The Misenchanted Sword

Chapter Nine

They took away his weapons, of course. Despite the trouble it had caused him with its mysterious behavior, he found himself reluctant to let Wirikidor go; it was not so much an attachment because it had saved his life as it was a wordless feeling of unease at the thought of someone else handling it.

The soldier who confiscated his weapons seemed reluctant to handle the sword, but he obeyed his orders and accepted it along with Valder’s dagger, sling, and broken-stringed crossbow.

After a little discussion, someone located a pair of boots for him, which he pulled on gratefully. They even fit him fairly well.

The brown-clad officer in charge of the party asked him a few questions—who he was, how he came to be where he had been found, and whether he knew anything about enemy positions. Not feeling up to long explanations, he briefly gave his name, rank, and unit, explained that he had been cut off months earlier, and said that the only enemy position he had seen was the small encampment he had passed through a day’s walk to the northwest.

With that, the officer seemed to lose interest in him. Valder hesitated, and then asked, “Sir, who are you people? What are you doing here? I thought I was still behind the northern lines.”

The officer looked back at him. “I can’t tell you anything,” he said. “You might be a spy.”

Valder had to admit that that would seem like a reasonable possibility. He said, “Oh.”

Seeing his disappointment, the officer took pity on him. “I suppose it won’t do any harm,” he said, “to tell you that, as far as we know, there no longer are any northern lines around here to be behind.”

Valder was not sure whether he was glad to have this tidbit of information or not, since it opened up vast areas of speculation. He lapsed into silence and stood waiting for instructions while the officer considered something.

A young soldier, one of the group that had found Valder, came up and saluted, the back of his hand tight to his shoulder in parade-ground style. “Sir,” he said, “that dead northerner—he’s shatra.”

The officer looked up. “What?”

“The corpse we found this man standing over—it’s shatra. No doubt of it. And the body’s still warm.”

The officer looked at Valder with renewed interest. “Care to explain that, scout?”

Valder shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “He followed me, I think from that camp I mentioned. I killed him, just before you found me.”

“You killed a shatra?”

“Yes.”

“Single-handedly?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“With my sword; it’s enchanted.” He gestured in Wirikidor’s direction.

The officer followed Valder’s gesture, then turned back and eyed him carefully. “What’s a scout doing with an enchanted sword?” he demanded.

“Oh, it wasn’t enchanted when it was issued. I ran into a wizard in a marsh two sixnights or so north of here; he put a few spells on it to help me get back to my unit.”

The officer did not bother to hide his disbelief, and Valder realized just how stupid his story must sound. Before he could say anything further, however, the officer said, “All right, your sword’s enchanted. In that case you’re not my problem; the general’s magicians can decide what to do with you. Sergeant Karn! You and your detail will take this man and his belongings back to camp with you!”

That dealt with, he turned away and attended to other matters. Valder no longer concerned him.

Sergeant Karn was a black-haired giant of a man, well over six feet tall and heavily muscled; his detail consisted of five young soldiers, whom Valder guessed to be new recruits. Their green kilts were unworn, their breastplates still bright, and the oldest looked no more than eighteen. Valder greeted them, hoping to strike up a conversation, but the sergeant quickly stifled that. “He might be a spy,” he reminded his men.

Within ten minutes of being given the order, Karn had Valder’s weapons and belongings gathered together and added to the bundles they already carried, and was leading his little party southward along a newly-made path through the tall grass. This path was merely the simplest and narrowest of trails at first, nothing more than the place a dozen or so men had trampled their way along; most of the advancing Ethsharitic line had been spaced out across the plain, but the commanding officer and his attendants had traveled in a tight little group, leaving the path behind them.

As Karn’s party moved on to the south, however, they passed an assortment of people heading north—supply wagons, fresh troops, messengers, and even curious civilians. They passed captured northerners and wounded men traveling south more slowly than themselves, and were passed in turn by hurrying messengers. By the time they had gone a league the path had become a road, the grass trodden into the dirt. This was a welcome relief for Valder’s tired feet after so long trampling his own paths—though any sort of walking was not something he welcomed. It did not help any that the soldier carrying Wirikidor kept stumbling and bumping into him.

Shortly after that they passed the smoking ruins of a small northern outpost; Valder stared in fascination, but the others, obviously not interested, hurried him on.

The sun was down and the light fading when Karn called a halt. “All right, boys,” he said. “We’ll take a break and see if we can hitch a ride on a supply wagon going back empty. Once the men at the front have had their dinner there should be a few.”

“We aren’t stopping here for the night?” Valder asked.

Karn looked at him scornfully, the expression plain even in the gathering dusk. “No, we’re not stopping for the night. We’re on campaign, soldier!”

“I’m not,” Valder protested. “I’ve been barefoot for two sixnights or more and walking for three months, and I need my rest!”

“Rest in the wagon, then.” Karn turned away.

As he had predicted, an empty wagon came trundling southward perhaps half an hour later, as Karn was showing his men how to make torches of the tall grass. Valder had refused to help with the instruction, so that he was the first to see the wagon’s own torches.

Once aboard the wagon, the rest of the journey was almost pleasant; the road was smooth enough that even a springless ox-drawn cart did not jolt excessively, and Valder was able to sleep off and on until dawn.

They reached the camp early in the afternoon. The first sight of it, as they topped a final hill, was impressive indeed; lines of dull green tents reached to the horizon in three directions amid hundreds of streamers of smoke from cooking fires, broken here and there by an open space. Of course, the camp lay in a narrow depression, so that the horizon was not as far away as it might have been, but Valder was impressed nonetheless. Certainly the encampment was far larger than any he had seen before; he judged that it must hold more than fifty thousand men, and at least one of the open spaces held a tethered dragon. Some of the others held horses or oxen.

He had several minutes to look it over as the wagon made its way up over the hill and paused as the sentries at the perimeter met them with a perfunctory challenge. They were quickly allowed through, and moved on down the slope past the outermost line of tents. At the third row Sergeant Karn signaled the driver, who slowed the oxen to a halt and allowed his passengers to disembark.

After that the party split up; besides escorting their prisoner, the detail had brought an assortment of papers and captured materials that were to be delivered to various places. Three of the soldiers were selected to take Valder and an assortment of magical or possibly magical devices to the magicians’ section, while Karn and the others went elsewhere.

Valder was led back into the depths of the camp, up over another hill, and around a corner, where he found himself looking not at yet more straight lines of identical military-issue green, but at a circle of bright tents in a wide variety of shapes, sizes, and colors clustered around a large area of open ground.

