Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Really,” Vadeviya said. “I am ashamed to admit it, but that is, indeed, one reason I followed you. It's hard to give up a habit, even when one knows it to be evil.”

  Malledd's mouth quirked. “I'm a habit?”

  “An evil habit,” Darsmit pointed out mischievously.

  “No,” Vadeviya said quickly, aware that Malledd was feeling the effects of the alcohol he had consumed. The big smith had a temper, one he usually kept tightly leashed – but alcohol might loosen that leash. “Harassing you is an evil habit, but one I can't entirely abandon. Yet.”

  “Ah.” Malledd finished off his beer, wiped his mouth, then looked at Vadeviya's face. “Is there more?”

  “In a way,” the priest said. “Haven't you wondered why I should be so concerned with you?”

  “I assumed you wanted to make sure that the champion will do his part for the Empire,” Malledd said.

  Vadeviya shook his head. “It was more than that,” he said. “I wanted to be the champion. Why do you think I became a priest? Because the gods have power, Malledd, and I wanted a taste of that power – but among mortals, only the defender of the Domdur is granted a portion of that divine power.”

  Malledd snorted. “Divine power – ha! You can have it.”

  “No, I can't,” Vadeviya said somberly. “I tried – I tried to coerce you, control you, direct you. I wanted to be able to tell myself that it was I who saved the Empire, by bringing the champion to Seidabar.”

  “Perhaps it was, then.”

  Vadeviya shook his head. “No,” he said. “You chose for yourself – or perhaps the gods guided you. Baranmel spoke to you, not to me.”

  Malledd blinked, considering that.

  “I was jealous of you, you know,” Vadeviya said. “I imagined you reveling in the gods' favor, assured of your own blessedness – I thought you demanded anonymity because you felt yourself above the petty concerns of lesser mortals, too mighty to be bothered by anything but the direst of threats to the Empire. Then this morning, when you spoke of how worthless the gift has been to you, I knew you were speaking the truth, opening your heart, and I felt utterly ashamed of myself. I had thought you this arrogant beast, when in truth you were just struggling to lead an ordinary life. I couldn't let you just walk away; I had to make up for wronging you in my thoughts all these years.”

  “Um,” Malledd said, staring at the priest. That quickly grew uncomfortable, and he looked down at his empty mug, as if preparing to order another. He wasn't thirsty any more, however, and another pint, he suddenly felt, wouldn't fit.

  At least, not unless he made room for it. The discomfort he was experiencing wasn't entirely in his heart; some of it was in his bladder.

  “Excuse me,” he said. He pushed back his chair and arose.

  Darsmit and Vadeviya watched him make his way out the back of the inn, toward the latrine; then the little smith asked, “So, now that you've unburdened your soul, will you head back to Seidabar? Or to Biekedau?”

  “I've come this far,” Vadeviya said, “I might as well go on.”

  “Really? To the battlefront?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Won't that be dangerous?”

  “Quite possibly,” Vadeviya acknowledged. “But as I said, it's a habit – and having come this far, I'd like a chance to see the champion in action. I missed his appearance at the palace fire, you know.”

  “He was magnificent there,” Darsmit said. “Truly magnificent.”

  “So I heard. I'd like to see for myself.”

  Darsmit nodded. “And I want to see it again. There's something about him when he's... when he's being the champion.”

  “He's godlike?”

  Darsmit shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I saw Baranmel at the wedding, and that was different. Baranmel is a god, and you can't forget it for an instant when you're in his presence; he squeezes out everything else, and you're constantly aware of him and what he wants, and whatever he wants, you want, too. What he's doing, you want to do. Malledd's not like that; Malledd's not overpowering or awesome, he's inspiring. He's what a man can be. He makes you more aware of yourself, and what you can do, and what you want. You want to be like him, not to do what he wants. You want to do it yourself, not to have him do anything.”

  “I really do want to see that,” Vadeviya said.

  “Well, you probably will,” Darsmit said. “If you don't get killed first.”

  Vadeviya lifted his own beer. “Here's to not getting killed first, then,” he said.

