Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 (10 page)

Keep
the blade high,
never overextend, always be aware of his surroundings so as not to stumble and
so no unexpected second foe could take him by surprise, anticipate the blows
rather than reacting to them, if possible move to the side and not back when
dodging, trust his reflexes
...
there
was so much to keep in mind! He focused himself on using it all.

It was enough, but just barely; several of
the old man's blows were close enough that Breaker could feel the wind of their
passage, and he was fairly sure one cut a lock of hair from his head—it was a
good thing hair couldn't bleed.

At last, though, the assault seemed to
falter, and Breaker ventured a quick jab.

The Old Swordsman turned it easily.

Breaker was puzzled—and somewhat frightened.
Hadn't the Old Swordsman set all this up so he could lose, and give up his
duties as one of the Chosen? Why, then, was he fighting so hard? He was
attacking as fiercely as he did in practice, if not more so—had he changed his
mind?

Or had the whole
thing been a ruse, perhaps? Was Breaker to be a blood sacrifice to the
ler
of swordsmanship, so that the Old Swordsman could carry on? He had
heard of such magic, of how some
ler
required such
sacrifices. Maybe this was a requirement of the role, like the daily hour of
practice—pe
rhaps
every so often, every five or ten years or whatever, the Swordsman must prove
his worth by slaying a worthy foe.

Breaker's arm almost
shook at that thought, and the tip of his blade wavered; it seemed far too
likely. He had believed everything the ol
d man had told him, but what if it had all
been a pack of lies, meant to lure him into this fight, where he could die in
ritual combat?

If that was what was
happening, then Breaker knew he was doomed, but he had no intention of making
it easy for the old m
an—and maybe he was worrying about nothing, maybe the wily Chosen was
really just making it look very, very good. He shifted his grip slightly, to
keep sweat from affecting his hold on the weapon; despite the cold his hands
were damp. Even as he kept his eyes on his opponent's wrist and shoulder, he
tried to think of tricks he had learned, anything he might use to win this
fight.

Or just to
survive
it, if the Old
Swordsman really had betrayed him and meant to kill him.

The older combatant lunged. The tip of the Old
Swordsman's blade missed the younger's ear by no more than an inch, and the
Young Swordsman told himself to stop worrying about such things and
concentrate on the matter at hand—the duel. Whether his opponent was fighting
to the death or to first blood didn't really matter at this point; against so
superior an opponent Breaker had to fight as if he were fighting for his life.
He countered the thrust, only to have his blade knocked aside once again. He
brought it back in line in time to parry an attack.

"Well done," the rabbit called
loudly, in its squealing, inhuman voice.

The Old Swordsman started and glanced aside,
and the Young Swordsman lunged, and the point of his sword jabbed through the
old man's leather coat and into the flesh of his shoulder.

The crowd gasped.

Startled, both fighters froze for an instant,
and then, as if at an agreed-upon signal, simultaneously stepped back, pulling
the blade from the older man's shoulder.

The tip of the sword gleamed red in the
morning sun, plain for all to see. The air hummed with the magic of waiting
ler.

"I believe I've
won," Breaker said, his voice unsteady. He felt slightly ill. He had not
intended to strike the shoulder; such a wound could be far worse than the
pinprick in the arm that he and the
old man had discussed.

But he hadn't had much choice—and even now,
he remained wary, afraid that the old man might resume the fight.

Why had the Old Swordsman fought so
determinedly? Why hadn't he left a better opening? Breaker felt himself
starting to tremble in reaction; his stomach was churning.

At least the wound
did not seem
too
serious; blood was seeping through the
leather, and undoubtedly there was a great deal more beneath, but the Old
Swordsman clearly still had the use of his arm and was neithe
r screaming in pain
nor writhing in agony.

"Yes, I believe you have," the old
man said unhappily, clapping his left hand to his bleeding shoulder.

"You don't sound pleased," Black
Coat said, stepping forward. "Having second thoughts?"

"I might be, at that," the old man
said, glancing at the rabbit.

The Young Swordsman's eyes followed the
elder's gaze in time to see the animal turn and hop away.

There was clearly something going on here he
didn't understand, but he did not want to admit that and ask about it in front
of half the village. "Now what?" he said.

"Now," the
wizard said, stepping forward and throwing an arm around the youth's shoulders,
"we must bind you to the talismans and their
ler.
You are now the greatest swordsman in Barokan, as demonstrat
ed by your victory,
and must therefore be one of our Chosen Defenders—let us now confirm that with
the spirits of blood and steel." He turned Breaker toward his parents'
house. "How much of your true name do you know?"

"A few dozen syllables, perhaps."

"We will need it for the magic, as much
of it as you can remember—the
ler
care nothing for the names we humans give
each other."

"I know that," Breaker said,
allowing himself to be set in motion, his bloodied sword still in his hand. He
looked at his defeated opponent, who was stripping off his pierced coat to
allow Younger Priestess access to the wound, and at his own family, who were
stepping aside wordlessly to allow him past.

His parents'
expressions were unreadable, while Spider and Fidget were staring at him with
frank openmouthed awe. Harp had vanished, fled somewhere during the fight,
though Breaker—the Swordsman, now—had not seen her go and was unsure why she
had left. Smudge and Digger were gone, as well.