His escort stopped at a chalked line a dozen paces from the outer edge of the circle; Valder stopped as well, though he saw no reason to. The four of them stood and waited for several minutes. Valder was growing restless when a middle-aged woman in a blue gown came hurrying over to them.

“Stuff from the front,” one of the soldiers said, before the woman could speak.

“I’ll take care of it,” she replied.

One of the others grabbed Valder by the arm and pushed him forward. “We found this man up there, too. He claims he got cut off from his unit and got back by using a magic sword. Tell your people to check him out. Here’s the sword.” He indicated Wirikidor, thrust into a sack with the rest of Valder’s possessions.

The woman looked at Valder with mild interest. “I’ll take care of it,” she repeated.

“Where do we put everything?”

She turned and pointed to a small pink tent. “On the table in there, as usual—the wards aren’t up, so you can go right in. And I’ll take care of this fellow and his sword myself, for now.”

“Right.” A soldier handed her the bag containing Valder’s belongings, Wirikidor protruding gracelessly from the top. “He’s all yours.”

“Come on, then,” she said as she led the way toward a red-and-white striped pavilion. Valder followed obediently.

Chapter Ten

He had been in camp for two days before he was allowed outside the magicians’ section. During that time he was passed from hand to hand and subjected to various interrogations, magical inspections, analyses, and divinations, verifying that he was indeed who he claimed to be, and had not been possessed by demons nor placed under any sort of sorcerous control—at least, no sorcery that the latest in modern wizardry and witchcraft could detect, as the camp did not have a competent sorcerer on hand.

Valder wondered anew at this omission; surely Ethshar had a few good sorcerers somewhere, enough to supply one to a camp of this size!

Other than these constant investigations he was not mistreated. The blue-robed woman turned out to be a sort of clerk who acted as a general helper and liaison between the community of magicians and the rest of the world, but was not a magician herself. She found Valder a bunk in a gold-trimmed white tent otherwise occupied by an old man who did not stir out of his trance at any time during Valder’s stay, and it was she who scheduled his appointments with the various wizards and witches who were to study his case.

Shortly after his arrival, as he was checked out by a nervous young wizard who had been put in charge of his case for the moment, another wizard contacted his old unit—or what was left of it. A plump theurgist let slip shortly after contact was made that it had caught the brunt of the enemy’s drive to the sea and been badly mauled—in fact, the unit effectively no longer existed, the survivors having been distributed elsewhere. Fortunately, the survivors included men who knew him, such as his bunkmate Tandellin, and his identity was confirmed through dream images the night after his arrival in camp.

In what seemed an excessive precaution to Valder, they even double-checked the wizardly dreams by witchcraft, lest some unknown enemy wizard’s trick interfere.

Every test bore out his story, of course, since his every word was the truth, and eventually his interrogators were convinced of his honesty and accuracy. He had not realized until he had tried to explain himself to his rescuers—or perhaps captors—just how unlikely his story sounded. Surviving, lost and alone, behind enemy lines for two months, then being rescued from an enemy patrol that had him hopelessly outclassed by a mysterious hermit wizard nobody had ever heard of … Valder had to admit that, stated simply, it did sound unlikely, even before bringing Wirikidor into it. And then, to top it off, he had killed a shatra in single combat. Nobody would ever have believed that at all had he not been found standing alone over the fresh corpse. He suspected that a great many people still did not believe it, even with witnesses and magical verifications.

Eventually, though, after two days of continuous probing, the whole thing was officially accepted, and he was allowed the run of the camp. That done, the various wizards turned their attention to Wirikidor. Until his identity was established he had not been permitted weapons, naturally, and furthermore no one had touched Wirikidor, lest it be booby-trapped. The sword had remained on the table in the pink tent with other unknown magical items. It still looked like any ordinary, standard-issue sword, but when it was brought out into the open circle Valder could somehow sense, beyond question, that this was Wirikidor and no other.

He was currently in the hands of a red-haired young wizard in a dull green robe who had refused to give her name, and a man called Darrend of Calimor, dark-haired and middle-sized, of indeterminate age, wearing a standard military tunic and kilt, but with no breastplate and carrying no sword. Instead of the usual simple soldier’s dagger he bore an ornate ceremonial knife, and wore a soft green cap instead of a helmet, and Valder assumed him to be a wizard, though he had not actually seen him perform any spells. These two stood on either side of him as the clerk brought out the sword.

“That’s it, is it?” Darrend asked.

“Yes,” Valder answered without hesitation. “That’s Wirikidor.”

Darrend glanced at him, then took the sword from the clerk. “We’ve heard your story, of course, so we know a little about how this sword behaves, but how is it you can be so certain that this is in fact your sword and not another?”

Valder shrugged. “I don’t know, but I am sure.”

“It’s inactive as long as it’s sheathed; we tested that right after you were delivered here. Do you know anything about what it’s likely to do when someone draws it?”

“Ah … not really,” Valder said unhappily. “But each time I drew it I was unable to sheathe it again until it had killed a man.”

“Was it in any great hurry to kill someone?”

Valder’s unhappiness grew. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “Each time I drew it, the next person I saw was an enemy, and each time I killed him as quickly as I could—or the sword did.”

“That doesn’t help much. Perhaps we had best assume that it will demand a victim immediately.”

“It might,” Valder agreed.

“We need to draw it in order to examine it, so I think we had best find ourselves a prospective victim.”

“How are you going to do that?” Valder asked; he quickly wished he hadn’t, as he remembered the northern prisoners he had seen on the road south.

“I’ll have to talk to General Karannin,” Darrend replied. “Until then, I think perhaps you should carry the sword again; you’d look out of place around camp without it, and if it does carry an ownership spell, as I suspect, keeping you apart for much longer might be dangerous.” He handed Valder the scabbarded weapon.

Valder accepted it gravely, and restored it to its accustomed place on his belt.

“Until we find a prisoner, I don’t think we’ll be needing you,” Darrend said. “You’re free to go where you please so long as you don’t leave the camp, but be back here at dusk.”

“Thank you,” Valder said. Darrend nodded a farewell, and then strolled away. The clerk and the other wizard, after a moment’s hesitation, also took their leave, leaving him alone in the magicians’ circle.

For a moment he was not sure what to do. He had no friends in this camp; although his old unit was scattered, none had wound up this far inland, and he had not had time since arriving to meet anyone but his interrogators. It was faintly possible, though highly unlikely, that a cousin or other kin could be in the camp, but he had no idea where any such relatives might be found.

