Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01

by The Wizard Lord (v1. 1)

  Breaker wanted to argue further, but he knew his companions were right. He had wanted to go and get it over with, to confront the Wizard Lord while the horrors of Stoneslope were fresh in his mind, to avenge the dead swiftly, but he knew that would not work. The Chosen were chosen to act together, and not in haste.

  The idea that the Wizard Lord might surrender peacefully, and not be punished for his butchery with death, did not suit Breaker just now, but he knew intellectually that it might be best.

  "The Speaker," he said. "You want to find her first?" "She's the closest."

  Breaker hesitated, then said, "I heard she's mad."

  The Seer and the Scholar exchanged glances.

  "She wasn't when last we spoke," the Seer said, "but I can see how some might think she is. After all, she can hear things no one else hears, and aside from priests, most people who hear voices no one else can hear are mad."

  "Is that what it is?" Breaker asked. "I thought she could speak any tongue, I didn't know she heard voices."

  "She can hear, speak, and understand every tongue in Barokan," the Seer explained. "And not just the human ones. She hears the ler, the birds and beasts, spiders and flies, earth and flame, the messages that wizards send one another on the wind—everything. If she ever does go mad she'll have good reason, after living with such a constant din!"

  Breaker tried to imagine what it would be like, hearing everything, and quickly gave up. That was not a role he would have accepted; being the Swordsman was far simpler and more straightforward.

  "If she were to die," the Scholar said, "the Wizard Lord would no longer be able to command other creatures, nor speak through them. That's the portion of his magic bound to her."

  This was interesting information, not something he had known before; Breaker nodded. Then a sudden thought occurred to him.

  If he were to kill the Speaker, the Wizard Lord would be a less formidable foe. If he were to kill all the other Chosen, the Wizard Lord would be almost defenseless.

  But that was insane; the Chosen were his equals, his helpers and partners. He had no reason to kill any of them, nor any intention of harming anyone but the Wizard Lord.

  The Wizard Lord deserved to die for what he had done to Stoneslope, and it was Breaker's duty as the Swordsman to see that justice was done, but that hardly gave him the right to kill anyone else, let alone betray and murder his own companions! Where had such a horrible notion come from?

  Was the Wizard Lord influencing his thoughts somehow? That was a terrifying idea.

  No, he told himself, that was foolish. The idea of killing the others was just one of those strange passing thoughts that sometimes wandered through a tired mind—especially one that had just suffered something like seeing and feeling the horrors of Stoneslope!

  "I need some rest," he said—but then another, more urgent thought struck him.

  He had not yet practiced his swordsmanship for the day. The trip to and from Stoneslope, and the brief investigation there, had taken up the entire day and thrown his usual schedule into disarray. Perhaps that was where the morbid thoughts were coming from—the ler that gave him his skill, and who sometimes seemed to glory in the thought of bloodshed, were affecting him.

  "Oh, blood and spirit," he said, rolling off his mattress and getting to his feet.

  "What is it?" the Seer asked.

  "Practice," he said, drawing his blade.

  There was no need to go outside; the barn was spacious enough, and with the sun down the candlelight inside provided better visibility. He sighed, and began running through his usual exercises, thrusting the sword to either side of a pillar, lunging and feinting.

  The Seer and the Scholar watched, but by the time he finally sheathed his sword and blew out the candles they had both been sound asleep for several minutes. Whatever requirements their magic might make of them—and Breaker knew that the Scholar, at least, did have some sort of daily requirement, something about learning new facts every day—had apparently been met earlier.

  They set out without a guide the following morning; the Scholar was sure he could remember exactly the route by which they had arrived and the prayers their guide had spoken along the way, and surviving the previous day's ordeal had given them all confidence in their own abilities to cross hostile territory unscathed.

  "I've done this before," the Scholar admitted, as they ambled along. "Not this particular route, but retracing a path I'd been guided on. It's one of the more useful manifestations of my magic."

