The Misenchanted Sword Page 6

  No, he didn't think it was the northerner's soul that had appeased Wirikidor and allowed it to be sheathed— albeit briefly. Perhaps the blood of the sword's owner would not work, but any other would. The hermit had told him that the sword had some sort of an ownership spell on it.

  He remembered the sickening sensation as the sword had twisted in his hand, determined to cut the northerner's throat out; no, the sword was not satisfied with just a little blood. It had wanted the man's life. Not his soul, perhaps, but his life.

  That was not a pleasant thought. Wirikidor might indeed protect Valder, but he did not think he would enjoy owning it. For one thing, it was a nuisance carrying it about unsheathed. He promised himself that the next time he got it into the scabbard he would leave it there until he needed it again.

  Putting aside for the moment his consideration of the sword's nature, the next important question was what this northern soldier had been doing here. From the man's nonchalant attitude, it was obvious that he had not been expecting any Ethsharitic activity—at any rate, not on land close at hand. Valder could guess well enough what he had been doing skulking in the bushes, from the sound if nothing else—even northerners needed to relieve themselves—but where had he come from? As nearly as Valder could estimate, he was still several leagues behind the northern lines—unless the Ethsharitic forces had successfully counterattacked.

  That was an encouraging thought, but Valder was not at all sure it was justified. He glanced about, hoping to pick up the northerner's trail.

  He found it with surprising ease. The man had made no attempt to conceal it and had, in fact, obviously used the same path several times, judging by the amount of wear. Mosses and creepers had been thoroughly trampled. With Wirikidor in hand, Valder followed the trail southwestward through the forest and in only minutes emerged onto the top of a rocky bluff and found the northerner's little encampment, overlooking the sea. The dead man's duty was clear; he had been stationed to watch for Ethsharitic landings along this stretch of coastline. The elevated position gave him a clear view of several miles of beach.

  He had not expected an attack on land, of course. Valder's presence must have been a shock.

  This realization left Valder with only guesswork to tell him how far behind the northern lines he might still be. He had no way of knowing how much of the coastline the enemy would consider worth guarding. His own army might be a league away, or a hundred. All he could be certain of was that the war was still being fought, as it had always been, or else there would have been no need to post a coastal watch at all.

  Any number of questions were now vital. When was the soldier's relief due? How far apart were the shore-watchers posted? Would it be worthwhile to travel inland to avoid them?

  He glanced at Wirikidor. He was protected, he told himself; he could go where he pleased. That was not really a major concern, after all.

  No, he corrected himself, there were still crossbows, not to mention the arcane weaponry of sorcerers and shatra. He did not want to encounter any more of the enemy than he had to, and where possible it would be best to meet at close quarters, where Wirikidor would, it seemed, do his fighting for him.

  Besides, he had no particular desire to kill northerners—though he felt a twinge of guilt at making that unpatriotic admission to himself. Creating a disturbance back here behind the Empire's lines might draw troops away from his countrymen and comrades; he knew that and told himself that he probably should try to cause trouble, but he was still not eager to kill anyone. Better by far, in his opinion, to avoid trouble.

  The sentry's relief might be along any minute, he thought—or perhaps not for days, but he saw no reason to take unnecessary chances. He turned and walked back into the forest, away from the sea.

  Chapter 6

  Two days later Valder was beginning to wish an enemy would find him, just so that he could sheathe his sword after killing someone. He had been carrying the weapon bare in his hand for thirteen days, against his will, and was sincerely tired of it. He had tried putting it under his belt, or along one shin, but these had proved much too uncomfortable to use for any length of time.

  He was well away from the shoreline now and had no intention of veering back in hopes of picking off another coast-watcher, but the thought of coming across a lone northern scout had a certain appeal. The sweaty palms and tired wrists were overcoming his distaste for bloodshed.

