The Unwilling Warlord
by
Lawrence Watt-Evans

CHAPTER 1

The dice rolled, smacked against the baseboard, then
bounced back and skittered to a stop. One showed five
pips, and the other two each showed six, clearly visible
even in the flickering light of the tavern alcove.

The paunchy farmer in the greasy gray tunic stared at
the dice for a moment, then snapped his head up and
glared suspiciously at his opponent. He demanded, "Are
you sure you're not cheating?" His breath carried the
warm, thick aroma of stale wine.

The thin young man, who wore a patched but clean
tunic of worn blue velvet, looked up from raking in the
stakes with a carefully contrived expression of hurt on
his face. His dark brown eyes were wide with innocent
dismay.

"Me?" he said. "Me, cheating? Abran, old friend,
how can you suggest such a thing?"

He pushed the coins to One side, then smiled and said,
"Still my throw?"

Abran nodded. "Make your throw, and I'll decide my
wager."

The youth hesitated, but the rules did allow a losing
bettor to see the next roil before wagering again. If
Abran did decide to bet, though, it would be at two-to-
one instead of even money.

That probably meant the game was over.

He shrugged, picked up the bits of bone again, and
rolled them, watching with satisfaction as the first

4       THE UNWILLING WARLORD

stopped with six black specks showing, the second
seemed to balance on one comer before dropping to
show another six, and the last bounced, rebounded from
the wall, spun in mid-air, and came down with five spots

on the top face.

Abran stared, then turned his head and spat on the
grimy floor in disgust. "Seventeen againT' he growled,
turning back. "Sterren, if that's really your name," he
said, in a more natural tone, "I don't know what you're
doing—maybe you're just honestly lucky, or maybe
you're a magician—but however you do it, you've won
enough of my money. I give up. I'm leaving and I hope I
never see you again."

He stood, joints creaking.

An hour earlier the purse on his belt had been bulging
with the proceeds of a good harvest; now it clinked dis-
mally, only a few coins remaining, as he walked stiffly

away.

Sterren watched him go without comment and
dropped the coins of the final wager into the purse on his
own belt, which had acquired much of the bulge now
missing from Abran's.

When the farmer was out of sight he allowed himself
to smile broadly. It had been an exceptionally successful
evening. The poor old fool had stuck it out longer than

any opponent in years.

And of course, where two could be seen having a
game, others would sit in for a round or two. A dozen
besides poor Abran had contributed to Sterren's win-
nings.

For perhaps the thousandth time in his career as a
tavern gambler, Sterren wondered whether he had been
cheating. He honestly did not know. He knew he cer-
tainly was not guilty of anything so common as using
weighted dice or muttering spells under his breath, but
there were magicks that needed no incantations, and he
had been apprenticed to a warlock once—even if it had
only been for three days before the warlock threw him
out, calling him a hopeless incompetent. His master had
tried to give him the ability to tap into the source of
warlockry's power, and it hadn't seemed to work—but

Lawrence Watt-Evans            5

maybe it had, just a little bit, without either his master or
himself realizing it.

Warlockry was the art of moving things by magically
enhanced willpower, moving them without touching
them, and it was quite obvious that a warlock would
have no trouble at all cheating at dice. It wouldn't take
much warlockry to affect something as small as dice, and
it was said only warlockry could detect warlockry, so the
wizards and sorcerers Sterren had encountered would
never have known it was there.

Might it be that he controlled the dice without know-
ing it, using an uncontrolled trace of warlockry, simply
by wishing?

It might be, he decided, but it might also be that he
was just lucky. After all, he didn't win all the time. Per-
haps one of the gods happened to favor him, or it might
be that he had been born under a fortunate star—though
except for his luck with dice, he wasn't particularly
blessed.

He stood, tucked the dice in his pouch, and brushed
off the knees of his worn velvet breeches. The night was
still young, or at worst middle-aged; perhaps, he
thought, he might find another sucker.

He looked around the dimly lit tavern's main room,
but saw no promising prospects. Most of the room's
handful of rather sodden inhabitants were regulars who
knew better than to play against him. The really easy
marks, the backcountry farmers, would all be asleep or
outside the city walls by this hour of the night; he had no
real chance of finding one roaming the streets.

Other serious gamers would be settled in somewhere,
most likely on Games Street, in Camptown on the far
side of the city, where Sterren never ventured—there
were far too many guardsmen that close to the camp.
Guardsmen were bad business—suspicious and able to
act on their suspicions.

A few potential opponents might be over in nearby
Westgate or down in the New Merchants' Quarter,
which were familiar territory, or in the waterfront dis-
tricts of Shiphaven and Spicetown, which he generally
avoided; but to find anyone he would have to start the
dreary trek from tavern to tavern once again.

6      THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Or of course, he could just sit and wait in the hope
that some latecomer would walk in the door.

He was not enthusiastic about either option. Maybe,
he thought, he could just take the rest of the night off; it
depended upon how much he had taken in so far. He
decided to count his money and see how he stood. If he
had cleared enough to pay the innkeeper's fee for not
interfering, the past month's rent for his room, and his
long-overdue bar tab, he could afford to rest.

He drew the heavy gray curtain across the front of his
little alcove for privacy, then poured the contents of his
purse on the blackened planks of the floor.

Ten minutes later he was studying a copper bit, trying
to decide whether it had been clipped or not, when he
heard a disturbance of some sort in the front of the tav-
ern. It was probably nothing to do with him, he told him-
self; but, just in case, he swept his money back into the
purse. The clipped coin—if it was clipped—didn't really
matter; even without it he had done better than he had
realized and had enough to pay his bills with a little left

over.

Only a very little bit left over, unfortunately—not

quite enough for a decent meal. He would be starting

with a clean slate, though.

The disturbance was continuing; loud voices were au-
dible and not all of them were speaking Ethsharitic. He
decided that the situation deserved investigation and he
peered cautiously around the end of the curtain.

A very odd group was arguing with the innkeeper.
There were four of them, none of whom Sterren recalled
having seen before. Two were huge, hulking men clad in
heavy steel-studded leather tunics and bloodred kilts of
barbarous cut, with unadorned steel helmets on their
black-haired heads and swords hanging from broad
leather belts—obviously foreigners, to be dressed so
tackily, and probably soldiers of some kind, but certainly
not in the city guard. The kilts might possibly have been
city issue—though if so, some clothier had swindled the
overlord's officers—but the helmets and tunics and belts
were all wrong. Both of the men were tanned a dark
brown, which implied that they were from some more

Lawrence Watt-Evans            7

southerly clime—somewhere in the Small Kingdoms, no
doubt.

A third man was short and stocky, brown haired and
lightly tanned, clad in the simple bleached cotton tunic
and blue woolen kilt of a sailor, with nothing to mark him
as' either foreign or local; it was he who was doing most
of the shouting. One of his hands was clamped onto the
front of the innkeeper's tunic. The other was raised in a
gesture that was apparently magical, since a thin trail of
pink sparks dripped from his raised forefinger.

The group's final member was a woman, tall and aris-
tocratic, clad in a gown of fine green velvet embroidered
in gold. Her black hair was trimmed and curled in a style
that had gone out of favor years ago, and that, added to
the shoddy workmanship of the embroidery and her
dusky complexion, marked her as just as much of a for-
eign barbarian as the two soldiers.

"Where is he?" The sailor's final bellow reached Ster-
ren's ears quite plainly. The innkeeper's reply did not,
but the finger pointing toward the curtained alcove—to-
ward Sterren—-was unmistakable.

That was a shock. It was obvious that the foursome
meant no good for whomever they sought, and it ap-
peared they sought him. He did not recognize any of
them, but it was possible that he had won money from
one or all of them in the past—or perhaps they were
relatives of some poor fool he had fleeced, come~~to
avenge the family honor.

He tried to remember if he had won anything from
any barbarians lately; usually he avoided them, since
they were reputed to have violent tempers, and the
World was full of gullible farmers. He did not recall play-
ing against any barbarians since Festival, and surely no-
body would begrudge anything short of violence that had
happened during Festival!

Perhaps they were hired, then. In any case, Sterren
did not care to meet them.

He ducked back behind the curtain and looked about,
considering possibilities.

There weren't very many.

The alcove was absolutely simple, composed of three
gray stone walls and the curtain, the plank floor with

8  '    THE UNWILLING WARLORD

betting lines chalked on it, and a beamed wooden ceiling,
black with years of smoke, that undoubtedly served as a
floor for an upstairs room. There were no doors, no win-
dows, and no way he could slip out. No hiding places
were possible, since three wooden chairs were the only
furniture. Smoky oil lamps perched on high shelves at
either end provided what light there was, as well as the
fishy aroma that combined with stale ale in the tavern's

distinctive stench.

No help was to be had in here, that was plain, nor
could he hope to rally the tavern's other patrons to his
aid; he was not popular there. Gamblers who usually win
are rarely well liked—especially when they play for
stakes so low that they can't afford to be lavish with

their winnings.

Sterren realized he would have to rely on his wits—
and those wits were good enough that he knew he would
rather not have to rely on them.

They were, however, all he had, and he had no time to
waste. He flung back one end of the curtain and pointed
at the door to the street, shouting, "There he goes! There
he goes! You can still catch him if you hurry!"

Only two of the foursome paid any heed at all, and
even those two treated it only as a minor distraction,
giving the door only quick glances. The two immense
soldiers did not appear to have heard him. Instead, upon
seeing him, they turned and marched heavily toward
him, moving with a slow relentless tread that reminded
Sterren of the tide coming in at the docks.

The other two, the sailor and the foreign noble-
woman, followed the soldiers; the sailor flicked his fore-
finger, and the trail of sparks vanished.

Sterren did not bother ducking back behind the cur-
tain; he stood and waited.

It had been a feeble ruse, but the best he could man-
age on such short notice. As often as not, similar tricks
had been effective in the past; it had certainly been

worth trying.

Since it had failed, he supposed he would have to face
whatever these people wanted to do with him. He hoped
it wasn't anything too unpleasant. If they had been sent
by one of his creditors he could even pay—if they gave

Lawrence Watt-Evans            9

him a chance before breaking his arm, or maybe his
head. Even if someone demanded interest, there was no
one person he owed more than he now had.

The quartet stopped a few feet away; one of the sol-
diers stepped forward and pulled aside the curtain, re-
vealing the empty alcove.

The sailor looked at the bare walls, then at Sterren.
"That was a stupid stunt," he said in a conversational
tone. His Ethsharitic had a trace of a Shiphaven twang,
but was clear enough. "Are you Sterren, son of Kelder?"

Cautiously, Sterren replied, "I might know a fellow by
that name." He noticed the tavern's few remaining pa-
trons watching and, one by one, slipping out the door.

The spokesman exchanged a few words with the vel-
vet-clad woman in some foreign language, which Sterren
thought might be the Trader's Tongue heard on the
docks; the woman then spoke a brief phrase to the sol-
diers, and Sterren found his arms clamped in the grasp of
the two large barbarians, one on either side. He could
smell their sweat very clearly.

It was not a pleasant smell.

"Are you Sterren, son of Kelder, son of Kelder, or are
you not?" the sailor demanded once again.

"Why?" Sterren's voice was unsteady, but he looked
the sailor in the eye without blinking.

The sailor paused, almost smiling, to admire the cour-
age it took to ask that question. Then he again de-
manded, "Are you?"

Sterren glanced sideways at the unmoving mass of
soldier gripping his right arm, obviously not in the mood
for civilized discourse or casual banter, and admitted,
"My name is Sterren of Ethshar, and my father was
called Kelder the Younger."

"Good," the sailor said. He turned and spoke two
words to the woman.

She replied with a long speech. The -sailor listened
carefully, then turned back to Sterren and said, "You're
probably the one they want, but Lady Kalira would like
me to ask you some questions and make sure."

Sterren shrugged as best he could with his arms im-
mobilized, his nerve returning somewhat. "Ask away. I
have nothing to hide," he said.

10

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evaas

11

It must be a family affair, he decided, or his identity
wouldn't be a matter for such concern. He might talk his
way out yet, he thought.

"Are you the eldest son of your father?"
That was not a question he had expected. Could these
people have some arcane scruples about killing a man's
first heir? Or, on the other hand, did they consider the
eldest of a family to be responsible for the actions of his
kin? The latter possibility didn't matter much, since
Sterren had no living kin—at least, not in any reason-
able degree of consanguinity.
Hesitantly, he replied, "Yes."
"You have a different name from your father."
"So what? Plenty of eldest sons do—repeating names
is a stupid custom. My father let his mother name me,
said there were too damn many Kelders around already."
"Your father was the eldest son of his mother?"
This made no sense to Sterren at all. "Yes," he said,

puzzled.

"Your father is dead?"

"Dead these sixteen years. He ran afoul of—"

"Never mind that; it's enough we have your word that

he's dead."

"My word? I was a boy of three, scarcely a good wit-
ness even had I been there, which I was not. But I was
told he was dead and I never saw him again." This line of
questioning was beginning to bother him. Were these
people come to avenge some wrong his father had com-
mitted? He knew nothing about the old man save that he
had been a merchant—and, of course, the lurid story of
his death at the hands of a crazed enchanter had been
told time and time again.

It would be grossly unfair, in Sterren's opinion, for his
own death to result from some ancestral misdemeanor,
rather than from one of his own offenses or failings; he
hoped he could convince these people of that.

It occurred to him that perhaps this sailor with his
pink sparks .was that very same crazed enchanter, but
that idea made no sense, and he discarded it. It was far
more likely that the pink sparks were part of some shop-
bought spell.

In fact, they might well be all there was to the spell, a

little something to impress the ladies—or anybody else,
for that matter.

"His mother, your grandmother—who was she?" the
sailor asked.

His grandmother? Sterren was even more baffled than
before. He had been seven when she died and he re-
membered her mostly as a friendly, wrinkled face and a
warm voice telling impossible tales. His grandfather,
who had raised him after all the others were dead, had
missed her terribly and had spoken of her often, explain-
ing how he had brought her back from a tiny little king-
dom on the very edge of the world, talking about how
she got along so well with everyone so long as she got
her way.

"Her name was Tanissa the Stubborn, I think; she
came from the Small Kingdoms somewhere." As did
these four, he realized, or at least three of them. The
questions suddenly began to make sense. She must have
stolen something, or committed some heinous offense,
and they had finally tracked her down.

It had certainly taken them long enough. Surely they
wouldn't carry their revenge to the third generation!
"She's dead," he added helpfully.

"Was she ever called Tanissa of Semma?"

"I don't know; I never heard her called that."

There was another exchange in the familiar but in-
comprehensible language, including his grandmother's
name as well as his own. By the end of it the woman
seemed excited and was smiling.

The smile didn't look vindictive, but that was very
little comfort; whatever crime his grandmother had com-
mitted must have been half a century ago, and this
woman could scarcely have been born then. She wasn't
exactly young, but she didn't look that old—and she
didn't look young enough to be using a youth spell. She
must have been sent on the hunt by someone else; per-
haps her father or mother was the wronged party. In that
case she'd be glad to have the job done, but would have
no reason for personal dislike.

A glance to either side showed the two soldiers as
impassive as ever, and he. wondered whether they under-
stood what was going on any better than he did.

12 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 13

The interpreter, as the sailor apparently was, turned
back to Sterren and asked, "Do you have any family?"

"No." He didn't think it was worth trying to lie.

"No wife?"

Sterren shook his head.

"What about your mother?"

"She died bearing me." Perhaps, he thought, they
would take pity on him because he was an orphan.

"Since you're the eldest, there could scarcely be
brothers or sisters if she died bearing you. What about
old Kelder, your grandfather?"

It occurred to Sterren, a bit belatedly, that he was
removing the possibility of spreading the blame or get-
ting off on grounds of family support; but it was too late
already, and he continued to tell the truth. "He died
three years ago. He was an old man."

"Uncles? Aunts? Cousins?"

"None."

"Your other grandparents?"

"Dead before I was bom, from drinking bad water."

"Good!" the sailor said with a smile. "Then you
should be able to leave immediately!"

"What?" Sterren exclaimed. "Leave where? I'm not
going anywhere!" He made no attempt to hide his sur-
prise and indignation.

"Why not?" the sailor demanded. "You're not still an
apprentice, are you?"

"What if I am? Where are you taking me? Who are
you?" His remaining assurance faded a little more; they
wouldn't dare kill him here in the tavern, probably not
anywhere in Ethshar, but if they managed to remove him
from the city they could do anything they pleased. There
was no law outside the walls—or at least Sterren knew

of none.

"I'm just an interpreter..." the sailor began.

"What were those sparks?" Sterren interrupted.

The sailor waved the question away. "Nothing; I

bought them on Wizard Street to help find you. Really,

I'm just an interpreter. I'm not the one looking for you."
"Then who are these others, and what do they want

with me?"

"The Lady Kalira is taking you to Semma," the sailor
replied.

"The hell she is!" Sterren said. "I'm not leaving the
city!" He was close to panic; visions of death by slow
torture flickered through his mind.

The sailor sighed. "I'm afraid you are, whether you
like it or not."

"Why?" Sterren asked, letting a trace of panic into his
voice in hopes of inducing pity. "What do these people
want with me?"

The man shrugged. "Don't ask me. They hired me in
Akalla to get them to Ethshar and find you, so I got them
to Ethshar and found you. It's none of my business what
they want you for."

"It's my business, though!" Sterren pointed out. He
tried to struggle; the soldiers gave no sign they had even
noticed. He subsided and demanded, "You can ask, at
least, can't you?"

"I can ask Lady Kalira," the sailor admitted. "Those
two don't speak Trader's Tongue, and for all I know
they're the ones who want you." He seemed appallingly
disinterested.

"Ask her!" Sterren shrieked.

The sailor turned and said something.

The tall woman did not answer him, but stepped for-
ward and spoke directly to Sterren, saying very slowly
and distinctly, "O'n Sterren, Enne Karnai t'Semma."

"What the hell does that mean?" Sterren asked. He
was about to say something further when he realized that
the two barbarians had released his arms. He looked up
at them and saw that their huge flat faces were broken
into broad grins. One stuck out an immense paw and
shook Sterren's hand vigorously, clasping it hard enough
to sting. Utterly confused, Sterren asked the sailor,
"What did she say?"

"Don't ask me; that was Semmat,., not Trader's
Tongue. I don't speak Semmat."

Lady Kalira saw Sterren's continued incomprehen-
sion and said, "Od'na ya SemmatT' When he still looked
blank, she said, "Et'sharitic is bad." Her pronunciation
was horrendous.

Sterren stared for a moment, then turned to the sailor

14        THE UNWILLING WARLORD
and demanded, "Is she telling me my native tongue isn't
fit for her to speak? Is this some sort of barbarian ritual
thing?" He was even more thoroughly confused than be-
fore.

"No, no, no," the sailor said, "she's just saying she

can't speak it very well. I don't think she knows more
than a dozen words, to be honest, and I taught her half of

those on the way here."

The Semman aristocrat apparently gave up on direct
communication with her captive and gave the interpreter
a long message to relay. He interrupted her twice, re-
questing clarifications—at least that was what Sterren
judged to be happening, since each interruption was fol-
lowed by a careful repetition of an earlier phrase.

Finally, the sailor turned to Sterren and explained,
"She says she was sent by her king, Phenvel the Third,
to find the heir of your grandmother's brother, the Eighth
Warlord, who died four months ago. She consulted a
magician—I'm not clear on what sort—and that led her
to you. She is to bring you back to Semma to receive
your title and inheritance .and to fulfill your hereditary
duties as the new warlord—you're Enne Karnai, the

Ninth Warlord."

"That's silly," Sterren replied. He relaxed somewhat.
If the story were true, then his worries about vengeance
were groundless, and he saw no reason for the woman to

bother lying.

"That's' what she said," the sailor replied with a shrug.

"What if I won't go?" he asked. While it might be nice
to have an inheritance waiting for him, that bit about
"hereditary duties" didn't sound good, and he wanted
nothing to do with wars or warlords. Wars were danger-
ous. Besides, who would want to live among barbarians?
Particularly among barbarians who apparently didn't

speak Ethsharitic.

The idea was ludicrous.

The interpreter relayed his question, and Lady Ka-
lira's face fell. She spoke an authoritative sentence; the
sailor hesitantly translated it as, "Failure to perform
one's duty to one's country is treason, and treason is
punishable by immediate summary execution."

Lawrence Watt-Evans            15

"Execution?" The inheritance suddenly sounded
much more attractive.

Lady Kalira said something in Semmat; the smiles
vanished from the faces of the soldiers, and each
dropped a hand to his sword hilt.

"But it's not my country!" Sterren protested. "I was
born and raised here in Ethshar, of Ethsharitic parents!"
He looked from the sailor to Lady Kalira and back.

The sailor shrugged, a gesture that was getting on
Sterren's nerves. Lady Kalira said, in halting Ethshari-
tic, "You, the heir."

Sterren looked despairingly at the two soldiers; he
could see no chance at all that he could outrun or out-
fight either of them, let alone both. The one on the left
slid a few inches of his blade from its scabbard, in warn-
ing.

"Hai! No bloodshed in here! Take him outside first!"
The innkeeper's voice was worried.

No one paid any attention to his outburst—save that,
Sterren hoped he would call the city guard.

Hoping for the city guard was a new experience for
him.

Even if they were summoned, though, they could not
possibly arrive in time to do him any good. He had no
way out. Struggling to smile, Sterren managed a ghastly
parody of a grin as he said, "I guess I'll be going to
Semma, then."

Lady Kalira smiled smugly.

CHAPTER 2

Sterren stared at the decaying, sun-bleached town of   \
Akalla of the Diamond in dismay. It lived up to his worst
imaginings of what the barbaric Small Kingdoms woutd
be like.

He had been given very little warning of what to ex-
pect. His captors had spirited him out of the tavern,
paused at his room on Bargain Street only long enough
to gather up his few belongings, and then taken him,
protesting vigorously, onto their chartered ship.

He had looked desperately for an opportunity to
escape, but none had presented itself. At the last minute
he had dived off the dock, only to be fished ignomin-
iously out of the mud and dragged aboard.                 ,

After that, he had given up any thoughts of escape for   |
a time. Where could he escape to from a ship? He wasn't
that strong a swimmer. Instead, he had cooperated as
best he could, biding his time.

His captors had separated him from the interpreter   '
and made it plain that they expected him to leam their
barbaric tongue—Semmat, they called it. He had swal-
lowed his revulsion at the thought of speaking anything
but proper Ethsharitic and had done his best to oblige.
After all, if he couldn't understand what was being said
around him, he would have little chance of learning any-
thing useful.

His language lessons had not covered very much
when the ship docked in Akalla of the Diamond, just ten   i

16

Lawrence Watt-Evans            17

days after leaving Ethshar of the Spices. The weather
had been hot and clear—and fairly calm, which is why it
took ten days just to cross the Gulf of the East and sail
the South Coast. One of the two immense Semman sol-
diers, the one who called himself Alder d'Yoon, told
Sterren in a mixture of baby Semmat and sign language
that the voyage in the other direction had taken only four
days because the ship had been driven before a storm
much of the way—a very expensive storm, conjured up
for that very purpose, if Sterren understood him cor-
rectly.

Alder guessed the total distance between the two
ports at less than a hundred leagues, a figure that sur-
prised Sterren considerably. He had always thought of
the Small Kingdoms as being a very long way off, on the
far side of the ocean, and a hundred leagues across a
mere gulf didn't seem that far.

Of course, Sterren was not absolutely certain that he
had understood Alder correctly. He knew he had the
numbers straight, because he had learned them from
counting fingers, but he wasn't completely sure of the
Semmat terms for "day" and "league." He wished that
he could check with the interpreter, but Lady Kalira—or
rather, Aia Kalira, in Semmat—had expressly forbidden
the man to talk to him in any language, and she was
paying enough that the sailor would not take any chance
of losing his job.

Several members of the crew spoke Ethsharitic, but
Lady Kalira had paid each of them to not speak it to
Sterren except in emergencies. He was to communicate
in Semmat or not at all.

Too often, it was not at all, leaving him unsure of
much of his limited vocabulary.

Whatever the exact distances, there could be no
doubt that on the afternoon of the tenth day their ship
put into port at Akalla, in the shadow of the grim pile of
guano-whitened stone the Semmans called Akalla Kar-
nak. Sterren thought that karnak probably meant castle,
but again he was not quite sure. He had never seen a
castle before, and the forbidding fortification at Akalla
did not encourage him to seek out others.

He had gathered that Semma lay somewhere inland,

18 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

and that Akalla of the Diamond was the nearest seaport
to it. He was not yet clear on whether Akalla was a sepa-
rate country, a conquered province, or a district within
the kingdom of-Semma. The truth was that he didn't
much care, since it did not seem relevant to any plans to
escape back to Ethshar.

And Akalla looked like a place that very few people
cared about. It consisted of three or four streets lined
with small shops and houses, all huddled onto a narrow
stretch of beach in the castle's shadow, between two
jagged stretches of broken cliffs.

The buildings of the town were built of some sort of
yellowish blocks that looked more like brick than stone,
but were far larger than any bricks Sterren was familiar
with. The joints all seemed to be covered with faded
greenery—brown mosses or gray lichen or half-dead ivy
climbing the walls. The roofs were of turf, with thin,
scorched brown grass on top. He saw very few windows.
Flies buzzed in clouds above the streets, and the few
people who were visible on those streets seemed to be
curled up asleep, completely covered by dirty white
robes. The whole place smelled of dry rot.

Sterren was not at all impressed by the town.

The castle was far more impressive, but it, too, was
streaked with dying plant life and seemed lifeless, almost
abandoned.

As Sterren watched the sailors tying up to the dock,
he asked the soldier beside him—not Alder, but the
other one, Alder's comrade Dogal d'Gra—how far it was
to Semma.

Rather, he tried to ask that, but his limited knowledge
of Semmat forced him to say instead, "How many
leagues is Semma?" That assumed that he was using the
correct word for leagues and hadn't screwed up the
grammar somewhere.

What he had thought was a simple question plunged
his guard into deep concentration; the Semman muttered
to himself, saying in Semmat, "Akalla, maybe one;

Skaia, four or five; Ophkar—hmm."

Finally, after considerable calculation, he arrived at
an answer. "Twelve, thirteen, maybe fourteen leagues."

Sterren knew the numbers up to twenty beyond any

Lawrence Watt-Evans            19

question, and a good many beyond with reasonable con-
fidence, but to be sure he held up his ten fingers and
said, "And two, three more?"

Dogal nodded. "Yeah."

Horrified, Sterren stared back out at the port. Thir-
teen leagues? The entire city of Ethshar was little more
than a league from comer to comer, yet he had never
managed to explore it all. It took a good hour just to
walk from Westgate to the Arena—more, if traffic was

heavy. They would have to walk all night to reach
Semma!

In the event, as he later learned, they would not walk
at all, and certainly not at night. Instead, when the ship
was secured at bow and stern and the gangplank in
place, he found himself escorted not out onto the high-
way to Semma, but to a small inn near the docks—small
by Sterren's standards, that is, since it was, except for
the castle, the largest structure in town.

The interpreter, to Sterren's consternation, stayed be-
hind on the ship; he had fulfilled his contract and would
not be accompanying them further.

Upon learning this, Sterren suddenly wished he had
tried even harder during his language lessons. Now if an
emergency arose he would have to rely on his limited
command of Semmat, rather than finding an interpreter.

He felt more cut off than ever.

Once inside the inn, out of the hot sun and into the
cool shade, Sterren looked around, and his opinion of
Akalla went up a notch. The inn was laid out well
enough, with several cozy alcoves holding tables and
one wall lined with barrels. A stairway at either side led
up to a balcony, and the rooms for travelers opened off
that. A good many customers were present, eating and
drinking and filling the place with a pleasant hum of con-
versation, while harried but smiling barmaids hurried
hither and yon.

Most of the customers wore the thin white robes Ster-
ren had seen on the street, but here they were thrown
back to reveal gaily colored tunics and kilts beneath.

Lady Kalira ignored the bustle and headed directly
for the innkeeper, who stood leaning against one of the
barrels. She took two rooms for her party—one for her-

20      THE UNWILLING WARLORD

self, and one for Sterren, Alder, and Dogal.

Sterren glanced around and decided that even though
it was a pleasant enough inn, he did not really want to be
there, not with Alder and Dogal watching him con-
stantly, and with, he presumed, nobody around who

spoke Ethsharitic.

Since he had no choice, however, he resolved to make

the best of it. While Dogal took the party's baggage up to
their rooms and Lady Kalira settled with the innkeeper
on the exact amount of the party's advance payment,
Sterren attempted to strike up a conversation with a
winsome barmaid, using his very best Semmat.

She stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled, said
something in a language he had never heard before, and

hurried away.

He stared after her in shock.
"What was..." he began in Ethsharitic, and then

caught himself and switched to Semmat. "What was
thatT he asked Alder.

"What?" the soldier asked in reply.

"What the.. .the... what she said."

Alder shrugged. "I don't know," he said, "She was

speaking Akallan."

"Akallan? Another language?"

"Sure," Alder said, unperturbed.

Sterren stared about wildly, listening to first one con-
versation, then another. Lady Kalira and the innkeeper
were speaking Trader's Tongue, he realized. A couple at
a nearby table was whispering in some strange and sibi-
lant speech that didn't sound like Trader's Tongue, Akal-
lan, or Semmat, and which certainly wasn't Ethsharitic.
Other voices were speaking any number of dialects.

"Gods," Sterren said, "How does anybody ever talk

to anyone here?"

Alder asked, "What?"

Sterren realized he'd spoken Ethsharitic again; he
wasn't sure whether he wanted to weep or scream. He
did know he wanted a drink. He sat down heavily in the
nearest chair and resorted to a language understood
everywhere; he waved a finger in the air in the general
direction of the barmaid and threw a coin on the table.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           21

That worked, and the barmaid smiled at him as she
placed a full tankard before him. He began to feel more
cheerful.

After all, he reminded himself, he was in a port. Natu-
rally, there would be a variety of travelers, speaking a
variety of tongues. "In Semma," he said to Alder, "all
speak one language?" He knew, as he said it, that his
phrasing was awkward, but it was the best he could do.

"Sure," Alder said, settling down at Sterren's table.
"Everyone in Semma speaks Semmat. Just about, any-
way; I guess there might be some foreigners now and
then who don't."

Sterren struggled to follow his guard's speech. He had
been resigned to learning Semmat, but now he was be-
coming really eager to leam. Whatever the ignominy of
being forced to use a barbarian tongue, it was nothing
compared to the isolation and inconvenience of not being
able to speak with those about him.

And it looked as if he was, indeed, going to be stuck
in Semma for the foreseeable future, if he didn't get
away very, very soon. Thirteen leagues inland! There
was simply no way he would be able to slip away and
cover that distance without being caught and dragged
back—not if the Semmans had any sort of magic avail-
able, as they surely did.

If he was going to escape, he would have to do so
tonight, here in Akalla, and stow away aboard a ship
bound for Ethshar.

And how could he do that when he couldn't find three
people in Akalla who spoke the same language as each
other, let alone anything that he, himself, understood?
How could he leam which ship was bound whither, and
when?

Even if he once got aboard a ship, how could he earn
his way home, when he couldn't even understand
orders, or argue about the rules of a friendly garne?

No, it was hopeless. He was doomed to go to Semma,
a country that his grandmother had been only too glad to
flee, even at the loss of her noble status.

Being thus doomed, all he could do was make the best
of it. He would have to find some way to fit in.

22      THE UNWILLING WARLORD

He might even have to actually be a proper warlord.
First though, he needed to know the language.
"Alder," he said, "I want to leam Semmat better.

^llder gulped beer, then nodded. "Sure," he said.
"What do you want to know?"

24       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
road had vanished, but they seemed confident of the

route, so he did not question it.

For one thing, he was far too busy trying to minimize
the bruising of his backside to worry about where he was
going, or why. He put aside all worries about wars and
warlords and life among the barbarians, concentrating
solely on matters closer to hand—and closer still to his

seat.

By the time the party stopped by a tiny stream for a

midday rest and refreshment, out of sight of even Akalla
Karnak's highest tower, Sterren's throat ached from dry-
ness, his hands ached from clutching the reins, his feet
ached from being jammed into the stirrups, his back
ached from trying to keep him upright, and worst of all,
his rump ached from the constant abrasive collisions
with his saddle. He did not descend gracefully, but sim-
ply fell off his mount onto a tuft of prairie grass.

Alder and Dogal politely pretended not to notice, but

Lady Kalira was less kind.

"You haven't ridden before, have you?" she de-
manded without preamble.

Sterren took a moment to mentally translate this into
Ethsharitic. "No," he admitted. He was too thirsty,
weary, and battered to think of any sarcastic comment to
add, let alone to translate it into Semmat. Her blithe as-
sumption that an Ethsharitic street gambler would know
how to ride seemed to call for a cutting remark, but Ster-
ren could not rise to the occasion.

"You should have told me back at the inn," she said.
"I could have gotten a wagon. Or we could have walked.
Or at the very least we could have given you a few les-
sons."

Sterren tried to shrug, but his back was too stiff for

any such gesture. "I... It was... It did not... damn!"
" He could not think of any word for "appeared" or

"looked" or "seemed." Before any of the Semmans

could volunteer a suggestion, he managed, "I saw it was

not bad, but I saw wrong."
"It looked easy, you mean."
Sterren nodded. "I guess that's what I mean."
"A warlord really should know how to ride," Lady

Kalira pointed out.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           25

"I'm no warlord," Sterren said bitterly.

"You are Sterren, Ninth Warlord of Semma!" Lady
Kalira reminded him sternly.

"I'm Sterren of Ethshar. I play dice in taverns," Ster-
ren retorted.

Lady Kalira backed away slightly. "You know, you
mustn't tell anyone that when we get to Semma," she
said.

"Why not?" Sterren demanded.

"Because you're the warlord!" Lady Kalira replied,
shocked. "You hold a position of great power and re-
spect. We can't let it be common gossip that you made
your living cheating at gambling."

Sterren did not follow all of this speech, but he
guessed one vital word from context. "I didn't cheat!" he
shouted; the effort sent a twinge through his back and
legs, and more than a twinge through his buttocks.

"Then how did you win regularly enough to live?"

"I was lucky," he muttered unconvincingly. He had
learned the word aboard ship.

"Ha!" shesaid. "Wizard's luck, if you ask me."

"Wizard?" Sterren asked. He knew the word meant
one variety of magician, but wasn't sure which. "War-
lock," he said in Ethsharitic.

Lady Kalira did not recognize the word; instead she
changed the subject.

"You must relax," she said, demonstrating by letting
her arms fall limply, "when you ride. Move with the
horse, not against it."

Sterren nodded, not really believing that he would
ever leam the skill.

"And we can pad the saddle—that velvet tunic in
your pack will help. And you can walk sometimes."

Sterren nodded again, with a bit more enthusiasm.

By midafternoon, thanks to additional cushioning, a
slower pace, and walking when the blisters^n his rump
became unbearable, he had improved enough that, al-
though he still ached in every joint and in several un-
jointed places as well, he was able to think about his
future and to carry on some limited conversation with his
companions as he rode.

He began by pointing in each direction and asking

26

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

27

what lay there. All they could see was sand and sun and
grass, which made it obvious that he was asking what lay
beyond.

Ahead, of course, was Semma; behind was Akalla of
the Diamond. To the left, the north, Dogal told him,
"Skaia." The name meant nothing to him.

The reply when he pointed to the right was more in-
teresting.

"Nothing," Dogal told him.

"Nothing?"

"Well, almost. A couple of leagues of sand, and then
the edge of the World. If you stand up in the stirrups and
stare, you may be able to see it."

"See it?"

"Yes."

That, Sterren thought, was a very interesting concept,
seeing the edge of the World. Standing up in the stirrups,
however, was a terrifying concept, so he decided to
forgo the view.

How, he wondered, could one see the edge of the
World? What did it look like? What lay beyond it? The
southern horizon, he noticed, did look slightly different
from the others; there seemed to be a yellowish tinge to
both ground and sky in that direction. He stared, but
could make out nothing.

The very idea fascinated him, all the same. To be so
close to the actual edge!

He had thought that Ethshar of the Spices was in the
center of the World, but if he had come so close to
the edge so quickly, then that could not be so; he knew
the World was bigger than that. He had heard travelers
speak of Ethshar as being in the southeast, but had, until
now, put it down to a distorted worldview.

Obviously, it was his own view that had been in error.

That was quite a realization, that he had been wrong.
He wondered if he had ever been wrong about anything
important.

Dogal distracted him from that line of thought. "Might
be Ophkar to the north of us now," he remarked.
"Skaia's not that big. Bigger than Semma or Akalla,
smaller than Ophkar."

"Semma is next, beyond Ophkar?" Sterren asked.

Dogal nodded. "That's right. Your accent is improving
greatly, Lord Sterren; congratulations."

Sterren said nothing in return, but felt a touch of
pride. He had tried very hard to get the accent right on
the barbaric names of the surrounding kingdoms, and it
was good to know he had succeeded.

He had come to realize that Akalla, Skaia, and Oph-
kar were all indeed separate kingdoms, squeezed into the
thirteen leagues between Semma and the coast, and he
marveled that the Small Kingdoms were that small.

He also wondered all the more just what he was get-
ting into. If the kingdoms were crowded together that
closely, they must surely rub each other the wrong way
every so often. No wonder they needed warlords.

"What is Semma... What... Tell me about Semma,"
he said, unable to come up with the words to ask, "What
is Semma like?" or "What sort of a place is Semma?"

Dogal shrugged. "Not much to tell."

"There must be something you can tell me; are there
many cities?"

"No cities.".

Sterren could not think of a word for "town." Instead,
he asked, "Are there many castles?" The word for castle
was indeed karnak; he had checked on that back at the
inn.

"Just one, Semma Castle. That's where we're going."

Dogal was not exactly a torrent of information, Ster-
ren decided; he nudged his mount over toward Alder, on
his right.

"Hello," he said.

Alder nodded politely. "Hail, Lord Sterren."

Sterren sighed; he supposed he would have to get
used to that pompous greeting. "Tell me about Semma,"
he said.

Alder glanced at him curiously. "What do you want to
know?"

"What it... what I... how it is there."

"What it's like, you mean?"

Gratefully, Sterren latched onto the phrase he had
been missing. "Yes, what it's like."

"Well, Lord Sterren, it's hard for me to say, because
it's the only place I've ever been, except for this trip to

28

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

29

Et'shar to fetch you. I was born there, never lived any-
where else."

"Ethshar, not Et'shar," Sterren said idly, pleased to
be the one correcting for once, rather than the one cor-
rected.

"Et'th'shar," Alder said, spitting messily as he strug-
gled with the unfamiliar combination of aspirants.

"Are there many people?"

Alder shrugged. "I don't know, really," he said. "The
castle is certainly crowded enough."

"I didn't just mean the castle."

"Well, that's where everyone lives except the peas-
ants."

That startled Sterren and caused him to wonder if he
was still misunderstanding the word karnak after all.
"Everyone?"

"Just about."

"Peasants?" The word was new to him.

"The common people, the farmers," Alder explained.

Sterren nodded—he knew about the easy marks from
outside the walls. "Are there many peasants?" he asked.

Alder shrugged again. "I guess so."

"Are you a peasant?"             ,

"I'm a soldier, Lord Sterren." The reproof was obvi-
ous in Alder's tone.

"You weren't bom a soldier," Sterren pointed out,
proud he had remembered the word "bom" from Alder's

earlier comments.

Alder reluctantly admitted, "True. I was born a peas-
ant."

"Nothing wrong with that," Sterren said, seeing he
had hurt the big guard's feelings. "I was born a peasant,

too."

This was a lie, of course; he had been born into the
merchant class. He meant, however, that he had been
born a commoner.

Startled, Alder corrected him. "No, Lord Sterren,
you were bom a nobleman."

"Well, I didn't know it," Sterren retorted.
Alder considered that, then smiled. "True," he said.
Sterren rode on in silence for a long moment, mar-
shaling his thoughts.

At least he would be living in the castle, which would
presumably be at least an imitation of real civilization.
He had feared that he might find himself in some muddy
little village somewhere. A castle was not a city, but it
was, he hoped, better than nothing.

In the remainder of the afternoon and around the
campfire that night, Sterren pieced together a rough idea
of what Semma was like from a constant questioning of
his two guards. This also served to improve his Semmat
considerably, adding to his vocabulary and giving him
practice in pronunciation and sentence construction.

Semma was a quiet little kingdom, almost all of it oc-
cupied by peasants on small family farms, scraping a liv-
ing out of the sandy soil by growing oranges, lemons,
dates, figs, olives, and corn, or by raising sheep, or
goats, or cattle. At one time some peasants had grown
spices for export, but Semma had lost its spice trade long
ago, when Ophkar had temporarily cut off all the routes
to the sea and the markets had found other, more reliable
sources. The soldiers knew of no mines, or towns, or
any sort of manufacture or trade.

In the center of the kingdom stood Semma Castle,
with a large village clustered around it—the closest thing
to a town or city that the kingdom could boast. The cas-
tle itself was home to something over a hundred nobles
—Sterren had balked initially at believing that, but both
Dogal and Alder had insisted it was the truth. Sterren
could imagine a hundred people willingly jammed into a
single building readily enough, since he had seen the
crowded tenements of his native city, but he could not
imagine a hundred people living like that who called
themselves nobles.

Back home in Ethshar, Azrad VII surely had a
hundred or more people living in his palace, but only a
few could call themselves nobles; most were servants
and courtiers and bureaucrats.

Alder had noticed his disbelief and had explained,
"Well, that's counting the kids, and besides, a lot of
them are lesser nobility, and it's a big castle. You'll see."

Sterren considered that, and Lady Kalira took this
opportunity to present him with a salve for his develop-
ing saddlesores.

30

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"It's always a good. idea to bring a healing salve when
traveling," she said, "though this wasn't exactly the use I
had in mind.

Sterren accepted it gratefully and crawled away from
the campfire somewhat in pursuit of privacy. Lady Ka-
lira discreetly turned away, and the Ethsharite slid down
his breeches and applied the ointment liberally.

That done, he rejoined the others. He had just begun
to inquire about the army he was supposed to command
when Lady Kalira announced it was time to shut up and

sleep.

Sterren obliged, leaving military matters for the morn-
ing.

CHAPTER 4

hey spotted the castle's central tower by midmorning
of the third day, scarcely an hour after they had buried
the ashes of their breakfast fire and set out again. Sterren
had to admit that it looked like a big castle, as Alder had
said.

At that point they had just begun to pass farms, rather
than open plain—compact yellow houses surrounded by
small stands of fruit trees, patches of tall corn, and mis-
cellaneous livestock grazing the native grass down to
stubble. The various inhabitants of these establishments,
intent on their own concerns of herding or cultivation or
hauling water, invariably ignored the travelers.

The plain was no longer quite so smooth and flat as it
had been for most of the journey; the ground they tra-
versed had acquired something of a roll, though it was
still far from hilly.

Sterren had never gotten around to asking much
about the army, but he had learned that Semma was
roughly triangular, bounded on the southeast by the des-
ert that stretched to the edge of the World, on the north
by the relatively large and powerful kingdom of Ksinal-
lion, and on the west by Ophkar. Semma had fought sev-
eral wars against each of her neighbors over the last two
or three centuries—particularly Ksinallion—but under
the Seventh and Eighth Warlords had stayed at peace for
an amazingly long time. Alder and Dogal did not re-
member any of the wars themselves, but Alder's mater-

31

32 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 33

nal grandfather had fought against Ksinallion in the Sixth
Ksinallionese War, about fifty years ago. Sterren was
still patiently listening to tales of ancestral bravery when
the castle came into view.

Not long after that a cloud of dust appeared ahead of
them and grew until a dozen horsemen emerged from it.
Sterren was worried, but the three Semmans seemed
very pleased by this welcoming committee.

The horsemen were all large, dark-skinned men
dressed much like Alder and Dogal, riding horses in red
and gold trappings, and Lady Kalira announced that this
was an honor guard, sent to escort the newfound warlord
to the castle.

Sterren was relieved to discover, when the party
came to a halt a few paces away, that this was correct.
The government had not been overthrown since Lady
Kalira's departure.

The conversation between his original escort and the
new arrivals was too fast for him to follow, so Sterren
simply sat astride his horse until it was over.

The newcomers wheeled about and formed up into a
column around Sterren, Lady Kalira, and the two sol-
diers, and waited.

Sterren looked about, puzzled, and saw Lady Kalira
gesturing with her head. It dawned on him that he was in
command; this guard was in his honor, and they were
waiting for him to start.

Reluctantly, he urged his mount forward, and the en-
tire party rode on toward the castle.

Sterren found his inquiries about Semma's army in-
hibited by the presence of a dozen uniformed strangers.
He shrugged and accepted the situation. After all, he
would be able to see for himself, soon enough, just how
matters stood. He rode on in dignified silence, up the
dusty road and into the village that surrounded the cas-
tle.

The travelers were greeted at the castle gate by a
ragged fanfare of trumpets—at least one trumpeter was
always a fraction behind the others, and an occasional
sour note could be heard, but in general it was an im-
pressive and gratifying experience for Sterren. He had
heard far better, far more stirring music played in the

Arena, or in the overlord's occasional parades, or even
by impromptu street bands, back in Ethshar, but never
before had he heard more than a brief cheer in his own
honor. He counted a dozen trumpeters spaced along the
ramparts; impressed, he tried to sit up a little straighter
on his horse, to live up to his role.

Certainly, being a warlord had its positive aspects; as
long as he could avoid any actual wars, he thought it
might be enjoyable. Unfortunately, he doubted he would
be able to avoid wars; the Small Kingdoms were notor-
ious for constantly going to war over stupid little dis-
putes.

On the other hand. Alder and Dogal had said that
Semma had been at peace for more than forty years.
Maybe that peace would last.

Or maybe a war was overdue. He simply didn't know
anything about the situation.

It was time, however, to start learning as much as he
could, as quickly as he could. With that in mind, even as
he tried to ride with dignity and pride, and to look the
part of a warlord despite his shabby, travel-worn clothes,
he was studying everything in sight.

The castle stood upon a slight rise, the closest thing to
a hill that Sterren had seen since leaving Akalla; Sterren
could not tell if the little plateau, standing eight or ten
feet above the plain, was natural or man-made, but it
was certainly not new, in either case. Surrounding the
castle and its raised base were scattered two or three
dozen houses and shops, all the same dull yellow as the
outlying farmhouses, all built of some substance Sterren
had never seen before and could not identify, all with
thick walls and only a few heavily shuttered windows.
Gaily colored awnings shielded most of the doorways
and served as open-air shops; there was no single market
square, just a small plaza at the castle gate, and the
streets were rather haphazard. All the ground in the cas-
tle's vicinity was dry, hard-packed bare dirt, trampled
smooth and even, and the houses and shops were not
arranged in clear, sharp streets, but just ragged lines that
wiggled every which way.

Outside the village in any direction Sterren could see
scattered farmhouses, built in the same way as the vil-

34

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

35

lage's structures, strewn unevenly across the plain.

The castle itself was a stark contrast to these humble
dwellings; it was an immense and forbidding structure
built of dark red stone. An outer wall topped with iron-
braced battlements stood more than fifteen feet high,
with no opening anywhere in it save the gate by which
Sterren's little party entered.

As they passed through this portal, Sterren saw that
the wall was roughly twenty feet thick and the gateway
equipped with three sets of heavy doors as well as a
spiked portcullis and openings overhead through which
assaults might be made on anyone trying to enter unin-
vited.

It was not, perhaps, as overwhelming a piece of engi-
neering and defense technology as Ethshar's city walls
and gate towers, but it had its own grim power, certainly.
Sterren was quite sure that he would not care to try to
pass that wall and gate without a very clear invitation.

Of course, his escort, now numbering fifteen in all,
clearly constituted an invitation.

The castle within that outer wall was vaguely pyrami-
dal in its overall shape. Low wings, a mere two stories in
height, stretched out to either side of the central mass,
which stood some six stories, and was in turn topped by
a great central tower whose peak was, Sterren judged,
fully a hundred feet from the ground upon which the cas-
tle stood. A few turrets protruded here and there, ruining
the stepped outline. Window openings were nonexistent
at ground level, but grew steadily from narrow slits on
the second floor to broad expanses of glass under grace-
ful stone arches on the uppermost level of the tower.

The strip of ground between the curtain wall and the
keep was entirely taken up with paved walks and close-
packed patches of garden; Sterren was a bit surprised to
see no inner line of defense there. The gap between Eth-
shar's walls and its outermost street, he knew, was care-
fully kept clear of trees and permanent structures of any
sort, to allow for the deployment of troops and military
equipment in the event of siege or assault; in times of
peace, such as the past two centuries, this area filled up
with the city's criminals and homeless. Semma Castle
had no equivalent of this infamous Hundred-Foot Field.

He had little time to look at the gardens, though. As
soon as the last of the company had passed the outer-
most gate, the trumpet fanfare ended with a final flour-
ish, waiting guards slammed the outermost pair of the
heavy doors, and servants in red and yellow garb leaped
forward to take charge of the horses. Sterren Was
quickly lifted from the saddle and lowered to the ground
by half a dozen of the men in his escort, as his mount
was led to the stables beside the castle's inner gate.

This assistance was welcome, since he suspected he
would be too stiff, after so long in the saddle, to have
dismounted under his own power.

He was whisked past the stables and into the castle
proper. The main door was, like the outer gate, equipped
with a full range of defenses, but on foot, and alerted by
the intervening greenery, he looked a little more closely
this time and saw signs of disuse—dust on the hinges, a
spider web across one of the overhead openings. Forty
years of peace, he guessed, had naturally had an effect.

He had expected the party to stop and disband once
they were all inside, perhaps leaving him in the charge of
servants, or a guard or two, but instead the whole con-
tingent marched on down a broad, marble-floored central
corridor. The soldiery kept him carefully centered in the
group.

"Where are we going?" Sterren demanded in Semmat.

Lady Kalira glanced toward the commander of the
honor guard and whispered a question Sterren could not
catch. The soldier nodded in reply, and Lady Kalira
called back to Sterren, "The king is waiting to meet
you."

"The king?" Sterren wasn't certain he had heard the
word correctly; he did know its meaning, as it had come
up in discussions with Alder.

"Yes, the king, his Majesty Phenvel, third of that
name, by right of succession King of Semma and lord of
the southern deserts."

"Oh." Sterren had never met a king before and was
unsure how to react.

A pair of heavy, gold-trimmed doors swung open, and
Sterren found himself swept into what he immediately
identified, despite a complete lack of previous experi-

36

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

37

ence with such things, as a throne room. A broad red
carpet stretched from the door to the base of a dais and
up three steps to the feet of a portly man in scarlet robes,
seated on a large black chair. To either side of the carpet
stood a small crowd of people, all well dressed, of all
shapes and sizes.

Lady Kalira stopped at the foot of the dais; the sol-
diers stopped at the same instant she did and gracefully
stepped away to either side, with the exception of Alder
and Dogal, bringing up the rear, who remained on the
carpet.

Sterren, not having known what was coming, took a
step or two forward before he stopped himself, coming
uncomfortably close to walking into Lady Kalira's back.

Kalira bowed deeply, going down on one knee before
her sovereign. Hesitantly—and awkwardly, since he had
never made such an obeisance before—Sterren copied
her actions.

Lady Kalira rose, and Sterren stood again.

The hall was almost, but not quite, silent; Sterren
, could hear a steady hiss of whispering among the
watchers.

"Your Majesty," Lady Kalira said, "may I present
your servant Sterren, Ninth Warlord of Semma." She
gestured toward Sterren and stepped aside, turning so
that she stood on the edge of the carpet, her back to the
audience and able to speak to either monarch or Eth-
sharite.

Thinking some action was called for, Sterren bowed
again, from the waist this time, wishing somebody had
seen fit to coach him a little.

"Hello," the king said.

"Hello," Sterren replied nervously. He tried to judge
the king's age and guessed it at something over forty, but
almost certainly still short of sixty.

"Are you really Tanissa the Stubborn's grandson? It's
hard to believe."

Sterren, still unfamiliar with the language, needed a
moment to puzzle that out and phrase a response. This
was not the sort of question he had expected from a king
in what he took for a formal audience. "Yes, I... Yes,
your Majesty, I am," he replied. He was grateful that

Lady Kalira had provided him, in her introduction, with
the correct form of address,

"I never met her," the king said, "but I heard about
her when I was a boy, especially from her brother—your
great-uncle, that is, the old warlord. She ran away with
that merchant a couple of years before I was born. And
you're really her grandson, are you?"

Sterren nodded.

"There's no need to be shy, lad," the king said, smil-
ing. "After all, we're all family here."

"We are?" Sterren asked, puzzled.

"Oh, certainly; didn't you know? You're my seventh
cousin once removed. I looked it up." He gestured ex-
pansively, taking in the crowd of observers. "And
these," he said, "are the collected nobility of Semma.
And all of us, lad, are descended from Tendel the First,
first King of Semma."

"You are?"

"You, too, lad," Phenvel corrected him, gently.

"I am?"

"Yes, indeed; I'm in a direct male line, of course, and
you descended from the second son of Tendel the Sec-
ond, rather than the first son. You're also descended
from a couple of Tendel the First's daughters—the
nobles here tend to marry back into the family."

This came as something of a shock to Sterren, once
he had puzzled out exactly what had been said, and at
first he simply didn't believe it. A king, one of his ances-
tors? All these people his relatives? He was in the habit
of thinking of himself as having no family at all; to find
himself in a room crowded with his distant relations was
more than he could absorb. He could imagine no reason
for the king to lie about it, however.

"Oh," he said.

"That's one reason you're here, straight from your
journey. We all wanted a look at you, oar long-lost
cousin."

"Oh," Sterren said again. This whole situation was
beginning to seem unreal. Oh, the castle was real
enough, and the people—he could smell them, as well as
see and hear them, and he'd never heard of an illusion as
detailed as that—but the idea that they were really the

38 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 39

ruling class of one of the Small Kingdoms, just a few
leagues from the edge of the World, and that he was one
of them, a hereditary warlord, seemed so completely ab-
surd that for a moment it was easier to believe the whole
thing was a gigantic joke of some kind.

An uncomfortable silence fell, to be broken by Lady
Kalira.

"Your Majesty," she said, "I believe that our new
warlord is weary from his journey and overwhelmed by
meeting you. Nor has he eaten since dawn."

This was not strictly true, since Sterren's party had
finished breakfast well after sunrise, but it was close
enough.

"Of course," the king agreed. "Of course. Take him to
his room, then, and let him recover himself. We'll speak
with him more when he's rested and has eaten." He
waved a hand in dismissal.

Lady Kalira bowed, and Sterren imitated her again.
Then she motioned for him to follow and led the way to
the right, through the crowd to a door, and out of the
throne room. Alder and Dogal followed discreetly.

They emerged into a corridor, where Lady Kalira
turned left and led the way up curving stairs. Sterren's
stiff legs protested, but he followed her.

At the second-floor she kept going, and Sterren fol-
lowed without question.

At the third floor he paused, hoping she would change
her mind, but she kept on climbing. He suppressed a
moan.

At the fourth floor he considered asking how much
further they had to go, but couldn't think of the right
words in Semmat.

At the fifth floor he was panting heavily.

At the sixth floor the staircase ended, and he breathed
a sigh of relief as Lady Kalira led him down a passage-
way—and then she reached another staircase and
started up again. He balked.

Alder and Dogal came up behind him and did not
stop; he yielded and hurried on, up into the tower.

After just one more flight, on the seventh floor, they
left the staircase and headed down one more short pas-
sage, to an iron-bound door. Lady Kalira turned a large

black key in the lock, then swung the door open to re-
veal the room beyond.

"This is your room, as the warlord," she announced.
She stood back to let him enter. "It was your great-
uncle's for almost twenty years, and his father's—your
great-grandfather's—for half a century before that."

Sterren stepped in cautiously.

He was in a large, airy chamber, one side mostly
taken up by three broad, curtainless, many-paned win-
dows. Thick tapestries, slightly faded but still handsome,
hid the stone walls. A high canopied bed stood centered
against one wall, with a table on either side, a wardrobe
beyond the left-hand table, and a chest of drawers to the
right. Opposite the bed was a desk, or worktable,
flanked by tall bookcases jammed with books and
papers. A chair was tucked away in each comer of the
room; counting the one at the desk, there were five in
ail.

Sterren turned and discovered that the wall around
the doorway was covered with displays of weapons—
swords, knives, spears, pole-arms, and a good many he
could not put a name to, even in Ethsharitic. He won-
dered if he, as warlord, was expected to learn to use
them.

The weapons were all dusty. In fact, everything was
covered by a layer of dust—the desk, the books, the
papers, everything. The air was full of the dry, dusty
smell of disuse. It was plain that nobody had been living
in the room recently.

Hesitantly, he crossed to the windows and looked out.
He judged the angle of the sun and decided he was look-
ing almost due north.