That meant there were no people he wanted to see, but that did not leave him utterly without purpose; after three months of near-total isolation, more than anything else he wanted news—and he would have no objection to wine and women—song would be strictly optional, as he had never been particularly musical. He had picked up a few bits of information in conversation with the wizards and witches, but only enough to whet his appetite for real news. His meals had included only water or weak beer, and the idea of a good drunk, on wine or something stronger, was appealing. The various female magicians or magicians’ helpers he had encountered had been unavailable, unattractive, or both.

If this camp followed the pattern of every other camp he had ever been in, he knew exactly where to go for what he wanted—but it was not technically in the camp, nor was he likely to return by nightfall.

What the hell, he told himself, he deserved a little relaxation. He had been cooperative enough since his capture. He turned south and headed for the rear of the encampment, where the camp followers and hangers-on were sure to have a camp of their own.

Sure enough, as he had expected, the tents and shacks of the camp followers were strewn across the plains south of the main camp, and as he had expected the largest structures were all either bars or brothels. The others catered to other interests; some even sheltered soldiers’ families, which was the official reason such camptowns were tolerated. Valder ignored the freelance seers, officers’ wives, and other respectable or semi-respectable people, and headed directly for a large tan-colored tent hung with red lanterns.

News, he decided, came first, since it was still only mid-afternoon. He suspected he might not remember the evening, and he did not want to forget anything important. With that in mind he settled at a table in the half-empty improvised tavern in the front of the tent, ignoring what lay beyond the bead curtain. He ordered a mild wine, since he intended to start off slowly.

As he had hoped, there were a few other people in the place, and as might be expected so early in the day they included some serious drinkers. It was not difficult to get one of them started talking. Valder asked questions whenever the stream of words seemed to be slowing, and sipped at his wine every so often to keep the taverner happy.

He started the conversation off with the usual banter about how miserable military life was, but quickly brought up the fact that he had been cut off for months.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked, half-jokingly. “Any generals drop dead, or anything?”

“Nope,” his drinking companion, a lieutenant by the name of Sidor, replied. “It’s still Gor and Terrek and Anaran and Azrad running everything—them and their flunkies, like our own dear General Karannin, sitting here in the middle of nowhere because he doesn’t want to cause trouble.”

That sounded interesting; Valder prompted the lieutenant, asking, “How do you mean that?”

The resulting tirade was not always clear, but the gist of it seemed to be that the enemy was in a state of near-collapse and General Karannin was failing to take advantage of it. The northerners’ drive to the sea, which had cut Valder off from his unit in the first place, had apparently been a desperate gamble that had not paid off; the Empire had put everything it could muster into a high-speed attack that had apparently been intended to sweep around the western end of the Ethsharitic army, down the coast and back across toward Old Ethshar itself—or at least toward Admiral Azrad’s home base. The attack had failed; the Ethsharitic resistance had been enough to wear away the northern assault force until, by the time it ran up against General Gor’s coastal fortress, there was almost nothing left of it.

Naturally, realizing the enemy’s weakness, Ethshar had counter-attacked along a broad front, advancing up across the plains and meeting virtually no resistance. The few scattered northerners they did encounter appeared to be simply scouts, sentries, and remnants of the assault force’s supply line that had been left behind when the attack collapsed.

It was obvious to anyone with any wits, the lieutenant said repeatedly, that the Empire had finally run out of troops, and launched their last attack while they still had men to do their fighting. Everyone had seen that the northern soldiers had gotten younger and younger of late. All Ethshar’s army had to do to end the war was march straight on into the Empire’s capital and take over.

The generals, of course, would not do that. Sidor got quite sarcastic on that point. The generals, he claimed, were afraid the whole thing was a trap or trick of some sort, when anybody could see that it was nothing of the kind. General Karannin, in particular, had insisted on advancing with what Sidor considered truly absurd caution. The very fact that his camp had stayed in one place for the two days Valder had been in it was, to Sidor, proof that Karannin was wasting a golden opportunity to put an end to the interminable conflict.

For his own part, Valder had some doubts. The Empire still appeared, from what he had seen, to have a good many sorcerers and shatra on hand, even if they were running short of regular infantry; furthermore, nobody knew what other surprises the northerners’ tutelary demons might provide should shatra prove inadequate.

Besides, the war had been going on for centuries. It seemed unlikely to Valder that of all the generations that had fought in his family he should happen to be the one lucky enough to have it end during his lifetime.

Of course, he was the first in his family to own a magic sword—but that was a minor thing, really, where the end of the Great War would mean an entirely different world.

He had managed to nurse his single cup of wine for over an hour of Sidor’s diatribes and gossip, but it was gone at last, and he decided it was time to move on to more serious drinking. He ordered a mug of oushka and took a sip as Sidor raved about why the war should have already been won.

The drink burned going down; he coughed. It had been a long time since he had drunk oushka, and, he realized, he had lost his taste for the stuff. That took most of the fun out of the prospect of getting drunk—and now that he thought about it, he did not really want to get drunk in the first place. That had been what he always did in the evening when he had nothing better to do, but most of the fun of it had been in the company he kept—friends who were not here, many of whom were apparently dead. He had come here out of habit. Sidor was a poor substitute for the comrades he had spent years with.

He looked at the bead curtain, unsure whether he wanted what it hid; his hand fell to his purse, and he decided the point was moot. He had forgotten that he had almost no money—in fact, his only money was the single silver bit every scout carried. The magicians might have established his identity, but so far nobody had given him his back pay, and all his belongings left behind had presumably been lost when his unit was overrun. The lone coin was probably not even enough to pay for his two drinks.

He glanced around, trying to seem casual, and saw that the taverner was not looking in his direction. He dropped the silver bit on the table and sauntered out, his heart beating a little faster than he liked.

No one called after him. The sun was reddening in the west; he decided to obey orders after all, and return to the magicians’ circle.

Chapter Eleven

General Karannin’s tent was no more luxurious, inside or out, than that of any of his officers. Even the number of cots was the same, as he had his secretary and two aides sharing his quarters, to be available when he wanted them. It was, however, somewhat larger, and the extra space was occupied by a table jammed into one end, with an assortment of gear stowed underneath.

Valder was slightly surprised by the lack of ostentation. He was unsure whether to credit it to practicality on the general’s part, or a show of egalitarianism. He waited for perhaps five minutes, guarded by two soldiers, before the general arrived. The wizards who had brought him slipped quietly away out of the tent after making their delivery. Valder waited, looking around with unconcealed interest; he had not expected to be brought directly to the general himself.