  "Are you sure it's really safe?" Breaker asked, as he dodged a low-hanging branch that seemed to be trying to poke out his left eye.

  "No," the Scholar said. "But then, what is?"

  Breaker had no reply to that.

  They reached the town of Argand Wager an hour or two past noon; here they had a choice of routes, rather than the single link that joined the nameless village to the rest of civilization, but the Seer had no doubt of which they should take, and a guide was expected that very evening.

  They made good progress. They spoke very little on the road; Breaker was not sure just why. It certainly wasn't that they had nothing to discuss; there were hundreds of questions he wanted answered. How could the Wizard Lord have done such a thing? When the Seer felt the deaths, why hadn't she realized how many there were, and that they could not possibly have just been the handful of rogue wizards Boss had said they were? Why had she taken the Leader's word and done no investigation of her own?

  Was it really necessary to find the others before doing anything about the Wizard Lord's crimes?

  Now that they were set out upon out their appointed task of removing a Dark Lord, why did he feel no different? Why was the sun still bright and warm, the countryside calm? Shouldn't there be some outward sign of the atrocities in Stoneslope, something that would show anywhere in Barokan?

  If he was one of a brotherhood of heroes, on their way to avenge murdered innocents, why did he feel no particular kinship with the Seer or the Scholar? He was as detached as ever. The Scholar was pleasant enough company, but they were not close, and the Seer seemed like a combination of his mother and Elder Priestess rather than a companion and equal. Shouldn't they be bonding into the sort of team that the Chosen were in all the old stories, ready to die for one another, understanding each other so well that they could anticipate each other's actions without words?

  And they weren't. They were just three people traveling together. Breaker had no feeling that they were on any sort of adventure; he could not imagine that anyone would ever tell epic tales of the three of them walking from town to town.

  But then, why was there no adventure? Why wasn't the Wizard Lord trying to stop them? Why were there no monsters, no traps, no messages trying to deter them, no threats nor bribes?

  It was all very strange, and didn't seem entirely real, somehow—until he closed his eyes and remembered the blackened ruins of Stoneslope, there beneath the overcast skies, with the scattered mounds that hid the bones of the dead. He remembered that tiny skull in the Seer's hand, and he shuddered.

  That seemed far more real than the sunny skies, the light scattering through the leaves or shining off the farmers' fields, as they walked behind their hired guide, watching the ara feathers on his hat flutter in the gentle breeze.

  The Speaker had been a good hundred miles away when they left Stoneslope, the Seer reported, but by the third day she had begun moving toward them. "Something probably told her we were coming," the Scholar said.

  And on the fifth day they found the Speaker sitting in the central temple of a large and prosperous town called Blessed of Earth and Sky, waiting for them. Several priestesses were going about some ritual, so that the temple was full of women walking to and fro, and Breaker would never have noticed the Speaker if the Seer hadn't tugged at his sleeve and pointed her out.

  She was a tiny little thing in a dark brown cloak, curled up on a bench, knees tucked in, leaning one shoulder against the wall. Breaker thought at first s
he was a child, from both her size and her posture, but then she turned her face so it caught the sunlight from the open door and he saw that she was perhaps twice his own age, though not as old as the Seer. Her hair was still dark and curly, her skin still mostly free of wrinkles and blemishes, but there was no question that she was past the full bloom of youth.

  And her dark eyes seemed touched with madness. Even before she said a word, Breaker understood why so many people thought she was mad—her face was full of irrational intensity. Her fragile form hardly seemed suitable for a Chosen Hero, but those eyes were another matter entirely.

  She looked at the three Chosen but did not say anything, nor make any move to leave the bench. For a moment the three of them stood staring silently at her, while she stared back. Then Breaker bowed.

  ""I am the new Swordsman," he said. "I am honored to meet you."

  "Erren Zal Tuyo kam Darig seveth Tirinsir abek Du," she said, in a soft, unsteady, high-pitched voice, her eyes fixed on his face.

