Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 (7 page)

"I did," Breaker admitted. "I
had heard that the Chosen had magical protections of their own, stronger than
ara
feathers
, but I hadn't known you were immune to each other's magic."

"We are. So Boss is persuasive but can't
order us to do something suicidal, and the Beauty is beautiful but not irresistible,
and so on."

"Boss?"

"The Leader. The other nicknames change,
but I think the Leader is always called Boss. Certainly the two I've known were
both called Boss."

"You've known two?"

The old man sighed. "Breaker, I've known
at least two of
all
the Chosen—I'm the oldest of the eight
by more than a decade. Seer is next, then Lo
re . . ."

"Lore?"

"The current Scholar. His predecessor
was an old man called Tales—I'm not sure what happened to him after he retired,
but he must be long dead by now. But you know, I'm wrong—Lore wasn't next after
Seer, the Beauty was. Since I've never met her, I forgot for a moment. So it
was Seer, Beauty, Lore, and then I think it must have been the Thief."

"Does he have a nickname, like Boss and
Lore?"

"The Thief? I don't know—I told you,
I've never met her."

"Her?"

"Yes. This time. The one before was a
man." Breaker nodded. "How long has she been the Thief, then?"

"A long time,
but she was very young when she took the role." He sighed. "The
Speaker would be next—poor little Babble! And then the new Boss, and finally
Bow, taking over from Arrow as the Archer. I only met Bow once—he made a point
of coming to find me and introduce himself, and show me some of his archery.
That was just a few years ago. He could do amazing things, just as I can with a
sword, but I can't say I was impressed with
him."

"Tell
me about all of
them!"

The old man sighed again, and kept talking.

For some time after that, every night after
Spider and Fidget had retired the Old Swordsman told Breaker and sometimes
Harp a great deal of what amounted to gossip about the Chosen, and later about
some of the wizards he had known in his dealings with the Council of Immortals,
and even the Wizard Lords themselves that the old man had known, the present
one and his two immediate predecessors. The old man seemed to think this
chatter was foolishness, but Breaker justified it to himself by saying that he
might someday need to work closely with the seven other Chosen, and to consult
with the Council, and perhaps to confront the Wizard Lord, so the more he knew
about them in advance, the better the chances for harmonious cooperation.

Harp didn't bother trying to justify her
curiosity; she simply shrugged and said there was little else to do on nights
when her fingers were too cold to play the harp decently.

Breaker took a special interest in the descriptions
of the current Wizard Lord, looking for reassurance that the man was sane and
good, and there would be no call for the Chosen to remove him. Alas, the
present holder of the office was apparently something of a hermit; the
Swordsman had only met him once, years before. No one seemed to know much about
him. He came from the south, and was reported to spend all his time in a lonely
tower in the Galbek Hills, well away from the nearest village, though the old
man did not know whether this was because he did not wish to trouble anyone, or
because he sought privacy to work his magic, or what. The previous Wizard Lord,
a friendly and well-liked man, had done well enough living in a mansion amid
the hustle and bustle of Spilled Basket, one of the trading towns in the
Midlands, and the Old Swordsman had anecdotes about him that kept Breaker and
Harp entertained for a night or two. The Lord of Spilled Basket had apparently
had a sense of humor, as well as justice, and some of the punishments he
visited on fleeing criminals had been amusing— rapists receiving the unwanted
attention of amorous hogs, thieves having their clothes stolen by raccoons, and
the like.

That was the
evenings; by day there were still household chores to be performed, ice to be
fetched for melting, wood brought in for burning, cleaning and cooking to be
done, and of course at least an hour every day of practice in swordsmanship.

And every day,
Breaker spent that hour being hit, and growing ever more frustrated by his
inability to hit the old man in return.

One chilly, overcast
day, when the Young Swordsman had taken a whack on the ear as well as a jab in
the chest in quick succession, he flung his stick down in the trampled snow and
exclaimed, "I still haven't ever beaten you! Not even once!"

"Well, no,"
the older man said, mildly surprised by his outburst. "And you won't,
until you're ready to take on my role. Lest you forget, I am not merely a very
good swordsman; I am the
world's greatest
swordsman,
magically guaranteed by all th
e
ler
of muscle and steel. By definition, I can't
be beaten in a fair fight."

"Then what's the
use
of these endless
practice bouts?"

"I need to practice for an hour a
day," the Old Swordsman said calmly. "You know that. You'll have to
do the same, once I'm free of it. You might as well get in the habit. Believe
me, practicing against a live opponent is far more entertaining than thrashing
a dummy or a tree. Furthermore, lad, you
will
beat me
eventually—and when you do, when you draw first blood with a rea
l blade, the magic
can then be passed from me to you, and it will be too late to change your mind.
You're learning quickly, and improving steadily, whether you know it or not—so
quickly I suspect some magic at work, though whether it's the doing of the
wizards, or your town's
ler,
or something in yourself, I couldn't
say."

"But if you're the world's greatest, how
can I ever defeat you? The magic won't allow it!"

