Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “We need those reinforcements,” Duzon said.

  Balinus nodded. “I've sent messages by magicians new and old, requesting that they make all possible haste. Gomiugitar said yesterday...” Balinus paused and swallowed as he remembered that Gomiugitar was now a decapitated corpse. “He said he had done everything he could to emphasize the urgency. Also, Vrai Burrai left for Seidabar this morning, not an hour ago.”

  “Good,” Duzon said.

  “Get some sleep, my lord,” Balinus said. “You'll need it.”

  Duzon could hardly argue with that; suddenly he was overcome with fatigue. He had, after all, fought all night. He saluted, then turned and staggered out of the tent.

  The mid-morning sunlight was almost blinding; he blinked, and squinted across the river.

  There they were, the stacked corpses and their scruffy guards. If only there were some way to reach them without that thirty-mile march down to the bridge and back!

  Perhaps there was, Duzon thought muzzily. Perhaps the New Magicians could find a way across the river...

  But not today. Not when there would certainly be a battle tonight. They all needed to rest.

  Tonight's battle might be another bloody skirmish, or it might be the all-out assault that was to begin the march on Seidabar. Duzon hoped it would only be a skirmish; he was in no hurry to die, and time was surely on the Empire's side.

  But if Nazakri knew that, as he surely did, why would he wait? Balinus' explanation suddenly seemed inadequate. Duzon stopped at the flap of his own tent and stared across the river at Rebiri Nazakri's black pavilion.

  What was the wizard really waiting for?

  Duzon didn't know. He hated that, but he didn't know.

  “Samardas, I could really use an oracle's counsel now,” he muttered.

  Then he ducked into his tent and fell onto his cot, where he was asleep in seconds.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “You know, I think this ramp is even more impressive from up here than it is from the bottom,” Malledd remarked as he started down the slope.

  Darsmit shrugged. “It's big,” he agreed.

  Ahead of them the gates towered on either side, framing a tall indigo slice of the western sky where three moons shone almost full. Below them lay the Outer City, much of it lost in darkness – the sun was still very low in the east, as they had made an early start, and the shadow of Seidabar itself lay across the streets and buildings at the foot of the immense ramp.

  Beyond the Outer City, its taller buildings glittering in the distance, lay Agabdal, where the Imperial Army still lingered.

  The day was already warm, but Malledd shivered. The scene before them seemed unnatural – the sky trapped vertically between the gates, the dark, almost empty streets, the broad highway sloping down steeply as if the entire world had tipped away and was trying to fling them off. Distant Agabdal seemed almost to be hanging in the sky, waiting to fall upon them when they reached the bottom.

  And he was doing something that seemed very, very foolish. He was going off to fight a wizard and an army of the undead, and doing so in direct defiance of Lord Graush's will.

  He was the chosen champion of the Domdur, appointed defender of Seidabar – he knew that, and could no longer deny it – but he was also still just Malledd of Grozerodz, son of Hmar, a journeyman smith who tried to mind his own business, a man with a wife and children waiting for him at home.

  This vista before him, this tilted, shadowed world, made him very aware how small he was. Oh, perhaps he stood head and shoulders above most men, but compared to this city, or to all the wide world beyond, he was an insignificant speck. How could he expect to do anything truly important? Even with the gods' favor, he was just a mortal, a man caught up in matters far larger than himself.

  “Malledd!”

  Startled, Malledd stumbled and almost went tumbling down the ramp. He caught himself and turned to see who had shouted his name.

  It hadn't been Darsmit; the voice was wrong. And it hadn't been the guards on the gates or the wall; they were still ahead, and the voice had come from behind. Had Lord Graush sent someone after him?

  The figure coming swiftly down the ramp, waving a hand in the air, wore white; the sunlight spilling over the city walls and the dome of the Great Temple limned him in pale gold fire and hid his face in shadow, but Malledd knew who it was. He hadn't seen him for a dozen triads, but he still recognized that figure instantly.

  “Vadeviya,” he said. He stopped and waited for the hurrying priest to catch up.