Karannin was a short, balding man, brown-haired and green-eyed, wearing an ordinary green kilt and brown tunic; he moved quickly and energetically when he moved at all, and swept into the tent like a breaking wave. “You’re Valder,” he said as he slapped aside the tent-flap.

Valder saluted, open palm at his shoulder. “Valder of Kardoret, Scout First Class, Western Command, Coastal Division, Third Regiment, detached, sir.”

“Right. Sit down.”

Valder obeyed, seating himself on the edge of the nearest cot. The general remained standing throughout the conversation, taking a few paces back and forth, then pausing for a moment, then pacing again.

“The wizards have been telling me about you, trying to convince me to let them have a condemned prisoner. You got cut off by the enemy’s drive to the coast?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has anybody told you what happened, how the attack went?”

“No, sir, not really,” Valder replied; he had not officially been told anything, and did not care to explain his chat with the drunken lieutenant.

“Good; not all of my men are blabbermouths. So you survived and escaped northward, where you encountered a wizard—or at least a hermit you took to be a wizard—who enchanted your sword. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Valder knew better than to point out that he knew beyond any possible doubt that the hermit had been a wizard.

“Just what sort of an enchantment is it supposed to be? Did he say? I’m not asking you to remember any details, son, just whether he said.”

“No, sir, he made a point of not telling me, it seemed. I’m afraid that we weren’t on very good terms by that time.”

“You’re absolutely sure he didn’t say anything about the nature of the spell, or mention any names?”

“He told me that he had put every spell he could manage without his supplies on it, sir—or at least every one he thought would be of use. He mentioned some kind of ownership spell, I think. And he told me the sword’s name was Wirikidor, and that I mustn’t draw it until I was well out of sight of him.”

“You told my people this, when they asked you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My wizards heard this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s your sword there, right? The one that was enchanted?” He paused in his pacing and pointed at Valder’s belt.

“I believe so, sir.”

“And you used this sword? Killed a sentry or two, fought a dragon, and an enemy you thought was shatra?”

Valder suppressed his urge to take offense at the doubting way his killing a shatra was mentioned. Karannin was not Gor or Azrad or Anaran or Terrek, but he was still a general, whatever Sidor might think of him. One did not argue with generals. “Yes, sir.”

“My wizards tell me that it might be dangerous to draw the thing.”

“Yes, sir, it might. Every time it’s been drawn since it was enchanted it has killed a man at the first opportunity.”

Karannin stared at him. “Tell me about it,” he said.

“Sir, once I draw the sword I won’t be able to sheathe it or put it down until I’ve killed a man with it. Furthermore, I don’t know for certain whether I can choose which man I kill. Remember, the hermit would not let me unsheathe it in his presence. So far I have never drawn it in the presence of anyone not an enemy, so it hasn’t been put to the test.”

The general looked at him shrewdly. “The sword can act on its own? You don’t need to direct it?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right. That’s how I survived against the shatra; if I had been controlling the sword I’d be dead now.”

“I’ve heard of such things, but the spells aren’t reliable.”

“Yes, sir.”

Karannin contemplated him for perhaps three seconds before barking at one of his guards, “You, there, sergeant, go fetch the wizards, and then ask Captain Dar to bring that prisoner.”

The soldier bowed in acknowledgement, and slipped out through the flap. Karannin began pacing again, but did not resume his questioning.

A moment later the guard returned, and stepped aside to allow Darrend and the young red-haired wizard to enter. Behind them came a burly black-haired man in a captain’s uniform, hauling by one arm a young soldier who was extraordinarily unkempt, and, to judge by his odor, long unwashed, his hands tied behind him. To Valder’s surprise, this prisoner was an Ethsharite, not a northerner.

“Well, Captain Dar?” the general said.

“Yes, sir,” the brawny captain replied. “This is Kelder Vengar’s son. He was caught robbing the corpses of his comrades and stripping their jewelry. When spotted, he ran; when apprehended two days later he stabbed the arresting officer in the belly. He was sentenced to be flogged, as it was a first offense and the officer survived, but three days ago, while awaiting punishment, he attempted escape and tried to brain one of his guards. We were waiting to see whether the guard died before deciding what to do with him; the guard died this morning. Will he do?”

“I think so, Captain. Wizards? Valder? Will he do?”

Valder shrugged, the redhead stammered, and Darrend said, “I would think so.” The prisoner himself was staring at the lot of them, trying to figure out what was happening.

“Good enough, then. I want to see this. Scout, give Darrend your sword.”

Reluctantly, Valder removed Wirikidor from his belt and handed it over. The wizard accepted it cautiously, then held the scabbard in his left hand and put his right to the hilt, preparing to draw the sword.

Staring at Darrend’s hands with morbid fascination, Valder said, “Sir, need I remain here? I would prefer not to watch.”

The general peered at him. “You expect danger?”

“No, sir, I just don’t want to watch.”

“Squeamish?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then, you may go—but don’t leave camp.”

“Yes, sir.” Gratefully, Valder slipped out the tent-flap and looked about, glad to be outside, away from the impending killing. He tried to decide which way to go.

Somewhere, he knew, there must be a paymaster—and he was due three months’ back pay. This was not his unit, so some argument would probably be required, but he thought he ought to be able to get at least part of what he was owed. A guard stood nearby, in addition to those inside the tent—but Valder suddenly decided, upon hearing voices from inside the tent, that he wanted to get out of earshot as well as out of sight of what he was sure would be the execution of Kelder Vengar’s son. He had no quarrel with sentencing such a criminal to die, but he was also not fond of watching or listening to anyone’s death. He turned left, choosing his direction at random, and started walking.

He turned left again a few tents down, and began working his way toward Camptown. Maybe, he thought, someone would treat him to a drink. Despite his earlier experience with the oushka he thought he could use one now.

He had gotten perhaps halfway when he heard someone calling his name. Surprised, he turned and saw a young soldier waving at him.

He waited while the soldier came up to him. “Are you Valder of Kardoret?” he was asked.

“Yes,” he replied, mystified; the soldier was a complete stranger.

“The general wants to see you immediately, in his tent.”

Still mystified, Valder followed the soldier back to the general’s tent.

The instant he stepped through the flap Karannin stopped pacing and barked at him, “You said you used this infernal sword?”

“Yes, sir,” Valder answered, still puzzled.

“Then why in Hell can’t anyone here draw it for the wizards to study?”

