The Unwilling Warlord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Sterren, who up to that point had been more or less sober, had proceeded to finish the bottle, and a second one as well.

  He had no desire to die, but he was beginning to run out of alternatives. He still saw no way to escape from Semma; his door was always guarded, as was the castle gate, and any time he set foot outside at least one soldier accompanied him. He had not tried ordering his escort away; it seemed pointless.

  Even if he did lose an escort and make a dash for it, he would probably be caught and brought back long before he could reach Akalla of the Diamond and get out to sea—and that was assuming he could find Akalla despite the lack of roads, maps, guides, and landmarks.

  Chances of escaping back to Ethshar looked slim, and a failed escape attempt would mean execution for treason. That made it too dangerous to risk.

  If he stayed, however, he would wind up leading his pitiful army into battle and inevitably being defeated. If he survived the battle, which was certain to be a rout and probably a bloodbath, he would still be executed by the victors.

  He could not imagine any strategem whereby he could win, with his ninety-six men against more than four hundred. A purely defensive war would take longer, perhaps—the castle could probably hold off the invaders for a month or two, at least—but a long siege would not put the enemy in a very favorable frame of mind, and Semma had no friends who might come to lift a siege, nor much hope of outlasting the foe.

  Sterren wished he had some way of coaxing his native Ethshar into aiding Semma; Azrad’s ten thousand guardsmen would make short work of these silly little armies that the Small Kingdoms fielded.

  When Azrad VII had come to power a little over a year before, however, he had inherited from his father, Azrad VI, a long-standing policy handed down in unbroken line from Azrad I against interfering in the internal squabbling of the Small Kingdoms. On the rare occasions when an army from Lamum or Perga or some other little principality had strayed across the border into the Hegemony it had been quickly obliterated, but Ethsharitic troops were never, ever, sent into the Small Kingdoms themselves.

  Sterren leaned against the whitewashed stone wall of the barracks and told himself that he needed a miracle.

  Well, he replied silently, every Ethsharite knows that miracles are available, if one can pay for them.

  Miracles were available in Ethshar, though, in the Wizards’ Quarter, not in Semma.

  The only magician of any sort that the royal family put any trust in was Agor, the castle’s resident theurgist. Other than a glimpse or two of that rather confused and confusing fellow, Sterren had not as yet encountered a single magician worthy of the name during his stay in the Small Kingdoms.

  He hadn’t been able to do much looking, of course; his duties, and his desperate attempts to train his “army” into something useful, had not left him the free time to go wandering about investigating village herbalists and the like.

  It was always possible that some eccentric hermit was lurking in a hut somewhere out there, a hermit with sufficient magic to defeat both would-be invaders, but how could Sterren locate him, if he existed?

  Well, how had the Semmans located him, when they needed a warlord?

  They had asked Agor, of course.

  And Agor might actually be quite a good theurgist, for all Sterren knew. He might be all the miracle-worker Sterren needed.

  Sterren glanced again at the dice-players, at the unmade bunks, at swords lying about unsheathed and dropped carelessly anywhere convenient, and decided that it was time he spoke with Agor. He had tried acting like the warlord he was supposed to be, and had gotten nowhere; now, thinking like the Ethsharite he had always been, it was time to call on a magician. When all else fails, hire a magician—that was sound Ethsharitic thinking!

  He turned and marched out the door of the barracks.

  He knew exactly where he was going, for once. Princess Lura had pointed out the theurgist’s door to him a few days earlier. Agor made his home in a small room in one of the smaller towers, far above the barracks, but a level below Sterren’s own more luxurious quarters.

  Sterren stood in the corridor for a minute or two, gathering his courage, before he knocked.

  “Come in,” someone called from within.

  He lifted the latch and stepped in.

  Agor’s chamber was hung with white draperies on every side, covering all four walls. Two narrow windows were left bare, and provided the room’s only light—but given all that white and the sunny weather outside, that was plenty. The chamber smelled of something cloyingly sweet—incense, perhaps? Sterren was unsure.

  A few trunks, painted white and trimmed with silver, stood against the various walls. A plump featherbed, also white, occupied one corner.

  In the center of the room, seated on a greyish sheepskin that had probably been white once, was Agor himself, a rather scrawny fellow of thirty or so, with a pale, narrow face and a worried expression.

  He wore white, of course—white tunic worked with gold, and off-white breeches. His feet were bare. A scroll was unrolled on the floor in front of him.

  “Yes?” he asked, looking at Sterren in puzzlement.

  “I’m Sterren, Ninth Warlord,” Sterren said. “You’re Agor, the theurgist?”

  “Oh, yes, of course, my lord. Yes, I’m Agor. Do come in!” He gestured welcomingly.

  There were no chairs of any description, so Sterren rather hesitantly seated himself on the stone floor, facing the theurgist.

  “So you’re Sterren,” Agor said. “I’m glad to meet you. I take a special interest in you, you know; I was the one who found you.” He smiled uncertainly.

  “I know,” said Sterren, while inwardly wondering just what sort of special interest the other was referring to. After all, in the dozen days since his arrival in the castle, Agor had not bothered to say as much as a single word to him, and had apparently not even bothered to get a look at him, since he had not immediately recognized him.