  “Who?” Darsmit asked, as he, too, stopped and turned.

  “The priest who came with me from Biekedau,” Malledd explained. “He knows who I am; he was the one who talked me into leaving home.” Then he called out, “If you're going to tell me I should stay in Seidabar, priest, you can save your breath.”

  Vadeviya slowed from a trot to a walk and called back, “Whether I argue with that depends where you're going, and why.”

  “What business is it of yours, in any case?” Malledd demanded as the priest drew near enough to make shouting unnecessary.

  “Oh, I think that's obvious,” Vadeviya answered. “I feel responsible for you – after all, it was my temple that was charged with your care.”

  “My family was charged with my care, old man, not your temple.”

  Vadeviya shrugged as he drew alongside the two smiths. “As you will,” he said. “Nevertheless, I feel a certain responsibility where you're concerned.”

  “You needn't.”

  “But I do.”

  Malledd frowned, frustrated. “Where I go and what I do is between myself and the gods,” he said.

  “Are not priests the intermediaries between mortals and gods?”

  “Not any more,” Malledd growled. “I think I've had more direct contact with gods than you have in the past sixteen years!”

  Vadeviya shrugged. “Well, you could scarcely have had less,” he acknowledged, “but I would say that none is no more than none.”

  “Malledd met a god just a couple of triads ago,” Darsmit interrupted.

  Vadeviya turned, startled. “Did he? Who?” The tone of sarcasm or doubt that might have been expected in reply to such a claim was utterly lacking; all three men knew that if anyone was likely to meet a god, Malledd was.

  “Baranmel,” Darsmit said. “At my sister's wedding.”

  Vadeviya peered down at Darsmit thoughtfully. “Ah,” he said. “So that was your sister? Berai, wasn't it?”

  It was Darsmit's turn to be startled; he nodded, and the priest turned back to Malledd. “Baranmel spoke to you there?”

  “Yes,” Malledd admitted.

  “The magicians didn't report that.”

  Malledd's brows lowered. “What magicians?” he growled.

  Vadeviya smiled. “Oh, now, surely you didn't think it was merely coincidence that I caught you here before you left? The temple magicians have been spying on you, Malledd, ever since the day after the palace fire. It wasn't even my idea. You caught the attention of the Imperial Council, and Apiris was told to keep an eye on you.”

  “The Archpriest?” Malledd glanced up at the golden dome of the temple. “Watching me?”

  Vadeviya nodded. “Well, at any rate his magicians are watching you,” he said. “Or they're supposed to be. They observed the wedding from the Higher Realm, but didn't mention that you'd spoken to anyone there.”

  “Baranmel probably didn't want them to,” Malledd said. “It's no one's business but ours.”

  The corner of Vadeviya's mouth twitched with amusement. “'Ours'? Ah, you and Baranmel? Are you such fast friends now, then?”

  Malledd made a noise of disgust and turned away. “Come on, Darsmit,” he said, leading the way down the ramp, trudging steadily.

  Vadeviya waited for a moment, expecting them to stop and turn for further conversation, then realized that Malledd had no intention of doing so. His smile vanished. “Wait!” he called, hurrying after them.

&n
bsp; “No,” Malledd said, without turning.

  “Malledd, wait,” Vadeviya insisted. “I can't run on this slope.”

  “Then go back to the temple,” Malledd said, still not looking back. “I have no wish to speak with you further.”

  Darsmit glanced up at his companion. “Maybe we should hear him out,” the smaller man said. “After all, he's a priest.”

  “He doesn't know anything,” Malledd growled.

  Darsmit glanced uneasily back at Vadeviya, who was gaining slowly – Malledd was matching his pace to Darsmit's shorter stride, which allowed the priest to better their speed. “Why are you so angry with him?” Darsmit asked. “He's just trying to be helpful.”

  “Helpful?” Malledd snorted. “Spying on me? Mocking me? That's helpful?”

  “The magicians were ordered to spy on you by the Council, he said.”