The question startled Valder. “I don’t know, sir.” It had not occurred to him that anyone would have any difficulty in drawing it. He never had.

The general had not resumed his pacing, and was now staring at him as if expecting him to say more. Valder stared back for a few seconds, not feeling particularly cooperative—after all, he had not been treated very pleasantly—but then remembered the penalties for insolence.

“I never had any difficulty in drawing the sword, sir,” he said. “At times I found it impossible to sheathe it, but I never had any trouble drawing it. Ah … the hermit told me that the sword’s name means ‘slayer of warriors,’ and I suspect it has a certain affinity for soldiers; perhaps the people who tried to draw it did not meet its standards.”

The general stared at him for another second before snapping, “One of these wizards who tried to draw it is Darrend of Calimor, thrice commended for bravery in action. When caught without the tools of his trade he once fought and killed an enemy sorcerer with only his ceremonial dagger. Furthermore, I tried to draw it myself. If your sword doesn’t consider any one of us to be a warrior I would like to know just whom it would accept!”

Taken aback, Valder replied, “I don’t know, sir.” He glanced at Darrend with renewed interest, and wondered how old the wizard was; he looked no more than thirty, which was young to have the sort of respect the general gave him. He did not have the appearance of a man who had often been in combat.

“Well, then, let’s find out, shall we? There’s the sword, scout first class; let us see if you can draw it where Darrend could not.”

“Ah … sir.. if I might say something?”

“Speak, damn it, that’s what you’re here for.”

“Sir, I would really prefer not to draw the sword. While I have no love for this prisoner, I would rather not kill him. Killing an enemy in battle is one thing—I’ve done that a few times—but killing a defenseless man in the same uniform I wear is something entirely different.”

“I am sure your scruples do you credit,” the general replied. “However, I believe that if we’re going to have a demonstration of the sword’s magic, you will have to be the one who draws it. Assuming, that is, that anyone can draw it.”

Delaying in hopes of a miracle, Valder asked Darrend, “You tried to draw Wirikidor?”

Darrend nodded. “It was like trying to pull apart a steel bar. A highly polished one, at that; it kept slipping out of my hands.”

“I tried it, too,” the other wizard remarked. “Felt as if I nearly broke my fingers.”

“Really?” Valder stared at the sword in the general’s hand. “I never had any trouble.”

“Well, we all did,” Karannin said. “Slippery thing, isn’t it?” He handed it to Valder, hilt-first.

It did not feel slippery to him. His hand closed firmly on the familiar grip, and he looked unwillingly at the waiting prisoner. The man was sweating profusely, his mouth tight shut, his eyes fixed on the tent’s ridgepole.

Of course, Valder told himself, no one was sure that Wirikidor would insist on a killing. It was all just guesswork and inference. Reluctantly, he drew the sword.

It slid easily from the sheath, as it always had for him; this time, however, it seemed to be trembling in anticipation as soon as it left the scabbard.

“There it is,” he said, displaying the bared blade to the general and the wizards.

“Can you sheathe it again?” Darrend asked.

Valder made the attempt, but Wirikidor not only refused to return to its scabbard, it actively fought against him. It was, he realized, struggling to get into a position where it might strike out at one of the people in the tent.

The general was the closest; Valder found his hand being dragged in Karannin’s direction. Realizing he had little choice now that the sword was free of the sheath he turned and took a step toward Kelder.

Wirikidor flashed out and cut the prisoner’s neck open, half-severing his head. Kelder died with only a dry croak, his eyes and mouth suddenly wide with surprise. As he fell to the floor Valder felt the tension vanish from the sword; the trembling ceased completely, leaving him holding what seemed an ordinary blade.

“Don’t sheathe it!” Darrend called.

“I wasn’t going to,” Valder replied. “You wanted to study it, didn’t you? Here, then; you take it!” He turned the weapon and passed it to Darrend hilt first, then passed the scabbard along as well.

The wizard accepted both gravely, and Valder smiled beneath an overwhelming wave of relief as it left his hand. The smile vanished an instant later as he again caught sight of the corpse on the dirt floor of the tent. Disgust seeped up his throat.

He was, he assured himself, glad to be free of the sword responsible for such a killing. He wished he were also free of the general who had arranged it and the wizards who had requested it.

Chapter Twelve

The wizards kept Wirikidor, but bed space in the magicians’ circle was at a premium, so the day after Kelder’s death Valder was transferred and assigned to share the quarters of three lieutenants. The previous fourth occupant of their tent was missing in action as a result of a brief and inconclusive skirmish between the advancing Ethsharites and a small party of northerners that had included at least one sorcerer.

The lieutenants were less than delighted with his presence. They had hoped for the return of their comrade, or else for the greater space a vacancy would allow; to have a stranger thrust upon them, a soldier from an entirely different part of the army, and not even an officer, was not welcome. Another regular lieutenant would have been someone with whom they might talk shop, exchange stories and perhaps duties—but instead they found themselves with a battered scout, nominally below them in rank but with considerably more experience of the world and the enemy, and with no assigned duties at all.

Valder, understanding their position, did everything he could to accommodate them. He had no belongings to take up precious space, and his lack of duties allowed him to keep whatever hours suited their mutual convenience. He was perfectly willing to stay awake until all hours talking, or to stay quiet, or even to go elsewhere for a time if his tentmates so desired.

He was also a willing listener, in his eagerness to catch up on everything he had missed not just while lost in the north, but even before, as his unit had been an isolated one. For that matter, just the sound of human voices, regardless of what was being said, was comforting.

Everyone likes a good listener. After a few hours his affability and open interest in what his new companions had to say had worn down the initial strain, and one of the three, a gangling young man of twenty-two freshly arrived from a training camp near the port of Shan on the Sea, got talking.

The lieutenant’s name was Radler Dathet’s son, and although he was only a year or so younger than Valder he seemed to the scout little more than a boy.

Radler agreed, in general, with Sidor’s assessment of the strategic situation, but attributed the slow advance to the lack of roads and adequate means of supply, rather than to timidity on the part of the Ethsharitic commanders. General Gor’s Western Command and General Anaran’s Central Command were both advancing, chewing up the scattered enemy units they encountered. In the interior Azrad was doing his best to provide the necessary logistical support, but supplies and men were both becoming scarce. General Terrek’s Eastern Command was still stalemated, as no foolhardy attack had been made on that front—and Terrek, suspecting a ruse, was not willing to send anything to his compatriots.