  The two of them drank the toast together.

  That night the three men shared a room – Vadeviya and Darsmit crammed themselves together on the narrow bed, while Malledd settled for a blanket on the floor. In the morning they ate a hasty and rather stale breakfast, then headed east while the sun was not yet clear of the horizon.

  On the way the three of them spoke at length of the events of recent days. Vadeviya, through his contacts in the Great Temple, was able to tell the two smiths a great deal about the upsets and concerns in the Imperial Council – though some of the gossip seemed contradictory. Lord Shoule seemed to be suspicious of the Great Temple and its occupants, even while he tried to gain their cooperation in his investigations.

  “Maybe he's hoping you'll stumble over your own collective feet and let him in on your treachery,” Malledd suggested.

  “Maybe,” Vadeviya said, unconvinced.

  By the end of the day Malledd was somewhat impatient with his companions' need for rest, and almost refused to stop at the inn the other two chose. At last, when both Darsmit and Vadeviya refused to take another step, he gave in.

  This inn was less crowded than the last, and as they finished their supper the innkeeper took the time to ask them, “Have you come from Seidabar?”

  The three admitted that they had, indeed, come from the capital.

  “Most people are going the other way now,” the innkeeper said. “Even the ones who went east to sell supplies to the soldiers are going back, now that the fighting's getting bad.”

  Malledd made a noncommital noise.

  “If you're planning to sell anything, you'll probably find a good market, not much competition.”

  “We're not selling anything,” Darsmit said. He glanced at Malledd. “Though maybe we should.”

  Malledd glowered at the little smith.

  “Will the army be coming soon?” the innkeeper asked anxiously. “From what I hear the vanguard has been suffering heavy losses.”

  “We don't know anything about it,” Malledd growled.

  “Perhaps we should,” Vadeviya suggested. “What have you heard, landlord?”

  “Well, the people heading west have told me that the nightwalkers have been wearing the vanguard down, and they haven't the strength to counter-attack. They're waiting for Lord Kadan to come with reinforcements. I thought perhaps you'd heard something about when he might be expected.”

  “I'm afraid not,” Vadeviya said.

  “The Lord Commissioner of the Army doesn't generally confide his plans to ordinary smiths,” Darsmit remarked.

  “Well, I hope he comes soon,” the innkeeper said, taking a step back. “I don't want those nightwalkers coming here. I tell you, I'm not sleeping well these days, thinking I hear them moving about out there.”

  Vadeviya said something sympathetic, but Malledd wasn't listening any more. The innkeeper's words had settled into his brain and jarred old memories loose.

  Nightwalkers. He was on his way to fight nightwalkers.

  He remembered the stories Seguna had told him when he was a boy, the nightmare stories of beloved, peaceful people coming back from the dead and slaughtering their friends and family, of rotting corpses that refused to lie down, of unspeakable things digging their way out of graveyards and attacking innocents with teeth and nails and bare bones, garroting children with hanks of their own dead mother's hair.

  He was on his way to fight these things, with nothing but a sword he'd made
himself and barely knew how to use. He shuddered.

  And he'd seen no sign that Lord Kadan was about to march the Imperial Army anywhere. According to the gossip back in Seidabar, Lord Kadan seemed more concerned right now with spies and traitors and accusations than with the fighting at the Grebiguata.

  Lord Kadan, as a soldier, almost certainly considered Ba'el his patron deity, Malledd realized. Could Ba'el really be guiding him? Could Lord Kadan, perhaps unknowingly, be working for Seidabar's destruction? Might he himself be the traitor on the Imperial Council? From what Vadeviya had overheard, Lord Shoule and Apiris had discussed the possibility and not dismissed it.

  What if Lord Kadan left the vanguard to die, and Malledd with it?

  Well, then Malledd would die, he told himself, shaking off his momentary fear. He had come this far, and he had the silent support of most of the gods. He could die anywhere, any time, if his luck was bad enough.

  “Bring me another ale, would you?” Malledd said. “No point in going to bed thirsty.”