The view was spectacular; he could see the castle
roofs below him, hiding his view of the outer wall and
most of the surrounding village. Beyond that he could
see a few houses—and then the plain, rolling on into the
distance, spotted with farmhouses, orchards, and var-
ious outbuildings, marked off into individual holdings by
hedges and fences. He saw no roads, however; what
traveling was done here was apparently done straight
across country.

To the right he thought he could see, out near the

40 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

horizon, the farms and grasslands fading into desert
sand; somewhat to the left of center he thought he might
be seeing the peaks of distant mountains somewhere
beyond the horizon.

He turned back to the doorway and saw that Lady
Kalira and the two soldiers were still standing in the cor-
ridor. He had a sudden vision of the door slamming,
trapping him inside.

"Aren't you coming in?" he asked.

Lady Kalira nodded and stepped in.

"What did you wait for?" he asked.

"I would not enter your private chamber without an
invitation, Lord Sterren," she replied.

Baffled by this pronouncement, which clearly implied
that he had some authority and was not merely a pris-
oner, it took Sterren a moment to realize that Alder and
DogaLwere still waiting in the hall. He looked at Lady
Kalira.

She looked back, paying no attention to the soldiers.
"May I sit down?" she asked.

"Yes," Sterren said in Ethsharitic, again caught off
guard by her sudden deference. He corrected himself,
repeating it in Semmat, as he remembered his escort
waiting for him, back out on the plain.

Maybe they were serious about calling him a lord.

She pulled a chair from a corner and sat. Sterren con-
sidered for a long moment before lowering himself cau-
tiously into the chair by the desk.

The healing salve on his saddlesores was working; he
could sit with only mild discomfort.

"You must have questions," Lady Kalira said. "Now
that we're safely home, maybe I can answer them."

Sterren stared at her for a moment, still puzzled, and
then smiled crookedly. "I hope so," he said.

CHAPTER 5

"F

-LZf verything in this room is yours," Lady Kalira said.
"This, and the position of warlord, are your inheritance
from your great-uncle Sterren. Nothing else; everything
he owned when he died is right here, or was given, at his
request, to others."

Sterren struggled with that for a moment and carefully
phrased a question.

"How did he give anything to me? How did he know
I... I was alive, when he hadn't seen my grandmother
for so long?"

"Oh, he didn't know you existed, but he had no
choice in the matter," Lady Kalira said, waving the ques-
tion away. "Semma has very clear and definite laws on
the lines of succession. This room and its contents were
his as the warlord, not his, personally, so he had no say
about who would receive them, nor who would receive
the title. If people were allowed to influence successions
it would result in all sorts of intrigues—and frankly, we
have too much of that even as it is."

"Succession? Intrigues?"

Lady Kalira explained the words as best she could,
and eventually Sterren thought he understood.

"But why me?" he asked. "Isn't there anyone here
who could be warlord?"

The noblewoman snorted in derision. "Your ances-
tors," she said, "were about the worst line in the whole

-  41

42

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

43

family at providing enough heirs. It doesn't help that
warlords tend to die young, in battle."

That statement, when the unfamiliar terms had been
defined, did little to help Sterren's peace of mind, but he
made no comment.

"After you," Lady Kalira continued, "the next heir is
the old warlord's third cousin—your third cousin twice
removed. That's only the seventh degree of consanguin-
ity. You're an heir in the third degree of consanguinity.
That's a pretty big difference. And besides, you're young
and strong..."

Sterren took this as flattery, since he knew he was
relatively scrawny.

"She's past fifty. If she had a son—well, that would
be the eighth degree, but it might do. Unfortunately, her
only child is a daughter. Unmarried, even if we allowed
inheritance by marriage instead of blood."

An attempt to explain the new words this time was
unsuccessful until, exasperated. Lady Kalira rose and
crossed to the desk, where she found a sheet of paper, a
pen, and ink, then leaned over and began drawing a fam-
ily tree.

Sterren, still seated, watched with interest as she ran
down the history of Semma's nine warlords.

The first, Tendel, was the younger brother of King
Ray el II, born almost two hundred years ago. His son,
also named Tendel, followed him, and a grandson after
that, but this third Tendel managed to get himself killed
in battle early in the disastrous Third Ksinallionese War,
before he could get around to marrying and siring heirs.
His brother Sterren inherited the title as Fourth Warlord,
only to get himself killed three years later in the same
war.

This first Sterren had been kind enough to produce
five children, though three of them were daughters, and
the younger son died without issue. The elder son suc-
ceeded as Fifth Warlord. His only child became Sixth
Warlord, and in turn produced only one son, the even-
tual Seventh Warlord, before meeting a nasty end after
losing a war.

Sterren, Seventh Warlord, was only twenty-one when
he inherited the title and lived to be seventy-three. He

was something of a legend. He broke with tradition and,
instead of marrying a distant cousin, (named an Eth-
sharitic woman he found somewhere.

They had three children, though the second one, Der-
eth, died in infancy. The eldest, Sterren, eventually be-
came the Eighth Warlord—and the youngest, Tanissa
the Stubborn, ran away with an Ethsharitic trader in
5169 and was never heard from again.

She, of course, was Sterren of Ethshar's grand-
mother. And since her brother never did get around to
marrying or producing children, that made Sterren the
Ninth Warlord.

The next-closest heir was Nerra the Cheerful, a
granddaughter of the Fourth Warlord's eldest daughter
—not exactly an obvious choice.

Lady Kalira put aside the sketchy genealogy after that
and continued her explanation without further prompt-
ing. Sterren listened politely, following the unfamiliar
words as best he could.

When it had become clear that old Sterren was finally
dying, the royal genealogist, unaware of Tanissa's son
and grandson, had needed over an hour simply to deter-
mine who the heir should be.                  "'

He had noticed the notation in the records of Tan-
issa's elopement and had reported it, along with his con-
clusions, to the king and his advisors. After considerable
debate Agor, the castle theurgist, had been called in; he
in turn had called up Unniel the Discerning, a minor god-
dess, who after much coaxing had, in her turn, called
upon Aibem, a more powerful god, who had, finally, in-
formed everybody that although Tanissa was dead, her
grandson was still alive and well.

After that, of course. Lady Kalira and her little en-
tourage had been sent to find Sterren and bring him back
to Semma and they had done just that. Lady Kalira, who
was not anywhere in the line of succession-for warlord,
had gotten the job because she was the heir presumptive
to her cousin Inria, Seventh Trader. Inria, eighty years
old, could not have made the trip herself.

When Lady Kalira had finished, Sterren nodded.
"And here I am," he agreed. "Now what do I do?"

"I would think that would be obvious—you're to take

44 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 45

command of the army and defend Semma."

"Defend Semma?"

"Protect it from its enemies," she explained.

"What enemies?"

"All enemies."

"Semma has enemies?"

"Of course it does, idiot! Ksinallion, for one, and
Ophkar, for another."

Up until that moment, Sterren had entertained a
vague hope that his unwanted new job would turn out to
be a sinecure, with a title and pay and no duties. He
suppressed a sigh of disappointment.

It came as especially bad news that both Semma's
larger neighbors were considered enemies—but at least,
he told himself, he hadn't arrived in the middle of a war.

"Do you think that... that a war may come soon?"

Lady Kalira grimaced. "Much too soon," she said,
"from the look of you, and what I've seen in the bar-
racks of late."

Had his knowledge of Semmat been good enough for
the job, Sterren would have made a retort about being
glad to relinquish his position as warlord, which he
hadn't asked for in the first place, if she thought some-
one else could do better.

Instead, he asked, "What do I do now? Today?"

"Well," Lady Kalira said, looking about the chamber,
"I suppose you'll want to settle in here, maybe clean up
a little. I'll have Dogal fetch water and something to eat;

I don't suppose that you'll want to come down for lunch.
You'll be expected to eat at the high table at dinner, of
course, to talk to his Majesty and meet some of the peo-
ple here—the princes and princesses, for example—but
I think you can leave all that until dinner. For this after-
noon, I would recommend that you take some time to
learn the situation here—talk to your officers, maybe
look over the barracks, that sort of thing. You're the
warlord; you must know more about it than I do."

Astonished, Sterren said, "But I was never a warlord
before!"

"It's in your blood, isn't it?"

"Not that I ever noticed," Sterren replied.

Lady Kalira ignored that, as she turned to the door-
way and called, "Dogal, go down to the kitchens and get
wash water and something for Lord •Sterren to eat,
would you?"

Dogal bobbed his head. "Yes, my lady," he said, and
then quickly departed.

"Alder, here, will help you unpack, if you like," she
suggested.

Sterren nodded absently. Alder stepped into the
room, carrying the bundle of possessions that Sterren
had collected from his room back on Bargain Street. He
deposited it upon the bed and began untying it.

"My officers, you said," Sterren said. The phrase car-
ried an impression of power and authority, and he felt a
sudden surge of interest.

"Yes, of course," Lady Kalira replied.

"I suppose I should meet them, talk to them."

"Yes."

The thought of all those stairs came to him, and he
asked, "Could you send them up here?"

"Of course, Lord Sterren," Lady Kalira said, with a
faint bow.

The bow startled him. Lady Kalira noticed his sur-
prise, and explained, "Lord Sterren, I think I really
should tell you that as warlord, now that you have ac-
cepted the position and that the king has acknowledged
you, you outrank me. In fact, you are now one of the
highest-ranking nobles in Semma. Historically, the war-
lord and the foreign minister are equal in rank and sec-
ond only to the king and his immediate family, with all
others—steward, treasurer, trader, all of them—your in-
feriors."

"Really?"

"Really."

Sterren mused on that for a while, wondering just
what such an exalted rank would actually mean in terms
of power, privilege—and responsibility. He almost for-
got Lady Kalira was there until she reminded him.

"My lord?" she asked.

"Ah," Sterren said, startled. "Yes?"

"Lord Sterren, I'm tired and hungry, too. If you have
no more questions, may I have your leave to go?"

46 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Startled anew, Sterren stammered. "Of course," he
managed at last.

Lady Kalira curtseyed, then turned.

"Send up my officers," Sterren called, "when I'm
done eating."

He was sure -she had heard him, but she said nothing
as she slipped out of the room.

He stared after her for a moment.

The switch from her role as exasperated jailer to one
of deferential subordinate was curiously unnerving. He
was not accustomed to having anyone defer to him. He
had always settled for simple tolerance, which was all a
tavern gambler or street brat could reasonably ask.

There was something very seductive about the
thought of a woman unable to leave his room until he
granted permission. Admittedly, the aging and irritable
Lady Kalira was not herself seductive in the least, but
the idea of such power certainly had its appeal.

But it came with the job of warlord, with all the un-
known hazards and duties that must surely imply. War
meant swords and blood and death and killing, and he
wanted no part of it.

But Semma had been at peace since twenty years be-
fore he was born. Maybe he could defend "it without
fighting any wars, as his immediate predecessor, the
great-uncle he had never known, had.

"My lord," Alder said, startling him from his muddled
thoughts, "shall I hang this in the wardrobe?" He held up
one of Sterren's old tunics.

"Yes," Sterren said. He took a sudden interest in his
belongings, seeing that everything went somewhere ap-
propriate, and that he knew how the room was arranged.
It was becoming clear that, barring the unforeseen, he
was going to be staying for quite some time.

He was unsure, now, whether that was good news or
bad.

CHAPTER 6

He

. e pushed away the plate and stood up.

Alder looked up, startled, and began, "My lord—"

"Oh, go ahead and eat," Sterren said crossly. He was
already getting tired of the strange new deference paid
him. Alder had just started to eat, but he was obviously
ready to leap up and follow orders, should his warlord
care to give any.

His warlord did not. His warlord was feeling very
much out of place. His moods kept swinging back and
forth. This room, and title, and rank were all very well,
and could be a lot of fun—but they also seemed to be
permanent and involuntary, which could be tiresome,
quite aside from the accompanying responsibilities and
risks. It was clear, despite the submissive gestures from
Alder and Lady Kalira, that he was still something of a
prisoner; if he tried to just walk out of the castle and
head back toward Ethshar, he was quite sure that Alder
or Dogal or both would follow him and probably stop
him before he got out of the village.

And he was tired of seeing Alder and Dogal, after sev-
eral days spent traveling in their close—very close—
company.

At least Lady Kalira was gone, and he would be meet-
ing other people soon.

Of course, that, too, had both its appealing and fright-
ening aspects. These people were barbarians, not Eth-
sharites; he was sure that he was not what anybody

47

48 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evaiis 49

expected in a warlord and he had no idea just how the
Semmans might deal with his shortcomings. That men-
tion of summary execution, back in the tavern on Bar-
gain Street, had stayed with him, always somewhere in
the back of his mind.

Dogal and Alder had eaten in turns, and Dogal was
now guarding the door, keeping Sterren's officers, who
had arrived a moment earlier, waiting in the hall.

"Dogal," Sterren called, "send them in."

Dogal said nothing, but stepped aside and allowed the
three waiting men to enter.

Each in turn stepped into the chamber, bowed, spoke,
and then stepped aside to make room for the next.

"Anduron of Semma, Lord Sterren," said the first,
with a graceful bow and a jingle of jewelry. He was tall
and sturdy, richly dressed in blue silk, perhaps thirty
years old—certainly much older than Sterren. Like
every Semman Sterren had yet seen, he was dark-haired
and deeply tanned. Sterren thought he detected a family
resemblance to the king.

He also detected, more definitely, a trace of scent,
something vaguely flowery.

"Arl of the Strong Arm," said the next, bobbing his
head. He was shorter, but Sterren guessed his weight to
be no less than Anduron's, and his age was probably
similar. He wore a red kilt and red-embroidered yellow
tunic and smelled of nothing but leather and sweat.

"Shemder the Bold," said the third, without cere-
mony. He fell between the others in height, but clearly
weighed less than either of them, being thin and wiry,
and was younger as well, surely no more than twenty-
five—but still older than Sterren. His garb was similar to
- Arl's, but more ornate and better kept, and Sterren could
detect no odor at all.

These three were more or less displaying the forms of
deference due a superior, but it was obvious they did not
really feel any of the respect those forms implied.

Lady Kalira had been subtler in her contempt.

"I'm Sterren of Ethshar," Sterren replied, bowing in
his turn. He pronounced "Ethshar" correctly, refusing to
yield to the Semman usage. After all, he thought resent-
fully, Semmat did use the th sound—just not in combina-
tion with sh.

"Your pardon, my lord," said Anduron, "but would it
not be more proper to call yourself Sterren, Ninth War-
lord of Semma?"

Anduron's words were smoothly spoken, and Sterren
would have liked to make a graceful reply.'His limited
knowledge of the language forced him to make do with,
"I guess you're right. I'm still new at this." He smiled,
not very convincingly.

Behind him. Alder was hurriedly stuffing the last few
bites of gravy-soaked bread into his mouth.

The three new arrivals stood stiffly silent for a mo-
ment.

"Lord Sterren," Shemder said, finally, "you sent for
us?"

"Yes," Sterren said. "Of course. Sit down." He
waved at the chairs in the various corners. Alder was
just getting up from the chair at the desk, and after an
instant's hesitation Sterren settled on the foot of the bed
instead of trying to maneuver behind the soldier.

The officers obeyed, bringing the chairs to a rough
semicircle. Once seated, they stared stonily at Sterren.

He took a deep breath and delivered his little speech,
two of the longest sentences he had yet contrived in
Semmat.

"I called you here because I am told I am a warlord
now, whether I like it or not. I think I need to find out
what that means, and what it is I am expected to do."

The officers still stared silently.

"You aren't making this easy," Sterren said, blinking
at them.

"Lord Sterren," Shemder said, "you still haven't told
us what you want of us."

"What I want," Sterren said, "is to know what I, your
warlord, am expected to do. I want you thre&to tell me."

The three exchanged looks.

"My lord," Shemder said, "it is not our place to tell
you what to do. It is your job to tell us what to do."

Sterren suppressed a sigh. Whether they resented the
elevation of a stranger as their superior, or whether they
were testing him somehow, or whether they were simply

50

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawience Watt-Evans

51

stupid or stubborn or unimaginative, Sterren had no way
of knowing, but he could see plainly enough that his of-
ficers were not going to be a great deal of help.

At least, not at first. Perhaps they would adjust even-
tually.

"Lord Shemder—" he began.

"I anfno lord," Shemder interrupted.

Sterren acknowledged the correction with a nod and
said, "Shemder, then, tell me your duties."

"My duties. Lord Sterren?"

"Yes, your duties." He hoped he hadn't gotten the
wrong word.

"I-have no duties at present, my lord; I am the com-
mander of the Semman cavalry, not a mere guardsman."

"Cavalry?" The word was unfamiliar.

"Cavalry."

Sterren looked at Alder, who supplied, "Soldiers on
horses."

Sterren nodded, filing the word away. "Cavalry.
Good. You're the commander of the Semman cavalry.
Do you have a particular title? Do I call you my lord, or
commander?"

"Captain, my lord," Shemder said grimly. "You call
me Captain."

"Thank you. Captain Shemder. And Captain Arl, is
it?"

"Yes, Lord Sterren." Where Shemder had sounded
barely tolerant of his new lord, Arl sounded resigned and
despairing.

"Captain of what?"

"Infantry, my lord—foot soldiers."

Sterren nodded politely, appreciative of Ari's trace of
cooperation in explaining an unfamiliar word without
forcing Sterren to ask.

"And Captain Anduron?"

"Lord Anduron, my lord. I am your second in com-
mand, in charge of everything that Captain Arl and Cap-
tain Shemder are not—archers, the castle garrison,
supply, and so forth." He spoke with studied noncha-
lance, sprawling comfortably on his chair.

"Ah!" That sounded promising, especially once Alder
and Lord Anduron between them had explained the un-

familiar words. Sterren wondered if he could palm off all
his duties on Lord Anduron and leave himseif to enjoy
his position as a figurehead. Lord Anduron had a look of
cool competence about him that Sterren hoped was not
mere affectation. "How many archers are there?" he
asked.

Lord Anduron's reply burst Sterren's bubble in-
stantly.

"None, at present," he said calmly.

"None?"

"None. We've had no need of any for forty years,
after all; archers aren't particularly impressive in pa-
rades or display, and bowwood is expensive. Old Ster-
ren—that is, your esteemed predecessor, the Eighth
Warlord—allowed all the old archers to retire and left it
to me, or my father before me, to replace them, and we
didn't trouble to do so. If we need archers, I'm sure we
can find and train them quickly."

"Ah." Sterren tried to look wise and understanding,
although he had missed several words and was fairly
certain that training a competent archer took a good deal
more time and effort than Lord Anduron thought—espe-
cially if there were no trained archers around to serve as
teachers. "What about the castle... garrison? Is that the
word?"

"My lord speaks Semmat like a native, of course,"
Lord Anduron said. Shemder interrupted him with a
quickly suppressed burst of derisive laughter. Lord An-
duron cast him a cold glance, then went on, "The castle
garrison, my lord, is composed of whoever happens to
be inside the castle at the time of an attack."

"I see—you mean the nobles, and the servants, and
so on?"

"Why, no, Lord Sterren, of course not. One could
hardly expect the nobility to soil their hands with the
hauling about of gates and bars, or hurling-stones, and
the servants will have their normal duties to perform.
No, I mean whatever villagers reach the shelter of the
castle walls in time."

Sterren stared at Lord Anduron for a moment, then
decided argument would do no good, most particularly in
his limited Semmat. He turned his head and asked,

52

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

53

"Captain Shemder, how many men and horses do you
have?"

"Twenty men, my lord, and twelve horses," Shemder
replied promptly and proudly.

Sterren realized with a shock that his escort into the
castle had been most of the cavalrymen in the entire
kingdom—and all the cavalry's horses.

"Captain Arl?"

"At present, Lord Sterren, I have sixty-five men and
boys, all fully armed, well trained; and ready for any-
thing."

Sterren somehow doubted that the Semman infantry
was ready for anything. What, he wondered, would they
do in the face of an attack by the overlord of Ethshar of
the Spices? Azrad VII had ten thousand men in his city
guard alone. He could overwhelm Semma completely
with a tenth of his soldiery, without calling on any of his
more important resources—the militia, the navy, his ma-
gicians, the other two-thirds of the Ethsharitic triumvir-
ate, and so on.

But these were the Small Kingdoms, and things were
obviously different here.

The three officers all seemed very confident, cer-
tainly, and they surely knew more of the situation than
he, a foreigner, did.

Even so, eighty-five men and a few frightened refu-
gees did not seem like a very large force for a castle the
size of Semma's.

"Lord Anduron," he asked, "what about magic?"

The young nobleman looked puzzled. "What about
magic, my lord?"

"What magicians do you command?"

"None, my lord; what would I have to do with magi-
cians?"

"Are they infantry or cavalry, then?"

"No," Arl said, as Shemder shook his head.

"Aren't there any magicians in the castle, then?"
Sterren asked, truly frightened.

The three officers stared at each other. It was Lord
Anduron who spoke, finally, saying, "I suppose there
might be one or two. Queen Ashassa keeps a theurgist
about, Agor by name, and I've heard the servants chat-
ter about a wizard among their number. The village has
an herbalist or two, and a witch, I believe, but they
aren't in the castle. Lord Sterren, forgive me, but why
do you ask?"

"Don't you use magic... Isn't it..." Sterren's Sem-
mat failed him momentarily. He took a deep breath and
began again.

"In Ethshar," he said, "Lord Azrad keeps the best
magicians with him. They would use their... their
magic, if the city were attacked. Ships carry magicians,
to defend against... against other ships, which of course
have their own magicians. No one would dare a big fight
without magic." He cursed himself and all of Semma for
his lack of a correct title for Azrad, and the words for
"spells," "pirates," and "battle."

For several long seconds the room was absolutely si-
lent. Then Shemder spat a word that Sterren had clever
heard before.

"Lord Sterren," Lord Anduron said, "we do not use
magic in war here."

Lord Andyron's tone was flat and final, but Sterren
could not stop himself from shouting, "Why not?" In his
thoughts, which were in Ethsharitic, his phrasing was a
good bit more colorful.

"It isn't done. It never has been."

Sterren stared at him for a moment. "I see," he said at
last. He blinked and then said, "If you will forgive me, I
am tired from my journey. I need to rest." In truth, what
he felt a need for was time to digest the situation. "Go
now, and I will speak with you again later. Perhaps after
dinner. I would like to... to look at the soldiers."

"Review the troops?" Arl suggested.

"I think so," Sterren agreed, nodding. He stood up.

The other three leaped up as well. Each in turn
bowed, then left the room.

Lord Anduron bowed deeply and swept out; Arl
bowed stiffly and marched out; Shemder bobbed his
head and stalked out.

Sterren stared after them, then burst out, in Ethshari-
tic, "What a bunch of idiots!" He had been willing to
give them the benefit of the doubt in regard to the
numbers and preparedness of their forces, but to so com-

54 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

pletely and arbitrarily rule out the use of magic in war-
fare was ridiculous! What would guard them against
treachery? How could they know what the enemy was
planning? Who would heal wounds? Sending soldiers out
to fight with nothing but swords and shields was truly
barbaric.

And most importantly, what would they ever do if
they fought an enemy who did not bother with such scru-
ples?

Obviously, they would lose, and lose quickly and de-
cisively.

He could only hope that nothing like that happened
while he was warlord. His duty, Lady Kalira had told
him, was to defend Semma, but some things were inde-
fensible.

An Ethsharitic obscenity escaped him.

"My lord?" Alder inquired, startled by the outburst.

"Nothing," Sterren said, "It's nothing." His initial
amazement at the idea of fighting a war without using
magic was beginning to fade, and another thought struck
him. "What was that that Shemder said, about using
magic to fight?"

Uncomfortably, Alder asked, "You mean that word,
gakharT' He shifted uneasily.

"Yes, that's it." Sterren saw Alder's discomfort, but
declined to let him off the hook; he stared inquiringly.

Reluctantly, Alder said, "It means a... a person of no
culture, a person not fit to be among ordinary people."

Sterren considered that, then stared after the van-
ished Shemder the Bold.

"You mean he called me a barbarian?" Sterren was
dumbfounded. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or
scream with rage at the unbelievable insult of being
called a barbarian by people such as these, but after a
moment laughter won out.

Alder stared at him, puzzled and amused, but not par-
ticularly displeased with his new warlord.

CHAPTER 7

-L he clothes in the wardrobe did not fit him; Sterren,
Eighth Warlord had obviously been considerably larger
than was Sterren, Ninth Warlord. Not that he had been
anything like Alder or Dogal, but he surely had the ad-
vantage of a few inches over his great-nephew, both in
height and circumference.

Even so, Sterren thought that he would do better to
wear something from the wardrobe, belted up tight, than
to try to get any more use out of his own tattered gar-
ments. He was to eat dinner with the king, at the High
Table, and he had not a single tunic left that had neither
patches nor major stains.

Furthermore, he saw that all his clothes were cut dif-
ferently from the prevailing mode in Semma. The local
style was looser, more flowing, but with more fancywork
to it.

He picked out an elegant black silk tunic embroidered
in gold, and a pair of black leather breeches—black
seemed to be the predominant color in the collection,
and he guessed it had something to do with the office he
held. It seemed an appropriate color for a warlord.

Of course, it might just be that his great-uncle had
liked the dramatic, or maybe he had a morbid streak, but
in any case, black clothes might not look quite so over-
sized On him. .

He would, he thought with a sigh, have to alter all the
clothes, take them in to fit him.

55

56 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 57

No, he wouldn't, he corrected himself, brightening
up; he was an aristocrat now! He could find a servant to
do that. The castle probably had a tailor somewhere.

He pulled the tunic over his head and looked in the
flaking, yellowed mirror that hung in the back of the
wardrobe.

He shuddered. The tunic almost reached his knees; he
looked like a little boy.

He pulled on the breeches, then began adjusting belts
and fabric.

By tucking in the top of the breeches and folding
under the cuff on each leg, he was able to make themfit,
though they were still rather baggy in spots. The tunic
was less cooperative, but he finally contrived an arrange-
ment of two belts, one under and one over, that pulled
the hem up to a height he could live with. The embroi-
dered sleeves he had to roll up.

He was studying his appearance critically when some-
one knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" he called, unthinkingly using Ethsharitic.

"What?" someone answered in Semmat. The voice
was female, young and female.

"Sorry," he called, switching to Semmat as he ad-
justed his belts. "Who is it?"

"The Princess Lura, Lord Sterren," Alder's voice re-
plied.

Sterren whirled around and stared at the door. A prin-
cess? He glanced down at himself.

He looked foolish, he knew, but he would have to face
this soon enough. He pursed his lips and decided not to
put off the inevitable. "Come in," he called.

The door swung open and Sterren looked up to see
who was there, but at first he saw no one. Then he let his
gaze drop.

"Hello," Princess Lura said, smiling up at him. "You
look funny in those clothes; don't you have any that fit?"

Sterren was not particularly fond of children, but
Lura, whom he guessed to be no more than nine, at the
most, had an irresistible grin.

Besides, she was a princess. He smiled back, and it
was only slightly forced.

"No," he said, "I'm afraid I don't. The clothes I
brought with me are all worn out."

"Can't you get new ones?" she demanded.

"I haven't had time," he explained.

"Oh, I guess not." Her gaze dropped for a moment,
and an awkward silence fell, to be quickly broken when
she raised her eyes again and said, "I wanted to meet
you. I never met anybody from Ethshar before."

Sterren noticed that she pronounced "Ethshar" cor-
rectly, even when speaking Semmat, and nodded ap-
provingly. "I can understand that," he said. "I must
seem... um... I must be like... I guess you haven't."
His Semmat vocabulary had failed him again. He has-
tened to cover over his slip. "I never met a princess be-
fore."

"No?"

He shook his head. "No," he said.

"Not even back in Ethshar?"

"Not even in Ethshar. There^s only one princess in all
of Ethshar of the Spices, and I never met her."

Actually, technically, there were no "princesses" at
all, but Azrad VII's sister, Imra the Unfortunate, was a
reasonably close approximation. Sterren had no idea
what her correct title would be in Semmat; in Ethsharitic
she was simply Lady Imra.

"Oh, we have lots of princesses here!" Lura an-
nounced proudly. "There's me, of course, and my sisters
—Ashassa doesn't live here any more, she's in Kalithon
with her husband Prince Tabar, but there's Nissitha and
Shin-in, still. And there's my Aunt Sanda. That's four of
us, not counting Ashassa."

Sterren nodded. "Four's a good number, I guess," he
said, smiling foolishly.

Lura's expression suddenly turned suspicious. "I'm
not a baby, you know," she said. "You don-'t have to play
along with me."

"I'm sorry," Sterren said, dropping the false smile, "I
didn't mean to... to do as if you were a baby. Um...
how old are you?" He looked a little more closely at her
face. He could not tell her age with any certainty, but he
noticed a resemblance to her father, the king.

58 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"Seven," she said. "I'll be eight in Icebound. The
ninth of Icebound."

"I was born on the eighth of Thaw, myself," Sterren
said.

Lura nodded and another awkward silence fell. The
two of them stood there, looking at each other or glanc-
ing around the room, until Sterren, desperately, said,
"So you just wanted to meet me because I'm from Eth-
shar?"

"Well, mostly. And you are the new warlord, so I
guess you're important. Everybody else wants to meet
you, too, but they didn't come up here, I did. My sister
Shirrin was scared to, and Nissitha says she doesn't
have time for such foolishness, but she's just trying to
act grown-up. She's twenty-one and not even betrothed
yet, so I don't know why she's so proud of herself!"

Sterren nodded. Lura obviously loved to talk—an-
other resemblance to her father, he thought. He won-
dered if he had finally found someone who would tell
him everything he wanted to know about Semma Castle
and its inhabitants; certainly, Lura wasn't reticent.

On the other hand, how much would she actually
know? Gossip about her sisters was one thing; a war-
lord's duties were quite another.

"Are you really a warlord?" she asked, breaking his
chain of thought.

"So they tell me," he said.

"Have you killed a lot of people?"

Sterren shuddered. "I've never killed anyone," he
said, emphatically.

"Oh." Lura was clearly disappointed by this revela-
tion. She did not let that slow her for long, however.

"What's it like in Ethshar?" she asked.

Involuntarily, Sterren glanced out the broad windows
at the endless plains to the north. "Crowded," he said.
He pointed out the window. "Imagine," he said, "that
you were on the top of the tower at Westgate, looking
east across the city. The eastern wall would be halfway
to the... to where the sun comes up, and everything in
between would be streets and shops and houses, all
crowded inside the walls." He didn't know any word for

Lawrence Watt-Evans            59

"horizon," and hoped Lura would understand what he
meant.

Lura looked out the window and asked, "What about
farms?"

"Outside the walls, never inside."
She looked skeptical, and he saw no point in arguing
about it. "You asked," he said with a shrug.

She shrugged in reply. "You're right," she said, "I did.

When are you coming downstairs? Everybody's waiting
to meet you."

"They are?"

"Well, of course they are, silly! Come on, right now; I
know Shirrin wants to meet you, especially."

"She does?" Even when he remembered who Shirrin
was—one of Lura's sisters, and therefore a princess—
Sterren could not imagine why she would particularly
want to meet him.

"Yes, she does. Come on!"

Sterren glanced helplessly around at the room. He
had no idea what his position was relative to this little
terror of a princess; certainly, she must outrank him, but
would her youth affect her authority to order him about?

He couldn't be sure of that. Reluctantly, he followed
her as she marched out of the room.

Once in the hallway. Alder and Dogal-fell in step be-
hind him, and together the four of them tramped down
the six nights of stairs to the door of the throne room. He
stopped there to catch his breath while Lura waited im-
patiently.

They did not enter the throne room, but turned aside
at the last moment and headed down a short corridor and
through an unmarked door of age-darkened oak. Beyond
was an antechamber, paneled in smoke-stained wood
and furnished with heavy velvet-upholstered benches;

Lura led Sterren directly through this and on through
another door.

This gave into a sunny little sitting room, and as Ster-
ren entered, Lura leading him by the hand, he glimpsed
the inhabitants leaping to their feet.

He found himself facing two women and a girl a few
years younger than himself, all richly dressed, all stand-
ing and staring at him.

60 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 61

"Shirrin, look who I found!" Lura announced.

The girl blushed bright red and glanced about as if
looking for some way to escape. Seeing none, she stared
defiantly back at Sterren, her cheeks crimson.

The older woman looked reprovingly at Sterren's
guide. "Lura," she said, "watch your manners."

The younger woman simply stood, silently gazing
down her nose at Sterren. It was quite obvious that she
had noticed his attire and didn't think much of it.

Or maybe she didn't think much of him in any case;

Sterren couldn't be sure. He had the distinct impression,
however, that the woman would have sniffed with dis-
dain if sniffing were not perhaps a trifle vulgar.

He smiled politely.

"Hello," he said. "I'm Sterren of Ethshar—Sterren-,
Ninth Warlord, they call me."

"My lord Sterren," the older woman said, smiling in
return, "what a pleasure to meet you! I'm Ashassa, for-
merly of Thanoria, and these are my daughters, Nis-
sitha," with a nod toward the younger woman, "and
Shirrin," with a nod toward the blushing girl. "Lura you
have already met, I take it."

"Yes," Sterren said, "she introduced herself." He re-
alized, with a twinge of dismay, that he was speaking to
the Queen of Semma, and had presumably just come
barging into the royal family's private quarters.

At that thought, he glanced around quickly.

The room was pleasant enough; a floor of square-cut
white stone was partly covered by bright-hued carpets,
and white-painted paneling covered the walls on three
sides. The. fourth side was mostly window, the glass
panes arranged in ornate floral patterns and the leading
picked out with red and white paint. Several couches
stood handy, all covered in red velvet, and a few small
tables of white marble and black iron were scattered
about.

Nothing was extraordinarily luxurious, however.
Sterren had seen rooms of similar size and appoint-
ments, though never in any style quite like this one, back
in Ethshar.

The queen was nodding. "I'm afraid Lura can be
somewhat impetuous," she said. "Of course, we've all

been looking forward to meeting you, our long-lost
cousin."

"A very distant cousin, of course," Nissitha inter-
jected, with a meaningful glance at Sterren's tunic.

"Lura said that you wanted to meet me," Sterren ac-
knowledged. "She mentioned Shirrin in particular,
thought I don't—"

He was interrupted by a shriek from Princess Shirrin.
The red had faded somewhat from her cheeks, but now it
flooded back more brightly than ever, and she turned and
ran from the room.

Sterren stared after her, astonished.

Lura burst into giggles. Nissitha stared down at her
youngest sister in clear disgust. The queen's expression
shifted to polite dismay.

"Did I say something wrong?" Sterren asked, hoping
he hadn't just condemned himself to a dungeon or worse.

"Oh, no," Queen Ashassa reassured him, "or at least,
not really. It's Lura's doing. And of course, Shirrin's
being foolish, too. She's thirteen, you know, a very sen-
sitive age, and Lura's doing her best to embarrass her.
Don't let it worry you." She turned to Lura and said
sternly, "Lura, you go apologize to your sister!"

Lura's giggling suddenly stopped. "For what?" she
demanded, "I didn't do anything!"

"Do as I say!" the queen thundered, pointing.

Lura knew better than to argue any further; she
marched off after Shirrin.

"I'm sorry, my lord," the queen said when Lura had
closed the door behind her. "Those girls love to tease
each other. You see, Shirrin's all full of romantic stories
about Ethshar and warlords and lost heirs ever since our
theurgist, Agor, first told us about you, and Lura's been
making fun of her for it."

"Silly things," Nissitha remarked. "Getting worked up
over nothing!"

Sterren was at a loss for a reply. "Ah," he said.

"Well, then, my lord," Queen Ashassa said, "as long
as you're here, Lura was quite right, we've all been
eager to meet you and talk with you. You must under-
stand, none of us have ever been more than a few
leagues from this castle; my ancestral home in Thanoria

62 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 63

is only six leagues or so, and that's the furthest any of us
has traveled. Ethshar seems unspeakably exotic. Do sit
down and tell us something about it!"

Sterren glanced at his guards, but Dogal and Alder
were being steadfastly silent. Seeing no polite way to
refuse, he reluctantly and delicately seated himself on
one of the velvet couches, while Queen Ashassa and
Princess Nissitha settled onto others, and asked, "What
can I tell you?"

Princess Nissitha's expression plainly said that he
couldn't tell her anything at all, but Queen Ashassa
asked, her tone sincerely interested, "Is it true the city of
Ethshar is so large that you can't see from one end to the
other?"

"Well," Sterren said, considering the question, "It
would depend where you were standing. I suppose from
atop the... the lord's castle you could see the city walls
on both sides. But mostly, it's true."

The overlord's palace was not really a castle, but his
limited Semman vocabulary did not include a more suit-
able term.

The queen asked more questions, and Sterren did his
best to answer; gradually, as the topics ranged from the
city's size to the recently-begun overlordship of Azrad
VII to wizards and other magicians, Sterren found him-
self relaxing and enjoying the conversation. Queen
Ashassa, despite her royal title, was a pleasant enough
person.

Princess Nissitha never said a word and eventually
rose and glided haughtily away.

After a time, a servant entered quietly and announced
that dinner was ready. Queen Ashassa rose, and for a
moment Sterren thought she was going to offer her arm,
to be escorted in to the meal, as he had seen ladies do in
Ethshar.

Either Semman etiquette was different, or the differ-
ence in their stations as queen and warlord was too
great; Ashassa marched off on her own, leaving Sterren
to follow in her wake.

The dining hall, Sterren discovered, was the throne
room where the king had first received him. Trestle

tables had been set up and covered with white linen, and
chairs brought from somewhere to line either side. A
smaller table stood upon the dais, crossing the T, with a
dozen chairs behind it.

As yet, almost all the chairs were still unoccupied.

Queen Ashassa took a seat at the high- table, near the
center; Sterren, recognizing that the high table was a po-
sition of special honor, guessed that it was reserved for
the royal family and headed for a seat at one of the long
tables.

A servant caught his elbow.

"My lord," the servant whispered, "you sit on the
king's right." He pointed to the high table, indicating a
chair two spaces over from the queen's.

Sterren froze, suddenly overcome with fright at the
idea of sitting up there and eating in full view of dozens,
maybe hundreds of people, in his ill-fitting clothes, with
his simple Ethsharitic manners that were surely foreign
to these barbarians with their noble trappings. The ser-
vant pushed gently at his elbow, and, reluctantly, he al-
lowed himself to be prodded forward, up the steps onto
the dais.

He seized control of his dignity, once he reached the
top step, and marched on to his place unaided.

The princesses, he saw, were taking their seats on the
queen's side of the table, to his left. To his right, a young
man of roughly his own age and with a resemblance to
the royal family took a seat two places over. Another,
perhaps a year younger, took the seat just beyond that.
A mutter of conversation filled the room, but Sterren,
with his still-poor grasp of Semmat, could not catch any
of it.

Then the king entered, followed by an entourage of
soldiers and courtiers. Silence fell. Everyone who had
been seated rose; Sterren followed suit a bit tardily. The
courtiers gradually peeled away from the group and
found seats at the long table as the party progressed up
the length of the hall, but they remained standing by
their chairs.

King Phenvel reached his place and sat, and his
guards took up unobtrusive positions along the back

64 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 65

wall. He nodded politely, and the rest of the company sat
as well.

That was the sign for the meal to begin, and the low
mutter of conversation resumed. It quickly built up to
considerably more than a mutter, punctuated by the oc-
casional clash of cutlery as diners sorted out their table-
ware.

The knives and forks appeared to be silver, and Ster-
ren wondered what they were worth.

As yet, he had nothing to eat with them, so he let his
own implements lie undisturbed on the tablecloth.

The noise level was roughly that of a busy but well-
behaved tavern, and Sterren found that somewhat star-
tling. He had somehow expected a roomful of aristocrats
to eat in dignified silence.

That, he realized, was foolish. People were people,
regardless of titles.

Other people continued to drift in and take seats as
the king exchanged a few pleasantries with the queen.
Sterren looked about the room, feeling a little lost.

A middle-aged man sat down to Sterren's right and
smiled at him.

"Hello," he said, "I'm Algarven, Eighth Kai'takhe."

"Eighth what?" Sterren asked before he could catch
himself.

"Kai'takhe ... Oh, you don't know the word, do you?
Let me think." The fellow blinked twice, frowning, then
smiled again, and said, in Ethsharitic, "Steward!"

"You speak Ethsharitic?" Sterren asked eagerly, in
Ethsharitic.

Algarven smiled. "No, no," he said in Semmat, "just a
few words."

"Oh," Sterren said, disappointed.

He suddenly remembered his manners and introduced
himself.

"Oh, we all know who you are," Algarven assured
him.

Somehow, Sterren did not find that reassuring.

"Here, let me tell you who everybody is," Algarven
said. He began pointing.

"You know the king and queen, of course. There to
the queen's left is the treasurer, Adrean."

Adrean was a plump man of perhaps fifty, making him
a decade or so older than Algarven; he wore a heavy
gold chain around his neck, and his tunic was an unusu-
ally ugly shade of purple.

"Beyond him, that's old Inria, our Trader. If she were
a little younger, she'd have been the one to go and fetch
you."

Inria was an ancient, toothless hag, wearing black
velvet and grinning out at the inhabitants of the hall.

"And then there are the three princesses, Nissitha,
Shin-in, and Lura..."

"I met them this afternoon," Sterren remarked.

"Ah! And did you meet the princes?" Algarven turned
to the other side and gestured at the four youths there,
ranging in age from a young man of perhaps eighteen to a
boy often or eleven.

"No," Sterren admitted.

"We have here Phenvel the Younger, heir to the
throne, and his brothers Tendel, Rayel, and Dereth."

"A fine family," Sterren said.

"The king certainly hasn't shirked his duty in provid-
ing heirs, has he?" Algarven agreed. "And his father
didn't, either; down there at the first table, those three
on the end here, that's the elder Prince Rayel, and Prince
Alder, the king's brothers, and his sister. Princess Sanda.
Another brother, the elder Tendel, got himself killed
seven years ago in a duel."

"Ah." Sterren could not think of anything further to
say and was saved from the necessity of inventing some-
thing by the sudden arrival of servants bearing trays of
food—breads, fruits, meats, and cheeses.

From then on, the meal was simply another meal;

Sterren forgot his exposed position on the-dais, forgot
his improvised garb, and set about filling his belly.

Between bites he continued to make polite conversa-
tion with both the steward Algarven and King Phenvel
himself, but this largely consisted of simple questions
and required little thought. Any time he found himself at

66       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
a loss for words he simply reached for another orange or

buttered a roll.

By the end of the meal he felt fairly comfortable with

the royal family and his fellow lords. They were, after
all, just people, despite the titles, and he was one of

them.

When he reflected on this, he was amazed at himself

for accepting his situation so readily.

CHAPTER 8

JL he barracks adjoining the castle gate was reasonably
tidy, but Sterren would not have applied the word
"clean" to it. The cracks between the stones of the floor
were filled with accumulated black gunk, and cobwebs
dangled unmolested in the less-accessible corners of the
ceiling. Various stains were visible on the whitewashed
walls; some of them, particularly those near the floor,
were very unappetizing.

He had certainly seen worse, though; his own room,
back on Bargain Street, had been only marginally better.

His belly was pleasantly full, and his head very
slightly aswim with wine, and he decided not to pick
nits.

He had come directly from the dining hall out to the
walls to make this inspection of his troops and their lodg-
ing, so as to get it over with. His main purpose, he re-
minded himself, was to see what sort of men he was
supposed to command, not to criticize anybody's house-
keeping.

But still, it seemed to him that a really first-rate group
of soldiers would keep their quarters in better shape.

He did not bother to look in the cabinets or kit bags at
each station, nor under the narrow beds. He would not
have known what to look for, and besides, it seemed like
an invasion of the soldiers' privacy. He glanced at the
bunks, each with one blanket pulled taut and another

68       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
rolled up to serve as a pillow, and could see nothing to

comment on.

He walked on through to the armory, where a fine
assortment of weapons adorned the walls and various
racks. He reached out at random and picked up a sword.

It came away from the rack only reluctantly and left a
little wad of rust behind. The area of blade that had been
hidden by the wooden brackets was nothing but a few
flakes of dull brown rust, and the leather wrapping on
the hilt cracked in his grasp. Gray dust swirled up, and

he sneezed.

Behind him, he heard some of his men shuffling their
feet in embarrassment. He carefully placed the sword

back on the rack.

He should, he knew, reprimand somebody for the in-
credibly poor condition of the sword, but he was unsure
who, specifically, to address. Furthermore, even if he
was the warlord, he was also a foreigner and a mere
youth and not even particularly large. The soldiers were
all considerably older and larger than himself. He knew
that his title should give him sufficient authority to be-
rate them all despite being so thoroughly outweighed and
outnumbered, but he could not find the courage to test

that theory.

Maybe later, he told himself, when he had settled in a

bit more, he could do something about it.

Even as he thought it, he was slightly ashamed of his

cowardice.

"My lord," someone said, "these are the weapons we
use for practice." A hand indicated a rack near the door.

Sterren picked up another sword. This one was in far
better shape, without a spot of rust, the grip soft and
supple—but the blade, he saw, was dull.

Well, it was only a practice blade. You wouldn't want
to kill anyone in mere practice, would you? he asked
himself. He nodded and returned the weapon to its

place.

He wished he knew more about swords and other

weapons. He had no idea what to check for.

The rust, however, was obviously a very bad sign.

He turned back to face his men,

All of them, as he had noticed before, were larger

Lawrence Watt-Evans           69

than himself, but not all were mountains of .muscle like
his personal escorts. Alder and Dogal. In fact, the major-
ity seemed to be pot-bellied or otherwise running to fat.
He mentally compared them to the city guards he had
seen back in Ethshar, strolling the streets to keep the
peace, or rousting the beggars from Wall Street, or ca-
rousing in the taverns.

The Royal Army of Semma did not fare well in the
comparison. Ethshar's guardsmen came in all sizes, but
they all had a certain toughness that this oversized bunch
did not display. Guardsmen might be fat, but they were
never soft.

Much of Semma's soldiery looked soft.

Sterren suppressed a shrug. Things were different
here. Whatever duties these men had, they obviously
didn't require the sort of ruggedness that was needed to
maintain order in the world's largest, richest, and row-
diest city.

Alder had told him that Semma had been at peace for
more than forty years; Sterren hoped that was not about
to change.

If it did, though, and all he had to fight with was this
pitiful handful of men, well, Semma wasn't his home-
land. He could always surrender.

Couldn't he? It occurred to him that he had no idea
what the customs were in the Small Kingdoms regarding
prisoners of war.

He walked from the armory back into the barracks
and noticed something he had missed before. One of the
bunks had been moved. It had been shoved up against a
wall, so that the space between that bunk and the next
was twice the space between any other two. As further
confirmation, half the floor in the widened space was
cleaner and lighter than the rest of the barracks floor.

His curiosity was piqued. "You," he said to the near-
est soldier, "slide that bunk out from the. wall, would
you?"

The soldier glanced at his mates, who all somehow
managed to be looking in other directions.

"Come on," Sterren said, using the phrase Lady Ka-
lira had used when urging her horse onward.

The soldier stepped forward, moving slowly as if hop-

70 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

ing for some miraculous reprieve, and pulled the bunk
out, back to its original position.

In doing so, he uncovered several lines of chalk
drawn onto the dirty planks.

Sterren recognized the lines immediately and grinned.
He suddenly saw that he had something in common with
these oversized barbarians.

"Three-bone?" he asked, in Ethsharitic.

The soldiers looked blank, and he puzzled out a Sem-
man equivalent and tried that.

One soldier shook his head and replied, "No, double
flash."

His companions glared at him, too late to hush him.
Sterren waved their displeasure aside. "What stakes?"
he asked. "And do you pass on the first loss or the sec-
ond?" He had picked the word for gambling stakes up
from Dogal during the journey from Ethshar. Double
flash was not his favorite dice game, by any means—he
would greatly have preferred three-bone—but it was
certainly better than nothing.

A friendly game was just what he needed to help him
feel at home.

It would also serve nicely to get to know some of his
men and perhaps to build up a little money that the other
nobles would know nothing about. That could be very
useful if he ever decided to leave.

He still had his purse, and the winnings from his last
night in Ethshar. He pulled out a silver bit. "Will this buy
me a throw?"

Feet shuffled, and someone coughed.

"Well, actually, my lord..."

"For now, just call me Sterren, all right?"

"Yes, my lord. Ah... Sterren. We usually play for
copper."

"Good enough; can someone make change? And
who's got the dice?"

Coins and dice emerged from pockets and purses, and
a moment later Sterren and three soldiers were crouched
around the chalked diagram, tossing copper bits into the
various betting slots. Any further inspection was forgot-
ten.

When the dice were passed, Sterren felt the familiar

Lawrence Watt-Evans            71

thrill of competition—but the sense of calm oneness
with the dice that he usually felt was absent.
- He dismissed it as an effect of the unfamiliar sur-
roundings and proceeded to throw a deuce, losing his
turn.

It was well after midnight when Sterren wearily
climbed back up to his room in the tower. His purse was
lighter by several silver bits—the equivalent of over a
hundred coppers. His luck had been consistently bad.

Whatever talent or charm had kept him alive and sol-
vent in the taverns of Ethshar obviously had not worked
in this alien place.

He wondered, as he hauled himself up the dimly lit
stairs, if it would ever work again. If it didn't, he would
have to give up dice for good.

Now, that was a really terrible thought!

He thrust it aside as he reached the top and saw Alder
standing by the door of his room. As he walked down the
short stretch of corridor and into his room he ran over
the rest of the day in his mind.

It had certainly been an eventful one.

He hoped he never had another like it.

Alder opened the door and followed him into the
room. As Sterren stood yawning, the big soldier lit a
candle on.the desk and stood awaiting orders.

Lawrence Watt-Evans            73

CHAPTER 9

Oterren stretched, thought for a moment, and then
shooed Alder out. When the door had closed behind
Alder's back he took a moment to make sure all his be-
longings were stashed where he could find them. That
done, he lay down on the great canopied bed and tried to

sleep.

His blood was still pumping hard from the excitement
of the game, the shock of losing so badly, and the long
climb up the stairs from the barracks, all coming at the
end of an extraordinarily long and. bewildering day; sleep
was slow in coming. He was still lying awake when he
heard a quiet knock on his door.

"What is it?" he called.

The door opened partway, and Alder stuck his head

in.                                                 „

"There's someone here who wants to see you. Alder
said apologetically. "He says he has business with you."

"At this hour?"

Alder explained, "He's been stopping by regularly all
evening, but you weren't in before."

That was true enough. "All right," Sterren said, "what

kind of business?"

"He won't say. Something about settling an account

your great-uncle left, I think."

"Settling an account?" That did not sound encourag-
ing at all. "Who is it?"

Alder considered before replying, "He's a traveling

72

merchant, I think—if that's not too grand a word for
him. He deals in trinkets and whatnot. I don't know his
name, but I've seen him before. He really did deal with
the old warlord."

"Trinkets?"

Alder explained, "This and that. Little things."

Sterren considered telling Alder to get rid of this un-
invited visitor, but his curiosity got the better of him;

what had the old warlord had to do with a traveling
dealer in trinkets? Why was the merchant so eager to see
him that he had not been able to go to sleep at a reason-
able hour and leave the business, whatever it was, until
morning?

"Send him in," he called, as he sat up on the bed.

Alder ducked back out of sight, and a moment later
another man slipped in through the half-open door, then
carefully closed it securely behind him.

He was short and dark, his hair graying, and he
looked as if he had been fat once, but was not eating well
lately. He wore a greasy brown tunic and even greasier
gray breeches; his boots were well made and also well
worn. Despite his clothing, his face and hair were clean,
and he had no objectionable odor.

After closing the door he checked the latch carefully,
then turned and made a polite but perfunctory bow.

"Hello, Lord Sterren," he said. "Allow me to intro-
duce myself. I'm called Lar Samber's son. As your guard
said, I'm a dealer in trinkets and oddities, and the occa-
sional love charm or poison."

Sterren nodded an acknowledgment, but before he
could say anything, Lar continued, "And I'm sure you're
wondering what old Sterren had to do with me, and what
this account is I want to settle. That wasn't really my
reason for coming here. I have another business besides
my trading, you see—or rather, I trade in a product less
tangible, but more important, than beads, and gewgaws.
Your great-uncle was my only customer and the only
person who knew about it." He paused, eyeing Sterren,
his face curiously expressionless.

Sterren nodded expectantly. "Go on," he said.

Lar hesitated for the first time.

"I don't know you," he said.

74      THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"I don't know you, either," Sterren pointed out.

Lar nodded slowly. "True enough, and it's not as if I
have a choice." The merchant hesitated again, but only
briefly. "I'm your chief spy," he burst out hurriedly. "I
deal in information. Naturally, this is a secret, one that
your great-uncle kept well; nobody else in Semma ever
knew, until now. I'm trusting you with my life, my lord,
by telling you this."

His face remained oddly blank even as he said this; if
he felt any great anxiety over the risk he was taking, it
did not show.

Sterren puzzled over the word "spy" for a moment,
then smiled and pointed to a chair. "Sit down," he said,
"and tell me about it."

Lar's face did not change as he took a seat, but Ster-
ren was sure he was relieved.

He was relieved himself; it was good to know that his
predecessor had even had spies, and had not relied en-
tirely on his three officers and their men.

A thought occurred to him; Lar was a traveler and a
dealer in information. "Do you speak Ethsharitic?" he
asked.

Startled, Lar admitted, "Some. Not much. Mostly I
speak Ophkaritic, Ksinallionese, Thanorian, and
Trader's Tongue."

Sterren had never even heard of Thanorian, but he
didn't let that worry him. Instead, he burst out with a
string of questions in his native tongue.

Lar had to repeatedly ask him to slow down, and sev-
eral times the conversation switched back into Semmat
for a time, or slipped into a pidgin of the two languages
that they improvised on the spot. Even so, Sterren was
able to communicate more freely than he had in days.

Unfortunately, what Lar had to communicate was not
encouraging.

Both Ophkar and Ksinallion were planning to invade
Semma.

Somehow, although he had been trying to convince
himself war was unlikely, this news did not really sur-
prise Sterren at all.

This impending invasion was not really a secret; in
fact, the suspicion that it was being planned had been

Lawrence Watt-Evans            75

responsible for the urgency of Lady Kalira's mission to
Ethshar. The aristocrats of Semma were confident that
they could survive a war—if they had a warlord.

So they had sent for Sterren.

Lar, however, did not stop his revelations at the mere
fact of the coming war; he went on to detail the reasons
for it, and also the reasons it had not yet begun.

The underlying reasons were simple enough: Ophkar
and Ksinallion both wanted Semma's land and wealth
and people. For three hundred years, Ophkar and Ksin-
allion had been bitter enemies; they had fought six wars
in that time. In the first, Ophkar had captured the Ksin-
allionese province of Semma; in the second, Ksinallion
won it back. It was during the Third Ophkar-Ksinallion
war, in 5002, that Semma, under Tendel the Great, had
rebelled against the cruel yoke of Ksinallion and asserted
its independence, siding with Ophkar and leading to an
Ophkarite victory.

Five years later, when Tendel died, Ophkar invaded
Semma and attempted to annex it. Semma survived by
enlisting Ksinallion's aid.

From then on, Semma's policy was to maintain a bal-
ance of power between Ophkar and Ksinallion by siding
with whoever was weaker at any given time, playing the
two off against each other in order to maintain its inde-
pendence. Tendel's son and heir, Rayel the Tenacious,
had understood that; it was only when he was old and ill
that matters had gotten out of hand, and a war with
Ksinallion resulted in 5026. His successor, Tendel II,
known as Tendel the Gentle, reigned for twenty-two
years without ever letting the balance slip.

He was followed by Rayel the Fool, who only lasted
nine years, six of them spent fighting Ophkar— and los-
ing.

Phenvel I, also called Phenvel the Fat, had done much
better; no wars were fought during his twenty-one years
on the throne.

The idea of the balancing policy was beginning to
fade, though, as the kings of Semma forgot how precari-
ous their position actually was; Phenvel II, Phenvel the
Warrior, fought Ophkar for seven years of his seventeen.
Admittedly, he won—the only time Semma ever single-

76 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

handedly defeated Ophkar—but seven years of war
could not have been pleasant. Many stories of the hor-
rors of that Third Ophkar-Semma War were still told.

And the resulting weakness was largely responsible
for Ksinallion's victory over Semma in the Third Ksinal-
lion-Semma War, during the reign of Rayel III. He
earned the name Rayel the Patient by waiting eleven
years, carefully building up his forces and waiting until
the time was right, before he launched his counterattack
and won the Fourth Ksinallion-Semma War.

Even that victory was probably a mistake; it laid the
groundwork for the disastrous defeat Rayel IV suffered
in 5150, in the Fifth Ksinallion-Semma War. Only Oph-
kar's threat to come in on Semma's side had prevented
Ksinallion from annexing Semma outright.

That was Rayel the Tall; he was followed by Rayel V,
Rayel the Handsome, whose death brought about the ne-
gotiated peace at the end of the Sixth Ksinallion-Semma
War, establishing the present borders. That had also
been the Sixth Ophkar-Ksinallion War.