No one had rushed
forward to congratulate him—not his parents, nor his sisters, nor Little Weaver
nor Curly, nor Joker nor Brokenose nor any of his other friends. All but Harp
and Digger were there in the crowd, watching, but none of them had said a word,
no one had applauded his victory. They were
just staring at him silently as the
black-coated wizard led him away.

He wasn't sure
exactly what he had expected, but he thought there ought to be more enthusiasm
than
this.

"So tell me as
much of your true name as you can," the wizard said. "I will need
to recite it, so I
had best start learning it."

"Erren Zal Tuyo," the new Swordsman
began; then he stopped.

The wizard glanced at him, startled.
"You must know more of it than
that!"

"Of course I do,
but..." He gestured at the silent audience they were p
assing.

"Ah, I see," the wizard admitted.
"We'll wait, then."

Ten minutes later they were in the loft
bedroom where the Old Swordsman—now the former Swordsman—had been staying, a
room that had been Harp's when the family had no houseguest. The wizard closed
the trapdoor and pushed a chest over onto it, since there was no lock.

"Now," he said, turning to the
Swordsman, "what was that name again?"

"Erren Zal Tuyo kam Darig seveth
Tirinsir abek Du po Wirei Shash-Dubar hyn Silzorivad," the young man
replied. The air seemed to shimmer as he spoke, and he felt the sounds tugging
at something inside him, even though he did not know what they really meant or
even what language they were. He had not spoken the names aloud in well over a
year, not since Elder Priestess had last renewed his ties to the land and soil
of Mad Oak, and while any true name attracted the attention of the
ler
he did not remember
the effects ever being anywhere near so strong before.

"Ah," the wizard said, nodding and
apparently untroubled by any untoward phenomena. "If I interpret that
correctly, you have a destiny, though I can't say what it might be— perhaps
merely the one you achieved today by establishing yourself as one of the
Chosen. And then I suppose we have the four cardinal
ler
that
attended your birth, while Silzorivad must have been the spirit present
in your mother's womb at the moment of conception. Shash-Dubar
...
I don't know that. A local spirit,
perhaps? Some connection to your father?"

"My mother says Elder Priestess told her
it has to do with the months she was pregnant with me."

"She may be right. Do you know any
more?"

"No. Just that. Elder Priestess might
..."

The wizard held up a hand. "It should
serve. Your destiny and the four
ler
are the
essential parts." He leaned his staff against a table and opened a large
purse that hung from his belt; Breaker noticed that the drawstring writhed
unnaturally. The wizard paid no attention to the animated cord as he began
drawing out talismans.

When he had brought
forth a dozen of his own he turned and added them to the collection already
lying on the narrow bed. There were tiny carved figures in wood and stone,
baked-clay tokens in a dozen assorted shapes, things of beads and wire, waxed
feathers and vials of precious oils— at least a
score in all.

And at the center was
a tiny triangular silver blade, no more than three inches long, that shone with
a fierce intensity, as if catching a flash of summer sun—but this was winter,
and the sun still hung low above the Eastern Cliffs, and th
e room in which they
stood had only a single window, facing north.

"That's the one you'll need to carry,
Erren Zal Tuyo," the wizard said, pointing to the blade. "That's the
core around which the magic will be wrapped."

"What if I lose it?" Breaker asked,
gazing uneasily at the gleaming device.

"Oh, I don't
think you can," the wizard replied. "The
ler
will see to
that." He adjusted the arrangement on the bed, then stepped back and
looked it over.

"That should do," he said.
"Now, stand here, and look at the blade." He gestured to indicate the
spot he meant.

Breaker obeyed, and stood staring down at the
bed as the wizard began to chant incomprehensible words in an unfamiliar
language.

The surge of power was immediate; the air
hummed with magic, and colored light shimmered across the talisman-covered bed,
gold and red and blue. Breaker felt suddenly dizzy, and started to step back,
but when his attention shifted from the little silver blade a wrenching,
stabbing pain thrust up from his spine and through his head. His eyes watered,
and his vision blurred, so that the only thing he could see was that talisman.

He focused on it
again, and the pain vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, but his vision was
not restored; all he could see was the shiny bit of metal there on the brown
blanket. He locked his gaze grimly on to it as the wizard's voice droned on.

He heard his own true
name, the name the
ler
knew him by, the name that described his
soul and defined his place in the world of spirit, in the chant, and he f
elt something
happen; now it was not merely the threat of pain that kept him staring intently
at the talisman, but a sudden inability to imagine ever again seeing anything
else. This was where he
belonged,
and
what he was meant to be, meant to do— staring
at the talisman was what his entire life had
led up to, what he was
for.
The glowing
silver filled his vision, as big as the world and everything in it, and the
wizard's voice had become a chorus filling his ears, the one human voice
accompanied by a thous
and that were definitely
not
human.

His hands and feet were numb; the skin of his
face felt burning hot. Time ceased to pass in any rational way; every second
was an infinity. He was a part of the talisman, no longer aware of any other
existence.