lord Graush, for questioning,” the Master explained.

  Malledd stared at him, momentarily puzzled. “Lord Graush?” he asked. He didn't place the name immediately.

  Then he remembered. Lord Graush was the Councillor who had taken a particular interest in identifying and locating the divine champion. He had been studying the matter for years and was considered the greatest authority on the subject in Seidabar, perhaps in the world.

  If there was anyone it would be impossible to deceive, now that he knew he was the champion, it would surely be Lord Graush.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “No mention was made of any great urgency,” the Master said. “However, I think that you had best present yourself at his palace within a day or two.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Malledd said.

  “That's all. If you need to leave...”

  “No.” Malledd shook his head. “You said there was no urgency.”

  “As you will, then. But don't forget – if they need to send me another message, you'll hear about it and not like what you hear.” The Master waved a dismissal, and Malledd turned, trying to think over the clamor of the apprentices' hammering and cursing. Ordinarily he could ignore the noise easily, but now his head seemed to ring with it, vibrating so that he couldn't hold a thought steady.

  He made his way slowly back to the forge, turning the situation over in his mind.

  Baranmel had told him that yes, he was the gods' chosen, protector of the Domdur. Baranmel had also hinted broadly that it had not been mere happenstance that Malledd was here in Seidabar, and that he had been involved with the fire at the Imperial Palace.

  That fire had brought him to the attention of the Imperial Council. First Prince Granzer, and now Lord Graush, had wanted to speak to him – the Prince had asked him if he thought he was the divine champion, and Lord Graush would undoubtedly want to investigate the same possibility – after all, that was what he did, what he was, by all accounts, obsessed with.

  Then did the gods want him to reveal himself? Should he take Dolkout's letter and present himself to Lord Graush, proclaiming that yes, he was the champion, and here was the proof?

  Well, what would happen if he did? He tried to picture the scene, and couldn't quite manage it.

  Would his divinely-ordained role be trumpeted abroad? Would he be paraded through the streets as if he were some great protective amulet? Or would the Council prefer to keep his identity a secret, to be held in reserve until needed?

  Would Lord Graush even believe him? There were no witnesses to his conversation with Baranmel; a hundred people could attest to the god's presence at Berai's wedding, but no one had heard anything that Baranmel had said to Malledd. Baranmel had seen to that. Had the gods wanted Malledd's identity widely known, wouldn't Baranmel have simply proclaimed it to everyone at the wedding? The letter from Dolkout might well be pronounced a forgery, and Vadeviya's corroborating testimony a lie. No one else in Seidabar would speak out for him if that happened. Oh, there were those who had guessed the truth, such as Darsmit, but they had no proof.

  Perhaps Lord Graush had some way of knowing the true champion, though, some secret he had found in his studies. Suppose that Lord Graush was convinced, and the Council did accept him as the champion – what would they do with him? He wasn't a nobleman or a soldier; he was just a smith. They wouldn't exactly turn the army or the city over to him; from everything Malledd had heard about Lord Kadan during his stay in Seidabar, the Commissioner of the Army was not about to entrust any peasant, divine champion or no, with the defense of the capital.

  Right now there were rumors that the rest of the Council wouldn't even trust Lord Kadan with that defense, let alone some outsider. What if the Council couldn't reach agreement on how to handle him? If the gods themselves couldn't agree on Malledd's role, how could he trust the Imperial Council to be of one mind? He might find himself enmeshed in their intrigues and conspiracies, mistrusted by the various factions, forbidden to take any action lest it shift the balance of power within the government.

  That thought seemed strange to him – even after half a year in Seidabar, what did he really know of government intrigues? How had he thought of that?

  Perhaps, he thought, in what he recognized as an equally alien inspiration, the notion was planted by Samardas. The god of wisdom could surely do such things.

  He almost stumbled as he brushed against another apprentice's workbench; he was so lost in his own thoughts that he wasn't watching where he was going.

  He didn't want to talk to Lord Graush, he realized. None of the possible outcomes appealed to him. He didn't want to tell lies to a Councillor. He didn't want to be openly identified as the champion, perhaps trotted out like a prize bull to impress the citizens of Seidabar. He didn't want to be involved with the nobility in any way, didn't want to be caught up in their feuds and follies.

  But what else could he do? Lord Graush knew who he was, and where he was, and Lord Graush could call upon the entire Imperial Army to enforce his will, if he so chose. So long as he remained here in the Armory, he could not avoid Lord Graush.

  Where else in Seidabar could he go? He didn't know anyone outside the Armory except Vadeviya and a handful of Darsmit's friends, and he wasn't about to try hiding in the Great Temple, with all those magicians, with all those people Vadeviya might have told about him, and he could hardly impose on any of Darsmit's people...

  He would have to leave Seidabar.

  He reached his own station and stood for a moment, staring blindly at his hammer and at the hiltless blade he had made.

  If he left Seidabar, where would he go?

  Home, of course. He could go home to Grozerodz, to Anva and the children. He could go back to his own hearth and forget all about Seidabar and Baranmel and Rebiri Nazakri.

