His sword swung for Valder’s throat, and it was all the Ethsharite could do to bring Wirikidor up in time to parry.
Startled by his sword’s failure to act on its own, Valder fell back several steps before the northerner’s assault and took a small gash on his upper arm before regaining control. Fortunately, this second youth was far less skilled than the first, and the third northerner was still too disconcerted to join the battle.
“Damn you, Wirikidor!” Valder cried, “Why aren’t you fighting?”
There was no response. The sword acted like any ordinary sword, utterly inanimate. Valder had passed the minimum competence tests in swordsmanship in order to acquire his rank of Scout First Class, but he was by no means an expert swordsman, nor even very good — however, luck was with him; the northerner was no better. He was faster than Valder, but less practiced — hardly surprising in a boy of sixteen or seventeen. The two were fairly evenly matched, so the duel continued — but only, Valder knew, until the other northerner got over his surprise.
Then his opponent stumbled, whether over a root or his companion’s body Valder did not see. Valder seized the opportunity, and Wirikidor’s magically sharp blade sank deep into the northerner’s sword arm, cutting to the bone.
The northerner’s sword dropped, and Valder brought Wirikidor back and around, striking at the soldier’s neck. The man went down and stayed down.
The third northerner came out of his dumfoundment too late and chose not to take on, alone, the man who had slain his two compatriots. Instead, he turned and ran.
Valder did not pursue him. The young fellow was obviously faster, even without terror to aid him. Besides, a chase might lead directly into an enemy camp. Instead, he looked down at his fallen foes.
The second man was still breathing and had managed to clamp his left hand over his neck wound.
Valder stared down at him for a second or two, debating whether to kill him or to attend to his wounds. He quickly decided to do neither, but snatched the crossbow from the tree and, like his foe, turned and ran. He saw no need to kill a helpless man, enemy or not, particularly when there was another enemy who had gotten away and might return with reinforcements at any moment.
When he had put a little distance between himself and the scene of the battle, he paused to catch his breath. His feet, he noticed, had certainly been toughened by day after day of trudging barefoot through the woods; he had just dashed blindly across sticks, stones, and undergrowth without heeding what he stepped on.
He wondered whether he could risk going back after a pair of boots from one of his downed foes, but decided against it.
He found a rag in his belt pouch and wiped the blood from Wirikidor’s blade. That done, he sank onto a mossy fallen tree, keeping a wary eye back along his trail.
The sword had been wonderful against the first northerner and had almost certainly saved his life — but then its magical animation had deserted him completely against his second foeman. Valder glared at the freshly wiped blade. Had the spell worn off already?
He had no way of knowing. When he had the metal clean, he slid the sword back into its scabbard; it went without protest.
Of course, that didn’t prove anything. It had done that after he had killed the coastal sentry, too.
He threw a startled glance at the hilt as a thought struck him. Was that the explanation? Was the sword only good against single enemies? Did it need to be sheathed to recharge the spell before it would again act on its own?
That, he thought, could be very inconvenient. He tried to imagine fighting in a full-scale battle with such a sword. It would be marvelous until it had killed one enemy soldier and then would be no more than an ordinary blade — or rather, a blade with a spell of sharpness on it. That would certainly be better than nothing, but not by very much. One could scarcely sheathe it in the midst of a melA©e and then draw it again.
He realized that it still might get him home, but only if he was careful never to face more than one or perhaps two opponents at a time. One the sword would handle, and a second he would at least face on even terms, but beyond that he would be no better off than any ordinary fighter.
He wondered if the hermit had known how his spell would work — and if so, had he realized how limited its usefulness was?
This, he told himself, was all just guesswork. His one-foe-per-drawing theory did fit the observed facts, but so would any number of other explanations — a small magical charge that had been exhausted after two killings, for example. He could test that possibility by simply drawing the sword again and seeing whether it would allow itself to be sheathed, but he hesitated. Walking around with the sword drawn was an unbearable nuisance, one he did not care to burden himself with again. He left the sword in its scabbard and considered other aspects of his situation.
He was still lost behind enemy lines, but now the enemy knew he was here, thanks to the escape of the third northerner in the patrol he had just fought. Furthermore, in his hurry, he had left a discernible trail from the site of the battle. It was, he told himself, time to disappear.
He did not want to double back to the north. That would take him further from his goal, and eventually he would have to make up any lost ground. To the south, presumably, lay the enemy lines. To the west lay the ocean; he considered the possibility of returning to the coast and building or stealing a boat, but quickly abandoned it. He was no sailor. He had planned on boating before only because he had been unable to think of an alternative — but he always had alternatives, if he took the time to find them.
That left east — and that was almost certainly the direction the enemy would expect him to take, since they could eliminate the other three by the same means he had.
He reached a decision, not so much by conscious logic as because it felt right. He would head southeast. Pursuers would not expect him to head toward the enemy lines; and by angling over to the east he would, he hoped, be able to slip through at some point where he wasn’t expected.
He would need to do his best to leave no tracks. That could be very tricky if the enemy sent sorcerers or shatra trackers after him. One of his problems might become an advantage, as problems sometimes did — bare feet left less of a trail than boots.
He rose, checked to be sure that the scabbard was secure on his belt and Wirikidor secure in the scabbard, and then slipped off into the forest, moving as lightly and silently as he could.
That night he made no camp, lighted no fire; instead he climbed a tree and wedged himself into a fairly secure perch. He had seen no sign of pursuit, but, after fleeing for so long from the patrol that had chased him into the hermit’s marsh, he was taking no unnecessary chances.
CHAPTER 7
Valder awoke at dawn, feeling very cramped and stiff. He untangled his hands and feet, but, before lifting himself up out of the tree crotch where he had slept, he glanced down at the ground below.
He froze.
There was still no sign of enemy pursuit, but he would almost have preferred that to what he saw instead. Looking up at him from the base of the tree was a small dragon He stared down at it in dismay.
It was a glossy metallic green in color, and he estimated its length at fifteen feet, counting the tail. It probably could not talk yet; a small dragon was a young dragon, and young dragons were notoriously stupid. It had its wings folded down against its back, so that he couldn’t judge its wingspan, but he guessed that the mere fact that it was down on the ground while he was up in the tree meant it could not fly. Many, perhaps most, dragons couldn’t.
It glared up at him hungrily and hissed, a sound like the dousing of a bonfire; that left little doubt of its intentions.
Valder wondered whether it was a wild dragon from birth, or whether it had been bred by the northerners and had escaped or been freed. If it had been raised as a military dragon, he might be able to control it.
“Ho, dragon!” he barked. “Rest!”
The dragon just stared up at him and hissed again. If it had been raised in captivity, its training hadn’t
