The Ninth Talisman

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Nothing like that,” Dal said. “We don’t get enough overnight visitors to need such a thing. But there’s a spare bed in my attic, where my son used to sleep, or Iza might rent you a room.” He nodded his head toward an old woman, who smiled toothily at Sword.

  “An attic will do fine,” Sword said, smiling in return.

  “This way, then.” Dal glanced at Sword’s back, and the complete absence of a pack of any kind. “You travel light, I see; may I ask where you’re heading?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Sword said, thinking feverishly. This was a time to not merely stretch the truth, but avoid it entirely—he needed a reason to be traveling alone, with no goods or money, other than fleeing for his life.

  Fortunately, there was an obvious possibility. “The priests in Ashgrove sent me to find an herb called widow’s finger that’s said to grow in the southern hills, and bring them back seven leaves,” he improvised. “Would you know anything of such a plant?”

  “No, but I’m neither priest nor herbalist. You’ll want to talk to Mother Forrik. So you’re from Ashgrove?”

  “Not by birth, but I’m courting a girl there. I’m from Brokenbirch, in Shadowvale.” He didn’t think any such town existed, but he wasn’t very familiar with Shadowvale, even if it was just beyond the eastern ridge from Mad Oak. He hoped these people weren’t familiar with it, either. “By the way, I’ve been hurrying so, I forgot to ask—what do you call your town?”

  Dal was startled. “You never heard of Morning Calm?”

  “Oh, this is Morning Calm?” Sword replied, a trifle hastily. “I thought I had farther to go to reach it! If I’d realized, I’d have stopped at the shrine.”

  “Of course,” Dal said, smiling. He clapped Sword on the back.

  Sword was not sure whether he had ever heard of Morning Calm or not, but admitting that would hardly endear himself to his host. “So tell me about your town; are the stories true?”

  “Well, I don’t know which stories you’ve heard, but we like it here,” Dal said, spreading his arms expansively. “Our ler require everyone who sets foot here, either visitor or native, to swear an oath of peace, so we have none of the difficulties of other places. . . . ”

  Sword let him ramble on, and never allowed any hint of his own doubts to show. What mattered to him was that the supper Dal provided was filling and reasonably tasty, and the straw tick in Dai’s attic was comfortable enough and apparently free of vermin, though it did crackle annoyingly whenever he moved.

  He did have to pay for his stay, which depleted his already small supply of coin, and that brought another issue to his attention. He had always earned his keep when traveling alone by performing sword tricks and passing the hat, and he could hardly do that if he was trying to remain anonymous. For his recent journey to Winterhome he had relied on funds provided by Snatcher and Boss, who were no longer available. He had a small purse with him, but it would not last more than a few days at this rate. That might be a serious problem, as he did not want to resort to begging or theft.

  He supposed that the money Boss and Snatcher had provided probably came from begging or theft, but that seemed different. He had not been begging or stealing.

  He lay awake on his straw mattress until late, thinking.

  As well as money, he needed a real course of action, something that would lead to Artil im Salthir’s death. It was obvious that the Wizard Lord had no intention of retiring peacefully, and after what had been done to poor Azir and Babble, Sword did not care to offer him that option in any case.

  Farash inith Kerra had probably had a hand in what had happened, and would therefore also need to be killed.

  To accomplish this, Sword needed to remain alive and free until he could devise a plan. That did not seem so very difficult, given his protective garb of ara feathers and the loss of magic that the deaths of Azir and Babble had cost the Wizard Lord, but he would need to earn his keep somehow, and his old methods of supporting himself—swordplay and barley-farming—were not going to serve.

  But what else could he do? He was a healthy young man, stronger and faster than most, but he did not want to settle down in one place, which took most of the likely choices out of consideration. He had no special skills other than his supernatural abilities with a blade—well, and his alleged prowess in bed, but he could not see any safe way to earn his bread with that.

  Perhaps he could be a messenger? Though there was no great demand for such; most people other than traveling merchants had no business outside their own villages. The other obvious occupation for someone who could not stay in one place was trade, but he had no funds to buy inventory, nor contacts he could use to acquire credit—and it would mean using the Wizard Lord’s roads, which did not seem safe.

  And where there were no roads, the only people who traveled regularly were bargemen and guides. He had no idea how he might go about finding work as a bargeman, but perhaps he could be a guide? As one of the Chosen he could travel far more safely in wilderness than ordinary people.

  That might work—but he would have to find a route where guides were needed, where Artil’s roads and canals did not reach.

  The Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had wiped out the family of guides that had served the village of Stoneslope, and that was obscure and distant enough that there might not be any roads yet. He might try there . . .

  But no, Galbek Hills had also wiped out Stoneslope, and as yet, to the best of Sword’s knowledge, no one had rebuilt it.

  Still, that part of the southern hills might have some possibilities.

  He would head south in the morning, he told himself, and hope that he could stretch his money supply, or live off the land, until he found some means of supporting himself. Perhaps if he got far enough from Winterhome he would find areas where word of the conflict between the Chosen and the Wizard Lord had not yet arrived, places where he could use his sword.

