“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
