Someone shouted, so loudly it seemed in his ear. Almost immediately he heard someone splashing into the water behind him. He steadied himself, then whirled, Wirikidor flashing out in an unaimed blow.
It was his own hand, not the spell, that guided the sword; he could feel that. His hand swung the weapon faster than he could turn his head.
When his eyes did come around, he saw the tip of his blade slice open the cheek of a handsome young woman. She was not armed, so far as he could see. She clapped her hand to her face as she felt the blade cut her and fell back, shocked.
Appalled, Valder waited for Wirikidor to move in for the kill, but the sword did nothing. After a second’s hesitation, he turned and slogged out into midstream again.
The woman staggered back to shore and fell, her body on the bank and her feet still in the water. She stared after the Ethsharite, blood trickling between her fingers.
Valder reached the opposite bank without further hindrance and without actually swimming, though the water reached his throat at one point. A glance back when he was sure he could make it showed him that people had come to the aid of the woman he had struck; they stared out after him, but no one seemed inclined to pursue. Valder guessed that all the bolder warriors were still chasing the dragon.
Once safely across, he wasted no time in pushing himself up out of the river, water streaming from his tunic and kilt. He clambered up to the top of the grassy hillside.
He saw scattered trees, but the forest did not resume; instead, he saw before him an open, rolling plain. He had reached the vast central grasslands.
He did not pause to admire the scenery, but marched onward, leaving a clear trail of trampled grass. He had no idea of how to avoid leaving such a trail; he had been trained as a forest scout.
As he walked, he considered his experiences so far that morning. Wirikidor had done nothing against the dragon and had not insisted on killing the woman, yet it still retained at least part of its magic; he could not sheathe it or put it down. It had tasted blood from the woman’s cheek, but was not satisfied; he still could not force it into the scabbard, though he tried as he trudged onward. That puzzled him.
He thought back over what he knew of the sword. In truth, he knew very little. He knew its name, but nothing else beyond his own observations since drawing it. The old hermit had said that Wirikidor meant “slayer of warriors.” Did that tell him anything?
He stopped suddenly as a thought struck him. “Slayer of warriors,” the old man had said. Not beasts and not unarmed women. That would explain its actions very nicely; it would only fight for him against warriors!
He frowned and began walking again. That, he told himself, could have drawbacks. Furthermore, how did it fit with his earlier one-foe-per-drawing theory? Had those other northern soldiers somehow not qualified as warriors by the sword’s standards, or did it only kill one warrior per drawing?
His life might well depend on the answer to that question sometime; he had best, he thought, learn that answer as quickly as he could. He trudged onward through the grass, thinking hard.
CHAPTER 8
Late in the afternoon of the day after he passed through the northern camp, Valder realized he was being followed. The grasslands were not uniformly covered; large areas had been trampled by men or beasts, other areas had been grazed by various animals, and the height of the grasses varied with the soil conditions as well, so that there were places where the grass did not reach his knees, or even his ankles. Such areas provided no possibility of cover or concealment. As he passed through one such spot, at the top of a rise, he happened to glance back the way he had come and caught sight of a distant figure following his path.
At first he tried to convince himself that he had mistaken some beast for a man, or that the figure was some casual wanderer who happened to be behind him, but a few minutes later he looked back and saw the same figure, still on his tracks and significantly closer.
Not yet seriously concerned, he paused at the top of the next hill and again looked back, this time watching for several minutes, studying his pursuer. As he watched, his nonchalance vanished.
The approaching figure was gaining ground rapidly, though Valder had not been dawdling. Furthermore, it moved with a smooth, gliding motion that Valder tried to tell himself might be an illusion caused by the rippling grass that hid the figure’s feet.
Before long, however, he had to admit to himself that the thing following him was either shatra or something very similar. He prayed to whatever grassland gods might hear him that it would not also prove to be a sorcerer; and while he prayed, he slid the crossbow from his shoulder and tried to set the cocking mechanism. The sword in his hand made him awkward, but he hooked the bowstring, then put his foot on the brace and pulled back.
The bowstring snapped.
He stared at the dangling remains in dismay, realizing that he had done nothing to care for it, even after fording the river. The string had almost certainly been soaked through. He doubted a day and a half would have been enough for it to rot badly, but the water would have softened it and helped along any previous damage. He had let the wet string dry in the hot sun of the plain, still on the bow, and that had apparently been enough to ruin it.
The captured crossbow, unfamiliar as it was, had been his best defense against shatra. At close range, even the slowest, weakest shatra was more than a match for any mere human. At long range, a sling did not have the accuracy or impact to stop one reliably. A crossbow had a good chance — though there were stories of shatra not merely dodging quarrels, but snatching them out of the air.
With his crossbow useless, the sling was the best he had. He pulled it from his belt and then realized that he had no stones, nor were any handy amid the tall grass. He had never bothered to keep any; in the forest he could always find stones or nuts or other small objects suitable for use as ammunition.
He had his bloodstone, but he could not bring himself to waste that on a long throw at a difficult target. Furthermore, loading and using the sling while he held a sword would not be easy.
He could stick the sword to his shin for the moment, but he still had no ammunition. He cursed himself for his thoughtlessness in relying on the crossbow without bothering to care for it.
He looked at Wirikidor. Shatra were certainly warriors, but the sword had proved so unreliable that he could not imagine it being any use against one.
It was, however, the only chance he had. When he looked up at the approaching person, he saw that the pursuer was no longer simply following Valder’s trail, but was instead dodging back and forth across the grassland, moving in fits and starts and generally making himself as difficult a target as possible. He was obviously aware that Valder had seen him. Even with ammunition other than the single gem, Valder would now have virtually no chance of harming him with the sling.
Valder looked around helplessly at the empty grassland, the few scattered trees — none near enough to be of any help — and the vacant blue sky overhead. Here he was, he thought, being stalked by a half-demon enemy, with no place to hide, nowhere to run, and only Wirikidor to protect him. He was as good as dead, he was certain. The sword might be enchanted, but it would need to be capable of miracles to save him.
He did not want to die. The air was sweet, the sun warm, and he had no desire whatsoever to perish and never again taste the wind or see the sky. No Ethsharitic soldier had ever killed a shatra in hand-to-hand combat, Valder knew — but he resolved to try. The sword’s magic might possibly give him the edge he needed to do it.
He tried to think of anything else that might give him an advantage, however slight; whether any spot might be better than another. He could see nothing that would help. He was going to meet the shatra on open, rolling grassland, no matter what he did, and one part of it seemed very much like any other.
He was determined not to flee. He knew that demons and their kin had no compunctions about killing a man from behind; and if he were to die, he preferred to die facing his foe. He considered the possibility of a charge, a chance at taking the shatra by surprise, but dismissed it. In all honesty he could only believe that such an attack would get him killed that much sooner.
Instead he tried to relax, to enjoy his last few moments as best he could, and to save his strength for the coming fight, rather than wasting it by tensing up.