General Karannin was one of Gor’s subordinates, as Valder had thought—though the possibility that he was one of Anaran’s, somehow strayed west, had occurred to him. Gor himself was reportedly still in his coastal fortress, coordinating, rather than leading the advance personally.

Losses had been fairly heavy on both sides, Radler thought, despite the small numbers of the northerners, because a disproportionate number of the enemy were either sorcerers or shatra. Nonetheless, like Sidor, he thought the long war was finally nearing an end.

Valder still didn’t believe that, but not wanting to antagonize Radler, he said nothing of his doubts.

After that topic was exhausted, Valder picked up assorted camp gossip—none of it, unfortunately, mentioning anyone he had met. He asked about Darrend, but none of his tentmates knew anything about the wizard.

As the afternoon wore on the three lieutenants, one by one, departed on various errands. Radler was on duty, commanding a supply detail; the others, Korl and Tesra, mentioned no destination. Valder thought they might be headed for the brothels of Camptown. Having no money and therefore nothing better to do—it was far too late to find the paymaster—Valder settled back for a nap.

He was awakened by the sound of the tent-flap opening.

“Excuse me, sir,” a soldier said, standing in the light so that Valder could not see his face, “but I believe this is yours.” He held out an unsheathed sword, hilt first.

Valder took it without thinking, then started to protest. He stopped suddenly, before the first word was finished, when he realized that the sword he held was indeed his own.

That made no sense. The wizards were supposed to be studying Wirikidor. Surely they weren’t done with it already? And if they were, would they hand it back so casually? And where was the scabbard? He turned back toward the flap, but the soldier had gone.

He sat up, and his foot struck something. He reached down. As he had half expected, he found Wirikidor’s sheath lying on the dirt floor. He picked it up and stared at it, sword in one hand and scabbard in the other.

Puzzled, he arose and peered out of the tent. Nobody was in the immediate area; nobody was looking at him. Still confused, he emerged into the late afternoon sun and gazed about.

The camp was going about its business; men were sharpening blades, talking, eating, hurrying back and forth. He saw no sign of the soldier who had delivered the sword.

With a shrug, Valder turned toward the magicians’ circle. He was not sure whether he was meant to have the sword back or not, and the wizards were obviously the people who would know.

As he approached the chalked line where the warding spells began someone caught sight of him and called out. Figures emerged from the polychrome tents and faces turned toward him.

He stopped at the line until a wizard beckoned him on; a moment later he was in the circle, surrounded by magicians.

Darrend was among them. “So there you are,” he remarked.

“Here I am,” Valder replied. “Where should I be?”

“I really couldn’t say, soldier, but that sword of yours is supposed to be right here. No one was authorized to move it, yet the first time we took a break—just for a moment—it vanished. Not magically vanished; someone walked off with it. And while we were looking for the sword the same thing happened to the scabbard. Now here you are, with both of them. Odd, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps so, sir,” Valder replied. He had the impression that Darrend ranked as an officer. “It was none of my doing, though, or I wouldn’t be here bringing them back, would I? Someone just handed the sword to me, and I found the scabbard on the floor of the tent, as if someone had tossed it there while I was taking a nap.”

Various magicians exchanged glances. “The Spell of True Ownership, I’d say—or at any rate a close variant,” one remarked.

Darrend frowned. “I tested for that, and got ambiguous results. It isn’t the standard form, but it could be something close.”

“But,” said the redhead, “that’s why no one else could draw it, of course. And now it’s found its way back to Valder as if by chance—that’s the Spell of True Ownership if I ever saw it!”

“It’s an odd form, though,” Darrend insisted. “There’s something unhealthy about it.”

“There’s always something unhealthy about True Ownership to my mind,” someone new answered.

“No, it’s different. I tested for it, of course—when no one else could draw the sword True Ownership was the first thing I thought of. But there’s no trace of a gold ring’s use, and how can you work the Spell of True Ownership without a gold ring?”

Valder had no idea what Darrend was talking about. Only recently awakened from his nap and still not entirely recovered from his adventures he was not very much interested in anything but once more disposing of the sword. “True Owner or not, I’d prefer you take the sword and finish your tests if you’re going to,” he said testily. “Sir,” he added belatedly.

“Yes, of course,” Darrend said, accepting the weapon’s hilt.

Valder relinquished the sword and scabbard and then paused. “How long will the tests take?” he asked.

Darrend shrugged. “I have no idea. It depends on just what was done to it. With luck we’ll finish by midnight; without it, we may never figure it out completely.”

“Oh.” Valder looked at the sword. “Well, good luck, sir.” He turned and marched back toward his tent.

He was fairly certain that sooner or later either the sword would again find its way back to him, or he would be drawn to the sword. He wondered how much of his future would be tied to Wirikidor, and whether the enchantment might be broken, or perhaps just the Spell of True Ownership removed, so that anyone could use the sword.

Darrend watched him go, fighting down a sudden urge to follow. He found himself thinking of urgent errands to be run in the vicinity of Valder’s tent.

Annoyed, he recognized the action of the Spell of True Ownership, trying to return the sword to its master—or perhaps its slave. One could never be sure with magic swords. He worked a simple counterspell against compulsions and stalked back toward the laboratory tent.

Chapter Thirteen

After four days of study, days during which more than half the camp had been packed up and sent north while Valder did nothing of any use other than finally obtaining his accumulated pay, the wizards had finished their investigation of Wirikidor’s properties. Shortly after the noon meal a messenger fetched Valder and brought him to the magicians’ circle.

Darrend was waiting for him in a blue and gold tent, where Wirikidor and its sheath lay on one of the two cots. Valder took the seat he was offered on the other cot and listened as Darrend spoke.

“We have finished our studies of the sword you call Wirikidor, despite its resistance to being handled by anyone but you, and despite its constant attempts to get back to you. There are several details of its enchantment we can’t make out by any means currently at our disposal, but we have the basic characteristics figured out.”

Valder nodded, listening attentively.

“I’ve discussed it with the general. I don’t know if he has any use for it in mind yet, but he told me that as the sword’s owner you should be informed.”

“Very kind of him,” Valder remarked with mild sarcasm.

“Yes. Well, firstly, we were right about the Spell of True Ownership. The sword does have a variant of that spell on it, a deteriorating and unhealthy form. The Spell of True Ownership can be bad enough in any case, since nobody has yet established whether the person owns the enchanted object or the object owns the person, but in your case it seems to be especially bad, due to the spell’s decaying nature. The link between the sword and yourself is quite strong, and will stay that way for … well, for a time. Before I can explain that let me explain some of the other things.”