  He knew he should say more, but found himself unsure how to begin. He knew he wanted a miracle that would keep him from getting killed as a result of the coming war, but he did not know how to ask for it.

  He didn’t really know just what sort of a miracle he wanted. He did not really want anyone to get hurt or killed.

  He was still thinking about this when, after a slightly longer-than-comfortable silence, Agor asked nervously, “What can I do for you, my lord?”

  Sterren resolved to simply present the situation to Agor and then see where the discussion went. Perhaps a way out of his quandary would appear.

  “Well, first, you can promise me that anything I tell you won’t be repeated outside this room,” he replied.

  “If you wish it so, my lord.”

  “I do. Ah ... tell me, have you taken any interest in Semma’s military situation?”

  “No,” the theurgist immediately answered. “Would you like me to?”

  This response caught Sterren off-guard, and his tongue stumbled over his answer.

  “I ... that ... I mean, that’s not...” He paused, caught his breath, and tried again. “What I meant was, are you aware that Semma is in very serious danger?”

  “No,” Agor replied calmly. “Is it?”

  “Yes!” Sterren collected his wits, and continued, “This is what I don’t want you telling anyone. A war with both Ksinallion and Ophkar is coming, and soon. I expect both of them to attack as soon as the mud dries in the spring. And we don’t have a chance of defeating them; we’re outnumbered four to one, and our army is in terrible shape, and I’m the warlord, but I have no idea at all how to run a war, or even how to get these damn soldiers to take it seriously!”

  “Ah,” Agor said, his face blank.

  “Yes,” Sterren said.

  “So you expect to lose a battle? Do you want me to try and get a god’s blessing on our troops, is that it? I don’t suppose that would violate the ban on using magic to fight wars.”

  “No! Or at least, not just that, though I
suppose it couldn’t hurt.” He paused, considering. “Would it really help?”

  “No,” Agor said, without an instant’s hesitation. “I’ve explained this to everybody before, but I suppose you weren’t here. The gods don’t approve of war or fighting, and they won’t have anything to do with it. They don’t take sides.”

  “I don’t approve of it, either! Are you sure they wouldn’t be willing to take into consideration that we’re being attacked, that we don’t want to fight?”

  “It wouldn’t matter. The gods swore off war after they wiped out the Northerners two hundred years ago, and they don’t change their minds easily. Besides...” This time Agor did hesitate, but at length he said, “Besides, can you tell them that we did nothing to provoke an attack?”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “But did anyone?”

  Sterren remembered what Lar had told him about King Phenvel’s behavior. “I suppose so,” he admitted.

  “Then the gods won’t help. At least, not directly.”

  That reminded Sterren of his original intention in visiting Agor. “But they might indirectly?” he asked.

  “Oh, certainly. It might seem odd to a layman, but the fact is, the gods tend to be very careless indeed about the long-term consequences of their actions. You could probably get a great deal of useful advice from them, as long as it’s not overtly military.”

  Locating a powerful wizard would hardly be overtly military, but Sterren decided to check out other possibilities first. He asked, “Could they, perhaps, do something to stop Ophkar and Ksinallion from attacking? Start a plague, or something?”

  Agor was visibly shocked by the suggestion. “A plague? My lord, how can you think such a thing?”

  “Could they?” Sterren persisted.

  “No, of course not! My lord Sterren, I am a theurgist, not a demonologist! The gods are good; they do not do evil. Plagues are the work of demons!”

  Sterren’s cynicism, drummed into him by years on the streets of Ethshar, came surging to the fore. “The gods don’t do evil?” he inquired, sarcastically, remembering that he, himself was in Semma, facing eventual execution, because of a god’s interference.

  “Well,” Agor said, “not directly. Sometimes their actions can have evil consequences, for some...”

  “I would think so!”

  “...but they won’t start a plague, or anything else like that.”

  Sterren considered this.

  Agor was probably right. After all, he was a theurgist, and surely he knew his business. All his life, Sterren had heard from priests and theurgists and even laymen that the gods were benevolent, that they did not approve of any sort of destruction or disorder, that the evil in the World was due to demons or human folly.

  It was probably true.

  Or if not, at least it was probably true that he, Sterren of Ethshar, would be unable to get the gods to take his side in the upcoming war.

  “All right,” he said, “we’ll forget that idea, then.” Another thought popped into his head, though, and he asked, “Might they protect us from the invaders? Stop the war somehow, or at least provide us with what we need to withstand a siege? You say they don’t like war; could they prevent this one?”

  “Excuse me, my lord, but wouldn’t that violate the traditional ban on magical warfare?”

  “What if it did?” Sterren snapped, his frayed temper breaking. “I never agreed to any such ban, and I’ll be killed if we lose this war! I’m no Semman, and I think it’s a stupid tradition.”

  “Ah,” the theurgist said, nodding. “I see.”

  “Does breaking the ban bother you?”

  “Well, not really; it’s none of my business.”

  “Then, can the gods do something to prevent this war?”

  Agor hesitated, and chewed his lower lip for a moment before replying, “Well, maybe...”

