The Misenchanted Sword loe-1

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “He told me that he had put every spell he could manage without his supplies on it, sir — or at least every one he thought would be of use. He mentioned some kind of ownership spell, I think. And he told me the sword’s name was Wirikidor and that I mustn’t draw it until I was well out of sight of him.”

  “You told my people this when they asked you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My wizards heard this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s your sword there, right? The one that was enchanted?” He paused in his pacing and pointed at Val-der’s belt.

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “And you used this sword? Killed a sentry or two, fought a dragon, and an enemy you thought was shatra!”

  Valder suppressed his urge to take offense at the doubting way his killing a shatra was mentioned. Karannin was not Gor or Azrad or Anaran or Terrek, but he was still a general, whatever Sidor might think of him. One did not argue with generals. “Yes, sir.”

  “My wizards tell me that it might be dangerous to draw the thing.”

  “Yes, sir, it might. Every time it’s been drawn since it was enchanted, it has killed a man at the first opportunity.”

  Karannin stared at him. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “Sir, once I draw the sword, I won’t be able to sheathe it or put it down until I’ve killed a man with it. Furthermore, I don’t know for certain whether I can choose which man I kill. Remember, the hermit would not let me unsheathe it in his presence. So far, I have never drawn it in the presence of anyone not an enemy, so it hasn’t been put to the test.”

  The general looked at him shrewdly. “The sword can act on its own? You don’t need to direct it?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right. That’s how I survived against the shatra; if I had been controlling the sword I’d be dead now.”

  “I’ve heard of such things, but the spells aren’t reliable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Karannin contemplated him for perhaps three seconds before barking at one of his guards, “You, there, sergeant, go fetch the wizards, and then ask Captain Dar to bring that prisoner.”

  The soldier bowed in acknowledgment and slipped out through the flap. Karannin began pacing again, but did not resume his questioning.

  A moment later the guard returned and stepped aside to allow Darrend and the young red-haired wizard to enter. Behind them came a burly black-haired man in a captain’s uniform, hauling by one arm a young soldier who was extraordinarily unkempt and, to judge by his odor, long unwashed, his hands tied behind him. To Valder’s surprise, this prisoner was an Ethsharite, not a northerner.

  “Well, Captain Dar?” the general said. “Yes, sir,” the brawny captain replied. “This is Felder Venger’s son. He was caught robbing the corpses of his comrades and stripping their jewelry. When spotted, he ran; when apprehended two days later, he stabbed the arresting officer in the belly. He was sentenced to be flogged, as it was a first offense and the officer survived, but three days ago, while awaiting punishment, he attempted escape and brained one of his guards. We were waiting to see whether the guard died before deciding what to do with him; the guard died this morning. Will he do?”

  “I think so, Captain. Wizards? Valder? Will he do?”

  Valder shrugged, the redhead stammered, and Darrend said, “I would think so.” The prisoner himself was staring at the lot of them, trying to figure out what was happening.

  “Good enough, then. I want to see this. Scout, give Darrend your sword.”

  Reluctantly, Valder removed Wirikidor from his belt and handed it over. The wizard accepted it cautiously, then held the scabbard in his left hand and put his right to the hilt, preparing to draw the sword.

  Staring at Darrend’s hands with morbid fascination, Valder said, “Sir, need I remain here? I would prefer not to watch.”

  The general peered at him. “You expect danger?”

  “No, sir, I just don’t want to watch.”

  “Squeamish?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, then, you may go — but don’t leave camp.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gratefully, Valder slipped out the tent flap and looked about, glad to be outside, away from the impending killing. He tried to decide which way to go.

  Somewhere, he knew, there must be a paymaster — and he was due three months’ back pay. This was not his unit, so some argument would probably be required, but he thought he ought to be able to get at least part of what he was owed. A guard stood nearby, in addition to those inside the tent — but Valder suddenly decided, upon hearing voices from inside the tent, that he wanted to get out of earshot as well as out of sight of what he was sure would be the execution of Felder Venger’s son. He had no quarrel with sentencing such a criminal to die, but he was also not fond of watching or listening to anyone’s death. He turned left, choosing his direction at random, and started walking.

  He turned left again a few tents down and began working his way toward camptown. Maybe, he thought, someone would treat him to a drink. Despite his earlier experience with the oushka he thought he could use one now.

  He had gotten perhaps halfway when he heard someone calling his name. Surprised, he turned and saw a young soldier waving at him.

  He waited while the soldier came up to him. “Are you Valder of Kardoret?” he was asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, mystified; the soldier was a complete stranger.

  “The general wants to see you immediately in his tent.”

  Still mystified, Valder followed the soldier back to the general’s tent.

  The instant he stepped through the flap, Karannin stopped pacing and barked at him, “You said you used this infernal sword?”

  “Yes, sir,” Valder answered, still puzzled.

  “Then why in Hell can’t anyone here draw it for the wizards to study?”

  The question startled Valder. “I don’t know, sir.” It had not occurred to him that anyone would have any difficulty in drawing it. He never had.

  The general had not resumed his pacing and was now staring at him as if expecting him to say more. Valder stared back for a few seconds, not feeling particularly cooperative — after all, he had not been treated very pleasantly — but then remembered the penalties for insolence.