  Breaker jerked upright at the sound of so much of his true name; he could feel its power close on his heart. "Yes," he said.

  "And Shal Doro Sheth tava Doro kal Gardar." The Seer grimaced.

  "And Olbir Olgurun pul Sasimori ken ken Frovor." The Scholar flinched.

  "We are met, four of the eight, half the Chosen," she continued, in a sort of singsong. "You want to decide the fate of Laquar kellin Hario Vor Tesil sil Galbek."

  "Yes," the Seer said.

  "So much ler have told me," the Speaker said, straightening a little. "The winds and sky have told me this, because I could hear your soul, Shal Doro, calling out to mine, asking where I could be found, and so I asked the ler why you sought me. But all they could tell me were certain of the words you had spoken as you traveled, and thus I learned that you wanted to speak to me of the life of Laquar kellin Hario, but did not learn why. I have come here to meet you, in this quiet place, so that you can tell me why."

  "Quiet?" Breaker looked around at the hurrying priestesses, listened to their footsteps on the stone floors echoing from the stone walls, heard a dozen voices chanting in another part of the temple and echoes answering them, as well.

  "Remember," the Seer said, "she hears everything. In here she hears people and stone, but there are no birds nor beasts, the ler speak in concert. . . and I'm starting to talk like her." She sighed. "She always has this effect on me."

  "It's because she uses true names," the Scholar said. "It creates a bond."

  Breaker refused to be distracted. "Speaker, as I said, I am honored to meet you," he said. "I hope we will be friends, as it appears we are fated to be companions."

  "I have no friends," the Speaker replied, a note of woe creeping into her singsong. "I have no time for friends, when so many voices call to me."

  Breaker did not know what to say to that; he looked helplessly at the Scholar, who shrugged.

  "There are things I would say that I would prefer the priestesses of this temple not hear," the Seer said. "Is there somewhere we can go where no other people will hear us?"

  "We are heard everywhere, always," the Speaker murmured.

  "No people," the Seer repeated. "I know ler will hear us, and probably spiders and insects and the birds above, and quite possibly the Wizard Lord himself if he's listening, but I would prefer not to be heard by any other people."

  The Speaker sighed, lifted her head and shoulder from the wall, and uncurled her legs. "Come, then, Shal Doro, Erren Zal, and Olbir Olgurun." She rose from the bench and led the way down a corridor and out of the temple.

  Now that she was upright Breaker could see that she was close to the Seer's height, but probably only weighed half what the older woman did. Beneath the brown cloak she was dressed entirely in black, though golden embroidery shone at collar and cuffs.

  As they walked, Breaker asked, "Why do you use our true names?"

  She threw him a startled glance. "Ler know no others," she said. "Your souls speak your names to me endlessly." She hesitated. "Would you prefer I call you something else?"

  "Among my people, using true names is considered... well. .." Breaker groped for the right word to express the normal Mad Oak attitude, and finally found it. "Bullying. It's considered bullying. Because true names have power."

  "Of course they do. I see." She almost stumbled as they reached a short flight of stairs leading down, but caught herself. "Then what would you have me call you?"

  "I'm the Swordsman. Most people call me that."

  "Ah." They reached the bottom of the stair, and she said, "But you do not truly think of that as your own name yet— it's a title, more than a name. Your predecessor was known as Blade to his friends; do you have a nickname like that? Or would you like to be called Blade?"

  Breaker shook his head. "No, he can keep that name; I don't want it."

  "You were known for more than half your life as . .. Shatterer? Divider? The ler do not speak our tongue . . ." "Breaker."

  "And you still think of yourself as the Breaker." Breaker glanced back and saw the Scholar listening with obvious interest.

  "I suppose I do," he admitted. "I will call you Sword."

  It was Breaker's turn to almost stumble; he had assumed she was about to settle on using his old nickname, and the sudden change of direction startled him—not to mention the coincidence that she had happened on the same nickname his neighbors had used, back in Mad Oak. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped.