  With that in mind, he was taking pains to move quietly, lest thoughts of an enemy might tempt the gods to bring him one; he did not want to be caught off-guard. The forest had thickened, and a profusion of rhododendrons limited the easily available paths, so that he found himself picking his way carefully, watching his feet, his head bent low to avoid overhanging' branches. That let his hair, woefully unkempt after two and a half months without a mirror, hang down across his eyes, and, with his hands as tired as they were, he did not bother to brush it aside very often. It was sheer luck that he saw the northern patrol before they saw him; he happened to glance up at exactly the right moment. None of the three enemy soldiers was as fortunate.

  Valder froze for a moment and watched them. All three moved with the normal clumsiness of ordinary men; none had the smooth, gliding grace that marked shatra. That was a relief.

  Valder wondered what they were doing out here; what made a patrol behind the lines necessary? Were there Ethsharitic scouts—other than himself—operating in the area? Even as he wondered, he reached up slowly for the captured crossbow slung on back.

  The sword in his hand made him awkward; the blade struck an overhanging branch as he struggled to bring the bow around where he could use it. The sound was not loud, but one of the northerners, sixty yards away, apparently heard it. He paused in his stride, turned, and saw the Ethsharite.

  He shouted something in the northern tongue, then began running toward Valder, his hand reaching for the sword on his belt. Valder guessed that he did not care to use a bow; not all soldiers, on either side, were marksmen.

  The other two northerners followed. The first, Valder saw, was grinning with excitement. Like the sentry on the shore, these three were young, very young—and, Valder thought, not likely to grow old if they were always so careless. They obviously hoped to capture him alive, forcing a surrender by virtue of their superior numbers, but were completely oblivious to the possibility of an ambush or magical defense. They saw a man in the gray breastplate and green kilt of an Ethsharitic soldier and forgot everything but that they faced an enemy and an opportunity for glory.

  He got the crossbow free, but the bowstring fouled on the same overhanging branch the sword had hit. With a curse, Valder dropped it, leaving it hanging, and stepped forward. He had the magic sword Wirikidor, the slayer of warriors, he told himself; what had he to fear?

  The first northerner stopped a dozen feet away, apparently puzzled that the quarry had not run off to be chased down like a fleeing deer. His comrades came up behind him. All three stared at Valder and the naked steel in his hand.

  The leader called something; Valder guessed it was a demand that he surrender.

  "I don't understand a word," he called back.

  The three northerners conversed for a moment; then one of them called tentatively, "You fight?"

  "I'm not surrendering, if that's what you mean," Valder replied. Seeing the confusion that resulted, he decided this was obviously too much for the northerner's limited vocabulary and called his clarification. "Yes, I fight."

  "Ah!" Three swords were drawn, and the northern leader advanced. Valder guessed him to be perhaps eighteen, the others younger.

  Wirikidor seemed to drag him forward to meet his opponent. He did not bother to pretend that he was controlling his actions as steel clashed.

  The other two hung back, and Valder quickly realized why. The lead northerner, despite his youth, was a superb swordsman, probably his divisional champion. His blade flickered like heat lightning in a summer sky. His companions could only have been in the way.
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  This obvious skill did not bother Wirikidor in the slightest. It countered each blow with supernatural speed and, when the northerner faltered in surprise, it swept past his guard and plunged into his throat.

  Wirikidor, Valder thought, seemed to have a liking for throats. He wondered if that were in any way significant. He wrenched the blade away as soon as it had finished ripping open the northerner's neck.

  The northerner collapsed in a lifeless heap, his sword rattling from a tree root.

  His comrades stared at their fallen leader in astonished dismay. Valder stepped forward, waiting for Wirikidor to take on the next one.

  Wirikidor did nothing; all Valder's advance did was to snap the nearer northerner out of his stunned inaction.

  His sword swung for Valder's throat, and it was all the Ethsharite could do to bring Wirikidor up in time to parry.

  Startled by his sword's failure to act on its own, Valder fell back several steps before the northerner's assault and took a small gash on his upper arm before regaining control. Fortunately, this second youth was far less skilled than the first, and the third northerner was still too disconcerted to join the battle.