He paused, as if uncertain what to say, and Valder prodded him, asking, “What other things?”

“Other spells—there are several other spells here, all woven together. I’ve never encountered anything quite like it. There’s Ellran’s Immortal Animation, for example—that’s a nasty, awkward spell and your crazy hermit had no right to use it, if you ask me. It’s irreversible, completely irreversible—and what’s worse, it makes any spell linked to it irreversible, too. It’s the Animation that allows your sword to move of its own volition, as you’ve seen it do. Furthermore, the Animation makes the other spells on the sword permanent and unbreakable—unless one were to use really powerful counterspells, and even then it would be incredibly dangerous. The combination of the Animation and the True Ownership has the effect of linking you and your life to the sword—breaking the spells would kill you, at the very least, as well as destroying the sword.”

Valder stared at the sword on the cot opposite him. This was not anything he had expected. What it would mean to him was still unclear, but it appeared that Wirikidor’s existence was not going to be a mere passing episode in his career.

“This has its good side, of course,” Darrend went on. “The sword is virtually indestructible now, and there’s a curious benefit for you in that as nearly as we can determine, you can no longer be killed by any ordinary means. Since your life is now bound up in the sword, you see, you can’t be destroyed by anything outside the sword. If the sword is destroyed you’ll die, very definitely—but it’s almost impossible for anyone, even a very high-powered wizard, to damage the sword, let alone destroy it. Ellran’s Immortal Animation is indeed very close to the immortality it claims. The sword itself can kill you, under certain circumstances—I’ll speak of that in a moment—but to the best of my knowledge, after intensive study by myself and my comrades, there is nothing else in the world that can.”

“What?” Valder blinked. He did not believe he had heard Darrend correctly. He was shocked out of the torpor that had beset him since Kelder’s death.

“You can’t be killed, Valder; you can’t die by any means whatsoever, except to die on Wirikidor’s blade, or if someone should find a way to destroy the sword.”

“What?” Valder stared, still not comprehending.

“No one is going to destroy the sword; doing so would almost certainly cause a catastrophe. Valder, you are going to live until you die on Wirikidor’s blade. There is no other way you can die, not since you first drew the sword.”

Valder stared in mute astonishment.

“This doesn’t mean you’re invulnerable. You can still be injured—you just can’t die. You can be maimed, tortured, blinded, deafened, driven mad, crippled, dismembered, even cut into pieces—but you won’t actually die until Wirikidor kills you. That’s part of what’s so nasty about the Immortal Animation.”

Valder struggled to assimilate this information. “I can’t die?”

“Not from any ordinary means. However, there is a catch, and this is where that deteriorating spell comes into it. Your hermit substituted something else for the ring of drawn gold that’s supposed to be a part of the Spell of True Ownership, and the resulting enchantment is corrupt. You became the true owner of the sword when you first drew it; whoever drew it would have. However, because of the flaw, you won’t stay the true owner forever—only gold never tarnishes, not whatever substitute was used here. You’ll be able to draw the sword and use it one hundred times, give or take one or two—and that’s all. After that the sword will renounce you. The next time the sword is drawn after that—and you, Valder of Kardoret, will be the only man in all Ethshar not able to draw the sword then—whoever draws the sword will be its new owner, and you will be the first man to die on Wirikidor’s blade when that happens. The new owner will be able to draw and wield it ninety-nine times, give or take—one fewer than you, at any rate—and then it’ll turn on him. After that the third owner will be allowed ninety-eight, and so on, until some poor fool, centuries from now, will draw it and have it turn on him immediately. That will use up the spell completely, and there will be no true owner thereafter.”

“Wait a minute—nothing else can kill me, but Wirikidor is going to turn on me and kill me?”

“That’s more or less correct.”

Valder was outraged. “That’s insane! What sort of an enchantment is that?”

Darrend shrugged. “Hermits often are insane. I suspect this one didn’t like you.”

“How long will this take, then? How long do I have to live?”

“Who knows? That doesn’t seem to be built in anywhere. There isn’t any compulsion to draw the sword; leave it undrawn and in theory you could live forever.”

Valder stared first at the wizard, and then at the sword. He was still having trouble taking this in. As a soldier he had long lived, albeit reluctantly, with the idea that he might be killed at any moment. Now that was no longer true. How could the hermit have wreaked such havoc on his life?

He could still be harmed, though. “I’m not sure I want that,” he said slowly. “Can the spell be removed?”

Darrend sighed. “Not by me. I don’t think anyone could do it. Your hermit was either very lucky, or an incredibly talented wizard. It would take a spell more powerful than all the ones he used put together to remove the enchantment, the way he has everything linked up, and I doubt that any wizard alive could handle such a spell. I certainly can’t. Ellran’s Immortal Animation is usually rated as an eighth-order spell, and that’s just one of the charms he used. Only one wizard in a hundred or so makes it past fourth-order enchantments alive. On a good day I can handle one eighth-order spell, but not a tangle like that; nobody I ever heard of short of Fendel the Great could undo that mess.” He paused, a startled look on his face. “I just thought of something,” he said. “Nobody really knows what happened to Fendel; do you think he might be your hermit?”

Valder shrugged. “I suppose he could be.”

“Oh, probably not.” Darrend waved the possibility away.

“Isn’t there any other way of getting the enchantment off, other than this impossible counterspell?”

“Not that I know of. There are legends about ways of cancelling out wizardry entirely, like snuffing a candle, but I’ve never believed in them. If they existed the northerners would have found them by now and used them against us.”

Valder knew enough to dismiss such scare stories.

“Why worry about it, though?” Darrend said. “You don’t need to remove the spell; it won’t be that hard to live with, if you’re careful about drawing and not drawing the sword. You’ll have to keep Wirikidor with you, of course—leaving a Truly Owned object around can be dangerous. If it takes a tidal wave or an earthquake to bring it to you, when the spell has built up enough potential you’ll get a tidal wave or an earthquake, and all the damage that would cause. It’s a ruthless sort of spell.”

“Oh,” Valder said. He had been thinking of quietly burying Wirikidor somewhere to keep it from being drawn that hundred-and-first time—or ninety-ninth or one-hundred-and-third or whatever.

“I think that covers the ownership angle,” Darrend said. “Now, about the sword’s name and what it does. The hermit told you that ‘Wirikidor’ means ‘slayer of warriors,’ but that’s a bad translation. ‘Mankiller’ is closer. It doesn’t care if its victims are warriors, so long as they’re human, male, and past puberty.”