  He did not really want his old name back; he did not want to break anything.

  "Sword is good," he said.

  The Seer and the Scholar glanced at one another.

  Then the four of them stepped into a small room of bare stone, and the Speaker closed the door behind them, plunging them into utter darkness, before Breaker—or Sword— could take in much of their surroundings.

  He could hear something crunching underfoot, though.

  "A storeroom," the Speaker said. "It held grain for the winter, but winter is done and the new harvest not yet in. The room is strong, the walls thick stone without seam, to keep out mice. We won't be heard by human ears, and the ler of the grain are slumbering. Only the stones speak, and their words are slow and gentle."

  "Good," the Seer said; the other two made no comment, but Breaker, for one, found the darkness uncomfortable.

  "Tell me, then, why you believe Laquar kellin Hario must be removed."

  "Have you ever heard of a town called Stoneslope?" the Seer asked.

  "Not that I recall, not by that name," the Speaker replied. "The ler would have another name for it, of course."

  "Of course. It's the town where the Wizard Lord was born and raised; he left when he was fifteen."

  "Ah! Yes, I know of it. What of it?"

  "It's gone," the Swordsman said—partly just to hear his own voice and remind everyone that he was there in the dark.

  "The Wizard Lord destroyed it," the Seer said. "But—a moment, then."

  For what seemed several minutes, no one spoke—though Breaker was unsure exactly what they were waiting for. Then the Speaker said, "And he slew all who lived there?"

  A new note had crept into her voice, the singsong become a dirge.

  "So it appears, and so he believes," the Seer said. "The air was thick with the souls of the dead, all full of fear and anger."

  "The aunt who took him in when his father died? His childhood betrothed? The cousin he deflowered instead?"

  "If they were there, he killed them," the Scholar said.

  The Speaker made a noise of strangled disgust. Then silence descended again, broken only by the grinding of spilled grain beneath Breaker's boots as he shifted nervously-

  "We must find Farash inith Kerra das Bik abba Terrul sinna Oppor, and the others," the Speaker said.

  "Farash . . ." Breaker did not recognize any part of the name.

  "The Leader," the Speaker explained. "Boss."

  "Yes," the Seer replied. "We agree. Boss and the others. The Arc
her is nearest; could you send him word to meet us halfway?"

  [18]

  The Speaker could speak to anything that lived or had any spiritual existence, but she could not easily command anything; the birds and ler she asked to convey the message did not cooperate. She could have forced them by using their true names, but did not want to, as it would bring protests only she could hear.

  At last, though, she found a stray dog that agreed to carry a note tied round its neck, and to find the man with the scent the Speaker described.

  "You can describe a person's scent well enough to identify him?" Breaker marveled, as the dog ran off.

  "Only in the languages of dogs," the Speaker said. "Half their vocabulary—more than half—is about smells. They have no words for color or music, but a thousand shades of acrid, a thousand kinds of sour."

  "And how do you know the Archer's smell well enough to describe him that way?"

  "It's in his true name," she said. She hefted her pack. "Shall we go?"

  They went.

  Two days later the four of them were sitting in a tavern in a town called Seven Sides, talking to some of the locals. The townsfolk had recognized Breaker as the Swordsman immediately—not difficult, given the sword on his belt— and then guessed that the people with him might also be Chosen. They had quickly identified the Seer, and guessed the Speaker; now they were trying to determine which of the Chosen the fourth might be. The travelers had agreed to play along with this guessing game in exchange for bread, ham, gravy, and beer. They sat, eating silently, and listening while the natives argued.

  "He doesn't have a bow or any arrows."

  "I think the Leader would have to be taller."

  "That leaves the Thief and the Scholar."

  "And the Beauty, but I think we can rule that one out."

  That evinced a round of laughter. "How do we know he even is one of the Chosen?" a boy asked as the laughter subsided. "Maybe he's just a friend of theirs."