  Perhaps in such places he could even find allies. The Wizard Lord was popular wherever his roads went, but surely there were places the roads did not go, and where the traditional distrust of the Wizard Lord and favoring of the Chosen still held sway.

  He just had to go far enough.

  Of course, the farther he went, the farther he would have to come back when the time came to kill the Wizard Lord, but he would deal with that issue when the time came.

  With that thought, he fell asleep.

  [ 27 ]

  “Erren?”

  Sword had been dreaming of Babble’s head rolling in the street, leaving a trail of blood while a bell rang in the distance, but he woke suddenly at the sound of his name, and lay blinking at sunlight slanting steeply through the shutters into the attic.

  “Erren Zal Tuyo?”

  “Yes?” He sat up, and reached for his boots.

  “You must leave. Now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because we do not allow violence in Morning Calm,” Dal said, his voice unsteady.

  “What?” Sword straightened his clothing as he stared at his host.

  Dal swallowed. “There is a man here,” he said. “More than one man, really. They have a picture of you, and they say you are the Chosen Swordsman, and that they have come to take you to the Wizard Lord by force.”

  “They have what? A picture?” As the words left his mouth he realized that he had, by his choice of questions, effectively admitted that he was the Swordsman. He tucked his boots under one arm.

  “And they knew your name.”

  Sword was out of the bed now, standing over the ladder where Dal perched. “Did they?”

  “Erren Zal Tuyo. Yes. Is that truly your name?”

  “Yes,” Sword said. “I would not give a false name to your ler.”

  “They say you went mad, and killed a dozen people in Winterhome.”

  “I don’t think I was mad,” Sword said mildly.

  Dal blinked up at him and swallowed again. “You did kill . . . ?”

  “I killed soldiers, who ha
d just slaughtered two unarmed and defenseless friends of mine, two of the Chosen. Yes. But I swore I would not strike a hostile blow in Morning Calm, and I hope to keep that oath. Besides, I have no sword with me.”

  “You can’t stay here,” Dal said, obviously in great distress. “You must leave now.”

  “I take it your ler do not have the concept of sanctuary.”

  “I don’t know that word.”

  Sword nodded. “Then get out of my way, and I will leave as quickly as I can.”

  “You’ll let those men take you?” Dal said, as he backed slowly down the ladder.

  “Of course not,” Sword said. “But I’ll leave Morning Calm; I don’t want to cause your people any trouble.”

  “But they’re waiting for you at the boundary shrine!”

  “Then let them wait. I’ll depart on the other side.”

  “But. . . but they came . . . they want…” Dal reached the bottom of the ladder and stepped aside, and Sword half-climbed, half-slid down beside him.

  “You know something, Dal?” Sword said. “I don’t care what they want. I have a role to play as the Chosen Swordsman, and I intend to play it. Now, which way are they?”

  “On the Riversedge road.” He pointed.

  “Then I’ll go that way.” Sword nodded in the opposite direction. “Is there a road toward the southern hills?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Then that’s where I’ll go.” He leaned against the ladder and began tugging on his boot.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll go tell them,” Dal said, backing away.

  “Wait,” Sword said. A thought had struck him, along with the realization that he had left his sword somewhere to the northeast of town, not to the south. “Could you tell me something first?”

  “What?”

  “What do the ler of Morning Calm do to oathbreakers?”

  “Ah . . . they say that if they do not repent, the earth itself devours them. But I’ve never seen it happen—no one ever . . . ” He stopped. “Are you going to break your oath?”

  “Not if I can avoid it, no. But I think your other guests might.” The first boot was secure, and he pulled at the second.

  “They haven’t taken any oath. That’s why they’re still waiting at the shrine.”

  “Even better. What do your ler do to invaders?”

  “I don’t know; it’s a matter of whim, I think. They decide on something appropriate.”

  Sword nodded, as his heel slid into place. He straightened up. “Let’s see what happens, then.” He strode toward the door, and the Riversedge road.

  Dal hurried after him.

  When Sword stepped out into the street it seemed as if half the town was waiting for him, chattering quietly among themselves. At his appearance they suddenly fell silent, and a hundred eyes turned to stare at him.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I understand you have more visitors?”

  The silence burst into dozens of voices answering at once, while a score of hands pointed to the north.

  “They brought us your picture!” someone shouted, holding up a sheet of paper.

  “May I see it?” Sword asked.

  He glanced up the street as he accepted the paper, and saw more villagers—mostly children—running one way or the other, presumably hurrying from one stranger to the other. Then he looked at the paper.

  The drawing was not the best he had ever seen, by any means, but it did look like him, more or less. There was text, as well.

  “This is Erren Zal Tuyo, called the world’s greatest swordsman, one of the so-called Chosen Defenders of Barokan. He has betrayed Barokan and committed numerous murders,” he read aloud. “If you see him, inform the Wizard Lord’s staff at once.” He handed the paper back. “Thank you. Have you informed the Wizard Lord’s men?”

  Once again, several people spoke at once.

  Sword held up a hand. “Good people of Morning Calm!” he called. “Listen to me!”

  The crowd quieted, and those who had been moving slowed and stopped.

