The Book of Taltos (11 page)

I
WAS UNCONSCIOUS FOR
about twenty seconds, near as I can figure it. The side of my face still stung from slapping the floor, as did my right hand.

I awoke slowly, and swirls of black dissipated before me. I know better than to shake my head under such circumstances; my eyes cleared.

Loraan was leaning up against the far wall, staring past me, both his arms raised. I turned my head and saw Morrolan, who seemed to be fighting something invisible that was trying to entangle him. Sparks flashed in the air between them—that is, directly over my head.

I was being rescued. Oh, rapture.

I was about to try to convince my body to function—at least enough to get out from between the two of them—when Loraan gave a kind of cry, struck the wall behind him, bounced, and came careening at me. I would have put a knife into him then and there but he fell on top of me before I could go into action.

This is called “not being in top form.”

Loraan was quite agile, though, especially for a wizard. After landing on me he kept rolling until he ended up in the room with Morrolan, as well as the table, the sword, the staves, and all that stuff. He came smoothly to his feet and faced Morrolan.

There was a bit of confused action lasting maybe ten seconds, including smoke and sparks and fire and loud noises, and when it was over Morrolan had his back to me and Loraan was too far away for any of my goodies to be effective.

Loiosh, who had been so quiet I’d all but forgotten him, said,
“Should we get the staff now?”

Oh, yeah. Right. The staff. What we came for.

I got to my feet, a little surprised that they worked, and moved toward the cube of orange light. I began studying the enchantment on it and muttering curses to myself. I didn’t know what it was or how it had been accomplished, but I could tell it wouldn’t be safe to put my hand in there; I could also tell that breaking it would be
way
over my head. I wondered if Morrolan would be open to taking a job. I turned back to the fight to ask him.

I
WAS ALMOST SIXTEEN
when I decided I was old enough to ignore my grandfather’s advice, and started carrying my rapier. It wasn’t a very good one, but it had a point, an edge, and a guard.

I’d been carrying it for less than a week before I learned that my grandfather was right. I was heading back to the restaurant from the market at the time. On reflection, an Easterner with a sword at his hip carrying a basket full of fish, meat, and vegetables must have looked a bit absurd, but at the time I didn’t think about that.

I heard laughter as I was near the door and saw two kids, roughly my age (taking different growth rates into account), dressed in the livery of the House of the Hawk. They were clearly laughing at me. I scowled at them.

One laughed harder and said, “Think you’re pretty dangerous, don’t you?” I noticed he was also wearing a blade.

I said, “Could be.”

He said, “Want to show me how dangerous?”

I set the basket down and walked into the alley, turned, and drew, my pulse racing. The pair of them walked up to me and the one with the weapon shook his head in mock sadness. He was quite a bit taller than I, and may have had good reason to be confident.

He took his sword in his right hand and a long fighting knife in his left. I noted that he probably wasn’t going to use sorcery, or his left-hand weapon would have been different. My grandfather’s words came back to me, and I put a little more mental emphasis on the word “probably.”

He faced me, full forward, both arms extended, right arm and right leg a bit more. I came into a guard position, presenting only my side, and a look of puzzlement came over his features.

I said, “Get on with it.”

He took a step toward me and began an attack. At that time, I had no idea of just how much of an advantage in speed and technique there was to the Eastern style of fencing. I actually wondered why he was taking such big actions, and wondering prevented me from stop-cutting his exposed forearm. However, I still had time to shift backward, which I did, and his cut missed.

He came at me again, in the same slow, stupid way, and this time I did
put a cut on his arm before pulling back out of the way. He made a sound of some sort and dropped his knife out of line.

His heart was wide open, with absolutely no protection. How could I resist? I nailed him. He gave out a yell, dropped both of his weapons, fell over backward, and began rolling on the ground. Before he hit the ground I was pointing my weapon at his companion, who was staring at me, wide-eyed.

I approached the uninjured one then and, as he stood there, cleaned my blade on his garments, still staring him in the eye. Then I sheathed my rapier and walked out of the alley, picked up my basket, and continued home.

On the way, I decided that my grandfather had certainly known what he was talking about: Wearing a weapon is asking for trouble.

I continued to wear it.

E
VERYONE SHOULD
,
AT LEAST
once, have the chance to witness a fight between two wizards. I’d have preferred to watch this one from more of a distance, though. The air between them seemed to dance, and my eyes had trouble focusing. Loraan held a staff with his right hand, in front of him. The tip of it was glowing with a sort of gold, and images behind the glow were blurred and out of focus. His other hand continually made motions in the air, and sometimes my ears would pop—from what I’m not sure.

I could see that Morrolan was hard-pressed. He had lost whatever advantage he had gained, and was leaning against a wall. There was a black mist in front of him, pushing against something invisible that was trying to get through to him. From thirty feet away I could make out the sweat on his forehead.

Loraan took a step forward. Morrolan raised his hands. The black mist in front of him grew thicker. I recalled an old maxim: Never attack a wizard in his keep. The black mist dissipated completely, and Morrolan seemed to shrink against the wall. Loraan took another step forward and raised his hands. I recalled another old maxim, this one concerning wizards and knives. Loraan’s back was to me now, more or less.

