The Ninth Talisman (23 page)

“And I had not expected to
ever
find you in Mad Oak,” Sword replied. “What brings you here?”

“That tree, of course,” Artil replied, gesturing with his staff toward the burning oak. “It was blocking the route of the planned road connecting
Greenwater and Mad Oak, not to mention being a hazard in its own right. It should have been removed long ago; the ground beneath it is
covered
with the bones of its victims!”

While Sword knew that to be true, he was not particularly impressed; most of those victims had been deer or squirrels. No human being had been foolish enough to be caught in the oak's spell in years.

In fact, the last person that foolish had been Sword, when he first dared venture outside his hometown seven years before, and he had been saved by the Greenwater Guide and his own magic, keeping his bones safely inside his flesh.

“You're building a road from Greenwater?” Sword asked.

“Well,
I'm
not, but my men are,” Artil said. “I do need to keep them busy, and a western route into Longvale would be helpful for the merchants from the coast, wouldn't it?”

“I hadn't given it any thought,” Sword said. “The road from Willowbank seems to serve fairly well.”

“Oh, but another, shorter route will be even better! You'll see. In any case, I see no reason to leave anything as malevolent as that tree alive, anywhere in Barokan. I know my duties officially only require me to remove human outlaws, but I don't mind expanding my role a little, if it makes life a little better for everyone.”

“So now you're eliminating any menaces you can find, regardless of where and what they are?” Sword asked.

“More or less, yes. I'm just one man, of course, even with all my magic, so I'm limited in what I can do, but I'm taking them on one at a time, as my schedule permits. I'm
determined
to leave Barokan a better place than I found it, Sword!”

“I see.” Sword heard Little Weaver murmuring something behind him, but he could not make out her words and did not turn around. “That's admirable.”

“Thank you,” Artil replied.

“Thank
you,
Wizard Lord!” Little Weaver called.

“You're very welcome, my dear.” He turned, arms folded across his chest, to watch the tree burn.

Sword stood a few feet away, watching the conflagration.

It appeared Artil had found another way to improve Barokan, and
this one did not bother Sword at all. The Wizard Lord was using his magic, rather than abandoning it, and was not interfering in anyone else's business; he was simply removing existing problems.

That seemed very much in keeping with his role, where organizing work crews and building roads did not. More than ever, Sword hoped Artil would not overstep his bounds; a Wizard Lord with the imagination to do this sort of thing was a treasure.

“So have you destroyed many such menaces?” Sword asked.

“Oh, two or three dozen, I suppose,” Artil answered, turning back. “A whirlpool here, a monster boar there, and the like. Killer trees are unusual, though, and I think this was the worst I've found.”

“I'm not surprised,” Sword said. “And I'm sure the new road will be useful.”

“Wizard Lord,” Little Weaver called, “where are you going next?”

“Back to Winterhome for supper and a good night's sleep, my dear,” he replied. “And before anyone makes any flattering offers I would have to refuse, let me say that I want to get home before true nightfall, as flying is far more dangerous in the dark and I have a busy day planned for tomorrow.”

“What are you doing tomorrow, then?” Brokenose asked, startling Sword.

“Discussing matters with my officers, for the most part,” Artil said. “Making some changes in my organization. Nothing as exciting as destroying an insane oak tree, I'm afraid.”

“Ah.” Brokenose nodded knowingly.

The talk about his “organization” dampened Sword's enthusiasm somewhat. “We won't keep you, then,” he said.

“Thank you. And Sword, feel free to come and visit me again someday. I know you feel it's your responsibility to keep an eye on me.”

“Thank you,” Sword said. “I'll do that.”

The Wizard Lord smiled, then gestured with his staff. He rose swiftly, and this time did not hover, but soared off to the southeast.

For a moment the four townsfolk simply stood, watching the red-clad figure recede; then Sword shivered and turned back toward the pavilion.

“That was the
Wizard Lord!”
Little Weaver said. “We met the actual Wizard Lord!”

“Yes,” Sword agreed.

“He
spoke
to us!”

“Yes.”

“And he
knew
you,” Brokenose said, pointing at Sword.

“Well, yes. We've spoken before.”

“He killed the oak,” Coldfoot said, staring at the tree, which had lost most of its branches by this point. Just then one of the major limbs cracked, and a large chunk crashed burning to the ground.

“Yes, he did,” Sword agreed, glancing at the blazing oak. It occurred to him that it would be a very bad thing if the fire spread to any of the surrounding trees—but presumably that was why the wind had dropped.

Still, it was careless of Artil, he thought, to not stay and watch until he was sure the fire did not get out of control. Perhaps he had some sort of magical monitor in place, or had ordered the local
ler
to see that nothing untoward happened. Perhaps he should have had some of his “organization” standing by to prevent the fire from spreading.

But the fire
wasn't
spreading, so maybe Artil had known exactly what he was doing.

“Will we have to change the town's name, do you think?” Brokenose asked.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sword replied.

“He killed the oak!” Coldfoot repeated.

“He's
wonderful!”
Little Weaver said, clasping her hands over her breast.

Sword glanced at the woman, then at the dwindling speck that was the Wizard Lord.

“Yes, on balance, I suppose he is,” Sword said thoughtfully.

A little over a year after his return from Winterhome, a few months less than a year after the burning of the Mad Oak, Sword was plowing a recently harvested bean field in the river bottom, hoping the unusually warm weather might hold long enough to get a second crop in, when the stranger came marching up.