  “I am the world’s greatest swordsman, one of the Chosen!” he announced. “It is my duty to depose the Wizard Lord if he turns to evil. Recently, all eight of the Chosen gathered in Winterhome to discuss the Wizard Lord’s actions of the last two years—the Wizard Lord had killed several wizards, allowed the weather to go uncontrolled, and otherwise interfered with Barokan’s traditions. We had not yet reached any decision when the Wizard Lord, fearing for his life, sent his men to attack us, taking the Leader and the Scholar prisoner, and butchering the Seer and the Speaker in the street. The rest of us scattered and fled, and I found my way here—and I am grateful that the ler guided my steps, for Morning Calm has been kind to me. Your laws have kept my pursuers from dragging me from my bed by force. Thank you, all of you, and my thanks to the ler of Morning Calm.”

  There was a brief babble, but Sword raised his hands for silence and continued.

  “I do not want to bring violence into your home. I wish no one ill. I am going to go speak to the Wizard Lord’s men, and I hope we will be able to reach a peaceful understanding. I do not want any of you to get caught up in our dispute, but I do ask one more kindness of you all. If I find it necessary to flee, do not block my path. I will not try to shelter here, but will pass through Morning Calm. If I am pursued, then let my pursuers pass, as well. There is no need for you to be involved.”

  He lowered his hands.

  “Now, let me go meet my pursuers.” He started walking.

  The crowd parted before him, and he marched up the street.

  As he had been told, soldiers were standing by the boundary shrine. He had expected two or three, from Dai’s description, and was startled to see at least half a dozen men in the familiar red-and-black uniforms. There were also three or four citizens of Morning Calm.

  Someone pointed, and a moment later the entire group by the shrine was watching him approach. One of the soldiers lifted his spear, but another gestured, and he lowered it again.

  “Are you surrendering peacefully?” the soldier who had gestured called, as Sword drew near.

  “No,” Sword replied. “I am not surrendering. I am coming to tell you to go away and leave me alone.” He stopped, still more than twenty feet away.

  “The Wizard Lord has told us to bring you to him if we find you. He said he would prefer you alive, but dead would do. Going back and telling him we found you and let you go would not be pleasant.”

  “I’m sure that going with you would not be pleasant for me.”

  “You should have thought of that before you killed those people.”

  “They should have known better than to kill two of the Chosen.”

  “The Chosen?” The soldier spat on the ground. “A band of murderers the lesser wizards use to keep the Wizard Lord from accomplishing anything!”

  Sword tilted his head slightly. The soldier, he saw, was young, younger than he was. “I have never before heard us described that way,” he said. “But I can see how you might think that.”

  “What else are you? ‘Protectors of Barokan,’ bah! What are you protecting anyone from? Roads and jobs and trade and travel?”

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Stoneslope?”

  “I’ve heard the story,” the man admitted. “But no one’s ever seen this supposed massacre site, this village the Lord of the Galbek Hills supposedly destroyed.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Sword said mildly.

  “So you say. Do you know what I think, Swordsman? I think you made it up, and convinced the others somehow. I think you like killing people. No one had any problems with the Wizard Lords until you replaced the old Swordsman.”

  “I think you’re a fool, to tell me that,” Sword answered. “If you had cajoled me, apologized to me, told me you were sure it was a misunderstanding—but no, you tell me to my face you consider me a murderous monster. Did you think I would be shamed into surrendering when you told me my crimes?”

  “I think
we are six to your one, and that you have no weapon. The townspeople assure me you brought no sword past the boundary shrine, while we have our spears. What does it matter what we say? We’ll take you back with us whether you like it or not.”

  “Will you? How?”

  “By force.” With that, he beckoned to his men. “Come on.”

  The entire party lowered their spears into thrusting position, and began marching toward Sword.

  “No! No! Stop!” a man from Morning Calm shouted, holding up his hands, but the soldiers brushed him aside.

  He didn’t resist; the laws of Morning Calm forbade violence.

  Sword watched the men coming toward him for two steps, three—and then he turned and ran, back toward the center of the town.

  As he had expected, the soldiers ran after him, shouting, spears at the ready.

  He did not look back, but simply ran.

  Until he heard the shouts change from the enthusiasm of pursuit to puzzlement, then protest. He stopped, and turned.

  The soldiers were no longer running; instead they were sunk up to the knee in the earth of the street, earth that had been packed hard and dry when Sword ran across it a moment earlier. Now it was still dry, but flowing and churning like mud. As Sword turned to look at them, one of the men started screaming, and flung away his spear.

  The earth around his legs slowed, and then came to stop, returning to its natural inert state.

  Most of his companions, as if in response, also began screaming. Sword watched as they struggled futilely against the ground’s grip.

  The ler of a town were not the wild, disorganized spirits found out in the forests; they were spirits that had been woven together into a great cooperative network, spirits that had learned to pool their strength to serve their people, spirits that had been strengthened by centuries of human support. In some places they could stop a wizard’s feet from touching the ground, while in others they could suck down invaders. It was never, ever wise to antagonize an entire town’s ler.