The Ninth Talisman Read Online Free PDF Page B

them, as a guide might, but were simply bulling their way through, relying on their strange clothing to protect them from lashing branches, stabbing thorns, and the claws and teeth of small animals. Heavy leather gloves held sticks and shovels and machetes, and the men were hacking and digging their way through the undergrowth. The damage to their protective clothing made it clear that the undergrowth and its
ler
had not yielded without a fight.
    Sword had never seen anything like this before, nor heard of such athing. The people of Barokan had always respected
ler,
always tried to cooperate with the spirits of the land and sky and forest. Every town and village had made accommodations with its own
ler,
usually through a priesthood that negotiated with them, and the land between the scattered communities had been left alone.
    Until now. These men were clearly not leaving the wilderness alone.
    Sword kept walking into the birch grove, watching the men intently. He didn’t recognize any of them. None were from Mad Oak, nor were any of them guides he knew.
    This whole scene was unspeakably bizarre. Whole gangs of men simply did not venture into the wilderness like this, and ordinarily
nobody
would tear up the natural landscape in such a brutal fashion, so utterly heedless of the
ler.
The normal thing to do would be to either try to slip through without disturbing the
ler,
or to appease them as best one could, but these men appeared to be deliberately antagonizing the wilderness spirits.
    â€œWho
are
you?” Sword demanded, as soon as the strangers noticed his approach.
    The slashing, chopping, and shoveling stopped as the entire party turned to look at him. “The Wizard Lord’s road crew,” one of them called back. “Who are
you,
coming out here unguarded?”
    â€œI’m called Sword,” Sword replied. “What do you mean, road crew?”
    â€œSword? The Swordsman? Really?” Several voices spoke at once, as the entire party lowered their tools and turned to stare.
    â€œThe Swordsman, yes.” Sword drew his weapon and let it hang loosely in his hand. “Now, who are you people, and what are you doing here?”
    â€œHe told you, we’re a road crew,” a man called. He reached up and doffed his helmet, revealing sweat-matted hair and a long, half-healed slash across his forehead that seemed to indicate that at least one
ler
had put up resistance. “We’re cutting a road through from Willowbank to Mad Oak.”
    Sword blinked and lowered his blade further. “Cutting a road?”
    â€œThat’s right. You don’t have a guide for this route anymore, so we’re cutting a road, and if it’s properly maintained you won’t
need
a guide, ever again.”
    Sword struggled for a moment with this concept.
    He knew that in the Midlands the towns were often so close together that they were connected by broad roads, wide enough for two carts to pass, where no guide was needed to protect travelers from the untamed
ler
of the wilderness; he had been there, and seen it for himself. But that was in the
Midlands,
where one town was only rarely separated from the next by more than a mile, and where the land between was as likely to be open grassland as forest. There were no open roads in Longvale, where a good ten miles of thick woods and marshland divided Mad Oak from Willowbank; there were only narrow, winding paths that required a skilled guide to navigate safely.
    Or rather, there
had been
only narrow, dangerous paths until now. Looking past the self-proclaimed “road crew,” Sword could see that they had indeed cut a broad, straight path through the forest—a strip of bare, sun-dappled brown earth stretching away as far as he could see, with mounds of chopped greenery lining either side. He could smell the rich scent of fresh soil, an odor he associated with fields, rather than forests.
    Bits of leaf fluttered about those side mounds in