doesn’t care if its victims are warriors, so long as they’re human, male, and past puberty.”
“Oh,” Valder said again. That explained why the sword had not killed the dragon or the woman and why it had hesitated against the half-human shatra.
“Furthermore, as you have discovered, it’s ’man killer,’ not ’men killer.’ It’s only interested in taking one life each time it’s drawn.”
“I had noticed that,” Valder agreed.
“Yes, I’m sure you have. Each time it’s drawn it will kill a man as quickly as you can provide it with a victim. You’ll want to be careful about that. I think you can control which man of several it kills, but I doubt you can hold it back entirely — it needs to kill someone. You saw that with that convict. Against its proper foe — a single man — it’s as close to unbeatable as wizardry can make it. You’ll never need to worry about being outmatched. Besides the Animation that lets it all work, it’s got three separate blessings — one of which I never encountered before — and the Spell of Perpetual Sharpness and a few other little charms and cantrips. This hermit may have been mad, but he knew an amazing amount of magic and he didn’t stint in using it. If he could do something like this after most of his supplies were destroyed, he’d certainly be an asset to the war effort.”
“He said he had already served.”
“If he did, he either kept his talents hidden, or has developed them since — or maybe he was kept secret. Ordinarily, I’m sure I’d have heard of anyone with his abilities.”
“He seemed quite old,” Valder said. “Maybe he was before your time. Maybe he is this Fendel the Great you mentioned. I don’t know.”
“Well, whoever he is, you’ve got an impressive weapon here. Not flashy, but powerful. I’m returning it to you — no point in letting the Spell of Ownership get dangerous — but I want to warn you to be extremely cautious with it.” He reached out and pulled the sword and scabbard from the table, then handed them to Valder, who accepted both, then slid the blade into its sheath and hung it on his belt.
“Get to know it,” Darrend said. “You and Wirikidor are going to be together for the rest of your life, so you had better become accustomed to its behavior. Be grateful that it hasn’t got a mind of its own — reflexes, yes, but no mind that I can detect, no whims, no personality. It’s a very powerful and valuable item — and a very dangerous one as well, both to you and to others.”
“Yes, sir.” Valder was not absolutely certain that Darrend was technically a superior officer, but he spoke like one and obviously commanded considerable respect, so that the “sir” seemed natural.
“Remember that it will keep you alive but not safe. Don’t get overconfident, or you might wind up so badly crippled or maimed that death would be mercy. And don’t forget that you’re destined to die on its blade. That sword is both friend and enemy; remember that.”
“Yes, sir.” Valder did not think he was likely to forget anything of such vital personal importance.
“I’ve passed on a complete report, and your superiors are considering just what to do with you. Since your old unit is disbanded, you’ll be given a position here, I understand. I think they’ll probably find some special use for you and Wirikidor — it would be a shame to waste such a sword’s talents.”
“Yes, sir.” Valder was still too busy absorbing what he had been told to wonder about what special duties he might be given.
“I believe the general had hoped we might produce more swords like Wirikidor — after all, a weapon that can kill shatra at close range is impressive. Unfortunately, though we have identified most of the spells on it, we can’t figure out how to reproduce most of them without killing half a dozen people in doing it, so it looks as if you, Valder of Kardoret, are going to remain unique.”
Valder could think of no sensible reply to that. After a moment’s pause he simply said again, “Yes, sir.”
“That’s all,” Darrend said, motioning toward the tent flap. Valder got to his feet.
“Yes, sir,” he repeated, as he stepped out into the sunlight.
CHAPTER 14
Valder settled quietly on his cot, Wirikidor on his hip, and mulled over what Darrend had told him.
The wizard had seemed very sure of his findings. Valder saw no reason to dispute them, but had vague recollections of once hearing that magical analysis of enchanted weaponry was not always reliable. He glanced down at the sword in the dimness of the tent. It looked like an ordinary sword, just as it always had, yet its power had supposedly made him virtually immortal — so long as he did not draw the sword too often. About a hundred times, the wizard had said. Since leaving the marsh he had drawn it three — no, four times. He had killed the coast-watcher, the swordsman, the shatra, and the prisoner. That left him with a minimum of ninety-four and a maximum of ninety-eight more drawings, which seemed like a safe enough margin. Very few soldiers actually confronted a hundred enemy soldiers at close range in their whole careers, let alone killed that many. He himself had served six years before Wirikidor’s enchantment without ever being sure he had killed anyone.
Of course, there was the mention of possible special duty. That prospect might prove troublesome. He was a scout and preferred to remain a scout if he was to be a soldier at all. He tried to think what unusual service Wirikidor’s characteristics would be suited to.
He certainly wasn’t going to be a fencing instructor, or anything else where he might need to draw his sword for any reason other than battle to the death. That eliminated sentry duty and guarding prisoners, as well, unless he were to carry a second sword, which would be awkward, to say the least.
He could be a fine executioner, but that seemed a waste of the sword’s power. Besides, he violently disliked the idea. He did not like killing anything, especially not people, most particularly Ethsharites. The fact that they would be helpless prisoners made it even worse. Not, he reminded himself, that the army had beheaded anyone in centuries or that they used a professional executioner in the first place. Murderers and deserters and so forth were usually hanged by whoever was handy. The poor fool he had killed in the general’s tent had been an exception; dying by the sword usually happened only in battle.
He tried to approach the question logically. Wirikidor’s magic was directed toward keeping him alive and killing other men one at a time, if the wizards had analyzed it correctly. The men that his superiors would presumably most like to kill would be the enemy’s soldiers. Therefore, it followed that Valder would be sent to kill enemy soldiers.
How was that a special duty? And would it be practical to send him into battle when he would need to sheathe his sword after each killing before its power would serve again?
He sighed and gave up. Whatever the special duty might be, it was likely to be dangerous and unpleasant, and there was no point in making life unpleasant by worrying about it sooner than necessary. He would have plenty of time to worry when he knew what was to happen. Whatever the duty, he could live with it — or if not, he would find some way out. There was always a way out.
With that thought, he rolled over and went to sleep.
He found himself in a dream — very obviously a dream, as huge runes on the wall in front of him spelled out, “This dream is being provided by Sharassin of Shan.” He supposed such runes might be drawn on a real wall somewhere, but he had no reason to doubt what they said in this instance; he felt as if he were dreaming. As soon as he had read them, the runes writhed about and reformed to say, “Dreams and communication wizardry of all sorts at reasonable rates.”
That seemed to complete the advertisements; the runes faded away, leaving him staring at a blank stone wall. “Hello, Valder,” a familiar voice called from behind. He turned.
He was in a library; the walls of rough gray stone were mostly hidden by shelves of books and scrolls. The ceiling was coffered wood, the floor polished flags. In the center of the chamber stood a large oaken table, and sitting atop the table was a handsome young man in his late teens, wearing military tunic and kilt but no breastplate or helmet. His curly black hair was in disarray, his eyes bright, and a broad grin covered his face. Valder recognized him immediately as his former bunkmate, Tandellin Landin’s son.
“They told me you were still alive, but I wanted to see for myself,” Tandellin said.
Valder grinned back. “And they told me that you were still alive, and I figured I had best leave well enough alone. What’s this spell costing you?”
