The Ninth Talisman (34 page)

The sword came down on the first spear and sliced off its head, leaving the startled guardsman staring at the blunt stick he held in hands that stung from the impact; with his ears plugged, the man had had no warning of the Swordsman's approach. Sword was already whirling on his heel by the time the spearhead fell, and the return stroke of his blade came up from beneath another spear, knocking it from its bearer's hands.

He had surprise on his side, and the fact that his foes had their ears blocked and could not hear his approach or their comrades' warnings; he was able to split a third spear, behead a fourth, snap a fifth, and work his way halfway down the line of spearmen before anyone could react.

But by then the leader of the squad had begun gesturing desperately, ordering his men to focus their attention on the Swordsman, rather than the Leader—and to kill him; the final gesture, a slice across the throat, was unmistakable.

Sword's mouth tightened. His blade flashed, catching another spear behind the head and yanking it from a guardsman's hands, and this one he caught in his own left hand. He hadn't practiced with two weapons very often, but he had practiced. He had no idea how to use a spear as a spear, but as a big clumsy stick that vaguely resembled a sword he knew
exactly
what to do with it.

Less than a minute after the first blow had been struck he had worked his way along the entire line of a dozen spearmen; eight spears had been ruined in one way or another, three knocked to the ground, and he now held the twelfth himself. He had not harmed any of the men who had held them, though. Now, having completed the first step in his attack, he paused to appraise his position.

About half the spearmen were retreating, either empty-handed or clutching a broken stump; none were actually fleeing yet. The other
half were standing their ground; three were retrieving dropped spears, and three were advancing with fragments of spear raised—one as if to use it like a javelin, the other two preparing to club their opponent. Their commander had turned his attention to Boss, and the two were talking loudly and rapidly, but Sword had no time to try to listen to what they were saying.

The row of archers had arrows nocked, all of them, and were looking for a clear shot at him, one that would not endanger their spear-wielding comrades. Sword smiled at them, then turned and dove toward the approaching spearmen.

The sword felt almost alive in his hand; he thought he could hear the cold
ler
of the steel singing, almost screaming. He danced past his nearest foe and drew a line of blood across the man's wrist, then turned his blade and sent the stump of a spear flying. The second man received a shallow but bloody slash across his forehead that would blind him with his own blood if he did not stop to attend to it, and then found his makeshift club split down the middle. The third was not cut, but suddenly found the Swordsman
behind
him, and took a good hard whack on the back of his head from the butt of Sword's spear; he stumbled, and when he did not immediately release his hold on the improvised javelin a second whack, this one on his wrist, sent the broken shaft spinning into the air, toward the archers.

And then Sword was up to the three who had tried to retrieve their spears, and each found his hand empty, his knuckles bruised and stinging, and each felt a slash across his tunic at waist level that cut through his belt.

Host People and merchants were staring in confusion and horror; some were running, others screaming.

Still none of the soldiers had actually fled; the few who had retreated after being disarmed were regrouping by the palace wall. The battle so far had been fought in eerie semi-quiet; no one but the arguing leaders had said a word. Despite the shouting and screaming of the watchers, the only sounds from the participants had been the thumps of blows landing, the cracking of spear shafts, the grunts of startled men, and the whoosh of Sword's blade slicing air and cloth and skin.

Sword decided that would not do; with a wordless bellow of rage that he hoped might penetrate the earplugs, he charged at the nearest archer with sword and spear raised.

As he had expected, the archer loosed an arrow at him from no more than twenty feet away, a yard-long shaft that could pierce an inch of oak—and Sword's blade knocked it out of the air in two pieces, sending the two halves spinning in opposite directions, arrowhead to one side of him, fletching to the other.

Then the archer's bowstring snapped as Sword's blade cut through it, and the man stumbled backward, almost falling, staring at his own thumb, where the snapped bowstring had whipped across it hard enough to break the nail and draw blood.

Sword could not spare any time to deal with him further, though; four of the other archers had loosed, despite the proximity of their own companions.

One shot was wild, and Sword did not worry about that one, but he brought the spear up to intercept two of the others; they thumped into the wood with enough force that wood splintered and his hand stung, but he did not drop his weapon.

And the final arrow was sliced from the air in two pieces, just as the first had been.

That
finally penetrated the guards' consciousness; three of the remaining archers dropped their bows and ran. Others backed away, but kept their weapons raised.

Sword spun down the line, slicing each bowstring as he passed. Two more arrows were released; he ducked one, and just for the sake of drama sliced the last
lengthwise,
sending it arcing over his head in two curling pieces..

By the time he had ruined every bow that had not been dropped, four spearmen had regrouped, and a swordsman had appeared from somewhere; Sword swept through them, as well, disarming them all, and making sure each received a single gash somewhere that would draw plenty of blood and leave a dramatic scar, but that would not cripple or kill.

By this point more than half the original two dozen had either fled,
or dropped their weapons and retreated with hands raised in surrender; a few were snatching wax-and-cotton plugs from their ears and demanding to know what was going on.

The guard commander had stopped arguing; he was staring at his men in shocked silence, Boss at his shoulder.

And one final guardsman seemed determined to fight. This was a big man, black-haired, bearing a sword; he squared off facing Sword, taking up a proper swordsman's stance.

Sword had no patience for this; he spun, flung his spear aside, and danced around the sword-wielding guard, apparently ignoring the man's attempt to fight even while three sweeping blows were somehow diverted harmlessly. Then he sprang away.

The guard's pants had been slit up either side, from ankle to thigh; his belt had been cut from his waist in three pieces. A triangular notch had been cut into each earlobe.

“You really want to fight me?” Sword asked.

“A chance to take on the world's greatest swordsman? Of course I do!” the man rumbled.