  “Nobody ordered him to find out what the magicians saw,” Malledd said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Vadeviya.

  “Well, he was concerned,” Darsmit said. “He knows who you are, doesn't he? Of course he takes an interest!”

  “And mocks me to my face,” Malledd retorted. “I don't need that sort of interest.”

  “What mockery?” Darsmit was genuinely puzzled.

  “You and Baranmel, are you such fast friends now?” Malledd said, speaking through his nose in a vicious parody of Vadeviya's slightly nasal voice.

  “That was nothing!” Darsmit protested.

  Malledd stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face his companion.

  “Listen, Darsmit,” he said angrily. “You don't understand. Ba'el marked me at birth. All my life, since the day I was born with his claw's imprint on my face, I've had to live with people telling me that I have a special connection to the gods. My sisters hated me for it. My father was constantly telling me how unimportant it was – I think he was jealous, and all he did was remind me that it was there, which made it more important. My playmates were all a little scared of me – maybe they would have been anyway, because of my size, but I was the chosen of the gods, on top of that. My mother-in-law is forever telling my wife not to anger me, lest the gods curse her. Even my wife is nervous about it sometimes; the only people in Grozerodz who ignore it completely are my own children, and that's only because we've never told them about it. All my life I've had this hanging over me, marking me, cutting me off from everyone around me!”

  “Um,” Darsmit said, leaning away from Malledd's fury.

  “What good does it do me?” Malledd demanded. “Do I really live with the gods' favor? No! Sometimes I thought I did, when life was especially good – when Anva agreed to marry me, and at our wedding, where, I would point out, my supposed friend Baranmel did not deign to dance, and again when our children were born. But those were just the ordinary blessings that anyone might have; I never saw any great benefit from this destiny I was given. Oh, I suppose I have miraculous strength and endurance – so what? How often does that matter? Does that make me a better smith, or bring me customers, or make my wife love me any better?”

  Darsmit couldn't stop himself; he said, “Well, if you really don't tire, maybe she – ”

  “Shut up,” Malledd told him coldly.

  Darsmit shut up immediately.

  Malledd glanced up and saw that Vadeviya had caught up to them and was standing nearby, listening.

  “Come on,” Malledd said. “I'm not done, but we have a long way to go. I'll talk as we walk.”

  Darsmit agreed, and the two of them continued down the ramp, through the open gate; the world opened out on either side, the Outer City covering most of it, as they passed beyond the walls.

  Vadeviya followed close behind, studiously ignored by the two smiths.

  “As I was saying,” Malledd continued, “I never got any good out of being the divine champion. Instead I have an obligation to go out and fight and maybe die for the sake of the Empire, and I'm expected to be a great leader, as well, if the occasion arises. But how? What do I know about fighting? I'm no soldier. What do I know about being a leader? I'm just a village smith, not a nobleman; I've never led anyone anywhere in my life.”

  “You did a fine job at the palace,” Darsmit pointed out.

  “That was all just using common sense,” Malledd said dismissively.

  “Maybe that's all you need,” Darsmit suggested. “Nobody else seemed to have it.”

  “True enough,” Malledd said. “That's a sad thought.” For a moment the two of them walked in companionable silence, down the ramp to the level of the surrounding rooftops; then Malledd continued, “Anyway, it seems to me that this supposed gift I've been given is all price and no pleasure, and Baranmel certainly didn't disprove that. He tells me that Ba'el wants me dead, Seidabar cast down, and the Empire destroyed – so much for divine favor!”

  “What?” Darsmit stumbled, and would have fallen if Malledd hadn't caught his arm. “Ba'el what?”

  “That's right,” Malledd said.

  Darsmit gaped up at him. “But... but... but the gods created the Empire! They chose us!”

  “And most of them still favor us,” Malledd agreed. “But Ba'el is god of war, and for the past two hundred years the Domdur have brought peace. He hates us. He favors the Olnamian wizard and his rebels.”

  “But then... but you...” Darsmit stared around wildly, out at the city and then down the broad avenue that led to Agabdal. “But he's the god of war – doesn't the side he favors always win in battle?”