"But / will. I said I can't be beaten in
a fair fight; who ever said we would always fight fairly?"

"Then why don't we just do it now, and
get it over with? I'm tired of being publicly humiliated."

The Old Swordsman cocked his head and gazed
thoughtfully at his student; then he took a moment to look around. The
surrounding yard and the village streets were empty of life, since anyone with
any sense was staying inside, out of the cold wind.

"Whether it's
done publicly, you can judge for yourself," he said. "As for
humiliation, I don't think anyone considers you to be humiliated—not after they
saw what you could do against someone who
isn't
the world's greatest swordsman."

"/ consider myself humiliated," the
Young Swordsman replied. "I'm not as concerned with the opinions of others
as I am with my own self-respect, and that's taken a beating with every unanswered
blow you've laid on my skin these past three months."

The Old Swordsman once again gazed at Breaker
thoughtfully.

"You may have a point," he said.

"You say it's the magic that makes you
unbeatable, and that we'll cheat to let me defeat you," Breaker said.
"Then why do we need to wait? Why continue these practice bouts? Let me
win, get it over with, and you can have the rest you say you want."

The Old Swordsman
took his time before replying. "The simple answer to that is that you need
to be good enough to make your victory convincing; the
ler
must believe my defeat is genuine. When I first came, you couldn't
have fooled them for a moment. But the simple answer isn't always the best. You
still aren't one-tenth the swordsman I am, or that you might
someday be even
without magic—it takes years to master the blade—but you have come a
surprisingly long way in a short time. Perhaps you
are
good enough."
"I think I am."

The older man snorted. "Of course you
do," he said. "Then shall we summon the wizards, and say you are
ready to challenge me for the title of world's greatest swordsman?"

"Yes!" the Young Swordsman said,
but then his enthusiasm faltered. "That is, I think
...
Just how were you planning to
cheat?"

"The easiest way would be to slip or
stumble, giving you an opening. Or I might contrive to break my blade at an inopportune
moment. We'll be fighting with blades, not sticks—we can use either wood or
steel, but they must have points and edges. The magic requires the fight be to
first blood—well, or worse, but I am not interested in a fight to the death,
and since I would not care to lose such a battle, I assume you would be at
least equally reluctant. It's easier to draw blood with steel, but of course
it's also easier to slip and do some serious damage."

"Oh," the younger man said.

"I'll need to beseech the
ler
of blades and steel
not to aid me, but that can be done easily enough, especially since we'll have
a wizard or two present."

"Do we really need an audience?"

The Old Swordsman hesitated. "You know,
I'm not entirely sure," he said. "It's traditional, certainly; there
was an audience when I took the title, quite a large one. We'll need a wizard
afterward, to transfer the binding upon the talisman, but I'm not
..."

"The what?"

"The binding of the talisman."

The Young Swordsman did not repeat the
question, but his expression made it clear that he wanted further explanation.

"Haven't I explained this? Or didn't the
wizards, while they were here?"

"Not that I recall just now."

"Well, of course, there's a talisman.
All the magic that makes me the Chosen Swordsman is bound up in it."

"I knew that part, that there are
talismans."

"Yes, well, there's one essential
talisman, the one that holds the
ler
of
swordsmanship, and then I have a few others that help out in lesser ways. That
first one, though, is bound to my soul, and that binding will need to be
broken, and a new one made to
your
soul. And
the wizards will want to make sure that the link to the corresponding Great
Talisman is transferred secure
ly."

"That's a part I don't quite understand.
What link?"

"The link that keeps the Wizard Lord
from just killing me if I go up against him; my talisman, the Talisman of
Blades, is bound to one of his, the Talisman of Strength— it's one of the eight
Great Talismans that provide most of his magic. If I die, if the Wizard Lord
kills me, the link between my soul and my talisman will break, and the
ler
of my talisman will know, and because they know the
ler
of the Great Talisman will know, and the knowledge will free them of
the oaths that hold them, and the Wizard Lord will lose one-eighth of his
power. We eight Chosen each have one. If he kills four of the Chosen, then half
his magic would be lost, and so on. If he were to kill all eight he would be
nothing but an ordinary wizard, if that, and the Council or perhaps even just
local priests would be able to deal with him."

Breaker considered
this for a long moment, then said, "Perhaps I am not as ready as I
thought. I knew there was a talisman and that I would need to take ownership of
it by some magical means, but I hadn't realized that would mean binding my
soul,
or tying me to the
Wizard Lord through a series of talismans
..."
He shuddered.

"Are you thinking you might not want the
job at all, then?"

Breaker took a deep breath, then said,
"No. I want it. I just want to absorb all this. If you call the wizards,
though, how long until they arrive?"

The Old Swordsman shrugged. "Who knows?
They're wizards."

"Call them," the young man said.
"I'll be ready soon, probably by the time they get here."

"Good," the older man said.
"Very good." He cast an oddly troubled look at the younger man, then
clapped him on the shoulder. "Enough for today," he said. "Let
us go find someplace warm!"