The Unwilling Warlord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Why should we say it?” Zander asked.

  “In case you get lost,” Sterren explained.

  The concept of “getting lost” was not one Zander, born and raised on an open plain, thought of the same way a city boy like Sterren did, but looking at the maze of streets Zander saw the sense in it. He said, “Oh.”

  “Tea Wharves,” Sterren repeated. “Try it.”

  Zander struggled to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar syllables. The resulting mess was not recognizable.

  “Bern?” Sterren asked.

  “Tea Wharves,” Bern said, in accented but perfectly intelligible Ethsharitic. Sterren peered at him suspiciously.

  “You don’t speak Ethsharitic, do you?”

  “No, my lord,” Bern replied.

  “Zander, try it again. Tea Wharves.”

  Zander managed to produce something almost adequate this time.

  “Good enough, I suppose. Work on it while you’re hunting for your comrades.”

  Zander nodded; Bern didn’t bother. Together, they turned and marched back into the market crowd.

  Sterren watched them go, neither knowing nor caring whether he would ever see either of them again.

  He had gotten rid of four of his seven unwanted companions, he thought; he was more than halfway to freedom!

  “This way,” he said, leading the way to the Golden Dragon.

  The tavern was less than half full, and they found a table readily, not far from the door. Sterren, after some consideration, decided that neither facing the door nor sitting with his back to it would be best for slipping away; he sat with his right side toward the door, his back to the open room.

  Lady Kalira sat opposite him, against a wall; Alder took the chair to his right, back to the door, and Dogal to his left, facing the door. The warlock sat between Alder and Lady Kalira, the wizard between Dogal and Lady Kalira.

  Sterren took the opportunity for a look at his two recruits.

  Both were thin, but the wizard’s slenderness appeared to be due to borderline malnutrition, while the warlock was simply built that way. The wizard wore her hair in long black ringlets that trailed halfway down her back, and even in her present tattered and dirty condition they were still showed signs of having been combed not too long ago. Her face was rather drawn, her eyes brown and anxious; if she were clean, smiling, and better-fed, Sterren thought, she would be attractive, possibly even beautiful.

  She sniffled, and dabbed at her nose with a stained cuff.

  The warlock was clean and looked as if he was as well-fed as he cared to be, but he was definitely not smiling. His lined, narrow face was fixed and expressionless, his mouth a thin line, his pale green eyes unreadable. His hair, black with the first traces of grey, was cut short, barely covering his ears. Sterren guessed him to be over forty; how much over he had no idea. He might have been handsome once, but now, Sterren thought, he was merely striking.

  As soon as they were seated, even before the serving maid could reach them, the warlock said, “I notice that in an hour’s speech, you never once specified the nature of the employment you offered.”

  Caught off-guard, Sterren agreed, “I suppose I didn’t.”

  The wizard was staring hungrily at the approaching tavern girl, and Sterren used that as an excuse to change the subject. “My lady,” he said in Semmat, “what shall we have, and at whose expense?”

  “You brought us here,” Lady Kalira said, “you pay for it. You wanted dinner, we’ll have dinner. What was the man in black saying?”

  “He asked a question about our offer. Wine with your meal?”

  Lady Kalira nodded.

  Sterren glanced at each of the remaining soldiers in turn, and each nodded. “Wine would be welcome,” Alder said.

  Sterren nodded back, then switched to Ethsharitic and asked the wizard, “Would you like wine with dinner?”

  The serving maid had reached the table, heard this final question, and saw the wizard’s nod.

  “We have several fine vintages,” she said. Her tone made it a question.

  Sterren said, in Ethsharitic, “The three barbarians wouldn’t appreciate it, and I can’t afford it, so I do hope my two guests will forgive me if we have the regular house wine, and whatever you have for the house dinner tonight, rather than anything special. That’s for all six of us, unless ...?”

  He looked questioningly at the warlock, who made a small gesture of acquiescence with one hand. The wizard said, “That would be fine.”

