Touched by the Gods Read online

  TOUCHED BY THE GODS

  A Novel

  by

  Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Copyright © 1997, 2011 by Lawrence Watt Evans

  All rights reserved

  Published by Misenchanted Press

  www.misenchantedpress.com

  Cover art by Tristan Elwell

  License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then you should return to your favorite eBook seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's efforts.

  This is a work of fiction. None of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are intended to represent actual persons living or dead.

  OTHER BOOKS BY LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS

  Among the Powers

  Shining Steel

  The Nightmare People

  One-Eyed Jack

  THE FALL OF THE SORCERERS

  A Young Man Without Magic

  Above His Proper Station

  THE ANNALS OF THE CHOSEN

  The Wizard Lord

  The Ninth Talisman

  The Summer Palace

  THE OBSIDIAN CHRONICLES

  Dragon Weather

  The Dragon Society

  Dragon Venom

  LEGENDS OF ETHSHAR

  The Misenchanted Sword

  With A Single Spell

  The Unwilling Warlord

  Taking Flight

  The Blood of a Dragon

  The Spell of the Black Dagger

  Night of Madness

  Ithanalin's Restoration

  The Spriggan Mirror

  The Vondish Ambassador

  The Unwelcome Warlock

  THE LORDS OF DUS

  The Lure of the Basilisk

  The Seven Altars of Dûsarra

  The Sword of Bheleu

  The Book of Silence

  WAR SURPLUS

  The Cyborg and the Sorcerers

  The Wizard and the War Machine

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  Crosstime Traffic

  Celestial Debris

  In the Blood

  The Final Folly of Captain Dancy & Other Pseudohistorical Fantasies

  Dedicated to my daughter,

  Kyrith Amanda Evans

  Prologue

  The priest walked neither fast nor slow, but at a steady, relentless pace that drew the eye of the handful of other travelers he passed along the Yildau road. The farmers on either side stared as he passed, as well.

  Dust stained the hem of his white robe a golden brown, but he paid no attention; he looked straight ahead and marched on, arms swinging with each stride. Behind him he left the scent of sweat and sandalwood.

  He was plainly a man with a purpose, and those he encountered along the road stared after him and wondered aloud what that purpose might be. Lone priests were rarely seen outside their shrines and temples – especially not in the summer triads, since priestly robes were heavy and hot. The annual graveyard rites and other such errands were usually performed in cooler weather.

  Some of the older observers speculated that the oracles had sent this fellow on some unusual errand for the gods, but the younger and more cynical generally dismissed that with a laugh and a crude jest, suggesting that the priest more likely sought to ease some more worldly ill – such as a lover's itch.

  The priest paid no attention to any of this; he walked on, as he had been directed. The fierce heat of Midsummer's Day, the second day of Ba'el's Triad, when the war god stoked the sun's furnace, covered his face with a sheen of sweat but otherwise did not seem to bother him. He did not glance up at either the sun, or the several moons faintly visible here and there.

  The very largest of the moons, named Ba'el after the god who dwelt there, had partially eclipsed the sun earlier that day – but with so many moons in the sky that was hardly worthy of note, and besides, it had passed on by the time he reached Grozerodz. Only an astrologer would concern himself with the possible significance of the war-god's moon eclipsing the sun during that same god's turn at the fires.

  In the center of the village the priest hesitated momentarily, looking about, then turned from the high road and made his way across the square and down the lane, past the graveyard with its flower-bound iron gate to the blacksmith's shop. He did not stop at the forge, but pushed on to the tidy little house beyond, where a small crowd of villagers had gathered. They were fanning themselves with their hands and chatting cheerfully amongst themselves, but quickly fell silent when they saw the priest approaching.

  The priest stopped at last at the door and waited.

  The big, bare-chested man blocking the entrance had been watching events within the house; now he turned and stared at the white-robed stranger.

  “May I enter?” the priest asked.

  The big man hesitated, and glanced back in.

  “I don't know,” he said uneasily. “Who are you?”

  “I am Mezizar, from the temple at Biekedau.”

  That meant nothing to the guardian. “There's women's business here,” he said. “No call for a priest.”

  “A child has been born?” the priest asked, a note of eagerness in his voice. “A boy?”

  The big man blinked. “Now, how'd you know that?” he asked warily.

  “Must've asked an oracle,” someone called.

  “Why would he ask about that?” someone else demanded.

  The priest did not answer; instead, he repeated, “May I enter?”

  The big man shrugged, and called, “Ho, Dara! There's a sweaty fellow here in a priest's robe, says he wants to come in!”

  That caused a flurry of activity within, and a moment later a plump woman with her hair bound back beneath a kerchief emerged to confront the stranger. Her hands, held out before her, were wet, as if she had just washed them.

  She looked the stranger up and down, pursing her lips as she considered him.

  “Don't see many priests here,” she said. “With no shrine or temple in Grozerodz, we don't usually get anyone but some stuttering novice stopping by once every winter to pray over the graveyard.”

