hermit had put an enchantment on the sword, but he was still puzzled regarding the exact nature of the magic. He tried everything he could think of short of risking breaking the blade by chopping at trees or rocks, but nothing caused the sword to manifest any useful abilities. The only signs of magic were its refusal to be covered or sheathed and its insistence upon remaining in contact with its owner at all times. The latter trait, Valder realized, could be useful — he would never need to worry about being disarmed in battle. On the other hand, he might have a hard time surrendering, should he need to do so. All in all, he doubted that the sword’s odd pair of magical characteristics would be enough to protect him if he ran afoul of another enemy patrol. He suspected that the magic must be far more extensive, but he could not determine anything more of its nature.
He risked a more daring experiment, nicking the little finger of his left hand on the blade; this demonstrated that the sword did not protect him from all harm, that the sword was exceptionally sharp but not unstoppable, since he did not lose the finger, and that the sword did not change its behavior upon tasting blood. It behaved exactly as any ordinary sword would, as far as the edge was concerned, save that most swords were not as sharp.
Of course, as he was its owner, his blood and his finger might not produce the same reactions as someone else’s would.
After that, he could think of nothing more to try. He got to his feet and began walking again, this time heading west by southwest toward the ocean, with the sword dangling in his hand.
By the time he reached the rocky shore, the sun was sinking toward the waves, drawing a broad stripe of golden light from the land to the horizon, and Valder’s belly was knotted with hunger. Forgetting himself for a moment, he tried again, unsuccessfully, to sheathe the sword, so that he might wade out among the rocks in pursuit of something to eat. When the blade’s refusal to slide home reminded him of the enchantment, he looked the weapon over thoughtfully, wondering whether it might be of help in obtaining food.
He could think of no way to use its known peculiarities and decided on a little random experimentation. He swirled the blade through a tidal pool without result, but was interested to discover, when he drew it out again, that it was dry. The metal had shed the water completely, in a way ordinary steel did not. Valder supposed that this meant he need never worry about rust.
Further experimentation demonstrated that a sword was not an ideal tool for digging clams, but it worked, and sand did not mar the blade, nor did prying up rocks bend it or dull the edge. Valder no longer doubted that the sword had special virtues; he was not as yet convinced, however, that they were anything that would be of much use in getting him safely home.
He ate his dinner of clams fried on fire-heated rocks slowly and thoughtfully, considering the sword. He knew so very little about it, he thought.
“Wirikidor,” he said aloud. Nothing happened. The hilt still clung to his hand, as it had since he first drew it.
“Ho, Wirikidor!” he cried, more loudly, holding the sword aloft.
Nothing happened.
“Wirikidor, take me home!” he shouted.
Nothing happened; the sword gleamed dully in the fading daylight. The sun had dropped below the horizon while he ate.
“Wirikidor, bring me food!” The clams had not completely filled the yawning void in his gut.
Nothing happened.
“Damn you, Wirikidor, do something!”
The sword did nothing; the sky dimmed further as he waited.
Thinking that perhaps the sword’s abilities, such as they were, might be linked to the sun, Valder tried to drop the sword; it remained adhered to his palm.
It occurred to him that he might be doomed to hold the thing for the rest of his life, which was hardly an appealing prospect. Of course, there were plenty of wizards around; he would certainly be able to find one eventually who could reverse the spell and free him of the sword’s grip. Still, he was apparently stuck with it until he could return to civilization.
Disgusted, Valder stopped playing with the sword and turned his attention to making camp amid the black rocks above the high tide mark.
CHAPTER 5
In the eleven days that followed his drawing of the sword, Valder made his way down the coast, living mostly on clams, crabs, and an occasional fish. He tried every experiment he could devise on the sword, with no discernable result. The blade remained sharp and clean, the hilt refused to leave his hand, and he was unable to force it into the scabbard. His feet toughened considerably, calluses replacing his blisters. He got very tired of carrying an unsheathed sword, and his hands, too, grew calloused.
In all that time and in all the leagues he traveled, he saw no sign of any other human beings — or semihumans, for that matter. He had expected to make frequent detours around northern coast-watchers but did not; apparently those he had encountered on his way north had been withdrawn. He saw only the endless sea to his right and the forests to his left, while the shoreline he traveled varied from sandy beach to bare rock to sheer cliff and back again.
As he made his way southward, the nights grew warmer and the stars more familiar; the pine forest began to give way slowly to other trees, and birds in ever-increasing numbers sang in their branches or swooped overhead. Beasts, too, increased in number — mostly small ones such as squirrels and rabbits, but he did glimpse a deer once and, on another occasion, thought he saw a boar. His bow and arrow were long gone, and he did not feel like tackling deer or boar with his sling, but twice, by persistence and luck more than skill, he added rabbit to his diet.
He was in pursuit of a third such delicacy a hundred yards inland, in mid-afternoon of his twelfth day of travel, when he heard a rustling in the underbrush ahead of him, a rustling far too loud to be caused by his quarry. He froze, the sling hanging from his right hand, the sword bare in his left, a handful of sea-rounded pebbles clutched against the hilt.
The rustling stopped, to be followed by other small sounds. Valder judged the source to be somewhere to his right, hidden by a tangle of flowering bushes. He peered intently at the foliage and, as the rustling began again, he made out the outline of something moving through the bushes, something roughly human in size and shape.
For the first time in days, Valder remembered that he was in enemy territory. He adjusted his grip on the sling and slipped a stone into the pocket, ready to swing and let fly at the first threatening move.
Whoever or whatever was hidden in the bushes did not seem to have spotted him, but was moving away with no attempt at stealth, back out toward the sea.
As it emerged from behind the leafy barrier, Valder got a good look. The mysterious figure was, as he had expected, a northerner, but rather than a shatra or combat sorcerer or some other deadly menace, it appeared to be a very ordinary young man, with no helmet and no adornments or personalizations on his standard-issue uniform and weapons.
He did not look threatening. His back was almost directly toward Valder, and he was totally off guard, oblivious to any lurking danger. Still, he was an enemy. Valder hesitated.
The northerner was a hundred feet away and widening the gap. Valder was not good enough with a sling to be sure of hitting him, let alone downing him; if he missed, the sound of the stone would almost certainly alert the man — who, like most northern soldiers, carried a crossbow slung on his back.
Valder did not care to become a crossbow target. He decided to wait where he was and hope the young man went away without seeing him.
Wirikidor seemed to tremble slightly in his hand, and the grip felt warmer than usual; the Ethsharite remembered for the first time since spotting the northerner that he held a magic sword, a sword whose enchantment was supposed to see him safely home. He glanced at it and, without thinking, shifted his grip for a better hold.