  The tavern girl departed.

  “The nature of this proposed employment?” the warlock said.

  Sterren had carefully avoided being specific in his marketplace spiel, for fear of frightening off prospects, but he realized that the time for prevarication was past.

  He sighed. “I’m the hereditary warlord of one of the Small Kingdoms, a little place in the far south called Semma. I didn’t want the job, but I’m stuck with it. Semma is on the verge of war with two larger neighbors, and we’re doomed. The army is absolutely pitiful and badly outnumbered. We don’t stand a chance unless we cheat. In the Small Kingdoms, at least in Semma’s neighborhood, they don’t use magic in their wars; it’s considered dishonorable or something—it’s cheating. Well, I’m ready to cheat, because otherwise I’ll be killed for losing. So I’m here looking for magicians who can help us win this war. It shouldn’t take much, since there’s so little magic there and the soldiers will never have fought against magicians before.” He looked at the warlock, hoping that he wouldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand.

  “A war?” The warlock’s tone was calm and considering.

  Sterren nodded, encouraged that the warlock had not rejected the idea out of hand. He glanced at the wizard.

  She had hardly listened; her attention was on the door to the kitchen. It was an interesting door, with the skull of a small dragon mounted so as to form the top of the frame and the dragon’s lower jaw serving as a door-handle, but Sterren suspected the poor young woman was far more interested in what would be coming through that door than in the decor that gave the tavern its name.

  The wizard caught his eye, and turned back to him.

  “I don’t care what the job is,” she said, sniffing and brushing a stray ringlet back over her shoulder. “If it won’t get me killed outright and you pay in gold, I’ll take it.” She hesitated, then wiped her nose and asked, “It won’t get me killed outright, will it?”

  “I certainly hope not,” Sterren said. “If we win, it won’t, but if we lose, you’ll probably have to flee for your lives.” He shrugged. “Fleeing shouldn’t be difficult; it’s wide-open country, and the kingdoms are so small it should be easy to get safely across a border before they can catch you.”

  The warlock nodded. “You say Semma is far to the south?”

  Sterren nodded again. “About as far to the southeast as you can get, really; from the castle’s highest tower you can see the edge of the World, on a clear day. I’ve seen it myself.” He stared at the warlock, a suspicion growing in the back of his mind.

  He had not really had time to consider his two prospective employees, but now he did.

  Warlockry was virtually unknown in Semma. He had no way of knowing for certain whether it would work there at all, and he was quite sure it would be far less effective than it was in Ethshar. A warlock, therefore, would not be his preferred sort of magician.

  On the other hand, this particular warlock seemed very interested in going south.

  Sterren could guess what that meant. This particular warlock probably wanted to get as far away from Aldagmor and the Power’s Source as he could. He might have already had the first warning nightmares that meant he had pushed his warlockry to dangerous levels.

  Warlockry, as Sterren knew from his aborted apprenticeship, drew its power from a mysterious Source located somewhere in the Aldagmor region, a mountainous area far to the north of Ethshar, on the edge of the Baronies of Sardiron. A warlock’s power varied as the inverse squar
e of the distance from this thing. A warlock’s power also increased with use; every spell a warlock cast made the next one a shade easier. Most magic worked that way, of course; most skills of any kind did. The effect was rather extreme with warlockry, however, because warlockry, unlike all other magic, also directly counteracted fatigue; magic not only didn’t tire a warlock, it revivified him, without limit.

  Except that there was a limit. When a warlock’s power reached a certain level, he began to have nightmares. From then on, every further use of warlockry caused more and worse nightmares, which could make life virtually unbearable.

  Eventually an afflicted warlock wouldn’t even need to be asleep to suffer these hideous visions, and in the end, every warlock ever known to have reached this point had died or vanished. Those who did not commit suicide were often seen wandering north, toward Aldagmor, usually flying—but then were never seen again.

