The Misenchanted Sword loe-1

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  A knock sounded; startled, Valder looked up. He did not particularly want to leave the hearth and get a faceful of cold air, so he bellowed, “It isn’t locked! Come in!”

  For a moment he thought that the latch must have frozen or the new arrivals had not heard him, but then the door swung open.

  He did not much like the look of the two men who came in. The first one was short, with dark hair that looked curiously lopsided; it took Valder a moment to figure out that the man had been wounded on the scalp and that no hair grew from the resulting scar tissue, leaving him partially bald on one side and not the other.

  The second man was huge, perhaps six and a half feet tall and disproportionately broad. Both wore battered breastplates — not standard army-issue — and carried old swords on their belts, unusual in these peaceful times. The larger man had one of the strange, black, Northern helmets jammed onto his head, the first such helmet Valder had seen in years. Both had the look of men who were perpetually broke and always blaming others for it, though what money they acquired would invariably go for oushka or inept gambling. Valder had seen enough of the sort and did not like them. Such men usually felt that because they had served a few years in the army the world owed them a living.

  Valder judged this pair to be his own age or a year or two younger — mid-thirties, certainly. That would mean they had only served a few years each, probably not a decade between them. No one owed them anything.

  Still, he was an innkeeper. “Welcome!” he said. “Come in and get warm! What can I get you?”

  The two looked around for a moment. The big man remembered belatedly to close the door.

  “Cold out there,” the small man remarked. “Have you got something that will warm a man’s gut?”

  “Brandy or oushka,” Valder answered. “Two coppers, or a silver piece for a bottle.”

  “Oushka,” the little man replied, as Valder had expected. These two did not look like brandy drinkers.

  He nodded and headed for the kitchen. He had not expected any customers tonight and had stored the keg away earlier than usual. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he called back over his shoulder. He decided silently to be as quick as he could, so that he would be back before this pair could cause any trouble. There was little to steal in the big room, but they might decide it would be fun to smash a few tables.

  “Hey, innkeeper,” the big man called after him before he had reached the door. “Is your name Valder?”

  Valder stopped and turned. “What if it is?”

  The big man shrugged. “Nothing; we just heard that this place belonged to someone named Valder of the Magic Sword, supposed to be a war hero.”

  Valder sighed inwardly. These two were obviously not just going to express polite interest in his wartime experiences. They undoubtedly wanted something from him, probably aid in some unsavory scheme, and might get ugly about it.

  Well, he could take care of himself. “I’m Valder,” he admitted. “I was in the war; I fought and I killed a few northerners, but I don’t know that I was a hero.”

  “What was this magic sword, then?”

  “I had a magic sword; got it from a crazy hermit out on the west coast.”

  The big man waggled a shoulder in the direction of the hearth. “Is that the sword, up there?”

  Valder did not like the sound of that. “What if it is?”

  “Hey, just asking. I never saw a magic sword up close before.”

  “Well, that’s it. Take a look, if you want, but I wouldn’t try touching it.” He hoped the vague threat would discourage the pair. He was not particularly worried. Unless he had been sleepwalking and killing people without knowing it, nobody else would be able to draw Wirikidor, and no other weapon could kill him. “What about that oushka!” the smaller man demanded.

  “I’ll get it,” Valder answered. He marched out through the door to the kitchen, leaving it open so that he could hear anything that happened.

  He heard nothing but low voices and quiet little bumps that could be chairs being moved about. That was fine, then, if the two were settling down at a table. He filled two crystal tankards with oushka. Most inns avoided using glass due to its high cost and breakable nature, but Valder was convinced that strong spirits did not taste right in anything else and had gone to considerable expense to have a wizard shatterproof his glassware. He had thought the expense was worthwhile, as his customers appreciated such nice little touches. Some of them did, anyway.

  He arranged the tankards on a tray and headed back into the main room, where he found the big man standing on a chair on the hearth, tugging at Wirikidor.

  Since Valder had had no intention of ever taking the sword down, he had wired it securely to pegs set into the stonework. He suspected that, if he had not, the two would already have gotten it down and vanished into the snow.

  “Oh, demons drag you to Hell!” he said. He did not want to deal with this sort of unpleasantness. He put the tray down on the nearest table and demanded, “Leave that sword alone! You can’t use it anyway.”

  At the sound of his voice the small man whirled, drawing his sword. The big man heaved at Wirikidor’s scabbard, and with a twang of snapping wire ripped it from its place.

  “Oh, we can’t?” the small man said.

  “No, you can’t,” Valder replied. “Ever hear of the Spell of True Ownership?”

  “No,” the little thief said. “And I wouldn’t believe it if I did. If that sword’s magic, I can use it.”

  “Go ahead and try,” Valder replied. “Try and draw it.” He suppressed a sudden flash of terror at the possibility that Darrend and his compatriots had somehow miscalculated the duration of the sword’s attachment to him.

  The smaller man did not move. He remained facing Valder, his sword at ready, as he said, “Draw it, Hanner.”

  Hanner was trying to draw it, without success. “I can’t,” he said. “I think he’s glued it into the scabbard.”