  “I never had any difficulty in drawing the sword, sir,” he said. “At times I found it impossible to sheathe it, but I never had any trouble drawing it. Ah... the hermit told me that the sword’s name means ’slayer of warriors,’ and I suspect it has a certain affinity for soldiers; perhaps the people who tried to draw it did not meet its standards.”

  The general stared at him for another second before snapping, “One of these wizards who tried to draw it is Darrend of Calimor, thrice commended for bravery in action. When caught without the tools of his trade, he once fought and killed an enemy sorcerer with only his ceremonial dagger. Furthermore, I tried to draw it myself. If your sword doesn’t consider any one of us to be a warrior, I would like to know just whom it would accept!”

  Taken aback, Valder replied, “I don’t know, sir.” He glanced at Darrend with renewed interest and wondered how old the wizard was; he looked no more than thirty, which was young to have the sort of respect the general gave him. He did not have the appearance of a man who had often been in combat.

  “Well, then, let’s find out, shall we? There’s the sword, Scout First Class; let us see if you can draw it where Darrend could not.”

  “Ah... sir... if I might say something?”

  “Speak, damn it, that’s what you’re here for.”

  “Sir, I would really prefer not to draw the sword. While I have no love for this prisoner, I would rather not kill him. Killing an enemy in battle is one thing — I’ve done that a few times — but killing a defenseless man in the same uniform I wear is something entirely different.”

  “I am sure your scruples do you credit,” the general replied. “However, I believe that if we’re going to have
a demonstration of the sword’s magic, you will have to be the one who draws it. Assuming, that is, that anyone can draw it.”

  Delaying in hopes of a miracle, Valder asked Darrend, “You tried to draw Wirikidor?”

  Darrend nodded. “It was like trying to pull apart a steel bar. A highly polished one, at that; it kept slipping out of my hands.”

  “I tried it, too,” the other wizard remarked. “Felt as if I nearly broke my fingers.”

  “Really?” Valder stared at the sword in the general’s hand. “I never had any trouble.”

  “Well, we all did,” Karannin said. “Slippery thing, isn’t it?” He handed it to Valder, hilt-first.

  It did not feel slippery to him. His hand closed firmly on the familiar grip, and he looked unwillingly at the waiting prisoner. The man was sweating profusely, his mouth tight shut, his eyes fixed on the tent’s ridgepole.

  Of course, Valder told himself, no one was sure that Wirikidor would insist on a killing. It was all just guess-work and inference. Reluctantly, he drew the sword.

  It slid easily from the sheath, as it always had done for him; this time, however, it seemed to be trembling in anticipation as soon as it left the scabbard.

  “There it is,” he said, displaying the bared blade to the general and the wizards.

  “Can you sheathe it again?” Darrend asked.

  Valder made the attempt, but Wirikidor not only refused to return to its scabbard, it actively fought against him. It was, he realized, struggling to get into a position where it might strike out at one of the people in the tent.

  The general was the closest; Valder found his hand being dragged in Karannin’s direction. Realizing he had little choice now that the sword was free of the sheath, he turned and took a step toward Felder.

  Wirikidor flashed out and cut the prisoner’s neck open, half severing his head. Felder died with only a dry croak, his eyes and mouth suddenly wide with surprise. As he fell to the floor, Valder felt the tension vanish from the sword; the trembling ceased completely, leaving him holding what seemed an ordinary blade.

  “Don’t sheathe it!” Darrend called.

  “I wasn’t going to,” Valder replied. “You wanted to study it, didn’t you? Here, then; you take it!” He turned the weapon and passed it to Darrend hilt-first, then passed the scabbard along as well.

  The wizard accepted both gravely, and Valder smiled beneath an overwhelming wave of relief as it left his hand. The smile vanished an instant later as he again caught sight of the corpse on the dirt floor of the tent. Disgust seeped up his throat.

  He was, he assured himself, glad to be free of the sword responsible for such a killing. He wished he were also free of the general who had arranged it and the wizards who had requested it.

  CHAPTER 12

  The wizards kept Wirikidor, but bed space in the magicians’ circle was at a premium, so the day after Felder’s death, Valder was transferred and assigned to share the quarters of three lieutenants. The previous fourth occupant of their tent was missing in action as a result of a brief and inconclusive skirmish between the advancing Ethsharites and a small party of northerners that had included at least one sorcerer.

  The lieutenants were less than delighted with his presence. They had hoped for the return of their comrade, or else for the greater space a vacancy would allow; to have a stranger thrust upon them, a soldier from an entirely different part of the army, and not even an officer, was not welcome. Another regular lieutenant would have been someone with whom they might talk shop, exchange stories and perhaps duties — but instead, they found themselves with a battered scout, nominally below them in rank but with considerably more experience of the world and the enemy and with no assigned duties at all.

  Valder, understanding their position, did everything he could to accommodate them. He had no belongings to take up precious space, and his lack of duties allowed him to keep whatever hours suited their mutual convenience. He was perfectly willing to stay awake until all hours talking, or to stay quiet, or even to go elsewhere for a time, if his tentmates so desired.