  This was known as the Calling, because that was what the nightmares seemed to be—a horrible, supernatural summons of some kind that would draw a warlock either to Aldagmor or death—or both.

  What most warlocks did when the first nightmare hit was to move south or west, further from Aldagmor, and give up warlockry for good. The smarter ones would have been charging exorbitant fees in anticipation of this, and could to retire in comfort.

  Sterren guessed that this warlock had pushed his luck, and had had considerably more than one nightmare, so that he was now desperate to get as far from Aldagmor as possible, as quickly as possible.

  Whatever his reasons, the warlock might be either a great stroke of luck or utterly worthless, depending on just what power did remain to him in Semma, so very far from Aldagmor.

  Bringing him along would be a gamble, but after all, Sterren had always been a gambler.

  If any warlock could be of help in Semma, one already touched by nightmare, on the verge of the Calling, would surely be most likely. The Calling only came when warlocks reached the height of their power. In fact, one theory was that the Calling was something the gods used to remove warlocks who were becoming too powerful, who might damage the gods’ plan for the World.

  A lesser warlock would not be worth bothering with, but a really powerful one might be. He would surely be greatly weakened, but he would also be something that nobody in Ophkar or Ksinallion would ever have seen before.

  “Nightmares?” Sterren asked quietly.

  For the first time since Sterren had first seen him in the market, the warlock’s calm expression changed; he let a flicker of surprise at Sterren’s knowledge show. Then, slowly, he nodded.

  Sterren smiled slightly. He knew that the Calling gave the warlock reasons for coming south far more important than a pound of gold.

  That meant he would probably work cheap, far cheaper than his level of power might otherwise justify.

  “You’ll be coming, then?” Sterren asked.

  The warlock nodded again.

  Sterren turned to the wizard. “And you?”

  “What’s the pay, exactly? Are meals included?” Her voice shook a little. She looked at Sterren as she wiped her nose on her sleeve again.

  The serving maid chose that moment to return with a tray holding six plates of stewed vegetables, tainted with only the smallest trace of mutton. A bottle of red wine and half a dozen stacked mugs were included, as well.

  Sterren and the two Semman soldiers distributed the plates, while the warlock sent the cups floating through the air to the appropriate places. At a gesture, the cork sprang from the bottle’s neck, and the bottle then settled itself in front of Lady Kalira.

  Startled, she picked it up, and only after a moment’s hesitation did she begin pouring.

  Sterren threw the warlock a puzzled glance. If he had reached the threshold of nightmare, didn’t he realize that every additional use of warlockry would increase his danger? At least, that was what Sterren’s master, Bergan the Warlock, had said.

  The warlock saw the look, and smiled slightly. “In honor of our imminent departure for more southerly climes,” he said, raising his cup as if in a toast.

  The others probably thought it was just a toast, but Sterren knew what the warlock meant. After keeping his magic in check—for hours, days, sixnights, even months?—he was allowing himself a little freedom, secure in the knowledge that he would soon be sailing away from whatever waited in the mountains and valleys of Aldagmor.

  Sterren put that out of his mind and turned to the wizard. “The pay,” he explained, “will include meals, and a hammock aboard ship, and a room in Semma Castle—possibly shared with others, but a bed of your own, at any rate. You’ll need to learn some Semmat, I’m afraid; virtually nobody there speaks a word of Ethsharitic. If we win our war, then the magicians involved, as a group, will be paid ten rounds of gold, and a dozen choice gems—I can show them to you later, if you like, but not in a tavern like this. How this payment is to be divided up is yet to be determined; either the magicians can decide amongst themselves, or King Phenvel can divide it up as he deems appropriate. Would that suit you?”

  She nodded, sniffling.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, just what magic do you know?” Sterren inquired. Obviously, she knew no spells to keep a cold away.

  “Wizardry, of course,” she said.

  That was no surprise, but Sterren knew well that wizards came in a wide range of skills and power. “Much wizardry?” he asked.