  That was stating the obvious, and the priest ignored it. “You are the midwife?” he asked.

  “That's right,” the kerchiefed woman replied. She gestured toward the big man. “And this fellow here is Sparrak, the babe's uncle, and I've asked him to keep strangers out. This is a private business, not some temple spectacle.”

  “I must see the child and his parents,” the priest said. “I assure you that I will not harm him, or them, nor am I unacquainted with the mysteries of birth – I have presided at our temple's deliveries. I underwent a ritual cleansing before I departed to come here; I carry no disease, nor need I touch the child.” He wiped the sweat from his face with his right sleeve, and showed her that the resulting stain was relatively free of dirt – he had clearly bathed no more than a day ago.

  “Got all your answers ready, I see,” the midwife remarked. “Ought to carry a cloth, though, not use your sleeve. Who sent you, then? One of the gods?”

  “Not directly,” the priest replied. “I haven't spoken to any of the oracles myself. Dolkout, the high priest at Biekedau, sent me; I believe he spoke with an oracle. At least one oracle.”

  “I can't say that I ever heard the name Dolkout,” Dara remarked.

  That started a discussion among the gathered villagers; after some debate, it was generally agreed that yes, the high priest at Biekedau was named Dolkout, or at least he
might be. The priest waited silently for the conversation to die down again.

  When it had, the midwife eyed him carefully, then shrugged. “Well, it's not my house,” she said, stepping aside, “and I doubt Hmar is going to object to anything just at the moment. Come on in, but wipe your feet.”

  The priest conscientiously obeyed, and a moment later he was ushered past half a dozen grinning women into a bedroom that smelled of blood and sweat and other animal scents.

  There a woman lay in bed, her husband at her right hand, and five young girls of varying ages, the youngest not much more than a baby herself, clustered about as the woman held her newborn son to her breast. Two large basins and several bloody cloths were scattered on a nearby chest of drawers, and the midwife, following the priest into the room, hurried over to them to finish her tidying up.

  The new mother looked up, startled, as the priest entered; the five girls stepped back and stared in surprise, the youngest letting out a sort of cooing yelp. The husband, a man even larger than Sparrak, had been grinning broadly at the arrival of his son; now his grin vanished as he watched the priest warily, as if he thought that this white-robed stranger had come to snatch the boy away.

  “May I see the child's face?” the priest asked gently.

  Puzzled but obliging, the woman shifted, turning the infant without removing his mouth from her nipple. A red birthmark cut diagonally across his face, temple to jaw, like a shallow bleeding wound.

  “That'll fade,” the midwife said as she dried her hands. “He'll be pretty as any baby in a dozen triads.”

  “That long?” the priest said. “I hurried, to be sure of seeing it.”

  The midwife shrugged and left without replying, carrying one of the basins out of the room.

  The mother looked up at the priest questioningly.

  “My lady,” the priest said, “your son has been touched by the gods. Their mark is on his face, and though it will fade, as that good woman says, he will always, so long as he lives, be their chosen champion, to be called upon when the need arises.” He reached his right hand into his left sleeve and drew out a polished ivory case, a gleaming white cylinder roughly eight inches long and three inches in diameter; he handed it to the man standing by the bed.

  “Sir,” he said, “this is for your son, when he is ready.”

  The big man accepted it silently, too surprised to speak.

  The priest bowed, and turned to go. Everyone watched in silent astonishment as he hurried out of the smith's house without further ado.

  The midwife, re-entering the bedroom, was the first to regain her voice.

  “Well, whatever was that about?” she asked no one in particular.

  “A lot of religious nonsense,” Hmar the smith rumbled. “Our son the divine champion? Ha!” He looked down at the ivory case, then shrugged and set it carefully on the shelf above the bed. He smiled down at his exhausted wife and newborn son.

  “It'll make a good story for the boy, though,” he said.

  Chapter One

  It was a slow day at the forge, and Hmar was making nails. There was no call for anything more elaborate just now, and it was good business to keep a stock of nails on hand.

  Malledd wasn't interested in nails. Oh, they were useful, and the glow of the iron was as fascinating as always, the clang of hammer on metal was as musical and exciting as ever, but in his ten years of life he'd seen his father make thousands of nails, and on a day like this, when the sun was warm and the flowers blooming, Malledd was just not interested in standing by the forge, motionless and sweaty, watching his father make yet more of them.

  If he were allowed to swing the hammer... but no, Hmar insisted that despite being exceptionally big for his age the boy didn't yet have arms big enough to wield the hammer on hot metal. Malledd might be Hmar's only son, but he was also an apprentice, and Hmar wasn't about to indulge him by letting him use the hammer before he was ready; it would be bad for discipline.

  On the other hand, the boy was obviously not going to pay attention to the nail-making, so at last Hmar sent him out to play.