My dagger caught him high on his back next to his backbone, though it didn’t quite hit his spine. He stumbled. Morrolan straightened and took a step forward. He turned to Loraan. Loraan promptly vanished; one of the
fastest teleports I’ve ever seen. Morrolan gestured at him as he was going, and there was a flash of bright light, but I didn’t think it had accomplished anything. I entered the room and approached Morrolan.

He turned to me. “Thank you, Lord Taltos.”

I shrugged. “I can’t figure out how to get the staff out of whatever it is he’s got it in.”

“Okay. Let’s—”

Clang. The door burst open and Dragaerans started pouring through. About a zillion of them, give or take a few. Most of them had the sharp chins and high foreheads of the House of the Dragon, though I thought I saw a Dzur or two. They all wore the red and white of the Athyra. I looked at their broadswords and longswords as I drew my cute little rapier. I sighed.

“No, Vlad,” said Morrolan. “Get the staff. I’ll hold them.”

“But—”

Morrolan drew his sword, which assaulted my mind by its very presence, and the room seemed to darken. I’d known it was Morganti the first time I’d seen it, but he hadn’t actually drawn it in my presence before. Now . . .

Now I suddenly knew it for a Great Weapon, one of the Seventeen. A blade that could break kingdoms. Its metal was as black as its pommel, and its heart was grey. It was small for a longsword, and it seemed to absorb the light from the room. The demons of a thousand years came and sat upon my shoulder, crying, “Run, as you value your soul.”

Our eyes locked for a moment. “I’ll hold them,” he repeated.

I stood there, staring, for perhaps a second, then snapped back. “I can’t get it out of—”

“Right,” he said and glanced around the room. If you’re wondering about the guards during this whole exchange, they were stopped in the doorway, staring at Morrolan’s sword and, I suppose, trying to work up courage to attack. Morrolan’s eyes came to rest on the pedestal on which one end of the golden chain rested, the other end hanging, coiled, in midair.

“Try that,” said Morrolan.

Right. Just the sort of thing I wanted to play with.

I raced over and, trying hard not to think, grabbed the end of the chain near where it touched the pedestal. It wasn’t fastened, coming away easily in my hand, still coiling in midair like a snake about to strike. I crossed over
to the door beyond which was the cell. I paused long enough to look at the tableau of guards and Morrolan. All of their eyes were riveted on that blade.

Perhaps their courage would have failed them and they wouldn’t have attacked, I don’t know. But while they were considering, Morrolan charged. One sweep of that blade and one fell, his body almost cut in half from right shoulder to left hip. Morrolan lunged and took the next through the heart and he screamed. A stream of what I can only describe as black fire came from Morrolan’s left hand and more cries rose.

I turned away, not doubting that he could hold them off—as long as Loraan didn’t show up again.

I hurried to the glowing cube.

The chain looked like it was made of gold links, each link about half an inch long, but as I held it, it seemed much harder than gold. I wished I’d had the time to study it, at least a little. I ran my left hand over it, in a kind of petting motion. It wasn’t held in the air rigidly, so I pushed it down. There was a bit of resistance, then it hung free, like a chain is supposed to. I felt worlds better. I took a moment to reflect and to allow my life to pass before my eyes if it chose to (it didn’t), and then, for lack of any other ideas, struck the chain against the orange glow, bracing myself to take whatever kind of backlash it generated. A light tingling ran up my arm. The glow became a flare and was gone.

A white staff with a rusty star at the end lay on the floor. I swallowed and picked it up. It felt a bit cold, and was perhaps heavier than it ought to have been, but nothing happened to me when I touched it. I turned, holding my trophies, toward the sounds of mayhem.

As I walked back into the room, I was nearly blinded by a flash of light. I managed to blink and duck my head enough to avoid most of it, so I was able to look up and see perhaps two dozen bodies lying on the floor. Morrolan was standing, feet braced, his sword acting as a shield to hold off a barrage of white light coming from—

Loraan!

I cursed softly to myself. He now held both a red staff and a small rod or wand. The light was coming from the staff, and, as I entered, I saw him look at me and look at the staff in my hand; his eyes grew wide. Then he saw the chain and they grew wider, and I even saw him mouthing a curse which I
recognized and won’t repeat. He turned the rod toward me. I fell over backward as a blue sheet of . . . something came rolling toward me. I might have screamed. I threw my hands up in front of my face.

The golden chain was still in my right hand. As I threw my hands up, it swung out in front of me and struck the sheet of blue, which promptly evaporated. All I felt was a tingling in my arm.

It’s all in the wrist, see.

By this time I was flat on my back. I raised my head in time to see Morrolan step toward Loraan, stop, curse loudly, and begin to gesture with his left hand. Loraan was still looking at me, which I didn’t like at all. Then he turned the staff so it was pointed at me, which I liked even less.

I felt as if I’d been kicked in the head and stomach at the same time, lying there on my back, waiting for him to do whatever it was he was going to do. Somehow he was holding off Morrolan, who would have killed him then if it were possible, so the wizard must have had some sort of sorcerous defense against physical attacks.

“Suggestions, Loiosh?”

“I’ll bet he doesn’t have any defense against witchcraft, boss.”

“Sure. Now just give me an hour or two to set up a spell, and—”
No, wait. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Witchcraft is controlled psychic energy. Maybe I could—