The new arrival was a rather slender young man of moderate height, scarcely more than a boy, clad in a flowing green-and-gold silk cloak that was absurdly out of place out here. His long black hair was swept back in a ponytail and adorned with three long
ara
plumes, and he strode along boldly as he emerged from the patch of boggy woods that separated this field from the heart of Mad Oak.

“Ho, farmer!” he called, raising a hand in salute. “I seek Erren Zal Tuyo, the Chosen Swordsman!”

Sword called to his ox and gave the plow a jerk, setting it hard in the ground; he had been planning to take a break at the end of the furrow in any case, so there was no harm in being polite and seeing what this little popinjay wanted. He rubbed his aching hands together, then turned to address the stranger.

“Why?” he called, as the young man approached.

“I have a message for him,” the stranger said as he stopped at the side of the field. Sword was relieved that at least the fellow had the sense not to simply walk out onto freshly turned soil; he looked like a bit of a fool. That cloak was excessively gaudy, even by the new standards brought on by the sudden availability of exotic fabrics and dyes, and his manner was absurdly pompous.

“Where is he?” the stranger demanded.

“I don't think the Swordsman is expecting any messages,” Sword replied, amused.

“Well, he'll get this one all the same,” the messenger said cheerfully. “At least, if he's still alive and fit.”

“Fit enough,” Sword said. “What's this message, then?”

“Are you his secretary, perhaps? Why should I tell
you?”

Sword grimaced. “I'm no one's secretary,” he said. “I'm Erren Zal Tuyo, the Chosen Swordsman. What's the message?”

The messenger looked suddenly uncertain. “You're the Swordsman?” he asked.

“I'm the Swordsman. What were you expecting, then? Do I not match the description they gave you?”

“They gave me no description,” the stranger said. “But you hardly look like a great swordsman. You're not much older than I am, and I expected someone more . . . lithe. Besides, you don't have a sword.”

Sword judged the age difference to be at least a few years. He sighed deeply.

“Nonetheless, I am the Chosen Swordsman. Why would I carry a sword while plowing?” He frowned. “You know, I don't think I'm interested in your message after all. I should get back to work.”

“Oh, I think the Swordsman will be interested in
this
one,” the young man said, puffing out his chest. “Now, can you direct me to him?”

“I told you, I'm the Swordsman.”

The messenger waved a hand dismissively. “Show me some evidence of this unlikely claim, then. To me, you appear nothing but a half-witted young farmer amusing himself by attempting to fool me.”

Sword grimaced. “
Why
would I do that?”

The stranger shrugged. “Boredom, perhaps? Or curiosity about the nature of the message I bring.”

Sword was, in fact, becoming mildly curious. “Who's this message from? What do they want?” he asked. He was quite sure the message was not from the Wizard Lord; Artil would have used an animal, rather than a human messenger. Everyone in Mad Oak knew him by sight, and would have come in person. That left the other Chosen, the wizards, or people who had some foolish idea that the Swordsman worked as a hero for hire.

Any of those was possible, though.

“That's for the Swordsman to know. Now, if you'll pardon me, I
think I'm bound back up to the village, to find a more honest informant—I've clearly been misdirected.”

“No, you haven't. I really am the Swordsman. Anyone in Mad Oak would direct you back here.”

“I do not believe that.”

Sword frowned again. He looked along the verge of the field, and spotted one of the sticks used to support the bean crop, half-buried in the earth. It had been cast aside, presumably, when the last crop was harvested, and left lying there. “Do
you
have a sword?” he asked. Even now, with the availability of cheap northern steel and the scattered reports of bandits on the roads, very few people carried swords, but Sword thought he had seen something under the messenger's outer robe, and the man certainly gave the impression of being the sort of braggart who would go armed. “Or some other weapon?”

In answer, the messenger flung back his cloak. A broad belt of fine black leather circled his waist, and a gold-trimmed hilt thrust up from a black scabbard. “If you think I'm fool enough to give you my sword, and leave myself unarmed so that you can rob me . . .”

“I don't want your sword,” Sword interrupted. “But if you'd throw me that stick, I'll show you I'm the Swordsman.” He pointed. Then he caught himself, and laughed. “Though I don't know why I bother. It would serve you right if I let you ramble about the countryside looking for some other Swordsman for the next half-month.”

The messenger frowned at the farmer, then took four steps over to the stick. He kept his eyes on Sword as he bent down and picked up the discarded beanpole.

It was a peeled branch a little less than three feet long; the messenger could see nothing strange about it. He tossed it gently, and Sword snatched it out of the air.

“Choose the order,” Sword said, as he tested the stick to make sure it hadn't rotted much. “Knee, elbow, belly, throat—which one first?”

“What?”

Sword brandished the stick. “Choose one,” he said. “That'll be the first place I touch you.”

“And what will that prove—that you're quick with a stick?” The man's pompous manner had faded considerably.

“Pick one,” Sword insisted. “Then draw your sword and try to stop me.”

“Belly,” the messenger said, clearly annoyed. “Belly, knee, elbow.” Sword nodded. “Three each, right-left-right. Now draw your sword.”

“This is ridiculous. I might hurt you.”

“You won't,” Sword said. “And if you do, it serves me right.”

“Well,
that's
the truth!” the messenger said. He reached across and slid his blade from its sheath.

Sword watched the way the man moved, watched the way his hand turned as he drew, watched the sunlight sparkle on the polished steel blade; he waited until the man fell into a halfhearted guard position.

Then he attacked, moving in low and outside, coming up under the messenger's guard, poking the stick into the man's belly.