Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Misenchanted Sword

A knock sounded; startled, Valder looked up. He did not particularly want to leave the hearth and get a faceful of cold air, so he bellowed, “It isn’t locked! Come in!”

For a moment he thought that the latch must have frozen, or the new arrivals had not heard him, but then the door swung open.

He did not much like the look of the two men who came in. The first one was short, with dark hair that looked curiously lopsided; it took Valder a moment to figure out that the man had been wounded on the scalp, and that no hair grew from the resulting scar tissue, leaving him partially bald on one side and not the other.

The second man was huge, perhaps six and a half feet tall and disproportionately broad. Both wore battered breastplates—not standard army issue—and carried old swords on their belts, unusual in these peaceful times. The larger man had one of the strange black Northern helmets jammed onto his head, the first such helmet Valder had seen in years. Both had the look of men who were perpetually broke and always blaming others for it, though what money they acquired would invariably go for oushka or inept gambling. Valder had seen enough of the sort, and did not like them. Such men usually felt that because they had served a few years in the army the World owed them a living.

Valder judged this pair to be his own age or a year or two younger—mid-thirties, certainly. That would mean they had only served a few years each, probably not a decade between them. No one owed them anything.

Still, he was an innkeeper. “Welcome!” he said. “Come in and get warm! What can I get you?”

The two looked around for a moment. The big man remembered belatedly to close the door.

“Cold out there,” the small man remarked. “Have you got something that will warm a man’s gut?”

“Brandy or oushka,” Valder answered. “Two coppers, or a silver piece for a bottle.”

“Oushka,” the little man replied, as Valder had expected. These two did not look like brandy drinkers.

He nodded, and headed for the kitchen. He had not expected any customers tonight, and had stored the keg away earlier than usual. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he called back over his shoulder. He decided silently to be as quick as he could, so that he would be back before this pair could cause any trouble. There was little to steal in the big room, but they might decide it would be fun to smash a few tables.

“Hey, innkeeper,” the big man called after him before he had reached the door, “is your name Valder?”

Valder stopped and turned. “What if it is?”

The big man shrugged. “Nothing; we just heard that this place belonged to someone named Valder of the Magic Sword, supposed to be a war hero.”

Valder sighed inwardly. These two were obviously not going to just express polite interest in his wartime experiences. They undoubtedly wanted something from him, probably aid in some unsavory scheme, and might get ugly about it.

Well, he could take care of himself. “I’m Valder,” he admitted. “I was in the war; I fought, and I killed a few northerners, but I don’t know that I was a hero.”

“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?”