  “No glue,” Valder said. “Magic. It’s part of the enchantment on it.”

  “I think we’ll take it anyway,” the small thief said.

  “It will come back to me; that’s part of the spell.”

  “Oh, is it? How nice for you. What if you’re dead, though? We didn’t come here just for the sword, innkeeper. You must have a tidy little heap of money tucked away somewhere. I don’t think you’ll be getting much business tonight; if we kill you now, we’ll have until dawn to find where you hide it. And even if we don’t find it, we’ll still have the sword and we can sell that for a few bits of gold, whether we can draw it or not. If you help us out, make the sword work for us and tell us where your money is, we might let you live.”

  “You can’t kill me,” Valder replied.

  “No? What’s going to stop us? There are two of us, with swords that aren’t enchanted but they’ve got good edges nonetheless. You’re all alone and unarmed, unless you’ve slipped a kitchen knife under your tunic. We’ve been watching this place. You haven’t got a single customer, and your helpers left hours ago.”

  Valder felt a twinge of uneasiness. His situation did look bad. The only thing in his favor was the magic of a sword that had not been drawn in more than a dozen years — and an untested aspect of the enchantment, at that. The army wizards had said that he could not be killed, but he had naturally never put it to the test. He stood for a moment, trying to think of something to say. Nothing came.

  “Hanner,” the small thief said, “I think it’s time we convinced Valder of the Magic Sword to help us out, don’t you?”

  Hanner grinned. “I think you’re right,” he said. He took Wirikidor in his left hand and drew his own sword with his right. Side by side, the two thieves advanced slowly across the room, winding between the tables without ever taking their eyes from Valder’s face.

  Valder watched them come, tried to decide whether there was any point in retreating into the kitchen, tried to think of something he might use as a weapon, and watched Wirikidor, clutche
d in the big man’s hand. The thief, Valder thought, was making a mistake; the smart thing to do would have been to leave Wirikidor behind somewhere, well out of reach. He remembered the odd compulsion that had made people bring him the sword whenever it left his possession back in General Karannin’s camp and wondered if Hanner was aware that he was holding the scabbard.

  Idiotically, he also found himself wondering what the smaller thief’s name was.

  As the two drew near, Valder moved as quickly as he could, snatching up the tray of oushka and flinging it at the pair. Two swords flashed, and tray and tankards were knocked harmlessly aside, spraying good liquor across the floor. The crystal vessels bounced in a truly alarming manner, but the thieves were not distracted by this unnatural behavior. Either they had seen enchanted glassware before, or they were so intent on their victim that they had not even noticed anything unusual.

  All Valder’s effort had done was prove that both men knew how to use swords and that the wizard who had charmed the tankards had not cheated him. He stepped back, not toward the kitchen, but toward the wall.

  The two advanced another few steps, then stopped. Hanner’s sword inched up to hover near Valder’s throat, while the other’s blade was pointed at his belly.

  “Now, innkeeper,” the small man said, “tell us about that sword and, while you’re talking, tell us where you keep your money.”

  Valder watched from the corner of his eye as Hanner’s left hand moved forward, apparently without its owner’s knowledge; his own right hand was open and ready. “The sword’s name is Wirikidor, which means ’slayer of warriors.’ Nobody knows exactly what the spells on it are, because the wizard who made them vanished, but they’re all linked to a Spell of True Ownership, so that nobody can use it except me, until I die.” He was talking primarily to keep the two thieves occupied; Wirikidor’s hilt was less than a foot from his hand.

  Suddenly he lunged for it, calling out, “Wirikidor!”

  Hanner tried to snatch it away as he realized what was occurring. Valder was never sure exactly how it happened, whether the sword had really leaped from its sheath under its own power or whether he had made a lucky grab, but the sword was in his hand, sliding smoothly out of the scabbard.

  Banner reacted with incredible speed, chopping at Valder’s wrist with his own blade. Wirikidor twisted about in a horribly unnatural fashion, so that Valder felt as if his wrist were breaking, but it successfully parried the thief’s blow.

  The smaller thief was not wasting any time; his sword plunged toward Valder’s belly. Valder dodged sideways, but not quite fast enough; the blade ripped through his tunic and drew a long, deep cut in his side. Blood spilled out, and pain tore through Valder’s body. He hardly saw what happened next.

  Wirikidor, now that it was free again, seemed to be enjoying itself. It flashed brilliantly in the lamplight as it swept back and forth, parrying attacks from both thieves. Valder made no attempt to direct it; his hand went where the sword chose to go.

  The character of the fight quickly altered; rather than two swordsmen bearing down on a mere innkeeper, it became two swordsmen fighting for their lives against a supernatural fury.

  Hanner’s guard slipped for an instant; Wirikidor cut his throat open. A return slice removed his head entirely, spraying blood in all directions.

  With that, Wirikidor lost all interest, and Valder found himself in a duel to the death with a swordsman smaller than himself but far more skilled and obviously much more practiced, not to mention partly armored. Realization of his peril helped him to ignore the intense pain in his side as he concentrated on parrying a new attack.