“Let me explain something, then,” Sword said. “You should hope you aren't as good as you think you are, because if you actually manage to challenge me, to force me to defend myself, then I'll kill you. You can't beat me, you know that, and I don't have time to play, not with so many of you here. If you're just a big strong fool who knows no more about a blade than a cat knows about cooking, then I'll just disarm you—so let's both hope that's the case.”

The big guard hesitated at that—and that was what Sword had wanted; he ducked, thrust, and cut across the man's hand just above the wrist, on the fleshy part of the hand. The tip of his sword wedged against the guardsman's hilt; Sword twisted his blade and tugged.

The man's fist flew open, and his sword tumbled to the earth of the plaza. He backed away quickly, raising his hands in surrender. Blood from the fresh wound ran down his wrist.

And with him out of the way, Sword advanced toward the commander.

“Now,” he said, “do you
really
want to make enemies of the Chosen?”

“I have my orders . . . ” the commander said, empty hands held out, his gaze fixed on Sword's face.

“You realize,” Boss said from behind him, “that you don't know where the Archer is.”

The guard threw her a quick look, then raised his hands farther. “I'm just doing . . . ”

“… what the Wizard Lord told you to,” Boss finished for him. “Fine. And we're doing what we must, and we are two of the eight people in Barokan who do not need to obey the Wizard Lord's orders. Now, take your men and go away, before someone gets seriously hurt.”

The commander looked from Sword to Boss and back, and then gestured to his remaining men. He began walking toward the palace's central door, head down, beckoning for the guards to follow.

The surrounding crowd cheered, though Sword had no idea what they thought they were cheering for. He paid them no attention as he crossed the plaza.

“So much for secrecy,” Boss said, as Sword walked over to her.

“I hope you aren't too displeased with me,” Sword said. “Those earplugs worried me.”

“No, you did fine,” Boss said. “Obviously, the Wizard Lord has tried to prepare defenses against us. That's not good.”

“I suppose so,” Sword said, as both of them ambled toward the gate.

They had not yet reached it when Lore stepped through and stopped to look over the plaza, at the shattered remnants of several spears and arrows, and a few small spatters of blood.

“I take it I missed the excitement,” he said.

“I'm afraid so,” Sword replied, smiling.

Boss stepped forward, hand out to shake. “You must be the Scholar, called Lore,” she said. “Call me Boss.”

“A pleasure to finally meet you,” Lore said, taking her hand.

“I'm sure. Now, come on—we have a great deal to discuss.” And with that she released his hand and spun on her heel, leading Lore and Sword back toward Beauty's house.

“That was amazing, “ Azir whispered again, and again Sword waved for her to be still; he was listening intently to Lore's description of the Wizard Lord's behavior.

All the Chosen were gathered in the front room of Beauty's home; Boss and Lore had taken the two chairs by the hearth, and Sword and Snatcher leaned against the walls nearby, while Azir sat on the hearth at Sword's feet. Bow was perched on the stairs, while Beauty and Babble moved about.

“But it must have been twenty men!” the Seer insisted.

“Twenty-five, not counting the captain,” Sword told her. “Now be quiet.”

“Twenty-five!”

“It's magic. Now shut up.”

Azir still seemed eager to say more, but seeing Sword keep his face steadfastly turned away finally discouraged her, and she fell silent. Sword did not have the impression, though, that she was listening to Lore; she was merely waiting until Sword stopped ignoring her.

“I think he's sincere,” Lore said, as he concluded his account of what the Wizard Lord had told him. “I don't think there's any pretense, or that he intends any harm; he genuinely believes that Barokan would be better off without magic.”

“But with him ruling it, magic or no,” Boss said.

“Well. . . yes.”

“And no magic means no wizards.”

“What?”

Boss smiled humorlessly. “He's been killing wizards.”

Lore glanced from one face to the next—Boss to Sword to Bow to Beauty to Snatcher to Azir to Babble. “You're serious?”

“Completely. You hadn't heard anything? Not even a rumor?”

“No! Not a word. That is . . . not that I remember . . .”

“Oh, don't try that,” Sword said. “You've been up in the Summer Palace, where our magic doesn't work. Whether you remember a specific detail you heard up there or not is meaningless.”

“Fine!” Lore retorted. “I don't remember anything about killing anyone, and I think I would, magic or no. Farash and Artil and I talked about possibly doing something about places like Drumhead and Bone Garden eventually, and that it might mean killing the priests, but we decided it should wait another few years, to be sure. That's the only mention of any killing that I remember.”

“What about a new member of the Chosen?” Boss asked.

Lore stared at her.

“Well?” she demanded. “Did anyone mention a ninth member of the Chosen?”

“I don't. . . there should be one, shouldn't there?” Lore's surprise and puzzlement was plain on his face. “Because we killed a Dark Lord. Whenever that's happened before, the Council of Immortals has added a new role. But they didn't this time, did they?”

“We were hoping
you
would know,” Sword said.

“Well, I know how it happened with each of the others. When they first created the Chosen there was a Leader to decide when and how they should act, a Seer to find them and the Dark Lord, and a Swordsman to kill him. The Dark Lord of the Midlands killed the Leader before the Swordsman slew him, so they added the Beauty, to distract. Then the Dark Lord of Tallowcrane protected himself behind locked gates and barred windows, so after his death they added the Thief. The first Scholar was created when the Chosen who fought the Dark Lord of Kamith t'Daru repeated mistakes their predecessors had made. After the Dark Lord of the Tsamas was defeated it was decided that relying entirely on close combat was a mistake, and the Archer was added. I think they created the Speaker after the Dark Lord of Goln Vleys simply because they could, and adding a role had become traditional.”