  “Maybe?”

  Agor blinked uneasily and shifted on his sheepskin. “Well, actually, my lord, they...” He stopped, visibly unhappy.

  “They what?” Sterren urged.

  “Well, actually, my lord, some of the gods would probably be glad to do that sort of thing, but...”

  “But what?”

  “Well...” Agor took a deep breath, then let it out and admitted, “But I don’t know how to contact them.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sterren stared at the bony theurgist, who stared back miserably.

  “What do you mean, you can’t contact them?” Sterren demanded. “Aren’t you the royal theurgist here?”

  “Yes, my lord, I am.”

  “Are you a fraud, then?”

  “No,” Agor said, with a touch of wounded pride visible through his dismay, “I’m not a fraud; I’m just not a very good theurgist.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “No, I’m not. Ah ... do you know anything about theurgy?”

  “I know as much as most people, I suppose,” Sterren said, glaring.

  “But do you know anything about how it actually works?” Agor persisted.

  “No, of course not!”

  Agor nodded, as if satisfied with Sterren’s answer. “Well, my lord,” he said, “it’s like this. A theurgist is just a person with a natural talent for prayer, who has learned how to pray in such a way that the gods will actually listen.”

  “I know that,” Sterren said sharply.

  “Well, anybody can pray, of course, but the odds are that the gods won’t hear, or won’t answer. Have you ever wondered, my lord, why the gods don’t listen to everybody, but they do listen to theurgists?”

  “No,” Sterren replied flatly. This was not strictly true, but he didn’t care to be sidetracked.

  “Well, it’s because of the prayers we use. We learn them as apprentices, just as other magicians learn their spells. The gods are too busy to listen to everything, but there are certain prayers that catch their attention, just the way certain sounds might catch your ear, even in a noisy place—the rattle of dice, for instance.”

  Sterren realized that Agor really had taken an interest in him; coming up with that particularly appropriate example could not have been a coincidence. His annoyance faded somewhat. “Go on,” he said.

  Agor continued, “Some people are better at some prayers than others. I don’t know why, they just are—just as some people are better at drawing pictures, or singing.”

  Sterren nodded. He knew, first-hand, that some people had a talent for warlockry, while others, like himself, emphatically did not, and he could see no reason other magicks, such as theurgy, should be any different.

  “There are many, many gods, my lord. I only know the names and prayers for nineteen of them; that was all my master knew, and all he could teach me during my apprenticeship. It’s not a bad number, really. Many of the best theurgists only know a dozen or so specific prayers, and I’ve never heard of anyone who knew more than perhaps thirty, unless he was also dabbling in demonology—except we don’t call those prayers, we call them invocations or summonings.”

  “So you can ask nineteen different gods for help, but only those nineteen?”

  “Yes, but really, not even all those. You see, as I said, some people are better at some prayers than others. Some gods are just harder to talk to, too. And I know nineteen names and prayers, but I can’t get all nineteen of them to listen to me. Or at least, I never have. Maybe I learned a syllable wrong somewhere, or maybe they just don’t like me, but I can’t get all of them to listen.”

  Sterren saw where this was leading. “How many do listen to you, then?” he asked.

  “Usually, three,” Agor replied nervously.

  Sterren stared. “Three? Out of nineteen?”

  “I told you I’m not really a very good theurgist,” Agor said defensively.

  “How did you ever wind up as the royal magician, then?”

  “The royal magician to the court of King Phenvel III of Semma? Of Semma, my lord? You’re from Ethshar; you know better. If I were any g
ood, would I still be here?”

  “I suppose not,” Sterren admitted.

  “I was born in Semma, but I ran away from home when I was twelve, and served my apprenticeship in Lumeth of the Towers. I couldn’t make a living there, though, and I didn’t speak anything but Semmat and Lumethan, so when I got tired of starving in Lumeth I came back here, where there wasn’t any real competition. They don’t care if I can only talk to Unniel, Konned, and Morrn, because nobody else here can talk to any of the gods!” A trace of pride had crept into Agor’s voice.

  “Unn ... Who were those, again?”

  “Unniel, Konned, and Morrn. Unniel the Discerning is the goddess of theurgical information, Konned is a god of light and warmth, and Morrn the Preserver is the god of genealogy.”

  “I never heard of any of them,” Sterren said.

  “And how many gods have you heard of by name?”

  “Not many,” Sterren admitted. Laymen virtually never bothered with names, since only theurgists could count on getting a specific deity’s attention. Usually prayers were directed to categories of gods, or just any god who might be listening, to increase the chances of reaching someone.

  Sterren realized he could not name a single god, other than the three Agor had just mentioned—and he didn’t think he could pronounce two of those. Konned was easy enough, but the diphthong in Unniel and the R sound in Morrn were very alien indeed.

  “So, could any of those three help us?” he asked.

  “I don’t see how,” Agor replied. “Morrn is completely useless; all he does is keep track of family trees. If you need to know your great-great grandmother’s childhood epithet, or when your third cousin was born, he can tell you, but that’s it. He’s been very useful to me, since all the nobility of Semma are obsessed with family, but a war is completely out of his area.”