Lawrence Watt-Evans: The Misenchanted Sword

“Ethsharitic, hah?” the old man said at last.

“Yes. Scout first class, with the Western Command under General Gor.”

“What are you doing out here, then? Nothing to scout around here.” Before Valder could reply, he added with sudden harshness, “Isn’t any fighting around here, is there?”

“I got cut off from my unit, a long way south of here, and got chased north. The fighting is still a long way off. I thought maybe you could help me—loan me a boat or something.”

“Maybe I can. No boat, but come in and tell me about it and we’ll see.” He gestured, and led the way into the hut.

Valder smiled. The old man’s face was as easy to read as a baby’s. He had obviously forgotten how to control or conceal his emotions, after being alone for so long; Valder had plainly seen his initial surprise and confusion turn first to annoyance at this unexpected disruption of his routine, and then to eager curiosity. Valder could not be sure, but he guessed the old man was also eager for a little human companionship. Even a hermit might get lonely eventually.

He followed the old man into the hut, ducking his head to clear the low doorframe.

As they stepped inside, the old man asked, “You want something to eat?”

“No,” Valder answered tersely.

The hermit paused and turned to look at him. “The old bloodstone charm? Spell of Sustenance, that one?”

Reluctantly, Valder nodded. He hadn’t expected the old man to guess the reason for his abstinence so readily. If any food or drink were to pass his lips, or even if he salivated too much, the spell would be broken and he would need to forage or carry supplies like any ordinary wanderer; accepting anything from the hermit was therefore out of the question. Unfortunately, the old man now knew that Valder carried a bloodstone, which, although not exactly a fortune in gems, was a fairly rare and precious item, particularly in this northern wilderness so far from the mines of Akalla.

The old man obviously had some acquaintance with magic, as Valder had suspected, to realize so quickly why a weary traveler might refuse an offer of food.

Then the hermit stepped aside and opened the shutters, allowing his guest a good look at the hut’s interior, and Valder knew that his host had far more than a passing acquaintance with magic.

The basic furnishings were simple and practical. A bed consisting of a mattress, pillow, and furs lay against the base of one wall; a table against another wall held a basin, pitcher, and assorted pots, pans, and kitchen implements. A cozy wicker armchair stood beside the table, and a large wooden chest that could serve as either another chair or a low table was nearby. Those were the only ordinary furniture, but the remaining space was by no means empty. Shelves and cabinets lined every wall, and free-standing sets of shelves occupied much of the floor. Every shelf and cabinet was crammed to overflowing with bottles, jars, boxes, vials, and bizarre paraphernalia. It was obvious why the hermit had been able to identify the Spell of Sustenance so easily.

“You’re a wizard, aren’t you?” Valder said. Only a wizard had any use for such things as mummified bats and bottled organs, so far as Valder was aware. Sorcery, witchcraft, demonology, and theurgy all had their own ceremonial trappings, but those were not among them.

The old man glanced at the cluttered shelves as he sank into the wicker chair. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Are you?”

“No,” Valder answered, “I’m just a soldier.”

“You’ve got that spell.”

“They issue that to any scout who’s going out on patrol for more than a day and a night.” He looked around again, impressed by the arcane bric-a-brac.

“Sit down,” the hermit said, pointing at the wooden chest. “Sit down, and tell me what’s happening in the world.”

Valder’s feet were tired and sore—in fact, his entire body was tired and sore. He settled gratefully onto the wooden trunk, allowing himself to forget momentarily that he had no time to rest while the northerners were after him. His boots made a wet squeaking as his weight was removed.

“Get those off,” the wizard said. “I’ll light a fire and you can dry them out. And I’m hungry, even if you can’t eat; I don’t use that charm if I can help it. It wears you down if you keep it going too long, you know; it can ruin your health. If you don’t think the smell will break the enchantment, I’m going to make my dinner.”

“A fire would be wonderful,” Valder said, reaching down to remove his boots. “Please don’t let me interfere; you go right ahead and eat.”

As he pulled off his second boot, however, he suddenly remembered his pursuers. They might, he realized, arrive at any moment, if he had not lost them by entering the marsh. “Ah … wizard?” he asked, “Do you speak the northern tongue?”

The sun had set and the light was beginning to fade; the old man was lighting a fish-oil lamp with a flame that sprang from the tip of his finger. When the wick was alight he curled his finger into his palm, snuffing the flame, and turned to look at his guest. “No,” he said. “Haven’t needed it. Why?”

“Because there’s a northern patrol after me. I should have told you sooner. They spotted me four days ago and have been following ever since. There are three of them; one’s a sorcerer, and at least one is shatra.”

“You led them here?” The old man’s voice became a screech.

“Well, I’m not sure of that. I may have lost them. I’m hoping they wouldn’t expect me to try and cross the marsh, and that their trackers, if they have any, can’t follow me across water. If you could speak their language, I was hoping you could convince them that I’m not here; after all, this far north one of their people would be just as likely as one of ours, even out here on the coast. If you hadn’t spoken Ethsharitic when I hailed you I wouldn’t have known which side you were on, and I might have gone around you. Maybe you can convince them that I did go around.”

“I wish I hadn’t spoken Ethsharitic! I don’t know any of their speech; I can’t fool them for a minute. I came out here to get away from the war, damn it, not to get tangled up with shatra!”

“I wondered why you were here. Well, if you deserted, here’s a chance to get yourself a pardon; just help me get away from these three.”

“I didn’t…”

A voice called from outside, and the wizard stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. The call was in the harsh northern tongue.

“Oh, damn it!” the hermit said. He reached for a thick leather-bound book on one of the nearby shelves.

“Look, I’ll see if I can slip out and lead them away,” Valder said, suddenly contrite. “I never meant to get anyone else into trouble.” As he spoke he got to his feet, leaving his boots behind and stumbling toward the doorway. The wizard ignored him, fully occupied as he was in pawing desperately through the fat leather-bound volume and muttering to himself.

Valder leaned out the door, then jumped back in as a streak of red flame flashed past, tearing through the twilight inches from his face.

Seconds later, three sharp smacks sounded, followed by an instant of uncanny whistling screams as sorcerous projectiles tore across the interior of the hut at roughly the level of a man’s chest, narrowly missing Valder’s arm as he fell back. The sound ended in a second three-part snap as they exited through the north wall.

Not quite sure how he got there, Valder found himself sprawled on the hard-packed dirt of the hut floor. He looked up and realized that the wizard was still standing, book in hand, staring nonplussed at the holes in his wall.