Lawrence Watt-Evans: The Misenchanted Sword

“Get down, wizard!” Valder called.

The wizard still stood motionless.

Concerned, Valder shouted, “Are you all right?”

“What?” The magician stirred uncertainly.

“Wizard, I think you had better get down, quickly; they’re certain to try again.”

“Oh.” Slowly, the wizard sank to his hands and knees, keeping the book nearby. “What was that?” he asked, staring at the holes.

“I don’t know,” Valder answered. “Some damned northern sorcery.”

The wizard peered at the soldier in the dim light of the flickering fish-oil lamp and the last gray twilight; his scraggly bear almost reached the floor, and his robe was bunched up around him, revealing bony ankles. “Sorcery? I don’t know any sorcery.”

“Neither do I,” Valder replied, “but they do.” He jerked a thumb at the south wall.

The wizard looked at the three entry holes. A wisp of smoke trailed up from a book that had been pierced by one; the other two had gone through jars, strewing shards of glass. “Protections,” he said. “We need protections, ones that will work against sorcery.” He began desperately turning pages in his book.

Valder watched him warily. No new assault had immediately followed the projectiles, and that seemed like a good sign. The northerners might be waiting for someone to move and provide them with a target, he thought. If so, they would have a good long wait, as he was not that foolish.

The wizard stopped, slammed a hand down on the open book, and looked at Valder, anger and fear on his face. “What were those things?” he asked. “I have to know what I’m defending against.”

“I don’t know what those things that came through the wall were, but I know what sent them. I told you, a northern patrol is after me. Shatra —you know what shatra are, don’t you?”

“I’m not a fool, soldier; shatra are demon warriors.”

“More or less; they look like men, but fight like demons.”

“Damn you, soldier, I came here to get away from the war!” the wizard burst out.

“You told me that. Tell them that; maybe they won’t bother you. I doubt they have anything against Ethsharitic deserters.”

“You have no call to insult me; I am not a deserter. I was never enlisted. I served my apprenticeship under a civilian advisor, not a combat wizard, and worked thirty years as an advisor myself before I retired and came out here to do my own research.”

“Research?” Valder ducked his head instinctively as another projectile whistled through the hut; this one entered through an open window and departed through a box of gray-brown powder, leaving a slowly-settling cloud of dust hanging in the air above them. “You mean magical research?”

“Yes, magical research.” He waved a hand in the direction of the nearest jam-packed shelves.

“Oh.” Valder stared at the old man. “And I thought you were a coward, hiding out here! I apologize, wizard, for wronging you. You’ve got far more courage than I do if you’ve been experimenting in wizardry.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” the wizard replied modestly, brushing at the dust that had settled on his sleeve and open book.

“I’ve heard that the life expectancy of a research wizard is just twenty-three working days,” Valder argued.

“Oh, but that’s for military research! I don’t do anything like that—no flame-spells or death-runes or juggernauts. I’ve been working with animations, and I’ve been very careful. Besides, I use a lot of protective spells. That’s what most of this book is. They were my old master’s specialty.”

“Protective spells?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have you got spells there that will stop those three?”

“I don’t know. Look, soldier, you must know what wizardry is like; it’s tricky, unreliable stuff, and there’s no telling what a new spell will do—if it does anything at all. I haven’t gotten any of the results I wanted in my research so far. I’ve come up with some interesting things, but I don’t know what will work against shatra. Demons aren’t like men or beasts, and shatra are half demon, aren’t they? I’ve got a spell here that may help us; it’s not much, but it’s the best I could find in a hurry that won’t take more time than we’ve got or ingredients I don’t have. It’s an aversion charm.” He rose to his knees and snatched a jar and a small wooden box from a low shelf.

Valder paused and listened before replying, and then said, “I hope you can do it fast, wizard; I hear something moving out there.”

The hermit paused, a pinch of malodorous green powder in one hand. “I don’t hear…” he began.

The rest of his words were lost in a whooshing roar as the roof of the hut vanished in a ball of flame. Blinking and shielding his eyes against the sudden glare, Valder grabbed one of the old man’s bony arms and dragged him unceremoniously across the dirt floor, keeping his head low and dodging scraps of flaming debris that spattered down on all sides.

The wizard flung the powder across both of them, gestured with his free hand, and said something incomprehensible. Something flashed pale blue where the powder fell, cool against the orange blaze of burning thatch; the old man grabbed at the knife on his belt and yelled, “The door is the other way!”

“I know,” Valder shouted back over the roar of the flames. “That’s why we’re going this way! They’re probably waiting out front!” With his left hand still locked around the old man’s wrist, Valder drew his sword with his right and jabbed at the back wall above the wizard’s bedding.

As he had thought, the smooth coating was a thin layer of baked mud, and the wall itself just bundled reeds; the mud broke away easily, allowing him to hack an opening through the dried reeds with his blade. A moment later the two men were outside, tumbling down into the brackish water of the marsh; the wizard spluttered angrily while Valder scanned the surrounding area for the enemy.

Someone was visible off to the left; Valder hissed in the old man’s ear, “Lie still.”

The hermit started to protest; Valder jabbed him with the hilt of his sword.

“No, listen,” the wizard insisted, “I have a spell that can help here.”

Valder glanced at the shadowy figure of the enemy soldier, standing well back and apparently unaware of their presence, and then at the blazing fury of the thatch roof. “Go ahead,” he said, “but hurry, and keep it quiet.”

The wizard nodded, splashing, then drew his dagger and stabbed the back of Valder’s hand.

“What the hell…” The soldier snatched his hand away; the wound was only a scratch, but it hurt.

“I need a little of your blood,” the wizard hissed. He smeared a streak of blood along Valder’s forearm, dabbed a few drops on the soldier’s face and neck, then pricked his own arm and distributed a little of his own blood similarly on himself.

Behind them the fire was eating its way down the walls of the wizard’s hut, lighting the surrounding circle of marsh a vivid orange, its reflections in the murky water a labyrinth of flame. Valder knew that somewhere in the blackness beyond the illuminated area the northerners were watching; he could not see them any more, as the fire’s glow kept his eyes from adapting sufficiently to the dark, and nothing at all remained of his night-sight spell. He wished that he had one of the sorcerers’ masks that the enemy used for night vision; they were awkward to wear and carry, but they seemed never to wear out the way wizard-sight did.

The old man was muttering an incantation, working his wizardry, whatever it was. Valder wondered, as he had before, why Ethshar used wizardry so much more than the Empire did, and sorcery so much less. This difference in magical preferences was hardly a new question; he and his comrades had mulled it over dozens of times back in camp. Everybody knew that the Empire used demonology and Ethshar used theurgy, but that just made sense, since the gods were on Ethshar’s side, and the demons on the Empire’s. Wizardry and sorcery seemed to have no such inherent bias, yet a northern wizard was rare indeed, and southern sorcerers almost as scarce. Neither side, it seemed, got much use from witchcraft, and that was another mystery.