Free The Ninth Talisman by Lawrence Watt-Evans Page A

sent Sword off to the appointed guest room, with a serving wench carrying a candle to light his way. It had been a long day, and Sword was ready to sleep, but when he reached his room he discovered that his hosts expected one more thing from him—the serving maid did not leave once his own candle was lit. He hesitated, then decided he was not
that
tired.
    In the morning she fetched his breakfast, and carried his polite farewells to the Priest-King. As the sun cleared the Eastern Cliffs, he set out down the road to Rock Bridge.
    The journey was uneventful, and Council of Priests in Rock Bridge made him welcome. They asked his opinion of the new roads; he answered truthfully that he had not yet formed an opinion. The roads certainly made travel easier, but they also disturbed the natural order of things, and he had not yet decided whether the benefits outweighed the damage.
    The road from Willowbank to Rock Bridge was far less disorienting than the one from Mad Oak to Willowbank; it had had longer to recover from its creation, and the difference was obvious.
    From Rock Bridge, Sword continued the following day to Broadpool. That stretch of road already showed traces of wagon ruts, and though he did not meet any traveling merchants in either town, the inhabitants of both towns were happy to tell him that some had been there, selling strange foods and fabrics and a variety of other wonderful things.
    In Broadpool several of the witches, as the local priestesses were called, took turns interrogating him in various odd ways; the evening was well advanced before he realized that they were competing to see whose bed he would sleep in. He announced that he was exhausted and would sleep alone, and the questioning abruptly ceased.
    In the morning he found every door in the village locked against him, and his pack placed beside the boundary shrine where the road led south; he took the hint and did not linger.
    From Broadpool he had a choice of roads, to his astonishment. He took the more easterly route, to Beggar’s Hill, where he found lodging with a woodcarver turned innkeeper who went by the name of Nicker.
    It was in Beggar’s Hill, as he was about to head up the stairs to his room in Nicker’s Public House, that the big brown hound by the hearth raised its head and said, “Hello, Swordsman.”
    Sword stopped and turned.
    The half-dozen other occupants of the taproom were staring at the dog in astonishment and fear, but Sword knew what was happening. He had encountered talking animals before, when he and the other Chosen went after the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills; the Wizard Lord could see through the eyes of lesser creatures, and control their actions, even to the point of making beasts speak. It was a convenient way for him to communicate over long distances, a trick of which no other wizard was known to be capable.
    â€œHello, Wizard Lord,” Sword said calmly.
    â€œAre you coming to see me?” the dog asked. Its voice was rough, not remotely human, but the words were clear enough.
    â€œYes, I am,” Sword replied.
    â€œI thought so. I can only see your exact location at night, for some reason, but your route seemed to be headed this way.”
    â€œYes. I’m coming to Winterhome,” Sword agreed.
    â€œWhy can’t I place you clearly along the way?” the hound asked. “Is there something wrong with the roads?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Sword said. “I assume it’s the
ara
feathers on my hat. Which I take off at night.”
    â€œOh, I see. Yes, that would explain it.”
    â€œI don’t entirely trust the roadside
ler,
as yet,” Sword said.
    â€œSensible of you. Then I’ll see you soon?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood. I’m looking forward to it—and the dog is getting upset, so I’ll speak with you when you get here.”
    â€œAs you please,” Sword said with a bow.
    At that the dog started, getting