Given that, did the Chosen really want to depose this Wizard Lord?
Boss seemed to think so. She wanted a Wizard Lord running Barokan, minding everyone’s business but leaving the wizards alone, not one hiding in the Uplands while his soldiers disposed of his potential successors, and taking advice from the man who had raped and enslaved her. Perhaps she thought that if the Wizard Lord was doing his job, he wouldn’t be listening to Farash inith Kerra, and that if the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had been doing his job then Farash could never have ruled Doublefall in the first place.
Or was it perhaps that she wanted an excuse to exercise her own power, her own magic, more freely? She had the ability to sway crowds, persuade foes, make snap decisions with unnaturally good odds that they would be the right decisions for whatever she wanted to accomplish—and she was only supposed to use these talents to remove Wizard Lords who broke the ancient compact with the Council of Immortals, the agreement that the Wizard Lord would control most of the magic in Barokan in exchange for abiding by the rules the Council had set down over the centuries. This Boss, more than any other, would not want to abuse that power the way her predecessor had—but at the same time, she surely wanted revenge on Farash and any who befriended him.
Maybe she was just looking for an excuse to use her magic for its intended purpose, an excuse to remove the Wizard Lord. She wouldn’t be the first of the Chosen to feel that way—Bow had admitted, six years before, that he was eager to kill the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, while Beauty and Babble had both seemed to find the march toward the Galbek Hills very satisfying.
Sword had not been eager or satisfied—yet it had been Sword who slew the Dark Lord while Bow was locked in the dungeons under his tower.
Farash inith Kerra had found another way to use the Leader’s power, by subjugating the town of Doublefall and bending its inhabitants to his will, turning them into his slaves. He had betrayed the other Chosen and sided with the Dark Lord in order to maintain his power, and that was why Sword had insisted he give up his role.
But this woman, this girl he had chosen as his successor—how fit was she for the role? How sound was her judgment? She herself said that Farash had thought choosing her was a joke; what if he had been right, and she was unsuited to lead the Chosen?
Certainly, she was nothing like Farash had been in the position.
Over the past few days Sword had spoken with the other Chosen. Babble was guided by . . . well, everything; she could hear the spirits, the ler, of everything around her, living or otherwise, and said she would do what the ler wanted; she did not have a fixed opinion on the Wizard Lord or the new Boss or anything else. Azir shi Azir, on the other hand, practically worshipped Boss, and would do anything she said—though she also seemed devoted to Sword himself, and it was hard to be certain which she would choose should Sword and Boss settle firmly on opposite sides.
Snatcher claimed to have no opinions on the subject but a willingness to abide by the consensus of the others.
Beauty did not trust the Wizard Lord, but hoped his removal could be avoided; she had seen how much her neighbors appreciated the roads and canals, how industrious and happy the young men recruited into the army and the work gangs were.
And Bow wanted an excuse to kill someone, after missing his chance in the Galbek Hills.
Sword wanted to give the Wizard Lord the benefit of the doubt, give him a chance to explain himself. He hoped that Lore would provide a voice of reason, equipped with arguments as to why they should not kill Artil, despite the dead wizards.
He was not confident, though, that the Scholar would be that voice. He really did not know what to expect from Lore.
And then there was the whole question of the ninth talisman. Was there a ninth talisman, or was it just something the Wizard Lord had invented so that he would have an excuse to have his soldiers kill wizards who refused to talk about it? The captain’s account of the Blue Lady’s death seemed to suggest that there was such a talisman, but then why hadn’t the Chosen known about it? Why hadn’t the Seer observed the whereabouts of the ninth Chosen—did this mysterious person always wear ara feathers, perhaps? Or might it be an Uplander? The Seer’s magic did not extend above the cliffs.
But an Uplander would have been discernible during the winter, when the Uplanders sheltered in the great guesthouses of Winterhome. Azir had said she wasn’t completely sure whether a ninth existed or not, because there had been a few occasions when she had thought she might have sensed something, but she couldn’t be certain.
Lore might know something about that.
Sword looked up at the cliff again; there were people on the trail, heading down, but they looked like little more than specks at this distance. All of them appeared to be dressed in black, but that meant little—anyone bound for Winterhome might wear black. At any rate, Sword could not identify any of them as the Scholar. Lore might well already be far enough down to be out of sight behind the rooftops of Winterhome.
“Wait here,” Boss said, as they neared the edge of the plaza.
“Why?” Sword asked.
“Because we don’t want to attract attention and you stand out. Now, shut up and wait here.”
Sword glanced at the Seer, who shrugged.
“As you say,” he said, and he and Azir stepped to one side, under an overhanging upper story, as Boss advanced toward the gate that led to the path up the cliffs.
There were guards there, of course; there were guards at every entrance to the Winter Palace, as there always were even in the Wizard Lord’s absence, and even though that gate did not actually lead into the palace it had a pair of men in red and black standing ready, one to either side.
Sword watched as Boss strolled across the plaza, up to those two guards; he could not hear what she said to them, but he could see them leave their posts, hurrying across the plaza and vanishing into one of the streets radiating from it.