  “Or leaving beer for the nightwalkers,” Darsmit joked.

  No one laughed.

  At the third night's inn they were the only customers in the place, and the food was almost inedible.

  On the fourth night the only inn they found was locked and barred; a farmer saw them standing baffled at the door and called to them, inviting them to take shelter in his barn – for a modest fee, of course.

  Malledd found himself glad to have Vadeviya along; the priest had brought money, and Malledd's own funds were exhausted.

  On the fifth day they saw two New Magicians flying over, from east to west. The three men paused and stood watching as the glowing figures soared overhead.

  “Fleeing, do you think?” Vadeviya asked.

  “Or just carrying messages,” Darsmit suggested.

  “They have real magicians for that,” Vadeviya protested.

  “Old magicians, you mean,” Malledd said mildly.

  “I mean properly-trained priests,” Vadeviya insisted. “Not a bunch of glassblowers playing with things they don't understand.”

  “Maybe the messages weren't getting through that way,” Darsmit said.

  “Why wouldn't they?” Vadeviya demanded.

  “Perhaps they're dead,” Malledd suggested.

  Vadeviya glanced at him sharply, then upward to the west again, to where the pair of golden specks were dwindling in the distance. “More likely those two just lost their nerve and fled,” he muttered.

  The inn they found that night stood open, empty, and deserted; this time there was no nearby farmer to help them out. They took shelter at the inn, scavenging through the cellars and cupboards for their provender and finding nothing but hard cheese and wine that was little better than vinegar.

  The following night found them at an inn that was still occupied, though every door was barred and every window shuttered, with iron spikes driven into the frames and flowers twined about them. The innkeeper inspected them carefully before admitting them, and insisted on putting her ear to each man's chest to hear a heartbeat before she would allow them to stay.

  “I've never met a nightwalker,” the landlady said, “and I don't want to.”

  “But you aren't leaving?” Malledd asked.

  “Where would I go?” she replied. “This is my home, and I'm too old to travel. Besides, I'll be safe. The gods will protect me; I'm a faithful subject of the Empire and three-fourths Domdur by blood.”

  “Have you heard anything about the fighting at the river?” Vadeviya asked.

  She shook her head. “I haven't spoken to a living soul for the past five days now, until you three arrived. I haven't heard a word.” She sighed. “I hope the champion's turned up by now.”

  Darsmit and Vadeviya glanced at Malledd, but said nothing; it was Malledd who asked, “You don't think the champion was with the soldiers?”

  “Oh, maybe. I don't know. The officers came in here once, you know, but they didn't say anything about the champion, and if he were there, wouldn't they have been talking about him?”

  “Maybe,” Malledd agreed.

  On the seventh day they saw two more New Magicians flying westward – and later, a different pair flying east.

  “Something's going on,” Malledd muttered.

  “At least that means the vanguard is still there,” Vadeviya pointed out.

  “Somewhere,” Malledd agreed.

  They found no inn that night, but stayed in an abandoned farmhouse, foraging in the kitchen garden and making a meal of under-ripe vegetables.

  Around mid-morning on the eighth day they crested a low rise and came within sight of Drievabor. At first they kept on walking, but as they drew nearer they slowed, and at last stopped, staring.

  “That must be the Grebiguata,” Darsmit said. “There aren't any other rivers that size around here.”

  “So that must be Drievabor,” Vadeviya agreed.

  “It's so small,” Darsmit said.

  Malledd glanced at him. “Small?”

  The town ahead was not small at all; it was many times larger than Grozerodz, perhaps on a par with Biekedau. Of course, it was nothing compared to Seidabar or Agabdal...

  It appeared deserted. The streets were empty; nothing moved anywhere. No smoke rose from the chimneys. That was why they had stopped; deserted inns and farmhouses were one thing, an entire deserted town quite another.

  Malledd stared past the town at the broad water, glittering silver-blue in the morning sun wherever the brown brick homes and granaries did not hide it, stretching across the whole width of the world before them. Three buildings rose above the rest ahead of them – the dome of a temple, a balconied upper story, and a watchtower.