Tendel III had been called Tendel the Diplomat be-
cause he managed to talk his way out of war several
times in his twenty-four year reign; he was an expert at
playing Ophkar and Ksinallion off against each other,
even bringing in their other neighbors: Skaia, Thanoria,
Enmurinon, Kalithon, even little Nushasia, far to the
north, at Ksinallion's farthest extreme. None of those
bordered on Semma, but the threat of a two-front war
was surprisingly effective. Ophkar had no desire to fight
Skaia or Enmurinon; Ksinallion preferred peace with
Kalithon and Nushasia; and Thanoria served as a threat
to both.

But then Tendel III died, in 5199, and his son Phenvel
III came to the throne.

Lar hesitated to characterize his sovereign unfavor-
ably, but from his mutterings about inbreeding and
"other interests" it was plain to Sterren that the mer-
chant considered the king an idiot.

Fortunately, Phenvel III had retained the services of a
few people who were not idiots, notably Sterren, Sev-
enth Warlord, and Sterren, Eighth Warlord. Father and
son had kept up the policies of Tendel III, using diplo-

Lawrence Watt-Evaas           77

macy, threats, saboteurs, and whatever else was neces-
sary to keep peace.

King Phenvel had made this difficult, with his arbi-
trary insults directed at both his larger neighbors. When
Prince Elken of Ophkar asked for the hand of Princess
Ashassa the Younger, Phenvel had instead sent her to
Prince Tabar of Kalithon. When King Corinal II of Ksin-
allion offered a treaty on trade routes, Phenvel had first
ignored it, then sent an envoy to Ophkar asking if they
cared to make a better offer. When a secret envoy came
from Ophkar to discuss the possibility of war with Ksin-
allion, Phenvel publicly announced the whole affair;

when Ophkar reacted with protests and Ksinallion of-
fered an alliance, Phenvel had dismissed the whole thing
as a foolish joke.

There had been other incidents, as well, and now, for
the first time in three hundred years, Ophkar and Ksinal-
lion had arranged an alliance against Semma, considering
Phenvel III a mutual foe.

While they lived, the warlords had prevented such an
alliance, but with the death of the Eighth Warlord, all the
elaborate network of checks and treaties had collapsed.
Enmurinon and Kalithon and Thanoria and Nushasia and
Skaia were no longer involved; despite the web of inter-
marriages that had allied them to Semma, they all re-
fused to make any further promises. Phenvel's mother
had come from Enmurinon, his wife from Thanoria; a
daughter was a princess in Kalithon, and an aunt had
been queen in Nushasia. Still, Semma was on its own.
Phenvel had somehow offended every single one of his
foreign relatives.

Sterren's spirits sank steadily as he listened to all this.

"Why aren't the Ophkaritic and Ksinallionese armies
already here?" he asked.

Lar sighed and explained that the only reason the
armies of Ophkar and Ksinallion had not. yet invaded
was that they were still settling how the booty and con-
quered territory were to be divided. Lar and his like—he
employed several people himself, and was fairly sure
that old Sterren, Eighth Warlord, had some others in his
own employ—had done their best to delay these negoti-
ations, bringing up potential difficulties, picking at nits,

78      THE UNWILLING WARLORD

losing messages, and so forth, and had managed to hold
things off this long. The coming winter rams would pre-
sumably provide another short breathing space, but in
the spring both armies would surely march.

And it was Sterren's job, as warlord, to hold them oft
indefinitely, or if possible to defeat them outright.

"How am I supposed to do that?" Sterren demanded.
Lar shrugged. "I wish I knew," he replied, "I really

do."

CHAPTER 10

1.5 usual, the off-duty soldiers were playing dice in a
comer of the barracks. Sterren sighed at the sight.

His dismay was partly due to the fact that despite his
best attempts at speech making, his repeated talks about
how important it was that Semma's chosen defenders do
all they could to get themselves ready to fight had ob-
viously had no effect on how his men spent their leisure
time.

It was also due, however, to the knowledge that he
didn't dare join the game. Since arriving in Semma, his
once-notorious luck at dice had deserted him completely.

He had been embarrassed to discover that without
that edge, he was actually a very poor gambler. When-
ever he played, he lost steadily.

At least he now knew, beyond question, that he had
indeed picked up a trace ofwarlockry in his brief appren-
ticeship; nothing else could explain how he had flour-
ished for so long back in Ethshar. Wizards and witches
had been unable to detect any magic in use—but wizards
and witches knew nothing about warlockry.

It was slightly odd, perhaps, that he'd never been
caught by a warlock, but maybe warlocks took pity on
him, or chose to protect one of their own, no matter how
feeble his talents.

And bis talent had to be warlockry, because no other
form of magic was so dependent on location. He knew
that much. Wizardry and witchcraft and sorcery and

79

80 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

theurgy and demonology and herbalism and all the
others worked equally well almost everywhere, or so he
had heard—though there were those who complained
that so much wizardry had been used in the city of Eth-
shar of the Spices that its residue fouled the air and
weakened subsequent spells.

Warlockry, though—a warlock's power depended on
how close he was to the mysterious Source of the Power
that all warlocks drew on.

Nobody knew exactly where the Source was, or what
it was, because nobody who went to find it ever came
back, but every warlock knew that it was somewhere in
the hills of Aldagmor, near the border between the Bar-
onies of Sardiron and the Hegemony of Ethshar. It sup-
posedly called to warlocks who grew strong enough to
hear it and lured them away—and since all warlocks im-
proved with practice, that meant most of them heard it,
sooner or later, and if they stayed within range they were
eventually drawn away to Aldagmor. This was referred
to as the Calling, and it was invariably accompanied by
weird, frightening dreams and other strangeness, and it
was something that warlocks did not talk about to out-
siders; it frightened them, and admitting that warlocks
were afraid of anything was not in the best interests of
the art. Sterren only knew about it because his former
master had explained it, in lurid detail, in trying to dis-
courage him from his apprenticeship.

Even warlocks, though, even those who had heard
the Calling and woke up every night with nightmares
about it, did not know what the Source was. Nobody
knew what it was, or why it should be in that particular
place.

Some people theorized that that spot was the exact
center of the World, and that the Power was a gift of the
gods, but others maintained that the Source was some-
thing from outside the World entirely, a mysterious
something that had fallen from the heavens on the Night
of Madness, back in 5202, when warlockry first
emerged. Sterren had been a babe in arms on that night
when half the people in Ethshar woke up screaming from
nightmares they could never remember, and when one
person in a thousand or so was suddenly transformed,

Lawrence Watt-Evans           81

forever after, into a warlock, able to move objects with-
out touching them, to kill with a thought, to start fires
with a mere gaze.

Whatever the Source was, whatever the Power was,
Sterren had never had more than the faintest trace of it,
and here in Semma, dozens of leagues to the southeast of
Ethshar and almost that much farther from Aldagmor,
which lay well to the north of the city, even that trace
was gone.

In fact, in two sixdays of careful investigation, Ster-
ren had been unable to find any evidence that anyone in
all of Semma had ever heard of warlockry, or ever had
any trace of the Power at his or her command. Nobody
could provide him with a Semmat word for "warlock" or
"warlockry." Nobody even remembered anything about
a night of bad dreams, twenty years before, and Sterren
had always thought that the effects of the Night of Mad-
ness had been worldwide.

Warlockry was totally, completely unknown in
Semma.

Sterren had to give up playing dice.

Watching the men toss down their coins on the betting
lines, totally ignoring the presence of their warlord, he
also gave up any hope of successfully defending Semma
against the armies of Ophkar and Ksinallion with the
forces at his disposal.

Lar had brought another report the night before; Oph-
kar had two hundred men under arms, Ksinallion two
hundred and fifty.

Semma had ninety-six. And that was after Sterren had
calls for volunteers posted in all the surrounding villages.
Furthermore, although fifteen or twenty of them took
their role seriously, the rest seemed to think being a sol-
dier meant nothing more than an excuse to go drinking
and wenching in exchange for a few hours a day of
marching and weapons drill—or, in the caseof the cav-
alry, riding and weapons drill.

Sterren knew that war was coming. Lar knew that
war was coming. Lady Kalira and a dozen other nobles
knew war was coming. The rest of the castle's inhabi-
tants, including the king, refused to worry about it.

Princess Shirrin apparently believed that war was

82 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 83

coming, but thought that it was all very exciting, and that
Sterren, her valiant warlord, would save the kingdom by
singlehandedly slaughtering the foe, as if he were some
legendary hero like Valder of the Magic Sword. At least,
that was what Princess Lura reported her sister's
thoughts to be; Shin-in herself still found it impossible to
say more than a dozen words in Sterren's presence with-
out blushing and falling into an embarrassed silence.

She hadn't actually run away from him for more than
a sixday, though, and he had seen her, several times,
watching him and his men from a window, or around a
corner.

Princess Nissitha deigned to speak to him on occa-
sion, now, but still obviously considered him far beneath
her.

He sighed again. His life was not going well.

He had carefully broached the subject of defeat to
Lady Kalira one night, in the castle kitchens, when both
of them had been drinking.

"You don't want to think about it," she had said, very
definitely.

"Why not?" he had replied.

"Because if you lose a war, you'll be killed."

"Not ness... ness... necessarily. Surely you don't
expect the army to fight to the last man..." he began.

"No, you silly Ethsharite, that's not what I mean."
She had glowered at him.

"What do you mean, then?" he asked, puzzled.

"I mean," she said, "that for the last century or two
it's been traditional for a victorious army to execute the
enemy's warlord, as a symbolic gesture. You can't go
around killing off kings; it sets a bad precedent. And you
don't want. to slaughter anyone useful, not even peas-
ants. But a defeated warlord isn't any good to anybody
and he might go around plotting revenge, so he gets be-
headed. Or hanged. Or burned at the stake. Or some-
thing." She hiccupped. "Your great-great-grandfather,
the Sixth Warlord, got drawn and quartered, back in
5150."

Sterren, who up to that point had been more or less
sober, had proceeded to finish the bottle and a second
one as well.

He had no desire to die, but he was beginning to run
out of alternatives. He still saw no way to escape from
Semma; his door was always guarded, as was the castle
gate, and any time he set foot outside at least one soldier
accompanied him. He had not tried ordering his escort
away; it seemed pointless.

Even if he did lose an escort and make a dash for it,
he would probably be caught and brought back long be-
fore he could reach Akalla of the Diamond and get out to
sea—and that was assuming he could find Akalla despite
the lack of roads, maps, guides, and landmarks.

Chances of escaping back to Ethshar looked slim, and
a failed escape attempt would mean execution for trea-
son. That made it too dangerous to risk.

If he stayed, however, he would wind up leading his
pitiful army into battle and inevitably being defeated. If
he survived the battle, which was certain to be a rout
and probably a bloodbath, he would still be executed by
the victors.

He could not imagine any strategem whereby he
could win, with his ninety-six men against more than
four hundred. A purely defensive war would take longer,
perhaps—the castle could probably hold off the invaders
for a month or two, at least—but a long siege would not
put the enemy in a very favorable frame of mind, and
Semma had no friends who might come to lift a siege,
nor much hope of outlasting the foe.

Sterren wished he had some way of coaxing his native
Ethshar into aiding Semma; Azrad's ten thousand
guardsmen would make short work of these silly little
armies that the Small Kingdoms fielded.

When Azrad VII had come to power a little over a
year before, however, he had inherited from his father,
Azrad VI, a long-standing policy handed down in unbro-
ken line from Azrad I against interfering in the internal
squabbling of the Small Kingdoms. On the rare occa-
sions when an army from Lamum or Perga or some other
little principality had strayed across the border into the
Hegemony, it had been quickly obliterated; but Ethshari-
tic troops were never, ever, sent into the Small King-
doms themselves.

Sterren leaned against the whitewashed stone wall of

84 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 85

the barracks and told himself that he needed a miracle.

Well, he replied silently, every Ethsharite knows that
miracles are available, if one can pay for them.

Miracles were available in Ethshar, though, in the
Wizards' Quarter; not in Semma.

The only magician of any sort that the royal family
put any trust in was Agor, the castle's resident theurgist.
Other than a glimpse or two of that rather confused and
confusing fellow, Sterren had not as yet encountered a
single magician worthy of the name during his stay in the
Small Kingdoms.

He hadn't been able to do much looking, of course;

his duties, and his desperate attempts to train his "army"
into something useful, had not left him the free time to
go wandering about investigating village herbalists and
the like.

It was always possible that some eccentric hermit was
lurking in a hut somewhere out there, a hermit with suf-
ficient magic to defeat both of the would-be invaders, but
how could Sterren locate him, if he existed?

Well, how had the Semmans located him, when they
needed a warlord?

They had asked Agor, of course.

And Agor might actually be quite a good theurgist, for
all Sterren knew. He might be all the miracle-worker
Sterren needed.

Sterren glanced again at the dice-players, at the un-
made bunks, at swords lying about unsheathed and
dropped carelessly anywhere convenient, and decided
that it was time he spoke with Agor. He had tried acting
like the warlord he was supposed to be and had gotten
nowhere; now, thinking like the Ethsharite he had
always been, it was time to call on a magician. When all
else fails, hire a magician—that was sound Ethsharitic
thinking!

He turned and marched out the door of the barracks.

He knew exactly where he was going, for once. Prin-
cess Lura had pointed out the theurgist's door to him a
few days earlier. Agor made his home in a small room in
one of the smaller towers, far above the barracks, but a
level below Sterren's own more luxurious quarters.

Sterren stood in the corridor for a minute or two,
gathering his courage, before he knocked.

"Come in," someone called from within.

He lifted the latch and stepped in.

Agor's chamber was hung with white draperies on
every side, covering all four walls. Two narrow windows
were left bare, and provided the room's only light—but
given all that white and the sunny weather outside, that
was plenty. The chamber smelled of something cloyingly
sweet—incense, perhaps? Sterren was unsure.

A few trunks, painted white and trimmed with silver,
stood against the various walls. A plump feather bed,
also white, occupied one comer.

In the center of the room, seated on a grayish sheep-
skin that had probably been white once, was Agor him-
self, a rather scrawny fellow of thirty or so, with a pale,
narrow face and a worried expression.

He wore white, of course—white tunic worked with
gold, and off-white breeches. His feet were bare. A
scroll was unrolled on the floor in front of him.

"Yes?" he asked, looking at Sterren in puzzlement.

"I'm Sterren, Ninth Warlord," Sterren said. "You're
Agor, the theurgist?"

"Oh, yes, of course, my lord. Yes, I'm Agor. Do come
in!" He gestured welcomingly.

There were no chairs of any description, so Sterren
rather hesitantly seated himself on the stone floor, facing
the theurgist.

"So you're Sterren," Agor said. "I'm glad to meet
you. I take a special interest in you, you know; I was the
one who found you." He smiled uncertainly.

"I know," said Sterren, while inwardly wondering just
what sort of special interest the other was referring to.
After all, in the dozen days since his arrival in the castle,
Agor had not bothered to say as much as a single word to
him and had apparently not even bothered to get a look
at him, since he had not immediately recognized him.

He knew he should say more, but found himself un-
sure how to begin. He knew he wanted a miracle that
would keep him from getting killed as a result of the
coming war, but he did not know how to ask for it.

86

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

87

He didn't really know just what sort of a miracle he
wanted. He did not really want anyone to get hurt or
killed.

He was still thinking about this when, after a slightly
longer-than-comfortable silence, Agor asked nervously,
"What can I do for you, my lord?"

Sterren resolved to simply present the situation to
Agor and then see where the discussion went. Perhaps a
way out of his quandary would appear.

"Well, first, you can promise me that anything I tell
you won't be repeated outside this room," he replied.

"If you wish it so, my lord."

"I do. Ah... tell me, have you taken any interest in
Semma's military situation?"

"No," the theurgist immediately answered, "would
you like me to?"

This response caught Sterren off guard, and his
tongue stumbled over his answer.

"I.. .that.. .1 mean, that's not..." He paused,
caught his breath, and tried again.

"What I meant was, are you aware that Semma is in
very serious danger?"

"No," Agor replied calmly. "Is it?"

"Yes!" Sterren collected his wits and continued. "This
is what I don't want you telling anyone. A war with both
Ksinallion and Ophkar is coming, and soon. I expect
both of them to attack as soon as the mud dries in the
spring. And we don't have a chance of defeating them;

we're outnumbered four to one, and our army is in terri-
ble shape, and I'm the warlord, but I have no idea at all
how to run a war, or even how to get these damn soldiers
to take it seriously!"

"Ah," Agor said, his face blank.

"Yes," Sterren said.

"So you expect to lose a battle? Do you want me to
try and get a god's blessing on our troops, is that it? I
don't suppose that would violate the ban on using magic
to fight wars."

"No! Or at least, not just that, though I suppose it
couldn't hurt." He paused, considering. "Would it really
help?"

"No," Agor said, without an instant's hesitation. "I've
explained this to everybody before, but I suppose you
weren't here. The gods don't approve of war or fighting
and they won't have anything to do with it. They don't
take sides."

"I don't approve of it, either! Are you sure they
wouldn't be willing to take into consideration that we're
being attacked, that we don't want to fight?"

"It wouldn't matter. The gods swore off war after they
wiped out the Northerners two hundred years ago and
they don't change their minds easily. Besides..." This
time Agor did hesitate, but at length he said, "besides,
can you tell them that we did nothing to provoke an at-
tack?"

"/ didn't do anything!"

"But did anyone?"

Sterren remembered what Lar had told him about
King Phenvel's behavior. "I suppose so," he admitted.

"Then the gods won't help. At least, not directly."

That reminded Sterren of his original intention in vis-
iting Agor. "But they might indirectly?" he asked.

"Oh, certainly. It might seem odd to a layman, but the
fact is, the gods tend to be very careless indeed about
the long-term consequences of their actions. You could
probably get a great deal of useful advice from them, as
long as it's not overtly military."

Locating a powerful wizard would hardly be overtly
military, but Sterren decided to check out other possibili-
ties first. He asked, "Could they, perhaps, do something
to stop Ophkar and Ksinallion from attacking? Start a
plague, or something?"

Agor was visibly shocked by the suggestion. "A
plague? My lord, how can you think such a thing?"

"Could they?" Sterren persisted.

"No, of course not! My lord Sterren, I am a theurgist,
not a demonologist! The gods are good; they" do not do
evil. Plagues are the work of demons!"

Sterren's cynicism, drummed into him by years on the
streets of Ethshar, came surging to the fore. "The gods
don't do evil?" he inquired, sarcastically, remembering

88

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

that he, himself, was in Semma, facing eventual execu-
tion, because of a god's interference.

"Well," Agor said, "not directly. Sometimes their ac-
tions can have evil consequences, for some—"

f"! would think so!"

"But they won't start a plague, or anything else like
that."

Sterren considered this.

Agor was probably right. After all, he was a theurgist
and surely he knew his business. All his life, Sterren had
heard from priests and theurgists and even laymen that
the gods-were benevolent, that they did not approve of
any sort of destruction or disorder, that the evil in the
World was due to demons or human folly.

It was probably true.

Or if not, at least it was probably true that he, Sterren
of Ethshar, would be unable to get the gods to take his
side in the upcoming war.

"All right," he said, "We'll forget that idea, then."
Another thought popped into his head, though, and he
asked, "Might they protect us from the invaders? Stop
the war somehow, or at least provide us with what we
need to withstand a siege? You say they don't like war;

could they prevent this one?"

"Excuse me, my lord, but wouldn't that violate the
traditional ban on magical warfare?"

"What if it did?" Sterren snapped, his frayed temper
breaking. "/ never agreed to any such ban and I'll be
killed if we lose this war! I'm no Semman, and I think it's
a stupid tradition."

"Ah," the theurgist said, nodding. "I see."

"Does breaking the ban bother you?"

"Well, not really; it's none of my business."

"Then, can the gods do something to prevent this
war?"

Agor hesitated and chewed his lower lip for a moment
before replying, "Well, maybe..."

"Maybe?"

Agor blinked uneasily and shifted on his sheepskin.
"Well, actually, my lord, they..." He stopped, visibly
unhappy.

Lawrence Watt-Evans

"They what?" Sterren urged.

"Well, actually, my lord, some of 1
probably be glad to do that sort of thing,

"But whatT

"Well..." Agor took a deep breath, tli
admitted, "but I don't know how to conts

Lawrence Watt-Evans            91

CHAPTER 11

S

terren stared at the bony theurgist, who stared back
miserably.

"What do you mean, you can't contact them?" Ster-
ren demanded. "Aren't you the royal theurgist here?"

"Yes, my lord, I am."

"Are you a fraud, then?"

"No," Agor said, with a touch of wounded pride visi-
ble through his dismay, "I'm not a fraud; I'm just not a
very good theurgist."

"You aren't?"

"No, I'm not. Ah... do you know anything about
theurgy?"

"I know as much as most people, I suppose," Sterren
said, glaring.

"But do you know anything about how it actually
worksT' Agor persisted.

"No, of course not!"

Agor nodded, as if satisfied with Sterren's answer.
"Well, my lord," he said, "it's like this. A theurgist is
just a person with a natural talent for prayer, who has
learned how to pray in such a way that the gods will
actually listen."

"I know that," Sterren said sharply.

"Well, anybody can pray, of course, but the odds are
that the gods won't hear, or won't answer. Have you
ever wondered, my lord, why the gods don't listen to
everybody, but they do listen to theurgists?"

90

"No," Sterren replied flatly. This was not strictly true,
but he didn't care to be sidetracked.

"Well, it's because of the prayers we use. We leam
them as apprentices, just as other magicians leam their
spells. The gods are too busy to listen to everything, but
there are certain prayers that catch their attention, just
the way certain sounds might catch your ear, even in a
noisy place—the rattle of dice, for instance."

Sterren realized that Agor really had taken an interest
in him; coming up with that particularly appropriate ex-
ample could not have been a coincidence. His annoy-
ance faded somewhat. "Go on," he said.

Agor continued, "Some people are better at some
prayers than others. I don't know why, they just are—-
just as some people are better at drawing pictures, or
singing."

Sterren nodded. He knew, firsthand, that some people
had a talent for warlockry, while others, like himself,
emphatically did not, and he could see no reason other
magicks, such as theurgy, should be any different

"There are many, many gods, my lord. I only know
the names and prayers for nineteen of them; that was all
my master knew, all he could teach me during my ap-
prenticeship. It's not a bad number, really. Many of the
best theurgists only know a dozen or so specific prayers,
and I've never heard of anyone who knew more than
perhaps thirty, unless he was also dabbling in demono-
logy—except we don't call those prayers, we call them
invocations or summonings."

"So you can ask nineteen different gods for help, but
only those nineteen?"

"Yes, but really, not even all those. You see, as I said,
some people are better at some prayers than others.
Some gods are just harder to talk to, too. And I know
nineteen names and prayers, but I can't get all nineteen
of them to listen to me. Or at least, I never have. Maybe
I learned a syllable wrong somewhere, or maybe they
just don't like me, but I can't get all of them to listen."

Sterren saw where this was leading. "How many do
listen to you, then?" he asked.

"Usually, three," Agor replied nervously.

Sterren stared. "Three? Out of nineteen?"

92      THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"I told you I'm not really a very good theurgist," Agor

said defensively.

"How did you ever wind up as the royal magician,

then?"

"The royal magician to the court of King Phenvel III

of Semma? Of Semma, my lord? You're from Ethshar;

you know better. If I were any good, would I still be

here?"

"I suppose not," Sterren admitted.

"I was bom in Semma, but I ran away from home
when I was twelve and served my apprenticeship in Lu-
meth of the Towers. I couldn't make a living there,
though, and I didn't speak anything but Semmat and Lu-
methan, so when I got tired of starving in Lumeth I came
back here, where there wasn't any real competition.
They don't care if I can only talk to Unniel, Konned, and
Morm, because nobody else here can talk to any of the
gods!" A trace of pride had crept into Agor's voice.
"Unn... Who were those, again?"
"Unniel, Konned, and Morm. Unniel the Discerning
is the goddess of theurgical information, Konned is a god
of light and warmth, and Morm the Preserver is the god

, of genealogy."

"I never heard of any of them," Sterren said.
"And how many gods have you heard of by name?"
"Not many," Sterren admitted. Laymen virtually
never bothered with names, since only theurgists could
count on getting a specific deity's attention. Usually
prayers were directed to categories of gods, or just any
god who might be listening, to increase the chances of

reaching someone.

Sterren realized he could not name a single god, other

than the three Agor had just mentioned—and he didn't
think he could pronounce two of those. Konned was
easy enough, but the diphthong in Unniel and the r
sound in Morm were very alien indeed.

"So, could any of those three help us?" he asked.
"I don't see how," Agor replied. "Morm is completely
useless; all he does is keep track of family trees. If you
need to know your great-great-grandmother's childhood
epithet, or when your third cousin was bom, he can tell
you, but that's it. He's been very useful to me, since all

Lawrence Watt-Evans           93

the nobility of Semma are obsessed with family, but a
war is completely out of his area."

"And Konned?" Sterren did not care to try pronounc-
ing Unniel.

"Well, if you make a regular sacrifice to him, he'll
provide you with supernatural light at night, brighter
than any candle, and he'll keep you warm in the winter,
so we don't have to worry about freezing during a siege
—but that's about it. And freezing isn't very likely in
Semma anyway.

"And..."

"Unniel's our best hope, I suppose. She knows every-
thing there is to know about all the other gods and some-
times she can be coaxed into carrying messages to them;

I found you by having her call her brother Aibem for me.
I know a prayer for Aibem, but I can never make it work
right, so when I really need him, sometimes I can get
him through Unniel. Aibem is a god of information; I've
never found anything he doesn't know, but getting him to
tell me what I'm after is usually like trying to catch a
black cat in a dungeon at midnight. Unniel can also talk
to the dead, sometimes—not all the dead, just certain
ones, and I have no idea why."

"Information? Couldn't Unn... Unniel or Aibem tell
us how to avoid the war, then?"

Agor shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe." He
sighed. "It's too bad I could never get Piskor the Gener-
ous to answer; she provides food and water and advice,
and that would be ideal if we're besieged, wouldn't it?"

"It would help, certainly," Sterren agreed.

They sat in moody silence for a moment, thinking.

Sterren considered what he had just been told and
decided that he did not care to rely on the gods for help.

That meant returning to his original intent of locating
a really powerful magician and somehow buying a mira-
cle. Agor, it appeared, did not qualify.

"So, Agor," he said, "are there any other theurgists in
Semma?"

"No," Agor answered. "It's too bad, because I
wouldn't mind having someone to talk theurgy with."

"What about other magicians? Do you know of any?"

"Oh, certainly! When I first got the job here, naturally

94 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 95

I looked over the potential competition. It turned out I
had nothing to worry about." Sterren suppressed a groan
at this news. Agor continued, "There are a few village
herbalists, of course, and a couple of local shamans who
seem to be more fraud than anything else. There are two
wizards in the whole kingdom; one's here in the castle,
where he helps out in the kitchen, and the other's in a
village to the east. The one here in the castle used to be
the other's apprentice, I think."

He paused, thinking.

"I don't remember exactly how many witches there
are; four or five, I'd say. None of them are in the castle."

"What about sorcerers, or demonologists, or war-
locks, or... or anything?"

"Well, demonology is illegal, of course, and I haven't
found any outlaw demonologists, but I suppose one
could be hiding somewhere. The gods can't see demons,
usually. Sorcery is illegal, too, I suppose because the
Northerners used to use it so much, and I know for cer-
tain there aren't any sorcerers."

"And warlocks?" He used the Ethsharitic word, since
he had never heard a Semmat term.

Agor looked puzzled. "What's a warlock?" he asked.

"Another sort of magician," Sterren explained.
"We've had them in Ethshar for about twenty years
now."

Agor shrugged. "I never heard of them," he said.

That accorded well with Sterren's suspicion that war-
lockry did not work in Semma, that the Power in Aldag-
mor was too far away. Quite aside from his losses at
dice, surely, if warlockry were possible, there would be
warlocks.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"Not that the gods would tell me about. Believe me,
I've asked them."

Sterren nodded. No mysterious hermits, then. He
could not help asking, "You're absolutely sure there
aren't any you've missed?"

"I could have missed a demonologist and maybe one
of these warlock things you mentioned, but that's all."

"How good are the two wizards? And the witches?"

"My lord Sterren, the younger wizard is working in

the castle kitchens, lighting fires and entertaining the
cooks; how good do you think he is? And they always
say you can judge the master by the student."

Sterren did not entirely believe that particular prov-
erb, but he admitted that the older wizard could not be
much of a miracle-worker. "What about the witches?"

"Well, my lord, none of them ever gave me any com-
petition for the post of royal magician; does that tell you
enough?"

Sterren had to agree that it did. He stared at the
gleaming silver hasp on a nearby trunk, trying to think
what else he could ask.

"My lord Sterren," Agor said, after a thoughtful
pause, "Do you really mean to use magic to fight this
war?"

Sterren started. "Of course I do!" he shouted. "How
else am I going to get out of this alive?"

"In that case, my lord, I don't think you'd want Sem-
man magicians in any case. They've all been raised in
the tradition of using no magic in war. Wouldn't it make
more sense to get your magicians from somewhere
else?"

"I suppose so, but where?"

"Ethshar, of course."

"Of course," Sterren said sarcastically, "except that
I'm not allowed to go back there!"

"Really? Well then, you could send somebody. But
are you really sure you aren't?"

Sterren opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Because of the way he had arrived, he had assumed
that he would not be allowed to leave Semma, but no-
body had ever actually said that. And certainly, there
were all the magicians he could ever need in the Wiz-
ards' Quarter of Ethshar of the Spices.

Not that they would be eager to go gallivanting off to
Semma to get involved in something as nasty and un-
pleasant as a war. He would need a powerful incentive.

Gold would work just fine, of course.

Sterren didn't have any gold himself, but Semma's
royal treasury contained a good bit of the stuff. As war-
lord, his officers had assured him that he had access to
the treasury for legitimate military expenses. He didn't

96       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
even need the treasurer's cooperation; as warlord, he

outranked the treasurer.

However, he did need the king's permission for any

expenditures out of the ordinary.

Sterren realized that it was time to speak to the king.

CHAPTER 12

. is Majesty Phenvel HI looked distinctly bored, but
Sterren pressed on with the speech he had prepared, try-
ing not to stumble over any of the unfamiliar words. He
had picked up a few choice Semmat phrases from Agor
and Lar, and did not want to ruin their effect by mis-
pronouncing them.

"It seems clear," he said, "that if Semma has won so
many of its wars, and yet neither treacherous Ophkar
nor perfidious-Ksinallion has ever resorted to magic to
defeat us, then Ophkar and Ksinallion cannot have many
magicians available. If they had magicians surely they
would have used them rather than admit defeat! There-
fore, they will be unable to counter whatever magic we
use. One really good wizard could probably turn the tide
of this next conflict—a competent demonologist might
be even better, if one could bring oneself to deal with
such dark forces—"

"No demons," the king interrupted.

"Your Majesty?"

"No demons, no demonologists," Phenvel said, em-
phasizing his words with a wagging finger. "No sor-
cerers, either. We'll use good, clean magic tf-we need to
use magic at all."

"Oh, we do need to, your Majesty," Sterren replied
quickly. "I swear that my own inexperience and the
sorry state that my poor senile great-uncle left the army
in leave us no other choice." He mildly regretted insult-

97

98 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

ing his dead relative, but after all, the man was dead and
he really had left the army in sad shape.

"All right," the king said, "but no demonology and no
sorcery. Is that clear?"

"Oh, yes, your Majesty!" Sterren grinned with sudden
relief. Up until that moment he had thought the king was
not listening and would reject the whole idea out of
hand.

"It might be entertaining to have some real magic
around here," Phenvel said. "Agor's all very well, with
his lights and voices, but I'd like to see something new.
Do you think you can find a wizard who can fly? I've
heard that some of them can do that; is it true?"

"Oh, yes, your Majesty," Sterren assured him. "I've
seen it myself, in Ethshar's great... in Ethshar." That
was true enough. He had meant to say that he had seen
wizards fly in the Arena, but he didn't know the Semmat
word. He had also seen his warlock-master fly. It was
not a particularly rare or valuable talent.

"Good. Find a magician who can fly."

Sterren nodded. He knew better than to argue, though
he could see little military value in the ability to levitate.

"Yes, your Majesty. Then may I have a letter of credit
against the treasury, to show that I—"

"No letter!" Phenvel snapped. "Do you think I'm a
fool, to give you free run of my money like that? No, I'll
give you a pound of gold and a few jewels—I understand
that wizards like jewels. That should be enough, I should
think."

The bottom dropped out of Sterren's stomach, but he
did not dare argue at this point, for fear the king would
change his mind and cancel the whole project.

A pound of gold, though, would barely buy a single
untraceable death spell back in Ethshar, let alone magic
on a scale to be of real military value. Powerful wizards
did not work as cheaply as the pitiful village witches and
herbalists out here on the edge of the World.

So much for borrowing against the entire royal trea-
sury to hire a squad of hotshot magicians from the Wiz-
ards' Quarter! He would be lucky to find one really good
wizard at that price; more likely he would have to settle
for a few failed apprentices.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           99

"I do like the idea of getting a few new magicians
around here," Phenvel mused, "I really do. But no sor-
cerers, and no demonologists, not even a little one."

Sterren nodded again. The king was repeating him-
self, but that was hardly unusual. Nobody had ever
dared point out such little slips, so the king made them
frequently.

He was trying to phrase a request to be excused,
when Phenvel said, "You'll need to have a guard along,
of course, and I think Lady Kalira should accompany
you. Does that suit you?"

"Very much, your Majesty," Sterren lied. He had
hardly dared to admit it even to himself, but he had natu-
rally had the idea of taking this opportunity to simply
vanish in the streets of Ethshar in the back of his mind
right from the start. Guards would make that much more
difficult—but perhaps no more difficult than buying the
services of a competent magician for a pound of gold and
a few nondescript gems.

It appeared he was still doomed.

At the very least, though, he would be able to revisit
his homeland before he died. He had been fighting off
homesickness for the last day or two, ever since the pos-
sibility of returning to Ethshar had begun to seem real.

"Good," the king said. "You're excused, then, and I
wish you a safe journey."

Sterren bowed and backed out of the audience
chamber.

In the corridor outside he straightened up, brushed at
his cut-down black tunic, and then stood, staring stu-
pidly at the door, for a good three minutes.

What was he supposed to do now? Just turn and go?
How was he to collect the gold and gems, or find Lady
Kalira? Who was to chose the guards he would take with
him?

Kings were not much on detail work, he. supposed. It
was up to him. Unless someone told him otherwise, he
assumed that he would have to organize the expedition
himself.

He glanced around. The only people in the ante-
chamber with him were the two doorkeepers, and he
knew better than to ask one of them to leave his post.

100     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Sterren had no servants of his own and always felt
uneasy ordering the castle servants about, since they
always seemed to have plenty of work to do without
running his errands, but he was the warlord, commander
of the Semman army, and his soldiers never seemed to
do anything at all unless he was there egging them on.

He headed for the barracks.

As usual, half a dozen soldiers were dicing in the

comer. The barracks were otherwise empty.

"You men!" he called.
Two of them looked up, without much interest.

"Settle up, the game's over. Right now."
The two glanced at each other, and two more looked

up, startled.

"Now!" Sterren bellowed.
Reluctantly, the game broke up, and the six men came

sloppily to attention, facing him.

"All right, you, Kather—go find the Lady Kalira and
tell her I must speak to her as soon as possible. Let her
choose the time and place, but make plain that it's very
urgent, and then come back here immediately and tell me

what she said."

Kather stood silently, accepting this.

"Go!"

Startled, Kather nodded. "Yes, my lord," he mut-
tered, as he started off.

"You, Terrin," Sterren said to the next. "Go find the

Lord Treasurer and tell him that I need a pound of gold
and a dozen of the finest gems in the treasury, no later
than dinnertime tonight, by the king's express order. Ar-
range a time and place for me to pick them up. If he
needs to check with the king first, I have no objection,
so long as he's quick about it. If he doubts your author-
ity, bring him back here to speak to me."

Terrin, having learned from Kather's experience, es-
sayed a quick bow, said, "As you wish, my lord," and

departed.

Sterren looked over the remaining four. He knew

them all slightly, but only slightly, and did not think

much of any of them.

"Gror," he said, choosing the best of the lot, "I need a

party for a voyage to Ethshar—a peaceful expedition,

Lawrence Watt-Evans           101

recruiting aid for the coming war. Who would you sug-
gest?"

"Uh..." Gror blinked. "My lord, I... I don't know."

"You could call for volunteers," another soldier, Az-
daram by name, suggested.

"I could," Sterren agreed.

He considered the idea.

He almost immediately saw an obvious drawback and
prepared to discard the whole notion.

Then he caught himself.

The problem with calling for volunteers was that he
might well wind up with men only interested in a diver-
sion from the tedious life of a Semman soldier. It was
entirely possible that some of them would desert at the
first opportunity...

He stopped his chain of thought at that point and
backed up.

They might desert. The guard intended to keep him
from deserting might themselves desert.

That might not be good for Semma, but it would, on
the other hand, be a gift from the gods for him, person-
ally. If his escort were to vanish he could easily lose
himself in the streets of the city and leave Semma to fend
for itself.

It probably wouldn't do much worse without him than
with him, really. He was hardly a great warlord, after all.

He tried to think what would happen if the guards did
desert, and he, too, slipped away.

What would Lady Kalira do? What would the others,
back here in Semma do—the king, the queen, the prin-
cesses, his officers and men, even Agor the theurgist?

Well, the officers and men would presumably go out,
fight, and lose. Some would die, the rest surrender.
Semma would probably be divided up between Ophkar
and Ksinallion, and the royal family sent off into exile
somewhere. Agor would almost certainly find employ-
ment elsewhere, without much difficulty.

That wasn't so awful, was it? It seemed that a few
soldiers were going to die anyway, no matter what hap-
pened, so he refused to worry about that. As for exiling
the royal family, it was hard to imagine King Phenvel in
exile, but on the other hand, it was hard to imagine him

102 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

doing much of anything. He seemed bom to be an in-
competent monarch; the only way he could survive the
way he was seemed to be if other people had no choice
about putting up with him.

Princess Shin-in would find exile terribly romantic and
exciting, Sterren was sure. Princess Lura would think it
was fun. Princess Nissitha would be mortified. Queen
Ashassa would take it calmly in stride.

The young princes he didn't know well enough to say,
but he suspected they would rather enjoy a change of
scene.

As for divvying up Semma, would anyone but the de-
posed aristocrats care? In his sixnights in Semma he had
never seen any sign that the peasants cared a whit which
king they paid taxes to.

There might be practical problems in slipping away,
though. Lady Kalira would be in Ethshar when he de-
serted and she would probably try to track him down.
She might even succeed, eventually—though surely not
before the war was lost.

What if she found him?

Well, it was obvious that the aristocracy of Semma
would not be at all happy with Sterren, Ninth Warlord.
He would, beyond question, be guilty of treason under
their laws. In all probability, any Semman noble who
ever found him would try to kill him on sight.

That was not really a very appealing long-term pros-
pect, but then, he didn't have to stay in Ethshar of the
Spices. He could move on to Ethshar of the Sands or
Ethshar of the Rocks, or even head north to the Baronies
. of Sardiron. The nobility of Semma would not be likely
to find him; the World was a big place.

The Small Kingdoms would be too dangerous,
though; the Semman aristocracy, all two or three
hundred of them, were likely to scatter through the re-
gion, sponging off various relatives and allies.

He'd want to take a new name, of course.

It occurred to him that the Semmans knew his true
name. That was awkward. That meant that they would
always be able to find him if they could afford a good
wizard, or even a very good witch. Warlocks didn't use
true names; neither did sorcerers, so far as he knew.

Lawrence Watt-Evens           103

Theurgists sometimes did, and the Semmans were fa-
miliar with theurgy. That was how they had found him in
the first place.

And worse, couldn't demonologists use true names?

If the Semmans were determined to track him down
and kill him, and had the sense to hire magicians, they
could do it.

Desertion looked considerably less appealing than it
had a moment before.

On the other hand, Semmans weren't accustomed to
magic, and if Sterren could keep the gold and gems with
him when he slipped away, perhaps he could buy himself
some decent magical protections.

Could a true name be changed?

He didn't really think it could, but he didn't know.

He realized he was standing there looking stupid in
front of his four men, so he cut off his thoughts abruptly.

"All right, then, I'm calling for volunteers—do any of
you four want to sail to Ethshar?"

The four looked at each other and then. one by one,
answered.

"No."  '

"No, my lord."

"I don't think so."

"Not really. Not sail. I don't trust boats."

Sterren was not surprised.

"All right, then, I want all four of you to separate and
go find my other soldiers, all of them, and ask for volun-
teers. Then meet me back here, with the volunteers. And
if you don't find enough volunteers, I'll take you four,
instead. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord," they chorused raggedly. One by one,
they straggled away on this unwanted errand. One of
them, Arra Varrins's son, thought to bow as they headed
for the stairs.

Sterren watched them go and pretended, not to hear
the grumbling that began as soon as they were out the
door.

When they were out of sight, he sank down onto a
convenient bed and began thinking, planning, and weigh-
ing possibilities.

Could he really slip away in the streets of Ethshar?

104 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Did he want to?

Which death was more certain—commanding a
grossly outnumbered army, or being an escaped traitor?

That was a very hard question to answer and it was
one he had to consider carefully. He had no interest in
dying.

He had plenty of time to consider the question, of
course. He would have the entire journey to Akalla, then
the voyage across the Gulf of the East, to decide what to
do and make his plans.

Of course, he knew he might never have a chance to
slip away—his soldiers might not desert, he might be
closely watched at all times. Still, he also knew he would
be thinking about an escape all the way to Ethshar.^,

CHAPTER 13

LJ the rooftops of Ethshar grew slowly nearer,
Sterren leaned on the ship's rail and stared at them hun-
grily. He could smell the city as well as see it, a scent of
smoke and spices with an undertone of sewage, a won-
derfully familiar odor that he hadn't smelled in far too
long. He had never realized, until this moment, that the
city had a distinctive odor—he had never left the city
until being dragged off to Semma, so the smell had
always been there, unnoticed.

Now, though, he knew that he had missed that smell
during his absence, that to him that scent meant home,
as the salt spray of the ocean or the hot, rotting-grass
smell of Semma never could.

To his left, Dogal the Large—Dogal d'Gra, that is —
sneezed.

To his right, Alder the Very Large—Alder d'Yoon—
said, "May the gods keep you well!"

Dogal snuffled in reply, wiped his nose with the back
of his hand, and then spat at the ocean below.

Alder, apparently interpreting Dogal's response as a
negative one, said, "Well, at least we're finally here. Not
much longer now before we're off this damned boat."

"Except that we've got to sail back," Dogal muttered.

"But going back, the wind should be with us, rather
than against us," Alder said.

Sterren took no part in the conversation, but he
thought that it was certainly true that the wind had been

105

106 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

against them. He understood now why Lady Kalira, on
her previous voyage to Ethshar, had bought herself a
storm from the weather-wizards in Akalla of the Dia-
mond, and why she had wanted to spend two-thirds of
his meager hoard of treasure on another one for this trip
—after, of course, she had used up most of her own
resources in hiring a ship that would sail when and where
she wanted, rather than one that would treat the Sem-
man party as ordinary passengers.

Sterren had absolutely forbidden wasting their funds
on a storm; the little gold he had would not really be
enough as it was, he was sure. He had refused to listen
to any argument from Lady Kalira; it was easy enough to
simply stop thinking in Semmat, so that her words be-
came meaningless noise. His mind was made up.

Of course, he had not realized that the prevailing
winds of the season were from the northwest, and that it
would take their chartered ship a month and a day to
tack up the Gulf of the East to Ethshar of the Spices. To
make any progress to the northwest at all against the
cold, steady autumn wind, they had been forced to beat
back and forth, zigzagging across the Gulf from one side
to the other.

The only good thing about the delay was that it had
given him considerable time to practice his Semmat.

Sterren was heartily sick of the cramped shipbo'ard
life and the ship's constant wallowing and rolling, and his
feet were almost itching at the thought of walking on dry
land again.

The fact that the land in question was his homeland,
and that he might yet have a chance to slip away to free-
dom, made waiting all the harder.

Of course, he might not have a chance to slip away.
Lady Kalira, when informed of the expedition, had in-
sisted on bringing the two soldiers she most trusted,
Alder and Dogal, and had gotten royal backing for this
demand. Sterren had been given no choice but to yield.

He thought that Alder and Dogal liked him, at least
slightly, but he was also quite certain they would not
willingly let him desert and leave Semma to its fate.

This was unfortunate, since the other four in the party
might well desert, themselves. They were genuine volun-

Lawrence Watt-Evans           107

teers—Kendrik, Alar, Zander, and Bern were their
names, and Sterren was not impressed with any of them.

He knew Kendrik's type from his gambling days; the
man was obviously convinced that he was smarter than
anybody else and only needed the right opportunity to
make himself rich, famous, and powerful. Semma cer-
tainly didn't provide many such opportunities, Sterren
had to admit—but he suspected that Kendrik wouldn't
find them in Ethshar, either, because he wasn't any-
where near as clever as he thought he was.

People like Kendrik had been among the most gener-
ous suppliers of Sterren's funds before his abrupt depar-
ture from Ethshar's taverns—but they were also bad
losers and very likely to accuse him of cheating. Sterren
didn't like Kendrik any better than he had liked those old
opponents.

Alar appeared to have volunteered just because some-
body asked him. He was easygoing, not too bright, and
highly suggestible. Sterren suspected that he had wound
up a soldier at somebody else's suggestion, and that he
might well desert along with one of the others because he
wouldn't see any reason not to, until it was too late.

Sterren might have suggested it to Alar himself, if
Alder and Dogal hadn't been present. Once they were
ashore he might well make a few suggestive comments in
Alar's hearing. For now, though, he was keeping Alar
close at hand. He didn't really like the poor fool, but
such people could be useful to have around—they could
be talked into doing all the unpleasant tasks one inevita-
bly encountered.

Zander had joined the army to get away from a boring
life as a peasant farmer. He had volunteered for this trip
to get away from a boring life as a soldier in Semma
Castle. Ethshar, whatever its flaws, certainly wouldn't
look boring to him, and he could easily decide against
returning to his boring old homeland.

Sterren thought Zander was pretty boring, himself.

Bern was a mystery; he had said nothing beyond the
necessary minimum for politeness ever since he an-
swered the call for volunteers. Sterren had absolutely no
idea what to expect from Bern—desertion, loyalty, in-
sanity, anything might be possible.

108 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 109

Alder and Dogal, of course, had not volunteered.
Alder might have, given a choice, but Dogal was clearly
fed up with travel after his previous journey and would
greatly have preferred to have stayed home, where he
had a friendly understanding with one of the cook's more
attractive female assistants, and where he didn't have to
worry about seasickness or foreign languages and cus-
toms.

Alder was a bit more adventurous and seemed genu-
inely, if inexplicably, fond of Sterren. Sterren suspected
it might be an emotion similar to what one might feel
toward a stray puppy one had taken in; after all. Alder
had found Sterren, taught him Senunat, and helped him
settle into his job as warlord.

Lady Kalira would never have volunteered; on her
previous journey she had discovered, to her surprise,
that she hated travel and hated Ethshar. Neither one fit
her romantic preconceptions; the stories never men-
tioned seasickness, rude sailors, smelly crowds, and all
the other inconveniences she had encountered. Further-
more, she thought the whole idea of using magic to fight
a war was revolting. She did, however, have a powerful
sense of duty, which accounted for her cooperation, such
as it was. The king had sent her, and she did as her
sovereign ordered.

She had surely heard the call from the lookout when
the city came into view, but she was ignoring it, staying
in her cabin below.

To some extent, Sterren thought he could sympathize
with her, but at the sight of the city spreading across the
World before him, with its smell in his nostrils, he found
his eyes filling with tears and felt a swelling in his chest
as if he were about to burst.

He swallowed and, to distract himself, he called to a
sailor who was hanging from the forestay, "Hey, there!
Where will we tie up?"

The sailor glanced at him, but shook his head.

Sterren realized he had spoken in Semmat, since
Alder and Dogal had been speaking it.

"Where will we tie up?" he called in Ethsharitic.

"The Tea Wharves," the sailor called back, "near the
New Canal!"

Sterren was unsure exactly where the Tea Wharves
were, but he knew the New Canal—which, despite its
name, was about four hundred years old; it was new only
in comparison to the Grand Canal, which was no longer
particularly grand, but had been there for centuries be-
fore the New Canal was dug.

The New Canal divided Spicetown from Shiphaven,
in the northwest comer of the city. The Wizards' Quarter
was near the southeastern comer. Sterren's party would
need to do some walking, it appeared.

That was no problem; it might provide more opportu-
nities to escape from his escort. If there was a crowd at
the Arena, for example, he could easily become sepa-
rated "accidentally." The Arena was directly on the way,
too; Arena Street was certainly the best route to the
Wizards' Quarter from either Shiphaven or Spicetown.

That assumed that he actually wanted to -slip away.
After a month of debating that with himself, he still
hadn't really decided.

It would seem an easy enough decision to make,
really—life as a fugitive in his homeland, or near-certain
death in a nasty little kingdom in the middle of nowhere
—but whenever he thought he had settled on escape he
kept finding himself reconsidering, thinking of what
might happen to the people he had come to know in
Semma. Would Princess Lura wind up starving some-
where? Might Nissitha and Shin-in be raped by their vic-
torious enemies? Would Alder and Dogal and all the
soldiers he had diced with get themselves killed in a fu-
tile defense?

None of this, he told himself, really ought to be any
responsibility of his—he hadn't volunteered to be war-
lord.

Still, he was the warlord, like it or not, and abandon-
ing Semma to its fate seemed wrong.

Of course, not abandoning Semma might get him
killed, and that seemed even worse.

Perhaps, he thought with sudden inspiration, he could
hire his magicians, then disappear into the city streets.
Semma could still win its stupid war, but he would be
free and home. True, he would be guilty of treason under
Semman law, but surely nobody would go to all that

110 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 111

much trouble looking for him under those circumstances.
The Semman nobility would have no very strong reason
to hold a grudge against him ,if he won their war for
them, whether he was present at the time or not.

And if his magicians didn't win—and given his esti-
mate of the purchasing power of his available funds, that
seemed likely—at least he would have made an honest
effort and would be no worse off than if he had deserted
before recruiting anybody.

He would have tried, and if the Semman princesses
were still raped or murdered, if the Semman army was
still slaughtered, he would have done the best he could.

He liked that approach. He would carry through on
his promise, hire the best magicians he could—and then,
if the opportunity arose, he would escape on the way
back to the ship.

That shouldn't be too difficult, he thought. He smiled
and blinked away the tears of homesickness.

He would hire magicians—but how djd one go about
hiring magicians for something like this?

His smile vanished again as he realized that he had no
idea at all.

To buy a love spell or a curse, to cure warts or foresee
the future, he knew exactly what to do. He would take
his money to the Wizards' Quarter and pick a likely ma-
gician by reading the signboards.

None of the signboards had ever advertised "Wars
won," though. How would he know which magicians to
approach? Trial and error would not work; there were
hundreds of magicians in the Wizards' Quarter, and ask-
ing each qne in turn would take years. Most of them
surely wouldn't be interested.

Recruiters of various sorts always worked in the
city's markets, particularly Shiphaven Market and West-
gate Market, calling out their offers to the passing
crowds; anyone who wanted to take up a career as an
adventurer, or any other particularly hazardous and
messy job, could go to the markets and pick from several
options.

But there was no market in the Wizards' Quarter.
There was Arena Plaza, but Sterren had never seen a
recruiter there. The nearest true market was in South-
gate—and Sterren had never been there at all. The tav-
erns and gaming in Southgate were organized, and free-
lancers like himself were not welcome.

Or would Southmarket, by the reservoir, be closer to
the Wizards' Quarter than Southgate? He had passed
through there once. He didn't remember seeing re-
cruiters, but he could not be absolutely sure they hadn't
been there.

And there was always Eastgate Market, and Hemp-
field Market, and Newmarket, and Newgate—he had
gambled in inns and taverns near all those, at one time or
another, before settling back into his home turf around
Westgate and the two Merchants' Quarters. Those other
markets had no recruiters, generally, and weren't partic-
ularly close to the Wizards' Quarter, but should he rule
them out completely?

For the first time, Sterren began to see the city's im-
mensity as a serious drawback.

He blinked, shook his head, and reconsidered.

None of the various markets seemed exactly right,
but pretty obyiously, Shiphaven Market would be the
best if he decided to go that route. It was the traditional
place to recruit people interested in traveling by sea,
after all, and it would be closest to the Tea Wharves,
wherever they might turn out to be. That would mean
less walking through the city streets, but on the other
hand, Shiphaven Market was always crowded, was not
too far from his old stamping grounds, and was sur-
rounded by places to hide.

He didn't know all those places as well as he might,
since he had usually avoided Shiphaven in order to avoid
drunken sailors who might be prone to violence, or
ships' officers who might stoop to kidnapping to com-
plete their crews, but he thought he could manage to find
something.

But would there be any magicians around-Shiphaven
Market?

The Arena Plaza was certainly much closer to the
Wizards' Quarter, and he thought he remembered a sign-
board there that he could post a message on—that was a
second possibility that did not deserve to be discarded
out of hand.

112 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

For that matter, simply asking around in the Wizards'
Quarter, or walking the streets calling for volunteers,
might produce results. Perhaps he could inquire after
ambitious near-term apprentices, or even journeymen.
The magicians surely gossiped among themselves and
would know who might be desperate enough for work to
be interested in such an adventure.

And what's more, there was no reason he couldn't try
all three approaches.

He smiled again. That would certainly be reasonable
and would call for a good, long stay in Ethshar, with
visits to two of the most crowded places in the city—
Shiphaven Market and Arena Plaza. The Wizards'
Quarter was less crowded, but full of nooks and crannies
and odd little byways where a person could easily lose
sight of his companions.

That seemed very promising indeed.

As the city loomed before him, heart-twistingly famil-
iar, his resolution to stay until he had hired magicians
evaporated. He decided instead that he would take any
opportunity to escape that arose, because any opportu-
nity might be the last.

If the opportunity never came at all, he would live
with that.

He was a gambler, after all. He was accustomed to
accepting what the gods of luck sent him and making the
best of it. If his luck let him slip away, he would; if he
never got a chance, he would go through with the hiring
of magicians and play out his role as warlord.

He could see the docks ahead, now, and the mouth of
the New Canal. Three wharves projected out at an angle,
across a band of mud, a few hundred feet to the left of
the canal; the ship seemed to be headed directly for
them, and he guessed that these were the Tea Wharves.

That was the Spicetown side, but getting across to
Shiphaven would be easy enough. Spicetown had no
market square; the spice merchants did their bidding
right on the docks. Shiphaven Market would still be the
first stop in the search for magicians.

This expedition, he thought, might even be fun.

CHAPTER 14

S

terren stopped walking and pointed. "That's the New
Canal," he said, speaking loudly to be heard over the
wind, "And Shiphaven Market's just the other side.
That's where we want to start looking."

Lady Kalira glanced at the row of shops on the oppo-
site bank and sniffed. "I don't see any market over
there," she said, a trifle petulantly.

"It's not right on the canal, it's a few blocks in." In
truth, Sterren was not at all sure how far it was; he was
not overly familiar with this part of the city and had
never before needed to get from Spicetown to Shiphaven
Market. "Are you still sure we should start looking im-
mediately, and not find ourselves a good meal or a place
to sleep?"

"We can sleep on the ship," Lady Kalira replied, irri-
tated, "and eat there, too, if we have to. Now, where's
this market?"

"How do we get across?" Alder asked. "Is there a
bridge?"

Sterren had to think for a minute. "Well, there is on
the Upper Canal, which turns off this one—or maybe it's
on the New Canal right before the Upper Canal turns off.
I'm not sure."

"Boats," Kendrik pointed out. "There must be boats
going across."

"Of course there are," Sterren said, although he
hadn't known there were until he saw what Kendrik had

113

114 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

spotted: a small, flat-bottomed boat, obviously unfit to
leave the calm waters of the canal, tied up to a dock on
the opposite side. A man lay dozing in it, and some rot-
ting fruit rinds were bumping gently against one gun-
whale. Looking around, Sterren saw that a similar dock
on the near side jutted forty feet out into the canal and
had a space on one side where just such a boat could
readily tie up.

"A ferry, that's what it is," he added, as he led the
way down to the dock. .

He hoped it actually was a ferry; if not, he knew he
was going to look very foolish.

"I don't understand why we're doing this," Zander
muttered as he followed his warlord down the cobbled
slope.

"Because Shiphaven Market is where people recruit
for foreign adventures; I told you all that," Sterren re-
torted, as his feet hit the first planks.

Zander was not silenced. "Is it always this cold?" he
asked, pulling his tunic tighter at the throat.

"No," Sterren and Lady Kalira replied, simultane-
ously.