“Is he almost here, Azir?” Sword asked the Seer.
He could not see her face behind the hood and scarf of a Hostwoman, but her voice sounded worried as she said, “Almost. He’s on . . . on the slope of broken stone, not the cliff itself, but he still has . . .”
“Shhh!” Sword said. “Look!”
The Seer fell silent and looked.
The other guards had noticed the absence of the two who had been guarding the gate; they were calling back and forth, though Sword could not make out the words.
“They did that once before, when I was here,” the Seer told him. “Boss talked all of them into going away.”
“She did?” Sword looked around. “Do you know how? I mean, what she told them?”
“They all went over to see what was . . . what are they doing?”
Several of the other guards, one from each entrance, were indeed collecting into a group, but they were not approaching the Leader; instead they were gathering at one of the doors, and although it was difficult to see from where he stood, Sword thought the door was opening.
Then several more guards came spilling out, equipped not with swords, but with a mix of spears and bows. One man was obviously in charge—he did have a sword, and a polished golden helmet. He raised his blade and shouted, “Earplugs in!”
Each of the other guards then pressed his free hand first to one ear, then the other.
“This isn’t right,” Sword said, drawing his own blade. He had been hesitant about even wearing it openly on the streets of Winterhome, but Boss had told him to bring it, so Lore would see it and recognize him that much more easily; now he was glad he had. These soldiers were far too reminiscent of the squads that had been sent to question wizards, and which had left the wizards’ heads on pikes.
Sword did not want to see Boss’s head, nor Lore’s, on a pike.
“What’s going on?” the Seer said. “This isn’t what happened before!”
“Come on,” Sword said.
“But Boss told us to wait…”
“Boss may be in troubl
e. Come on!” His sword ready in his hand, Sword marched out into the plaza.
He made no hostile actions, nor any attempt to disguise himself; he just walked out in front of the Winter Palace, making no move to threaten any of the guards. He noticed that Azir had not followed him; he dismissed that as unimportant.
Some of the soldiers glanced at him, but their commander was focused entirely on Boss and didn’t notice the Swordsman.
“Leader of the Chosen!” the man in the golden helmet called.
“Leader of the guards!” Boss called back, her voice carrying astonishingly well for so small a woman.
“In the name of the Wizard Lord of Winterhome, I ask you what your business is here, and why you have sent two of my men away,” the helmeted guard shouted. He made an odd gesture with his empty hand, waggling two fingers—a signal, Sword realized, as the spearmen and archers formed into two lines.
Hand signals would be the only way to give orders, Sword knew, if those men did indeed have their ears plugged to defend them against the Leader’s persuasive magic.
“I am meeting a friend, and did not wish our conversation to be overheard,” Boss replied, in a somewhat less stentorian tone. She stood by the gate, hands on her hips.
“Leader, it is our duty to guard that gate,” the man said. “We cannot do that if you send us away with your magic.”
“If I am here, the gate needs no guarding,” Boss replied.
“Nonetheless, we have our orders—the gate is to be guarded at all times, and none may pass through without the Wizard Lord’s approval.”
“The Wizard Lord is claiming authority over the Uplanders now?”
“No, but you are no Uplander. You’re the Leader of the Chosen.”
“And does the Wizard Lord claim authority over me?”
The guardsman hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Sword, as well as the blade he held, and decided that this was getting out of hand. He raised his hand and made a grabbing gesture.
His dozen men began to move toward the Leader, lowering spears into thrusting position and drawing arrows from quivers. “We will talk when you . . . ” the commander began.
He did not finish the sentence; instead he stared in astonished horror as Sword sprang into action.
Sword had practiced with the sword for an hour of every day for almost eight years now; he had been trained by his predecessor; and most importantly, he was magically bound to ler of muscle and steel who were sworn to make him the greatest swordsman alive. He did not hesitate; he did not even need to think as he went into action, beyond deciding that he was fighting to disarm, rather than to kill. He ran forward, blade raised, one man against a dozen.
The sword came down on the first spear and sliced off its head, leaving the startled guardsman staring at the blunt stick he held in hands that stung from the impact; with his ears plugged, the man had had no warning of the Swordsman’s approach. Sword was already whirling on his heel by the time the spearhead fell, and the return stroke of his blade came up from beneath another spear, knocking it from its bearer’s hands.
He had surprise on his side, and the fact that his foes had their ears blocked and could not hear his approach or their comrades’ warnings; he was able to split a third spear, behead a fourth, snap a fifth, and work his way halfway down the line of spearmen before anyone could react.
But by then the leader of the squad had begun gesturing desperately, ordering his men to focus their attention on the Swordsman, rather than the Leader—and to kill him; the final gesture, a slice across the throat, was unmistakable.
Sword’s mouth tightened. His blade flashed, catching another spear behind the head and yanking it from a guardsman’s hands, and this one he caught in his own left hand. He hadn’t practiced with two weapons very often, but he had practiced. He had no idea how to use a spear as a spear, but as a big clumsy stick that vaguely resembled a sword he knew exactly what to do with it.
