The Ninth Talisman

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  These soldiers had just discovered that.

  Those who threw aside their weapons and held up empty hands found that the unnatural seething of the earth stopped, but by this time all were sunk so deeply that they could not immediately free themselves; instead they stood trapped in solid ground, the first to disarm himself buried to just above the ankle, the others to the knee or worse. The screaming stopped, and they stood in embarrassed silence.

  Sword thought that most of them could have pulled themselves free with little effort, but they did not. Perhaps, Sword thought, they were too frightened.

  The commander continued to thrash about, refusing to relinquish his spear, well after the others had surrendered. Sword watched him in horrified amazement as he struggled, sinking steadily deeper, and his men, as well, apparently forgot their own situation and stared silently.

  Dozens of townspeople gathered to watch, as well, forming a large oval around Sword and the soldiers.

  The commander churned at the dirt, clearly trying to find purchase somewhere, but only sank more quickly; the earth rose to his waist, his chest, his shoulders. Only when a wild swimming motion threw a clump of dirt into his mouth did he finally yield.

  “All right!” he screamed. “All right!” He awkwardly tossed his spear away, almost hitting a villager.

  Silence fell. The six soldiers stayed where they were, trapped by the earth on which Morning Calm stood; the people of Morning Calm stood around them, watching the drama unfold, and did not approach.

  Sword took a step or two toward his disarmed foes, then stopped and addressed them.

  “I will go now,” he said. “I am going to retrieve my sword from its hiding place in the wilderness. While I’m sure you can dig your way out, and perhaps even recover your spears after swearing to leave, I would advise you not to attempt to pursue me. I won’t be using the roads, and the ler of the wilderness will be no fonder of you than are the ler here. Remember also that the Archer and I took on perhaps a hundred of the Wizard Lord’s men in the streets of Winterhome, and left the streets soaked in blood while we emerged unharmed.”

  “Ah! Monster!” the commander shrieked.

  “I am a part of the magical structure of Barokan,” Sword said. “Much like the ler of the earth beneath you.”

  That elicited a wordless bellow of rage.

  Sword bowed politely, then turned and bowed again to the townspeople. “Thank you all for your hospitality,” he said. “I apologize for any discomfort I may have caused.”

  With that, he strolled jauntily northward.

  Behind him, he could hear people calling for the temple dancers, and the sound of girls’ feet running, but he did not look back. He marched on, out of Morning Calm. As he passed the boundary shrine he could hear singing far behind him; he stopped to listen, and to read the inscription on the shrine.

  “Traveler, ring the bell and stay close, and do not speak until we greet you,” it said. “Let us bring you into Morning Calm in accordance with our ways. Our land does not welcome those who pass this point unheralded.”

  The message was repeated in several different scripts and dialects; no one literate could say he had not been warned. Sword glanced back.

  The dancers were still singing, but one of the townsmen had fetched a shovel from somewhere, and held it on his shoulder, waiting until the oaths had been made.

  Sword smiled, then turned northward and marched on. He found his sword where he had left it, and set off cross-country, well away from the road.

  At first he had no particular destination in mind, but as he walked he thought.

  If he was sending pictures and soldiers out to every village in the area, the Wizard Lord was clearly determined not to leave any of the Chosen alive and free—certainly not the two weapon masters, Sword and Bow. He was also clearly not relying solely on magic to find them; he knew about the ara feathers that hid them. He was using his loyal followers to search.

  That meant that Sword could not simply wander from town to town until he got so far away he would be safe, as he had thought. The pictures would circulate, and people would recognize him. Sooner or later someone would report his whereabouts, and the Wizard Lord’s troops would come for him. Oh, if he traveled far enough beyond the network of roads it might take years, but it would still happen.

  At least he did not need to worry about being found by magic, not with the Seer dead.

  Or rather, he did not need to worry about being located directly. Once Artil had some hint of the area where Sword might be found, he could send birds and beasts to spy on Sword, and to guide his soldiers to wherever Sword might hide.

  When that happened Sword might be able to fight his way free—but he did not want to fight his way free. He did not want to kill anyone else except Artil im Salthir himself, and perhaps Farash inith Kerra. Even if he didn’t mind killing soldiers, while he was fairly sure of his own ability to avoid harming innocents in a battle with the Wizard Lord’s men, the chances that some poor villager would catch a spear through the chest were far too high to risk.

  At best, then, he would either find himself fleeing over and over again as his hiding places were discovered, or he would find a new home where the natives would take him in and protect him, and when the information finally leaked—as it inevitably would—the Wizard Lord might well slaughter them all in retaliation.

  He hated the fact that he could not only imagine such a possibility, but think it likely. Once upon a time the idea would never have occurred to him, but then he saw what the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills did to Stoneslope, leaving nothing but ruins and bones.

  Once upon a time he would not have thought Artil im Salthir capable of such an atrocity, but then he found him taking Farash’s advice, heard him boast of killing eleven wizards, and saw Babble and Azir cut to pieces in the street in Winterhome.

  He could not live among people. Even if none of them betrayed him, either deliberately or accidentally, he would be putting innocents at risk.