  And if he did, Nazakri would reach the gates of Seidabar, and the Domdur Empire might well be destroyed, the world plunged into centuries of warfare and chaos.

  He reached out for the hammer, closed his hand on it.

  “Anva,” he said. He swallowed hard and felt tears start in his eyes. “I'm sorry, Anva,” he said, releasing the hammer and reaching for the sword.

  There was somewhere else he could go, of course. Somewhere men were fighting and dying, waiting for him.

  He looked up.

  “Darsmit,” he said, “I'm going to be going east tomorrow, to the Grebiguata, to join the Imperial vanguard. Care to join me?”

  Darsmit turned, startled.

  “You're what?” he said.

  “I'm going east,” Malledd repeated. “That fire at the Imperial Palace made Seidabar too hot for me. I thought I'd go cool my heels in the Grebiguata.”

  Darsmit stared at him.

  “You're going to fight the rebels? You've heard the nightwalkers have been crossing the river, and there's been fighting?”

  Malledd nodded. “I've heard. I'd guess they need smiths there, to keep their swords sharpened and their helmets polished.”

  “But you haven't... I mean...”

  Malledd had been smiling; now, suddenly, he wasn't.

  “I haven't quite finished my apprenticeship, you mean,” he said. “No, I haven't. I'm not going to. There isn't time.” As he spoke, he knew that was true. He didn't know how he knew...

  But he could guess. This was presumably divine guidanc
e at work – or divine interference, at any rate.

  “The army's still in Agabdal,” Darsmit pointed out. “You're going to go alone?”

  “I'm better than nothing, which is what they have now,” Malledd said. “I'm leaving first thing in the morning. You don't have to come; you're right, you should probably stay here and learn swordsmithing.”

  “I'm coming,” Darsmit said.

  “No, I...”

  “I'm coming with you!” Darsmit insisted.

  Malledd's smile reappeared. “I'd appreciate the company,” he admitted.

  “Then it's settled,” Darsmit said. He looked around, and spotted the Master instructing one of the younger apprentices. “But if I'm going,” Darsmit added, “I have a few calls to make first. Family matters. If anyone asks, I'm just making a stop out back.” Then he slipped away quickly.

  Malledd watched him go, then picked up the sword. It needed a hilt, and he hadn't yet learned how to make one properly, but he thought he could manage something. It would be a way to pass the rest of the day.

  He might need that sword before very long.

  Chapter Forty- Five

  “They'll wear us away, little by little!” Lord Duzon shouted, flourishing his cloak with one hand and his hat with the other. “They killed Gomiugitar last night – he was the last of our magician priests, sir! Prince Bagar panicked and ran, and if he's not lost he's probably halfway back to Seidabar by now. We have to strike back, before they wear us all away!”

  General Balinus winced at Duzon's bellowing; his head ached with exhaustion. He marveled that the well-meaning young fop had not yet lost either hat or cloak – though that confounded plume was gone, at any rate. At least for the moment; Balinus suspected the man had packed more.

  “We can't,” he said. “We can't get across the bridge and back to their camp and still be fit to fight before dark, not in our present shape. We'd lose any such battle, Duzon.”

  “We're losing our battles here, too!” Duzon insisted.

  “I know we are,” Balinus said. “This is just a holding action. We're only the vanguard, my lord – the Imperial Army has not yet arrived.”

  “So we're to let ourselves be slaughtered?”

  “No, we'll fight, and we'll hold them, and we'll have reinforcements soon. But we don't have the force we need to cross the river by daylight and destroy them.”

  “We should try – ”

  “No, we should not!” Balinus snapped, his voice suddenly stronger. He glared up at the younger man, then continued in a lower tone, “Listen, my lord, I know you mean well. I know you're brave and eager, and I likewise appreciate that you aren't a fool – you haven't said we should swim the river to get at them, or anything else idiotic. It's possible that if we struck now, we could destroy them – not likely, but possible.

  “But what if we failed? Even if I were utterly certain we could defeat the living rebels – which I am not, by any means – what if the wizard were to find some way to hold us off until nightfall, and we found ourselves facing the entire force of nightwalkers? Their raids across the river have never committed all of them; you know that, you've seen their reserves standing on the other shore as clearly as I have – probably more clearly, with your younger eyes!”

  Duzon admitted, “I've seen them. Some of them stand and watch us; others go down into that hole they've dug.”

  “Have you thought about why they're there, my lord, instead of attacking us?”

  “I have heard it said that they draw strength from the earth, and the pit helps them in this...”

  “I meant why they haven't attacked, not why they dig,” Balinus said wearily. “The ones who simply stand and watch, Duzon – why are they there, instead of over here fighting?”

  “I can only guess...”

  “Well, I've made a few guesses of my own, and while I may have no more wits than you, I do have greater experience. Remember that what the Nazakri wants is not to destroy us, but to destroy Seidabar – that's why he raised those corpses, why he's led them all the way across the plains from Matua. If he merely wanted to defy us he could sit safely in the fortresses at Pai Shin or Ai Varach and laugh at our attempts to pry him out.”