  "Damn you, Wirikidor!" Valder cried, "Why aren't you fighting?"

  There was no response. The sword acted like any ordinary sword, utterly inanimate. Valder had passed the minimum competence tests in swordsmanship in order to acquire his rank of Scout First Class, but he was by no means an expert swordsman, nor even very good—however, luck was with him; the northerner was no better. He was faster than Valder, but less practiced—hardly surprising in a boy of sixteen or seventeen. The two were fairly evenly matched, so the duel continued—but only, Valder knew, until the other northerner got over his surprise.

  Then his opponent stumbled, whether over a root or his companion's body Valder did not see. Valder seized the opportunity, and Wirikidor's magically sharp blade sank deep into the northerner's sword arm, cutting to the bone.

  The northerner's sword dropped, and Valder brought Wirikidor back and around, striking at the soldier's neck. The man went down and stayed down.

  The third northerner came out of his dumfoundment too late and chose not to take on, alone, the man who had slain his two compatriots. Instead, he turned and ran.

  Valder did not pursue him. The young fellow was obviously faster, even without terror to aid him. Besides, a chase might lead directly into an enemy camp. Instead, he looked down at his fallen foes.

  The second man was still breathing and had managed to clamp his left hand over his neck wound.

  Valder stared down at him for a second or two, debating whether to kill him or to attend to his wounds. He quickly decided to do neither, but snatched the crossbow from the tree and, like his foe, turned and ran. He saw no need to kill a helpless man, enemy or not, particularly when there was another enemy who had gotten away and might return with reinforcements at any moment.

  When he had put a little distance between himself and the scene of the battle, he paused to catch his breath. His feet, he noticed, had certainly been toughened by day after day of trudging barefoot through the woods; he had just dashed blindly across sticks, stones, and undergrowth without heeding what he stepped on.

  He wondered whether he could risk going back after a pair of boots from one of his downed foes, but decided against it.

  He found a rag in his belt pouch and wiped the blood from Wirikidor's blade. That done, he sank onto a mossy fallen tree, keeping a wary eye back along his trail.

  The sword had been wonderful against the first northerner and had almost certainly saved his life—but then its magical animation had deserted him completely against his second foeman. Valder glared at the freshly wiped blade. Had the spell worn off already?

  He had no way of knowing. When he had the metal clean, he slid the sword back into its scabbard; it went without protest.

  Of course, that didn't prove anything. It had done that after he had killed the coastal sentry, too.

  He threw a startled glance at the hilt as a thought struck him. Was that the explanation? Was the sword only good against single enemies? Did it need to be sheathed to recharge the spell before it would again act on its own?

  That, he thought, could be very inconvenient. He tried to imagine fighting in a full-scale battle with such a sword. It would be marvelous until it had killed one enemy soldier and then would be no more than an ordinary blade—or rather, a blade with a spell of sharpness on it. That would certainly be better than nothing, but not by very much. One could scarcely sheathe it in the midst of a me!6e and then draw it again.

  He realized that it still might get him home, but only if he was careful never to face more than one or perhaps two opponents at a time.' One the sword would handle, and a second he would at least face on even terms, but beyond that he would be no better off than any ordinary fighter.

  He wondered if the hermit had known how his spell would work—and if so, had he realized how limited its usefulness was?

  This, he told himself, was all just guesswork. His one-foe-per-drawing theory did fit the observed facts, but so would any number of other explanations—a small magical charge that had been exhausted after two killings, for example. He could test that possibility by simply drawing the sword again and seeing whether it would allow itself to be sheathed, but he hesitated. Walking around with the sword drawn was an unbearable nuisance, one he did not care to burden himself with again. He left the sword in its scabbard and considered other aspects of his situation.

  He was still lost behind enemy lines, but now the enemy knew he was here, thanks to the escape of the third northerner in the patrol he had just fought. Furthermore, in his hurry, he had left a discernible trail from the site of the battle. It was, he told himself, time to disappear.