Less than a minute after the first blow had been struck he had worked his way along the entire line of a dozen spearmen; eight spears had been ruined in one way or another, three knocked to the ground, and he now held the twelfth himself. He had not harmed any of the men who had held them, though. Now, having completed the first step in his attack, he paused to appraise his position.
About half the spearmen were retreating, either empty-handed or clutching a broken stump; none were actually fleeing yet. The other half were standing their ground; three were retrieving dropped spears, and three were advancing with fragments of spear raised—one as if to use it like a javelin, the other two preparing to club their opponent. Their commander had turned his attention to Boss, and the two were talking loudly and rapidly, but Sword had no time to try to listen to what they were saying.
The row of archers had arrows nocked, all of them, and were looking for a clear shot at him, one that would not endanger their spear-wielding comrades. Sword smiled at them, then turned and dove toward the approaching spearmen.
The sword felt almost alive in his hand; he thought he could hear the cold ler of the steel singing, almost screaming. He danced past his nearest foe and drew a line of blood across the man’s wrist, then turned his blade and sent the stump of a spear flying. The second man received a shallow but bloody slash across his forehead that would blind him with his own blood if he did not stop to attend to it, and then found his makeshift club split down the middle. The third was not cut, but suddenly found the Swordsman behind him, and took a good hard whack on the back of his head from the butt of Sword’s spear; he stumbled, and when he did not immediately release his hold on the improvised javelin a second whack, this one on his wrist, sent the broken shaft spinning into the air, toward the archers.
And then Sword was up to the three who had tried to retrieve their spears, and each found his hand empty, his knuckles bruised and stinging, and each felt a slash across his tunic at waist level that cut through his belt.
Host People and merchants were staring in confusion and horror; some were running, others screaming.
Still none of the soldiers had actually fled; the few who had retreated after being disarmed were regrouping by the palace wall. The battle so far had been fought in eerie semi-quiet; no one but the arguing leaders had said a word. Despite the shouting and screaming of the watchers, the only sounds from the participants had been the thumps of blows landing, the cracking of spear shafts, the grunts of startled men, and the whoosh of Sword’s blade slicing air and cloth and skin.
Sword decided that would not do; with a wordless bellow of rage that he hoped might penetrate the earplugs, he charged at the nearest archer with sword and spear raised.
As he had expected, the archer loosed an arrow at him from no more than twenty feet away, a yard-long shaft that could pierce an inch of oak—and Sword’s blade knocked it out of the air in two pieces, sending the two halves spinning in opposite directions, arrowhead to one side of him, fletching to the other.
Then the archer’s bowstring snapped as Sword’s blade cut through it, and the man stumbled backward, almost falling, staring at his own thumb, where the snapped bowstring had whipped across it hard enough to break the nail and draw blood.
Sword could not spare any time to deal with him further, though; four of the other archers had loosed, despite the proximity of their own companions.
One shot was wild, and Sword did not worry about that one, but he brought the spear up to intercept two of the others; they thumped into the wood with enough force that wood splintered and his hand stung, but he did not drop his weapon.
And the final arrow was sliced from the air in two pieces, just as the first had been.
That finally penetrated the guards’ consciousness; three of the remaining archers dropped their bows and ran. Others backed away, but kept their weapons raised.
Sword spun down the line, slicing each bowstring as he passed. Two more arrows were released; he ducked one, and just for the sake of drama sliced the last lengthwise, sending it
arcing over his head in two curling pieces..
By the time he had ruined every bow that had not been dropped, four spearmen had regrouped, and a swordsman had appeared from somewhere; Sword swept through them, as well, disarming them all, and making sure each received a single gash somewhere that would draw plenty of blood and leave a dramatic scar, but that would not cripple or kill.
By this point more than half the original two dozen had either fled, or dropped their weapons and retreated with hands raised in surrender; a few were snatching wax-and-cotton plugs from their ears and demanding to know what was going on.
The guard commander had stopped arguing; he was staring at his men in shocked silence, Boss at his shoulder.
And one final guardsman seemed determined to fight. This was a big man, black-haired, bearing a sword; he squared off facing Sword, taking up a proper swordsman’s stance.
Sword had no patience for this; he spun, flung his spear aside, and danced around the sword-wielding guard, apparently ignoring the man’s attempt to fight even while three sweeping blows were somehow diverted harmlessly. Then he sprang away.
The guard’s pants had been slit up either side, from ankle to thigh; his belt had been cut from his waist in three pieces. A triangular notch had been cut into each earlobe.
“You really want to fight me?” Sword asked.
“A chance to take on the world’s greatest swordsman? Of course I do!” the man rumbled.
“Let me explain something, then,” Sword said. “You should hope you aren’t as good as you think you are, because if you actually manage to challenge me, to force me to defend myself, then I’ll kill you. You can’t beat me, you know that, and I don’t have time to play, not with so many of you here. If you’re just a big strong fool who knows no more about a blade than a cat knows about cooking, then I’ll just disarm you—so let’s both hope that’s the case.”
The Ninth Talisman Page 24