  “I don't know,” Malledd said, resuming their downward walk. “I don't think even Ba'el's favor can necessarily overcome every obstacle. I'm still the chosen champion, after all, still charged with the defense of the Empire, and Ba'el can't take that back. I intend to use what he and the others granted me to be an obstacle for the Nazakri, and while Ba'el is against us, most of the gods still favor us.” He sighed bitterly. “Of course, even if Ba'el can't take his clawmark 'gift' back, maybe he can do other things.”

  “Like what?” Darsmit asked, walking alongside.

  Malledd shrugged. “Baranmel didn't know, so I don't.”

  Darsmit glanced back at Vadeviya, who was following close behind and had obviously been listening with intense interest. “You still don't want anything to do with priests?” he asked Malledd.

  “It's not priests I mind,” Malledd said. “I just don't want anything to do with anyone who thinks that being noticed by the gods is something to be pleased about.”

  “Oh,” Darsmit said. He saw the shame on Vadeviya's face, but then turned his own gaze resolutely forward. “I understand,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Vadeviya followed the two smiths with amazing tenacity. He was able to keep up only because Darsmit was there; Malledd alone, as big and tireless as he was, could easily have left him far behind, but Darsmit's legs were short, and his endurance unexceptional, allowing the priest to stay close as the three men wove their way through the mazelike streets of the Outer City and onto the Gogror Highway.

  He didn't speak, didn't try to intrude; he simply followed silently.

  At suppertime, as Darsmit and Malledd stepped into the common room of an inn in a village whose name they didn't know, Darsmit asked, “Are you planning to try to slip away tonight, and leave the priest behind?”

  Malledd glanced back at the old man, his white robe now filthy with the dust of the road. “No,” he said. He had, in truth, been feeling ashamed of himself for several miles now. “Care to join us at table?” he called to Vadeviya.

  “If you'll have me,” the priest replied.

  Malledd's answer was to hold the door open for the old man.

  Their meal was not a jolly one; Darsmit and Vadeviya were both exhausted, and each wary of the other, while Malledd was lost in his own thoughts, contributing only grunts and monosyllables to what little conversation there was. The food offered was not particularly encouraging, either – the bread was coarse and almost tasteless, the stewed mutton tough and
gristly, the lentils and carrots overcooked.

  The beer, however, was excellent – dark and thick and strong. Malledd finished off a quart, and had started a third pint when he suddenly said, “Why did you come?”

  Darsmit and Vadeviya both looked at him, startled, unsure at first who the champion was addressing.

  “I mean you,” he said, jerking his head toward Vadeviya. “After I left you there at the gates, why did you follow us?”

  The priest hesitated, and then answered, “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, I've wronged you, Malledd, and I owe you something in return. I can't hope to pay my debt sitting in the Great Temple.”

  Malledd waved a hand in dismissal. “It was just a little joke. You didn't need to go to such lengths.”

  “I didn't only mean my mockery at the gates,” Vadeviya said. “I meant everything I've done – visiting your forge, talking you into leaving your home and family, driving you to accept the gods' will when I didn't even know what it was.”

  “You were doing your job,” Malledd said gruffly, before gulping more beer.

  “No,” Vadeviya said. “I wasn't. Not really. A year ago, Malledd, the Archpriest sent a message asking for any information any priest might have about the identity or whereabouts of the divine champion. I not only didn't reply myself, I made sure that no one at the temple in Biekedau did. I pretended I did it because you had asked us not to tell anyone – but then I convinced you to go to Seidabar, and I went with you, so that I could present you to the Archpriest myself. I acted as if I owned you, Malledd, as if you, the chosen of the gods, were my own special property, not to be shared with anyone else unless I could present you in person.”

  “Ah,” Malledd said, lifting his mug for a final draught. “And you followed us today to keep an eye on your belongings?”

  Vadeviya flushed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Malledd stopped his mug in mid-air and stared past it at the priest. “Really?” he asked. “I thought I was joking.”