  The small thief, noticing a change, grinned. “You’re getting tired, innkeeper — or has the sword’s magic been used up?”

  Valder tried a bluff. “Nothing’s used up, thief,” he said. “I just thought you might prefer to live. Go now, and I won’t kill you. Your partner’s dead; isn’t that enough?”

  “Hanner’s dead?” In the intensity of his concentration on the fight the thief had failed to comprehend that. He glanced at his comrade’s headless corpse and was obviously shaken by what he saw.

  Valder seized the opportunity and swept Wirikidor in under the other man’s guard, aiming just below the breastplate.

  What should have been a killing stroke was easily deflected as the man recovered himself and made a swift downward parry. Still, the attack disconcerted him, and he stepped back.

  Valder pressed his advantage, but the thief met his onslaught easily. Even so, Valder noticed that the man was no longer taking the offensive, but only defending himself.

  “I’m holding the sword back,” Valder lied. “But the demon in the steel is getting stronger. I don’t like feeding it more than one soul at a time; it might get too strong someday. Go now, while I can still control it.” He was grateful for the popularity of legends about vampiric swords.

  The thief glanced at Wirikidor, then at the body on the floor, and his nerve broke. “Keep it away from me!” he screamed as he turned and ran for the door.

  Valder let him go, but quickly wiped Wirikidor’s blade on Hanner’s tunic, then picked the scabbard up off the floor and sheathed the weapon. If the thief returned, he wanted to be able to draw the sword again and use its magic.

  The thief showed no sign of returning. The pain in his side was growing with every movement, but Valder made it across the room and slammed the door that the fleeing man had left standing open. He leaned against it, tempted just to slide down into oblivion on the floor, but he forced imself to pull off his tunic and wrap it around himself, forming a makeshift bandage over the wound. That done, he looked around the room, at the broken wires on the pegs above the mantel, at the severed head rolled into one corner, at the lifeless corpse by the kitchen door, and at the blood, Hanner’s and his own, that was spattered everywhere. He looked down at the sheathed sword he held.

  “Damn that hermit,” he said.

  Then he fainted.

  CHAPTER 24

  The door hit him in the side and he awoke in agony. He rolled over, groaning, away from the door and whatever was pushing in against it.

  Tandellin slipped through the opening and looked down to see what was blocking him.

  “Gods!” he said. “What happened?” He bent down to try and help.

  Valder looked up at him and feebly waved him away. “I’ll be all right, I think,” he said. “I need something to drink.”

  “Right,” Tandellin said, “I’ll get you some ale.” He looked up to see where the nearest keg might be, and for the first time noticed the rest of the room.

  “Gods!” he said again and then decided that that wasn’t strong enough. “By all the gods in the sky, sea, and earth, Valder, what happened here?”

  “Ale,” Valder said. He did not feel up to explaining yet.

  “Oh, yes,” Tandellin agreed. He stood and headed for the kitchen, making a careful detour around Hanner’s corpse and the surrounding pool of blood. Valder sank back and closed his eyes until he heard footsteps returning. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, with his back to the wall. After a brief struggle, he managed it and accepted the mug Tandellin offered.

  The ale helped. After he drank it, his throat no longer seemed to be stuffed with felt and his breath was no longer actively painful, if he kept it shallow. His side was still roaring with pain, and his head throbbed, but he felt better.

  “More,” he said, holding out the mug.

  Tandellin fetched more.

  After that, Valder felt almost human again. He arranged himself more comfortably against the wall. “Know any healing spells?” he asked.

  Tandellin shook his head.

  “Know any good wizards who might? Or witches, or theurgists?”

  “I can find someone — but healing spells are expensive.”

  “I have money,” Valder said. “That’s not a problem.”

  “You weren’t robbed? There was just the one man?”

  “There we
re two, but the other one ran. I don’t think he took anything, unless he sneaked in the back way while I was unconscious, and I doubt that he did that, because, in that case, he would have tried to finish me off.”

  “Oh. Well, you certainly took care of that one; his head’s clean off. Was he the one who wounded you?”

  “I know his head is off, Tan; I’m the one who took it off, remember? And it was the other one who cut me; they both attacked at once.”

  “Oh,” Tandellin said again. “How sporting. What should we do with this one? We can’t just leave him there.”

  “Of course not. Look, get me another mug of ale and see if there’s something I can eat cold, and then you can start cleaning up. I think we can bury him out back; I don’t want to take the trouble and the wood to build a proper pyre. I’m not very concerned about seeing that his soul is freed to the gods, if you see what I mean.” He glanced down at Wirikidor, lying innocuously at his side, and a thought struck him.

  “Leave the head, though. I think we’ll put that on a pike out front, to discourage any other thieves who get ideas about this place.” He had not seen a head on a pike in years, not since he was a boy, but he thought it would make for a fine warning.

  “We’ll probably have to sand down that floor to get the bloodstains off,” Tandellin remarked.

  “Might be easier just to replace the boards, or paint over them,” Valder suggested.