Sterren was not particularly pleased with the cold and
wind, or with Zander's whining. Both acted as deterrents
to desertion. The immense size of the city did, as well;

Sterren, being a native and accustomed to it from birth,
had not. realized how intimidating it must be to a for-
eigner, newly arrived from the rural openness of Semma,
to find himself surrounded by a seemingly endless maze
of walls and streets.

Even the rich city smell that he found so comforting
probably seemed like an alien stink to the Semmans.

He was rapidly losing hope that all four of his volun-
teers would desert, but if even one did, he thought he
could send the others after him, while he and Lady Ka-
lira supposedly continued his recruiting mission. That
might provide sufficient opportunity for his own escape.

He came to the end of the dock, stopped, and waved
an arm above his head.

"Hair he called, shouting at the top of his lungs in
order to be heard over the wind, "Over here!"

The man in the flat-bottomed boat looked up, startled

Lawrence Watt-Evans           115

out of his doze, and saw the party on east side. He sat
up, then stood, and picked up a long-handled oar.

Sterren could feel Lady Kalira's impatience as they
stood and watched while the ferryman casually used the
blunt end of the oar to push off from the dock and then
began paddling his way slowly across the canal, fighting
the steady breeze that wanted to push his ungainly craft
out to sea. The gap between the two docks was a good
forty yards, Sterren judged, and it took several long min-
utes for the boat to cross it.

When it drew near, the ferryman stopped rowing,
reached down, and came up with a coil of rope. He
threw one end of it up onto the dock.

Alder, with admirable presence of mind, caught it and
began hauling the boat in.

The other end of the rope was secured to the boat's
blunt bow, and in a moment that bumped up against the
battered end of the dock.

"Bunch of barbarians, is it?" the ferryman muttered in
Ethsharitic. "I can't take you all at once!" he called
aloud.

The Semtnan soldiers spoke no Ethsharitic and were
all crowding forward toward the boat. "Wait!" Sterren
called. "Not all at once! You'll... you'll..." He could
not think of a Semmat equivalent for "sink," "swamp,"
or "capsize."

He didn't need one; the soldiers got the idea and
stopped pressing.

In his native tongue, Sterren called to the boatman,
"Yes, they are a bunch of barbarians, but I'm stuck with
them. How many can you take?"

"How many of you are there?" the boatman asked,
eyeing the little mob.

Sterren did a quick head count to make sure he hadn't
forgotten anyone, then answered, "Eight, in all."

The boatman considered, then said, "I .can take four
each time easily enough. Two trips will do it, then. I'll
give you a cut rate, too—six bits the lot."

Sterren was not at all sure that was actually a cut rate,
but he paid no attention. Here, sent by the gods, was a
chance to split the party. He turned to Lady Kalira. "He
says he can only take four at a time," he explained. "I'll

116 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

go on ahead with Zander and Alar and Bern, say, and
then he'll come back for the rest of you."

"Oh, no!" she replied. "No, I stay with you! You, me,
Alder, and Dogal go first, and the rest can follow."

"My lady, need I remind you that I am in charge here,
and not you? This is my city, and I am your warlord—"

"This is your city, all right," Lady Kalira interrupted,
"and that's exactly why I'm staying with you."

Sterren opened his mouth to argue, then caught sight
of the expression on Alder's face.

It was not an easy expression to describe, having
something of resignation, annoyance, and doubt in it, but
Sterren knew immediately that it meant Alder didn't
trust him any more than Lady Kalira did. He closed his
mouth.

"All right," he said after a moment. "We'll go first,
then those four." He pushed his way past the soldiers
and climbed down into the boat. "My lady, if you will?"
he said, turning back and offering a hand.

Lady Kalira accepted his aid, stepping down into the
boat. She settled on one of the seats in the bow.

Dogal followed, then Alder with the bowline, and
Sterren, prompted by the ferryman's gestures, settled
the two of them amidships, while he sat in the bow be-
side Lady Kalira.

"Oars are on either side," the ferryman pointed out
from where he stood in the stem.

Sterren translated, and Alder and Dogal each took an
oar as the ferryman reached over them with his own long
oar and pushed them away from the dock.

It took the Semman soldiers a minute to get the hang
of rowing, but even so, the trip west was much quicker
than the ferryman's solo trip east had been.

Once across, they clambered quickly ashore.

The ferryman waited, and once they were all safely on
the dock he said, "That'll be six bits. I don't get the
others until I see the money."

Sterren did not bother to translate this for the others;

he just pulled the money from his purse and tossed it to
the ferryman, who caught it deftly.

Then the foursome had to stand on the western dock

Lawrence Watt-Evans           117

and wait while the ferryman returned for the other sol-
diers.

It was only then that Lady Kalira realized that none
of the other four spoke a single word of Ethsharitic, or
even Trader's Tongue. The ferryman did his best to make
himself understood in both languages—bits of his shout-
ing carried across the water—but the four Semmans
were very slow indeed to find places in the boat and cast
off successfully.

Sterren watched the others carefully, glancing back
now and then at the city streets behind them, but he saw
no opportunity to make a dash for shelter. He waited,
unhappily, until the party was reunited.

The north wind was chilly, and Dogal was shivering
badly by the time the others scrambled up out of the
boat. Even Sterren felt the cold.

"This way," he said, with no idea whether it was the
right way; he just wanted to get moving and out of
the wind.

He led the way up away from the canal, past a cross
street, around a sinuous bend, and through two three-
way intersections.

Then he stopped, trying to figure out where he was.

The other seven, all close behind him, nearly tram-
pled him.

He looked about. The others followed suit.

They were obviously in Shiphaven. Most of the peo-
ple in sight on the streets wore the blue kilts and white
tunics of sailors. Two chandlers' shops were in sight,
and a cooper's as well. A red-haired woman sat on the
balcony of a nearby brothel, but wore a heavy shawl
wrapped about her against the wind. She called a greet-
ing, judging the soldiers to be potential customers; Ken-
drik in particular stared at her greedily.

Sterren did not recognize the street. He considered
stopping one of the sailors strolling by, but. rejected the
idea immediately; he would not admit so easily to being
lost in his native city.

Even over the clatter of passing feet and the whistle
of the wind in the nearby eaves, he could hear voices
ahead and to the left. "This way," he said, marching on.

The Semmans followed. Alder and Dogal close on his

118 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

heels. Lady Kalira just behind, and the others trailing
along.

The next intersection was another cross street, and he
turned left, to find himself looking directly at Shiphaven
Market, two blocks away.

He recognized the street, then; he was on East Wharf
Street. He still could not identify the one he had fol-
lowed from the canal, however.

"There you are," he said, pointing, "Shiphaven Mar-
ket!"

He was rather proud of having led the party success-
fully through an unfamiliar part of the city, but none of
the Semmans seemed impressed by his accomplishment.
None of them realized, of course, that this part of the
city was unfamiliar.

In fact, he wondered if it had really sunk in yet that
the city was big enough that he wasn't familiar with all of
it.

"(?ood," Lady Kalira snapped. "Let's go find a wiz-
ard and get back to the ship, before we all freeze."

"Doesn't have to be a wizard," Sterren began, but
Lady Kalira's glare discouraged him from saying any
more. He marched on.

The market was not crowded, probably because of
the weather, Sterren guessed. The foul winds would
have kept down the number of ships reaching the harbor
with goods to sell or vacancies in their crews to fill, and
the cold would discourage the casual browser. He
doubted he saw much more than a hundred people mill-
ing about.

One of them, however, was unmistakably a wizard,
complete with crimson robe and an assortment of well-
filled pouches and sheathes on her belt. Another—tall,
thin, pale, and wearing black—might well be a warlock.

Sterren suddenly began to think that his presence
here was a mistake. What did he want with magicians?
All he wanted was to be left alone. He stopped walking.

"Come on," Lady Kalira said, and Alder reached out
for his elbow.

He walked on into the market square, found a quiet
spot, and then stopped again.

"Now what?" Lady Kalira demanded.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           119

Sterren was overcome with irrational fear—stage
fright, although he had never encountered that term for
it. He knew that the time had come to call out his re-
cruiting pitch, but he could not bring himself to speak.

Inspiration struck. "You tell them what we want," he
told Lady Kalira.

"Me?"

"Yes, you; as your warlord, I demand it."

"But my lord, I don't speak Ethsharitic!"

In his panic, Sterren had forgotten that.

Reminded of it, a sudden inspiration struck him, and
before he could lose his nerve again he raised his hands
and shouted, "People of Ethshar! These barbarians think
I'm going to give a recruiting speech for them, but the
truth is that they're holding me prisoner against my will!
I ask that you summon the city guard!"

"Wait a minute," Lady Kalira said, hauling down one
arm. "What was that you said?"

"I said—"

"You didn't say anything about magicians, and I
heard you say something about the city guard, I think."

Sterren saw that doubtful expression on Alder's face
again and saw his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. He
cleared his throat.

"Just warming up," Sterren said. He looked about and
realized that nobody else had paid any attention to him,
anyway. The wind had apparently carried his words
away unheard—or perhaps they had been taken for a
joke, or a stunt to attract attention.

He looked over his own party and for the first time he
noticed that Kendrik was gone.

He smiled, but decided not to point this absence out.

Not yet, anyway.

For now, it would clearly be safer to behave himself
and seriously try to recruit magicians; his chances of
slipping away might well improve later on.

He turned back toward the center of the square and
shouted in Ethsharitic, "Magicians needed! Magicians
needed! I represent his Majesty, King Phenvel the Third
of Semma, and I am here to hire fine magicians of every
school to aid the royal Semman army!"

120 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"That's better," Lady Kalira muttered, recognizing
the familiar names.

A young man stopped to listen as Sterren continued,
"Excellent pay! Comfortable accommodations! An op-
portunity for glory and honor in a worthy cause! Magi-
cians of every sort are needed!" He found himself getting
into the spirit of the occasion; it wasn't really all that
different from the times he had needed to talk a losing
opponent out of retaliation.

"You think you're going to find decent magicians
here, at this time of year?" the young stranger asked,
smirking.

"Shut up," Sterren answered conversationally. "Magi-
cians!" he called.

The listener snorted.

A middle-aged couple in fine clothing wandered up to
listen.

"We need magicians! Payment in gold and gems, all
expenses to be borne by the royal treasury!"

The red-robed wizard approached, and then the tall
man in black.

"You, wizard," Sterren asked, beckoning, "would you
be interested in a trip to Semma, the jewel of the Small
Kingdoms?"

The wizard smiled wryly and turned away.

"/ might be," the man in black answered.

"Are you a magician, sir?" Sterren asked.

The man in black raised a hand, and a thick swirl of
dust rose up from the hard-packed ground of the market,
spiraling upward before him, ignoring the wind that
should have scattered it across the marketplace. The
dust gathered into a ball the size of a fist, hung there in
the air for an instant, and then burst apart and vanished,
whipped away on the breeze.

"I'm a warlock," said the man in black.

CHAPTER 15

A

[.fter an hour's harangue, Sterren gave up. His throat
was sore, his voice giving out, and he had lost the
crowd's interest completely.

The warlock had stood by, waiting patiently the whole
time. He had neither committed himself to the venture
nor turned it down, had not demanded to know more,
but had simply waited.

A black-haired woman with a runny nose, about Ster-
ren's own age and wearing a purple gown with stains that
resembled those one might acquire sleeping in the
Hundred-Foot Field, had also turned up, claiming to be a
wizard, and she had actually volunteered. She had been
more concerned with Sterren's guarantee that she would
be fed for as long as she was in Semma's employ than in
the particulars of the job, or the payment offered.

The sun was low above the rooftops on the western
side of the square. "Time for dinner," Sterren said in
Semmat, turning to Lady Kalira. "Don't you think so?"

"I suppose," she said.

She had spent much of the hour wandering about the
market looking at the goods offered for sale, but she had
not bought anything. Sterren suspected th.at she had
been too embarrassed by her poor command of Ethshar-
itic—if you could call her dozen or so phrases "com-
mand"—to try to haggle in that language, and the local
merchants, while likely to speak several tongues, would
not be likely to know anything so obscure as Semmat.

121

122 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Of course, Lady Kalira spoke Trader's Tongue, Ster-
ren remembered, and most of the merchants could prob-
ably handle that, but perhaps she didn't realize it. Or
maybe language had nothing to do with it, and her funds
were running low. That might be inconvenient, since he
had hoped that her purse would be there to fall back on
in an emergency.

Whatever the reason. Lady Kalira had returned,
empty-handed, a few minutes before.

Dogal and Alder had stayed close at hand throughout
Sterren's pitch; even while speaking he had watched for
a chance to slip away from them, but had not seen one.

The same could not be said of Alar, Zander, and Bern,
all of whom had wandered off. Zander and Bern had re-
turned; Alar/as yet, had not, nor was there any sign of
Kendrik.

Sterren switched back to Ethsharitic and asked the
warlock, "Would you care to join my companions and
myself for dinner, and perhaps discuss the job further?"

The warlock nodded casually.

"Is there somewhere around here where we can get a
decent meal," Sterren asked. "Or should we head down
to Westgate?"

"This is not my part of the city," the warlock replied.

Sterren hesitated, then thought better of asking him
any further questions, such as which part of the city was
his, and why wasn't he irfit. Instead, he turned to the
wizard, a questioning look on his face.

Before he could speak, without a word, she pointed to
a tavern on the north corner of Flood Street, where a
faded signboard depicted a golden dragon.

"Good enough," he said, as he led the way.

"Wait a minute," Lady Kalira objected. "What about
Kendrik and Alar?"

Sterren stopped. "My lady," he said, "Kendrik de-
serted before we even reached the market; I last saw him
among the... the..." He paused, then resorted to using
the Ethsharitic word. "The brothels on..." He paused
again, sighed, and said, "East Wharf Street" in Ethshari-
tic. Switching back to Semmat, he continued, "Alar
wandered off some time ago, and I have no idea where

Lawrence Watt-Evans           123

he has gone and I don't want to either search for him, or
wait for his return."

"But you can't allow desertion!"

"I can't allow myself to starve, either, or perish of
thirst."

A look at Lady Kalira's face let him know that that
was not going to be sufficient. "All right," he said, capi-
tulating, "Zander, you and Bern go find Kendrik and
Alar. Then meet us at that inn, there." He pointed to the
Golden Dragon. "If we aren't there, go back to the ship.
It's at the..." He stopped. He wished he knew the word
for "wharf" in Semmat, but he didn't, and besides, if
these two asked for directions in Semmat, nobody would
know what they were saying. "Tea Wharves" he said in
Ethsharitic, then asked in Semmat, "Can you say that?"

"Why should we say it?" Zander asked.

"In case you get lost," Sterren explained.

The concept of getting lost was not one Zander, born
and raised on an open plain, thought of the same way a
city boy like Sterren did, but looking at the maze of
streets Zander saw the sense in it. He said, "Oh."

"Tea Wharves," Sterren repeated. "Try it."

Zander struggled to wrap his tongue around the unfa-
miliar syllables. The resulting mess was not recogniz-
able.

"Bern?" Sterren asked.

"Tea Wharves," Bern said, in accented but perfectly
intelligible Ethsharitic. Sterren peered at him suspi-
ciously.

"You don't speak Ethsharitic, do you?"

"No, my lord," Bern replied.

"Zander, try it again. Tea Wharves."

Zander managed to produce something almost ade-
quate this time.

"Good enough, I suppose. Work on it while you're
hunting for your comrades."

Zander nodded; Bern didn't bother. Together, they
turned and marched back into the market crowd.

Sterren watched them go, neither knowing nor caring
whether he would ever see either of them again.

He had gotten rid of four of his seven unwanted com-

124 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

panions, he thought; he was more than halfway to free-
dom!

"This way," he said, leading the way to the Golden
Dragon.

The tavern was less than half full, and they found a
table readily, not far from the door. Sterren, after some
consideration, decided that neither facing the door nor
sitting with his back to it would be best for slipping
away; he sat with his right side toward the door, his back
to the open room.

Lady Kalira sat opposite him, against a wall; Alder
took the .chair to his right, back to the door, and Dogal to
his left, facing the door. The warlock sat between Alder
and Lady Kalira, the wizard between Dogal and Lady
Kalira.

Sterren took the opportunity for a look at his two re-
cruits.

Both were thin, but the wizard's slendemess appeared
to be due to borderline malnutrition, while the warlock
was simply built that way. The wizard wore her hair in
long black ringlets that trailed halfway down her back,
and even in her present tattered and dirty condition they
still showed signs of having been combed not too long
ago. Her face was rather drawn, her eyes brown and
anxious; if she were clean, smiling, and better-fed, Ster-
ren thought, she would be attractive, possibly even
beautiful.

She sniffled, then dabbed at her nose with a stained
cuff.

The warlock was clean and looked as if he was as well
fed as he cared to be, but he was definitely not smiling.
His lined, narrow face was fixed and expressionless, his
mouth a thin line, his pale green eyes unreadable. His
hair, black with the first traces of gray, was cut short,
barely covering his ears. Sterren guessed him to be over
forty; how much over he had no idea. He might have
been handsome once, but now, Sterren thought, he was
merely striking.

As soon as they were seated, even before the serving
maid could reach them, the warlock said, "I notice that
in an hour's speech, you never once specified the nature
of the employment you offered."

Lawrence Watt-Evans           125

Caught off guard, Sterren agreed, "I suppose I
didn't."

The wizard was staring hungrily at the approaching
tavern girl, and Sterren used that as an excuse to change
the subject. "My lady," he said in Semmat, "what shall
we have, and at whose expense?"

"You brought us here," Lady Kalira said, "you pay
for it. You wanted dinner, we'll have dinner. What was
the man in black saying?"

"He asked a question about our offer. Wine with your
meal?"

Lady Kalira nodded.

Sterren glanced at each of the remaining soldiers in
turn, and each nodded. "Wine would be welcome,"
Alder said.

Sterren nodded back, then switched to Ethsharitic
and asked the wizard, "Would you like wine with din-
ner?"

The serving maid had reached the table, heard this
final question, and saw the wizard's nod.

"We have several fine vintages," she said. Her tone
• made it a question.

Sterren said, in Ethsharitic, "The three barbarians
wouldn't appreciate it, and I can't afford it, so I do hope
my two guests will forgive me if we have the regular
house wine and whatever you have for the house dinner
tonight, rather than anything special. That's for all six of
us, unless..."

He looked questioningly at the warlock, who made a
small gesture of acquiescence with one hand. The wizard
said, "That would be fine."

The tavern girl departed.

"The nature of this proposed employment?" the war-
lock said.

Sterren had carefully avoided being specific in his
marketplace spiel, for fear of frightening off prospects,
but he realized that the time for prevaricatiori'was past.

He sighed. "I'm the hereditary warlord of one of the
Small Kingdoms, a little place in the far south called
Semma. I didn't want the job, but I'm stuck with it.
Semma is on the verge of war with two larger neighbors,
and we're doomed. The army is absolutely pitiful and

126 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

badly outnumbered. We don't stand a chance unless we
cheat. In the Small Kingdoms, at least in Semma's
neighborhood, they don't use magic in their wars; it's
considered dishonorable or something—it's cheating.
Well, I'm ready to cheat, because otherwise I'll be killed
for losing. So I'm here looking for magicians who can
help us win this war. It shouldn't take much, since
there's so little magic there and the soldiers will never
have fought against magicians before." He looked at the
warlock, hoping that he wouldn't dismiss the idea out of
hand.

"A war?" The warlock's tone was calm and consider-
ing.

Sterren nodded, encouraged that the warlock had not
rejected the idea out of hand. He glanced at the wizard.

She had hardly listened; her attention was on the door
to the kitchen. It was an interesting door, with the skull
of a small dragon mounted so as to form the top of the
frame and the dragon's lower jaw serving as a door-han-
dle, but Sterren suspected the poor young woman was
far more interested in what would be coming through
that door than in the decor that gave the tavern its name.

The wizard caught his eye and turned back to him.
~ "I don't care what the job is," she said, sniffing and
brushing a stray ringlet back over her shoulder, "if it
won't get me killed outright and you pay in gold. I'll take
it." She hesitated, then wiped her nose and asked, "It
won't get me killed outright, will it?"

"I certainly hope not," Sterren said. "If we win, it
won't, but if we lose, you'll probably have to flee for
your lives." He shrugged. "Fleeing shouldn't be difficult;

it's wide-open country, and the kingdoms are so small it
should be easy to get safely across a border before they
can catch you."

The warlock nodded. "You say Semma is far to the
south?"

Sterren nodded again. "About as far to the southeast
as you can get, really; from the castle's highest tower
you can see the edge of the World, on a clear day. I've
seen it myself." He stared at the warlock, a suspicion
growing in the back of his mind. '

Lawrence Watt-Evcuis           127

He had not really had time to consider his two pro-
spective employees, but now he did.

Warlockry was virtually unknown in Semma. He had
no way of knowing for certain whether it would work
there at all and he was quite sure it would be far less
effective than it was in Ethshar. A warlock, therefore,
would not be his preferred sort of magician.

On the other hand, this particular warlock seemed
very interested in going south.

Sterren could guess what that meant. This particular
warlock probably wanted to get as far away from Aldag-
mor and the Power's Source as he could. He might have
already had the first warning nightmares that meant he
had pushed his warlockry to dangerous levels.

Warlockry, as Sterren knew from his aborted appren-
ticeship, drew its power from a mysterious Source lo-
cated somewhere in the Aldagmor region, a mountainous
area far to the north of Ethshar, on the edge of the Bar-
onies of Sardiron. A warlock's power varied as the in-
verse square of the distance from this thing. A warlock's
power also increased with use; every spell a warlock cast
made the next one a shade easier. Most magic worked
that way, of course; most skills of any kind did. The
effect was rather extreme with warlockry, however, be-
cause warlockry, unlike all other magic, also directly
counteracted fatigue; magic not only didn't tire a war
lock, it revivified him, without limit.

Except that there was a limit. When a warlock's
power reached a certain level, he began to have night-
mares. From then on, every further use of warlockry
caused more and worse nightmares, which could make
life virtually unbearable.

Eventually an afflicted warlock wouldn't even need to
be asleep to suffer these hideous visions and, in the end,
every warlock ever known to have reached this point
had died or vanished. Those who did not commit suicide
were often seen wandering north, toward Aldagmor,
usually flying—but then were never seen again.

This was known as the Calling, because that was what
the nightmares seemed to be: a horrible, supernatural
summons of some kind that would draw a warlock either
to Aldagmor or death—or both.

128     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

What most warlocks did was, when the first night-
mare hit, to move south or west, further from Aldagmor,
and give up warlockry for good. The smarter ones would
have been charging exorbitant fees in anticipation of this
and could afford to retire in comfort.

Sterren guessed that this warlock had pushed his
luck, and had already had considerably more than one
nightmare, so that he was now desperate to get as far
from Aldagmor as possible, as quickly as possible.

Whatever his reasons, the warlock might be either a
great stroke of luck or utterly worthless, depending on
just what power did remain to him in Semma, so very far
from Aldagmor.

Bringing him along would be a gamble, but after all,
Sterren had always been a gambler.

If any warlock could be of help in Semma, one al-
ready touched by nightmare, on the verge of the Calling,
would surely be most likely. The Calling only came when
warlocks reached the height of their power. In fact, one
theory was that the Calling was something the gods used
to remove warlocks who were becoming too powerful,
who might damage the gods' plan for the World.

A lesser warlock would not be worth bothering with,
but a really powerful one might be. He would surely be
greatly weakened, but he would also be something that
nobody in Ophkar or Ksinallion would ever have seen
before.

"Nightmares?" Sterren asked quietly.

For the first time since Sterren had first seen him in
the market, the warlock's calm expression changed; he
let a nicker of surprise at Sterren's knowledge show.
Then, slowly, he nodded.

Sterren smiled slightly. He knew that the Calling gave
the warlock reasons for coming south far more important
than a pound of gold.

That meant he would probably work cheap, far
cheaper than his level of power might otherwise justify.

"You'll be coming, then?" Sterren asked.

The warlock nodded again.

Sterren turned to the wizard. "And you?"

"What's the pay, exactly? Are meals included?" Her

Lawrence Watt-Evaiis           129

voice shook a little. She looked at Sterren as she wiped
her nose on her sleeve again.

The serving maid chose that moment to return with a
tray holding six plates of stewed vegetables, tainted with
only the smallest trace of mutton. A bottle of red wine
and half a dozen stacked mugs were included, as well.

Sterren and the two Semman soldiers distributed the
plates, while the warlock sent the cups floating through
the air to the appropriate places. At a gesture, the cork
sprang from the bottle's neck, and the bottle then settled
itself in front of Lady Kalira.

Startled, she picked it up and only after a moment's
hesitation did she begin pouring.

Sterren threw the warlock a puzzled glance. If he had
reached the threshold of nightmare, didn't he realize that
every additional use of warlockry would increase his
danger? At least, that was what Sterren's master, Bergan
the Warlock, had said.

The warlock saw the look and smiled slightly. "In
honor of our imminent departure for more southerly
climes," he said, raising his cup as if in a toast.

The others probably thought it was just a toast, but
Sterren knew what the warlock meant. After keeping his
magic in check—for hours, days, sixnights, even
months, perhaps—he was allowing himself a little free-
dom, secure in the knowledge that he would soon be
sailing away from whatever waited in the mountains and
valleys of Aldagmor.

Sterren put that out of his mind and turned to the
wizard. "The pay," he explained, "will include meals,
and a hammock aboard ship, and a room in Semma Cas-
tle—possibly shared with others, but a bed of your own,
at any rate. You'll need to leam some Semmat, I'm
afraid; virtually nobody there speaks a word of Ethshari-
tic. If we win our war, then the magicians involved, as a
group, will be paid ten rounds of gold, and, a dozen
choice gems—I can show them to you later, if you like,
but not in a tavern like this. How this payment is to be
divided up is yet to be determined; either the magicians
can decide amongst themselves, or King Phenvel can di-
vide it up as he deems appropriate. Would that suit
you?"

130 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

She nodded, sniffling.

"If you don't mind my asking, just what magic do you
know?" Sterren inquired. Obviously, she knew no spells
to keep a cold away.

"Wizardry, of course," she said.

That was no surprise, but Sterren knew well that wiz-
ards came in a wide range of skills and power. "Much
wizardry?" he asked.

"Well..." She hesitated, then admitted what her
soiled clothes and empty belly had already made obvi-
ous. "No, not really. A few spells."

"Not just tricks, though, I hope," Sterren said, know-
ing he was prodding her on what was surely a sensitive
subject.

"No, real spells!" she snapped. "I am Annara of
Crookwall and I am a full journeyman in the Wizards'
Guild; I served my six years as apprentice and I learned
what my master could teach me!"

Her flash of pride vanished as suddenly as it had ap-
peared. "That wasn't much, though," she admitted, ner-
vously tugging her hair back from her face.

That was no surprise. Sterren nodded and poured
himself wine.

As they ate, the warlock and the three Semmans said
nothing, while Sterren and Annara made polite small
talk. Sterren inquired about her upbringing in Crookwall,
while she, in turn, asked about Semma and was sur-
prised to leam that he was a native of Westgate, rather
than someplace more exotic.

After the meal had been consumed, Sterren leaned
back in his chair and looked across at Lady Kalira as he
tried to decide what to do next.

"Well, my lord," Lady Kalira said, seeing his atten-
tion focused on her, "you have two magicians here, do
you not?"

Sterren nodded.

"Is that sufficient, then?"

Sterren guessed at what the Semmat word for "suffi-
cient" meant. He glanced at Annara, who would give no
details other abilities beyond admitting to "a few spells,"
and then at the warlock, who had as yet given no name,

Lawrence Watt-Evans           131

who might well be totally powerless in Semma.

"No," he replied immediately, before even consider-
ing his own hopes for escape. "These two may help, but
neither of them can provide any assurance of winning."

"Then you plan to try to recruit more?"

Sterren nodded.

"My lord, are you sure you have no other intentions?"

He picked up her phrase to ask, "What other inten-
tions might I have?" He eyed her cautiously.

"Delay, perhaps."

^BaguirT' He did not recognize the word. He guessed
it to be something like "escape," but could not be cer-
tain. "What's baguirT

"To put off, to stall, to hold back, to go slowly; I don't
know the Ethsharitic."

That was not the reply Sterren had feared and ex-
pected. "Delay?" he asked. "Why should I want to
delay?"

"I would not know, my lord, but your refusal to pur-
chase any magical assistance in sailing hither, and your
insistence that two magicians are not enough, would
seem to imply that you are certainly in no hurry about
this foolish, disreputable business."

He picked up her phrase again, without any very clear
idea what it meant, save that it had a strong negative
connotation. "This disreputable business may save
Semma, my lady."

"Not if you continue to delay."

"I'm not delaying! Why should I?"

"Well, my lord, it has occurred to me, in my more
cynical moments, that if you can stretch your visit to
this, your homeland, long enough, perhaps the war in
Semma will be fought and lost before our return, and you
can retire to a comfortable exile here."

Sterren stared at her. That possibility had never oc-
curred to him.

A very tempting possibility it was, too.

He glanced quickly to either side, at the two other
Semmans, the only ones in the tavern who could under-
stand this Semmat conversation.

132 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Alder looked seriously upset; Dogal was calmer, but
eyeing Sterren suspiciously.

"I am not delaying," Sterren insisted.

"Then tell me, my lord,, just how much longer we
must remain here, and how manyimagicians you think to
find."

"My lady Kalira, I've only just started! One hour in
a... in one market is nothing! If we could find one magi-
cian I could be suire was powerful enough, that would be
all we need; without that one, I think half a dozen might
serve. To find the right ones, though—I have no way of
knowing how long it will be!"

Lady Kalira sighed. "My lord Sterren, let us speak
frankly," she said. "You know that despite your rank, I ^
was sent here as your gaoler, to make sure that you did,
in fact, return to Semma before the spring, when inva-
sion is all but certain."

Sterren noticed Alder turn to stare at Lady Kalira as
she said this; he had obviously not realized either that
Sterren was still under suspicion by anyone but Dogal
and himself, nor that an invasion was imminent.

"You have managed to lose four of the six men set to
guard you, though I am not sure how.—"

"They may come back," Sterren interrupted.

Lady Kalira held up a hand. "Yes, they may, but at
present they are not here. Let me continue." She glared
at him.

"Go on," Sterren said.

"As I was saying, you have very cleverly disposed of
two-thirds of your escort already and acquired two of the
magicians you sought, to confuse matters and perhaps,
for all we know, to deceive the two guards remaining.
We have no very clear idea what you have been discuss-
ing with them throughout this meal, since we don't know
Ethsharitic; you could have been planning your escape,
with their connivance, under our very noses."

Sterren wished he had been bold enough to try it.

"Now, you are demanding an effectively unlimited op-
portunity to stroll about the city, looking for a chance to
slip away and hide from us in a city you know far better
than we could ever hope to. I am sorry, but as your un-

Lawrence Watt-Evans           133

willing gaoler, I can't allow U, We must set a term, at the
end of which we will depart this place and sail homeward
with all due speed. I would suggest that by noon tomor-
row we be under way."

Sterren sat back and used a fingernail to pick the last
remnants of his supper from between his teeth as he con-
sidered this.

"I see what you mean, my lady," he said at last, "and
I truly do understand. I do not suppose that you would
accept my word that I will not escape, or delay until it's
too late." To his own surprise, he realized that he really
would be willing to give his word, and that he would
keep it, as he always had. Semma was not really as bad
as all that, and the idea of his soldiers being slaughtered
was not an appealing one. If he could just find the right
magic, he was sure he could win the war. It was a chal-
lenge, a gamble, and he wanted to meet it head on. He
wanted to see if a little magic really could change a sure
defeat into victory.

And after it was over, maybe then he could desert.

"No, my lord," she said, "I'm afraid I couldn't accept
your word. After all, despite your noble ancestry and
your apparent good intentions, what are you really but a
merchant's brat, brought up in the streets, accustomed
to cheating at dice to earn your bread? How much honor
can I expect from such as you?"

Sterren smiled wryly, to hide how much Lady Kalira's
clinically exact description hurt him. "More than you
might think," he said, "But if you will not take my word,
there is little I can do to make you believe me." He
sighed. "Until noon, though, is not enough. If you could
give me three days..."

He let his voice trail off.

"Three days?" It was her turn to sit back and con-
sider.

"Today is the twenty-first of Snowfall,:: she said.
"You will agree, then, that we must all be aboard ship by
nightfall on the twenty-fourth, ready to set sail with the
next tide?"

Sterren nodded. "Agreed," he said.

"You'll promise not to attempt escape?"

134     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"You said that you can't accept my word, but all the
same, I'll give it. I won't try to escape before nightfall on
the twenty-fourth of Snowfall."

"AHright," she said, "Three days, and then we drag

you back to the ship."

CHAPTER 16

Uy morning the month of Snowfall was living up to its
name. It was snowing, and Sterren decided that Shipha-
ven Market was not going to be worth another visit. In-
stead, he left Annara and the warlock aboard ship while
he. Lady Kalira, Alder, and Dogal all set out in the early
gloom for the Arena and the Wizards' Quarter.

None of the other four soldiers had turned up yet, and
that meant Lady Kalira was in a very bad temper. Ster-
ren made no attempt at conversation as he led the way
up Warehouse Street, through Shortcut Alley to North
Street, and on out of Spicetown.

As they neared the Grand Canal, however, the over-
lord's palace gradually became visible ahead, and Ster-
ren noticed all three Semmans staring at it.

They weren't being quite attentive enough to encour-
age escape, and besides, he had promised not to, but he
did venture to remark, "Pretty, isn't it?"

"Is that where the wizards live?" Lady Kalira de-
manded.

Startled, Sterren said, "No, of course not! That's
Lord Azrad's... ah... castle."

"How far to the magicians, then?"

"Well. North Street forks ahead and we go'left on..."
He hesitated and then switched to using Ethsharitic for
place names. "We go left on the Promenade, then on the
other side of the Palace Plaza we take Arena Street, and
then it's about a mile to the Arena, I guess."

136 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"You're joking!"

"No, I'm not."

"A miler

"About that."

"I will never get over the size of this city," Lady Ka-
lira said, more to herself than to Sterren. "What a mess!"

Sterren did not consider his home city a mess, but he
knew better than to say anything. They made the rest of
the journey in silence.

The streets were almost empty because of the snow,
and the city's normal odor was largely suppressed by the
pale gray blanket that covered the rooftops and most of
the streets, but the scent of spices, wood smoke, and
charcoal was still strong. The mansions of the New City
were silent and elegant, the snow hiding much of the
damage that time had done them; even the slums of the
outer Arena district were quieter and less offensive in
such weather.

They passed Camp Street, then the Arena itself, and
came to the plaza just south of the main entrance.

There, to the right of the rampway into the Arena,
was the message board that Sterren had remembered, a
six-foot-high wall of rough pine planks weathered gray,
fifteen feet long, plastered over its entire surface with
faded and torn bits of paper, parchment, and fabric.

Sterren had written up his notice the night before,
aboard ship, but he realized as he looked for a place to
put it that he had not thought to bring any tacks or nails.
With a shrug, he found a notice that had been attached
with unusually long cut nails, announcing an estate auc-
tion that had taken place a sixnight before, and he
rammed the comers of his own message over the blunt
ends of the nails.

Satisfied, he read it over again.

"Magicians," it said in large letters at the top, then
continued in smaller writing below, "Employment oppor-
tunity for magicians of every school. The Kingdom of
Semma is recruiting magicians for government service
for a term of several months, but not to exceed one year.
Room and board furnished, and transportation both
ways, as well as payment in gold and gems. To apply, or
for further information, contact Sterren, Ninth Warlord

Lawrence Watt-Evaiis           137

of Semma, aboard the Southern Wind, now docked at
the Tea Wharves in Spicetown. Final application must be
made by nightfall, 24 Snowfall, 5221."

He stepped back and realized that his fine, big page
was almost lost amid the jumble of paper and cloth.

There was, however, nothing he could do about it.

He looked at some of the other messages on the
board, wondering what they were all about. One caught
his eye immediately.

"Acclaimed prestidigitator seeks part-time employ-
ment. Leave message with Thorum the Mage, Wizard
Street."

Sterren was unsure exactly what a prestidigitator was;

some sort of magician, surely! Part-time employment—
that wasn't exactly what he was offering, but still...

Thorum the Mage, he told himself, on Wizard Street.
That wouldn't be too hard to find.

He was about to start looking for more notices when
he was reminded of his companions by the sound of feet
shuffling in the slush.

"Hai, you three," he said, "come here and help me
read these! Some of them are from magicians looking for
work! I should have come here in the first place, instead
of bothering with Shiphaven!"

Dogal shook his head. "I can't read," he said.

Lady Kalira and Alder started forward, but then
Alder stopped. A moment later, as she got close enough
to make out the messages, so did Lady Kalira.

"We can't read them, either," she said. "They're all in
Ethsharitic."

"Well, of course they..." Sterren let his voice trail off
as he realized that he was the only one present who
could read Ethsharitic. He turned back to the board and
drew a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh.

"I'll read them, then," he said.

Two hours later he felt he had covered the board ade-
quately. Snow, meanwhile, had attempted to cover Alder
and Dogal; Lady Kalira had taken shelter in the arched
entrance of the Arena.

"Doesn't this stuff ever stop falling?" Dogal asked.

"Of course it does!" Sterren retorted, instinctively
leaping to the defense of his native city.

138

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

139

"And then what happens to it?" Alder asked. "What
do you people do with it all?"

"Nothing; it melts, of course," Sterren said. "This
isn't Sardiron, where it piles up all winter."

"Well, how would we know that?" Alder replied an-
grily, his temper obviously shortened by the long, cold
wait.

"From experience, of course. Haven't you ever
seen... seen it before?" He could not think of a Semmat
word for "snow."

Alder and Dogal both stared at him, startled. "No, of
course not!" Alder replied.

"How could we have seen it before?" Dogal asked.

It was Sterren's turn to be startled. "Oh," he said.
"Doesn't it... I mean, don't you have this stuff in
Semma?"

"No," Alder answered.

"It doesn't fall in the winter, like this?"

"No, it rains in the winter in Semma. We don't have
snow."

Sterren noted the word for later use, then dropped the
subject. "Oh. Well, I have a dozen messages here from
magicians looking for work and I want to follow up on
them, before I forget any names. Come on."

The "dozen" was actually fifteen, though there was
some overlap in the message drops they used.

With much grumbling, the soldiers came. Lady Kalira
emerged from the entryway and joined the party as Ster-
ren led them back out to Arena Street and on to the
southeast, toward the Wizards' Quarter.

Five blocks took them to Games Street, a thorough-
fare that Sterren remembered well, even though he had
rarely played there. The times when he tried it had all
been remarkable enough to stay very clear in his mem-
ory.

And Games Street, of course, marked the line be-
tween the indeterminate streets between the Arena and
the Wizards' Quarter, where various performing magi-
cians made their homes, and the heart of the Wizards'
Quarter proper, where virtually all the city's magic shops
were clustered.

In fact, just one more block south on Arena brought

them to Wizard Street. There was no marker, but it was
unmistakable. "Tanna the Great," advertised a signboard
at the corner, "Wizardry for Every Need, Love Charms
a Specialty." Peculiar odors mixed with the inevitable
smell of wood smoke—the city's famous spices had
been left behind a mile to the north, but here there were
strange new scents that might have been spices, or
herbs, or something else entirely.

Two doors down on the right was a signboard an-
nouncing the presence of Thorum the Mage, which was
one of the names Sterren had memorized. He headed
directly for it.

Two hours later they took a break for a midday meal
and bought bits of beef fried in dough from an open-front
shop between two gambling halls on Games Street. They
ate in silence, leaning against a wall, as snow drifted by
and Sterren, between bites, considered what he had
learned.

For one thing, he now knew what a prestidigitator
was—little more than a charlatan, really. A great deal of
magic appeared to be fraudulent. Never having had
money to spend on spells and amulets, he had never had
occasion to find this out.

Other magic, of course, was completely real and au-
thentic and could be enormously powerful.

Unfortunately, while the frauds would often work
cheap, for the more serious magicians a pound of gold
would not pay for a sixnight's work, let alone the month
or more that might be necessary for a trip to Semma and
back with a war in the middle.

He had been turned down by two witches, two theur-
gists, a wizard, a warlock, and someone who called him-
self a thaumaturge, a term Sterren was not familiar with.

On the other hand, he had turned down a prestidigita-
tor, an illusionist, a sorcerer whose talents seemed genu-
ine but hopelessly inappropriate for thejob"at hand, and
an herbalist.

Not all of these were from the advertisements at the
Arena; the theurgists and the sorcerer had turned up on
their own while Sterren and his party were discussing
matters with Thorum the Mage, a pleasant old fellow
who, thanks to his central location, made a significant

140       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
income as a message center and referral service, in addi-
tion to what his wizardry brought him.

The morning, Sterren had to admit, had been a wash-
out. He chewed his last bite of dough, pulled his coat
collar tighter, and stared longingly through the snow at a
dice game visible through a tavern window on the oppo-
site side of the street.

He wished that he could just go back to playing dice
and thinking entirely in his native tongue, without having
to switch languages every few minutes, without worrying
about wars or wizards or warlords or warlocks, heredi-
tary duties, and summary executions. He wanted to for-
get that Semma had ever existed, forget that he had ever
met any of the inhabitants of that silly little kingdom.

He couldn't, of course. Semma was real, and some-
how or other he had the misfortune to be its warlord
now, rather than just a tavern gambler.

Joining that game across the street was a tremendous
temptation, but a glance at Lady Kalira's sour expres-
sion convinced him that it wasn't even worth asking if he
could take a few minutes to replenish their finances.

He sighed, swallowed the last traces of his meal, and

said, "Come on."

The three Semmans looked at him, uncomprehending.
"Oh, come on," he said, in Semmat this time.
They came.

CHAPTER 17

he afternoon was more successful than the morning.
For one thing, the snow stopped and the sun came out,
which improved tempers all around.

For another, the neighborhood grapevine was working
for them now and when they checked back in at
Thorum's they found a young witch, eager for adventure
in foreign lands and willing to work cheap.

Another cooperative and promising witch turned up a
few stops later, and then a sorcerer by the name of
Kolar, whose collection of talismans included a few that
clearly had some military usefulness—and, fortunately
for Sterren, not all that much commercial value, so that
Kolar was willing to accept Sterren's offered job.

All three of these individuals were instructed to report
to the chartered ship, the Southern Wind, by midday on
the twenty-fourth.

At the next stop an argument broke out. The magician
in question here was ready and willing to take the job,
but Lady Kaltfa recognized the emblem she wore at her
throat.

"She's a demonologist!" she said. "We can't take a
demonologist!"

"Why not?" Sterren demanded. "She can probably do
more for us than the rest put together! Demons love war!
They created it!"

"And that's one reason that using a demonologist is
too dangerous!" the Semman aristocrat shouted.

142      THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"That's ridiculous!"

"It is not..." Lady Kalira began; then she caught
herself and continued with enforced calm, "it is not ridic-
ulous, my Lord Sterren. And in any case, the reasons do
not matter. If I might remind you, his Majesty specifi-
cally forbade the inclusion of sorcerers or demonolo-
gists. Are you going to defy a royal edict? Might I point
out that the penalty for doing so is entirely up to the
king's discretion, even to beheading, for a member of
the nobility?"

Sterren opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.

Phenvel III was more than a little foolish and prone to
whims. For all Sterren knew, he really might order Ster-
ren's execution if he was angry enough and only think
better of it after it was too late.

And he had specifically forbidden demonologists and

sorcerers.

Sterren had forgotten that for a moment. He had not
made the connection when he hired Kolar—Kolar the
Sorcerer.

"Oh, damn," he said.

He apologized to the demonologist, a woman by the
name of Amanelle of Tirissa, and led the way back to the
house where Kolar rented an upstairs room.

When that little problem was dealt with, Sterren con-
tinued with his search.

When the sun was below the rooftops and the shop-
keepers began lighting the torches out front, he called it
a day and headed back toward Spicetown, the Semmans
trailing along behind him.

He didn't even think about trying to slip away. The
quest for magicians had caught his interest.

If was full dark well before they reached the wharves,
and Sterren had to ask directions twice before locating
the Southern Wind. He was asleep within seconds of fall-
ing into his hammock.

That was the twenty-second of Snowfall.

On the twenty-third, once again, the day was spent in
the Wizards' Quarter, recruiting. Word had gotten
around, however, and this time Sterren was able to sit at
Thorum's table, drinking cheap ale and making jokes
with old Thorum about the Semman barbarians he was

Lawrence Watt-Evans           143

saddled with, while candidates presented themselves.

The Semmans sat idly by, wondering what Sterren
and the fat old wizard found so funny.

The weather was warmer, too, and the snow had
melted away completely by midaftemoon.

Even the now-familiar walk back to the ship seemed
easier, especially since Sterren took care to set out well
before dark. Lady Kalira brightened considerably when
she discovered Alar aboard the vessel, waiting for her,
apologetic about both his own extended absence and
having completely lost track of Kendrik, Bern, and
Zander.

Sterren thought he was a fool for coming back, but
did not say so.

Sterren did not bother to leave the ship on the
twenty-fourth, but instead began the preparations for the
journey back to Akalla of the Diamond.

He had found no chance to slip away and he was not
at all sure he would have taken it if he had. Princess
Lura's grin and Shin-in's blush lurked in the back of his
memory, and he did not want to leave them defenseless.

When the ship sailed on the evening tide, she had
aboard her Sterren, Lady Kalira, Alder, Dogal, and Alar,
of the original party of eight; the other three had never
turned up. Sterren hoped that they would get by,
stranded in a foreign city where they didn't speak the
language or know the customs. They had chosen to des-
ert, but they had not necessarily known what they were
getting into; life in Ethshar was much more complex than
their simple existence back in Semma.

Perhaps, he thought. Alar was not such a fool after
all.

In addition to Sterren and the four Semmans, the
Southern Wind carried the warlock, who had still not
given a name; Annara, the journeyman wizard; three
witches, named Shenna of Chatna, Ederd ofJiastwark,
and Hamder Hamder's son; and a wizard who called
himself Emner of Lamum. All but the warlock were
young, beginners who had not yet found places for
themselves, though none of the others were quite so
young as Annara and Sterren himself.

Sterren had turned down assorted frauds and charia-

144     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

tans, and given in to the royal fiat against sorcerers and
demonologists; he had talked to several theurgists, only
to be told that they could not help with anything to
which the gods objected as strongly as they objected to
war. No other warlocks had turned up once the amount
of the pay was known. A few of the more obscure or
minor sorts of magician had turned up, such as oneiro-
mancers and herbalists, but after much discussion had

not stayed.

Still, Sterren had half a dozen assorted magicians.

He hoped it would be enough.
He wished he knew more about magic.
He did know a little, of course. He had taken an inter-
est in the arcane arts as a child.

It was only a little, though, not much more than a few

characteristics of the major varieties.

He knew something more than a minimum about war-
lockry, of course, from his brief stay with old Bergan. He
knew it used no spells or incantations, but only the war-
lock's will, to guide and shape the Power it drew upon.
The only differences between what one warlock could
do, and what another could do, depended on the relative
level of imagination and expertise in manipulating

Power.

The other magics did not appear to operate that way

at all. For example, theurgists and demonologists used
rote formulae to summon superhuman beings, as Agor
had explained to him, and those beings were specialized

and individual.

To a warlock, Power was Power, at least until the

nightmares began, and there were no formulae—or at
least, so Bergan had told him, and Sterren had no reason

to doubt his old master.

That meant that Sterren's warlock would be able to do
as much as any warlock in waging war; there were no
special spells or formulae he had to know.

Wizards, on the other hand, carried formulae to bi-
zarre extremes; where theurgists and demonologists just
used words and songs and signs, wizards needed an in-
credible assortment of ingredients for their spells—
dragon's blood and virgin's tears and so forth. Wizardry
seemed to have no logic to it whatsoever.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           145

And Sterren, accordingly, had no idea at all what his
two wizards were capable of. Annara had a small pouch
of precious ingredients for her spells; Emner had a large
traveling case jammed full of jars and boxes for his. Nei-
ther would specify what spells he or she could perform.
A demonstration would be meaningless; spells that
proved beyond doubt that their wizardry was authentic
and powerful would not mean that they knew any spells
that would stop Ophkar or Ksinallion.

Witches fell somewhere in between. Witches used rit-
uals, chants, trances, and so forth, but could improvise
them apparently at will and did not require the arcane
substances that wizardry called for. Witches had individ-
ual spells, but seemed to be able to modify them far
more readily than wizards could. They had specialties,
but almost any witch could tackle almost any piece of
witchcraft—though naturally, a specialist in a given field
could outperform a novice.

Witchcraft was versatile and adaptable—but limited.
It just didn't do anything as impressive as the other
magics. No witch ever moved a mountain or flattened a
city—but wizards had reportedly done both. Warlocks
could call up storms, shatter walls, strike foes dead with
a glance, set the very ground ablaze; wizards seemed to
be able to do absolutely anything if they could find the
proper spell; but witches were far more limited. A witch
could light a fire in an instant, but only in a proper fuel.
A witch could open a locked door, but not shatter one. A
witch could predict a storm, but not bring one.

What use his three witches would be in battle, Sterren
was not quite sure, but he thought they would be far
better than any ordinary warriors.

Sorcerers, with their prepared talismans that could be
used instantly, seemed much like wizards, though per-
haps a little less impressive. He wondered what Phenvel
had against them.

Herbalists might be very useful if the war was lost, for
treating the wounded, but unless one were to poison
Ophkar's water supply, Sterren could not see much use
for an herbalist in battle. The various other specialties
likewise seemed too narrow in scope. What good was an

146      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
oneiromancer, for example, if nobody^ happened to have

any dreams?

So he had his three witches, his two wizards, and his

nameless wariock, and ninety-three fighting men.
He hoped it would be enough.
After all, his life depended on it.

PART TWO

War

CHAPTER 18

Uterren stood shivering beside the right-hand draft
horse and stared miserably through the rain and gloom at
the distant glow of the campfires and the looming black
shape of Semma Castle. The mare's breath puffed up in
clouds from her nostrils, and Sterren could smell her
sweat. Raindrops pattered heavily on the old wagon that
he had bought in Akalla, on the driver's seat he had just
abandoned, and on the hooded heads of the six magi-
cians huddled in the back. The four Semmans, on their
own mounts, were clustered nearby.

'I thought they'd wait until spring," he said again.

Lady Kalira replied, "We all did. They always waited
before." Her tone was flat and dead. Sterren was grateful
that she was not castigating him for refusing to buy a
storm to speed their journey; it was bad enough that he
was cursing himself for it.

"I guess one of their warlords must have as little re-
spect for tradition as I do," he said resignedly.

"Or maybe," Alder suggested, "they heard you were
gone and figured that it would be a good time to attack,
when you weren't there to lead us."

"More likely they found out he was fetching these
damned magicians and they wanted to take the* castle
before they could get here," Dogal muttered.

Sterren ignored that and tried to think what to do.

A selfish part of him suggested turning around and
heading back to Akalla. After all, through no fault of his

149

150       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
own he had been cut off from the castle and its de-
fenders. If he left, who could say he had failed in his

duty?

He glanced up at Lady Kalira, sitting astride her

horse. She could, for one, and he could accuse himself,
as well. He had gone and fetched magicians to fight his
war; well, here he was, here were his magicians, and
here was the war—a little sooner than he had expected,

perhaps, but so what?

All he'had to do was figure out how to use the magi-
cians he had hired. He had to at least make the attempt
after coming this far, he told himself.

If he tried and failed, if the castle fell anyway, then he
could flee in good conscience, and even Lady Kalira

could not fault him.

First, though, he had to try to defeat the enemy.
But how was he supposed to do that with his six sorry

magicians?

"What do we do now?" Annara called from the wagon

in Ethsharitic, echoing his own thoughts. She glanced at
the deserted farmhouse off to the party's left, as if ex-
pecting monsters to leap from it at any minute.

"Are you sure it's really the enemy besieging the cas-
tle and not just a festival of some sort?" one of the
witches asked in the same tongue; Sterren did not see if
it was Hamder or Ederd and could not yet distinguish

them by voice.

He did not bother to reply to the witch, but after a

moment he told Annara, "That's up to you people. This
is what I hired you for, after all—to fight this stupid war.
I'd say that your first job is to break the siege." He did
not say how, of course, since he didn't have the faintest

idea how to go about it.

"In the rainT' Shenna of Chatna wailed.

The other two witches shushed her.

"Don't tell me to shut up!" she shouted. "I'm cold and
I'm wet and I don't like this place and I wish I'd never

come here!"

Hamder and Ederd exchanged unhappy glances; then

Ederd, in the rear of the wagon and out of Shenna's
sight, raised his hands in a curious embracing gesture.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           151

Shenna abruptly fell silent, but her expression was
still one of abject misery.

The Semmans watched all this uncomprehendingly;

none of them had picked up much Ethsharitic in the
twelve days of the return voyage, and the magicians had
not had time to leam much Semmat. All six magicians
had preferred relying on Sterren as their translator to
struggling with the unfamiliar tongue, and as a result he
now saw the wisdom of Lady Kalira's ban on Ethsharitic
during his own first voyage south. He had been forced to
leam Semmat in order to make himself understood; the
magicians were picking up a few words—at least, some
of them were—but only as a sideline, not as a matter of
survival.

Forbidding the crew to speak Ethsharitic, or refusing
to use it himself, would not have made much difference,
since the six magicians had each other to talk to. Be-
sides, he hadn't noticed the problem until after they
reached Akalla of the Diamond. Once he had noticed, he
had thought he could safely leave it until the party
reached Semma Castle.

And now, of course, it was too late, and they might
never reach the castle at all.

He had just said that breaking the siege, if siege it
actually was, was up to the magicians. Shenna's out-
burst, however, had not been followed by any sugges-
tions from any of the others. They were all waiting for
him to tell them what to do.

He suppressed a sigh. What had he done, he won-
dered, to deserve this? Why did he have to be in charge?

Sterren observed the witches silently for a moment,
then beckoned to Hamder.

The young witch clambered over the side of the
wagon, dropped to the mud, and splashed over to the
shelter of the farmhouse eaves. Sterren joined him there.

"Witches can read minds, can't they?" Steiren asked.

Hamder hesitated. "Sometimes," he admitted.

"Well, right there two leagues ahead of us are a few
hundred minds, I'd say, and I'd like to know what some
of them are thinking and planning. I'd like to be sure just
who we're facing, for one thing; is that both Ophkar and
Ksinallion there, or did one of them decide to get the

152 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

jump on the other? If one of them tried a sneak attack,
then maybe we can swing the other over to our side after
all, despite King Phenvel."

Hamder looked distinctly unhappy. "My lord Ster-
ren—" he began.

"Oh, forget the 'lord' stuff, when we're speaking Eth-
sharitic!" Sterren interrupted. He had grown accustomed
to hearing the title in Semmat, but it still sounded silly in
Ethsharitic.

"Yes, my... yes, sir. As I was saying, I doubt I'll be
able to leam much. None of those people out there are
going to be thinking in Ethsharitic."

Sterren stared at him. "Thinking in Ethsharitic?"

"Yes, sir. After all, people do tend to think in words,
or at least the same concepts that we use words for, and
those are different in different languages."

"So you can't read minds unless you know th& right
language?"

Hamder nodded, then stopped himself. "Well, there
are exceptions. If you're up close to someone and paying
close attention, you can usually start to pick up the un-
derlying concepts after a while. In fact, that's how we
witches learn other languages so quickly..."

"You leam other languages quickly?"

"Of course! Witches are famous for the gift of
tongues!"

"I haven't heard you speaking Semmat."

Hamder's mouth opened, then closed. "Oh," he said.
After a moment's pause, he asked, "Were we supposed
to? I didn't think there was any hurry."

"It might have been nice," Sterren pointed out. "I
don't particularly enjoy translating back and forth for
everybody, especially when I don't know Semmat all
that well myself, yet."

"Oh." Hamder was obviously embarrassed. "I'm
sorry, sir."

"Never mind that." Sterren brushed it away. "Can
you tell me anything about whoever's around all those
campfires, or can't you?"

"I... I... I don't know, sir. Probably not, from this
distance."

"You have my permission to go closer, witch."

Lawrence Watt-Evans           153

Hamder glanced at the distant campfires, then back at
Sterren. "Ah... could it wait until morning? They're lia-
ble to be a bit nervous at night..."

Sterren sighed. "They're presumably fighting a war;

they're liable to be a bit nervous any time. But never
mind, at least for now." He started to turn away, then
paused.

"The other witches—I assume that they would give
me the same answers?"

"I think so, sir—but I can't be certain. We do have
our specialties."

Sterren nodded and waved in dismissal. Hamder
sloshed away, back to the wagon; Sterren stayed where
he was and gestured for Emner, his second wizard, to
join him.

Emner slid from the wagon and slogged up beside
him.

"You're a wizard, right?"

Emner nodded, cautiously.

"Wizardry can do just about anythingyright?"