  “We should go there,” Malledd said, pointing at the tower. “There should still be someone there, shouldn't there? Guards or someone?”

  “I would think so,” Vadeviya agreed.

  “Come on, then,” Darsmit said, and the three marched on down the slope, through the archway and onto the paved streets of Drievabor.

  The empty streets were unsettling. There were no armies clashing here, no nightwalkers committing atrocities, just empty buildings and deserted countryside, bisected by the river.

  They came at last to a plaza at the western end of the bridge. The guard tower stood on the riverbank, beside the stone pillars and wooden arch of the bridge itself; the domed temple was just to the south, the other large building to the north.

  No one was in sight. Malledd shouted up at the tower windows, then pounded on the door, but no one replied.

  “Where is everyone?” Malledd asked. “Shouldn't there be guards? Could the rebels have gotten past us somehow, and be headed for Seidabar?”

  “Perhaps the vanguard has crossed the river and driven them back east,” Vadeviya suggested.

  “I don't see any signs of a battle,” Darsmit pointed out.

  Malledd had wandered around the base of the tower to look across the river to the east; now he held up a hand to shade his eyes and stared for a moment, then said, “I do. Look.” He pointed.

  “Look at what?” Darsmit asked, puzzled.

  “That,” Vadeviya said, following Malledd's lead. “In the water, caught against the bridge.”

  Darsmit stared and made out a black lump. “What is it?” he asked.

  “A body,” Malledd said. “Floating on the current until it snagged there. They must be upstream.” He studied the patterns of light on the water, then turned left, toward the north.

  They had gone scarcely a hundred feet from the plaza when they spotted the sentry on the balcony overlooking the river; he had been invisible from the west, but Darsmit happened to glance up just as the sentry leaned on the railing at the southeast corner. “Look!” he called.

  The others looked, and saw the soldier, in his red tunic and with a horn slung across his chest.

  Perhaps more importantly, the soldier turned and saw them.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Ma
lledd looked about uneasily as he and his companions followed a sentry through the gate in the earthen wall and into the camp. They had left Drievabor the afternoon before, slept in an abandoned farmstead ten miles to the north of town, and arisen at dawn to cover the final five or six miles to the vanguard's encampment.

  The place looked almost deserted; tents flapped noisily in the warm breeze, and the muddy paths between them were empty. They could hear distant voices, and a dull thumping, and a tower of smoke rose from somewhere ahead of them, but the camp itself was lifeless. No cookfires burned, no soldiers idled. The only living people the new arrivals had seen were three sentries – the one who had brought them from Lady Karmaran te-Drieva's manse in Drievabor, and two others they had met on the way in, one of whom now guided them.

  The enemy's camp, across the river, was visibly more active – Malledd could see people strolling about, going about their business, apparently undisturbed by the proximity of their foes. He had a moment's uneasiness as the possibility occurred to him that the Imperial vanguard had been entirely destroyed and both camps were now rebel strongholds, despite the sentries' dusty red-and-gold uniforms and traditional horns.

  The soldier who had escorted them on their long hike from Drievabor had turned them over to one of the sentries, then turned and headed back south while their new guide had led them on down the riverbank into the camp. Now he stopped in front of a tent and called, “Lord Duzon?”

  Malledd recognized the name instantly, and blinked in surprise. He straightened up. It seemed he was about to meet one of the foremost false claimants to the title of divine champion; he smiled in ironic amusement.

  Lord Duzon was welcome to the title, as far as Malledd was concerned.

  “I thought General Balinus was in command here,” Darsmit said.

  “He is,” the sentry replied. “Colonel Zavai is second, but they're both asleep; Lord Duzon is the officer of the watch right now.”

  “Is everybody asleep?” Vadeviya asked.

  The sentry didn't answer; instead he called, “My lord?”

  The tent's flap opened and a head thrust out – a handsome, dark-haired head that despite some dishevelment was unmistakably that of an aristocrat. He started to say something to the sentry, then spotted the three new arrivals and instead asked, “Who are these?”