  “Well...” She hesitated, then admitted what her soiled clothes and empty belly had already made obvious. “No, not really. A few spells.”

  “Not just tricks, though, I hope,” Sterren said, knowing he was prodding her on what was surely a sensitive subject.

  “No, real spells!” she snapped. “I am Annara of Crookwall, and I am a full journeyman in the Wizards’ Guild. I served my six years as apprentice, and I learned what my master could teach me!”

  Her flash of pride vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. “That wasn’t much, though,” she admitted, nervously tugging her hair back from her face.

  That was no surprise. Sterren nodded and poured himself wine.

  As they ate, the warlock and the three Semmans said nothing, while Sterren and Annara made polite small talk. Sterren inquired about her upbringing in Crookwall, while she, in turn, asked about Semma, and was surprised to learn that he was a native of Westgate, rather than someplace more exotic.

  After the meal had been consumed, Sterren leaned back in his chair and looked across at Lady Kalira as he tried to decide what to do next.

  “Well, my lord,” Lady Kalira said, seeing his attention focused on her, “you have two magicians here, do you not?”

  Sterren nodded.

  “Is that sufficient, then?”

  Sterren guessed at what the Semmat word for “sufficient” meant. He glanced at Annara, who would give no details of her abilities beyond admitting to “a few spells,” and then at the warlock, who had as yet given no name, who might well be totally powerless in Semma.

  “No,” he replied immediately, before even considering his own hopes for escape. “These two may help, but neither of them can provide any assurance of winning.”

  “Then you plan to try to recruit more?”

  Sterren nodded.

  “My lord, are you sure you have no other intentions?”

  He picked up her phrase to ask, “What other intentions might I have?” He eyed her cautiously.

  “Delay, perhaps.”

  “Baguir?” He did not recognize the word. He guessed it to be something like “escape,” but could not be certain. “What’s baguir?”

  “To put off, to stall, to hold back, to go slowly; I don’t know the Ethsharitic.”

  That was not the reply Sterren had feared and expected. “Delay?” he asked. “Why should I want to delay?”

  “I would not know, my lord, but your refusal to purchase any magical assistance in sailing hither, and your insistence that two magicians are not enough, would seem to imply that you ar
e certainly in no hurry about this foolish, disreputable business.”

  He picked up her phrase again, without any very clear idea what it meant, save that it had a strong negative connotation. “This disreputable business may save Semma, my lady.”

  “Not if you continue to delay.”

  “I’m not delaying! Why should I?”

  “Well, my lord, it has occurred to me, in my more cynical moments, that if you can stretch your visit to this, your homeland, long enough, perhaps the war in Semma will be fought and lost before our return, and you can retire to a comfortable exile here.”

  Sterren stared at her. That possibility had never occurred to him.

  A very tempting possibility it was, too.

  He glanced quickly to either side, at the two other Semmans, the only ones in the tavern who could understand this Semmat conversation.

  Alder looked seriously upset; Dogal was calmer, but eyeing Sterren suspiciously.

  “I am not delaying,” Sterren insisted.

  “Then tell me, my lord, just how much longer we must remain here, and how many magicians you think to find.”

  “My lady Kalira, I’ve only just started! One hour in a ... in one market is nothing! If we could find one magician I could be sure was powerful enough, that would be all we need; without that one, I think half a dozen might serve. To find the right ones, though—I have no way of knowing how long it will be!”

  Lady Kalira sighed. “My lord Sterren, let us speak frankly,” she said. “You know that despite your rank, I was sent here as your gaoler, to make sure that you did, in fact, return to Semma before the spring, when invasion is all but certain.”

  Sterren noticed Alder turn to stare at Lady Kalira as she said this; he had obviously not realized either that Sterren was still under suspicion by anyone but Dogal and himself, nor that an invasion was imminent.

  “You have managed to lose four of the six men set to guard you, though I am not sure how...”