  Reveling in his freedom and enjoying the gentle breeze, Malledd hopped a few times across the muddy little moat that served as a firebreak around the forge, practicing his jumping – he was proud of how far he could leap. Tiring quickly of that pastime, and particularly of the rather rank smell that rose from the inch or two of stagnant water in the trench, he turned aside, jogged back toward the family's house, where he wandered slowly through the kitchen yard, past where his mother was washing out linens. Then he looped back past the smithy and onto the lane that led to the center of the village; his lazy amble turned to a trot.

  He stayed to the left side of the road, keeping well clear of the graveyard gate, with its chain of fresh daisies looped through the iron bars; his sister Seguna had been telling him scary stories about nightwalkers again, and while Malledd didn't really believe most of what she said, he still felt a bit safer if he didn't get too close to the graveyard fence.

  There weren't any nightwalkers any more, he reminded himself; everyone agreed on that. Besides, fresh flowers and cold iron were both supposed to keep the dead from rising. Malledd had helped weave new blossoms into the ironwork often enough without ever being frightened before, and if there were still any nightwalkers around they would hardly come out in the sunlight in any case – but even so, he hurried past the gates without stopping, far enough away that he couldn't smell the flowers. He trotted on to the tiny square by the high road.

  Grozerodz was just a village, and not a particularly large one; Hmar was the only smith of any kind there, the first ever to work in Grozerodz, and had had to apprentice up in Yildau to learn his trade. The little town's one inn also served as a bakery and meeting hall. There was no temple, nor even a roadside shrine – some of the villagers complained about that occasionally, but no one wanted to go to the trouble and expense of building one and getting it sanctified. Anyone who wanted a proper wedding, or to petition the gods, or to consult an oracle, had to walk ten miles down the highway to Biekedau. Anyone who wanted to keep a patron deity happy with an annual obeisance – as Hmar did – had to make it a pilgrimage to Biekedau. For that matter, anyone in Grozerodz who wanted any number of things had to hike the ten miles to Biekedau, or wait for a trader to pass through.

  Malledd didn't mind; he'd never lived anywhere else, and while he enjoyed his annual visit to Biekedau with his father, and loved to listen to the stories he heard about the rest of the world beyond the horizon, he was satisfied with Grozerodz.

  In fact, as he wandered into the center of town, he was quite pleased with it. The hundreds of assorted flowers in the square were bright and fragrant, much prettier than the graveyard daisies, and their perfume mingled interestingly with the fresh sawdust smell from Uderga's carpentry shop. Two horses were tied up in front of the inn, which meant travelers – no one in Grozerodz owned a horse, and for that matter, neither did most of the travelers who passed through; horses were expensive. Those travelers who did have horses usually had them hitched to carts or wagons, hauling goods from Yildau or Biekedau; these two carried nothing but saddles, as if their riders were noblemen of some sort. Malledd could hear insects humming, and voices drifting from the open windows of the inn; the travelers were undoubtedly talking.

  That was interesting, and tempting – but Malledd also heard the laughter of children from behind old Daiwish's house mingled with the adult chatter from the inn, and the children were obviously having a wonderful time with their games. He hesitated.

  The children behind Daiwish's herb garden would be the younger ones, the boys and girls who were too young to be expected to work; he had been there often enough himself in previous years.

  But he wasn't a baby any more. He was ten years old now, as of a triad ago – almost a man, and big for his age. He was too old to play with the little kids.

  And a chance to see noblemen didn't come along every triad – this stretch of hill coun
try had no lord of its own, answering directly to the Empress instead, through her representative in Biekedau.

  Malledd headed for the inn.

  He knew the travelers would be drinking ale or wine, and that any villagers who knew there were travelers in town and who could spare the time would be there buying them drinks in exchange for the latest news and gossip from afar. He also knew that Bardetta, the innkeeper, wouldn't sell him ale or wine, even if he had a coin, which he didn't – she didn't believe children should be permitted strong drink.

  But he could still sit and listen, couldn't he?

  The door of the inn was standing open, and Malledd slipped in unobtrusively.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the cool dimness inside after the bright outdoor sun, but when he could see clearly he saw two men in bright clothing sitting at one of Bardetta's tables, gulping cold ale and talking and smiling between gulps. Despite their travels they were cleaner than ordinary people, their hair polished and shining; their clothes were very fine, and the broad-brimmed hats hung on the backs of their chairs were trimmed with long, curling feathers, an affectation Malledd had heard of but never before seen.

  Eight or nine villagers in their ordinary homespun were clustered about, none being so audacious as to actually sit at the same table as the strangers. The listeners were carefully leaving space for Bardetta to get in and out with trays of cakes and ale.

  “It's happened everywhere, they say,” announced one of the travelers. “The temple magicians report it's the same every place beneath the Hundred Moons. It's not just Seidabar, or Biekedau, but everywhere – the whole empire, the entire world, from sunrise to sunset and sea to sea.” He spoke with a charming accent not quite like anything Malledd had heard before. “All the oracles, of every god. The other magicians are still as good as ever, but the oracles won't have another word to say.”