  Wandering the wilderness was not appealing, either. He was a barley farmer by heritage, not a guide. He didn’t know how to find food or shelter in the wild spaces outside the towns.

  Eliminating towns and wilderness eliminated all of Barokan.

  Which meant he would have to leave Barokan.

  He shuddered at that, but forced himself to pursue that line of thought. There were two—no, perhaps three—ways to do that. He could scale the cliffs to the Uplands, or take ship and set out to sea in hope of finding some unknown land. Or, just possibly, there might be a way around the cliffs in the swamps far, far to the south; there were legends of such a route.

  He knew nothing of the southern swamps, though. He knew the hills extended for at least a month’s travel from the Midlands, and there were said to be lowlands between the hills and the swamps. Surviving so long a journey in hope of finding a way into some alien, unknown land—no, he did not think he would try that.

  Nor was a ship a promising alternative. He had never even been on a real boat, only barges, and only while they were securely tied up. He had never seen the sea, never tasted salt water. And if there were other lands out there beyond the sea, wouldn’t someone have found them by now? A ship blown off course in a storm, a fisherman venturing farther than usual—wouldn’t at least a distant sighting have been reported, and legends handed down? Sword had never heard any such legend.

  That left the Uplands.

  For three seasons of the year that seemed reasonable enough; the Uplanders thrived, after all. The ara flocks provided their food, and their tents were adequate shelter. . . .

  For three seasons out of four.

  In winter, though, the Uplanders took shelter in Winterhome, safe below the cliffs in Barokan. They did not try to survive the winter storms on the plateau.

  Which meant, Sword told himself, that the Wizard Lord would never expect anyone else to attempt to survive the winter up there.

  Sword looked up to the east, at the distant l
ine of cliffs standing there on the edge of the Barokanese world, and at the white clouds skimming above them, blowing across the sky.

  No one sane would go up there to escape the Wizard Lord. It meant slipping back into Winterhome, somehow getting through the gate in the Winter Palace, and making his way up that long, winding path undetected. It meant surviving alone in that vast open country up there through cold and wind and snow and storms that the Uplanders did not dare to face. It meant giving up the magic that made him the world’s greatest swordsman, the magic that bound him to Barokan, and living with his soul cut off from the spirits that made him whole.

  No one sane would try it, but Sword no longer felt sane. The sanity of his old life had been washed away in Artil’s schemes and Azir’s blood.

  No one would expect him to attempt it. It was the last place anyone would look.

  And that meant that when the Wizard Lord returned to the Summer Palace next year, he would not expect to find his enemy waiting in ambush for him. An enemy with no magic, true, but an enemy who had eight years of daily practice with a blade.

  Sword had no idea how he would survive the Upland winter, no idea how he would kill the Wizard Lord without magic to help him, no idea what he would eat or drink up there, but he knew, even as he pretended to debate with himself, that he had already decided. He would find a way, or he would die trying.

  He glanced back over his shoulder at Morning Calm, then turned his steps to the east and began the long walk back toward Winterhome.

  [ EPILOGUE ]

  THE BALLAD OF THE CHOSEN

  (as sung by the children in Winterhome Market)

  When day turned dark and shadows fell

  Across the broken lands

  And madness turned to taloned claws

  Those ancient evil hands

  Then eight were called by whims of fate

  To save us from our doom;

  The Chosen came to guard us all

  And lay evil in its tomb

  [chorus] When Wizard Lords of old would turn

  Against the common man

  These Chosen eight would bring them down,

  Bring peace to Barokan!

  The Leader showed his bold resolve

  Confronted every foe

  His words would guide the Chosen as

  He told them how to go

  The Seer sought her comrades out

  And gathered them to fight

  Nor could their foeman hide from her; She had the second sight

  [chorus]

  The Swordsman’s blade was swift and sure

  His skill was unsurpassed

  If any stood against him, then

  That stand would be his last

  A lovely face the Beauty had,

  And shapely legs and arms

  She distracted evil men

  And lured them with her charms

  [chorus]

  There was no lock nor guarded door

  That could stop the Thief

  He could pierce the fortress dark

  To bring the land relief

  Every song and story told,

  The Scholar knew them all

  He knew the wizard’s weaknesses

  To hasten evil’s fall

  [chorus]

  The Archer’s missiles never missed;

  His arrows found their mark

  He struck at evil from afar

  To drive away the dark

  The Speaker harked to every tongue,

  Of stone and beast and man

  She found the Dark Lord’s secrets out So no defense could stand

  [chorus]

  When in the Galbek Hills there was

  A monster come in human shape

  The Swordsman struck the evil down

  To save the land from magic rape

  And thus the last of evil’s spawn

  Was driven out of Barokan

  Never more will madness come

  To trouble Barokan

  [chorus]

  And now a worthy man has come

  To keep and rule the land

  And bring us all a better world

  Safe from evil’s hand

  The Chosen we shall need no more

  Their long service now is past

  A better way to keep the peace

  The Wizard Lord has found at last

  Our Wizard Lord will never turn

  Against the common man

  The Chosen eight no longer need

  Bring peace to Barokan—

  Yes, the Wizard Lord has now

  Brought peace to Barokan!