“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.”
Hanner was trying to draw it, without success. “I can’t,” he said. “I think he’s glued it into the scabbard.”
“No glue,” Valder said. “Magic. It’s part of the enchantment on it.”
“I think we’ll take it anyway,” the small thief said.
“It will come back to me; that’s part of the spell.”
“Oh, is it? How nice for you. What if you’re dead, though? We didn’t come here just for the sword, innkeeper. You must have a tidy little heap of money tucked away somewhere. I don’t think you’ll be getting much business tonight; if we kill you now, we’ll have until dawn to find where you hide it. And even if we don’t find it, we’ll still have the sword and we can sell that for a few bits of gold, whether we can draw it or not. If you help us out, make the sword work for us and tell us where your money is, we might let you live.”
“You can’t kill me,” Valder replied.
“No? What’s going to stop us? There are two of us, with swords that aren’t enchanted but they’ve got good edges nonetheless. You’re all alone and unarmed, unless you’ve slipped a kitchen knife under your tunic. We’ve been watching this place. You haven’t got a single customer, and your helpers left hours ago.”
Valder felt a twinge of uneasiness. His situation did look bad. The only thing in his favor was the magic of a sword that had not been drawn in more than a dozen years — and an untested aspect of the enchantment, at that. The army wizards had said that he could not be killed, but he had naturally never put it to the test. He stood for a moment, trying to think of something to say. Nothing came.
“Hanner,” the small thief said, “I think it’s time we convinced Valder of the Magic Sword to help us out, don’t you?”
Hanner grinned. “I think you’re right,” he said. He took Wirikidor in his left hand and drew his own sword with his right. Side by side, the two thieves advanced slowly across the room, winding between the tables without ever taking their eyes from Valder’s face.
Valder watched them come, tried to decide whether there was any point in retreating into the kitchen, tried to think of something he might use as a weapon, and watched Wirikidor, clutched in the big man’s hand. The thief, Valder thought, was making a mistake; the smart thing to do would have been to leave Wirikidor behind somewhere, well out of reach. He remembered the odd compulsion that had made people bring him the sword whenever it left his possession back in General Karannin’s camp and wondered if Hanner was aware that he was holding the scabbard.
Idiotically, he also found himself wondering what the smaller thief’s name was.
As the two drew near, Valder moved as quickly as he could, snatching up the tray of oushka and flinging it at the pair. Two swords flashed, and tray and tankards were knocked harmlessly aside, spraying good liquor across the floor. The crystal vessels bounced in a truly alarming manner, but the thieves were not distracted by this unnatural behavior. Either they had seen enchanted glassware before, or they were so intent on their victim that they had not even noticed anything unusual.
All Valder’s effort had done was prove that both men knew how to use swords and that the wizard who had charmed the tankards had not cheated him. He stepped back, not toward the kitchen, but toward the wall.
The two advanced another few steps, then stopped. Hanner’s sword inched up to hover near Valder’s throat, while the other’s blade was pointed at his belly.
“Now, innkeeper,” the small man said, “tell us about that sword and, while you’re talking, tell us where you keep your money.”
Valder watched from the corner of his eye as Hanner’s left hand moved forward, apparently without its owner’s knowledge; his own right hand was open and ready. “The sword’s name is Wirikidor, which means ’slayer of warriors.’ Nobody knows exactly what the spells on it are, because the wizard who made them vanished, but they’re all linked to a Spell of True Ownership, so that nobody can use it except me, until I die.” He was talking primarily to keep the two thieves occupied; Wirikidor’s hilt was less than a foot from his hand.
Suddenly he lunged for it, calling out, “Wirikidor!”
Hanner tried to snatch it away as he realized what was occurring. Valder was never sure exactly how it happened, whether the sword had really leaped from its sheath under its own power or whether he had made a lucky grab, but the sword was in his hand, sliding smoothly out of the scabbard.
Banner reacted with incredible speed, chopping at Valder’s wrist with his own blade. Wirikidor twisted about in a horribly unnatural fashion, so that Valder felt as if his wrist were breaking, but it successfully parried the thief’s blow.
The smaller thief was not wasting any time; his sword plunged toward Valder’s belly. Valder dodged sideways, but not quite fast enough; the blade ripped through his tunic and drew a long, deep cut in his side. Blood spilled out, and pain tore through Valder’s body. He hardly saw what happened next.