"Given the right conditions, the right materials, and
the right spell," Emner replied judiciously, "wizardry ap-
pears to be capable of almost anything."

"But you, yourself, are limited in what you can do, I
suppose."

"Yes," Emner answered immediately, "very limited."

Sterren nodded. "Over there," he said, waving an arm
in the direction of Semma Castle, "It appears that there
is a hostile army besieging the castle that I hired you to
defend. I don't know what the situation is, but that's how
it appears. Is there anything you can do about it?"

Emner considered this carefully. He gazed thought-
fully at the distant campfires, then looked up at the sky.
He moistened a finger and held it up to check the wind,
then scanned the eastern horizon.

"I don't know," he said, finally. "I know a few spells I
thought would be useful in a war, but I don't see how
any would help in the present situation. If the wind were
behind us, I could levitate and drift over that way, with a
magical shield under me in case I were spotted, to see
what's happening—but the wind's awfully light and from
the north, and I'd need to go east. I don't have a spell for

154     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

directional flight. I know a spell that can stun a man and
make him somewhat suggestible, so that if we could
catch someone alone I might well coax truth from even a
reluctant tongue, but I can't think... Hmm..." His

voice trailed off.

Sterren waited patiently, and after a pause Emner
continued, "I have another spell. I never thought it
would be any help, but it might serve here, after all. I
can make a stone or a stick whistle, from a distance—
hardly a valuable talent, I'd have said, and I certainly
chafed at being forced to practice it as an apprentice.
Now, though—perhaps I can lure someone over with a

whistle, stun him, and question him."

Sterren nodded, considering. "You're sure you can do

that?"

Emner hesitated, then said, "Reasonably sure."

"Could Annara do it?"

"No." Emner did not hesitate at all this time.
"Why not?" Sterren asked, genuinely curious.
Emner blinked, then slowly replied, "I am not sure

it's my place to say."

"Oh, go ahead," Sterren said, annoyed.
Emner paused, as if thinking out his words in ad-
vance, and then said, "I suppose you know that Annara
had been sleeping out in the Hundred-Foot Field and
hadn't eaten for two or three days when you found her."
"I suspected as much," Sterren acknowledged.
"Well, it's so," Emner said. "She told me, as a fellow
Guild member. Naturally, I was curious about how she
came to be reduced to that, and she was glad to have a
chance to discuss her situation with a fellow wizard. It
seems that although she is a true wizard, served the fall
apprenticeship required by the Guild, and was initiated
into the Guild's mysteries, she never managed to master
more than a handful of simple spells. Her master only
knew a dozen or so, and she found herself unable to
manage some of those—including the ones that provided
most of his small income. The spells she did learn—well,
they're real enough, and they have their places, but they
aren't exactly marketable. There isn't any demand for
them, as a rule. And I can't see how they could be of any
use at all in the present situation."

Lawrence Watt-Evans           155

"You didn't think your own could help, at first. Per-
haps I should ask Annara directly; after all, she's surely
more familiar with the possibilities of her magic than you
are."

Emner shrugged. "Maybe. We've agreed to trade
spells and better both our positions, but to be honest, I
think I agreed to that as much from pity as from my own
self-interest. Her spells... Well, for instance, what use
is there to an invisibility spell that only works on trans-
parent objects?"

"Transparent objects?"

"Yes, transparent. Water, ice, glass, and so on."

Sterren nodded. "I see your point. It's an interesting
idea, though, that invisibility spell. What if you were to
make weapons out of glass, and then enchant them?"

Emner considered that. "I'm not sure how it works,
but you're right, that might be interesting. Hard to parry
a glass sword, I suppose—but easy to break one."

"I was thinking of glass arrows. You wouldn't know
where they're coming from."

Emner nodded slowly.

"Well," Sterren said, after a moment's silent thought,
"that's not doing us any good right now, is it? We don't
have a glassmaker's oven at hand. Thank you for your
help, wizard, and if you would go back and send me the
warlock, I'd appreciate it."

Emner bowed slightly in acknowledgment, then trot-
ted back to the wagon and hauled himself back aboard.

A moment later the warlock strode up beside Sterren.
He wore a heavy black cloak and hood against the rain,
and had it pulled well forward, hiding his face com-
pletely. Sterren found himself speaking to an oval of
black shadow.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Terrible," the warlock replied, through clenched
teeth.

"Oh?" The warlock had been complaining of head-
aches and constant fatigue since the third day aboard
ship. He had also taken to sleeping long hours—he was
always the first to retire at night and the last to awaken.
The morning after leaving Akalla he had to be hoisted

156       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
into the wagon still half asleep and had almost fallen out

twice since then.

But at least, Sterren thought, there had been no sign

of nightmares.

"My head feels as if it's going to burst."
"Oh." Sterren made a sympathetic noise. "Ah... are

you aware of the situation here?"

"No."
Sterren waited for a moment, expecting him to go on.

"No?" he said at last.

"No. Should I be?"

"I think so, yes."

"All right, then, what's the situation?"

"Well, over there is Semma Castle, which is what we
all came here to defend. And all around it there appear to
be campfires and what look like tents, sentries, siege ma-
chinery, and so forth. What's more, judging by this house
behind us and the others we passed in the last league or
two, the peasants in the area appear to have fled their
homes. I would assume that what we see here are the
armies of Ophkar and Ksinallion, besieging the castle,
but I am not actually certain of that. I called you up here
in hopes you might be able to help me settle the matter."

"You want to know if those are really the armies you

think they are?"

Sterren nodded. "That's right."
The warlock snorted. "How the hell should I know?"

he demanded.

"You're a warlock, aren't you?" Sterren asked calmly.

"That's right, I'm a warlock—I'm not a damned
mind-reading witch, or a wizard with a scrying spell, or a
sorcerer with a crystal ball, or a theurgist with a god
whispering in my ear, or even a demonologist with an
imp to run my errands! I can do things—or I could back
in Ethshar, anyway—but I don't have any way of know-
ing any more about what's out there than you do."

"Do you have any way of finding out? Could you fly
over and take a look around, perhaps?"

The warlock was silent for a long moment, the only
sounds the patter of the rain and the snuffling of the
horses a dozen paces away.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I know how to fly,

Lawrence Watt-Evans

157

certainly, but I'm so weak here..." He took two steps
away, then stood, arms raised, hood thrown back, face
up.

He seemed to shudder, from his head right down to
his muddy boots; his cloak flapped suddenly, although
there was no more wind than a moment before.

Then he toppled over backward into the mud.

Sterren hesitated, then decided against lending aid.

The warlock got to his feet under his own power, then
glared at Sterren and shook his head.

"No," he said, "I can't fly here."

Sterren nodded. "All right," he said. He turned back
to face the rest of the party, where the others had
watched the warlock's pratfall in puzzled silence.

"We'll stay here until morning!" he called, first in
Ethsharitic, and then in Semmat, pointing at the empty
farmhouse.

"Then what?" Lady Kalira called back to him.

Sterren glanced over his shoulder at the dozens of
campfires that ringed the castle. "Then we find out who
those people are," he said.

"And if they're the enemy?" Lady Kalira demanded.

"Then," Sterren said, "we attack!"

Lawrence Watt-Evans           159

CHAPTER 19

s,

^henna's shriek awoke Sterrenfrom a sound slumber;

he sat up quickly, looking around for the source of the
scream.

Everyone else was roused as well, and the other two
witches reached her first. After an exchange too quick
for spoken words, Hamder turned and called, "Sterren!
Shenna says that someone was prowling around the
house we're in, and saw us!"

Sterren was still not really thinking. "Who was it?" he
asked.

"I don't know!" Shenna replied. "I didn't see him."

"Then how do you know he was there?" Annara
asked.

"I had wards set, and he tripped one, wizard!"

"Well, if he didn't know we were here before, he cer-
tainly does now, the way you screamed," Emner said.

Ederd and Hamder frowned at that; Shenna chose to
ignore it. Sterren said nothing, but mentally filed it away
for future reference that the witches and the wizards did
not appear to like each other much. He wasn't sure if it
was a personal matter, or something inherent in the two
arcane disciplines.

"Did anyone else have any wards, or other spells, set
to warn us of intruders?" Sterren asked.

"I don't even know what wards are," Annara an-
nounced.

"I wouldn't brag about it," Ederd snapped.
iw

Sterren raised a hand for silence, just as Lady Kalira
demanded in Semmat, "What's going on?"

"The witch... her magic heard something," he said.

Alder, who had been watching the magicians, heard
this and immediately headed for the nearest window, ap-
proaching it carefully, then peering around the frame, out
into the rain.

Dogal took a window on the opposite side, and after a
moment Alar headed for the door. The fourth side of the
room was the wall separating the main room from the
kitchen; the warlock, seeing what the soldiers were
doing, slid quickly through the curtained doorway, pre-
sumably to look out the kitchen window.

"There's someone running off toward the castle,"
Dogal announced. "A soldier, I guess—he's wearing a
red kilt and a sword, anyway."

"What army?" Sterren asked.

Startled, Dogal replied, "How should I know?"

Sterren, not fully awake even yet, could not think of a
Semmat word for "recognize" or "identify," so after a
moment's mental fumbling he just said, "What uniform?"
He had certainly had to learn that word in order to func-
tion as warlord.

"I can't tell Ophkar from KsinaUion," Dogal said, "or
from Shan on the Desert or anywhere else, for that mat-
ter. It's not Semman, though."

Alder had crossed the room during this exchange and
was squinting after the fleeing figure. Lady Kalira came
up behind Dogal, as well.

"Looks Ksinallionese to me," Alder said. Lady Kalira
nodded agreement.

"Not Semman?"

"On, no," all three agreed, "not Semman!"

Sterren sighed. "We'd better get out of here, then,"
he said.

Nobody argued, and in five minutes the" party had
collected its belongings and retired to the porch, where
the horses were waiting.

In another five, the Semmans were all mounted, the
draft horses were hitched up, and Sterren and the magi-
cians were all settled in the wagon, moving unhappily
out of their shelter into the thin morning drizzle.

160 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"Which way?" Hamder asked.

That, Sterren had to admit, was a very good question.
With a shrug, he pointed north. "That way," he said. He
shook the reins, and the wagon led the way across a
muddy brown cornfield.

After a few minutes he reined in his horses and held
up a hand to signal the Semman outriders. They gathered
into a little knot at the center of what was probably a
pasture in the summer, but was now mostly more mud.

The others all stared at him expectantly, hunching
against the thin misty rain.

Sterren hesitated, unsure of what to say.

"Well," he said at last, in Ethsharitic, "here we are in
Semma, and that's the Ksinallionese army over there,
and maybe the Ophkarite army as well. Your job is to
drive them out of Semma. Go right ahead."

The magicians glanced at one another, then back at
Sterren, for a long moment before Hamder asked,
"How?"

"How should I know?" Sterren said, irritated.
"You're the magicians, with all your secrets."

"But you're the warlord," Annara pointed out, "and
you're the boss; you hired us, now tell us what to do."

Sterren had dreaded this, and here it was. "I don't
know anything about it," he said. "I was forced into this
stupid job and I don't know any more about fighting a
war than you people do."

"In that case," Hamder said, "I think we may all be in
very serious trouble."

"Why don't we just go home?" Shenna asked. "We
can't do anything here! Look at all those people!"

In point of fact, the besieging armies were invisible
from where Sterren's party happened to be at that mo-
ment, but nobody bothered to correct her. Sterren had
told them, on board ship, that they would be facing
armies totaling about four hundred and fifty men.

"Not a one of those soldiers," Sterren pointed out,
"knows anything about magic. Not one! They've proba-
bly never even seen any magic; it's all scarce as fish fur
in this part of the world!"

Lawrence Watt-Evans           161

"Well, we aren't exactly Fendel the Great," Annara
retorted.

"No, but you're magicians, and you all agreed to
come here and fight this war. Now, let's fight it! You,
Emner, last night you were telling me you could levitate

and that you have a shield spell and a way of dazing
people?"

"Felshen's First Hypnotic Spell," Emner replied,
"and Tracel's Levitation, and Fendel's Elementary Pro-
tection. But I'll still just be one man against an army, and
Felshen's won't kill anyone, or make them give up the
fight. I can harass them, I suppose, but—"

"But nothing!" Sterren interrupted. "You're forgetting
the effect it will have on their morale to have a genuine
wizard attacking them! These soldiers have never con-
ceived of using magic to fight a war; you'll terrify them!"

Emner looked doubtful.

Sterren was growing desperate. "Listen, I don't ex-
pect you to destroy an army overnight, but this is what
you all agreed to do, what you came here for, the reason
we fed you all and transported you here and even
clothed some of you." Annara had owned only a single
tattered purple robe; Lady Kalira had provided her with
a decent change of outfit while aboard ship, so that she
could clean and repair the gown with fabric, thread, and
needle provided by Lady Kalira. She was wearing her
own purple again at the moment, but she knew who
Sterren meant. "I think you'll find that it's not as hard as
you expect. Remember, it's not just the eleven of us
here; we have an army of our own inside that castle over
there, with three fine officers who I'm sure will take ad-
vantage of any opportunity we give them." Sterren was
not at all certain of anything of the sort and actually ex-
pected his three officers to fumble every opportunity, but
he knew better than to admit that. 'Those popple in the
castle, hundreds of them, including dozens of innocent
women and children, are depending on us!"

That was most likely true; he could easily picture
Princess Shirrin watching from the castle windows for
the triumphant return of her warlord hero. She probably
expected him to ride up on a white charger, banners fly-

162      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
ing and trumpets sounding, rather than driving a battered

Akallan haywagon.

"I can set some traps," Annara admitted grudgingly.

"At least, while my supplies hold out. I'll need some
wax. And parchment, if you have any."

"There!" Sterren said. "That's more like it!" He
looked at the others expectantly.

"If one of these witches or the warlock can push me
once I'm airborne, I can levitate and go see what's hap-
pening, or take messages into the castle," Emner said.

The witches glanced at each other, but it was the war-
lock who said, "I ought to be able to manage that mueh.
You're weightless when you levitate, aren't you?"

"Well, not really, not with Tracel's," Emner admitted.
"There's another levitation spell that makes you weight-
less, but I never got the hang of it."

"Well, I can try it, anyway," the warlock said.

"We can probably help," Hamder volunteered, "as

long as you're in sight."

"You can do a test run," Sterren suggested.

That elicited a round of nods.

"We can... well, / can pick off enemy soldiers, stran-
gle them at a distance, if we can find them away from the

main camp," Ederd said.

"Or drop rocks on them," Hamder said.

Shenna wrinkled her nose in disgust, then admitted,
"I can poison their water. Without touching it. I think."
She hesitated, then repeated, "I think. It's a lot easier to
just make their food go bad, if you can find out where
they keep it and it's not sealed in anything."

All eyes fell on the warlock, who shrugged and said,
"I don't know how much I can do, here, but I'll do what
I can. Strangling from a distance—I might be able to do
that. Easier, for me, to just stop hearts."

A moment of uneasy silence followed this announce-
ment.

"There!" Sterren said, breaking it. "You see? This

shouldn't be as bad as all that! There's a lot we can do,
•and they won't have any way to fight it, or even know

what's going on!"

A couple of the magicians nodded glumly. Nobody

Lawrence Watt-Evans           163

argued. Nobody displayed any enthusiasm, either.

Sterren decided to settle for wnat he could get. Enthu-
siasm might come later. A lack of resistance was enough
to start with.

"What's going on?" Lady Kalira asked, in Semmat.
Sterren sighed and told her.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           165

CHAPTER 20

JL wo days later, in a barn roughly a mile and a half
northwest of Semma Castle, two of the witches were
straining, watching or listening or using some other
sense Sterren couldn't guess at. The Semmans and the
other magicians were waiting for something to happen.
For himself, Sterren didn't expect to know anything
about it until the witches told him.

Both witches started suddenly, but that was nothing
very new. They often reacted to unseen events while in

perceptive trances.

Even with that warning, the bang a second or so later
came as a complete surprise. Sterren had been quite sure

he wouldn't hear it.

For that matter, he hadn't expected the spell to work.
Annara had been so very pessimistic about her abilities
ever since he first met her that he had, he realized, given
up on ever getting any use out of her.

He glanced over at her, and she looked as surprised as
he felt. "Gods!" she said, "I made it as big as I could, but

that must have been huge'."

Sterren had to agree with that. According to what the
witches had gleaned from the minds of passing soldiers,
Sterren and his band were presently almost a mile from
the Ophkarite warlord's tent, and that was where the
false message had presumably gone. An explosion that
could be heard for a mile would have to be much larger
than what they had expected.
164

Ederd suddenly emerged from his trance. "I thought
you'd like to know," he said without preamble, "We just
killed the general's secretary—I mean, the warlord's.
We didn't get the warlord himself."

"Killed him?" Annara squeaked.

Ederd nodded. "You don't want the details," he said,
"but I'm sure he's dead. Didn't hit anybody else, though,
and although there were plenty of sparks, the tent didn't
catch."

Sterren looked at Annara with new respect. "Good
work," he said.

"But the Explosive Seal isn't supposed to kill any-
body!" she protested. "At worst, it's intended to... well,
to blow their hands off. Usually it just bums them a lit-
tle."

"Well, maybe you got something wrong, then," Ster-
ren suggested.

"I don't think so," Ederd replied. "He was holding the
parchment up to his face, studying the seal. I think he
suspected something."

"Oh..." Annara looked sick.

^'What's going on?" Alder asked, in Semmat.

"We just killed the... the... a helper to the Warlord
of Ophkar," Sterren told him.

"Helper?"

"The man who writes and reads for him."

"His aide?"

"I guess so."

Alder grinned broadly. "Well, it's a start," he said.

"This magic may do some good after all," Dogal ad-
mitted grudgingly.

Sterren nodded, but he doubted that they would be
able to use that particular stunt again. The enemy was
warned.

Well, maybe they would find other ways to use the
Explosive Seal. Could it be put on tent flaps', perhaps?
Or saddles, to detonate when the cavalry unsaddled their
horses?

And could the enemy really afford to ignore sealed
messages?

They hadn't ignored this one. Hamder's witchcraft
had convinced the sentries that he was telling the truth,

166

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

167

despite the total lack of confirmation; they had accepted
him as an Ophkarite courier despite his lack of uniform,
his unfamiliarity with the Ophkaritic language, and the
fact that he had approached, on foot, from entirely the
wrong direction. Even though he had only been able to
pick a dozen or so words of the language from their
minds, he had managed to make them absolutely certain
that the parchment they accepted was an urgent message
from the King of Ophkar that must be delivered to their
warlord immediately.

Not a bad stunt at all, and Sterren had made sure
Hamder knew how impressed everyone was. He regret-
ted that Hamder wasn't in the main room to thank again.

And now Annara had come through, as well; Sterren
had not expected the seal to do any real damage.

He hoped that Emner and Hamder would be equally

successful.

Even as that thought crossed his mind, Shenna
dropped out of her trance and announced, "Hamder's
bringing the wizard back, but I don't know why."

Sterren answered, "Thanks. I'll go ask."

He got up from the floor, brushed himself off, ambled
across the room, and mounted the ladder to the hayloft.

Hamder was sitting cross-legged in the open loft door,
staring fixedly out toward the castle. Sterren looked over
his shoulder and saw a small black dot growing larger in

the distance.

"What's happening?" he asked.

The witch ignored him. Sterren glanced down just as
Hamder's breath came out all in a rush, and he toppled
over sideways into the hay.

"I can't do it any more," he said in a breathy whisper.

Sterren could see, now, that Hamder had completely
exhausted himself. He leaned forward and peered at the
distant figure of Emner, drifting helplessly above the

enemy armies.

"Maybe the warlock can fetch him back," he said.
Hamder had no breath to reply, but he managed a

feeble nod.

Sterren turned and clambered back down the ladder,
then headed for the corner where he had last seen the
warlock.

The black-robed Ethsharite was still there, crouched
down and muttering to himself. He did not glance up as
Sterren approached.

"We have a problem," Sterren said. "Emner's drifting
out there, and Hamder's exhausted."

The warlock shook his head, then winced; it was ob-
vious he had another of his headaches. "Get one of the
other witches," he said. "I've been experimenting; I
can't move anything as massive as a person, not even
when he's levitating."

"They're busy; are you sure?"

The warlock looked up at Sterren, then rose to his
feet. "Do you have any string?" he asked.

"I don't know," Sterren replied. "Why?"

"Because if you did, I might be able to lift one end of
it up to him, and he could just pull himself in with it. But
I know what I can do and I can't move him. You'll need
to get one of the other witches."

Sterren sighed and went to get one of the other
witches.

That trick with the string, though—that might be use-
ful'. He wanted to remember that.

He sighed again, remembering the high hopes he had
first had for his warlock. The fellow was turning out to
be pitifully feeble. He could levitate a few pounds at a
time, light small fires, open locks—but that was about it,
and he was almost constantly sick with his ferocious
headaches.

The headaches worried Sterren somewhat. He had
never heard of warlocks getting headaches. Ordinarily,
warlocks were the epitome of health and vigor, able to
heal themselves, able to obliterate any diseases that at-
tacked them, drawing strength from the Power—at least,
until the nightmares started. Even then, they stayed
physically healthy, except perhaps for some-minor ad-
verse effects of not sleeping.

The nightmares had stopped for this one, but the mys-
terious headaches might well be worse than the night-
mares. Since the headaches had started, the warlock
even seemed to have more gray in his hair.

Sterren had heard of warlocks who fled south when

168      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
the nightmares began, but he had never heard anything

about headaches.

Shenna was back in trance, but Ederd was taking a

break, leaning back against a pile of straw. After all, the
excitement was over, the e?cplosion had gone off; Shenna
could keep an eye on things by herself for the moment.
"Ederd," Sterren said, "you'll have to take over with

Emner; Hamder's worn out."

"Is he all right?" Ederd asked, getting quickly to his

feet.

Sterren was not completely sure whether Ederd

meant Emner or Hamder, but it didn't really make much

difference. "I think so," he replied.

Ederd was already at the ladder and climbing.
Sterren looked around the interior of the bam.
Alder and Dogal were sitting on one side, chatting
quietly in Semmat. Lady Kalira and Alar were talking
nearby. Shenna was sitting cross-legged in the center of
the floor, and the warlock was in his comer, leaning
against a wall. Annara was doing something with her belt
dagger and a bucket in another corner. Ederd and
Hamder were up in the loft, fetching Emner back from

his scouting mission.

It was a shame Emner knew no Semmat, and Sterren

could not be sure anyone in the castle spoke Ethsharitic
or Emner's native Lamumese; otherwise, he could have
used the wizard to establish contact with the besieged
Semmans. Nobody else in the party could levitate that
far; the witches could, working together, get one of their
number a good way off the ground—but only for a very
short time, nowhere near long enough to propel him or
her all the way to the castle ramparts. The warlock had
been able to fly in Ethshar, but here he was unable to lift

himself so much as an inch.

It occurred to Sterren for the first time that he could

send written messages back and forth—even if his own
Semmat was limited, especially in writing. Lady Kalira

was fluent and literate.

That was something to keep in mind—but then, what

would he say in a message? And Hamder had half killed
himself hauling Emner about on his scouting trip; getting
him in and out of the castle would be a major project.

Lawrence Watt-Evans          169

The whole project of winning the war was turning out
to be more work than he had hoped. His magicians,
while willing enough once they got started, seemed un-
able to think for themselves and needed to be told what
to do almost every step of the way. He had thought at
first that he could turn them loose and sit back and wait
for victory, but instead he found himself plotting and
planning constantly.

He wondered why he bothered. He had made his ges-
ture; why didn't he just pack up and go home to Eth-
shar?

There was Lady Kalira, of course, and the three sol-
diers, who might try to stop him, but he thought that he
could slip away if he tried, take a horse—or all the
horses, to prevent pursuit and give him something to sell
in Akalla to pay for passage—and make a dash for it.

The longer he stayed here, the more likely he was to
be captured or killed outright by the invaders. He wasn't
really doing Semma much good; only one enemy soldier
dead so far, after two days!

There were all those people in the castle depending on
him, but how much good could he really do them?

He thought it over, very seriously, and decided he
didn't know why he was staying.

Maybe he would flee, in a day or two.

But not yet.

r

Lawrence Watt-Evans           171

CHAPTER 21

He

_ J.e had still not fled by the twenty-first of Midwinter,
5220. In two sixnights of war, Sterren and his little band
had settled down into a calm routine. Each day, Sterren
and the magicians would pick away at the enemy, using
whatever stunts and devices they could come up with,
while the four Semmans would scout out a new hiding
place. Sterren did not think it would be safe to stay in the
same place two nights running, and it made the Semmans

feel useful.

He still had just the four Semmans with him. None of
them had deserted—if it would have been desertion,
under the circumstances—and no one else had turned up
who cared to join Sterren's guerrilla band.

So far as Sterren knew, no one had been able to slip
out of the castle; and if anyone had, he might well have
other plans, in any case.

Occasionally a peasant who had fled when the in-
vaders arrived and taken shelter with friends or relatives
not too far away would wander by to see if it was safe to
go home, but these people always left immediately once
they saw that the invading army was still there. None of
them ever volunteered to help Sterren and his crew.

Sterren got the impression from these strays that most
of the peasants who had lived in the village and sur-
rounding farms were now lurking quietly just beyond the
horizon, waiting for the war to be over and refusing to
get involved with a struggle that they saw as being the

170

aristocrats' affair and none of their business.

Lady Kalira denounced them as unpatriotic cowards;

Sterren and the three soldiers were less condemnatory.
After all, what could a few unarmed peasants do?

Even the three Semman soldiers weren't doing much.
It was the magicians who were waging the war, and the
Semmans did nothing but run errands.

Annara had become quite expert at the Explosive
Seal and had successfully booby-trapped books, tent
flaps, and even a pair of boots.

Actually, she had not ensorcelled the tent flaps them-
selves, merely the leather ties that laced them shut. The
witches had found it very difficult to put the laces back
without disturbing the seals.

She had not managed to do a saddle; the horse had
refused to stay sufficiently still.

The spell had four noticeable drawbacks.

First, it took half an hour, and any interruption during
that time, Annara insisted, could be disastrous. She
needed to be left strictly alone for the full time. That
meant that someone had to stand guard over her, and
that she could not be moved quickly if an emergency
arose. So far, no emergency had arisen, but Sterren wor-
ried about it all the same.

Second, she had to have whatever she was putting the
seal on right there in front of her, which meant that
somebody had to steal it away from the enemy, then put
it back again later. Emner and the witches had been able
to do this, using Emner's levitation spell or the witches'
little mind-twisters, but it was very risky, especially
when cautiously putting sealed tent ties back in place.

Third, the spell required a drop of dragon's blood for
each seal, and Annara had only had a tiny vial of the
stuff, perhaps a dozen drops in all. Emner was no help;

when asked, he said, "I never use the stuff. None of my
spells need it, and it's so expensive!"

Sterren knew it was expensive, and was amazed that
Annara hadn't sold hers long ago, but she explained,
"With it, and my other things, I'm a wizard and I can
work magic. Without my supplies, I'm just another char-
latan. And besides, if you hadn't turned up when you

172      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
did, I would have sold it. I just wasn't that desperate

yet."

Fourth, and finally, the seal was visible. It came out

either red or black—Annara was unable to explain why
it should be one or the other, rather than always the
same, but it seemed to vary at random between the two.

The seal itself was made of wax, and when Annara
used clear beeswax from a supply found in an abandoned
kitchen, she was able to enchant the stuff with Ekner-
wal's Lesser Invisibility so that the wax could not be
seen at all—but even then, the trace of dragon's blood
remained visible, shaped into a strange rune, and nothing

could be done to hide it.

That hadn't helped the owner of the boots, who
started to put them on in the dark and lost his right hand
and foot. It hadn't helped the lieutenant who opened the
first book, who had taken the rune to be mere ornament
^. and lost an eye and three fingers, as well as the book.
The first enchanted tent flap laid a soldier up with seri-
ous bums from shoulder to fingertip.

The owner of the second enchanted tent flap, how-
ever, had been more cautious and had carefully not dis-
turbed the rune. He slipped into his tent from the back,
crawling in the mud, and had then taken the tent down
entirely and moved it well away from camp before pok-
ing at the flap with a stick.

The resulting explosion burned the tent to ash, but

injured no one.

After that, the enemy knew what to look for, and the

use of the Explosive Seal changed somewhat. Annara no
longer bothered with the Lesser Invisibility and, instead
of seriously trying to injure anyone, she put the seal in
places where it would have maximum nuisance value.

For example, with all three witches standing guard,
convincing the few late-night passers-by that Annara ei-
ther wasn't there or had every right to be there perform-
ing her arcane ritual, she sealed the wheel of a water cart
to its axle hub. The seal blew the wheel off, terrifying the
horses, when it came time to haul the next load.

The warlock pointed out that one of the witches could
have done the same damage with a hammer, but Sterren

Lawrence Watt-Evans           173

thought the demoralizing effect was worth the special
effort.

He took the hint, though, and later sent the witches
around breaking spokes and cutting ropes.

The Ksinallionese army's financial records were
found with a seal on them, and a messenger was sent
home to fetch another copy, since no way could be found
to open them without incinerating them.

Two more tents were sealed and had to be taken
down and detonated.

All in all, Annara was earning her keep. So were the
witches who helped her.

Emner, with his levitation spell, had provided excel-
lent scouting reports, locating the enemy's headquarters
tents and counting the soldiers present, which turned out
to be about three hundred, not the full four hundred and
fifty. He had stunned a few sentries, when the witches
needed a distraction, and had made life miserable for a
few of the enemy for several hours by enchanting a cock-
roach to sing "Spices in the Hold," an old sea chanty,
loudly and off key for hours on end. That had only
stopped when one of the soldiers, more by luck than
skill, stamped on the roach.

That the roach was dead, Emner explained, made no
difference, as far as Galger's Singing Spell was con-
cerned, but a hard tap on the enchanted object was the
signal to stop. If somebody happened to step on the dead
insect again later, it would start singing again.

Unfortunately, nobody happened to step on the dead
roach.

In addition to helping the wizards, the witches had
pulled off several little tricks of their own. Shenna had
spoiled a hundredweight of meat and a wagonload of
vegetables, so that at least for a few days the besiegers
ate less than the besieged. Sentries had acquired the
habit of disappearing, then turning up dead in entirely
the wrong place—so much so that for the last three
nights there had been no sentries at all.

Only one water cart's load had been poisoned;

Shenna found it to be far more difficult than she had
thought. Furthermore, the result had a discernible odor

174

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

175

and a nasty taste, so that no one would take more than a
tiny sip before spitting the stuff out.

The warlock had not worked closely with the others.
He preferred to slip away by himself and pick off random
enemy soldiers. He did not need them to be nearby and
isolated, as the witches did. Also, where the witches'
victims turned up strangled or stabbed, the warlock's
simply fell over dead, without warning, without a mark
on them, in the midst of their friends and companions.

This had created a good deal of near-panic. The
witches reported picking up snatches of conversations
about curses and demons.

Unfortunately, the enemy officers had not allowed
this to get out of hand. They had even launched a coun-
terpropaganda campaign, arguing that this demonic ac-
tivity indicated that the evil Semman king had joined
forces with powers of darkness and had to be stopped
before he became more powerful.

The success of this argument was in doubt, but as yet
the invading army seemed to be holding up. Sterren had
no reports of desertion or mutiny.

There were certainly casualties, though. All in all,
Sterren counted forty-one dead and seven injured among
the enemy as a direct result of the magicians' efforts, and
in addition they had created considerable disorder. He
was pleased. Forty-eight men were a significant part of
the besieging army—and Sterren had not lost a single
person! His people had been spotted, on occasion, but so
far they had always escaped.

He had managed to establish communication with the
inhabitants of Semma Castle, too. Although the warlock
could not lift or push a person that far, and the witches
could only do so by utterly exhausting their reserves, the
warlock could, and did, send messages written on parch-
ment sailing over the enemy's encirclement and into the
castle, to drop into the courtyard there.

In reply, the people in the castle would run a green
banner up on the west ramparts and hang their own mes-
sage beneath it on a string. The warlock could usually
retrieve this without too much trouble.

Thus, Sterren knew that the castle's inhabitants were
far from comfortable. They were horribly overcrowded,

as over a hundred peasants had taken shelter within the
walls when the invaders arrived, in addition to the usual
dense population—and those peasants also added heav-
ily to the food consumption, of course, since none of
them had brought any significant amounts of food with
-them.

Fortunately, the winter stores had been safely inside
the walls when the invaders came. Even with all the ad-
ditional mouths to feed, the castle had plenty of food and
water, enough for at least another month.

In addition to the crowding and worry attendant upon
any siege, the attackers had siege machines in use that
dropped naming bundles into the castle every so often,
and at other times hurled heavy stones through windows
or even through roofs. The stable in the western court-
yard had been burned to the ground one night when a
watchman dozed off at his post. A dozen windows had
been smashed, and holes punched through three roofs.
Five people had been killed outright, a score injured, and
a great many were ill—overcrowding made isolation im-
practical and hygiene more difficult, and diseases of var-
ious sorts were getting out of hand. Lice were a
nuisance, too.

Sterren's three officers were apparently unable to or-
ganize a very coherent defense, and any thought of a
sortie was abandoned when they could not agree on who
would lead it.

That, somehow, did not surprise Sterren in the least.

And finally, the enemy was trying to undermine the
castle walls, and the defenders could not agree on what
to do about it. A few hastily trained Semman archers had
forced the attackers to stay under shelter, but that was
easy enough, given the village outside the gate; crude
galleries had been built connecting some of the houses
and shops, so that enemy sappers could approach with-
out exposing themselves to arrows.

With all this in mind, on this particular day, the
twenty-first of Midwinter, Sterren had resolved that it
was time to do something about the siege machines. The
sappers were a more serious problem in the long term,
but the siege machines would be easier to get at and
were doing more harm to the morale of the besieged.

176     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Their shelter, at the moment, was a partially burned
farmhouse to the northeast of the castle, and it was
there, on the morning of the twenty-first, that Sterren
gathered his entire band into a circle on the floor of the

main room.

"Emner," he said, "tell me about their siege ma-
chines."

Emner shrugged. "What can I tell you? They're siege

machines."

Sterren glared. "How many are there? What kinds?

Where are they?"

Emner coughed, embarrassed. "Oh," he said. "Well,
I'd say they have about half a dozen in all, mostly trebu-
chet catapults, but also a mounted ram. The ram's in the
village; the others are arranged in a ring around the cas-
tle, spaced out pretty evenly."

"What's a trebuchet?" Annara asked. Sterren was
pleased—partly because it meant she was paying atten-
tion, but mostly because now he didn't need to ask him-
self and show how little he knew.

"Well, it's like a big lever on a frame; there's a heavy
weight on one end, usually a big box filled with rocks,
and on the other end is a sling. There's a rope attached to
the sling end, and the rope winds around a drum at the
bottom of the frame. You wind the rope around the
drum, and it pulls the sling down and the weight-box up.
You load whatever you want to throw into the sling, re-
lease the rope, the weight falls, and whap, the sling flies
up and throws whatever you put in it. Depending on
what weight you use, it can toss up to, oh, three hundred
pounds, I'd say, over a castle wall from safely outside
archery range. Anything heavier than that and the
frame's likely to break."

Sterren nodded; whatever his other faults, Emner was
good at descriptions. Sterren felt he had a good, clear
picture of how these catapults worked.

That didn't mean he knew what to do about them.
"Is there some way we can bum them all?" he asked.
The witches looked at each other, while Annara and
Emner blinked and shrugged.

"What sort of wood are they?" Hamder asked.

Lawrence Watt-Evans

177

"Um... ironwood, I think. Maybe oak. Something
very hard and strong," Emner replied.

"I can't kindle that," Shenna said. "Sorry."

"Not me," Ederd said.

Hamder shook his head.

Sterren looked at Annara.

"I don't think so," she said. "All I have that can bum
things is the Explosive Seal, and that generally won't set
anything more than paper or oilcloth on fire. And be-
sides, I meant to tell you, I only have enough dragon's
blood left for one more seal, and not a very big one,
either."

That was unpleasant news; the Explosive Seal had
been one of their best resources. He turned to the four
Semmans, who were huddled against one wall, looking
bored.

"Does anyone in the castle," he said in Semmat,
"have... ah... from an animal that makes fire..." As he
spoke, he was vaguely aware that the witches were whis-
pering with Emner about something.

"A dragon?" Lady Kalira asked. "There are dragons
in the mountains north of Lumeth of the Towers, but
they've never come this far south."

"Not the whole dragon, just the... the stuff. Red
stuff. From inside." Sterren knew he had heard the Sem-
mat word for "blood," but he could not think of it.

"Blood? Dragon's blood?" Alder asked.

"Yes! Blood. Dragon's blood."

"I never heard of anybody who had any," Lady Kalira
replied. "Why? Is it good for something?"

"Annara needs it for her magic."

The four Semmans looked at one another, then back
at Sterren. "Sorry," Alder said.

Sterren sighed and switched back to Ethsharitic.
"About these catapults..."

"From Emner's description, they're too»big for us to
move," Hamder said. "Especially if it's really iron-
wood."

"It takes ten men to move one, even with the
wheels," Emner explained.

"And witches may use magic instead of arms and legs
and backs, but thev aren't anv stronger than Ophkarite

178 ,    THE UNWILLING WARLORD

or Ksinallionese soldiers, even so," Shenna said.

"Can you break them, somehow?"

Shenna and Hamder started to glance at each other,
but Ederd flatly stated, "No. Not if they're as strongly

made as Emner says."

Emner shrugged apologetically. "They need to be
strong to heave rocks that big," he said.

"All right," Sterren said, "the witches can't do any-
thing. What about you, Emner?"

"I can make them whistle or sing, but that's all. I'm
sorry." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Sterren turned to Annara, but before he could speak,
she said, "Not without more dragon's blood, and proba-
bly not then."

That left the warlock.

"I don't know," he said. "I can't bum the frames, nor
break them outright, not in my present condition, but I
might be able to break some of the ropes, or do some
other damage. I don't have the straight lifting power
these witches have here, but I believe I can do subtler
things—crackings and frayings and twistings—that they

cannot.

"Crackings?" Emner looked thoughtful, and said, "If

you could crack the main crosspiece, the lever, while
they were preparing to fire, the whole machine would
probably come apart under the strain."
"That would be perfect," Sterren said.
The warlock shrugged. "I can try," he said.
"Good," Sterren replied. "And you will."

CHAPTER 22

VY ill this do?" Sterren asked, pointing.
The warlock crept up beside him and peered over the
ridgepole. "I think so," he said. "I can see the structure
from here, anyway."

Sterren nodded. "Good," he said, "Because we can't
find anywhere better that's half this safe."

The warlock glanced at him. "Why did you come with
me, then, if it's dangerous?" he asked.

Sterren was not really sure himself. He shrugged and
said, "I get tired of just hearing reports. I wanted to see
some of the action for myself." He did not really want to
think about that any more; it only reminded him just how
dangerous his situation actually was, perched on a roof-
top a hundred yards from an enemy camp. He changed
the subject.

"How's your head today?"

"Better—or at least different," the warlock said.

"Different? How is it different?"

The warlock hesitated, then said, "Maybe I'm just
getting used to it."

It seemed to Sterren that his mysterious black-clad
companion was being unusually talkative today, and he
decided to try to take advantage of that to get a few
answers to mysteries that had been bothering him.

"You know," he said, "I never heard of warlocks hav-
ing headaches like yours. That's not what the stories say
happens when you move south."

179

180 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"I never heard of it, either," the warlock said. "I don't

understand it."

"It is somehow related to your magic, isn't it?" Ster-

ren asked.

"Oh, I would say so." He hesitated, then continued,

"You're a warlock yourself, aren't you? I thought I could
see that, before we got so far south and I lost my finer

perceptions."

"Not really," Sterren admitted, "I failed my appren-
ticeship."

"Ah, that would explain it entirely! It took me a long
time, you know, to decide that you were one—you
didn't act like one, but you seemed to know the art, and
I could feel something in your mind. I thought you were
just keeping it secret for some reason."

"No," Sterren said, "I might have a trace of the
Power, but I'm not really a warlock. I won more than I
should at dice, back in Ethshar, but that's all."

The warlock nodded. "Then you wouldn't know," he

said.

"Know what?"

"What it feels like to use the Power."

"No," Sterren agreed, "I don't know. What is it like?"

"Well, it's hard to explain. It's as if something—not
someone, because it clearly isn't human, but something,
perhaps a god or a demon or something we don't have a
name for—is whispering in your mind, and you can't
understand anything it's saying, you can't be sure it's
words at all, but you can pull strength from it all the
same. You can take the sound of the whisper and re-
shape it and use it to feel and shape and change the
world around you. Do you understand?"

Sterren almost thought he did. He nodded, but said

nothing.

"And after you've used warlockry a lot, the whisper is
always there, always, whether you're listening or not,
using the Power or not, awake or asleep. It's a constant
background and it gets a little louder each time you draw
on it. And it's trying to tell you something, but you don't

know what."

He paused, then said, "You know about the night-

Lawrence Watt-Evans

181

It was not a question, but Sterren nodded again.
"The nightmares are when the whisper begins to make
sense. You still can't make out .the words, still can't tell
what it's trying to tell you, or what's whispering, but you
catch bits of it, little bits and pieces of images. And you
can't shut them out; the whisper is always there, it won't
go away, and those images seep into your mind little by
little." He shivered.

"And^when you came south?" Sterren prompted.
"When I came south," the warlock said, "the whisper-
ing faded away. It was wonderful at first; I could forget
the little glimmers of meaning I'd been catching, and the
nightmares stopped. I couldn't hear the whisper at all.
But then, when we headed inland, I started to hear buzz-
, ing"

Startled, Sterren stared at him. "Buzzing?" he said.
"Humming, buzzing, something like that. It's not
really a sound, it's a source, a mental sensation, like the
whisper—but this one isn't a voice, isn't an intelligence
at all, it's a mindless drone, like a beehive or a millstone.
And.... well, have you ever lived somewhere where you
hear some unpleasant noise constantly^ A loud one? It
gives you a headache." He sighed. "But after a while,
you get used to it and, in time, you don't even notice it
any more. I expect that eventually I won't notice this
any more. At present, I'm still constantly aware of it, but
my head doesn't hurt."
Sterren nodded.

He thought he understood the analogy the wariock
made and had an idea what it must feel like—but he had
no idea what could be causing the buzzing the warlock
described.

But then, nobody knew what the Aldagmor Source
was, either. Presumably there was another, different one
somewhere near Semma, one that had never created its
own magicians the way the Aldagmor Source liad back in
5202, but which warlocks could perceive.

"If it's like the Source," he asked, "can you draw
Power from it?"

The warlock looked at him, startled. "I have no idea,"
he said. "I haven't been able to so far; it doesn't offer
Power the way the Source does. But it... I don't know."

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He chopped his words off short and stopped speaking.

Sterren decided not to push the matter. He pe.ered
over the farmhouse ridgepole and said, "I think they're
getting ready to load. It looks like pitch. A ball of pitch. I
suppose they'll light it right before they release."

The warlock stared. "Yes," he said.

"Can you crack the beam?"

The warlock didn't answer; Sterren glanced over and
saw his jaw clenched with strain, his eyes narrowed.

Sterren shaded his eyes with a hand and stared at the
trebuchet. Was the beam starting to bend a little more
than it should, perhaps?

He shifted, squinted, and stared harder.

The catapult exploded. One moment it was there, the
crosspiece bending only slightly; and the next instant the
entire superstructure was gone, lost in a spreading cloud
of red-hot debris. The great wooden bucket of stones
that served as the counterweight crashed to the ground
and shattered, the ball of pitch burst into flame and
rolled back onto the crew that had just loaded it, and the
framework simply vanished in the burst of glowing frag-
ments. The earth shook, and a tremendous rolling roar
reached the two men on the rooftop.

Sterren gaped and clung desperately to the thatch as
the building swayed beneath him.

A long moment later, burning splinters began to rain
down about him, spattering onto the thatch. The scent of
burning reached his nose, and he began sliding quickly
backward down the slope.

He stopped at the edge and looked back up the slope.

The warlock was still lying there on the roof, but
nothing touched him; fragments that might have struck
him instead swerved aside as they approached.

"Gods," Sterren said, "What happened?"

The warlock turned and grinned down at him, by far
the broadest smile Sterren had ever seen on that dour
face. "Can't you guess?" he said. "It was your idea, you
know."

Sterren shook his head.

"I've tuned into the buzzing; I'm drawing Power from
it. I'm fis powerful as I ever was!" He rose upright, in a
totally unnatural manner; his hands and knees never

moved, but his body simply swung up unsupported.
Once standing, he lifted further, up into the air. His black
robe spread into great napping wings, and he laughed
triumphantly. "Sterren," he called, "there are no voices!
It's just Power, nothing but Power!" He laughed again,
and thunder rolled overhead.

The warlock looked up at the sound, and, without
warning, a bolt of lightning flashed down and incinerated
the remaining fragments of the catapult.

The lightning was not the natural blue-white; it was a
fiery orange-red. Warlock lightning. Sterren had heard of
it, but never seen it.

Another bolt struck off to the left, destroying another
catapult; then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and the
enemy's long-range arsenal was gone.

The wind was rising, and Sterren decided that a roof
was not a good place to be. He was unsure how com-
pletely the warlock was actually controlling this sudden
storm and did not care to risk a miscalculation—or even
a deliberate attack, since after all, he hardly knew the
warlock. He slid down until his feet caught on the ladder
they had used to climb up, then descended quickly.

Thunder boomed again, and this time even the
thunder was clearly unnatural—it was great rolling
laughter.

It was recognizably the warlock's voice.

He hurried around the comer of the house and was in
time to see the wind sweeping soldiers off their feet,
knocking them flat to the ground.

The wind stopped, and the braver Ksinallionese—
Sterren had learned the different uniforms and could see
no Ophkarites on this side of the castle—got to their feet
again.

The thunder-voice spoke again, in words this time.

"Go home!" it roared, "This land is under the protec-
tion ofVond the Warlock! To stay here is to die!"

Then, again, laughter rolled across the plain.

Sterren saw the enemy milling in confusion at first;

then a mounted officer panicked and spurred his horse to
a gallop, bound north toward Ksinallion.

Panic spread like a wave through the besiegers, rip-
pling out from that fleeing lieutenant, and in minutes the

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185

entire army was in full flight, pursued by howling unnat-
ural winds.

Their morale had been deteriorating for days—men
dying mysteriously, explosive booby traps scattered
about, strange figures flying overhead invulnerable to
arrows. This supernatural storm and voice like an angry
god was more than these frightened soldiers could take.
Individually or in groups, they broke and ran, bound for
their homes.

Sterren did not blame them in the least for running.
He stood and watched, smiling happily, as the storm
swept on around the castle, driving the besieging army
away from every side.

He had won the war. He and his six magicians had
defeated fifty times their number. He was safe from exe-
cution by either side. In fact, he would be a hero to the
Semmans.

He looked up at the warlock, hanging in mid-air, his
black robe transformed into immense black wings that
gave him the appearance of a hovering hawk, and waved
triumphantly.

Vond, as the warlock had called himself, returned the
wave. Thunder rumbled about him, and clouds gathered
thickly overhead, ready to burst.

Sterren looked at the distant castle. The inhabitants
had a celebration coming. They were saved.

At least, Sterren corrected himself, they were saved
from Ophkar and Ksinallion. He supposed they would
now have to deal with Vond—he would presumably
want to stay here permanently, away from the whisper-
ing of Aldagmor. Having so powerful a warlock around
the place might well change a few things. He might not
be satisfied with the handful of gold and gems he had
been promised. At the very least, Agor would probably
be displaced as royal magician in short order.

But, Sterren thought, his grin returning, that wasn't
his problem.

He remembered the peasants whose only interest in
the siege was knowing when it would be over, so they
could go home, regardless of who won. They probably
wouldn't care about anything Vond did, either. It wasn't
their problem.

King Phenvel might have a problem. Agor might have

a problem. Any number of other people might have

problems.

Right now, Sterren felt as if he had none at all.
Vond probably felt the same way, Sterren thought,

and a tiny little thought poked its way into his mind, like

a pin working into a quilt.

If the warlock thought his problems were gone, he

was wrong; he definitely had a very real problem.
Sterren looked up, wondering if Vond knew.
The storm broke suddenly, and sparkling blue rain

spilled heavily down, soaking him instantly. He looked

up, blinking, and saw Vond hanging in the sky, cloak

spread, head thrown back, laughing wildly as the sheets

of rain parted before him, leaving him untouched and

dry.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           187

CHAPTER 23

£

vent.ually, of course, Vond landed again. Sterren was
stubborn enough to wait for him.

He was not stubborn enough to wait out in the rain,
though. He ducked into the little farmhouse and tried in
vain to dry off, glancing out the windows every so often
to see if Vond had tired of playing with the storm.

The clouds were rained away completely somewhat
before sunset, but the warlock stayed aloft, whipping the
winds back and forth, sending sprays of sand and rock
hither and yon. The besieging armies were long since
gone, leaving behind scattered bits of equipment and
trash, strewn across a sea of mud.

Sterren saw no bodies, but he suspected a few might
be out there. He noticed that much of the village sur-
rounding Semma Castle had been flattened, not just the
sappers' ramshackle structures or the lightly built shops,
but the solid original houses as well.

The sun was down, and the last light fading, when the
warlock finally settled to earth.

"Hai," Sterren called from his shelter. "Congratula-
tions!"

Vond turned, spotted him in the window, and bowed.
"Thank you, my lord," he said. He smiled. "Gods, that
felt good! To be able to let myself go, use all the power I
wanted, without worrying about those damned night-
mares—it was wonderful!"

Sterren did not bother going around to the door. He

186

hoisted himself up into the window and was about to
drop down on the outside when he felt an invisible grasp
close about him and pull him free of the frame.

He floated smoothly over and found himself hanging
in the air in front of the warlock.

This was disconcerting, but not particularly uncom-
fortable. Sterren flexed a little and found he could move
freely, but that no matter how he moved he remained
floating in the same spot, a couple of yards from the
warlock's face.

"Hello, there," he said.

"Hello," Vond replied, grinning broadly.

Sterren shifted, getting a bit more comfortable in his
unnatural elevation. He considered carefully exactly
what he ought to say and finally just asked, "What hap-
pened?"

"Well," Vond said thoughtfully, "I'm not sure of all
the details. Somehow, though, I tapped into the buzz,
and then I had all the power I wanted, all at once." He
waved at the desolation on all sides, displaying his handi-
work.

Sterren nodded, contemplating the wasteland. "And
you aren't worried about nightmares?" he asked. "What
if this new source is just like the one in Aldagmor, in the
long run?" While the warlock had been reveling in his
new power, Sterren had spent much of the storm consid-
ering the various possibilities and he felt that it would be
unfair to not point the many possible dangers out to
Vond.

Vond shook his head. "It isn't. It can't be. I'd know."

Sterren didn't reply, but the warlock read his doubting
expression.

"You think I'm being reckless, don't you? Don't
worry, Sterren, I'm not. I tell you, I know this new
source isn't like the old. Whatever the Source in Aldag-
mor is, it's conscious, or at least run by a conscious en-
tity—I've known that since I was an apprentice. We
warlocks always have a vague feeling of contact, of com-
munication, when we use our magic, and besides, surely
the nightmares and the Calling to go to Aldagmor are
sent by something."

Sterren nodded. He had to admit that much.

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189

"Well," Vond said, "This power source does not seem
to be conscious—it's just raw power. When I used the.
Aldagmor Source, as I told you, it was like listening to a
whisper, hearing it but not catching the words. Using this
new source is like listening to the hum of a bee—there
are no words, just sound."

"But if that's so, then why aren't there any warlocks
here already, drawing on this source?" Sterren asked.
"They don't even have a word for warlock in Semmat!"
"I can only guess," Vond said.
"Guess, then," Sterren said.

Vond waved dramatically. "Warlockry, my dear Ster-
ren, first appeared on the Night of Madness, back in
5202—you know that. That was when the Source first
appeared in Aldagmor. It created warlockry, all at once;

warlocks appeared spontaneously, hundreds of them. It
was... well, it was as if the thing let out one shout, to
get people listening, and then its voice died away to that
whisper I keep talking about."
Sterren nodded.

"Well," Vond continued, "this new source never
shouted. There's no telling what it is, or how long it's
been there, but it could mean a whole new existence for
warlocks, because if it's not conscious, then it won't
cause any nightmares or compulsions, now, will it?"

"I don't know," Sterren said, "and neither do you.
Maybe it's just sleeping. Maybe the one in Aldagmor was
just sleeping there, all along, until it woke up in 5202,
and this one could wake up tomorrow."

"Or it could sleep for another thousand years, if
you're right," Vond said, "But you aren't. I csmfeel it, I
tell you; this new source is dead, not just sleeping. It
was never alive and never will be. It's totally mindless."

"You're the one taking the risks," Sterren said, "so
it's none of my business, really, but Vond, I wouldn't put
that much faith in it if I were you. How do you know it
isn't sleeping? You can't know. Your feelings could be

wrong."

Vond shook his head. "No, you don't understand
what it's like. I can use the power itself to tell me
whether it's conscious, sleeping, alive, dead, whatever.

It's mindless, empty—like a... a running stream, or a
millwheel grinding."

Sterren was still uneasy, but saw no point in further
argument on that particular subject. Vond was clearly
not eager to consider any negative aspects to his situa-
tion just now, and after all, anything Sterren could say
would be mere guesswork. "I hope you're right," he
said.

"I know I'm right," Vond replied.

"If you are," Sterren said, nettled by Vond's certainty,
"then why hasn't anybody found this thing before? Even
if it never made its own warlocks, the way the Aldagmor
Source did, there have been warlocks for twenty years,
and you can't be the first one to ever come south."

"I may be the first one to ever come this far south,"
Vond replied.

Sterren conceded the point, but said, "Even so—"

Vond cut him off. "Maybe," he said, "I'm somehow
different. Perhaps I'm unique, the only warlock who can
use this new source—it is a bit different, after all, and I
might never have... have listened to it, if you hadn't
suggested it."

"Did you ever think you weren't like other warlocks
before this happened?"

"No, not really. I was getting very powerful, of
course. The power increases with use as one becomes
attuned to it, better able to listen in to the Source, as it
were, and I'd been listening very closely for quite some
time. Lord Azrad hired me to dredge the harbor last
year.^you know, and I did it singlehanded, and... well,
after that, the whisper was more of a mutter, and then
...well."

"The nightmares," Sterren said.

"Eventually, yes. And then you came along, and here
we are."

Sterren decided to stop looking for flaws". For one
thing, he had not even mentioned what he saw as the
most likely long-term problem, but seeing how easily
Vond had hauled him out of the window, he had a certain
uneasiness about the warlock's new power and he
thought he might someday want Vond to have problems.

Not that he had any intention of telling the warlock

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191

that. "And so here you are with this new source of
magic," he said, smiling. "Congratulations!"

"Yes, isn't it wonderful? I was straining hard, trying
to listen to the old Source, to draw enough power to
crack that beam, and I was ignoring the buzz. Then I
thought about what you said and tried to listen to the
buzz, too, and then it wasn't a buzz anymore, it was
something entirely different, something that I could draw
power from, and it was close and strong and I was more
powerful than I ever was back in Ethshar!"

"It's close?" Sterren asked. He had somehow as-
sumed that the buzz came from somewhere beyond the
edge of the World, and was a good distance away.

"I think so—in that direction." He pointed off
vaguely northwest—but then, Sterren thought, almost
the entire World lay to the northwest of Semma. This
new source was not beyond the edge of the World, but
that didn't really narrow it down much.

The two men looked at each other, glanced around at
the storm-blasted plain, and then simultaneously started
to speak. They stopped, and Sterren gestured for Vond
to speak first.

"I'd say the war is won," the warlock said. "Now
what do we do?"

"I'd say," Sterren replied, "that we go to the castle
and collect our rewards."

Vond nodded. "Sounds good to me," he said.

"We'll want to get the others," Sterren pointed out.

"That's no problem," Vond said, "I'll bring them."
With that, he rose again into the air and began soaring
toward Semma Castle.

Sterren, quite without any action on his part, sailed
along close behind and he glanced back to see other fig-
ures being swept up and carried along in similar fashion
—he spotted Annara by her distinctive purple robe, and
Lady Kalira by her red gown, and Adier and Dogal by
their size and armament. The other five were just black
dots at first.

A moment later they were all standing at the castle
gate, ranged in two neat rows, Sterren and Vond in the
front row center. An unearthly glow of Vond's making
played across them all and lit the area a pale gold.

A sentry peered timidly over the ramparts above.
"Hai," Sterren shouted, remembering at the last min-
ute to use Semmat. "It's I, Sterren, Ninth Warlord, and

my comrades! Open the gate!"

The soldier hesitated. "But,, my lord," he said, "the

invaders..."

"The invaders are gone," Sterren replied. "The war is
over!"

The sentry glanced uneasily out across the ruins of
the village, where Vond's storm had indeed ripped away
every trace of the sappers' shelters and most of the other
buildings as well. "They're really gone?" he asked.