  He was also a willing listener in his eagerness to catch up on everything he had missed, not just while lost in the north, but even before, as his unit had been an isolated one. For that matter, just the sound of human voices, regardless of what was being said, was comforting.

  Everyone liked a good listener. After a few hours, his affability and open interest in what his new companions had to say had worn down the initial strain, and one of the three, a gangling young man of twenty-two, freshly arrived from a training camp near the port of Shan on the Sea, got talking.

  The lieutenant’s name was Radler Dathet’s son, and, although he was only a year or so younger than Valder, he seemed to the scout little more than a boy.

  Radler agreed, in general, with Sidor’s assessment of the strategic situation, but attributed the slow advance to the lack of roads and adequate means of supply, rather than to timidity on the part of the Ethsharitic commanders. General Gor’s Western Command and General Anaran’s Central Command were both advancing, chewing up the scattered enemy units they encountered. In the interior, Azrad was doing his best to provide the necessary logistical support, but supplies and men were both becoming scarce. General Terrek’s Eastern Command was still stalemated, as no foolhardy attack had been made on that front — and Terrek, suspecting a ruse, was not willing to send anything to his compatriots.

  General Karannin was one of Gor’s subordinates, as Valder had thought — though the possibility that he was one of Anaran’s, somehow strayed west, had occurred to him. Gor himself was reportedly still in his coastal fortress, coordinating, rather than leading the advance personally.

  Losses had been fairly heavy on both sides, Radler thought, despite the small numbers of the northerners, because a disproportionate number of the enemy were either sorcerers or shatra. Nonetheless, like Sidor, he thought the long war was finally nearing an end. Valder still didn’t believe that, but, not wanting to antagonize Radler, he said nothing of his doubts.

  After that topic was exhausted, Valder picked up assorted camp gossip — none of it, unfortunately, mentioning anyone he had met. He asked about Darrend, but none of his tentmates knew anything about the wizard.

  As the afternoon wore on, the three lieutenants, one by one, departed on various errands. Radler was on duty, commanding a supply detail; the others, Korl and Tesra, mentioned no destination. Valder thought they might be headed for the brothels of camptown. Having no money and therefore nothing better to do — it was far too late to find the paymaster — Valder settled back for a nap.

  He was awakened by the sound of the tent flap opening.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a soldier said, standing in the light so that Valder could not see his face, “but I believe this is yours.” He held out an unsheathed sword, hilt-first.

  Valder took it without thinking, then started to protest. He stopped suddenly before the first word was finished, when he realized that the sword he held was indeed his own.

  That made no sense. The wizards were supposed to be studying Wirikidor. Surely they weren’t done with it already? And if they were, would they hand it back so casually? And where was the scabbard? He turned back toward the flap, but the soldier had gone.

  He sat up, and his foot struck something. He reached down. As he had half expected, he found Wirikidor’s sheath lying on the dirt floor. He picked it up and stared at it, sword in one hand and scabbard in the other.

  Puzzled, he arose and peered out of the tent. Nobody was in the immediate area; nobody was looking at him. Still confused, he emerged into the late afternoon sun and gazed about.

  The camp was going about its business; men were sharpening blades, talking, eating, hurrying back and forth.

  He saw no sign of the soldier who had delivered the sword.

  With a shrug, Valder turned toward the magician’s circle. He was not sure whether he was meant to have the sword back or not, and the wizards were obv
iously the people who would know.

  As he approached the chalked line where the warding spells began, someone caught sight of him and called out. Figures emerged from the polychrome tents and faces turned toward him.

  He stopped at the line until a wizard beckoned him on; a moment later he was in the circle, surrounded by magicians.

  Darrend was among them. “So there you are,” he remarked.

  “Here I am,” Valder replied. “Where should I be?”

  “I really couldn’t say soldier, but that sword of yours is supposed to be right here. No one was authorized to move it, yet the first time we took a break — just for a moment — it vanished. Not magically vanished; someone walked off with it. And while we were looking for the sword, the same thing happened to the scabbard. Now here you are, with both of them. Odd, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps so, sir,” Valder replied. He had the impression that Darrend ranked as an officer. “It was none of my doing, though, or I wouldn’t be here bringing them back, would I? Someone just handed the sword to me, and I found the scabbard on the floor of the tent, as if someone had tossed it there while I was taking a nap.”

  Various magicians exchanged glances. “The Spell of True Ownership, I’d say — or at any rate, a close variant,” one remarked.

  Darrend frowned. “I tested for that and got ambiguous results. It isn’t the standard form, but it could be something close.”

  “But,” the redhead said, “that’s why no one else could draw it, of course. And now it’s found its way back to Valder as if by chance — that’s the Spell of True Ownership, if I ever saw it!”

  “It’s an odd form, though,” Darrend insisted. “There’s something unhealthy about it.” “There’s always something unhealthy about True Ownership to my mind,” someone new answered.

  “No, it’s different. I tested for it, of course — when no one else could draw the sword, True Ownership was the first thing I thought of. But there’s no trace of a gold ring’s use, and how can you work the Spell of True Ownership without a gold ring?”