The Misenchanted Sword Page 5

  It was not glued there, however; he wrapped his hand around it again, then unwrapped, and this time had it hanging from his fingertips.

  There was no discomfort involved; the sword simply refused to leave his hand. Experimentally, as it hung from two fingers, he reached up with his left hand and pulled at it.

  It came away readily in his grip—but now adhered to his left hand just as it had to his right.

  He passed it back and forth a few times, then decided to try something else. With the sword clinging to the tips of his fingers, he braced both feet against it, leaning back against a tree, and pushed.

  His hand came free; both hands were now unencumbered. The sword was now attached to the bottom of his right foot.

  He stared at it, unsure whether to laugh or scream. Laughter won; he smiled broadly and chuckled. The sword looked incredibly foolish stuck to the sole of his foot.

  He played with it and found that, although the sword insisted on always being in contact with some part of his body, it did not seem to care very much which part. He could hang it from his nose, if he so desired—although it would swing toward his right hand, as if preferring that and trying to get back to it. Nor did it matter visibly which part of the sword touched him, hilt, blade, or guard.

  Tiring of the game at last, he stuck the sword to the bottom of his foot again while he studied the scabbard. A quick experiment showed that his dagger would slip into it with no trouble; pine needles could be stuffed into it and then scraped out again. Obviously, the sword was the culprit, not the sheath.

  He satisfied himself that this was indeed the case by trying to force the dagger's sheath onto the tip of the sword's blade; it would not go, any more than the sword's own scabbard would.

  An attempt to wrap the sword in his kilt showed him that the weapon refused to be covered; the cloth slid away from making contact with the metal of the blade; although Valder could force a few square inches into contact with the steel for a couple of seconds, something would not let them stay. The sword refused to be put away, and that was all there was to it.

  This peculiar behavior was so intriguing that Valder spent well over an hour playing with the sword, experimenting in various ways and ignoring the growling of his stomach. Valder could no longer doubt that the old hermit had put an enchantment on the sword, but he was still puzzled regarding the exact nature of the magic. He tried everything he could think of short of risking breaking the blade by chopping at trees or rocks, but nothing caused the sword to manifest any useful abilities. The only signs of magic were its refusal to be covered or sheathed and its insistence upon remaining in contact with its owner at all times. The latter trait, Valder realized, could be useful—he would never need to worry about being disarmed in battle. On the other hand, he might have a hard time surrendering, should he need to do so. All in all, he doubted that the sword's odd pair of magical characteristics would be enough to protect him if he ran afoul of another enemy patrol. He suspected that the magic must be far more extensive, but he could not determine anything more of its nature.

  He risked a more daring experiment, nicking the little finger of his left hand on the blade; this demonstrated that the sword did not protect him from all harm, that the sword was exceptionally sharp but not unstoppable, since he did not lose the finger, and that the sword did not change its behavior upon tasting blood. It behaved exactly as any ordinary sword would, as far as the edge was concerned, save that most swords were not as sharp.

  Of course, as he was its owner, his blood and his finger might not produce the same reactions as someone else's would.

  After that, he could think of nothing more to try. He got to his feet and began walking again, this time heading west by southwest toward the ocean, with the sword dangling in his hand.

  By the time he reached the rocky shore, the sun was sinking toward the waves, drawing a broad stripe of golden' light from the land to the horizon, and Valder's belly was knotted with hunger. Forgetting himself for a moment, he tried again, unsuccessfully, to sheathe the sword, so that he might wade out among the rocks in pursuit of something to eat. When the blade's refusal to slide home reminded him of the enchantment, he looked the weapon over thoughtfully, wondering whether it might be of help in obtaining food.

  He could think of no way to use its known peculiarities and decided on a little random experimentation. He swirled the blade through a tidal pool without result, but was interested to discover, when he drew it out again, that it was dry. The metal had shed the water completely, in a way ordinary steel did not. Valder supposed that this meant he need never worry about rust.

  Further experimentation demonstrated that a sword was not an ideal tool for digging clams, but it worked, and sand did not mar the blade, nor did prying up rocks bend it or dull the edge. Valder no longer doubted that the sword had special virtues; he was not as yet convinced, however, that they were anything that would be of much use in getting him safely home.

  He ate his dinner of clams fried on fire-heated rocks slowly and thoughtfully, considering the sword. He knew so very little about it, he thought.

  "Wirikidor," he said aloud. Nothing happened. The hilt still clung to his hand, as it had since he first drew it.

  "Ho, Wirikidor!" he cried, more loudly, holding the sword aloft.

  Nothing happened.

  "Wirikidor, take me home!" he shouted.

  Nothing happened; the sword gleamed dully in the fading daylight. The sun had dropped below the horizon while he ate.

  "Wirikidor, bring me food!" The clams had not completely filled the yawning void in his gut.

  Nothing happened.

  "Damn you, Wirikidor, do something!"

  The sword did nothing; the sky dimmed further as he waited.

  Thinking that perhaps the sword's abilities, such as they were, might be linked to the sun, Valder tried to drop the sword; it remained adhered to his palm.