  “I know that,” Lord Duzon said.

  “Do you? Good. Then consider why he's held back much of his force. Those are the nightwalkers he intends to send against Seidabar. He's not committing them to the battles against us because he doesn't care to risk them. He's keeping them on his side of the river because there, they have protection during the day. They won't come across the Grebiguata until their living guardians do, and those guardians aren't going to come as long as we stand in their way. That's my guess.”

  “Um,” Duzon said. “I had thought he meant to torment us with our own ineffectuality – to tease us by showing us that a mere fraction of his force was enough to defeat us.”

  Balinus shook his head. “That might be part of it,” he said, “but I don't think it's the whole.”

  “Perhaps you're right,” Duzon admitted. “But then isn't it all the more urgent that we cross the river and destroy the force he intends to use against Seidabar?”

  “Let us return to my previous suggestion, my lord. Suppose we attempt this attack, and fail? Then what will the enemy do?”

  “I don't...”

  “He'll march on Seidabar, of course! Those nightwalkers will cross the river with their protectors, and there won't be anything between here and the Outer City to stop them.”

  “What about the rest of the army? And the city walls?”

  “We don't know where the army is – with Gomiugitar dead we're out of touch with Seidabar until we can get another magician out here from Drievabor, or send one of the New Magicians back for news. We don't know what's happening there, or when the army will arrive – I assume they're on the road by now. We don't know the nightwalkers will follow the road, though. They might go around the army somehow, or through it, by night. And while I don't know what Nazakri has planned for dealing with the city walls, can you really think he hasn't prepared something?”

  “No,” Duzon admitted. “The walls of Seidabar are legendary.”

  “Exactly.” Balinus sat back on his folding camp chair, which creaked under his weight. Duzon stood thoughtfully for a moment.

  “Sir,” he said at last.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “You say we are holding Nazakri here until the main army arrives.”

  “Yes.”

  “When the main body arrives, a portion will be left here to guard this section of the bank, while another will cross at the bridge?”

  “That's certainly what I intend, but it will, of course, be up to Lord Kadan to assess the situation and make the final decisions.”

  “The numbers will be such that the enemy will be totally crushed in a single day, and the nightwalkers then disposed of?”

  “I would think so.”

  “So we're waiting for this, and holding our position until then.”

  “Yes.”

  “The Nazakri, meanwhile, is raiding across the river each night, holding his main force in reserve but harassing us, striking at specific targets to demoralize us.”

  “Yes.”

  “But why does he bother? If he were to launch an all-out assault by night, with his living forces securely guarded by the nightwalkers while they made the crossing, couldn't he cut right through us and head for Seidabar?”

  “Perhaps he could. That he has not done so would imply he doubts it.”

  “Or perhaps he's been testing us, and will try it tonight.”

  “It's possible,” Balinus admitted.

  “In which case, all of us might well be slaughtered.”

  “It's possible,” Balinus repeated.

  Duzon shuddered. This was not how he had pictured the campaign proceeding. Not even counting Prince Bagar and the other two deserters, the Company of Champions had already lost twenty-six horses and eleven men, including a duke's son – and six of t
he men had been dragged into the river and drowned. Those six would presumably be fighting for the enemy when next they were seen. For a triad the enemy had targeted priests, and had killed all four of the traditional magicians in the vanguard; another triad's raids had been directed against officers, killing five of the six colonels, leaving only Duzon, Balinus, and Daudenor's Zavai of the original eight commanders and forcing several rapid promotions. The Company of Champions, already singled out in one of the early raids, might again be the nightwalkers' next special target – or they might choose the New Magicians next, or some other element of the vanguard. Each Imperial soldier faced the possibility that the next raid might be aimed specifically at him.

  That uncomfortable anticipation was certainly part of what the Olnamian wizard had intended. The question was, what else did he intend?

  “General,” Duzon said, “surely, Nazakri knows we expect reinforcements.”

  “Surely, he does,” Balinus agreed.

  “Then why should he wait? The longer he waits, the better our position.”

  “Perhaps he simply isn't yet prepared to risk all on a single battle. Remember, if he is to succeed, he must get his nightwalkers and their protectors past us before dawn, and must leave us so reduced that we cannot counter-attack. There will be no river protecting him if he once brings them across.”

  “But what can he gain by waiting? Nothing, surely!”

  Balinus shrugged. “Then perhaps the final battle will come tonight,” he said. “But I think he may prefer to wear us down for a few more nights first – after all, we tire, and the nightwalkers do not; we are weakened by wounds, and the nightwalkers are not.”

  Duzon considered that. It did make sense – but sooner or later, the rebels would have to strike across the river in full force. If they waited too long they were doomed; surely, the Nazakri saw that.

  Of course, doomed or not, the enemy might well wipe out the vanguard if the main body of the Imperial Army did not arrive soon.