soul, perhaps, but his life.
That was not a pleasant thought. Wirikidor might indeed protect Valder, but he did not think he would enjoy owning it. For one thing, it was a nuisance carrying it about unsheathed. He promised himself that the next time he got it into the scabbard he would leave it there until he needed it again.
Putting aside for the moment his consideration of the sword’s nature, the next important question was what this northern soldier had been doing here. From the man’s nonchalant attitude, it was obvious that he had not been expecting any Ethsharitic activity — at any rate, not on land close at hand. Valder could guess well enough what he had been doing skulking in the bushes, from the sound if nothing else — even northerners needed to relieve themselves — but where had he come from? As nearly as Valder could estimate, he was still several leagues behind the northern lines — unless the Ethsharitic forces had successfully counterattacked.
That was an encouraging thought, but Valder was not at all sure it was justified. He glanced about, hoping to pick up the northerner’s trail.
He found it with surprising ease. The man had made no attempt to conceal it and had, in fact, obviously used the same path several times, judging by the amount of wear. Mosses and creepers had been thoroughly trampled. With Wirikidor in hand, Valder followed the trail southwestward through the forest and in only minutes emerged onto the top of a rocky bluff and found the northerner’s little encampment, overlooking the sea. The dead man’s duty was clear; he had been stationed to watch for Ethsharitic landings along this stretch of coastline. The elevated position gave him a clear view of several miles of beach.
He had not expected an attack on land, of course. Valder’s presence must have been a shock.
This realization left Valder with only guesswork to tell him how far behind the northern lines he might still be. He had no way of knowing how much of the coastline the enemy would consider worth guarding. His own army might be a league away, or a hundred. All he could be certain of was that the war was still being fought, as it had always been, or else there would have been no need to post a coastal watch at all.
Any number of questions were now vital. When was the soldier’s relief due? How far apart were the shore-watchers posted? Would it be worthwhile to travel inland to avoid them?
He glanced at Wirikidor. He was protected, he told himself; he could go where he pleased. That was not really a major concern, after all.
No, he corrected himself, there were still crossbows, not to mention the arcane weaponry of sorcerers and shatra. He did not want to encounter any more of the enemy than he had to, and where possible it would be best to meet at close quarters, where Wirikidor would, it seemed, do his fighting for him.
Besides, he had no particular desire to kill northerners — though he felt a twinge of guilt at making that unpatriotic admission to himself. Creating a disturbance back here behind the Empire’s lines might draw troops away from his countrymen and comrades; he knew that and told himself that he probably should try to cause trouble, but he was still not eager to kill anyone. Better by far, in his opinion, to avoid trouble.
The sentry’s relief might be along any minute, he thought — or perhaps not for days, but he saw no reason to take unnecessary chances. He turned and walked back into the forest, away from the sea.
CHAPTER 6
Two days later Valder was beginning to wish an enemy would find him, just so that he could sheathe his sword after killing someone. He had been carrying the weapon bare in his hand for thirteen days, against his will, and was sincerely tired of it. He had tried putting it under his belt, or along one shin, but these had proved much too uncomfortable to use for any length of time.
He was well away from the shoreline now and had no intention of veering back in hopes of picking off another coast-watcher, but the thought of coming across a lone northern scout had a certain appeal. The sweaty palms and tired wrists were overcoming his distaste for bloodshed.
With that in mind, he was taking pains to move quietly, lest thoughts of an enemy might tempt the gods to bring him one; he did not want to be caught off-guard. The forest had thickened, and a profusion of rhododendrons limited the easily available paths, so that he found himself picking his way carefully, watching his feet, his head bent low to avoid overhanging branches. That let his hair, woefully unkempt after two and a half months without a mirror, hang down across his eyes, and, with his hands as tired as they were, he did not bother to brush it aside very often. It was sheer luck that he saw the northern patrol before they saw him; he happened to glance up at exactly the right moment. None of the three enemy soldiers was as fortunate.
Valder froze for a moment and watched them. All three moved with the normal clumsiness of ordinary men; none had the smooth, gliding grace that marked shatra. That was a relief.
Valder wondered what they were doing out here; what made a patrol behind the lines necessary? Were there Ethsharitic scouts — other than himself — operating in the area? Even as he wondered, he reached up slowly for the captured crossbow slung on back.
The sword in his hand made him awkward; the blade struck an overhanging branch as he struggled to bring the bow around where he could use it. The sound was not loud, but one of the northerners, sixty yards away, apparently heard it. He paused in his stride, turned, and saw the Ethsharite.
He shouted something in the northern tongue, then began running toward Valder, his hand reaching for the sword on his belt. Valder guessed that he did not care to use a bow; not all soldiers, on either side, were marksmen.
The other two northerners followed. The first, Valder saw, was grinning with excitement. Like the sentry on the shore, these three were young, very young — and, Valder thought, not likely to grow old if they were always so careless. They obviously hoped to capture him alive, forcing a surrender by virtue of their superior numbers, but were completely oblivious to the possibility of an ambush or magical defense. They saw a man in the gray breastplate and green kilt of an Ethsharitic soldier and forgot everything but that they faced an enemy and an opportunity for glory.
He got the crossbow free, but the bowstring fouled on the same overhanging branch the sword had hit. With a curse, Valder dropped it, leaving it hanging, and stepped forward. He had the magic sword Wirikidor, the slayer of warriors, he told himself; what had he to fear?
The first northerner stopped a dozen feet away, apparently puzzled that the quarry had not run off to be chased down like a fleeing deer. His comrades came up behind him. All three stared at Valder and the naked steel in his hand. The leader called something; Valder guessed it was a demand that he surrender.
“I don’t understand a word,” he called back.
The three northerners conversed for a moment; then one of them called tentatively, “You fight?”
“I’m not surrendering, if that’s what you mean,” Valder replied. Seeing the confusion that resulted, he decided this was obviously too much for the northerner’s limited vocabulary and called his clarification. “Yes, I fight.”
“Ah!” Three swords were drawn, and the northern leader advanced. Valder guessed him to be perhaps eighteen, the others younger.
Wirikidor seemed to drag him forward to meet his opponent. He did not bother to pretend that he was controlling his actions as steel clashed.
The other two hung back, and Valder quickly realized why. The lead northerner, despite his youth, was a superb swordsman, probably his divisional champion. His blade flickered like heat lightning in a summer sky. His companions could only have been in the way.
This obvious skill did not bother Wirikidor in the slightest. It countered each blow with supernatural speed and, when the northerner faltered in surprise, it swept past his guard and plunged into his throat.
Wirikidor, Valder thought, seemed to have a liking for throats. He wondered if that were in any way significant. He wrenched the blade away as soon as it had finished ripping open the northerner’s neck.
The northerner collapsed in a lifeless heap, his sword rattling from a tree root.
His comrades stared at their fallen leader in astonished dismay. Valder stepped forward, waiting for Wirikidor to take on the next one.
Wirikidor did nothing; all Valder’s advance did was to snap the nearer northerner out of his stunned inaction.