  It occurred to him that he might be doomed to hold the thing for the rest of his life, which was hardly an appealing prospect. Of course, there were plenty of wizards around; he would certainly be able to find one eventually who could reverse the spell and free him of the sword's grip.

  Still, he was apparently stuck with it until he could return to civilization.

  Disgusted, Valder stopped playing with the sword and turned his attention to making camp amid the black rocks above the high tide mark.

  Chapter 5

  In the eleven days that followed his drawing of the sword, Valder made his way down the coast, living mostly on clams, crabs, and an occasional fish. He tried every experiment he could devise on the sword, with no discernable result. The blade remained sharp and clean, the hilt refused to leave his hand, and he was unable to force it into the scabbard. His feet toughened considerably, calluses replacing his blisters. He got very tired of carrying an unsheathed sword, and his hands, too, grew calloused.

  In all that time and in all the leagues he traveled, he saw no sign of any other human beings—or semihumans, for that matter. He had expected to make frequent detours around northern coast-watchers but did not; apparently those he had encountered on his way north had been withdrawn. He saw only the endless sea to his right and the forests to his left, while the shoreline he traveled varied from sandy beach to bare rock to sheer cliff and back again.

  AS he made his way southward, the nights grew warmer and the stars more familiar; the pine forest began to give way slowly to other trees, and birds in ever-increasing numbers sang in their branches or swooped overhead. Beasts, too, increased in number—mostly small ones such as squirrels and rabbits, but he did glimpse a deer once and, on another occasion, thought he saw a boar. His bow and arrow were long gone, and he did not feel like tackling deer or boar with his sling, but twice, by persistence and luck more than skill, he added rabbit to his diet.

  He was in pursuit of a third such delicacy a hundred yards inland, in mid-afternoon of his twelfth day of travel, when he heard a rustling in the underbrush ahe
ad of him, a rustling far too loud to be caused by his quarry. He froze, the sling hanging from his right hand, the sword bare in his left, a handful of sea-rounded pebbles clutched against the hilt.

  The rustling stopped, to be followed by other small sounds. Valder judged the source to be somewhere to his right, hidden by a tangle of flowering bushes. He peered intently at the foliage and, as the rustling began again, he made out the outline of something moving through the bushes, something roughly human in size and shape.

  For the first time in days, Valder remembered that he was in enemy territory. He adjusted his grip on the sling and slipped a stone into the pocket, ready to swing and let fly at the first threatening move.

  Whoever or whatever was hidden in the bushes did not seem to have spotted him, but was moving away with no attempt at stealth, back out toward the sea.

  As it emerged from behind the leafy barrier, Valder got a good look. The mysterious figure was, as he had expected, a northerner, but rather than a shatra or combat sorcerer or some other deadly menace, it appeared to be a very ordinary young man, with no helmet and no adornments or personalizations on his standard-issue uniform and weapons.

  He did not look threatening. His back was almost directly toward Valder, and he was totally off guard, oblivious to any lurking danger. Still, he was an enemy. Valder hesitated.

  The northerner was a hundred feet away and widening the gap. Valder was not good enough with a sling to be sure of hitting him, let alone downing him; if he missed, the sound of the stone would almost certainly alert the man—who, like most northern soldiers, carried a crossbow slung on his back.

  Valder did not care to become a crossbow target. He decided to wait where he was and hope the young man went away without seeing him.

  Wirikidor seemed to tremble slightly in his hand, and the grip felt warmer than usual; the Ethsharite remembered for the first time since spotting the northerner that he held a magic sword, a sword whose enchantment was supposed to see him safely home. He glanced at it and, without thinking, shifted his grip for a better hold.

  One of his sling-stones fell to the ground and by mischance bounced from a half-buried rock with a loud click.

  The northerner paused and started to turn. His movements were casual and unhurried; he was obviously thinking more in terms of small game than possible enemies, but Valder knew the man could hardly fail to see him. He brought his sling up and set it whirling.

  The northerner's mouth fell open in astonishment at the sight of the Ethsharite. He ducked hurriedly as he recognized the sling for what it was, falling first to his knees and then flat to the ground. He struggled awkwardly to bring the crossbow around to where he could use it.

  Valder let fly, knowing as he did that his stone would miss. It whizzed away, two feet above the northerner's head and a foot to the side.

  As the pellet left the sling, Valder dove for cover behind a nearby oak. Once there, he stuffed the sling into his belt and passed Wirikidor from his left hand to his right, to have it ready for use.

  The enemy soldier had not given an alarm, had not yelled for help; to Valder, that meant that there were no more northerners within earshot. He depended on that. If he could close with this man and kill him, he would be safe, at least for the moment. If he could disarm the northerner somehow and convince him to surrender, better still—assuming the man knew at least a little Ethsharitic, since Valder spoke not a single word of the northern tongue.

  He was not even sure that all northerners spoke the same language.

  The man looked younger than himself, probably still in his teens, and not particularly formidable. Had they been matched in weaponry, Valder would have been fairly confident of victory; as it was, however, the northerner had a crossbow, and Valder had his enchanted sword. Crossbows were very effective weapons—but very slow to load. The enchanted sword was an unknown quantity.

