That was the year that Valder tried unsuccessfully to start a ferry service in competition with Azrad’s toll bridge. A torch “accidentally” dropped from the bridge onto the ferry one night and burned it down to the waterline, putting an end to that enterprise. Valder decided against rebuilding; the next stray torch might have hit his inn. The walls were stone, but the roof was thatch.
In 5009 the northern coast followed Sardiron’s lead and declared itself the independent Kingdom of Tintallion, with joint capitals on the mainland and on the island from which it took its name. Valder calculated, after much discussion with travelers who had been there, that the mainland capital was just about on the site of the camp where he had served prior to the desperate enemy drive to the sea that had left him stranded alone in the woods.
That was the year an incompletely tamed dragon accidentally burned down Valder’s stable. Terrified by the results of its actions, the dragon had smashed its way out through the wall and vanished, never to be seen again. Fortunately, the dragon’s owner did not get away in time to avoid a generous cash settlement for the damages, and the only injuries were to two boys knocked down and bruised when they attempted to catch the other animals fleeing through the hole left by the dragon’s departure.
In 5011 Anaran of the Sands died at the age of sixty-three, and, after a month or so of widespread concern, Azrad and Gor declared Anaran’s ten-year-old son Edaran of Ethshar to be the new overlord of Ethshar of the Sands. Since would-be commanders could no longer prove themselves in battle, the surviving overlords had decided to make their positions hereditary. Nobody seemed to object, Valder noted, and it did ensure peaceful transitions. Azrad and Gor both had sons to succeed them, and no one seemed very concerned about having a mere child as cornier of the Hegemony.
That was the year that someone tried to rob the Inn at the Bridge.
It was a slow night in deep winter, the fourth day of the month of Icebound. Enough snow was falling to discourage the neighbors from dropping in for a meal or a drink, and no trade came down the highway from the north at this time of year. The river never froze this far south, but, as it happened, no boats had stopped that day, and no travelers from the Small Kingdoms to the east or the Hegemony’s other cities to the west had happened by. Tandellin and Sarai had gone home to the house they had built for themselves on the other side of the highway, and Parl had gone off, as he often did, with a young woman. He might not be back for days, but in winter he was rarely needed. Valder sat alone in the dining hall, keeping the fire alive and contemplating the coals, not thinking about anything in particular.
A knock sounded; startled, Valder looked up. He did not particularly want to leave the hearth and get a faceful of cold air, so he bellowed, “It isn’t locked! Come in!”
For a moment he thought that the latch must have frozen or the new arrivals had not heard him, but then the door swung open.
He did not much like the look of the two men who came in. The first one was short, with dark hair that looked curiously lopsided; it took Valder a moment to figure out that the man had been wounded on the scalp and that no hair grew from the resulting scar tissue, leaving him partially bald on one side and not the other.
The second man was huge, perhaps six and a half feet tall and disproportionately broad. Both wore battered breastplates — not standard army-issue — and carried old swords on their belts, unusual in these peaceful times. The larger man had one of the strange, black, Northern helmets jammed onto his head, the first such helmet Valder had seen in years. Both had the look of men who were perpetually broke and always blaming others for it, though what money they acquired would invariably go for oushka or inept gambling. Valder had seen enough of the sort and did not like them. Such men usually felt that because they had served a few years in the army the world owed them a living.
Valder judged this pair to be his own age or a year or two younger — mid-thirties, certainly. That would mean they had only served a few years each, probably not a decade between them. No one owed them anything.
Still, he was an innkeeper. “Welcome!” he said. “Come in and get warm! What can I get you?”
The two looked around for a moment. The big man remembered belatedly to close the door.
“Cold out there,” the small man remarked. “Have you got something that will warm a man’s gut?”
“Brandy or oushka,” Valder answered. “Two coppers, or a silver piece for a bottle.”
“Oushka,” the little man replied, as Valder had expected. These two did not look like brandy drinkers.
He nodded and headed for the kitchen. He had not expected any customers tonight and had stored the keg away earlier than usual. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he called back over his shoulder. He decided silently to be as quick as he could, so that he would be back before this pair could cause any trouble. There was little to steal in the big room, but they might decide it would be fun to smash a few tables.
“Hey, innkeeper,” the big man called after him before he had reached the door. “Is your name Valder?”
Valder stopped and turned. “What if it is?”
The big man shrugged. “Nothing; we just heard that this place belonged to someone named Valder of the Magic Sword, supposed to be a war hero.”
Valder sighed inwardly. These two were obviously not just going to express polite interest in his wartime experiences. They undoubtedly wanted something from him, probably aid in some unsavory scheme, and might get ugly about it.
Well, he could take care of himself. “I’m Valder,” he admitted. “I was in the war; I fought and I killed a few northerners, but I don’t know that I was a hero.”
“What was this magic sword, then?”
“I had a magic sword; got it from a crazy hermit out on the west coast.”
The big man waggled a shoulder in the direction of the hearth. “Is that the sword, up there?”
Valder did not like the sound of that. “What if it is?”
“Hey, just asking. I never saw a magic sword up close before.”
“Well, that’s it. Take a look, if you want, but I wouldn’t try touching it.” He hoped the vague threat would discourage the pair. He was not particularly worried. Unless he had been sleepwalking and killing people without knowing it, nobody else would be able to draw Wirikidor, and no other weapon could kill him. “What about that oushka!” the smaller man demanded.
“I’ll get it,” Valder answered. He marched out through the door to the kitchen, leaving it open so that he could hear anything that happened.
He heard nothing but low voices and quiet little bumps that could be chairs being moved about. That was fine, then, if the two were settling down at a table. He filled two crystal tankards with oushka. Most inns avoided using glass due to its high cost and breakable nature, but Valder was convinced that strong spirits did not taste right in anything else and had gone to considerable expense to have a wizard shatterproof his glassware. He had thought the expense was worthwhile, as his customers appreciated such nice little touches. Some of them did, anyway.
He arranged the tankards on a tray and headed back into the main room, where he found the big man standing on a chair on the hearth, tugging at Wirikidor.
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.”
