As the pellet left the sling, Valder dove for cover behind a nearby oak. Once there, he stuffed the sling into his belt and passed Wirikidor from his left hand to his right, to have it ready for use.
The enemy soldier had not given an alarm, had not yelled for help; to Valder, that meant that there were no more northerners within earshot. He depended on that. If he could close with this man and kill him, he would be safe, at least for the moment. If he could disarm the northerner somehow and convince him to surrender, better still — assuming the man knew at least a little Ethsharitic, since Valder spoke not a single word of the northern tongue.
He was not even sure that all northerners spoke the same language.
The man looked younger than himself, probably still in his teens, and not particularly formidable. Had they been matched in weaponry, Valder would have been fairly confident of victory; as it was, however, the northerner had a crossbow, and Valder had his enchanted sword. Crossbows were very effective weapons — but very slow to load. The enchanted sword was an unknown quantity.
“Well, Wirikidor,” Valder muttered. “What do we do now?”
The sword did nothing in reply, but it seemed somehow unsteady in his hand, as if it were struggling within itself.
Cautiously, he peered around the tree. The northern soldier was still flat on the ground, but now held the crossbow aimed and ready. As he saw Valder, he pulled the trigger.
The Ethsharite ducked back, and the quarrel whirred harmlessly past, vanishing into the woods beyond.
Seizing the opportunity provided by the northerner’s nervous impatience, Valder emerged from concealment running, charging straight through the bushes toward his frightened foe.
The northerner was in the undignified process of discovering that it was impossible to load a crossbow properly while lying flat on one’s belly with nothing to brace it against when he looked up and saw Valder plunging toward him. Terrified, he flung the crossbow aside — exactly the reaction Valder had hoped for — and snatched at his sword while rolling over onto his back.
The distance between them had been greater than Valder had realized; the enemy soldier was on his feet, sword drawn, before the Ethsharite could reach him. Valder slowed his headlong charge and came to a wary halt a few steps away.
The two faced each other for a long moment, while Wirikidor twitched and strained in Valder’s hand.
Valder was in no hurry. He wanted to take his time, see what his opponent was capable of, before getting down to serious combat. Youth did not always mean inexperience, and the northerner’s reflexes were surely at least as fast as his own. Valder was bigger, with a longer reach, and was fairly sure he was trickier and more determined, but preferred not just to hack away; he was not a great swordsman and he knew it. The northerner might be faster or more skillful. Or both. The northerner moved a step to the side. Valder turned slightly to keep facing him, but did not follow.
The northerner crouched lower. Valder did not move.
The northerner took a swipe at him. Although Valder was not aware of trying to respond, Wirikidor came up, meeting the enemy’s blade, turning it aside, and sliding past it, in a twisting lightning-fast stroke that thrust the sword’s point through the northerner’s throat.
Valder had definitely not intended that. Both men stared in astonishment at the gleaming steel that joined them. The northerner’s mouth opened and a sick croak emerged, followed by a gush of blood.
Valder tried to pull his blade free; he saw no need to do more to the northerner, whose wound was probably fatal. The fellow was little more than a boy, and, if there were any chance he might live, Valder wanted him to have it. The man was obviously not going to fight anymore; already his sword had lowered, and, as the blood spilled from his mouth, his fingers opened, dropping the weapon to the petal-strewn ground.
Wirikidor’s blade would not come free. Instead, the sword twisted in Valder’s hand, ripping through the northerner’s neck.
Valder stared at the blade in horror. His hand had not moved. The sword had moved, certainly, but his hand had not. Wirikidor had killed the northerner of its own volition.
The northerner fell free of Wirikidor’s blade and crumpled to the ground, obviously dead. With a shudder, Valder dropped the unnatural weapon. Wirikidor fell from his hand and lay on the ground inches from the dead man’s face.
Valder stared at it, his earlier horror giving way to astonishment. The sword had left his hand! Was the enchantment broken?
Cautiously he picked it up, then put it down again.
There was no resistance or adhesion; the sword behaved like any other inanimate piece of steel.
Puzzled, Valder picked it up again and looked it over carefully. It appeared unchanged, except that the victim’s blood, unlike water, clung to it. He wiped the blade on his dead opponent’s sleeve and then cautiously slid it into the scabbard on his belt.
The blade fell smoothly into place without resistance of any sort.
He stared at the hilt. Had the enchantment been good only for a single use? Had using the sword broken the spell? The wizard had said that “Wirikidor” meant “slayer of warriors”; well, it had indeed slain someone, although Valder was not convinced that the northerner had been much of a warrior.
He considered for a moment and then drew the sword again and looked at it closely. He saw nothing enlightening, merely the simple steel blade he had always had. With a shrug, he attempted to return it to its sheath.
The blade turned away from the opening.
He stared at it for a long moment. “Damn it,” he said, “and may demons carry off that idiot wizard!” He knew there was no point in disputing anything with Wirikidor. If it chose not to be sheathed, he would not be able to sheathe it.
He stripped the northerner’s body of provisions and other useful items, such as the discarded crossbow. Although he had little hope, given their relative sizes, he tried unsuccessfully to pull on the man’s battered boots; as he had expected, none of the clothing was big enough to be of any use to him.
As he worked he told himself that at least he had learned something about his magical defense. The sword was bloodthirsty, for one thing. For another, blood apparently canceled some of the spell but only until the sword was sheathed and then drawn again.
He paused. No, he told himself, it wasn’t that simple. He had cut himself to test the blade, and that had had no effect. It was not just blood that was responsible but something else.
He had heard legends of foul weapons, demonic or sorcerous in origin, that sucked the souls from their victims; could it be that he now carried such a weapon? He had never heard of such a weapon being created by wizardry — but then, the old hermit had been using spells of his own invention.
One part of the usual version of the story said that the victims invariably died with their faces frozen in expressions of unspeakable terror. He glanced at the dead northerner’s face; while scarcely calm, the expression of shock and pain did not live up to the descriptions of those whose souls had been stolen.
No, he didn’t think it was the northerner’s soul that had appeased Wirikidor and allowed it to be sheathed — albeit briefly. Perhaps the blood of the sword’s owner would not work, but any other would. The hermit had told him that the sword had some sort of an ownership spell on it.
He remembered the sickening sensation as the sword had twisted in his hand, determined to cut the northerner’s throat out; no, the sword was not satisfied with just a little blood. It had wanted the man’s life. Not his 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.