Lawrence Watt-Evans: The Misenchanted Sword

He peered out at the surrounding gloom, and again spotted the northerner he had seen before, at the very edge of the circle of light. That, Valder thought, was probably the one who had ignited the hut. He was slowly circling closer to the burning structure, obviously looking for any sign that his intended victims had escaped. Valder could make out one of the intricate metal wands used by combat sorcerers, cradled in the northerner’s arms, and gave up any thought of fighting the man on even terms and perhaps killing him before his companions could arrive. One of those wands could rip a man to pieces almost instantaneously, from a dozen paces away.

Something exploded with a bang and a tinkling of glass somewhere inside the flaming hut, and Valder remembered the shelves and cabinets crowded with jars and boxes. He guessed that several more would probably explode when the flames reached them.

The northerner turned at the sound, wand held ready, and Valder looked desperately for some way to take advantage of the instant of surprise. He found none.

If the man came closer, Valder estimated, ambush was a possibility; at close enough range sorcery would be no better than a sword, and a knife might be better than either. Thinking of the wizard’s dagger, he realized that the sound of the old man’s incantation had stopped. That reminded him of the drawn blood, and he glanced at his injured hand.

His mouth fell open in horror; instead of a simple scratch he saw the flesh laid open to the bone, blood spilling out thickly, as though half congealed. When his jaw fell more blood poured out, running down his beard and into the mud—yet he felt no pain save for a slight twinge in his hand.

Confused and frightened, he looked at the wizard, and shrank back involuntarily; the old man was obviously horribly dead. His skin was corpse-white, splotched with cyanotic blue-gray, and blood dribbled from his nose and mouth. His arm was a mangled ruin, and his throat cut open clear to his spine.

“Gods!” Valder hissed. The spell must have gone wrong, he thought; he had heard of spells backfiring. Backfires were what made magical research so deadly.

The old man smiled, his expression unspeakably hideous through the half-dried blood. “The Sanguinary Deception,” he whispered. “Looks awful, doesn’t it?”

“You’re alive?” Valder had difficulty accepting it, despite the old man’s movement and speech.

“Of course I’m alive. So are you, and you probably look worse than I do. It’s a simple trick, but effective; doesn’t the army use it any more?”

“I don’t know,” Valder said, staring in fascination at the hermit.

“Well, it’s a good trick, and if they aren’t using it they’re fools. Now, shut up and lie still, and they’ll think we’re dead.”

Valder stared at the old man for another second, then slumped back and did his best to look dead.

Something else shattered amid the flames, and a loud clatter followed; Valder guessed that a shelf had given way, spilling its entire contents. He stole a glance at the hermit and saw that the old man was no longer smiling at his ruse; instead his face was contorted with anger and pain at the destruction of his home and his work.

From the corner of one eye Valder noticed the northerner doing something with his wand, perhaps making a mystical gesture or perhaps only adjusting something; then he lifted it to chest-height and pointed it at the fiery remains of the hut. Red streaks of light scarred the air, etching themselves into Valder’s vision, and the burning ruin fell inward all at once, with a roar, collapsing into a smoldering heap less than two feet high.

A seething hiss sounded.

The northerner did something else to his wand and pointed it again; something seemed to leap from the wand to the wreckage, and with a white flash and a sound like tearing metal the smoldering heap vanished in a shower of burning fragments, leaving only a crater.

For several seconds lumps of hot mud and burning reeds splashed into the marsh around the two fugitives, sprinkling them liberally with salt water and mud, but not actually striking either of them. It seemed to Valder that some pieces actually dodged aside in mid-air in order to miss them. “That aversion spell,” the wizard whispered beside him.

After what seemed like hours, quiet and darkness descended again. Valder lay absolutely still. For a long moment the only sound was the hissing of burning debris as it was extinguished by the marsh; then a voice called out. Valder could not understand the words. He whispered, “Do you know what he’s saying?”

“No,” the old man answered, “I told you, I don’t know their language.”

Another voice called back to the first, and both laughed. Then came the sound of feet slogging through the marsh with no attempt at stealth.

“They must think we’re dead,” Valder whispered.

“That’s the idea,” the wizard replied.

They lay still as footsteps splashed about; when the sound stopped for a moment Valder risked a glance and saw two of the northerners poking about the smoking crater, carrying torches. One stopped, knelt, then stood, holding out something for his companion to see. Valder squinted. He couldn’t be sure, but the object looked like a scorched bone.

The northerners exchanged a few words in their own language, and one gave a short, unpleasant laugh, then glanced around at the surrounding marshland. Valder froze. The northerner’s eyes came to rest looking directly at the spot where the two Ethsharites lay. He called something to his companion, then marched toward them, moving out of Valder’s line of sight. Valder did not dare to shift his eyes.

A moment later a boot splashed into the marsh beside him, and a hand gripped his hair and pulled him up. The pull hurt, but Valder kept himself limp, refusing to react, playing dead. Blood dripped from his beard.

He toyed briefly with the idea of pulling his knife and taking the northerner by surprise, but the sorcerer was waiting, watching from the rim of the crater, and Valder did not think much of the idea of suicide, even when taking an enemy with him. He had too much to live for. He hung limp in the northerner’s grasp.

Then the man dropped him, and he fell heavily to the mud; the side of his face stung with the impact, but he kept still.

Done with Valder, the northerner rolled the wizard over with his foot; the old man’s arm fell splashing into the water.

Satisfied, the northerner called something, then turned and slogged off across the marsh. A moment later Valder made out two other sets of footsteps moving away. The torchlight, too, receded, leaving the Ethsharites in darkness.

When the footsteps were safely out of earshot Valder waited for another long moment, to be certain, his face in the mud and his nose full of the stench of decaying aquatic life. Finally, he cautiously raised his head and peered about. He saw no sign of anyone anywhere, save himself and the wizard. A few sparks still smoldered here and there among the grasses, insects chirped, and both moons were in the sky, but in general the night was dark and silent.

Slowly and carefully he rose to his knees, and then to his feet, water streaming from the folds of his drenched tunic and kilt and pouring out from inside his breastplate. When no one shouted and no lights or sorcerous weapon-flashes appeared, he reached down and helped the bedraggled and gory little wizard up.

The old man stood, a trifle unsteady at first, and brushed at the mud that caked the front of his robe, shaking mud and water from his hands between strokes. He ignored the torrents of drying blood. When he decided that he had removed what he could, he stood, dripping, and gazed through the smoky gloom at the crater where his home had been.