"All of them," Sterren assured him. "The war is over.
We won."

"Sterren," Vond said, speaking Ethsharitic, "I can
open the gates."

"I know," Sterren replied in the same tongue, "but
let's be polite about it. Give them another five minutes."

"Five minutes, then."

Sterren switched back to Semmat and said, "The ma-
gician who made the storm is becoming impatient. He
says in five minutes, if the gate is still closed, he'll smash
it to pieces."

The sentry immediately said, "Yes, my lord. I'll have
it open in a moment."

It took about a minute and a half before the gate
swung wide, and Sterren thought he saw disappointment
on Vond's face as the whole party marched in.

PART THREE

Warlock

CHAPTER 24

C

tJterren was uneasy even before he led his victorious
little squad into the throne room. They had been kept
waiting in the antechamber considerably longer than he
had expected. Most of the party had taken it well—after
all, the Semmans were used to their king's foibles, and
the others had not known what to expect—but Vond
seemed noticeably impatient.

Sterren found that he really did not tike the idea of
being around someone as powerful as Vond when he got
impatient.

He marched into the throne room neither meekly nor
belligerently, but with the best approximation of calm
assurance that he could manage, and found Vond on his
right hand, sweeping forward a few inches off the floor,
while the others straggled along behind rather hapha-
zardly.

j      As he marched in, while he kept his face turned
straight forward toward the king, as protocol demanded,
his eyes were flickering back and forth, taking in as
much as he could of the people gathered there.

The soldiers who stood in ragged lines on either side
mostly looked either bewildered or bored; Sterren sus-
pected that not a one of them really knew what was
going on. Behind them, he could see a significant per-
centage of the castle's noble population and he tried to
read their expressions without letting his own interest
show.

10C

196     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

He saw a wide variety of emotions—puzzlement, de-
light, anger—but the dominant reaction to the arrival of
Semma's warlord and his party appeared to be poorly

suppressed fear.

That did not bode well.
Remembering the violence of the warlock's storm,

however, Sterren could not say it was an unreasonable

reaction.

He spotted the king's children huddled to the left of

the throne; the faces of Lura and Dereth were alight with
excitement. Nissitha's mouth was drawn up in her usual

expression of polite distaste.

Shin-in's expression was unmistakably wide-eyed ad-
oration.

Sterren stopped at the appropriate distance from the

throne and bowed.

Vond stopped beside him and condescended to dip his

head slightly. Sterren saw this from the corner of his eye
and was relieved; it was not a bow, but at least it was
something. He had worried that Vond would go out of
his way to antagonize Phenvel, with Sterren caught in
the middle. Given how frightened most of the Semmans
looked, and how easily fear might turn to anger, he very

much wanted to avoid any open antagonism.

"So you're finally back!" the king said, and Sterren's

hope for peace and amity faded.

"We returned as quickly as we could, your Majesty,"

he said, his tone as ingratiating as he could manage—
which was quite ingratiating indeed, as he had acquired
years of practice with creditors and innkeepers. "The

wind was not in our favor."

"You had magicians with you, didn't you?" King

Phenvel demanded.

"Only on the way back, your Majesty, and none of

them could... could turn the wind," Sterren explained.

The king stared at him, then snapped, "Are you trying
to tell me that little breeze we had today was naturalT'

Sterren blinked. "Oh, no, your Majesty," he said,
"That was the... the work of Vond the Warlock." Ster-
ren gestured at the warlock. "However, it's a spell he
... it's new, a spell he had not... urn, not learned yet
during our journey." He wished he knew Semmat better.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           197

Even what he did know was somewhat rusty, since he
had mostly been using Ethsharitic for the last few six-
nights, talking far more to the magicians than to Lady
Kalira and the three soldiers.

Furthermore, the obvious hostility was making him
nervous, so that he was forgetting some of what he did

know.

Vond recognized his name and bowed slightly in ac-
knowledgment.

"Ah," the king said, "so he found some way to study
the arcane arts while hiding from the invaders, rather
than fighting?"

Sterren was shocked at this snide question, with its
implications of cowardice and incompetence. "Your Maj-
esty," he replied, "Vond defeated the armies of Ophkar
and Ksinallion, almost by himself."

"And took his own sweet time doing it, too! I suppose
he thinks he'll be getting more money out of me by mak-
ing it look hard, but he won't, and neither will any of
these other sorry specimens you've dragged back here.
One storm and the enemy ran! The gold and gems I gave
you are too generous for such a sorry performance!"

Sterren could think of no reply to this. He did, how-
ever, find himself sympathizing with the rulers of Ophkar
and Ksinallion who had ordered the invasion.

"Besides," the king continued, "the war is hardly over
merely because we won a battle. I'll need to send am-
bassadors to arrange a peace and settle terms, won't I? If
you'd gotten a surrender, instead of a rout, I could have
given terms to the warlords and saved some time."

This hardly struck Sterren as a major problem, but he
managed to avoid saying anything disrespectful by say-
ing nothing.

"And furthermore," the king said, "what about the
mess you people left? Half the village is ruined, there's
mud everywhere, and all that wind blew tiles-off half the
roofs and took the banners right off the flagpoles. I went
up to the tower and looked, and it looks awful! And I
don't suppose any of your magicians would dirty their
hands with cleaning it up! No, don't say anything, war-
lord, I won't ask them to; I'll have my people see to it.
You can pay your magicians and send them home now;

198     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

we won't be needing them around here any more."

He waved a dismissal, but Sterren found, to his own
astonishment, that he was not willing to be dismissed
yet. "Your Majesty," he said, trying hard not to clench
his teeth disrespectfully, "I did not start this stupid war. I
ended it, as quickly as I could. I had... had hoped that
you would... would show more..." His Semmat failed
him completely.

"Gratitude?" Phenvel practically sneered. "Gratitude,
for doing the job you were born to? Warlord, if you had
fought the enemy properly, with sword and shield, I
might be more respectful, but to bring in wizards and
witches is hardly a courageous act. It's the doing of a
merchant, not a warlord, and what I expect from some-
one three-quarters Ethsharitic, not a true Semman at
all!"

"Not for me!" Sterren said, outraged, "I don't want
anything for me! For them, the magicians! They left
home to come here and fight for you!"

"I didn't ask for them," King Phenvel retorted. "And
they've been paid. And who the hell are they all, any-
way? A ragged-looking bunch, I must say!"

Sterren stared at the king's slippered feet and forced
himself to calm down. When he was once again in con-
trol of himself, he said, "If I might present them, your
Majesty?"

"Go ahead," the king said, with a nonchalant wave.

Sterren gestured to his right. "Vond the Warlock, late
of Ethshar of the Spices." He switched to Ethsharitic
and said, "Vond, this is his Majesty, Phenvel, Third of
that Name, King of Semma."

Vond bowed, mockingly.

Sterren ignored the mockery and turned.

"Annara of Crookwall, journeyman wizard," he said.

Annara curtseyed deeply. The king nodded politely.

"Shenna of Chatna, witch."

Shenna, too, curtseyed, moving more briskly than
gracefully. Her skirt was so thoroughly soaked that this
sent a spatter of mud onto courtiers at one side of the
hall.

"Chatna," said the king, "Where is that?"

"In the Small Kingdoms, my lord," Shenna said, in

Lawrence Watt-Evans          199

slurred Semmat, "Just inland of Morria, near the Gulf of
the East."

Sterren was startled, both by this information and by
Shenna's use of Semmat. He had assumed Chatna to be
an Ethsharitic village somewhere and he had not realized
that Shenna had bothered to pick up any of the local
language during her stay in Semma.

Not that she knew it well, since she had used entirely
the wrong title.

He gathered his wits quickly and continued with the
introductions, hoping that Phenvel would not criticize
the error in protocol.

"Ederd of Eastwark, witch. Emner of Lamum, wiz-
ard. Hamder Hamder's son, witch."

Each bowed in turn.

"Lamum?" Phenvel asked.

"A kingdom on the Eastern Highway, your Majesty,"
Sterren replied, before Emner could react, "just across
the border from the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars."
He was pleased that he had remembered that bit of
trivia.

"Sterren," Vond said, during the momentary lull while
/the king absorbed the introductions, "what the hell is
going on?"

Sterren ignored him long enough to ask, "Your Maj-
esty, may I translate your words to the magicians? Most
of them speak no Semmat."

Phenvel waved a hand. "Go ahead," he said.

Sterren turned to Vond and said quickly, "He's been
making an ass of himself, complaining that we took too
long to get back here and too long to break the siege and
that the storm damaged the castle and he'll have to have
his people clean up the mess it left. I don't know why
he's in such a foul mood; he's been gratuitously insulting
to all of us, particularly you and me. I think it might be
because he's scared to death of you."

He noticed that Annara and Emner were listening
closely, and added, "He's probably scared of all of you.
Magic is scarce around here."

"I suppose that means no more pay and no big cele-
bration," Emner said.

"I'm afraid not," Sterren agreed.

200     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"Ah," Vond said, "I'm not really surprised. That's
rather what it sounded like. Has he said what he expects

us to do now?"

"He expects you to take your pay and go home. I

haven't yet mentioned that you may not want to."

The warlock shrugged. "You don't need to tell him;

he'll see for himself soon enough. Do you think you
could arrange us some rooms for the night, though? It's

getting late."

"I was planning on it; dinner, too."
"Good." The wizards nodded agreement, and Sterren

turned back to the throne.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I ask a favor of you. These
six magicians have fought for you. Please, give them
food and shelter here for a few days, to rest after their
efforts. We ask no more than that."

Relief flashed quickly across the king's face, then
vanished. "Granted," he said. "We have dined, but I'm
sure the kitchens can provide for you, and my chamber-
lain will find accommodations. You may go."

Sterren bowed and started to back out.

"Wait a minute," the king said, holding up a hand,
"Lady Kalira, didn't you take six soldiers with you?"

"Yes, your Majesty," Lady Kalira replied.

"I see only three now and I had asked to see your full
party; what happened to the others? Wounded? Killed?" •

"Deserted, your Majesty, while we were in Ethshar."

"Deserted?" King Phenvel said, aghast.

Lady Kalira nodded. Sterren, hearing the king's tone,

wished she had lied a little.

"Warlord, I am not pleased at all. Three desertions!"
Actually, he sounded as if he were quite pleased.
Sterren guessed that he was happy to have something
with which to rebuke his warlord, should the occasion

arise.

Sterren started to phrase a reply, then thought better

of it. Pointing out that desertion spoke worse of Semma
in general than of his performance as warlord would only
make trouble. "Yes, your Majesty," he said. He looked
up and met Phenvel's eyes. He was not ashamed of any
part of what he had done. After all, he had won the war,

Lawrence Watt-Evans           201

or at least the battle, whatever Phenvel might say.

The king met his gaze for a moment, then turned an-
grily away. "All right, then, you may go!"
. Sterren bowed, and he and the magicians went, bound
for the kitchens and dinner.

CHAPTER 25

J. he long climb to.his chamber, after the long and be-
wildering day, was exhausting, and Sterren fell into his
bed and lay staring at the canopy for only a moment
before falling asleep.

During that moment he thought about the conversa-
tion in the kitchens, held as the magicians ate the best
meal they had eaten in sixnights.

The kitchens, and for that matter the corridors and
halls, were full of peasants who had taken shelter in the
castle during the siege, but the magicians had no diffi-
culty in establishing their right to privacy. A wave of
Vond's hand had sent the refugees scurrying, leaving the
new arrivals alone.

They had discussed the division of their pay. Every-
one conceded that Vond deserved the lion's share, but
the other magicians felt that they, too, had contributed
something and that their demoralization of the enemy
had made the warlock's triumph easier.

Vond had said almost nothing during this, but had
nodded calm acceptance when Sterren proposed that
each of the other five be paid one full gold piece, and   ,
that Vond receive the other five and all the gems.

Sterren had gone on to apologize for the poor recep-
tion the king had given them, and all six had been won-
derfully understanding. Shenna had made a few bitter  |
remarks, but had carefully not directed them at Sterren.

Vond had said nothing, then.

202

Lawrence Watt-Evans           203

The conversation had shifted to whether or not they
should all head directly back to Ethshar. The wizards
and witches discussed various ideas without reaching
any conclusions.

Vond had stated simply, "I'm staying here," and said
nothing more.

The party had broken up not long after that, and ser-
vants had escorted the magicians to rooms in the south
wing. Sterren had wearily ascended to his own room in
the tower. His last sight of the warlock was not reassur-
ing; Vond was clearly very much awake, unlike the rest
of the party, and was looking about intently as he fol-
lowed the footman down the crowded passage.

Vond's entire manner worried Sterren, but he was too
tired to really think about it. He closed his eyes and
slept.

It seemed just a moment later that a distant rumble
awoke him. He blinked, and saw sunlight pouring into
his chamber, and realized it was midmoming.

The rumble sounded again, and he felt the bed shift
slightly beneath him. He realized that bright, unob-
structed sunlight was pouring in. The rumble was not
thunder.

He sat up, startled.

The rumble sounded again, and despite the trembling
of the bed he thought it came from the outside. He slid
from the bed and crossed to the window.

The view had changed since last he saw it. The castle
roofs were spattered with broken tiles and shards of
stone, wood, and tile. The outer houses of the village
were gone. The rolling countryside was no longer a neat
patchwork of farm and field, sprinkled with houses and
barns, but a great expanse of mud and wreckage, strewn
with all manner of debris.

And directly before him, a half mile or so away, a
black-robed figure was hanging in mid-air, -arms spread
wide, cloak flapping like wings, and below him the earth
itself was splitting open. The sandy mud had washed
back to either side, forming a deep pit easily a hundred
yards across—and not just the mud, but the clay be-
neath, down to the hard bedrock.

Then the rumble came again, and as Sterren watched

204 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

an immense block of that bedrock rose up into the air
toward the hovering warlock.

The block was rectangular, and by comparing it to
Vond—for the flying man could hardly be anybody else
—Sterren judged it to be about ten feet high, fifteen feet
long, and five feet thick, give or take a foot or three in
any dimension.

The block hovered for a moment, then slid sideways
through the air, and dropped to the ground.

The rumble sounded again, and again, and again, and
another block lifted into the air, slid sideways, and
landed on top of the first. The cutting and lifting went
more quickly this time.

A third and a fourth were added to the stack, and the
cutting was just beginning on a fifth when someone
pounded loudly on the door.

"Lord Sterren?"

Sterren started for the wardrobe, but then realized he
had never undressed the night before. He still wore the
same tattered and mud-stained garments he had worn
through the storm and the audience with the king.

This was not the time to worry about neatness, he
decided. He changed direction and crossed to the door.

"Yes?" he called.

"My lord, the king wishes to see you immediately."

Sterren was not surprised. He opened the door and
found himself facing a very worried-looking messenger
boy. "I'm here," he said. "Come on."

A few minutes later he found himself facing a very
worried Phenvel III in the royal family's private sitting
room, the king's expression an odd contrast to the warm
sunlight and bright, cheerful furnishings. The only other
people present were the messenger boy and a worried
valet. Another rumble ran through the castle as Sterren
made his formal bow.

"Warlord," the king demanded, "what the hell is your
magician doing out there?"

"I don't know, your Majesty." Sterren would have
been far more expressive in Ethsharitic; in Semmat.he
had to stick to the simple statement of fact.

"Is this something to do with the war?" the king de-

Lawrence Watt-Evans          205

manded peevishly. "Do you expect another attack? I
thought you said the enemy was beaten!"

"I don't know, your Majesty," Sterren repeated.

"Why not? He's your damn wizard!"

"He's a warlock, your Majesty, not a wizard," Sterren
explained wearily. "I hired him for a job. I don't own
him. He does as he pleases."

"What in hell is a warlock?"

"He is, your Majesty. A kind of magician unknown
here in Semma. Until now."

"All right, he's a warlock," the king said. "What's he
doing?"

"I don't know, your Majesty," Sterren admitted.
"Well, damn it, go find out!" The note of fear in King
Phenvel's voice was obvious.

Sterren bowed. "As your Majesty wishes," he said.
He departed quickly, before the king could change his

mind or impose stupid conditions. He was curious him-
self.

He did not bother with any sort of preparations or
cleaning up; he marched directly from the royal apart-
ments out of the castle, ignoring the peasants huddled
asleep on the corridor floor, pausing only to ask the man

at the gate, "Did the black-robed magician come through
here?"

"No, my lord,'; came the reply. "He flew over the
north wall."

Sterren nodded and marched on.

The outside air was cool, but wonderfully fresh and
clean. The ruined market at the castle gate, however,
was not clean at all.

Traveling by air, he quickly concluded, was a major
advantage. As he picked his way through the wreckage
of the village he wondered how he and his party had ever

gotten to the castle gate without so much as tripping over
a broken beam.

Then he realized that Vond had been with them, more

or less leading the way. He had undoubtedly cleared a
path.

Sterren had been following an old road, but now he
stopped and looked around.

Sure enough, a path had been cut directly through the

206     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

village, straighter than any street there had ever been,
from the gate out toward the farm where he and Vond
had climbed the rooftop to spy on the Ksinallionese tre-
buchet. He clambered across a smashed pottery shop to
reach it, then followed it easily out into the open fields

beyond.

Once clear of the ruins of the village, he turned north
and headed toward Vond, who was still hanging in the
sky, stacking up immense blocks of stone.

A bird sang cheerily somewhere nearby, and a gentle
breeze rumpled Sterren's hair as he walked.

He was perhaps halfway to the edge of Vond's pit
when the warlock stopped cutting slabs and turned to a
low rise nearby—not that there were any real hills, other
than the one covered by Semma Castle; this little bump
in the ground was one of the higher elevations in the
area. It also had the distinction of somehow having
avoided being churned into mud by armies and storms;

the top of it still bore a large patch of brown grass.

With a deeper, louder rumble than any that had come
before, the top of the hillock lifted up and flattened out.
The rumble continued for several minutes, and the
ground shook wildly; Sterren stumbled and fell to all
fours. The birdsong stopped abruptly.

He watched and realized that Vond was filling in un-
derneath the patch of grass, pulling soil and rock from all
sides, and building himself a rectangular mound of earth

with the grassy area on top.

It took several minutes; then, abruptly, the rumbling
and shaking stopped. The rectangular mound stood like a

giant block.

Vond eyed the mound critically and then made a few

adjustments, hauling tons upon tons of rock and sand to
prop this comer or that edge up a little farther.

That done, he then leveled out the area around his
raised rectangle until it was as smooth as a well-laid floor
for at least fifty feet on all sides.

Sterren watched this without moving.

When the warlock was satisfied, the slabs of stone   ||
that he had quarried earlier began lifting from their piles
and drifting over to the mound, settling in on all sides,
walling it in with solid stone.

Lawrence Watt-Evans          207

Sterren stood and marched on as this proceeded.
He got within shouting distance within ahother few
minutes, but merely stopped and watched at first.

The stone slabs were being set upright against the
sides of the mound, then pressed in at the base until they
stood exactly vertical. When one was in place, the next
would fly over to join it. Sterren could not be sure—he
was still a couple of hundred feet away—but it appeared
that the seams between stones were somehow being
welded shut, so that the rectangular mound was soon
surrounded by what amounted to a single solid piece of
rock,

When that casing was done, more slabs were laid hor-
izontally around the outside, their inner edges butted up
flush against the base of the retaining wall.

The operation was thunderously loud, of course; any-
thing that slapped tons of stone about like building
blocks had to be. During a lull, however, when the next
slab was just beginning its flight toward the construction
site, Sterren called, "HaU Vond! Hello!"

Vond glanced over, saw him, and waved.

Sterren waved back.

Vond held up a hand, signaling Sterren to wait. The
slab continued along its path, fell in neatly next to its
predecessor with a resounding crash, and then with
much grinding and hissing was pushed tightly into place
against the wall.

That done, the warlock dropped from the sky until he
hung a foot or so off the ground, five feet in front of
Sterren.

"Good morning," Sterren said.

Vond nodded a polite greeting.

"Pardon me for asking so bluntly," Sterren said, "but
what are you doing?"

"I'm building a palace," Vond replied.

Sterren looked at the stone construction. ^A palace?"
he asked.

Vond turned and followed his gaze.

"Well," he admitted, "it doesn't look like much yet,
but I've just started. I want it on a hilltop, but there
aren't any around here, so I'm going to build my own. It
seemed stupid to build a hill, and then dig half of it back

208      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
out for the crypts, so I'm building the crypts noWy and

then I'll put the hill up around them."

"Oh," Sterren said, "Oh, I see; that piece in the mid-
dle, the rectangle with the grass on top, that'll be a court-
yard, right?"

"Yes, exactly!" Vond smiled broadly.
"And you'll have cellars on all four sides, and then
the palace on top of the cellars, and then you'll pile up
the dirt and put a hill around the whole thing?"

"Yes, exactly!" Vond repeated. "What do you think?"
"Seems like a lot of work," Sterren said.

"Oh, no," Vond protested, "it's fun! After all, I'm a
warlock; the more magic I use, the better I feel. It's not
like other magics that tire people out, or like ordinary
work; it's invigorating! And I'm pretty much all-powerful

now, you know."

Sterren nodded. "Ah... I don't know if it's any of my

business," he said after a moment's hesitation, "but I
don't know how well this is going to go over with the
local people around here. After all, you're tearing up
several small farms here, and I don't suppose that the
peasants who lived here are gone for good. Most of them
probably just ran to the castle, or to some relative's
house, and will be back as soon as they hear that the
war's over; and they're likely to be pretty upset about

this."

Vond shrugged. "Too bad," he said. "What can they

do about it?"

Sterren blinked at this callousness and said, "You're

still mortal, aren't you? Somebody might put a knife in

your back."

"Ha!" Vond said derisively. "Let them try! Don't

worry about me, Sterren. It'll take more than any of

these barbarians can do to kill me."

"You're sure of that?" Sterren asked, genuinely cur-
ious.

"Oh, yes," the warlock replied confidently.

Sterren looked over the beginnings of Vond's palace-
and remarked, "I don't suppose old King Phenvel is

going to like this much, either."

"I don't expect him to," Vond retorted. "That's why

I'm doing it—well, one reason, anyway."

Lawrence Watt-Evans          209

"What's another?"

Vond grinned. "For one thing, it's fun! Haven't you
always wanted to live in a palace and have everything at
your beck and call? I have—and now I can! Warlockry's
just about limitless, you know; nobody's ever found any-
thing it can't do. It's just that we've all always been so
scared to use it, because of the nightmares and the whis-
pering and the Calling. Well, here, I don't have to worry
about those! I have the power without the limits! Old
King Phenvel can go bugger a goat, for all I care. I can
do anything I want to here, and there isn't a damn thing
he can do about it."

"For your sake, I hope you're right," Sterren said.
"I'd feel awful if you got killed because I brought you
here and you misjudged the situation."

"I haven't misjudged anything! It's that old fool of a
king who misjudged, telling me to take my lousy jewelry
and go home. You know why I want a hill, Sterren? So
it'll be higher than his. I could have taken his castle
away from him—and I might do it yet, if he goes on
bothering me—but I thought it would be more fun to just
outshine him completely, build a palace bigger and
higher and more beautiful than his castle ever was. After
all, his is something of a dump, really—sloppy and
crowded and not much to look at."

Sterren nodded. "I can understand being annoyed at
him," he agreed. "But don't you think you're overreact-
ing?"

Vond considered this for a few seconds, then said,
"No. I mean, if it weren't going to be fun, that would be
different. It's not as if I have anything better to do, or
anywhere else to go. I'm stuck here and I might as well
make the best of it. Getting back at Phenvel for being
su6h a fool is just a little extra, not the real reason."

"I can see that," Sterren admitted. He hesitated, then
asked, "What do you plan to do when the palace is fin-
ished?"

"Live in it, of course."

"I mean, do you have any long-range plans?"

Vond shrugged. "I hadn't decided. I expect to collect
a few concubines, spend some time decorating the pal-
ace, collecting treasures to go in it, that sort of thing."

210     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"I see," Sterren said. He hesitated, and then plunged
on. "So, at least so far, you weren't planning to conquer
Semma, or anything like that?" He hoped fervently that
he hadn't just presented Vond with an appealing idea.

No, he decided, he was certain that anyone in Vond's
position would have thought of it already.

Vond laughed. "Don't be silly," he said. "I've already
conquered Semma. They just don't know it yet!"

CHAPTER 26

Sterren stayed and chatted with Vond for several more
minutes, but he could see that the warlock was eager to
get back to his palace-building and he knew that the king
would be growing ever more impatient.

He was not looking forward to facing King Phenvel,
but he knew he would have to, sooner or later, and he
decided he might as well get it over with. He told Vond
farewell and started back toward the castle.

He had gone scarcely a dozen steps when he paused
and considered.

Did he really have to go back to the castle at all?
Couldn't he just turn and head overland to Akalla, back
home to Ethshar? After all, if Vond had conquered
Semma, then presumably he was no longer the heredi-
tary warlord, and King Phenvel no longer had any au-
thority over him—or anybody else, for that matter.

It occurred to him for the very first time that royal
power and authority were simply a matter of belief, of
common consent to an arrangement. There was nothing
inherent in Phenvel of Semma that gave him the power
of life and death over his subjects; that power existed
only because the people of Semma believed it existed.
His castle guards and his courtiers obeyed him because
they believed he was the rightful ruler of the land, and
others obeyed because those guards and courtiers en-
forced his wishes.

If the guards ever decided that Phenvel was just a

9.11

212     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

crazy old man, then he would be just a crazy old man.

Vond's power, on the other hand, was quite real. He
might not have any hereditary title or special cachet of
authority, but he could easily make anyone obey him by
using his warlockry. He needed no guards or courtiers.
When he said that he had already conquered Semma,
Sterren could accept that—who could defy him?

And wasn't that the true definition of power? Vend
could do anything he pleased, and no one could prevent
it. Phenvel could do what he pleased only so long as
people believed in his authority as king.

Vond's power seemed much more substantial.

This, Sterren guessed, would soon make the war-
lock's conquest an accepted fact. Phenvel had offended
Vond, and now Vond was making plain just who really
held power in Semma. Surely, Phenvel's power would
collapse quickly once it became obvious that he could do
nothing against Vond. His authority would be destroyed,
and the whole elaborate structure of hereditary nobility
would undoubtedly collapse with it.

Sterren would no longer be warlord.

He could just turn, now, and go home.

But on the other hand, it was a long trip, and he was
in no particular hurry. The situation in Semma had gotten
very interesting, and he was curious about how it would

turn out.

He was interested, also, in what might befall some of

the people in the area.

He walked on, toward the castle.

The gatekeeper let him in without discussion, and he
headed directly for the royal apartments.

He was admitted immediately. Queen Ashassa and the
two younger princesses had joined the king; Princess
Lura grinned at him, and even Princess Shin-in managed

a tentative smile.

The instant Sterren had completed his formal bow
King Phenvel demanded, "Well? What's he doing out

there?"

"He says he's making a castle, your Majesty," Sterren

replied. He did not know the Semmat for "palace," and
was unsure what other verb might be most suitable for
"building."

Lawrence Watt-Evans          213

"Making a castle?" Queen Ashassa asked, puzzled.
"Yes, your Majesty," Sterren said.
"What do you mean, making a castle?" the king de-
manded.

"I mean, your Majesty, that he is taking stones, very
large stones, and putting them together into a... a castle.
I don't know the right words to make it clearer."

"A real castle, or just an image of some kind, a
model?"

"A real castle, your Majesty. He says he will live in
it."

"That's ridiculous. This is Semma Castle, and I am

king! No one else may build a castle in my realm!"
Sterren did not waste time answering that.
"Go tell him to stop!" the king demanded.
Sterren hesitated. "I can tell him," he said. "But he

won't stop."

"Well, make him stop! This is all your fault, after all;

you're the one who brought all these infernal magicians
here! We've never needed a lot of fancy magicians in
Semma, and we got along just fine until you brought this
whatever-it-is who's not a wizard here!"

"Your Majesty, your army was... the enemy had at
least three men to each one of yours. Magic was..."

"Oh, stop arguing! You go tell him to stop what he's
doing and put everything back the way it was!"

"Your Majesty—"

"Go! Do it!"

Sterren went.

He nodded politely to the man at the gate and fol-
lowed the clear path through the ruined village once
again.

Vond saw him coming.

"Oh, hello," he said, "I didn't expect you back so
soon."

- Sterren shrugged as he looked over the half-built
crypts. "The king sent me," he said. He strolled out onto
one of the stone slabs.

"Oh?" Vond said.

"Yes. He wants you to stop what you're doing and put
everything back the way it was."

"I daresay he does."

214

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"He ordered me to come tell you to stop."
Vond nodded. "Go ahead, then."
"In the name of Phenvel, King of Semma, stop build-
ing your palace and put everything back the way it was!"
"No. You can go back and give him that answer. Was

there anything else?"

"Not from him. I was wondering, though—don't you
think it might get rather lonely, out here in this palace?"
He waved at the cellars, which now covered a wide area
around the "courtyard" and had a partially completed
outer wall around most of two sides.

Vond looked down at his elaborate stone box.

"Maybe at first," he admitted. "A little. But I expect
other warlocks will come along, once word gets out
about the new source of power here."

"You expect word to get out?"

Vond looked momentarily disconcerted for the first
time since he drove off the invading armies.

"Of course," he said, "but if it doesn't, I'll send mes-
sengers back to Ethshar. You know, I hadn't thought
about that—we're really way out here in the middle of
nowhere, aren't we?"

Sterren nodded. "If you go up about a hundred feet
and look over that way," he said, pointing south, "you
ought to be able to see the edge of the World."

Vond sighed. "I've always lived in Ethshar, back in
the middle of things, where you can't keep a secret if
you try. I hadn't thought about how the news would
spread; I just took it for granted."

"I don't think you can, here."

"Well, I'll send messengers. I expect people will no-
tice when I start building an empire, in any case."

"Oh," Sterren asked, "are you planning to build an

empire?"

"Oh, I think so," Vond said. "Isn't it sort of tradi-
tional, for conquerors? Besides, Semma is so tiny\ If I
want to put together a decent harem I need more to
choose from, for one thing!"

"What did you have in mind?" Sterren asked cau-
tiously.

"Well, to start," Vond said, "I was planning to con-
quer Ophkar and Ksinallion; that should be easy enough,

Lawrence Watt-Evans

215

since I've already routed their armies. After that, I
thought I'd see how far I could go before I start to hear
that whisper out of Aldagmor again. I'm not stupid,
Sterren; I won't be sailing off to Ethshar where the
nightmares will get me. Even so, I ought to be able to put
together half a dozen of these silly little kingdoms, don't
you think?"

Sterren had to concede that the warlock probably
could, indeed, rule everything in the area. After all, he
had lost contact with Aldagmor and started getting his
headaches back in Akalla, which meant that Akalla,
Skaia, Ophkar, and Semma would almost certainly be
well within his grasp, and probably Ksinallion and sev-
eral other kingdoms as well.

Not that any of those kingdoms amounted to much of
anything.

"And you don't think you'll get lonely, or bored?" he
asked.

"Why should I?" Vond snapped. "I can have as many
people around as I want, just by ordering it! And beauti-
ful women—there must be some, even here. Men in
power always attract beautiful women."

"But they'll all be scared of you. You won't have any-
one you can talk to just casually, as an equal—or even
near-equal. And what will you do with this empire?"

"I'll just sit back and enjoy it, or course! I'll live the
good life. And other wariocks will hear about it and will
come to live here; I'll have my own court, and all the
nobles will be warlocks, and we'll rule because we de-
serve to, not because we were born lucky."

"What if one of these other warlocks gets ambitious
and decides to take over, though?"

Vond shook his head. "It can't happen; I thought of
that. But I got here first, so I'll always be the most pow-
erful, as long as I keep using magic. Look I was almost
as powerful as a warlock could ever get, back in Ethshar
—I had the nightmares pretty badly. If I'd done one or
two more big magics, I'd have heard the Calling and
gone north. So nobody is going to arrive here any more
powerful than I was when / got here. And nobody will
have any special way to overtake me, because warlockry
doesn't work that way. You get more power by using

216      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
power, and you can only use it so fast. As long as I keep
working magic, I'll always be more powerful than any-
one who comes after me. You see?"

Sterren did see and said so.

Vond nodded. "So," he said, "My empire will be a
haven for warlocks—when they start worrying about the
Calling, they'll pack up and come here, where they can

safely use all the magic they want."

Sterren could see how this might, in fact, happen. He
could see how it would be very pleasant indeed for war-
locks.

He could also see how it might be very unpleasant for

everybody else. Magicians elsewhere always kept each
other in check, or were kept in check by natural limits on
their magic. Witches and seers and sorcerers and a vari-
ety of other magicians generally had only very limited
abilities. Demonology was risky, and ever more risky as
it got more powerful, since demons couldn't be trusted.
Theurgy was limited by the gods' unwillingness to inter-
fere with the World beyond a certain level. Wizardry—
well, Sterren didn't really know what kept wizards from
getting out of hand, unless it was rivalry with other wiz-
ards, or something about the seemingly chaotic way wiz-
ardry worked, or maybe just the difficulty of acquiring
the bizarre ingredients they needed for their spells.

Warlockry had always been kept in check by the Call-
ing. Now Vond had found a way around that—or at least

he thought he had.

Sterren suspected that Vond was being overly opti-
mistic about that, but in light of his announced plans to
build an empire, mentioning this seemed to be a mistake.

He wondered what the other sorts of magicians might
think about all this. Might the rumored-to-exist Wizards'
Guild resent the presumption of a warlock establishing

an empire?

They very well might, Sterren thought, and he almost

said as much to Vond, but then he caught himself.

Why should he do Vond any favors? The man was
about to enslave an entire section of the Small Kingdoms
to avenge a slight from a foolish old man—and for the
fun of it. It was true that he and Sterren had been

Lawrence Watt-Evans          217

comrades in arms, as it were, but that hardly took prece-
dence over a common decency.

But on the other hand, would Vond be any worse than
Phenvel? He might turn out to be a perfectly adequate
ruler.

Sterren had no way of knowing. He decided to wait
and see. Meanwhile, he would keep any possible threats
to Vond's usurped authority to himself, in case he
needed them later. That included both the Wizards'
Guild and what Sterren thought was a basic flaw in
Vond's logic about his safety from the Calling.

For one thing, he could not be completely certain that
either threat really existed.

"Hai, Sterren!" Vond called. "Did you fall asleep or
something?"

Sterren realized that he had been standing motionless,
absorbed in thought, for several seconds. "No," he
called. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Oh," he said evasively, "what an empire of warlocks
would belike."

"Well," Vond replied, "I hope you'll stay around and
find out! I owe you a favor, Sterren, for bringing me
here. You treated me well and fairly, and it was your
suggestion that helped me tap into the new source. Oh, I
think I might have latched onto it eventually by myself,
but you made it easier. You know, you've got a tiny bit of
warlockry yourself; you could be one of the rulers of the
empire!"

Sterren shook his head. "I don't have any warlockry.
Not here, anyway."

"It's there, Sterren, it's just attuned to the Aldagmor
Source, not the new one. I can fix that. I can let you hear
the new one, at least as well as you ever heard the Al-
dagmor one."

"I doubt that. I've got no aptitude for it." "'

"Don't be silly; you lived off it for years, didn't you?"

"I never affected anything but dice and I didn't even
know I was doing that! Some magic!"

"But it should be different here; after all, I think we're
only ten leagues from the source itself."

That caught Sterren's interest. "Ten leagues?"

218 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"I think so; I can feel it, you know, and sort of
measure... there aren't words for it in Ethsharitic. We
warlocks haven't worked them out yet. But yes, I'm
pretty certain the source is ten leagues that way." He
pointed to the northwest; Sterren noted the exact direc-
tion as carefully as he could, for future reference.

"Ten leagues or a hundred," he said, "I don't think I'll
ever be much of a warlock."

"Don't argue with me!" Vond snapped. He gestured at
Sterren, and Sterren blinked.

Something had happened; he could feel it in the back
of his head.

"There!" Vond said, "I've adjusted your brain a little;

now you can hear the new source!"

"I don't hear anything," Sterren said.

"I don't mean hear, with your ears! I mean you're a
warlock. You can draw power from it. Here, catch this
without touching it!"

Vond pulled a clear, shiny object object from the air in
front of him and tossed it at Sterren.

Sterren threw up his hands to ward it off, and at the
same time, in the back of his mind, thought to himself
that maybe he was a warlock, maybe he could catch it,
control it as if it were the dice he had guided back in
Ethshar. He tried to think of it that way, to imagine what
it would feel like to move something without touching it.

Then the little sphere shattered on the stone at his
feet.

He looked down, bent over, and picked up a sliver. It
was ice; it melted away in his hand.

"I tried," he said.

Vond was glaring at him in disgust. "I know you did. I
felt it. And I guess you were right; you're no warlock!"

"Where did you get the ice?" Sterren asked, looking
at the water on his fingers.

"I pulled it out of the air; it's easy, for a real warlock."

"Oh," Sterren said, oddly impressed. He had seen
Vond cutting out huge slabs of bedrock without tools,
but somehow pulling ice out of the air seemed even more
unnatural. "Can you do it again?"

"Of course I can!" Vond said, clearly affronted.

"I only meant—" Sterren began.

Lawrence Watt-Evans          219

"Oh, go away!" Vond snapped. "I'm tired of all vonr
questions and I've got a palace to buiid"£ugo Lftnose
people in that castle that I'm in charge now andI when1
finish the palace I'll tell them what I want from them "
^ Sterren started to say something and thought better of

flashy''cri^ ^"^-'^lly, as the air about him
ground.              the word sprans "P from the
Sterren went.

CHAPTER 27

^T

JLwouldn't worry too much," Sterren said. Princess
Shin-in blinked at him. She and her father were the only
two Semmans present; the queen and Princess Lura had
gone elsewhere, and at the moment the servants all hap-
pened to be out of the room.

"Oh, you wouldn't, would you?" said King Phenvel.
"No, I wouldn't," Sterren repeated. "You can't do
anything about him. You're just going to have to live
with it. He's not... not..." Sterren groped unsuccess-
fully for a Semmat word approximating "malicious," and
gave up. "If you don't anger him," he said, "he won't

hurt anybody."

"But he's a usurper, a traitor!" the king shouted.

Sterren shrugged. He didn't consider it treason, since
Vond was Ethsharitic, but he had to admit that the term
"usurper" was accurate enough.

"All right, wariord," King Phenvel said. "If you were
king of Semma, how would you deal with him?"

"I'd surrender," Sterren said immediately. He didn't
know the word for "abdicate."

Shin-in let out a little squeak of dismay, which the two

men ignored.

Sterren didn't point out that if he were king of
Semma, he would abdicate in any case, regardless of
whether or not an all-powerful warlock were causing
trouble. Being king did not look like an enjoyable occu-
pation.

Lawrence Watt-Evaiis           221

"Oh, go away," Phenvel growled.

Sterren bowed and retreated.

With his duty fulfilled for the moment, he headed di-
rectly for the kitchens; he had not yet broken his fast,
and his stomach was beginning to cramp with hunger.

He was not particularly surprised to find the two wiz-
ards and three witches already there, seated along the
benches around two sides of a low table. The presence of
Princess Lura, perched atop a high stool, was somewhat
less expected, but not a great shock.

He greeted them all politely and then asked one of the
cooks' helpers to find him something. "A stale bun, a
lightly chewed bone, whatever comes to hand."

She laughed. "Don't worry, my lord, we can always
see what the dogs wouldn't finish!"

"Oh, excellent! Do that, please!"

The servant hurried off, and Sterren settled onto a
chair near a large chopping block that could serve him as
a table, facing the others.

"Hello, Lord Sterren," Princess Lura said. "What's
your crazy magician doing?"

"Oh, I don't think he's crazy," Sterren replied.

"What is he doing?" Shenna asked, in Ethsharitic. "I
woke early this morning, but he was already up and
gone. I'm not sure he slept at all."

"I've heard warlocks don't need much sleep," Emner
remarked.

"Speak Semmat!" Lura demanded, in Semmat.

"I'll translate anything important," Shenna promised,
in lightly accented Semmat better than Sterren's own.
"And if I don't, then Hamder or Ederd or Sterren will.
But Annara and Emner here don't know any Semmat."

"Well, I don't know any Ethsharitic, and this is my
daddy's castle!"

"But we're not talking to your daddy; we're talking to
each other," Shenna pointed out. "I promise," Lura, I'll
translate."

"That's your Highness Princess Lura, to you," Lura
corrected grumpily.

Sterren looked at Lura for a moment, trying to decide
whether he should say anything, and decided he
shouldn't.

222 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"Well?" Emner asked, using the Ethsharitic word.

"He's building a palace," Sterren said in his native
tongue. "He's appointed himself dictator of Semma and
plans to build an empire run by warlocks."

Shenna hesitated, then translated this to Lura as,
"The crazy magician is building a palace so he can be a
king, too."

"Why would he want to do that?" the princess de-
manded.

Sterren answered in Semmat, "He thinks your father
wasn't very nice to him."

Princess Lura looked baffled. "But Daddy is rotten to
everybody'."

"I know that," Sterren said, "but Vond isn't used to it.
His feelings were hurt."

"That's pretty silly," Lura declared.

Sterren shrugged. "I guess so," he said.

"What was that about?" Annara asked, in Ethsharitic.

Sterren sighed. He saw the kitchen maid approaching
with a well-stocked platter—despite the threats, it was
heavily loaded with dried fruit, slices of mutton left from
breakfast, and assorted breads—and decided he didn't
want to deal with explanations just then. "Look," he said
in Ethsharitic, "I want to eat something, but I get con-
fused dealing with two different languages. Could you
people wait a while?" He switched to Semmat and said,
"I want to eat now. Your Highness, could I come to your
family quarters later and answer your questions then?"

The little princess looked at Sterren, then around at
the magicians. "Oh, all right," she said. She slid from her
perch and stalked off.

Sterren and the five magicians managed not to laugh
at her retreating figure. The warlord made it a little eas-
ier for himself by stuffing a pastry in his mouth; he found
it hard to laugh with a mouthful of flaky crust.

When Princess Lura was safely out of earshot and the
edge had been taken off his hunger, Sterren leaned back
in his chair and began talking, answering the magicians'
questions,                                            j

With a little prompting, he explained about war-
lockry; of the five, only Ederd knew anything about it at
all. He described what was known of the Aldagmor

Lawrence Watt-Evans           223

Source, and the Calling, and Vond's discovery of a sec-
ondary source ten leagues to the northwest of Semma,
and he reported what Vond had said of his intentions.
When he had finished, the five looked at one another.
"I think I'll go home," Shenna said. "It doesn't look
that safe around here." Hamder nodded in agreement.

"I must admit that if warlocks are going to be running
things around here, they won't have much use for
witches," Ederd agreed. "But I think I'd like to stay for a
little while and see what develops."

Sterren nodded approvingly. His own attitude was
very similar.

"Suit yourself," Hamder said. "I'm going home."
"Me, too," said Shenna.

Emner and Annara were obviously uncertain of their
plans. They were eyeing each other doubtfully.

"One of us should stay to keep an eye on things, I
think," Emner said at last. "And the other should go
contact a Guildmaster."

Annara nodded. "You better go," she said. "I don't
know any Guildmasters."

"I'm not sure I do, any more," Emner said.
"Well, you go, anyway," Annara insisted.
Emner nodded.

• "What's this about Guildmasters?" Sterren asked.
Annara and Emner exchanged quick glances.

Emner cleared his throat. "I suppose you've heard of
the Wizards' Guild," he said.
Sterren nodded.

"Well," Emner explained, "Guildmasters are the of-
ficers of the Wizards' Guild. This is all more or less se-
cret, you understand, but it's not one of the big secrets;

we won't be punished for telling you."

"You think your Guild will want to do something
about this?" Sterren asked. He hoped for some facts to
back up his earlier theorizing.

Emner spread his palms. "Who knows? They might,
though, and if we didn't tell them about it, and they

found out later, it wouldn't do our standing any good,
that's certain."

"They probably won't do anything," Annara said.
"They generally don't like to interfere with nonwizards.

224 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

But they like to know what's going on. And sometimes
they do intervene, eventually. Usually they wait a mini-
mum of ten years, to see what's going to happen. The
Guild has been around a long, long time and it's a pretty
patient organization."

"How do you know all this?" Hamder asked.

"We're members of the Guild, of course," Emner
said. "You can't be a wizard if you don't join. They kill
anyone who tries, usually in some spectacularly horrible
way."

"How do you join?" Hamder persisted.

"When you sign on as apprentice, you're initiated into
the Guild before you're taught your first spell," Annara
explained. "All through your apprenticeship, you'll get
lessons about the Guild, as well as about wizardry itself.
Not that they really tell you much. How the Guild actu-
ally works is all secret. There are Guildmasters, and
there are rumors of an Inner Circle within the Guildmas-
ters, but we don't... well, at least / don't know whether
there's really an Inner Circle, or who gets chosen to be a
Guildmaster, or anything else about how the Guild oper-
ates. I just know that if you break a Guild rule, you die,
and I know what the Guild rules are, and what I can and
can't tell outsiders."

Emner nodded. "It was the same for me," he said.
"Even though my master's old master was a Guildmaster
himself, until he died."

"So you intend to inform the Wizards' Guild of
Vond's plans," Sterren said. "Then what?"

Emner and Annara exchanged glances. "Then I go
home," Emner said, "if the Guild will let me. And I'll
buy a dream-spell or a messenger-spell and let Annara
know what the Guild wants her to do, if anything, if they
haven't sent a message already."

"And what will the Guild do?"

"I have no idea," Emner said.

"Most likely," Annara said, "they'll argue for several
months, maybe years, and give the problem time to ei-
ther go away by itself or develop into something serious.
My master always said that was how they worked."

Emner nodded. "My master never said, but it sounds
right."

Lawrence Watt-Evans          225

Sterren turned to Ederd. "Is there a Witches' Guild?"
The three witches exchanged glances. "Not really,"
Shenna said. "There are two rather loose organizations,
the Brotherhood and the Sisterhood, but they're nothing
like what Annara described. At least, the Sisterhood
isn't. I never joined either one, but I was invited by the
Sisterhood once. I turned it down; I didn't like the rules.
They swap spells and recipes, and talk shop a lot, and
they have an emergency fund for when a member's in
trouble; but they've got a lot of regulations about not
competing with each other and not keeping secrets from

the group and a whole bunch of other stuff that I didn't
want to put up with."

"The Brotherhood's even looser," Ederd said. "I was
a member for a year, but I got tired of paying dues for
nothing and I quit."

"I never even heard of it," Hamder said.

Ederd looked at him curiously. "Your master never
mentioned it?"

"No, she didn't," Hamder said, glaring back.

"Is there a Warlocks' Guild?" Shenna asked. "You
seem to know a lot about them, Sterren."

"I failed an apprenticeship," he said. "If there is a
guild, I didn't get far enough to find out about it. I don't
think there is, though; warlocks tend to be pretty anti-
social. And they don't have the history wizards and
witches do; they haven't even lasted twenty years yet."

"I wonder about the sorcerers?" Hamder said.

"And the theurgists?" Annara added.

"You could ask Agor about them," Sterren said.

"He's a theurgist here in Semma, though he isn't a very
good one."

"I'll do that," Annara said. "Where do I find him? I
think I'd like to talk to him about all this and see what he
thinks we ought to do about Vond out there."

Ederd nodded agreement. "Good idea." "

Sterren shrugged. "I can show you his room, but
there's no hurry."

"Speak for yourself," Hamder retorted. "I intend to
get out of here today, in case somebody gets Vond mad
and he decides to squash this whole castle."

"Me, too," Shenna said.

226     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"I don't think he'll do anything like that," Sterren

said.

"All the same," Emner said, getting to his feet, "the

three of us who are going probably ought to go, without
wasting any more time. If you don't mind, Sterren, I'm
going to go pack my things." He turned to Annara. "I
have that spell you wanted written out; I'll trade it for
the Explosive Seal any time it's ready."

"I don't know how to put all of it in writing; I'd better
come show you," Annara said. She rose, and together

the two wizards departed.

"Excuse me, my lord," Hamder said as he, too, stood
up, "but I think the wizard's right. I'll go pack."

Shenna just nodded without saying anything, as she

and Hamder left.

That left just Sterren and Ederd.

"Well," Ederd said, "I suppose I'll go look around the
castle, see if I can find a window with a good view of the
warlock's palace, and let you eat in peace." He rose.

Sterren nodded. "If you like climbing stairs, my
chamber in the tower has a great view. Tell the guards I
said you could go in."

Ederd bowed and left.

Sterren ate.

CHAPTER 28

t€ m

JL en leagues to the northwest, you say?"
Sterren nodded. Queen Ashassa looked thoughtful.
"That would be Lumeth of the Towers," she said.
"Perhaps near the Towers themselves."

"Maybe it is the Towers!" Princess Lura said.
The queen nodded. "Maybe it is," she agreed. "Cer-
tainly, nobody knows what they're for, and generating
this magic you describe seems as likely an explanation as
any."

Sterren glanced at Nissitha and Shirrin, but as usual,
they said nothing. Nissitha stared at him disdainfully,
and Shirrin, whenever she saw him look in her direction,
looked quickly away. The adoration he had seen so often
in her face seemed to be gone, now, replaced by a fero-
cious disappointment.

Prince Dereth, age eleven, watched carefully, but said
little beyond occasional expressions of wonder.

Nobody replied to the queen's comment, and when
the silence began to lengthen uncomfortably, Sterren
asked, "Is there anything else, your Majesty?"

"Just this. Lord Sterren. You know this man Vond
and you know something of his magic. What-would you
advise us to do?"

Sterren frowned slightly. He could only give one an-
swer, but he knew it was not one that the queen would
like.

"Nothing," he said. He would have liked to have said

228       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
more, explaining his reasons, but the effort of making
himself understood in Semmat was too much. He had
been talking all morning, save when he was walking back
and forth between the castle and Vond's building site,
and he was tired of it. He left his answer a single word.
"You think he could defeat our entire army, if you

marched against him?"

"Yes, your Majesty—easily." Sterren did not bother
to point out that the warlock had already defeated the
much larger armies of Ophkar and Ksinallion; the queen

knew that.

Ashassa eyed him for a moment, then nodded slightly.

"All right. Lord Sterren," she said, "you may go."

"Thank you, your Majesty." He rose, bowed, and

backed out of the room.

Once in the corridor he paused, unsure where to go.
The three departing magicians might well have al-
ready left, and he had no idea where to find Annara or
Ederd-—unless Annara had tracked down Agor, in which
case she might not appreciate any interruptions. The
climb back to his own room was too much to face imme-
diately.

Well, there were always his duties as warlord; he had

not seen anything of his troops since returning from Eth-
shar save vague shapes moving on distant battlements,
or guards at various doors. He headed for the barracks.

As he walked, he reviewed his own thoughts about
Vond and the unexpected turn of recent events. He had
not had a chance to sit down and think about it, but in
the course of the morning's several discussions, he had

reached several conclusions.

The warlock's plans had several good points to them,
in truth. Uniting several of the Small Kingdoms and put-
ting an end to their stupid little wars would hardly hurt
anyone or anything except the egos of the conquered
rulers. Most of the people affected would be peasants,
who would acquire a new ruler and who would no longer
have to worry about having their farms looted and
burned and their wives and daughters assaulted by in-
vading soldiers.

That assumed, of course, that Vond actually could

build and hold his empire as easily as he believed he

Lawrence Watt-Evans          229

could, but Sterren thought it was a very reasonable as-
sumption. As Vond had pointed out, warlockry without
the Calling was virtually limitless, and right now, at least,
he was free of the Calling. Magic was scarce and feared
in this region. Who could effectively oppose him?

The local nobility would find themselves deprived of
their traditional powers and perquisites, but Sterren
found himself untroubled by that prospect. Life was in-
herently uncertain, always a gamble; why should kings
and nobles be exempt from that uncertainty? The lot of
them could go elsewhere and find ways to survive, he
was sure, or could presumably find places for them-
selves under Vond's rule; even a warlock could not do
everything himself and would surely need experienced
administrators to handle the details of governing.

The question was, what else would Vond do, beyond
uniting the kingdoms and dispossessing the nobility?

That, of course, Sterren did not know. Vond had spo-
ken of concubines—that might mean abduction and
rape, or it might just mean accepting offers. He was set-
ting himself up as an absolute ruler, but did that mean
only that he would expect his orders to be obeyed, or
that he would treat everyone else as mere slaves, to be
beaten or killed at whim?

Benevolent despot or brutal tyrant—the difference
would lie in Vond's personality, and Sterren simply did
not know the man well enough to guess which he would
become.

If he became a tyrant, then what? If he turned out
benevolent, then Sterren would leave well enough alone,
but what if he became a tyrant?

Walking out and heading back to Ethshar was a possi-
bility, but somehow it did not seem like a very appealing
one. After all, Sterren had to admit that he had brought
Vond here.

He had not had any way of knowing what would hap-
pen, of course. Nobody could have known about the
new power source in Lumeth. Still, intention was not
always as important as results. He had never intended to
lose when he played dice, but that hadn't put food in his
mouth when he did lose. One had to live with the results

230      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
of one's actions, whether those results were planned or

not.

If Vond were a tyrant, what then?

There was the Wizards' Guild, of course, lurking
somewhere in the background, but what Annara and
Emner had told him of the Guild was hardly very inspir-
ing. Slow, cautious, not eager to interfere—that did not
describe an organization that would efficiently remove a

tyrant.

There was assassination. Sterren had discussed the
possible assassination of the kings of Ophkar and Ksin-
allion with Lar Samber's son, his inherited spy, and
thought he had a good idea of what would be involved.
Semma had no history of assassination, no one trained in
assassination; he could send his soldiers or Lar's spies,
but they would probably fail and either die or be cap-
tured in the attempt. They might also be traced back to
him, their warlord. Against a mere king, Lar judged the
odds on a first attempt no better than one in five, getting
steadily worse with each attempt as the target took even
stronger countermeasures.

Lar had hinted at knowledge of an organization of
professional assassins, but Sterren had the clear impres-
sion that this group, if it actually existed, did not operate
anywhere near Semma. Furthermore, if he had under-
stood Lar's hints, they were very expensive, very secre-
tive, and generally not easy to deal with. They were not
so much a gang or a guild as a cult; the name Demerchan
had been mentioned once.

That might be worth pursuing if all else failed, but it

did not look promising.

He could try to reason with Vond, of course; Vond
considered him a friend and ally. Perhaps he could sway
the warlock, keep him from becoming a tyrant in the first

place.

He would have to try that.

There was one other possibility, one that he had seen
almost immediately as the inevitable solution. He con-
sidered it as he opened the barracks door. It was a solu-
tion that would take care of itself, eventually, but which
he could either hurry or hinder.

Vond thought he was free of the Calling, but if Sterren

Lawrence Watt-Evans

231

understood the situation correctly, Vond was missing a
vital point.

He shoved the whole question to the back of his mind
as someone shouted, "It's the warlord! Three cheers for
Sterren, Ninth Warlord!"

A ragged cheer broke out, and Sterren froze in the
doorway.

He looked over his men, astonished by this display of
enthusiasm. He had been so concerned with Vond that
he had forgotten that it was only a day ago that the in-
vading" armies were sent fleeing. These soldiers didn't
care about any warlocks; they were happy to have the
siege broken, the catapults and battering ram destroyed,
their constant duties on the walls at an end, and the
methods used did not worry them at all. They were spon-
taneously applauding him, Sterren of Ethshar, who had
brought them this easy victory.

He smiled and raised his hands in triumph for a mo-
ment. The cheering died down, and as men sank onto
their bunks he spotted the three hunched backs in the
comer.

The gamblers had not let a mere warlord interrupt
their dice game.

"Thank you for your... your welcome," Sterren
stammered. "I'm happy to be back! You did well!" He
hesitated, looking at the listening faces and unsure what
more to say.

He shrugged and said, "What's the game back there?
Can I play?"

Startled laughter broke out, then applause; someone
grabbed his arms, and a moment later he was in the
comer, the dice in his hand.

"It's three-count, bet on the low roll," someone said.

Sterren nodded. He knew the game.

"Your turn, my lord," someone else said, as coins rat-
tled onto the stone.

He shook the dice and tossed them. To keep the dice
and win the coins on a first roll, he needed to roll three
ones. If anything else came up, he had to pass the dice
and the coins stayed. Three-count, the primitive ances-
tor of Sterren's favorite three-bone, was usually a long,
slow game, with a good many small bets changing hands

232      THE UNWILLING WARLORD

rather than a few large ones; it was something played by
bored people eager to waste time, rather than serious
gamblers, and Sterren had never played much.

He watched as the dice bounced from the wall and
rolled across the floor. The first landed showing a single
pip; the second bumped it, but did not tip it over, and it,
too, showed just one pip when it came to rest.

The third bumped the toe of a soldier's boot and
stopped, showing one pip.

Laughter and applause sounded again, as Sterren
picked up his winnings.