  He did not want to double back to the north. That would take him further from his goal, and eventually he would have to make up any lost ground. To the south, presumably, lay the enemy lines. To the west lay the ocean; he considered the possibility of returning to the coast and building or stealing a boat, but quickly abandoned it. He was no sailor. He had planned on boating before only because he had been unable to think of an alternative— but he always had alternatives, if he took the time to find them.

  That left east—and that was almost certainly the direction the enemy would expect him to take, since they could eliminate the other three by the same means he had.

  He reached a decision, not so much by conscious logic as because it felt right. He would head southeast. Pursuers would not expect him to head toward the enemy lines; and by angling over to the east he would, he hoped, be able to slip through at some point where he wasn't expected.

  He would need to do his best to leave no tracks. That could be very tricky if the enemy sent sorcerers or shatra trackers after him. One of his problems might become an advantage, as problems sometimes did—bare feet left less of a trail than boots.

  He rose, checked to be sure that the scabbard was secure on his belt and Wirikidor secure in the scabbard, and then slipped off into the forest, moving as lightly and silently as he could.

  That night he made no camp, lighted no fire; instead he climbed a tree and wedged himself into a fairly secure perch. He had seen no sign of pursuit, but, after fleeing for so long from the patrol that had chased him into the hermit's marsh, he was taking no unnecessary chances.

  Chapter 7

  Valder awoke at dawn, feeling very cramped and stiff. He untangled his hands and feet, but, before lifting himself . up out of the tree crotch where he had slept, he glanced down at the ground below.

  He froze.

  There was still no sign of enemy pursuit, but he would almost have preferred that to what he saw instead. Looking up at him from the base of the tree was a small dragon He stared down at it in dismay.

  It was a glossy metallic green in color, and he estimated its length at fifteen feet, counting the tail. It probably could not talk yet; a small dragon was a young dragon, and you
ng dragons were notoriously stupid. It had its wings folded down against its back, so that he couldn't judge its wingspan, but he guessed that the mere fact that it was down on the ground while he was up in the tree meant it could not fly. Many, perhaps most, dragons couldn't.

  It glared up at him hungrily and hissed, a sound like the dousing of a bonfire; that left little doubt of its intentions.

  Valder wondered whether it was a wild dragon from birth, or whether it had been bred by the northerners and had escaped or been freed. If it had been raised as a military dragon, he might be able to control it.

  "Ho, dragon!" he barked. "Rest!"

  The dragon just stared up at him and hissed again. If it had been raised in captivity, its training hadn't taken— or perhaps it could tell Ethsharitic from the northern tongue. Valder had no idea what commands a northern dragon might obey; he had hoped tone alone would serve.

  A fifteen-footer would be certain death for an unarmed man and more than a match for most fully equipped soldiers. Valder, however, reminded himself that he had a magic sword. He drew Wirikidor.

  The sword looked and felt exactly as it always had. He hooked it on a tree branch near his side and tried to take his hand from the hilt.

  The hilt adhered to his palm and would not come free. That meant that the sword did still have magic in it; this was more evidence for his one-foe-per-drawing theory.

  Well, he told himself, a dragon is just one foe.

  As he gripped the sword in his right hand, he suddenly realized that, surprised and still sleepy as he had been, he had done something very stupid. He should have used the crossbow first; a few well-placed quarrels might have sent the dragon in search of easier prey. He doubted that he would be able, while crouched in a treetop holding a sword, to cock, load, aim, and fire the crossbow.

  He could, he thought, put the sword on his forehead or someplace while he loaded the bow—but even then, cocking it while wedged in a tree would not be easy, and he did have the sword ready here in his hand. A crossbow might seem more trustworthy than the mysterious enchantment on his blade, but he felt his nerve going as it was; better to attack while his courage held, with the weapon at hand. With that thought and no warning, he dove for the dragon's throat, plummeting from his perch.