  "Well, Wirikidor," Valder muttered. "What do we do now?"

  The sword did nothing in reply, but it seemed somehow unsteady in his hand, as if it were struggling within itself.

  Cautiously, he peered around the tree. The northern soldier was still flat on the ground, but now held the crossbow aimed and ready. As he saw Valder, he pulled the trigger.

  The Ethsharite ducked back, and the quarrel whirred harmlessly past, vanishing into the woods beyond.

  Seizing the opportunity provided by the northerner's nervous impatience, Valder emerged from concealment running, charging straight through the bushes toward his frightened foe.

  The northerner was in the undignified process of discovering that it was impossible to load a crossbow properly while lying flat on one's belly with nothing to brace it against when he looked up and saw Valder plunging toward him. Terrified, he flung the crossbow aside— exactly the reaction Valder had hoped for—and snatched at his sword while rolling over onto his back.

  The distance between them had been greater than Valder had realized; the enemy soldier was on his feet, sword drawn, before the Ethsharite could reach him. Valder slowed his headlong charge and came to a wary halt a few steps away.

  The two faced each other for a long moment, while Wirikidor twitched and strained in Valder's hand.

  Valder was in no hurry. He wanted to take his time, see what his opponent was capable of, before getting down to serious combat. Youth did not always mean inexperience, and the northerner's reflexes were surely at least as fast as his own. Valder was bigger, with a longer reach, and was fairly sure he was trickier and more determined, but preferred not just to hack away; he was not a great swordsman and he knew it. The northerner might be faster or more skillful. Or both.

  The northerner moved a step to the side. Valder turned slightly to keep facing him, but did not follow.

  The northerner crouched lower. Valder did not move.

  The northerner took a swipe at him. Although Valder was not aware of trying to respond, Wirikidor came up, meeting the enemy's blade, turning it aside, and sliding past it, in a twisting lightning-fast stroke that thrust the sword's point through the northerner's throat.

  Valder had definitely not intended that. Both men stared in astonishment at the gleaming steel that joined them. The northerner's mouth opened and a sick croak emerged, followed by a gush of blood.

  Valder tried to pull his blade free; he saw no need to do more to the northerner, whose wound was probably fatal. The fellow was little more than a boy, and, if there were any chance he might live, Valder wanted him to have it. The man was obviously not going to fight anymore; already his sword had lowered, and, as the blood spilled from his mouth, his fingers opened, dropping the weapon to the petal-strewn ground.

  Wirikidor's blade would not come free. Instead, the sword twisted in Valder's hand, ripping through the northerner's neck.

  Valder stared at the blade in horror. His hand had not moved. The sword had moved, certainly, but his hand had not. Wirikidor had killed the northerner of its own volition.

  The northerner fell free of Wirikidor's blade and crumpled to the ground, obviously dead. With a shudder, Valder dropped the unnatural weapon. Wirikidor fell from his hand and lay on the ground inches from the dead man's face.

  Valder stared at it, his earlier horror giving way to astonishment. The sword had left his hand! Was the enchantment broken?

  Cautiously he picked it up, then put it down again.

  There was no resistance or adhesion; the sword behaved like any other inanimate piece of steel.

  Puzzled, Valder picked it up again and looked it over carefully. It appeared unchanged, except that the victim's blood, unlike water, clung to it. He wiped the blade on his dead opponent's sleeve and then cautiously slid it into the scabbard on his belt.

  The blade fell smoothly into place without resistance of any sort.

  He stared at the hilt. Had the enchantment been good only for a single use? Had using the sword broken the spell? The wizard had said that "Wirikidor" meant "slayer of warriors"; well, it had indeed slain someone, althou
gh Valder was not convinced that the northerner had been much of a warrior.

  He considered for a moment and then drew the sword again and looked at it closely. He saw nothing enlightening, merely the simple steel blade he had always had. With a shrug, he attempted to return it to its sheath.

  The blade turned away from the opening.

  He stared at it for a long moment. "Damn it," he said, "and may demons carry off that idiot wizard!" He knew there was no point in disputing anything with Wirikidor. If it chose not to be sheathed, he would not be able to sheathe it.

  He stripped the northerner's body of provisions and other useful items, such as the discarded crossbow. Although he had little hope, given their relative sizes, he tried unsuccessfully to pull on the man's battered boots; as he had expected, none of the clothing was big enough to be of any use to him.

  As he worked he told himself that at least he had learned something about his magical defense. The sword was bloodthirsty, for one thing. For another, blood apparently canceled some of the spell but only until the sword was sheathed and then drawn again.

  He paused. No, he told himself, it wasn't that simple. He had cut himself to test the blade, and that had had no effect. It was not just blood that was responsible but something else.

  He had heard legends of foul weapons, demonic or sorcerous in origin, that sucked the souls from their victims; could it be that he now carried such a weapon? He had never heard of such a weapon being created by wizardry—but then, the old hermit had been using spells of his own invention.

  One part of the usual version of the story said that the victims invariably died with their faces frozen in expressions of unspeakable terror. He glanced at the dead northerner's face; while scarcely calm, the expression of shock and pain did not live up to the descriptions of those whose souls had been stolen.