Nobody was laughing half an hour later, when Sterren
had won some sixty copper bits in one of the shortest
games of three-count ever seen.

The soldiers scattered, leaving him standing there
with a full purse in one hand, the dice in the other. He
stared at the bits of polished bone.

His talent was back. Vond's attuning had worked, and
he was drawing luck from the Lumeth source.

He wondered whether he should be pleased.

CHAPTER 29

he peasants were being evicted from the castle, and
Sterren stood atop the wall and watched as they went
unwillingly out the gate into the wreckage that had been
their village.

These were the people who had run for the shelter of
the castle walls when the banners of the invaders first
appeared on the horizon; the gates had been shut and
barred well before the enemy armies came within bow-
shot, leaving the stragglers to flee in all directions. The
people who had reached the castle were not the bravest,
and were in no hurry to venture back out into the World.

King Phenvel, however, had put up with enough of
the crowding and inconvenience and at dinner the pre-
vious night had announced that all peasants were to be
outside the gates before noon. He had ordered Sterren
and Lord Algarven, the royal steward, to see to it.

Although he did not really think that Phenvel's au-
thority still amounted to much, Sterren had shrugged and
obeyed. Vond had only begun building his palace the
previous morning, and despite Sterren's warnings, the
new situation had not yet sunk in. Phenvel still thought
of himself as ruler of Semma, and the other Semmans
still had the habit of obeying him. The castle was still
his.

So now Sterren stood on the ramparts, watching his
soldiers herd the peasants out the gate.

Each one, whether man, woman, or child, did the

234     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

same thing upon passing the gate. Each one looked
north, at the warlock's building site.

Vond's project was progressing well. He had com-
pleted his crypts, or at least the shell, in that first day,
and had built his hill up around them overnight. Now he
was erecting white marble walls on that base. The
ground shook each time a new section dropped into
place, and the roar of stone grinding against stone was
almost constant.

Vond's first quarry, now closed, had yielded granite,
so the marble, gleaming in the morning sun, was a sur-
prise, and combined with the horrendous racket it was

very hard to ignore.

The entertainment, for Sterren, "was not that each face
turned toward the palace, but in seeing what each one

did next.

Some stopped and stood staring, open-mouthed, until
proddings from behind forced them to move on. Others
took a single glance and marched on, stolidly accepting
this miraculous construction as just another event that
was none of their business. A few looked, then looked
away, clearly frightened, as if just looking at the palace
might somehow get them in trouble. Some of the chil-
dren laughed and applauded as huge stones fell into posi-
tion, or pointed wonderingly at the tiny black-robed
figure hanging unsupported above the high white walls.

The next thing that each peasant did, after looking at
Vond's latest handiwork, was to look at the ruined vil-
lage, and the reactions to that were far more consistent.
Sterren could see despair plainly in the expressions and
slumped shoulders of virtually all the evictees.

He had already decided, by the time the first peasant
passed the threshold into the mud-soaked, debris-strewn
village market, that he would order his soldiers to help
with the clean-up and rebuilding. They were supposed to
be men of war, and it was the war that had made this
mess, so cleaning it up fell within their duties as Sterren

saw them.

The last peasant was stepping unwillingly out into the
mud when the roar from the north stopped.

It took a moment for the echoes to die away and si-
lence to descend, and by then everyone had noticed the

Lawrence Watt-Evans          235

change, and every face had turned toward the new palace.

The little black shape no longer flew above the marble
walls; instead, it was soaring gracefully toward them.
Sterren heard a few whispers from the crowd below, but
then silence fell again as they all stared at the approach-
ing warlock.

Sterren, too, stared, wondering why Vond had
stopped work at this particular moment. He hadn't fin-
ished the wall he was working on. If he was coming to
force King Phenvel to surrender, it struck Sterren as
rather peculiar timing.

Then he realized that from his position high above the
palace, Vond would have seen the people emerging from
the castle. He might even have seen Sterren, on the bat-
tlements above, and recognized him.

And Sterren, after all, was warlord of Semma. The
warlock might think that an attack was being organized,
or a formal surrender, or some other operation involving
him.

"Hai\" he called, waving an arm. "Vond! Over here!"
He did not want the warlock to believe for even a mo-
ment that anything suspicious was going on. He could
probably kill every peasant there—and Sterren, too—as
easily as Sterren would stamp on an ant.

Vond waved and a moment later he settled down onto
the wall beside Sterren. The peasants below stared up at
the two of them

"Hello, Sterren," he said, "What's happening? I saw
the crowd from over there." He waved toward his pal-
ace, and Sterren saw a proud smile flash across his face.
"Coming along nicely, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Sterren agreed. Privately, he thought that
the place looked somewhat forbidding; Vond had not
bothered with much architectural detailing, but had used
huge blank slabs of stone for most of his construction.
He had not yet cut windows in them, either-.-The result,
despite the white marble, looked more like a fortress
than a palace.

Vond himself looked as human and ordinary as ever,
just a smiling middle-aged man in black robes, and it was
a bit hard to comprehend that he had singlehandedly
erected most of that fortress in a day and a half.

236 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"What's this?" the warlock asked, waving at the mar-
ket square. It was obvious to anyone that the ragged
crowd milling below was no army readying for an attack.

"The king's evicting them," Sterren explained. "They
took shelter in the castle during the siege and, now that
the siege is over, they're leaving."

"Where are they going?" Vond asked, interested.

"Here," Sterren said, waving. "They're mostly from
the village here. They'll have to clean it up and rebuild,
of course; I'll be sending my men out to help. I suppose
some of them come from the farms, too." He couldn't
resist adding, "I don't know if any of them are from the
farms you've torn up for your palace."

Vond glanced at him, startled, and then looked back
down at the peasants.

"Oh," he said, "but this can't be all the people from
all those farms and the entire village, too! What hap-
pened to the rest? Did the invaders kill them?"

Sterren shrugged. "Some of them, probably, but a lot
must have fled every which way. You remember meeting
some of those. These are just the ones who got to the
castle before the gate was closed; nobody's gone out to
bring in the others yet."

Vond stared down at the people for a moment longer,
and a good many of them stared back at him.

"Hai," he called suddenly, "I am the Great Vond, the
new lord of Semma! You see my palace over there!"

Sterren started to protest, to grab the warlock's
sleeve, and then thought better of it. After all, the war-
lock was speaking Ethsharitic, which none of the peas-
ants understood, a fact that Vond had clearly forgotten.

"I am going to want servants. Any of you who would
be interested in working for me, you need only walk over
to my palace and wait there! You need not decide imme-
diately; come when you choose, and I will find places for
you!"

A mutter of puzzlement ran through the crowd. No-
body moved.

"I will show you, now, why I am the true ruler of
Semma, and not the oaf who calls himself your king!"

Vond raised his arms, and the mud of the marketplace
rippled. Stones and broken beams were thrown up, to

Lawrence Watt-Evans          237

hang in mid-air for an instant, and then fling themselves
away, out of the village and into the distance. The mud
itself separated into water and soil, and the water, too,
was flung away.

In a moment, the marketplace was clean and dry, the
dirt hard-packed beneath the peasants' bare feet, pressed
down almost into pavement by Vond's warlockry.

Sterren, watching in fascination, thought that even
the dirt from the peasants' clothes and faces had gone
into that smooth surface, leaving the crowd noticeably
cleaner.

With a rush of wind, debris rolled up from one
blocked street into a ball that hung in the air and then
sailed away.

Then another street was cleared, and another, in simi-
lar fashion.

In twenty minutes, Vond had cleared out all the
wreckage, leaving untouched the houses that still stood,
and removing all trace of those that had been knocked
down.

Unfortunately, that left only half a village, and most of
that half was missing windows, doors, roofs, or even
chunks of wall.

Vond eyed the results critically, then shrugged. "It's a
start," he said. He raised a hand again.

Something, perhaps a motion in the comer of his eye,
made Sterren turn and look at the castle. Faces were
crowded in every window, watching this spectacle.

He turned back toward the village.

The wreckage that had been sent off over the rooftops
was coming back now, as one huge, irregular mass that
hung in the air like a cloud. It was shifting its shape like a
cloud, too, though far faster than any natural formation.
Wood, stone, and thatch were separating out into distinct
portions; everything else was being dropped into a refuse
heap in a handy field.

It occurred to Sterren for the first time that there were
no natural clouds anywhere in sight, which, in light of
what he had been told, hardly seemed normal for winter
in Semma. He wondered if the warlock was controlling
the weather, keeping the sky clear to make his working
environment more pleasant.

238     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

When the different materials were sorted, Vond chose
a house and studied it critically.

The thatch roof and most of the shutters were gone,
but it was otherwise intact. Vond waved, and masses of
thatch came flying down from the cloud and piled them-
selves into place.

"What about the shutters?" Sterren asked.

Vond glanced at him, then back at the house. "To Hell
with the shutters," he said, "I can't do everything! How
am I supposed to find the right ones out of all that?"

Sterren shrugged. "Just asking," he said.

The repair work continued, as Sterren and the peas-
ants watched.

As the day dragged on, most of the peasants settled to
the ground, sitting or lying on the hard earth and chatting
amongst themselves. A few leaned up against the castle
walls. None dared venture out of the market.

The faces in the castle windows changed, as people
tired of watching and were replaced by others. Still,
Vond had a steady audience for his performance. Sterren
thought he saw Princess Shirrin there almost the entire

time.

Some time after noon Sterren spotted one of his sol-
diers and ordered that food and drink be brought out for
the peasants and himself. He asked Vond if he cared for

anything.

The warlock declined the offer and continued with his

work.

Sterren realized he hadn't seen Vond eat anything in
days, and that there was surely no food in his unfinished
palace. Was he living on magic alone?

Perhaps he was. Sterren thought better of inquiring
and didn't worry about it. He watched as his soldiers
distributed bread, water, cheese, and dried fruit to the
peasants, then ate his own meal, which was similar save

that he drank wine.

The restoration of the village took a long time; in fact,
Vond still had three houses unfinished when the sun sank
out of sight and the sky began to darken

Vond took care of that easily enough by summoning
an orange glow in the sky that gave him enough light to
work by.                                      .

Lawrence Watt-Evans          239

When he had completed repairs to every house that
had still stood, he lowered his arms and said, "There!"

Sterren nodded. "Very impressive," he said.

Vond leaned over a merlon and called, "You can go
home, now! If your house is gone, stay with a neighbor,
and I'll take care of you later!"

The crowd below stirred; some of the peasants, par-
ticularly the children, had gone to sleep and were awak-
ened. Nobody left, however. Nobody made any move to
leave the market. They just stared up at the warlock and
the warlord.

"Why are you just sitting there?" Vond shouted.

Sterren reached out and put a hand on his arm. "They
don't understand Ethsharitic," he said.

Vond whirled and stared at Sterren for a moment.
Then he turned back to the market below, realization
dawning.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, damni"

"You might want to learn Semmat," Sterren suggested
mildly.

"I'd rather they learned Ethsharitic," Vond snapped.
"And if I'm going to build an empire, I don't want to
have to learn half a dozen different tongues, damn it!"

Sterren shrugged. "Well, in time I'm sure you can
make Ethsharitic the common language for your court,
but right now, none of these people knows a word of it."

"How the hell did all these stupid little languages hap-
pen, anyway? This was all part of Old Ethshar once, you
know!"

"I have no idea," Sterren said. "But they did. Maybe
it was demons, or a trick by the ruling class to keep
people where they belonged."

Vond glared down at the village, lit a weird shade of
orange by his unnatural illumination. "I suppose I'll need
interpreters," he said.

"At least for now," Sterren agreed.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Vond said, "Yon
tell them, Sterren. Tell them they can go home. Tell them
that if any of them want to work as my servants, they
should come to my palace in the morning. I'm going
home." He rose into the air.

Sterren waved a farewell as the warlock began drift-

240     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

ing away, then leaned over the ramparts and called, "The
Great Vond has finished his work! Go home now! The
Great Vond wants servants! If you want to be a servant
to the Great Vond, go to his castle..." He remembered
the word for "palace" from earlier conversation and
rephrased that. "Go to his palace in the morning! If your
house is not fixed, stay with a friend!"

The peasants stared up at him, and he heard someone
say, "Who in the World is that?" He didn't know if the
man meant him or Vond; after all, since he had gone off
to Ethshar before the invasion, he had not been seen

much in his role as warlord.

Then, as his message sank in, the people began scat-
tering to their rebuilt homes and shops.

The orange glow was fading rapidly as Vond moved
off toward his fortress, but both moons were in the sky
to allay the darkness. Sterren took one final look at the
palace, its marble walls gleaming an eerie yellow against
the black sky and plain in the strange mixed light, and
then climbed back down from the wall and went inside.

So far, he could hardly accuse Vond of tyranny.

Even so, he knew that the empire was doomed from

the start.

CHAPTER 30

^ ine days after the rout the Ksinallionese army
marched back into Semma.

The exterior of Vond's palace was almost complete;

only the top of the huge northwestern tower remained
open to the sky, although none of the roofs had yet been
tiled.

The warlock scarcely needed to worry about leaky
roofs, of course, since he could keep the rain away easily
enough, as he in fact had so far. Besides, Sterren
thought, a leaky roof wouldn't do any harm, since there
was nothing inside the palace as yet but bare stone walls
and floors. He and Ederd had spent much of the pre-
vious day strolling through its empty halls and chambers,
admiring the vast expanses of bare marble, as Vond ex-
plained what would eventually go where.

The warlock's half-dozen servants had watched si-
lently from their impromptu camp in what would in time
be the kitchens. They had little to do, as yet, beyond
seeing to their own most basic needs. Nothing needed
cleaning yet, and Vond could not be bothered to eat real
meals, but simply conjured up food from somewhere
whenever he got .hungry. He had no wardrobe to worry
about; he still wore the same black warlock's robe.

The stairways were not yet built, so the only way into
the upper floors was by levitation. Some rooms had no
windows as yet. .

Even so, it was a very impressive job for a mere eight

241

242 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

days' work. All the more so, because Vond had spent a
day or so cleaning and rebuilding the village around the
old castle.

Looking out from his tower room in the old castle,
and seeing the army on the horizon beyond the new pal-
ace, Sterren wondered what they thought of this great
brooding edifice that had not been there when they left,
just nine days before.

For that matter, he wondered what the people of
Semma thought of it.

He sighed. He should, he thought, have realized that
the lords of Ksinallion and Ophkar would not give up so
easily as all that. A single battle was not a war.

Well, it wasn't his problem, now that Vond had con-
quered Semma.

He watched as Vond appeared, rising out of the unfin-
ished tower, his cloak spreading like wings on either
side. He waited for the Ksinallionese army to be swept

away.

It wasn't. Instead, Vond dropped to the ground facing
it, out of sight behind the palace.

Puzzled, Sterren waited a moment for him to reap-
pear, then turned and headed for the stairs. He wanted to
see what was happening.

By the time he had saddled a horse and ridden out the
gate and past the palace, it was all over. He found Vond
standing atop a newly erected stone dais in the middle of
a field, and the entire Ksinallionese army spread out be-
fore him, bowing in obeisance.

Three fresh corpses lay at the foot of the dais,
sprawled awkwardly, swords fallen from their hands.
Another corpse lay in the dirt amid the bowing Ksinal-
lionese, this one burned black.

"Hello, Sterren," Vond said as he rode up.

"What happened?" Sterren asked.

"Well, these men marched up, as you see, and I
stopped them. I didn't hurt them, just stopped them.
Most of them couldn't understand a word I said, but a
few spoke Ethsharitic, and one of them said they wanted
to parley. I think my citadel had impressed them. Any-
way, that one there," he said, pointing to one of the
bodies that wore an officer's uniform, "claimed to be the

Lawrence Watt-Evans          243

Ksinallionese warlord. That fellow over there," he went
on, indicating a bowing survivor, "served as his inter-
preter. They said that they had no quarrel with me—
they called me a wizard, but I let that slide, since they
didn't know any better. Anyway, they said they were at
war with Semma, not with me."

Sterren nodded.

"Well, I explained that I had conquered Semma and
intended to conquer Ksinallion, too, but that I hadn't
gotten around to it yet; and I offered them a chance to
surrender. The warlord got all red in the face and swore
he'd never surrender to a damned wizard, or something
like that, and I told him that in that case, he might as
well try and kill me, and we'd see what happened. So he
tried, and I let him take a few stabs at me with his sword,
and then I exploded his heart."

Sterren found the calm way in which Vond described
this murder to be extremely upsetting, but he hid that
reaction and asked, "What about the others?"

"Well, after that, there was a lot of discussion in
whatever language these people use amongst themselves
—Ksinallionese, I suppose it is. Then this one," he said,
indicating another corpse, "tried to distract me, while
that one," pointing to the final unbumed body, "came up
behind me and tried to stab me. I stopped both their
hearts. And while I was doing that, that one over there,"
he pointed to the burned remains, "fired an arrow at me.
He was too far away to be sure of getting his heart prop-
erly the first try, so I fried him, instead. After that, I told
the interpreter that I would now accept the surrender of
anyone who cared to surrender and bow to me. And then
you rode up, and here we are." He waved a hand. "I
think a few at the back ran, instead, but I won't worry
about it." He looked over the hundreds of groveling fig-
ures. "I think I've just acquired a palace guard," he said,
smiling.

"What are you going to do about Ksinallion, then?"
Sterren asked.

"Oh, I guess I'll fly there this afternoon, stage a few
demonstrations, and let them surrender. I wasn't plan-
ning to start empire-building until I had my citadel fin-
ished, but I can't just leave them there after this."

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

244

Sterren nodded.

That afternoon, Corinal II, King of Ksinallion, capitu-
lated. He abdicated in favor of the Great Vond, and the
Kingdom of Ksinallion became the second province of

the Empire of Vond.

At least, Vond considered it the second. Sterren, who
had ridden along to watch, pointed out that Phenvel had

not actually surrendered yet.

Vond shrugged that off. "I'll worry about that after I

finish my palace,"

Two days later Vond intercepted a party of Ophkarite
soldiers spying on his palace and took a break from con-
struction to force another capitulation. He had to kill
King Neran IV before Neran's heir, the newly elevated
King Elken III, would surrender and add Ophkar to the

Empire of Vond.

Vond got home in time to finish tiling the roof.
That night, during dinner at the high table in Semma
Castle, Phenvel finally confronted Sterren directly and
demanded, "Whose side are you on, the warlock's or

mine?"

"I am on the side of what's best for Semma, your

Majesty," Sterren replied quietly, putting down his fork.

"What does that mean?"

"Your Majesty, I mean what I said."

What he actually meant was that he was in favor of
whatever caused the least trouble and did the least dam-
age to lives and property. He was not particularly con-
cerned with any other criteria in choosing "best."

"And who do you see as best for Semma, me or the

warlock?" Phenvel demanded.

"At the moment, your Majesty," Sterren said, "I see

only that to argue with the warlock is to die."
"To defy me can get you killed, too, warlord!"
Sterren tensed at this threat, but forced his voice to
remain calm. "Your Majesty," he said, "I don't think you
want to do that. The warlock thinks me his friend and
would not like it if you killed me." He hesitated, consid-
ering whether he dared say anything, and if so how
much, then added, "Besides, I can promise you that he

will not rule for long."

"Oh?" Phenvel eyed Sterren intently. "Why not?"

Lawrence Watt-Evans          245

"I'm sorry, your Majesty, but I can't tell you that."
He gestured at the crowded tables. "If someone here
were to hear and word get back to Vond, I fear what
would happen." In a moment of inspiration, he sug-
gested, "Perhaps you could ask the wizard Annara."

Phenvel looked without thinking, then realized that
Annara, as a mere commoner, was not at the high table;

as a rule, she and Ederd ate their meals in the kitchen
with the servants.

He snorted and turned back to his fried potatoes.
Sterren was able to finish his meal in peace and then slip
out of the castle unnoticed.

He strolled through the village, with its odd empty
spaces where houses had been destroyed, and down the
hill, where he paused and looked at Vond's palace.

The greater moon was high in the sky, the lesser low
in the east, and the white marble seemed to almost glow
in the moonlight. The five towers—one at each comer,
and a much larger one over the gate in the center of the
northwestern wall—stood out starkly against the starry
sky. Lights shone from a few windows, but he knew that
most of the structure was still empty.

He watched it unhappily.

Vond was accomplishing some impressive feats. The
palace was beautiful, at least on the outside—although a
bit ominous in its appearance, with its high, blank walls.
The village at Semma Castle was cleaner and sounder
than ever before—at least, what there was of it. Ophkar,
Ksinallion, and Semma were united for the first time in
three hundred years, and at the cost of only seven lives
in all, counting from the day after Vond's sudden acqui-
sition of access to the Lumeth power source.

But it all made Sterren very uneasy. He knew that it
could not possibly last .and, even while it did last, he did
not trust Vond to remain as harmless as he had been so
far.

He had more or less decided on a course of action
already, but he was not happy with it. He liked Vond; the
warlock was like a child with a new toy, or really, an
entire new playroom. Still, Sterren intended to do all he
could to remove Vond from power in Semma, not on

246       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
behalf of any foolish king, but because Vond was clearly

very dangerous indeed.

What would happen if the Wizards' Guild did decide
to remove Vond? A magical battle on the scale Vond
operated on might lay waste to the entire area.

What if other warlocks did come along and take part
in ruling the empire? No matter how benevolent Vond
might be—a question that was still in doubt—sooner or
later, a warlock would come along who was not.

And Vond would not always be there to stop such a

warlock.

Better, Sterren thought, if Vond were to go quickly,

before any other warlocks arrived.

He sighed and decided to go sleep at the Citadel, as
Vond's palace was now known, rather than Semma Cas-
tle. The warlock had said he was always welcome there,
though he had not yet been given a room specifically for
his own use or moved in any of his belongings. Phenvel,
on the other hand, was no longer making Sterren feel

welcome at all.

He said nothing to the warlock of what had happened.

It was only coincidence that the next day Vond came to
Semma Castle, smashed every door that was closed
against him to splinters, and demanded Phenvel's formal

surrender of authority.

Phenvel, Third of that Name, King of Semma, agreed
immediately, and the Kingdom of Semma ceased to
exist, becoming instead the Capital Province of the Em-
pire of Vond.

CHAPTER 31

B

y the first of Greengrowth in the year 5221 Vond's
palace was complete, furnished inside and out. The
streets of his capital were laid out and paved. His new
courtiers, recruited from his three provinces, could all
hold a simple conversation in Ethsharitic and were
teaching the tongue to others.

Sterren of Semma, once Sterren of Ethshar, was now
Lord Chancellor of the Empire of Vond.

His reaction to Vond's announcement of this honor
had been, "What's a chancellor?"

Vond had shrugged. "Whatever you like. I don't need
a warlord, since I do my own fighting, and that Ophkar-
ite warlord is in charge of my guards, but I wanted to
keep you around the palace, so you needed a title. That
was the vaguest high title I could think of. Make of it
what you will."

Sterren had kept it vague. His primary duty, he knew,
was to provide someone Vond could speak to freely.
Beyond that, he set himself no definite duties, but man-
aged to imply that he was Vond's second in command, an
implication the warlock supported.

Despite his new title, he still maintained his. quarters
in the tower of Semma Castle, as well as in the new
citadel, and had managed to retain command of what had
been the Semman army. His men, or at any rate those
who had not gone over to the citadel to sign up with the
Palace Guard, were now the Chancellor's Guard.

247

248 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

All three of his officers had resigned, at different
times and giving different reasons. Captain Arl had sub-
mitted his resignation two days after Vond's storm had
routed the invading armies; that had been the earliest he
had been able to speak to Sterren. He had done so on the
grounds that his men had been inadequately prepared for
battle, which meant he had failed in his duties.

Sterren suspected that Arl had expected to be asked
to stay on, but he had accepted the resignation. Arl had
failed in his duties. Besides, Sterren preferred not to
have his great-uncle's officers around.

Captain Shemder had resigned when King Phenvel
surrendered, refusing to serve a foreign sovereign.

Lord Anduron had finally resigned when Sterren ac-
cepted the title of chancellor, saying he no longer under-
stood what his position was supposed to be.

Sterren had named Dogal and Alder as his aides and
lieutenants, but did not replace his captains.

His soldiers seemed to accept the new order, and
Sterren's place in it, readily enough. The Semman nobil-
ity were another matter. When Sterren encountered any
of them in the corridors of the castle he was usually
snubbed, or presented with a ferocious glare. Phenvel's
son Dereth, no longer a prince, spat on Sterren's best   i
tunic. Shin-in, upon seeing him, invariably broke into
tears and ran—she obviously felt her hero had betrayed
her. Nissitha sneered—but then, she always had. Even
Lura seemed subdued and told him, "I'm not supposed
to like you any more, but I don't really see why."

Sterren caught whispers in the hallways, whispers he
thought he was meant to overhear, whispers containing
words like "traitor," "barbarian," and "coward." Mutters
about his unfortunate ancestry, three-fourths Ethsharitic,
were common. "Money-grubbing merchant's brat!" was
one epithet he encountered often. "Blood will tell" was  (
another favorite.                 .                    '

Sterren did not let any of this bother him. He had
chosen his path and he was committed to it.              {

The only things that bothered him were Shin-in's  |
tears, and he thought that if he could manage a moment
alone with her, he would explain to her why he was
doing what he was doing. She was a very pretty girl,

Lawrence Watt-Evaas          249

after all, and just turned fourteen, not that much younger
than he was himself.

But no opportunity to explain himself to her ever
came along.

Every so often Sterren wondered why he didn't just
leave and go home to Ethshar, but he always arrived at
the same answer. He had brought Vond here, so he was
partly responsible for him. He was the only one in
Semma except Vond himself who knew anything about
warlockry, which meant that he was the only one who

could see and understand everything that was happen-
ing.

And he also thought he was a restraining influence on

Vond. The warlock had no other friends or confidants at
all.

Besides, now that he was no longer the warlord, there
was no great hurry about getting out of Semma, and

there were clearly historical events happening that were
interesting to observe.

Actually, life in Semma and even in Semma Castle
had not really changed that much at all. Most of the
nobles still lived in the castle, undisturbed; a few had
slipped away, but the majority remained, still more or
less acknowledging Phenvel's authority. Admittedly,
about a fourth of the servants had deserted them to work
at the ^palace, but that did little more than reduce the
crowding somewhat. For most of the castle's inhabi-
tants, life coasted on, and they tried very hard to ignore
the warlock and his palace.

Sterren noticed that peasants no longer came to the
castle much. No taxes were paid to King Phenvel any
more, and the castle's stores were being consumed but
not replaced—taxes were now going to the warlock's
citadel. This did not affect Sterren directly, since he was

welcome at Vond's table, but it did not bode well for the
other nobles.

Those few of the bolder aristocrats who departed had
accepted that their old way of life was doomed and had
gone looking for greener pastures—"visiting" relatives in

other kingdoms, or simply seeking their fortunes, like so
many failed apprentices.

The nnhle? who lingered all seemed to think that mat-

250 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

ters would somehow right themselves, and everything
would go back to what it had been before, with Phenvel
once more uncontested ruler of Semma, but none of
them seemed to have any idea how this would come
about, and none of them, so far as Sterren could see,
were doing anything to help it along.

He was helping it along, at least slightly, but he did
not dare explain that; instead he put up with being la-
beled a traitor.

He was not entirely sure that in a sense, he might not
be betraying Semma by working toward Vond's down-
fall. After all, for the peasants, all the changes were for
the better. Vond controlled the weather and regulated the
climate to an unheard-of evenness of temperament. Rain
came when needed, usually at night, and never more
than needed. When days threatened to grow uncomfort-
ably cool the clouds would be forcibly scattered, and
when the sun was hot clouds would gather. As a result,
the spring planting was begun earlier than usual, and the
fields were already turning green.

Vond had promised that roads and houses would be
built once the palace was no longer occupying his time
and energy. The peasants Sterren had spoken to all
agreed that this would be wonderful, but he thought they
didn't really believe it would ever happen. They were
accustomed to empty promises from their rulers.

Somehow, this bothered Sterren far more than the
hatred of the dispossessed nobles. He knew that Vond
sincerely intended to carry through on his promises—
not so much out of altruism as to enhance his own posi-
tion. The ruler of a rich land accrues more power and
glory than the ruler of a poor one, and the warlock knew

that well.

But Sterren also knew that Vond might not have time
to make his promises good.

He sat in the tower room the warlock had given him,
staring out the window at the palace sprawling below
him, and wondered what he should do.

He had encouraged Vond to build his citadel as lav-
ishly as possible—big and elaborate throughout, and
created entirely with magic. Not a single stone had been
lifted into place by human muscle; even the carpets and

Lawrence Watt-Evans          251

tapestries, although woven by hand, had been delivered
and laid or hung by warlockry. Sterren had steadily
urged Vond to use as much power as possible—not that
he had needed much urging. Warlockry was like a drug;

the more Vond used, the more he could use, and the
more he wanted to use.

And somehow, he did not see what the inevitable out-
come of this would be.

Sterren thought that he, ignorant as he was of war-
lockry, knew what was going to happen to Vond better
than Vond did himself. The warlock was having too
much fun with his magic to see that in time, the Calling
would find him even in Semma.

Sterren stared down at the citadel and wondered
whether he should warn him. Now that the palace was
complete, Vond might not throw his power around so
freely.

That brought up the question, of course, of what he
would do.

Well, Sterren told himself, he could hardly learn any-
thing about Vond's plans sitting in his room. He headed
for the door.

He had intended to go all the way down to the war-
lock's audience chamber, but halfway down the first
flight of stairs Sterren changed his mind and 'at the next

landing he turned down the corridor and knocked on the
first door.

It opened, and Annara of Crookwall thrust her head
around the edge.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," Sterren replied. "May I come in?"

Annara hesitated, glancing back into the room, then
swung the door wide and admitted him.

Sterren was not surprised to see Agor, the Imperial
Theurgist, sitting on Annara's bed. They exchanged po-
lite greetings.

At Annara's direction Sterren found a seat by the
window. He settled onto the cushion and then fumbled

about, trying to figure out how to ask what he wanted to
ask.

Annara offered him a plate of honeyed cashews, and
he nibbled on those without speaking, while Agor chat-

252     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

ted in his newly acquired and horribly accented Ethshar-

itic about the delightful weather that Vond had ensured.

Sterren glanced around the room, looking for some-
thing that .might serve to divert the conversation along
the lines he wanted. He noticed a sparkle on a high

shelf.

Something shiny was moving up there, he realized.

He squinted.

A coin, a silver bit, was spinning on edge, but he had

not seen anyone spin it, and it showed no signs of slow-
ing down as he watched.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing.

The two magicians followed his finger. Annara said,

"It's a spinning coin."

"How long has it been spinning?"

"Oh, three or four months," Annara replied.

"But you haven't lived here that long!" Sterren said,

startled.

"I brought it with me from the castle," Annara said.

"How could you do that?"

"It's on a little card that folds up into a box for travel-
ing," she explained.

"What's it for? What keeps it spinning?"

"It's magic," Agor said.
"I could have guessed that for myself," Sterren said

sarcastically. "I mean, what's it/or?"

"It's a very simple little spell," Annara said. "It's

called the Spell of the Spinning Coin."

"And it just makes a coin spin on forever? That seems

pretty pointless."

"It does do a little more than that," the wizard admit-
ted. "Emner spun that one—I taught him the spell, as it
wasn't one he knew. It will keep spinning as long as he's
alive. If he's seriously ill, or badly injured, the spinning
will slow down, and it may even wobble a little if it's

very bad. If he dies, it-will stop."

"Oh, I see," Sterren said. "So you would know if, say,
he had been killed by bandits on the way to Akalla."

Annara and Agor exchanged glances. "It wasn't the
bandits I was worried about," Annara said.

Sterren nodded. "I suppose not." He hesitated, then
pushed on. He could hardly have realistically hoped for a

Lawrence Watt-Evans           253

better opening. "I see it's still spinning, and he's been
gone for all these months. He must have contacted the
Wizards' Guild by now."

"Yes," Annara said, flatly.

"And they haven't done anything? Have they commu-
nicated with you?"

She hesitated, then said, "My lord Sterren, why do
you ask?"

Sterren blinked. "I'm curious," he said.

"You'll pardon me, my Lord Chancellor, but I'm not
sure I care to satisfy your curiosity."

He had half expected this reaction. "Annara," he said
slowly, "I can understand your caution, but believe me,
I'm not going to cause you any trouble."

"You will forgive me, my Lord Chancellor, if I..."

"Stop calling me that!" Sterren snapped. "I didn't ask
for the stupid title! People keep hanging these silly titles
on me, when I was perfectly happy just being Sterren of
Ethshar. Look, Annara, I know you're worried that I'm
Vond's spy, but I'm not his spy, not unless he can read
my mind without my knowing it. If he wanted to know
something, I suppose he could force it out of you easily
enough by torture; you aren't enough of a wizard to de-
fend yourself against him. Or if you are, you're also one
hell of an actress, because you've had me fooled! I can't
force anything out of you, though." He paused for
breath, then continued more calmly, "If you're worried
about which side I'm on, right now I'm not really on any
side. I think I know how to either destroy the warlock,
or to keep him in power for at least a while longer, and I
honestly haven't decided which I want to do, or whether
I should just leave well enough alone. I came here hop-
ing for more information to help me decide. I can't force
it out of you; Vond can. You can tell me now, and if I'm
telling the truth it won't do you any harm, and if I'm
lying, Vond can come up here and convince you."

He stopped, suddenly unsure what he was saying and
whether he should be saying it.

Annara threw a look at Agor, then turned back to
Sterren and said, "All right, Sterren. I don't suppose it
will do any harm to tell you. I've had dreams. Some

wiyar^-e can «pn/l <4rv»amc  vrwi fc-nnii/ s»nd I've had

254

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

dreams where wizards tell me things. Some of them may
be ordinary dreams, but I think at least some must have
been sent. I don't always remember them when I wake
up; there are tricks to remembering your dreams, and
I'm not very good at it. All the same, I think I have an
idea what the Guild is doing."

"Ah," Sterren said. "What are they doing?"

"Nothing. At least, nothing yet. They're watching the
situation, using scrying spells and prophecies, and that's
all. Oh, and it seems that reports of the events here are
somehow not spreading very well, particularly not to
warlocks, and those warlocks who do hear about the
new power source are being discouraged or diverted in
various subtle ways."

Sterren nodded. "You know, I had begun to wonder
why not a single other warlock had turned up."

"Remember, Vond's invitations have all emphasized
his own supremacy, and warlocks are not prone to play
the sycophant. Even without my guildmates interfering,
I suspect he would be attracting few converts."

"True enough," Sterren acknowledged. He sat for a
moment, munching cashews and considering this news.

"So," he said at last, "is the Guild contemplating any

more drastic action?"

"No," Annara said, after a moment's hesitation. "At
least, not that they've told me about. The general nonin-
terference policy seems to be holding good."

Sterren nodded, and as he did a thought occurred to
him. He asked Agor, "What do the gods think about all

this?"

The theurgist shrugged. "Like the wizards, they don't,
interfere," he said. "Not since the Great War."

Sterren accepted that. "One more question," he said,
"and I'll go." He looked at the two magicians closely.

"For yourselves," he asked, "do you want Vond re-
moved?"

Annara and Agor looked at each other.

Agor shrugged.

"I don't know," Annara said, "I really don't."

CHAPTER 32

E.

ive minutes after he left Annara's room Sterren
peered around a drapery into Vond's audience chamber.
The warlock spotted him immediately.

"Ah, Chancellor Sterren!" he called, "Come in! Come
in!"

Sterren obeyed, looking curiously about as he did.
He had seen the audience chamber before, of course
—the rich red draperies down either side, the ornately
patterned marble floor, the luxurious red carpet down
the center. Twenty-foot-high windows behind the dais let
sunlight pour in from the palace's central courtyard;

stained-glass medallions set in the windows painted
colors on the floor, and the cut-glass bevels that edged
the medallions ringed the colors with sprays of rainbows.
Golden banners hung from the vaulted white marble ceil-
ing; most were plain and unadorned, but three bore bat-
tle flags sewn onto them, representing Semma, Ophkar,
and Ksinallion.

Three broad steps, alternating black and white mar-
ble, led up to the black marble dais, and above its center
Vond floated comfortably in mid-air; he had, not yet
bothered with a throne.

That much was familiar. What was new to Sterren

was the group of young women who stood at the foot of
the dais.

He counted twelve of them, all young and all uncom-
monly attractive. Their garb varied from simple peasant

256     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

homespun to the rich velvets and silks of the conquered
nobility; their expressions varied from uncertainty to
bold defiance. None of them were so much as whisper-
ing; the only sound was the rustle of their clothing.

"What's going on?" Sterren asked, breaking the si-
lence.

"I'm choosing a harem," Vond replied.
Startled, Sterren took another look at the women.
"I've had my eye out for the last sixnight or so," the
warlock explained, "and I'd noticed these young ladies
as promising prospects, so when I had a moment, I
brought them here to look over." He smiled wolfishly.

"Do they know what's going on?" Sterren asked, see-
ing confusion and fear on several faces.

Vond shrugged. "I told them, but I don't know if they

understood."

"May I speak with them?" Sterren asked.

"Be my guest," Vond said with a wave.

"Ladies," Sterren said, in Semmat, "I am Sterren,
Ninth Warlord of Semma." He did not know a Semmat
equivalent for "chancellor," if one existed at all, and he
was not yet comfortable with the title in any case. "Do
you know why you are here?"

His reply was a babble of voices; he raised his hands

for silence.

It took a moment, but the women quieted. Sterren

pointed to one. "You; who are you?"

The chosen one looked back at him blankly. "Ksinal-
UoniT' she said, with an odd accent.

Sterren picked another. "Do you speak Semmat?"

This one nodded.

"Who are you?" Sterren asked.

"Kyrina the Fair," she replied, "Daughter to Kardig

Trak's son and Rulura of the Green Eyes."

Sterren could easily understand how she got her
epithet. She wore a simple green tunic and a brown peas-
ant's skirt, but even so, she was easily more beautiful
than the most elaborately attired noblewoman Sterren

had ever seen in Semma.

"You live near here?" he asked.

"In the village," she said, gesturing vaguely in the
general direction of Semma Castle.

Lawrence Watt-Evans          257

"Do you know why you are here?"

She shook her head, which sent a ripple through her
long, gleaming black hair and wafted perfume in Ster-
ren's direction. "No, my lord."

"How did you come here?"

She glanced at Vond'and at the other women, clearly
not eager to act as spokeswoman. Nobody volunteered
to take her place, and after an instant's further hesitation
she explained, "Perhaps an hour ago, something like a
great wind, yet not a wind, snatched me up and brought
me here. I found myself in a great hall, where I could
move freely, but where all the doors but one were closed
and barred, and the one open door was guarded by men
who would not let me leave. Another woman was there,
as well. and then these others were swept in, as I was,
one by one; and when we were all there, the guards led
us here, using their spears to keep us together."

Sterren nodded his understanding.

"This is the Great Vond," he said, gesturing toward
the warlock. "You all probably guessed that."

Several women nodded.

"You all know he now rules this land?"

Seven women, by Sterren's count, nodded. He
guessed the other five spoke no Semmat.

"You know he is a warlock, a magician?"

More nods.

"He is also a man. He has brought you twelve here to
choose women to..." Sterren paused, wishing he knew
more Semmat; he could think of a hundred delicate ways
to phrase this in Ethsharitic. "To warm his bed," he said
at last.

That elicited not nods, but startlement, anger, fear,
and at least one crimson blush.

Vond was watching all this, and, Sterren saw wor-
riedly, looking bored.

"Sterren," he said, "I take it you've just explained
why I brought them here."

Sterren nodded.

"Tell them," Vond said, "that any who wish to leave'
are free to go, but that those who stay, and who please
me, will be richly rewarded."

258     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Hesitantly, Sterren translated this speech into Sem-
mat as best he could.

The seven who understood looked at one another,
clearly considering the offer. Kyrina looked at the war-
lock carefully for a long moment, then turned and strode

for the exit.

Vond waved a hand, and the great double doors

swung wide to let her pass.

Another woman, a noblewoman this time, hesitantly

followed her.

One of the five who did not understand Semmat
seemed to catch on, and literally ran out the door.

Others followed, each after her own fashion, until five
remained, three of whom spoke Semmat. The five eyed
each other warily.

Sterren watched them, puzzled. Why had these five
stayed? None of them was starving; in fact, two of the
five were dressed very well indeed. They should not be
so desperate as to choose slavery; and surely concubin-
age, in this case, was a form of slavery.

Perhaps, he thought, they didn't trust Vond to keep
his word and feared he would take revenge upon them if
they left. Certainly, all five looked somewhat nervous.

Or perhaps they didn't see it the way he did. They
might see sharing Vond's bed as a route to power and
wealth. If that was it, Sterren was sure they were wrong.

Or perhaps it was just curiosity or a sexual interest in
the warlock. Sterren hadn't really given the matter much
thought, but he supposed Vond was attractive enough,
and there were always stories about magicians. For him-
self, Sterren could see no reason a knowledge of arcane
skills should imply a knowledge of erotic skills, but there
were always stories.

Most likely, he thought, it was a combination of all of
these that kept the five of them in the audience chamber.
He found that unappealing and decided he did not care to
watch any further. He started to turn away.

"Sterren," Vond said, "I need you to translate!"

He had forgotten that. He turned back, reluctantly.
"Couldn't one of your servants do that?"

"You're here; they aren't. Besides, you speak Eth-
sharitic better than any of them."

Lawrence Watt-Evans

259

Sterren had to admit that this was true.

"Let's start with their names," the warlock said, wav-
ing a hand at the women.

Sterren did the best he could, given that only three of
the women spoke Semmat; a fourth spoke Ophkaritic,
the fifth Ksinallionese. One of the Semman women knew
a few words of Ksinallionese, and the Ksinallionese
spoke Ophkaritic, so that nobody was totally cut off.

And of course, gestures and facial expressions con-
veyed plenty of information as well.

After half an hour or so, Vond chose the Ksinallionese
to take a stroll with him and become better acquainted,
and Sterren escaped with a sigh of relief, while one of
the palace servants, summoned by Vond's magic,
escorted the other four to the apartments they were
henceforth to share.

Sterren made his way out the citadel's main gate and

looked down Vond's artificial hill at the surrounding
countryside.

The land had turned green with spring, and the peas-
ants were out in the fields, tending their crops. The sky
was a radiant crystal blue, with a handful of soft white
clouds sailing like white-robed wizards across it.

A party of a dozen or so men was marching up the
road toward the gate. Four of them were Vond's red-tun-
icked palace guards, and the rest were in rags.

Sterren saw to his horror that the ragged ones were in
chains. Most of them looked resigned, but two or three
looked terrified.

"Hai," he called, "What going on?"

The foremost guard saw him, acknowledged his pres-
ence with a bow, and called back one word.

Sterren did not catch it; the guard's accent distorted
his Ethsharitic beyond easy comprehension.

"What?" Sterren called back.

"Slaves!" the soldiers repeated. "We bring slaves!"

"What for?" Sterren asked, as he and the guard ap-
proached each other.

The guard spread his hands in the Ksinallionese
equivalent of a shrug. "The Great Vond ordered," he
said.

260     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"Where did these people come from?" Sterren per-
sisted.

The guard hesitated; clearly, his Ethsharitic was not

very good. "We go to Akalla, buy them, bring them
back," he explained slowly.

Sterren stopped and stepped aside as the party
marched up past him. He watched them go without inter-
fering.

At least they had been slaves already, and not inno-
cent peasants Vond had had enslaved.

In fact, he supposed that it was perfectly reasonable
for Vond to keep slaves, but Sterren found it a little hard
to accept. For most of his life he had been far more likely
to deal with slavers as merchandise than as a customer.
He had never quite been reduced to sleeping on the city
streets, which would have made him fair game for the
slavers, and he had never been caught stealing, which
could also put cuffs on a person, but those had always
been closer than the sort of wealth that would include

buying anyone.

He had known a few slaves, either before or after

their enslavement. He had never exchanged more than a
few polite words with a slave-owner—except Vond.
Or, he suddenly realized, perhaps King Phenvel;

some of his castle servants might well be owned, rather

than hired.

He watched the slaves march into the palace.
Vond was buying slaves and acquiring a harem. Was
this necessarily tyranny? After all, he bought his slaves
on the market, and his chosen concubines were there

voluntarily.

No, Sterren decided, it wasn't tyranny—but it wasn't

a good sign, either.

CHAPTER 33

V ond conquered Thanoria on the sixteenth of Green-
growth, 5221. He took a sixnight or so to consolidate his
conquest this time, taking care of details he had been
rather haphazard about in dealing with Semma, Ksinal-
lion, and Ophkar. He arranged for taxes to be paid into
his imperial treasury, appointed provincial officials from
the former royal government, selected candidates for his
harem, and so forth.

' That done, he conquered Skaia on the twenty-fourth.

Enmurinon went next, on the third of Longdays, fol-
lowed by Akalla of the Diamond on the fourteenth. He
took special care there, due to the presence of the port,
and inquired after recent arrivals, hoping for word of im-
migrating warlocks.

He was disappointed by the replies he received, and
on the nineteenth he returned to his palace in a foul
temper.

He concentrated on other affairs for several days after
that, building roads, tenements, and market halls, getting
acquainted with his new concubines, and dealing with

his subjects.

Rather to his surprise, he found that he did not enjoy
actually ruling his empire. Settling disputes, administer-
ing justice, appointing officials, and the other traditional
duties of royalty were dull and time-consuming, and pro-
vided no opportunity for him to display his magic.

Sterren had been expecting this realization. He had

261

262     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

long ago concluded that kings were no happier than any-
body else. Furthermore, he had noticed that for some
time now, Vond had only seemed really comfortable and
alert when using huge amounts of magic, as if warlockry
were an addictive drug. When the warlock finally con-
fessed his disappointment, late one night in a quiet
torchlit arcade overlooking the palace courtyard, Sterren
simply nodded and agreed, without comment.
"You don't seem surprised," Vond said, irritably.
"I'm not," Sterren said. "/ never thought ruling

looked like much fun."

The warlock settled more deeply into the sling chair

he sat upon. "It isn't," he growled, "but it should be."

"Why?" Sterren asked.
"Because I want it to be," Vond snapped.

Sterren made no reply.
After a moment of disgruntled silence, Vond said, "I

just won't do it any more."

"Won't do what?"

"I won't deal with all these petty details—who owns
what, how to punish this thief or reward that soldier,
where to put the roads, how to collect the taxes, how

much coin to mint—I won't do it."

"Someone has to," Sterren pointed out, "or your em-
pire will fall apart."

"/ don't have to. You do. You're my chancellor, aren't

you? I just decided what that means—it's your job to
take care of anything I don't want to be bothered with."
Vond smiled an unusually unpleasant smile. "I'll an-
nounce it in the morning; you'll be in charge of the ad-
ministration of the empire. I'll take care of what I'm

good at—building and conquest."

Sterren had hoped and feared this might happen.
After all, he was the only person Vond trusted. To all the
native inhabitants of his empire, the warlock was some-
thing of a monster, alien and inhumanly powerful, con-
quering entire kingdoms in a single day; none of them
could speak to him without fear, and he dealt with them,
in general, with contempt. Besides, very few were really
fluent in Ethsharitic, and Vond had not yet bothered to
learn any other tongues. Warlockry, unlike witchcraft,
did nothing at all to enhance his linguistic abilities. War-

Lawrence Watt-Evans          263

lockry was a purely physical sort of magic; it could not
teach.

The other magicians were less contemptible than the
ordinary citizens, but still did not provide very good
company for the new emperor. From the start, both An-
nara and Ederd had held back visibly, refusing to speak
openly with Vond, and he had noticed this reticence.
Agor's Ethsharitic was an impediment, and his eccentric
behavior, cultivated since childhood to add to an aura of
mystery, was another.

That left Sterren as Vond's only friend, the only per-
son he could talk with as one human to another, and
despite Vond's denials, Sterren was quite sure that the
warlock was miserably lonely.

He had expected other warlocks to come and join
him, and was growing ever more confused and dismayed
at their failure to materialize. This drove him, more and
more, to talk away long hours with Sterren.

Sterren was no warlock; he was unnaturally lucky
with dice, but otherwise could barely stir a cat's whisker
with his magic. Still, he had known Vond when Vond
was powerless, he knew something about how warlockry
functioned, and he was not cowed by the imperial might.
That made him an invaluable companion.

And Sterren had guessed that it might in time make
him Vond's partner in empire, as well.

Now that that guess had come true, he was ready.
This was an opportunity far too good to miss. He could
do far more to prevent tyranny if he were himself in-
volved in governing.

He had seen, over the last few months, that Vond's
decisions, as emperor, tended to be quick and careless.
He did not concern himself with right or wrong, with
what would be best for those involved, but only with
what was most expedient, what would settle matters
most quickly, rather than most equitably.

Now he could change that.

He had no illusions about his own governing ability,
however. He knew himself well enough to suspect that
he, too, would opt for expediency after a few boring
days.

"I'll accent that on one Rnnriition," he said.

264

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Vond looked at him sharply. "Who are you, to be set-
ting conditions?" he demanded.

"I'm your Lord Chancellor, your Imperial Majesty,"

Sterren replied mildly.

Vond could hardly deny that, but he was not so easily

soothed. "What condition?" he demanded.

"That I may delegate my authority as I please," Ster-
ren said, "Because as I said, / never thought ruling
looked like fun, and I don't want to be saddled with the
job either. I don't mind doing a share, certainly, but I
don't want to spend my days divvying up strayed cattle
any more than you do."

Vond considered this. "Fair enough," he said.
The next morning Vond set out to conquer Hluroth,
and Sterren set out to establish the Imperial Council.

CHAPTER 34

-£ he Chancellor's Guard came in handy on occasion; it
had saved Sterren a good deal of trouble to simply tell
Alder, "Take as many men as you need, but I want Lady
Kalira of Semma here in an hour."

Then all he had to do was sit in his chosen room, a
small study on the second floor of Semma Castle, and

wait; an hour later, Lady Kalira glared at him across the
table.

"I'm here," she said without preamble. "What do you
want?"

Sterren noted, with hope and admiration, that she did
not call him a traitor or otherwise insult him.
"Your help," he said.

Her angry glare softened to curiosity. "What sort of
help?" she demanded warily.
"In running the empire."
"Empire!" She snorted.

Sterren shrugged, using both the Ethsharitic shoulder
bob and the Semman gesture of spread fingers and a
downturned palm. "Call it what you like," he said. "Like
it or not, the warlock has united several kingdoms
now—I can't say how many since he's in the process of
adding at least one more even as we speak—and I think
I can call it an empire." He had had plenty of time to
improve his Semmat in recent months, and spoke it eas-
ily now. "I didn't come here to argue about names," he
concluded.

266 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"Maybe I did, though," Lady Kalira retorted.

"I hope not," Sterren said.

For a moment neither spoke. Then Lady Kalira said,
"All right, what's your offer?"

"You know Vond named me chancellor," Sterren said.

"Whatever that means," she answered, nodding.

"He's just decided that it means I'm to take care of all
the administrative details that he doesn't want to bother
with," Sterren explained.

Lady Kalira considered this, then smiled. "And I sup-
pose," she said, "that you intend to palm the job off on

me."

"Not exactly," Sterren said. "But I admit you're
close. I want you to tell me who I should pass it on to."

"Should?"

"Yes, should. Who could do the best job of it, and
who would do the best job of it. I know I'd botch it."

"You do?" She eyed him carefully.

He nodded.

"I think you'll need to tell me a little more of what
you had in mind," she said.

"What I had in mind," Sterren told her, "is an Impe-
rial Council, a group of the best administrators we can
find, who would actually run the empire. Vond isn't par-
ticularly interested in doing that, and neither am I. Be-
sides, Vond isn't going to be around for all that long, and
I don't suppose I'll be very welcome once he's gone. A
group of well-respected natives would be able to keep
things going smoothly, regardless of what Vond and I

do."

"Why isn't he going to be around very long?" Lady

Kalira asked, staring at him.

"I can't tell you that," Sterren replied uncomfortably.
"You said the same thing months ago, and he's still

here," she pointed out.

Sterren shrugged again. "So far, yes," he said.

"And you still say he won't be for long?"

"He can't be," Sterren insisted.

"Why not?"

"I can't tell you that," Sterren said again.

Lady Kalira considered this, then asked, "Can you

tell me how long he'll be around?"

Lawrence Watt-Evans           167

"No. Maybe a month, maybe a year or two. I don't
think he can possibly last five years."

"Did you hire an assassin, or something?" she asked
curiously. "The cult ofDemerchan, perhaps?"

"No," Sterren said. "Why would I do something stu-
pid like that? He isn't doing me any harm. In fact, he
isn't doing much of anybody else any harm, either. Look
at the peasants out there—they're doing just fine! No-
body's complaining except the deposed nobles, and even
you aren't really suffering much! And here I am, on top

of it all, offering you a chance to get back into running
the government!"

Lady Kalira studied him closely and then shook her
head. "I don't understand you, Sterren," she said, "I
don't understand you at all."

"I don't care if you understand me or not; I just want
your help in putting together this council. I thought
seven members would be about right—no ties in the
voting that way. And I don't want it to be hereditary,
exactly, since we can't afford to have any infants or in-
competenfs on it; but perhaps members could have the
right to appoint their heirs. I don't want any of the de-
posed kings on it, either—it wouldn't look right unless
we included all of them, and I hope that you, as a Sem-
man, will see why I don't want that."

Lady Kalira smiled involuntarily at this reference to

her former sovereign. Sterren took this as encourage-
ment.

"I suppose princes or princesses might be all right,
but I'll leave that up to you," he continued. "I don't
know much about any of the people around here; I never
really got to know most of them. I'd like you to choose
the people you think I really need to have, to start.
You're welcome to take a seat on the Council yourself, if
you like, and I thought maybe the steward, Algarven,
would be a good choice, but I'll defer to your judgment."
He hesitated, then said, "I think we probably don't want
all seven to be Semman. In fact, I think a good mix of
nationalities would be wise, but on the other hand,

Semma is the capital province, so at least one or two...
What do you think?"

"I think,". Lady Kalira said slowly, "that I need to

268

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

know more about the duties of this proposed council."

Sterren smiled and said, "What would you suggest?
Vond has claimed building and conquest for himself and
left everything else to me. I prefer to leave it to a coun-
cil. What would you recommend?"

"You're really serious about this?"

"Oh, yes."

She sighed.

By the time Vond returned from the successful subju-
gation of Hluroth, they had selected four of the seven
councillors and were discussing meeting schedules.

CHAPTER 35

L t was the ninth of Harvest, in the Year of Human
Speech 5221. The Empire of Vond extended from the
deserts in the east to the ocean in the west and from the
edge of the World in the south to the borders of Lumeth
of the Towers in the north.

Vond had turned back before attacking Lumeth and
had returned to his citadel trembling.

"I heard the whisper there, even over the power I
draw on," he told Sterren. "I'd forgotten what it was
like. Foul, dark muttering in my mind—awful!" He took
a deep breath, then released it slowly.

"I almost think I can still hear it," he said, "but I
know it's just my mind playing tricks on me."

Sterren hesitated, then said nothing.

"Well," Vond went on, "I know where my limits are
now, at any rate. I don't dare ever venture past the
borders of Lumeth or Kalithon or Shassalla, but here on
the south of them, I'm all-powerful."

Sterren did not argue with Vond's claim. "It's too
bad," he remarked Instead. "I was curious about what
would happen if you got really close to the towers them-
selves. Aren't they the source of your power?"

Vond nodded. "I was curious, too, but I won't risk
finding out. It's too bad; I'd have preferred to have con-
trol over the towers."

That had been sixnights before, early in the month of
Longdays, and that unexpected defeat had been followed

270     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

by more than half a dozen quick victories over the tiny
port nations of the South Coast west of Akalla, victories
that had extended Vond's empire as far as it could safely
go. Now, on the ninth of Harvest, Sterren stood on a
balcony and looked out across the countryside.

The land was a rich green from horizon to horizon,
punctuated only by roads and buildings and the bright
colors of flowers; thanks to Vond's control of the
weather and reworking of the soil there were no barren
spots, nowhere that the earth failed to yield generously.

Straight, smooth roads paved with stone stretched out
from the plaza below the citadel, leading directly to each
of the towns and castles of the empire.

The village that surrounded Semma Castle still stood,
but was equalled in size and far outdone in splendor by
the town growing up around Vond's palace, a town built
of white and gold marble, roofed in red tile. Small foun-
tains babbled in each corner of the plaza and at several
intersections, providing drinking water for anyone who
wanted it, and a much larger ornamental fountain
sprayed upward at the center of the plaza. Smoke and
intriguing odors rose from a dozen forges and ovens.

The two villages were growing toward each other
across the intervening valley, and it seemed likely that in
time they would merge into a single entity,

In time, Sterren thought, this might become a real

city.

Semma Castle itself still stood, but its population had
dropped drastically. Over the months, as the royal trea-
sury and the castle stores gave out, the nobility had
drifted away, fleeing the empire or, in a few cases, find-
ing honest work. The royal family itself was still sticking

it out, but most of the others had left.

