The Ninth Talisman Read Online Free PDF

loose in itssheath, then hurried back out, through the village square and along the path below the pavilion.
    A score of the townsfolk had gathered at the boundary stone and were staring out into the forest, though none set so much as a toe beyond the marker. Much rustling, thumping, and unintelligible conversation could still be heard out in the wild. Whatever was making the noise seemed to have come a little closer.
    As Sword neared the group one of his childhood friends, a big fellow called Brokenose, said, “They’ve been calling, but we haven’t answered. We were waiting for you.”
    â€œThank you,” Sword said sourly, and not at all sincerely. He remembered why he and Brokenose didn’t spend much time together anymore as he peered out into the trees. Sword was fairly certain he glimpsed movement, though he was not sure what he was seeing. “Has anyone told Priest or the priestesses?”
    â€œYounger Priestess is fetching Elder Priestess from the northern fields,” said a man called Flute. “Priest is still ill.”
    â€œIll” was a euphemism. Old Priest was dying, and everyone in Mad Oak knew it, though not all were willing to admit it. “I know he’s ill,” Sword said. “He should still be told.”
    â€œWon’t the
ler
tell him?” Curly asked.
    â€œMaybe,” Sword acknowledged.
    â€œ
Ho, the village!
” came a distant cry. “Can’t you hear us?”
    Several people turned expectant faces toward Sword, who raised his hands to either side of his mouth. “We hear you!” he shouted back. “Who
are
you?”
    There was a mutter of what might have been cheering, and then a voice called, “We’ll explain when we get there!”
    That triggered a round of murmuring, and Sword sighed again.
    â€œAre you sure we should
let
them get here?” Curly asked.
    â€œI’ll go see who they are,” Sword said, and with a hand on his sword hilt he marched down the slope.
    He paused at the boundary shrine, knelt briefly, and said, “I thank you, spirits of my homeland, and pray that I may return safely to your protection.” Then he rose and stepped past, into the wilderness.
    He could feel the change instantly as he left behind the familiar, accepting
ler
of his village and stepped into the territory of the wild
ler
that dwelt outside human bounds. The air seemed suddenly hot and hostile, rather than warm and comforting. The gentle breeze turned harsh. Weeds tore at his trousers.
    Most people in Mad Oak would never have dared to set foot beyond the shrine without a guide and the protection of
ara
feathers, but Sword, as one of the Chosen, was immune to most magic. Wild
ler
might harass him, but were unlikely to do him any serious harm. Except for the bloodthirsty Mad Oak itself, up on the ridgetop to the southwest, he did not think anything near the village posed a real threat to him, and even that terrible old tree had failed to lure him in the one time he had gotten close to it. Putting his hand on the hilt of his sword had been enough to alert the
ler
that protected him and break the oak’s spell.
    He kept a hand on his sword’s hilt, just in case, as he marched boldly down into the birch grove.
    He did not have to go far; as soon as he passed the first line of undergrowth that bordered the grove he could see the strangers, fifty yards away among the birches. There were at least a dozen of them, all big men in matching attire. They wore broad-brimmed, cloth-covered helmets crowned with
ara
feathers, and despite the heat they were clad in thick quilted jackets and leggings striped with dense rows of
ara
feathers—jackets and leggings that showed signs of hard use, with hundreds of little slashes and tears, patches of mud and smears of green, thorns and briars everywhere. The feathers were crumpled and broken in many places.
    Clearly, these men were not appeasing the wild
ler,
nor dodging