did in the evening when he had nothing better to do, but most of the fun of it had been in the company he kept — friends who were not here, many of whom were apparently dead. He had come here out of habit. Sidor was a poor substitute for the comrades he had spent years with.
He looked at the bead curtain, unsure whether he wanted what it hid; his hand fell to his purse, and he decided the point was moot. He had forgotten that he had almost no money — in fact, his only money was the single silver bit every scout carried. The magicians might have established his identity, but so far nobody had given him his back pay, and all his belongings left behind had presumably been lost when his unit was overrun. The lone coin was probably not even enough to pay for his two drinks.
He glanced around, trying to seem casual, and saw that the taverner was not looking in his direction. He dropped the silver bit on the table and sauntered out, his heart beating a little faster than he liked.
No one called after him. The sun was reddening in the west; he decided to obey orders after all and return to the magicians’ circle.
CHAPTER 11
General Karannin’s tent was no more luxurious, inside or out, than that of any of his officers. Even the number of cots was the same, as he had his secretary and two aides sharing his quarters, to be available when he wanted them. It was, however, somewhat larger, and the extra space was occupied by a table jammed into one end, with an assortment of gear stowed underneath.
Valder was slightly surprised by the lack of ostentation. He was unsure whether to credit it to practicality on the general’s part or a show of egalitarianism. He waited for perhaps five minutes, guarded by two soldiers, before the general arrived. The wizards who had brought him slipped quietly away out of the tent after making their delivery. Valder waited, looking around with unconcealed interest; he had not expected to be brought directly to the general himself.
Karannin was a short, balding man, brown-haired and green-eyed, wearing an ordinary green kilt and brown tunic; he moved quickly and energetically when he moved at all and swept into the tent like a breaking wave. “You’re Valder,” he said as he slapped aside the tent flap.
Valder saluted, open palm at his shoulder. “Valder of Kardoret, Scout First Class, Western Command, Coastal Division, Third Regiment, detached, sir.”
“Right. Sit down.”
Valder obeyed, seating himself on the edge of the nearest cot. The general remained standing throughout the conversation, taking a few paces back and forth, then pausing for a moment, then pacing again.
“The wizards have been telling me about you, trying to convince me to let them have a condemned prisoner. You got cut off by the enemy’s drive to the coast?” “Yes, sir.”
“Has anybody told you what happened, how the attack went?”
“No, sir, not really,” Valder replied; he had not officially been told anything and did not care to explain his chat with the drunken lieutenant.
“Good; not all of my men are blabbermouths. So you survived and escaped northward, where you encountered a wizard — or at least a hermit you took to be a wizard — who enchanted your sword. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Valder knew better than to point out that he knew beyond any possible doubt that the hermit had been a wizard.
“Just what sort of an enchantment is it supposed to be? Did he say? I’m not asking you to remember any details, son, just whether he said.”
“No, sir, he made a point of not telling me, it seemed. I’m afraid that we weren’t on very good terms by that time.”
“You’re absolutely sure he didn’t say anything about the nature of the spell, or mention any names?”
“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?”
