Lawrence Watt-Evans: The Misenchanted Sword

He was also tired; he sat down on the stoop of a darkened shop and caught his breath.

He reviewed his actions of the day and evening, and decided that he had done the right thing so far—save that it had taken him far too long to realize that dark alleys were better places to find cutpurses than Wall Street, even if Wall Street might be their home. He wished he had thought of it sooner, if only for the sake of his poor abused feet and tired legs. He stretched them out, feeling the muscles twinge as he did so, and rubbed his calves.

If he were to be attacked, he thought, he wasn’t certain he would be able to draw Wirikidor fast enough to prevent injury to himself when he was this tired.

It was with that in his mind that he heard a scream, suddenly cut off, and thrashing sounds, from around the corner nearest him.

He leapt to his feet with the trained response of a man who had spent much of his life breaking up drunken brawls before they could damage the furnishings; without consciously intending it, he found himself rounding the corner into the alley whence the sounds came.

A smile twitched across his face as he saw what was happening; here he had been roaming the city looking for a robbery, and one had come to him while he rested. The light was poor, coming primarily from torches in a neighboring avenue, and his eyesight was not what it once was, but he could still plainly see that two men were attacking a woman. One held her from behind, one hand holding a knife to her throat and the other clamped over her mouth, while the other man was pawing at her skirt, searching for her purse or other valuables.

Valder had found himself a target, and without luring anyone to himself. He drew Wirikidor, dropping the scabbard to the road and hoping that the second man would flee, rather than fight.

Hearing his approach, the man who had been kneeling at the woman’s skirt whirled, and lost his balance, tumbling awkwardly to the street. The other released the woman, flinging her aside and whipping a sword from its sheath.

He had time to get a good look at Valder in the flickering torchlight before the two swords met with a clash of steel. “Ho, old man,” he said, starting a jibe of some sort; Valder never heard the rest of it, as Wirikidor whirled back to the side and slid under the thief’s guard so fast that he probably never even saw it coming, and certainly had not time to parry. The blade, sharper than any razor, sliced through leather tunic, flesh, and bone with ease, spraying blood in an arc across the entire width of the alley.

Valder could not see the thief’s face; the light was behind him. All he saw was a black outline that slowly crumpled to the ground, the sword still clutched in the dead fingers. He brought Wirikidor up into guard position and looked for the woman’s other assailant.

That man had scrambled to his feet even as his comrade fell, and had out his own sword now. Valder watched him warily.

The thief looked down at his dead companion, then back at Valder. “I don’t know how you did that, old man,” he said. “I guess you surprised him. I’m ready for you, though; you won’t take me by surprise. Maybe you’re better than you look, but you’re still old and weak and slow.”

Valder forced a grin. “I’ve killed fourscore better men than you, fool; run while you can.”

“So you can hit me from behind, perhaps? No, I’ve a friend’s death to avenge, and avenge it I will!” With that, he lunged forward, sword extended.

Valder stepped back, suddenly realizing just how much trouble he was in as the other’s blade slid past his neck; he was old and slow, just as the man had said, and without Wirikidor’s aid he was almost defenseless. The sword sagged in his grip as he flailed helplessly, trying to fend off the next attack. He wouldn’t die—the curse assured that—but it looked to him very much as if he were about to be badly cut up, with eighteen men yet to kill. He saw the blade approaching and knew that his parry would not stop it before it drew blood and weakened him further; he tried to duck, and felt himself losing his balance.

Then everything vanished in a sudden violent blaze of intense golden light; he staggered and fell, dazed, to the street.

He lay there for a long moment on his back, staring up at the polychrome aftereffects of the flash, streaks and stars of every color superimposed on the smoke-stained night sky of the city; then a shadow slid over him.

“Are you all right?” a woman’s voice asked.

“I’m not sure,” he managed to reply.

“Can you move?”

Valder tried, and discovered he could; he forced himself up on his elbows. “I think so. What happened to the man I was fighting?”

The woman gestured. “I took care of him.”

Valder sat up and looked where she indicated, but could distinguish nothing but a vague black shape. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Here, let me give you some more light.” She gestured again, this time not pointing at anything, but making a curious pass in mid-air with her hand. A white glow appeared in her palm, lighting the whole alleyway.

“You’re a wizard?” Valder said.

He could see her face now, in the light that came from her hand; it was a young, attractive face. She smiled. “Yes, I’m a wizard.”

He looked again where she had indicated, and saw that the black shape was exactly that, a charred black lump roughly the length of a man, with protruding fragments that resembled arms, legs, and a head. Valder gagged as he saw the distinctive shape of a human skull beneath a coating of ash, and realized that this was all that remained of his foe.

“Not very pleasant, is it?” she remarked. “But then, they weren’t very pleasant people; I suppose they were going to rape me, and kill me if I resisted.”

“Did they know you were a wizard?”

“No, of course not; I don’t walk the streets wearing a sign proclaiming my profession, after all.”

“Why didn’t you fry them both right away?”

“They caught me by surprise; I couldn’t reach any of my magicks, or move my hands to gesture once they grabbed my knife and held it at my throat.” She held up the dagger that Valder’s first opponent had used, and he noticed for the first time that it had the white gleam of silver rather than the grey of steel, and that the hilt was carved of bone.

“What were you doing in this alley in the first place, and without any protective spells?”

“Well, if you must know, I took a wrong turn; I’m lost. I had hoped this alley was a shortcut. I was sightseeing, you might say, reacquainting myself with the city; it’s been quite some time since I last visited Ethshar of the Spices. As for protective spells, I had forgotten that I might need them. Foolish of me, I know—but I never claim to be free of human foolishness.” She sheathed the dagger on her belt, then asked, “For that matter, what were you doing here?”

That reminded Valder of his own situation; he looked about, spotted Wirikidor’s scabbard, and got to his feet to retrieve it. The sword itself, under the influence of the Spell of True Ownership, had never left his hand. When he had the sheath he turned back and answered, “I was looking for thieves and murderers.”

“It would seem you found them,” she replied with a smile. “You’ll have to tell me all about it—but not here. Do you have any idea where we are?”

“Roughly; Wall Street lies three blocks that way, if I’m not mistaken, and we’re not very far from Southgate Market.”

“Ah! Lead on, then.”

“You haven’t any magic to find your way?”

“Not with me; I didn’t expect to need it. I grew up in this city, back when it was called New Ethshar; I hadn’t realized how much it had grown and changed.”