The Misenchanted Sword

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  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, clutched 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 t
he 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 were 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.

  The door behind him opened again, admitting Sarai. As was her custom, she had arrived later than Tandellin because she took charge of feeding their daughter, Sarai the Younger, before leaving home.

  She looked down at Valder, sitting on the floor bare-chested with the bloodstained remnants of his tunic wrapped about his middle, then looked around the room, taking in the headless corpse, the spattered blood, and the general mess.

  "I take it you had a rough night," she said.

  Valder stared up at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. The laughter was cut short by renewed pain in his side, but he smiled up at her and said, "You could say that, yes."

  After that, his problems somehow seemed less serious. He pulled himself up into a chair and supervised the cleaning up, the disposal of Hanner's body, and the disposition of the head. No pikes could be found anywhere in the inn, but Tandellin improvised one from a boathook from the landing and set it up outside, near enough that its connection with the inn would be apparent, but far enough away that odor would not be a problem. Below the head he tacked up a sign that read, "THIEF," in large black runes, in case anyone might miss the point.

  When the inn was again fit for customers, Tandellin set out to find a wizard who could heal Valder's wound, leaving Sarai to attend to the handful of travelers who drifted in, despite the cold and slush. Valder himself did not feel up to moving about much. Instead, he sat back and watched and thought.

  He had not expected anyone to try to steal Wirikidor, or for that matter to try robbing him at all, though he did keep a goodly supply of coin securely hidden in his own bedchamber. The possibility had simply never occurred to him.

  That, he realized, had been foolish.

  The thief's head would probably serve to discourage further attempts for a time, but it would also remind people that there might be something worth stealing. Something would have to be done about that.

  He had heard that there were people in Ethshar of the Spices who would guard one's money, for a small fee; they called themselves bankers. That suddenly seemed like a good idea. He had enough gold and silver tucked away to tempt an entire horde of thieves, he realized. He had nothing in particular that he wanted to spend money on, now that the inn was properly finished and supplied, so it just accumulated. He would do something about that.

  The only other theftworthy item, really, was Wirikidor. It was far too late to quash the stories of his magic sword, and he would never convince anyone it was gone while a sword still hung over the mantel: That meant he would have to dispose of it somehow, if he didn't want some young idiot to cut his throat while he slept in order to steal the fabled Valder's weapon. He would not die of a cut throat, if Wirikidor's enchantment held true, but he doubted he would enjoy the experience.

  That was rather a shame; he had liked having it on display above the hearth.

  The next question was what to do with the sword. Its magic was still strong and still as quirky and inconvenient as ever. He had not died, as the spell had promised he would not, despite losing an incredible amount of blood— but he had been seriously wounded. The sword would still fight for him, but only against men and only until he had killed one. The ownership spell still linked it to him; he was not sure whether it had actually jumped into his hand, but Manner had been unable to draw it, and he could not imagine any reason the thief would have been stupid enough to bring Wirikidor within reach had the spell not been working.

  He shifted in his chair, and his side twinged. That reminded him of his wound all over again. What good wa
s a magical spell that guaranteed his life, if he could still be cut to pieces? That might be worse than death. That infernal old hermit had promised the sword would protect him, but he thought he might well have been better off without any such protection as this. He smiled bitterly.

  He should, he thought, have been able to avoid the blow. The little thief was a good swordsman, true, but Valder had once been at least competent, and he had possessed size, strength, and reach in his favor. He sighed. He was getting older and out of shape. He had not drawn a sword in more than a decade; no wonder he was out of practice! His reflexes had slowed, as well; he was thirty-seven, no longer a young man.

  Not that the thief had been much younger, but even a few years could make a difference. Besides, the thief had obviously kept in practice.

  Thirty-seven—he had not thought about his age much, but he was undeniably growing older. What did that mean as far as Wirikidor was concerned? Obviously the sword would not prevent him from aging, any more than it had saved him from being slashed. What would happen when old age came? Would he just deteriorate indefinitely, unable to die, growing weaker and weaker, losing sight and hearing, until he was little more than a vegetable? He had heard tales of men and women still hale and hearty past a hundred years of age—probably exaggerated—but, as he understood Wirikidor's enchantment, the spell had no time limit on it at all. He might live not just one century, but two or three or a dozen, if he never again drew the sword. No, not might live that long, but would. He could theoretically live forever—but would he want to, if he kept aging?

  That was an unpleasant line of thought, one that did not bear further exploration just at present. He was only thirty-seven; he had decades yet before the question became really important.

  He would, however, want to be very, very careful to avoid maiming or blinding or any other sort of permanent injury. He had once asked himself what sort of a life one should lead when one could live forever; he answered himself, "A cautious one."

  For now, he intended to put Wirikidor somewhere out of sight, where it would tempt no one. He might bury it, or throw it in the river; he knew that the Spell of True Ownership would prevent it from being carried downstream away from him. He was sure that he would be able to recover it should he ever want to.