The same thing, Sterren knew, had happened in all the
former capitals, the castles and strongholds that had
once ruled Ophkar, Ksinallion, Skaia, Thanoria, Hlur-
oth, Akalla of the Diamond, Zhulura, Ghelua, Ansuon,
Furnara, Kalshar, Quonshar, Dherimin, Karminora,

Alboa,and Hend.

So far, Vond had definitely been good for the Small
Kingdoms. He had dispossessed a few hundred nobles,
but he had enriched thousands of peasants. He had killed

Lawrence Watt-Evans

271

a few dozen people in his conquests, but he had probably
saved at least as many from starvation.

And he was doomed.

Sterren still found it hard to believe that Vond did not
realize he was doomed. It was really fairly obvious.
After all, all warlocks were doomed. Just finding a new
power source would not change that. Sterren thought
Vond had been given enough hints when he established
the northern borders of his empire, but still the warlock
did not see it.

It was hot just that he was unwilling to admit it, ei-
ther. If that were it, he would have cut back on his use of
magic, but he hadn't. He continued to lay roads, erect
buildings, manipulate the weather, and at times to light
the night sky in sheer celebration of his might.

Sterren had refrained from commenting, but after all
these months, he was finally convinced that Vond de-
served better. He deserved a warning, at the very least
—a warning only Sterren couldprovide.

And, Sterren promised himself, he would deliver that
warning.

The only catch was to figure out how to convince
Vond that he, Sterren, had only recognized the danger
now. If Vond knew that Sterren had withheld his cer-
tainty for so long he was likely to be very annoyed in-
deed.

Sterren did not care to have Vond annoyed with him.
He was puzzling out an approach when someone be-
hind him cleared a throat.

He turned and found a palace servant, a man named
Ildirin who had once been a butcher's assistant in Ksin-
allion, standing in the balcony door.

"Your pardon, my Lord Chancellor," he said apolo-
getically, "but the Emperor is meeting with the Council
and desires your presence."

"Now?"

"Yes, my lord," Ildirin replied.

Sterren knew better than to argue or hesitate; Vond
hated to be kept waiting. "Where?" he asked.

"In the council chamber."

Sterren nodded, stepped past Ildirin into the palace,
and headfl^ fr"" ^^ ^•"'"'

272     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Ildirin followed at a respectful distance.
The council chamber had not been designed as such;

after all, when Vond built his palace he had no idea that
an Imperial Council would ever exist. He had intended
the room to be an informal audience chamber, where he
could meet with his cronies without the full pomp of the
main audience hall, but still on a business basis rather

than in his personal apartments.

Save for Sterren, however, who was usually welcome
even in Vond's private quarters, the warlock had no
cronies. He had a council, instead, and so the informal
audience chamber had become the council chamber.

The councillors could hardly he considered cronies;

none of the seven liked Vond or particularly wanted to
see him remain in power. All seven, however, were will-
ing to recognize that the Empire of Vond was a reality
and that it needed governing; and all seven were very

good at governing.

Ordinarily, the Council went about its business, and
Vond went about his business, and the two had as little
to do with each other as possible, communicating with
each other only through Sterren. For Vond to meet with

the entire Council was unheard of.

Sterren hurried down the stairs, the wide sleeves of
his velvet tunic flapping at his sides, and marched across
the broad hallway at the bottom. The great red doors at
the inner end of the hallway led into the audience
chamber; the black doors at the outer end led out to the
plaza. He ignored them both and headed directly for the
small rosewood door that nestled unobtrusively in one

comer.

His hand on the latch, he hesitated. He rapped lightly,

then opened the door and walked in.

The seven councillors were seated at the table where
they carried out most of their deliberations, three to a
side. Their chairwoman. Lady Kalira, usually sat at the
head of the table; today she was at the foot, and the
Great Vond floated cross-legged at the head. He was
only slightly higher than if he had been using a chair; his
knees were below the polished wood of the table top.

"Ah, there you are!" Vond said when he saw Sterren
step into the room.

Lawrence Watt-Evans          273

"Here I am," Sterren agreed. "What's happening?"
He looked about for somewhere to sit, or even some-
where better to stand, and spotted an unused chair. He
turned it to face the warlock emperor, and asked, "May I
sit?"

Vond waved permission. As he did, he caught sight of
Ildirin peering in the doorway.

"I see you found him," the warlock said. "Now go see
if you can find us something appropriate to drink; I ex-
pect we'll be doing a lot of talking, and talking is thirsty
work."

Ildirin bowed and vanished, closing the door behind
him.

"Now," Vond said, "I suppose you all want to know
why we're here, so I'll get right to the point, which is

that am I not at all sure I like this 'Imperial Council' of
yours."

Sterren did not like the sound of that and decided that
perhaps Vond was not in a mood to hear bad news today.

He wondered whether he could somehow convey an
anonymous message to the warlock.

The councillors glanced at one another, and some at
Sterren, but after a second or two all eyes came to rest
on Lady Kalira.

She accepted her silent appointment as spokeswoman
and rose.

"Your Imperial Majesty," she said in her accented
Ethsharitic, "we serve at your pleasure. If you wish us to
stop, we will stop, we will be glad to stop."

Two or three heads bobbed in agreement; nobody in-
dicated by even the slightest gesture or sound that he
might think otherwise.

"Don't be so quick to resign, either," Vond snapped.
"I know I need somebody to run things; I'm just not sure
I want you. I'm not sure you've been running things the
way I want them run."

"We serve at your Imperial Majesty's pleasure," Lady
Kalira repeated, bowing her head.

Her Ethsharitic had improved greatly over the past
several months, Sterren noticed. Recognizing that it was
the new language of government had driven her to study
it far more serinnslv than <nere curiosity had before.

274     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

"That's what you say here," Vond said, "but I hear
otherwise elsewhere. I hear whispers that you're plotting
to overthrow me, to restore the old monarchies. After
all, you're all aristocrats yourselves; why should you ac-
cept a commoner like me as your emperor?"

Lady Kalira started to say something, but Vond held
up his hand to stop her.

Sterren wondered suddenly just what sort of whispers
Vond had actually been hearing. Was it whispered
rumors that had upset him, or was there another sort of
whisper entirely that was getting on his nerves?

Then he forgot about that, as Vond turned and ad-
dressed him directly.

"So, my lord chancellor, why is it you chose only the
old nobility for your council?"

The question itself was easy to answer, so easy that
Sterren wondered what Vond was really after.

"Because, Your Majesty," Sterren said, "no one else
in your empire has had any training or experience in gov-
erning."

"And you did not see fit to train them?"
"No, Your Majesty, I didn't; I was trying to set up
something to handle governing now, not at some indefi-
nite future time. Besides, I don't know any more about
governing or training peasants to govern than you do."

"It wouldn't have to be peasants; couldn't you find
merchants or tradesmen? Running a country can't be
that different from running a business."

Sterren had some serious doubts about Vond's state-
ment, but he ignored it and answered the question. "I
didn't try to find tradesmen, because I didn't see any-
thing wrong with using nobles who already know the job.
Besides, there aren't that many tradesmen around here;

it's not exactly Ethshar. I mean, in Semma, they had a
Lord Trader—how much of a merchant class could there
be, in a case like that?"

"You didn't see anything wrong with using the nobles
I threw out of power?" •

"No, I didn't!" Sterren answered. "What are they
going to do? You'd kill anyone who got out of line, and
they know it." He gestured at the councillors, reminding
Vond that they were listening.

Lawrence Watt-Evans          275

"They could stir up discontent," the warlock sug-
gested.

"Why should they? Listen, Vond, I don't think you
appreciate what these people have done here. I picked
the most competent people I could, without worrying
about where they came from. Each of them agreed to
help run the empire because they could see that it was
here to stay; and each one of them was labeled a traitor
by his friends and family because of that! They put up
with that because they want to see their people—nobles,
peasants, merchants, everybody—ruled fairly and well.
If your empire ever did fall, and the old kingdoms were

restored, they'd probably all be hanged for treason for
having helped you!"

"You think so?" Vond said, his expression unread-
able.

"Yes, I think so!" Sterren snapped.

At that point Ildirin entered quietly, bearing a tray
that held a full decanter and a dozen wineglasses. He
proceeded around the edge of the room to the emperor,
who court etiquette required be served first.

"And I don't suppose," Vond said, "that you might be

trying to put the nobility back in power, leaving me just a
figurehead!"

"Why would I want to do that?" Sterren asked, genu-
inely puzzled.

Vond accepted a glass of wine. "Because you're a

noble yourself, of course, Sterren, Ninth Warlord!" He
drank.

Sterren's mouth fell open in astonishment. One of the
councillors giggled, then quickly suppressed it. Ildirin si-
lently poured wine.

"Me?" Sterren said at last. "I'm an Ethsharitic mer-
chant's brat! I'm no noble; my grandmother^ran away
from home, and I don't give a damn who her father and

brother were. I'm no more a part of the old nobility here
than you are!"

Vond's expression stopped him, and he corrected
himself, "Well, not much more. I didn't know I had any
noble blood." He glanced at the councillors and said,
"Besides if I were trying to restore the old nobility,

276       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
wouldn't I have put kings and princes on the council,

instead of these people?"

"Kings would be a little obvious," Vond pointed out,

"and you did put a few princes in here, didn't you?"
"I did?" Sterren looked at the councillors again and

recognized Prince Ferral of Enmurinon.

"Oh," he said. Defensively, he added, "Only one. Out

of seven."

"So far," Vond said.

Ildirin had served all the councillors, now, and ap-
proached Sterren with a filled glass. He waved it away; it
appeared he needed his head clear if he was going to

keep it.

"So far," Sterren said, "and forever. I don't choose

new councillors; I don't know who can handle the job
and who can't. I let each councillor choose his own suc-
cessor."

Ildirin, still holding the glass he had intended for Ster-
ren, looked around the room and noticed that the em-
peror's glass was empty. He stepped back and started
gliding silently along the wall, back toward Vond's place

at the head of the table.

"Oh, I see\" the warlock said, sneering, "You won't
put any kings on the council, but if these seven name
kings as their heirs, then retire, there's nothing you can

do to stop it!"

"Don't be silly," Sterren said, and he heard someone

gasp quietly at his audacity in addressing the warlock
emperor thus. "The Imperial Council serves at my plea-
sure, as well as yours, your Majesty. I can dismiss any
councillor any time I please. So can you, just as you can
dismiss me as your chancellor. And I assure you, I'd
dismiss any king or queen, and probably whatever fool

named him as heir."

"Ah, you would? Why?"

"Because we don't want the old royalty back in
power. We don't want one councillor, by virtue of his
former station, to perhaps sway the rest of the council
unduly. We don't want to confuse the peasants by restor-
ing a king to any semblance of authority."

"That's right," Vond said, accepting the full wineglass
from Ildirin. "We don't want any of that. I'm sure the

Lawrence Watt-Evans          177

peasants resent me, consider me a usurper..."

Algarven, once royal steward of Semma, coughed
suddenly, choking on a sip of wine. Vond turned to glare
at him between sips from his own fresh glass.

"Excuse me, your Majesty," Algarven said, as soon
as he could breathe and talk again, "but the peasants...
why would you think the peasants resent you?"

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Vond's face.

"I've overthrown their kings," he said.

"Forgive me, your Majesty," said Berakon Gerath's
son, once royal treasurer ofAkalla of the Diamond, "but
so what? What did the old kings ever do for the peas-
antry? You've built roads and houses, put an end to
wars, and even done what seemed impossible and regu-
lated the weather. With all this, your taxes are no higher
than the old. Believe me, your Majesty, the peasants
don't mind at all that you've replaced the old kings,
though they do worry a bit about the inevitable price for
this bounty."

Vond handed his empty glass to Ildirin, who struggled
a moment to balance everything on the tray before he
could accept it. Vond threw him an annoyed glance.

"All right," Vond said. "Forget the peasants. You say
nobody here wants the old kings restored, but you have
a prince on the council; what happens when his father
dies?"

"Your Majesty," Prince Ferral said quietly, "my father
has been dead for five years now. You deposed my elder
brother, not my father."

"All right, then," Vond said, as Ildirin fumbled with
the decanter, "what happens when your brother dies?"

"Nothing much, your Majesty. He has children and
other brothers older than myself. I am eighth in the line
of succession."

Vond glared and reached for a glass of wine just as
Ildirin started to hand him one. Their arms collided, and
the wine spilled down the emperor's chest, staining the
golden embroidery on his black robe an ugly shade of
red.

The warlock stared down at the spill for an instant,
then shrieked, "You idiot!" He waved an arm, and Ildirin
was flnno hacic •aoqnr>ct the marble wall.

278     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

The crack as his spine broke was clearly audible to

everyone in the room.

Vond waved again, and the servant's head was
crushed, the bones shattered, leaving the skin a limp
sack. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth as he died.

The corpse fell heavily to the floor and lay in a pool of

gore.

Sterren and the councillors stared in shocked silence.

The tray that held the decanter still stood on the table.
Vond smoothed his robe, but did not seem overly dis-
turbed.

Sterren knew, as he stared at the corpse, that he

would not be warning Vond of anything.

CHAPTER 36

L

little was accomplished in the remainder of the meet-
ing. The presence of Ildirin's body cast a pall over the
conversation, and Vond Seemed to have spent his anger.
In the end, he agreed to let the Imperial Council continue
as it had been, with the understanding that it existed en-
tirely by his sufferance, and that he had the right to dis-
miss any member at any time and to overrule any
decision.

None of this had ever been in any question, as far as
Sterren and the councillors were concerned, but nobody
was foolish enough to point this out.

Afterward, Sterren took a long walk.

It was obvious that Vond was losing control. The
magnificent buildings, the prosperous empire, the thriv-
ing crops had all served to hide this; Ildirin's gruesome
death had dragged it out into plain sight.

Not only was any thought of a warning gone, Sterren
was now convinced that he had to do all he could to
destroy Vond quickly.

That night Vond ate dinner in the Great Hall, with
Sterren at his right hand. As often as not he ate in his
private apartments, if he bothered to eat meals at all, but
on this particular occasion he held a formal dinner, with
himself, Sterren, and the Imperial Council at the high
table and the rest of the imperial household arrayed
along three lower tables.

"You know, your Majesty," Sterren remarked as he

280       THE UNWILLING WARLORD
chewed a bite of apple, "you haven't done any real spec-
tacular magic lately."

Vond looked at him. "Oh?"

"I mean, early on, you conjured up that storm to rout

the armies of Ophkar and Ksinallion, and you quarried
and assembled the stone for this palace in a few days,
and so forth; but lately you haven't done anything much
more impressive than laying pavement stones. Oh, that's
certainly useful—and so is regulating the weather, and
all the rest—but you haven't done anything really showy

in months."

"You don't consider lighting the night sky showy?"

Sterren pretended to consider that. "Well, I suppose,"
he admitted. "But it's not new. Everybody's used to it

now."

"And why should I want to be showy?" Vond asked.

"To impress people, to remind everybody what their
emperor is capable of. If you got the awe you're due,
you wouldn't need to worry about disloyalty, and we
could avoid unpleasantness like that meeting this mom-
ing."

Vond nodded.

"Besides," Sterren added, "I thought you liked using

your magic as much as you could."

"I do," he said. "In fact, I've been getting irritable
lately, and nervous. I wonder if it might be because I
haven't been doing enough. The power's there to be
used, after all. It's always there in the back of my head,
and I feel it so very clearly now..." His voice trailed off.
Sterren nodded encouragingly.
"What would you suggest?" Vond asked.
"Oh, I don't know—move a mountain, maybe?" .
Vond snorted. "I'd need to build one, first; there are
no mountains in the empire. Besides, where would I put

it?"

Sterren waved that away. "Not a mountain, then.

Well, the edge of the World lies a few leagues to the
south of here; could you do something with that?"

"Like what?"
"Oh, peel it back and see what's underneath, maybe.

I've heard theorists argue about what holds the World up
and keeps it from falling into the Nethervoid. Or maybe

Lawrence Watt-Evans          281

just go see what lies beyond the edge and bring back a
piece."

"There isn't anything beyond the edge, is there?"
Vond asked.

Sterren shrugged. "Nobody knows," he said.

Vond considered that, clearly intrigued.

Nothing more came of it that night, but the following
morning, the tenth of Harvest, Sterren awoke not in his
own bed, but hanging in mid-air, just outside the open
window of his room.

"Good morning!" Vond called from above him. "I
thought you'd like to come along to the edge of the
World and see what it's like!"

Sterren looked up nervously. This was not really what
he'd had in mind. "Good morning!" he called in reply. "I
hope you slept well!"

Vond frowned.

"Actually," he said, "I didn't. I dreamt... well, I
don't know exactly what I dreamt, but it wasn't pleas-
ant, whatever it was." The frown faded. "Never mind
that, though," he said. "We're off to the edge!"

Sterren concealed his lack of enthusiasm for the ven-
ture, and rolled over in midair so that he could see where
he was flying.

They sailed quickly past Semma Castle and across the
few leagues of farmland beyond, into the empty southern
desert.

Sterren would have watched the scenery, but there
wasn't any; below and to either side he could see nothing
but mile after mile of sand spattered with tough, patchy
grass.

Behind him he could see the towers of Semma Castle
and the Imperial Palace gradually shrinking.

And ahead he could see nothing. The edge of the
World was wrapped in yellow haze.

Sterren Iiad seen that haze from the tower," but had
assumed it was just windblown sand, or glare from sun-
light reflecting off the edge itself. To his surprise, he
could now see that it was neither, but a sort of very thin
golden mist. It would have been almost invisible in any
imaginable confined area, but here it seemed to go on
forever. He could look through the golden mist, but all

282     THE UNWILLING WARLORD

he saw beyond it was more golden mist, and still more
golden mist, until eventually it added up to opacity. If
there were anything beyond the mist, he could not see it.

And of course, nobody had ever suggested that any-
thing existed beyond the edge of the World, except per-
haps Heaven, where the gods lived, and that was more
usually thought to lie somewhere above the sky.

He had nothing to provide him with any scale, but
Sterren thought he must be seeing literally hundreds of

miles of nothing but that yellow haze.

Vond called down to him, "What is that stuff?"
"How should I know?" Sterren called back.
"Do you think we can get above it?"

"I have no idea!"
"I'm going to try." With that, Vond began to rise,

pulling Sterren up with him.

They ascended for what seemed like hours, and even-
tually the golden mist thinned still further—but so did
the air about them. The blue sky above turned darker
and darker, and grew steadily colder, until Sterren was
shivering so badly that he could scarcely shout his pro-
tests to the warlock.

They did, indeed, come to the top of the yellow fog,

but they were unable to see over it or through it; all they
saw was a seemingly infinite expanse of golden haze,
stretching on before them forever, while behind them all
the Small Kingdoms were laid out, the central mountain
chain curving down between the rich-green coastal plain
and the paler, drier eastern lands. The ocean appeared
on the western horizon, the burning sands of the great
deserts on the eastern, and still they saw nothing to the

south but golden haze.

When they could see the haze on the eastern horizon,

beyond the desert, wrapping around the southeastern

corner of the World, even Vond gave up.

Sterren had been ready to give up long before; unlike
Vond, he had no supernatural power source to warm him
or gather in air. Frost had formed on his face and hands,
and he was having serious trouble breathing by the time

Vond finally began descending.

When they had once again reached the warm, thick
air of the everyday world, the warlock remarked, "I'd

Lawrence Watt-Evans

283

never gone that high before. It's quite something, isn't
it?"

Sterren's frozen muscles had not yet thawed; he could
not answer.

They landed, and Vond stepped forward to the edge
while Sterren waited atop a small dune.

The edge looked like an ordinary cliff; it was not par-
ticularly straight or even, but just a place where the
dunes ended in a drop-off.

What made it unique was that it extended as far as
Sterren could see in both directions, and that he could
see nothing at all on the other side except that infinite
golden mist.

Vond stood atop that cliff, looking down.
"I can't see anything," he called back, disappointed.
"Just that damned haze."

Sterren stepped cautiously forward and peered over,

still several feet back.

Like Vond, he could see nothing but the yellow mist.
"Wait here," the warlock said. He rose into the air

and drifted forward.

Almost immediately, he stopped and flew back to
hang in the air near Sterren and said, amazed, "There's
no air! I couldn't breathe. And that yellow stuff smells
horrible and it burns your throat. And I still couldn't see
any bottom. The mist just goes on forever!"

Sterren looked up and down.

"What holds it back, though? Why does the mist stay
on that side, and the air on this side?"

Vond looked up and down, as Sterren had, and then
shrugged. "It must be magic," he said. "Wizardry,
maybe."

Sterren shrugged. "I never saw magic do anything this
big."

"The gods must have done it," Vond said, in- sudden
enlightenment. "The tales say they brought the World
out of chaos, don't they? That yellow stuff must be

chaos!"

That did not sound right to Sterren. The story he had
heard was that the World had been a bit that was left
over, unnoticed, when the universe split into Heaven

284 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

and Hell. The gods had found it later, and helped shape
it, but they hadn't created it out of chaos.

Besides, why would chaos be yellow? Why would it
be any color at all?

He didn't think that there were any explanations for
the golden mist; it was just there, and they would have to
accept it.

"Now what?" he asked.

Vond looked about, considering. "I don't think I want
to fool around with that stuff," he said. "If it is chaos, it's
dangerous."

Sterren was not about to argue with that; he said
nothing.

"What if I were to fold back the edge, here? That
might even be useful; if the magic that holds that stuff
back ever fails, a wall here would be a good second line
of defense."

Again, Sterren was not inclined to argue, although he
thought Vond was talking nonsense. He could not help
balking at the immensity of the idea, however.

"Fold it backT' he said, his voice cracking.

"Why not?" Vond said. "I'll need to see how thick it
is,though."

"How thick what is?"

"The World, of course!" He bent over, peering down
between his dangling feet, and Sterren watched as a nar-
row hole appeared in the sand before him.

Sand slithered steadily up into a ring around the hole,
and did not slide back down to fill it in again. Instead the
surrounding ring grew and spread.

Vond stared down into this unnatural opening for sev-
eral minutes, and Sterren settled down to sit on a dune
and watch. From where he sat he could not see into the
hole at all, but he found he did not much care.

At last, Vond straightened up. "I can't find the bot-
tom," he said. "I went down well over a mile, I'm sure."
He shrugged. "Well, I'll just peel back the top layer,
then, and fold that up." He looked about, calculating,
and his gaze fell on Sterren.

"Oh," he said, "I'd better get you out of here. This
may be messy."

Lawrence Watt-Evans          285

"All right," Sterren said, greatly relieved but trying
not to show it. He stood up.

In an instant, he had been swept up by that now-
familiar magic and was airborne again, flying at a fantas-
tic speed back toward Semma, moving so fast that once
again, as he had at high altitude, he had trouble breath-
ing.

Breathless moments later, he landed, stumbling, on a
village street, in the shadow of the walls of Semma Cas-
tle.

Lawrence Watt-Evaas

287

CHAPTER 37

£

re/i over (/ie intervening distance, low rumblings oc-
casionally reached the village. From his perch in the cas-
tle tower Sterren could see huge chunks of sand and rock
shifting in the distance, but he could make out no details.

After dark the noise continued, and an eerie orange
glow lit the southern skies. The glow seemed to wax and
wane erratically, and occasional sparkles of red or pale
blue light rippled across it.

Sterren was very glad he hadn't used another of his
ideas and suggested that Vend go fetch the lesser moon
out of the sky; folding back the edge of the World was
quite terrifying enough.

By noon on the eleventh of Harvest the job was com-
plete; where once the edge of the World had been
marked by a distant line of gold, now it was marked by a
distant line of black that Sterren assumed to be stone,
and a tiny black dot was approaching that could only be
Vond, returning.

Sterren decided that the tower of Semma Castle was
not where he wanted Vond to find him; he headed for the
stairs.

He passed Shin-in in the sixth-floor hallway and al-
most stopped to talk to her. She stared at him for a mo-
ment while he hesitated, then turned and ran, and he
continued down the stairs.

When he got back to the Imperial Palace Vond was

286

already there, sitting on air in the audience chamber with
the great red doors opened wide.

Sterren paused in the entryway, unsure whether to
speak to the warlock, or to slip upstairs unnoticed. Vond
settled the matter by calling, "Oh, there you are, Ster-
ren!"

Sterren strolled into the audience chamber, trying to
look casual. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Oh, well enough," Vond said, smiling. "The sand
wouldn't hold together, of course, so I pulled up a sheet
of bedrock. It's about fifty feet thick and fifty yards high,
and only the gods know how long." He stretched and
added, "It felt wonderful, using all that power!"

Sterren smiled back, hoping the warlock would not
see how false the smile was. "I could see the difference
from the tower," he said.

Vond nodded. "It doesn't look like much from this
.distance, though."

"True enough, but it can be seen, and when people
realize what it is, think how impressed they'll be. Their
emperor has turned up the edge of the World itself! The »
concept is more powerful than the appearance on this
one."

Vond nodded. "But I'll want to do something flashy
next time, something everybody will see. You think
about what it might be, Sterren; I like your ideas." He
paused and frowned. "Right now, though, I think I might
take a nap. I didn't sleep at all last night, while I was
working, and my head is buzzing, as if the walls them-
selves were talking to me." He waved an arm about
vaguely.

Sterren nodded and watched silently as Vond drifted
off toward his private chamber.

Vond still did not realize what was happening, Sterren
thought. He wondered how long it would take-.and when
Vond would catch on.

He strolled aimlessly out of the audience chamber
into the entrance hall, where the rosewood door of the
council chamber caught his eye. He crossed to it, hesi-
tated, and then opened the door and peered in.

The chamber was empty. All sign of Ildirin's sudden
demise had been scrubbed away.

288 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Sterren wondered how the other servants had re-
ceived word of Ildirin's death. Who had told them, and
what had they been told? How many had decided to
leave?

He closed the door and thought for a moment.

The weather was beautiful, of course, as it always
was in Vond's empire—but that might not last. He de-
cided to enjoy it while he could. The courtyard held a
magnificent flower garden.

He was sitting on an iron bench, feeling the sunlight
warm on his face, and letting the scent of roses fill his
nostrils, when Vond screamed.

The scream came not just from the warlock's throat,
but from the air around him, from the palace walls, and
from the stone of the earth itself; everything vibrated in
rhythm. The stones groaned, so deeply that the sound
was more felt than heard, while the air shrieked and even
the leaves of the garden whistled piercingly.

The scream had no words; it was shapeless terror
given voice.

The echoes were still fading, the air still humming,
when the window of Vond's bedchamber exploded out-
ward into the garden, spraying shattered glass in every
direction; Sterren ducked and covered his head with his
arms as shards rattled down on all sides.

When the last tinkling fragment had settled, he looked
up and saw Vond hanging in the air above him. The war-
lock wore only a white tunic, and his face was almost
equally white. His eyes were wide and staring, his hands
trembling.

"Sterren!" he called. "Sterren!"

Sterren said quietly, "I'm here."

Vond heard him and looked down. He plummeted
from the sky and landed roughly on the graveled path,
falling to his knees and only catching himself from falling
flat on his face with one outstretched hand.

He looked up at Sterren and said, "The nightmares,
Sterren, they're back!"

Sterren nodded. "I thought so," he said.

Vond's expression changed suddenly. Sterren's calm
cut through his fear and released anger and uncertainty.
"You thought so?" the warlock demanded.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           289

Sterren blinked and said nothing.

Vond rose to his feet, using warlockry rather than
hands and legs. "Just what did you think? I had a night-
mare—how would you know anything about that?"

Sterren hesitated, trying to phrase an answer, and
Vond continued, "It was just a nightmare! It wasn't...
wasn't that. It couldn't have been. It was just a night-
mare, my mind playing tricks on me."

"No," Sterren said, shaking his head and marveling
that even now, Vond could not accept what was happen-
ing.

"It was an ordinary nightmare," Vond insisted. "It
must have been! That thing in Aldagmor is still out of
range. It has to be! I haven't been using it! I've been
getting power from Lumeth!"

"No," Sterren repeated. He was horribly aware that
Vond was on the verge of complete panic and could lash
out wildly at any time and strike him dead instantly.
"No, it almost certainly does come from Aldagmor."

"It can't," Vond insisted.

"Of course it can!" Sterren answered, annoyed at
Vond's stubborn refusal to understand.

"But howT' Vond insisted, "I'm out of range here!"

Sterren shook his head. "Nowhere is really out of
range; you know that. When you first came here, before
you learned to use the Lumeth Source, you could still
draw on Aldagmor. Not much, but a little. Don't you
remember? You couldn't fly, but you could stop a man's
heart."

"But that's apprentice work! Apprentices don't get
the nightmares!"

"You're no apprentice any more. Don't you see?
You've been drawing so much power from Lumeth,
you've become so powerful, so receptive to warlockry,
that the Aldagmor Source can reach you. Receptivity
isn't that selective. After all, your receptivity to Aldag-
mor was what let you use Lumeth in the first place.
They're the same thing; the more sensitive you are to
one, the more sensitive you are to both. The Lumeth
Source is closer, so you can draw far more power from
it, but you still hear the Aldagmor Source, too."

"Rut T rInn'tV

290

THE UNWILLING WARLORD

Lawrence Watt-Evans

291

"You do. You told me so yourself. You couldn't enter
Lumeth of the Towers and you've been complaining for
days about whisperings and buzzings in your head;

didn't you realize what they were?"

Vend paused, his expression shocked.

"No," he said at last, "I didn't. But they... you're
right, I was hearing Aldagmor. I wasn't listening, since I
had Lumeth, but I was hearing it. Why listen for a whis-
per when you can use a shout?" He focused on Sterren
again.

"You knewV he said accusingly. "You knew this was
coming!"

Sterren did not dare to reply.

"Why didn't you warn me? I..." Realization dawned.
"Gods, you encouraged me!" Vond exclaimed. "You—it
was your idea to fold up the edge of the World!" Fury
seethed in Vond's eyes, and Sterren expected to die
then.

He didn't.

"Why didn't you warn me?" Vond screamed.

"I was going to," Sterren answered, truthfully.
"Really, I was. But then you killed Ildirin and hardly
even noticed, and I... I thought you were becoming too
dangerous. Besides;.." He took a deep breath, and con-
tinued, "besides, would you have believed me?"

Vond's face, though still pale, was calm as he forced
himself to consider this question. He sat down on the
bench beside Sterren.

"No," he admitted at last. "No, I wouldn't have."

"Besides," Sterren said, "I had no idea how much
longer you had, how much power you would have to use
before... before this."

Vond nodded. "No other warlock ever came close to
the power I had," he said wistfully. Sterren noted his use
of the past tense. He had already resigned himself to the
situation.

"So," Vond said, "I'm back where I was when you
found me in Shiphaven Market, back in Ethshar—I've
had my first nightmare, passed the brink. I need to either
get farther from Aldagmor, or to stop using my magic
and live with the nightmares, or else I'll hear the Calling
and... and do whatever the Calling makes one do."

Sterren nodded.
"I can't get any farther away, can I?"
"We're not at the edge of the World," Sterren pointed
out. "Not quite."

"But from here to the corner there's nothing but sand
and grass and desert. It's not worth it. I can't even build
anything to live in; it would use too much power."

"You could use your hands," Sterren suggested.

Vond snorted derisively. "I don't know how," he said.

"You could just stay here, go on as you have, and go
out in a blaze of glory. After all, the Calling isn't death,
is it? It might not be so bad."

"No," Vond said flatly. " I don't know what it is, but
anything that sends those nightmares... No. I escaped it
once, and that just makes it worse now." He shook him-
self, and said with sudden resolution, "I'll give up magic.
I don't need it now; I'm an emperor. I can live as I
please without it!"

Sterren nodded. "Of course," he said.

But he knew Vond could never do it. After using war-
lockry in such prodigious amounts for months, using it
for his whims for years, could Vond really give it up?

Sterren did not believe it for a minute.

Lawrence Watt-Evans

293

CHAPTER 38

V,

Vond walked into the audience chamber, climbed the
dais, and settled uneasily onto the borrowed throne. He
looked down at Sterren.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"Fine," Sterren said reassuringly.

"It's not very comfortable," the warlock said, shifting
slightly and looking down at the throne. "And it doesn't
really go with this room."

"Phenvel's bigger than you are and he leaned back
more," Sterren pointed out. "As for the looks, maybe we
can drape something over it later."

Vond nodded. "What did the servants say when you
told them to fetch it?"

"I used some of the slaves you bought from Akalla,
and they didn't say anything. It's not their place to ques-
tion direct orders."

The warlock nodded again. "That's good," he said, in
a distracted way.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, during
which Vond tried to find a more comfortable position and
Sterren simply stood and waited, Vond asked, "What do
you think they thought at the castle? Did anybody ob-
ject?"

Sterren shook his head. "I sent half a dozen of my
guards along. Nobody objected. They may be wonder-
ing about it, but they can't do anything. You're the war-
lock emperor, remember—you're all-powerful. Nobody

knows anything's changed except the two of us."

Vond smiled, a twisted and bitter expression. "They
know. HalfofSemma must have heard my scream."

"They don't know," Sterren insisted. "They don't
know why you screamed. They don't know anything
about warlockry. Nobody in the entire empire knows
anything about warlockry except you, me, and maybe a
few traders and expatriates from the north."

"They'll guess, when they see me sitting in this
thing."

"They won't."

Vond shook his head, but stopped arguing.
"Should I open the doors, now?" Sterren asked.
Vond waved a hand unhappily. "Go ahead," he said.
Sterren marched down the length of the audience hall
to the great red doors and rapped once on an enamelled
panel.

The doors swung in, propelled by two palace servants
apiece—another reminder of Vond's unhappy condition,
since he had always moved them magically before.

In the hallway beyond waited a dozen or so peti-
tioners. These were the ones who had been sent on by
the Imperial Council or various servants and officials as
being outside the council's purview, with valid reasons to
see the Great Vond himself.

There was no bailiff, usher, or doorkeeper to manage
the presentations; Vond had always taken care of that
himself, using his magically enhanced voice to direct
people. As Sterren looked over the uneasy little knot of
people he thought to himself that a great many things
would have to change if the empire was to run smoothly.

"All right," he said, "how many groups do we have
here? Please, divide yourselves up, spread out, so I can
see what the situation is."

The petitioners milled about in confusion; clearly,
several had not understood his Ethsharitic.

He repeated the instructions as best he could in Sem-
mat and waited while the group sorted itself out into
smaller groups.

There were five petitions, it appeared—one group of
four, a group of three, two pairs, and a single.
"Who speaks Ethsharitic?" Sterren asked.

294 THE UNWILLING WARLORD Lawrence Watt-Evans 295

One hand went up in each group; the single, unfortu-
nately, just looked blank. Sterren asked him in Semmat,
"Do you speak Semmat?"

He nodded. "Yes, sir," he said.

That, Sterren thought, would have to do.

He decided to start with the largest group and work
down; it seemed fairest to keep the fewest possible wait-
ing.

"All right," he said, pointing, "You four, come on in."

The Ethsharitic-speaking spokesman for the foursome
led his party into the audience chamber, down the rich
red carpet as the doors swung shut behind them, to stand
before the dais. Sterren watched them closely, to see if
they seemed aware that anything was out of the ordinary.

They did not. Apparently, either nobody had told
them that the Great Vond had no throne and always con-
ducted business floating in the air, or they had dismissed
such tales as exaggerations.

They went down on their knees before the emperor
and bowed deeply.

"Rise," Vond said.

His unenhanced voice seemed horribly weak to Ster-
ren, a thin little sound that was almost lost in the great
stone chamber.

The petitioners did not seem to notice anything odd.
They rose.

Their spokesman took a cautious step forward and
waited.

"Speak," Vond said.

"Your Imperial Majesty," the petitioner said, "we
have come here as representatives for many, many of
your subjects who grow peaches. This year, thanks to
the fine weather you have given us, we have a very
large, very fine crop—and it is all ripening at once, so
fast that we do not have time to harvest it. We..." He
hesitated, glanced at Sterren, who looked encouraging,
and then continued, "We have seen you light the sky at
night. Could you do this again? If you could light the sky
above our trees, we could harvest by night, as well as by
day, and we would not leave fruit to ripen and rot on the
tree before we can get to it. I... we understand that you
have other concerns, but—"

"No," Vond said flatly, interrupting the petitioner.
The spokesman blinked. "No?" he said. "But your
Majesty—"
"No, I said!"
"May I ask why—"

"No!" Vond bellowed, rising from the throne—not by
magic, but standing naturally upon his own feet. His
voice echoed from the walls.

A breeze stirred the warlock's robes, in a closed room
where no natural breeze could reach. Vond felt it and
looked down at the swaying fabric of his sleeve in hor-
ror.

He turned to Sterren and said, "Get them out of
here."

Then he turned and ran from the room.
The petitioners stared after him in astonishment.
Sterren stepped forward and told them, "The Great
Vond is ill. He had hoped that he would be able to hear
petitions regardless, but it appears that the gods would
have it otherwise." He hesitated, then continued, "And
I'm afraid that's why he refused your petition; while his
illness persists, his magic is somewhat limited, and to
light the sky as you ask would be too great a strain upon
his health."

The petitioners looked at him uncertainly as he spoke,
and he saw fear appear on the spokesman's face. Sterren
thought he understood that; after all, when the king is
sick, the kingdom is in danger. That old proverb would
hold true all the more for an emperor, and a young em-
peror of a young and still-unsteady empire at that.
Worst of all, Vond was an emperor without an heir.
"Don't worry," Sterren said soothingly. "It's not that
serious."

He hoped the lie would not be obvious.
"What can we do?" the spokesman asked.
"Go home, harvest your peaches as best you can, and
don't worry unduly. If you know the names of any gods,
you might pray to them on the emperor's behalf, and I'm
sure healing charms won't hurt." He took the spokes-
man's arm and led the party back down the hall to the
door,

Once again, a single rap opened the doors, and Ster-

296 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

ren escorted the little party out into the hall. There he
raised his voice and called, "The Great Vond is ill, and
all audiences for today are canceled!" He repeated it in
Semmat. "If you wish to, you may stay in the area and
check with the guards daily, and present your petitions
when the Great Vond has recovered; or you may put
them in writing and give them to any guard or servant
with instructions that they be delivered to Chancellor
Sterren, who will see that they are read by the Great
Vond as soon as his health permits. If you cannot write,
there are scribes for hire in the village."

The little crowd milled about again, muttering uneas-
ily.

"That is all!" Sterren announced firmly. He turned to
the four servants at the doors and dismissed them.

That done, he turned and headed for the stairs. He
kept his pace slow and dignified until he knew he was
out of sight of the petitioners, then broke into a trot,
heading directly for Vond's bedchamber.

As he had expected, he found Vond there, sitting in a
chair and staring at the gaping hole, edged with bits of
glass and leading, that had once been the window over-
looking the courtyard gardens.

"I can't even fix the window," Vond said without pre-
amble as Sterren entered.

"I'll have the servants take care of it immediately,"
Sterren said.

"Sterren," Vond wailed, "I can't even fix the damned
window! I can't do anything'. I can't afford to lose my
temper; I was struggling as hard as I could to shut out
the magic down there, but you heard my voice, you felt
the wind. How can I live without magic?"

"I didn't feel any wind," Sterren said truthfully. "I
saw your clothes move, so I knew what happened, but it
didn't reach me. You had it almost under control. It will
take practice, that's all. Most people live their whole
lives without magic. You ask how you can live without
it; ask how long you can live with it."

Vond turned and glared at him. "You did this to me,"
he said bitterly.

"You did it to yourself," Sterren retorted. "And who-
ever did it, it's done now, isn't it?"

Lawrence Watt-Evans          297

"Oh, gods!" Vond burst out, throwing himself from

the chair to the bed. "And the nightmares have already
begun!                                           -

-A T0^^ only had one s0 far'" sterren Pointed out
And that was right after working the mightiest magic

any warlock has ever performed. Perhaps, if you use no
more magic, you won't have any more nightmares "
Oh, get out of here!" Vond shouted
Sterren retreated to the door. "I'll send the servants
to fix the window," he said as he left.

CHAPTER 39

T.

here were no nightmares that night, or the next, and
Vond grew more optimistic. He stayed sequestered in his
apartments, but spoke of venturing forth again and tak-
ing up his role as emperor, when he had adjusted to using
no magic.

Even the rain on the second day did not seriously
dampen his spirits. If anything, this sign that he was no
longer controlling the weather seemed to cheer the war-
lock.

On the third night his screams woke the entire palace.
Sterren took the stairs three steps at a time on his way to
Vond's chamber.

Two guards and Vond's valet were already there,
staring in shocked silence as Vond, hanging a foot off the
floor, beat on the north wall of the room with his fists.

"Your Majesty," Sterren called. "Remember, use your
feet!"

Vond looked at him unseeingly and then seemed to
emerge from a daze. He looked down, then dropped to
the floor, and fell to hisToiees.

He knelt there, shaking. Sterren crossed to him and
put an arm around his shoulder.

"You," he said, pointing to one guard, "go get brandy.
And you, go get an herbalist." They hurried away.

The valet asked, "Is there anything..."

"Go find the theurgist, Agor," Sterren said.

Lawrence Watt-Evans           299

The valet vanished, leaving Sterren alone with the
terrified warlock.

He looked up at the wall, where a small smear of red

showed that Vond had scraped his hand on the rough
edge of a stone.

"Why were you hitting the wall?" Sterren asked.
"I don't know," Vond replied. "Was I?" He looked

up, saw the streak of blood, then looked down at his
injured hand, puzzled.

"Was it the nightmares?" Sterren asked.
Vond almost growled. "Of course it was, idiot!" He

looked up at the blood again and asked, "Was I flying?"
"Yes," Sterren said.

"I used magic, then. No matter how careful I am, the
nightmares can make me use magic. It's not fair!"
"No," Sterren agreed. "It's not fair."

The guard returned with the brandy, and Sterren
helped steady the glass as Vond drank.

When the warlock had caught his breath again, he-
asked, "Did I say anything?"

"No," Sterren told him, "I don't think so."
The guard cleared his throat.

•Sterren glanced at him. "Was there something before
I got here?" he asked.

"He was crying, my lord," the soldier said, "and say-
ing something about needing to go somewhere. I
couldn't make out all of it."

Then the herbalist arrived.

Half an hour later Vond was in bed again, feeling the
effects of a sleeping potion the herbalist had brewed, and
the little crowd of concerned subjects was breaking up,
drifting out of the imperial bedchamber one by one.

Sterren departed and headed back up for his own
room.

The incident had shaken his nerves. It had been easy
enough to say that Vond had to go, but to watch him
slowly being destroyed by the Calling was not easy at all.

Sterren was not sure he could take it.
, Perhaps, he thought, it was time to go home to Eth-
shar. Vond could not follow him. The old Semman nobil-
ity was scattered and powerless, save for Kalira and

300      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
Algarven, and they would have no particular reason to

want him back.      ,

But no, he told himself, that was cowardice. Not that
he was particularly brave, but it was worse than ordinary
cowardice. He had created the whole situation; to run
away and leave it for others to clean up the mess was
despicable. It went beyond cowardice, into treachery.

It would be cheating, and he was an honest gambler.
He did not cheat. He did not welsh.

He would stay and watch what he had wrought.

He almost reconsidered two nights later, when an-
other nightmare sent Vond blazing into the sky like a
comet. He awoke and fell to earth a mile north of the
palace; Sterren and a dozen guards marched out to fetch
him back.

CHAPTER 40

0,

n the twenty-fourth of Leaf color, 5221, Sterren
awoke suddenly and was startled to see sunlight pouring
in his bedroom window. It had been two sixnights since
he had slept the night through, without being awakened
by another of Vond's Calling nightmares.

He sat up and realized that he was not alone in the
room, that he had been awakened. He blinked, then rec-
ognized the man who had awakened him as Vond's valet.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"He's gone," the valet said.

Sterren wasted no time with further questions; he
rose and followed the servant at a trot through the palace
passages, back to the warlock's bedchamber.

The bed was empty and not particularly disturbed; the
coverlet was thrown back on one side, as if Vond had
gotten up for a moment, perhaps to use the chamberpot,
and had not yet returned.

The often-repaired window to the courtyard was
open.

Vond was gone.

It was over; whatever it was that lurked inJhe hills of
Aldagmor had taken another warlock.

Sterren almost wanted to laugh with relief, but instead
he found himself weeping.

When he had regained control of himself, he asked the
valet, "What time is it?"

"I don't know, my lord; I awoke an hour or so after

302      THE UNWILLING WARLORD
dawn, I think, and came in and found it like this. I went

straight to fetch you."

Sterren nodded. "All right," he said. "You go find
whoever takes care of such matters and see to it that the
Imperial Council is in the council chamber an hour from
now. I need to speak to them."

The valet hesitated. "What do I do here?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sterren said. "Leave it just the way it is.
The Great Vond might come back."

With a shiver, Sterren realized that might even be
true. Nobody knew what happened to warlocks who
gave in to the Calling. None had ever returned.

But Vond had been more powerful than any other
warlock who ever lived, and warlocks had only existed,
and therefore had only been vanishing, for twenty years.
Nobody really knew whether Vond might come back.

But quite frankly, Sterren doubted it.

Back in his room, he had someone fetch him a tray of
breakfast pastry, which he ate while bathing. When he
was washed, fed, and dry, he took his time in dressing in
hiS best tunic and breeches, combing his hair, brushing
out his freshly grown mustache—he was almost, he
thought as he looked at the mirror, ready to grow a

proper beard.

When he was thoroughly satisfied with his appear-
ance, he headed for the council chamber.

All seven councillors were there waiting for him;

Lady Kalira, anticipating his arrival, was at the foot of
the table, leaving room for him at the head. He marched

in and took his place.

"The Great Vond," he announced, "has moved on to a

higher plane of existence."

"You mean he's dead?" Prince Ferral asked.
"No," Sterren said. "Or at least, I don't think so."
"You'll have to explain that," Algarven remarked.
Sterren did, not concerning himself with the truth.
Warlocks, he explained, did not die the way ordinary
people did. They vanished, transmogrified into pure
magic. The nightmares and other ills that the Great Vond
had been suffering were his mortal body's attempts to

prevent this ascension.

"He's gone, though?" Prince Ferral demanded.

Lawrence Watt-Evans

303

"He's gone," Sterren admitted. "But we don't know if
it's permanent. It's only twenty years since warlockry
was first discovered, and the Great Vond was the most
powerful warlock the World has yet seen. We really
don't know whether he might return or not."

The councillors watched Sterren carefully, and he
looked them over in return, trying to judge how many of
them believed him.

He couldn't tell. After all, these were all expert politi-
cians. They could hide their opinions quite effectively.

Then Lady Kalira asked the really important ques-
tion, the one that Sterren had called this meeting to an-
swer.

"What now?" she said.

"I don't know," Sterren admitted.

"Well, what do you thinkT' Algarven asked.

"I'm not sure," Sterren said. "We could ]ust go on the
way we have been. After all, nobody outside the palace
has seen Vond in almost two months now. Nobody has to
know that anything has changed."

"I don't know about that," Algarven said. "I don't
think we can keep it secret forever. The servants will
know, and they'll talk."

The others nodded in agreement.

"We could take Lord Sterren's approach," Lady Ka-
lira suggested, "and say that he's gone, but he'll be
back."

"Do we want to go on as we have?" asked Lady Arris
of Ksinallion. "We could put everything back the way it
was, couldn't we?"

"Could we?" Algarven said. "What would we do with
this palace?"

Everyone began talking, and Sterren lost track of who
was saying what.

"Why should we go back to stupid little border wars?"
"Why break up the strongest nation in the Small
Kingdoms?"

"What if the peasants don't want to switch back?"

"What about all the roads he built?"

"We could be beheaded for treason!"

"How would we divide up the imperial treasury?"

It was I,adv Kalira who settled the matter by asking,

304    .^ THE UNWILLING WARLORD
"Do you really want someone like King Phenvel back on

the throne?"

That settled it; the Empire ofVond would continue.

"What about a new emperor?" Prince Ferral asked.

"Who?" Algarven asked in reply.

"If we pick one of the deposed kings, we'll have re-
bellions in the other provinces," Lady Kalira pointed

out.                 ^

"What about Lord Sterren?" Lady Arris asked.
Sterren thought he sensed a current of approval and
he blocked it quickly. He had thought this all through
once before, when Vond had appointed him to handle the

details of government.

"No," he said, "I'm not interested. I didn't want to be
v/arlord of Semma, I didn't want to be Vond's chancel-
lor, and I certainly don't want to be your emperor!"
Lady Kalira started to speak, and Sterren cut her off.
"You don't need an emperor," he said. "The Hege-
mony hasn't got an emperor. Sardiron hasn't got an em-
peror. They get along just fine."

"What do they hav&?" Prince Ferral asked.
"The Hegemony has a triumvirate—three overlords
who form a sort of council. And Sardiron has a council
of barons. We have a council here; we don't need an

emperor."

"You're suggesting, then, that the Imperial Council be

the highest authority?" Algarven asked.
Sterren nodded. "Exactly," he said.
"And what of our chancellor?" Lady Kalira asked.

"What will you do?"

"Retire, if you'll let me," Sterren said. "I'd like to
settle down quietly, find some sort of honest work—
though I certainly wouldn't mind if you want to vote me
a pension, or maybe even an appointment of some sort."

Lady Kalira rose and glanced at the other councillors.
"I think," she said, "that we need to discuss this by our-
selves."

Sterren bowed. "As you wish, my lady," he said. "If

you need me, I expect to be at Semma Castle."
She bowed in return, and Sterren left the room.
As he strolled down the hill on one of Vond's fine

paved roads, he whistled quietly to himself.

Lawrence Watt-Evans          305

It was over. He had discharged his responsibilities.
He had cleaned up the mess he had created.

He had won Semma's war, but in the process of win-
ning it he had unleashed Vond and destroyed Semma.
Now he had removed Vond, but had kept his good
works, his empire, intact. He could not be warlord of
Semma, since-Semma was gone, and now he was no
longer chancellor of Vond.

He was free. he could go home to Ethshar if he
wanted, or he could stay where he was.

He was crossing the market before the castle gate
when a soldier spotted him and waved.

He waved back.

"Lord Sterren," the man called in Semmat. "What
about a game of three-bone?"

Sterren looked over, thinking of the feel of the dice in
his fingers. At that thought, somewhere in the back of
his mind, he thought he heard a faint silent buzz—or
perhaps even a whisper.

He shuddered.

"No, thanks," he called. He turned his gaze away, up
toward the castle.

He saw Princess Shirrin standing on the battlements,
watching him approach. He waved.

She smiled, and waved back.

Startled, he stumbled and almost fell, then caught
himself and walked on.

She must finally have forgiven him for allowing her
father to be deposed, he realized. She could not possibly
know yet that Vond was gone.

He could explain it all to her now, explain how he had
known Vond was doomed and that to resist him would
only lead to disaster. She would welcome this explana-
tion, he was sure. She would welcome him.

He thought he just might stay in Semma after all.

Lawrence Watt-Evans

307

EPILOGUE

0 terren lay on his bed, enjoying the view of warm af-
ternoon sunlight and contemplating his future. Marriage
to Princess Shirrin seemed delightfully inevitable. No-
body seemed disposed to evict him from his comfortable
tower room in Semma Castle, and nobody objected to
his presence at the table at meals, so he had free food
and shelter and was in no great hurry to find another
home, or any genuine occupation.

Life was good.

A polite knock sounded.

He ignored it for a moment, too comfortable to want

to move.

A much less polite knock sounded.

He sighed and sat up as the second knock was fol-
lowed by someone pounding on his door and calling,
"Lord Sterren! We must speak with you!"
• "I'm coming!" he shouted in reply.

Reluctantly, he rolled off the bed and onto his feet,
crossed the room, and opened the door.

"What is it?" he demanded.

Then he saw who was in the corridor beyond.

The entire Imperial Council was standing there.

For a moment he stared at them silently, and they

stared back.

"What is it?" he asked again. "What do you want?"

Lady Kalira spoke, while the others remained grimly
silent.

"Lord Sterren," she said, "for the past two sixnights
we have tried to do as you suggested, running the Em-
pire ourselves. For the most part, I think we have suc-
ceeded. However, some problems have arisen that we
find ourselves unable to deal with. We spend our time in
pointless bickering over the most trivial issues, and
when we try to vote, someone invariably abstains, and
we find ourselves in a tie; and the arguments start all
over again."

Sterren blinked and said, "So what?"

"So," Lady Kalira said, glaring balefully at him,
"your system is not working."

Sterren felt a sudden sinking feeling in his gut.

She paused for a moment, then continued, "Further-
more, we have some doubts about the nature of our au-
thority. We are all accustomed to living under monarchy,
where one person holds the final say. We aren't comfort-
able having that power divided—particularly when it
stays divided because our votes end in ties."

"What does this have to do with meT' he asked,
afraid that he knew.

"Lord Sterren," Lady Kalira said, "you brought the
warlock here and in doing so you destroyed all the es-
tablished hierarchies. You served as his chancellor,
which gave you an authority nobody else in the Empire
now possesses.. We need an authority, a king or an em-
peror, who can settle these endless little disputes, and
the only authority we can all agree on is yours."

"But I don't want it!" Sterren protested.

"That's exactly why we chose you as emperor," Lady
Kalira explained. "How could we trust someone who
hungered after power?"

"I won't do it," Sterren said.

"Lord Sterren," Lady Kalira said, "youTiave little
choice. You arranged for your Imperial Council to have
absolute power, did you not?"

"Yes, I did," Sterren began, "and I—"

"In that case. Your Majesty," she interrupted, "if the
Council's power is absolute, you must yield to it—and it

308 THE UNWILLING WARLORD

is the will of the Council, determined by unanimous
vote, that you, Sterren of Semma, be named Emperor of
Vond."

Sterren stared at her. He realized what he had just
done. In admitting that he had arranged for the Council
to have absolute power, he had tacitly admitted that he,
himself, had the authority to grant such power; he could
hardly deny the Council's right to return it. He fumed for
a moment, then burst out, "I am not going to be an em-
peror!"

"As you wish, your Majesty," she said, bowing. "Tell
us then what title you prefer."

"Vond is the emperor," he pointed out. "I can't be
emperor."

"Vond is gone," Lady Kalira replied.

He looked over the seven faces before him, all of
them determined. "You all want me in charge?" he de-
manded.

All seven nodded, but he thought one or two might
have hesitated.

"Suppose I refuse?"

"If you refuse, your Majesty," Lady Kalira said, "I'm
afraid that I will be forced to resign from the Council,
and I believe several others will resign as well."

He looked over the faces and saw no hint of yielding.

Lady Kalira said, "Need I point out that if the Council
resigns, the Empire will fall apart? I expect that the old
kingdoms would revive, and that you would probably be
considered a traitor by the nobility of Semma."

That was true enough, and Princess Shin-in was one
of those nobles.

Besides, he thought the Empire was a good thing—he
saw no point to all the petty little kingdoms it had re-
placed.

"Oh, hell," he said. "You could appoint me regent, I
suppose."

Smiles of varying intensity appeared on four of the
seven faces; the other three he couldn't read.

"Lady Kalira will serve as my chancellor and vice-
regent, of course," he said.

Her smile had been an intermediate one; it vanished
completely, and she opened her mouth to protest.

Lawrence Watt-Evans          309

Then she stopped as she saw the look of satisfaction
on his face.

"As your Majesty wishes," she said, reluctantly. She
hesitated. "Will you be moving back into the Imperial
Palace?"

"Let me think it over," he said. He stepped back into
the room and waved in dismissal. "You may go," he said.

The councillors turned away, when a thought oc-
curred to him. "Lady Kalira!" he called.

She turned and waited as the others continued down
the stairs.

"That vote," he asked, "was it really unanimous?"

She smiled. "On the second ballot," she said.

Then she turned and headed for the stairs.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lawrence Watt-Evans was born and raised in eastern Massachusetts,
the fourth of six children. Both parents were longtime science fiction
readers, so from an early age he read and enjoyed a variety of specu-
lative fiction. He also tried writing it, starting at age seven, but with
little immediate success.

After getting through twelve years of public schooling in Bed-
ford, Massachusetts, he tried to keep up family tradition by attending
Princeton University, as had his father and grandfather. He was less
successful than his ancestors and, after two attempts, left college
without a degree.

In between the two portions of his academic career, he lived in
Pittsburgh, a city he considers one of the most underrated in the
country. It was at this time that he began seriously trying to write for
money, as it seemed easier than finding a real job (he had previously
worked in a ladder factory, as a feature writer for a small-town news-
paper, as a sandwich salesman on campus, in a supermarket, and at
other trivial tasks). He sold one page of fiction in a year and a half.

In 1977, after leaving Princeton for the second and final time, he
married his longtime girlfriend and settled in Kentucky, where his
wife had a job that would support them both while he again tried to
write. He was more successful this time, producing a fantasy novel
that sold readily, beginning his full-time career as a writer.

He now lives in Gaithersburg, Maryland.