“Oh,” Valder said again. That explained why the sword had not killed the dragon or the woman, and why it had hesitated against the half-human shatra.

“Furthermore, as you have discovered, it’s ‘man killer,’ not ‘men killer.’ It’s only interested in taking one life each time it’s drawn.”

“I had noticed that,” Valder agreed.

“Yes, I’m sure you have. Each time it’s drawn it will kill a man, as quickly as you can provide it with a victim. You’ll want to be careful about that. I think you can control which man it kills of several, but I doubt you can hold it back entirely—it needs to kill someone. You saw that with that convict. Against its proper foe—a single man—it’s as close to unbeatable as wizardry can make it. You’ll never need to worry about being outmatched. Besides the Animation that lets it all work, it’s got three separate blessings—one of which I never encountered before—and the Spell of Perpetual Sharpness, and a few other little charms and cantrips. This hermit may have been mad, but he knew an amazing amount of magic and he didn’t stint in using it. If he could do something like this after most of his supplies were destroyed he’d certainly be an asset to the war effort.”

“He said he had already served.”

“If he did, he either kept his talents hidden or has developed them since—or maybe he was kept secret. Ordinarily I’m sure I’d have heard of anyone with his abilities.”

“He seemed quite old,” Valder said. “Maybe he was before your time. Maybe he is this Fendel the Great you mentioned, I don’t know.”

“Well, whoever he is, you’ve got an impressive weapon here. Not flashy, but powerful. I’m returning it to you—no point in letting the Spell of True Ownership get dangerous—but I want to warn you to be extremely cautious with it.” He reached out and pulled the sword and scabbard from the table, then handed them to Valder. He accepted both, then slid the blade into its sheath and hung it on his belt.

“Get to know it,” Darrend said. “You and Wirikidor are going to be together for the rest of your life, so you had better become accustomed to its behavior. Be grateful that it hasn’t got a mind of its own—reflexes, yes, but no mind that I can detect, no whims, no personality. It’s a very powerful and valuable item, and a very dangerous one as well, both to you and to others.”

“Yes, sir.” Valder was not absolutely certain that Darrend was technically a superior officer, but he spoke like one and obviously commanded considerable respect, so that the “sir” seemed natural.

“Remember that it will keep you alive but not safe. Don’t get overconfident, or you might wind up so badly crippled or maimed that death would be mercy. And don’t forget that you’re destined to die on its blade. That sword is both friend and enemy; remember that.”

“Yes, sir.” Valder did not think he was likely to forget anything of such vital personal importance.

“I’ve passed on a complete report, and your superiors are considering just what to do with you. Since your old unit is disbanded you’ll be given a position here, I understand. I think they’ll probably find some special use for you and Wirikidor—it would be a shame to waste such a sword’s talents.”

“Yes, sir.” Valder was still too busy absorbing what he had been told to wonder about what special duties he might be given.

“I believe the general had hoped we might produce more swords like Wirikidor—after all, a weapon that can kill shatra at close range is impressive. Unfortunately, though we have identified most of the spells on it, we can’t figure out how to reproduce most of them without killing half a dozen people in doing it, so it looks as if you, Valder of Kardoret, are going to remain unique.”

Valder could think of no sensible reply to that. After a moment’s pause he simply said again, “Yes, sir.”

“That’s all,” Darrend said, motioning toward the tent-flap. Valder got to his feet.

“Yes, sir,” he repeated, as he stepped out into the sunlight.

Chapter Fourteen

Valder settled quietly on his cot, Wirikidor on his hip, and mulled over what Darrend had told him.

The wizard had seemed very sure of his findings. Valder saw no reason to dispute them, but had vague recollections of once hearing that magical analysis of enchanted weaponry was not always reliable. He glanced down at the sword in the dimness of the tent. It looked like an ordinary sword, just as it always had, yet its power had supposedly made him virtually immortal—so long as he did not draw the sword too often. About a hundred times, the wizard had said. Since leaving the marsh he had drawn it three—no, four times. He had killed the coast-watcher, the swordsman, the shatra, and the prisoner. That left him with a minimum of ninety-four and a maximum of ninety-eight more drawings, which seemed like a safe enough margin. Very few soldiers actually confronted a hundred enemy soldiers at close range in their whole careers, let alone killed that many. He himself had served six years before Wirikidor’s enchantment without ever being sure he had killed anyone.

Of course, there was the mention of possible special duty. That prospect might prove troublesome. He was a scout, and preferred to remain a scout if he was to be a soldier at all. He tried to think what unusual service Wirikidor’s characteristics would be suited to.

He certainly wasn’t going to be a fencing instructor, nor anything else where he might need to draw his sword for any reason other than battle to the death. That eliminated sentry duty and guarding prisoners, as well, unless he were to carry a second sword, which would be awkward, to say the least.

He could be a fine executioner, but that seemed a waste of the sword’s power. Besides, he violently disliked the idea. He did not like killing anything, especially not people, most particularly Ethsharites. The fact that they would be helpless prisoners made it even worse. Not, he reminded himself, that the army had beheaded anyone in centuries, or that they used a professional executioner in the first place. Murderers and deserters and so forth were usually hanged by whoever was handy. The poor fool he had killed in the general’s tent had been an exception; dying by the sword usually only happened in battle.

He tried to approach the question logically. Wirikidor’s magic was directed toward keeping him alive and killing other men one at a time, if the wizards had analyzed it correctly. The men that his superiors would presumably most like to kill would be the enemy’s soldiers. Therefore, it followed that Valder would be sent to kill enemy soldiers.

How was that a special duty? And would it be practical to send him into battle when he would need to sheathe his sword after each killing before its power would serve again?

He sighed and gave up. Whatever the special duty might be it was likely to be dangerous and unpleasant, and there was no point in making life unpleasant by worrying about it sooner than necessary. He would have plenty of time to worry when he knew what was to happen. Whatever the duty, he could live with it—or if not, he would find some way out. There was always a way out.

With that thought, he rolled over and went to sleep.

He found himself in a dream—very obviously a dream, as huge runes on the wall in front of him spelled out, This dream is being provided by Sharassin of Shan. He supposed such runes might be drawn on a real wall somewhere, but he had no reason to doubt what they said in this instance; he felt as if he were dreaming. As soon as he had read them, the runes writhed about and reformed to say, “Dreams and communication wizardry of all sorts at reasonable rates.”

That seemed to complete the advertisement; the runes faded away, leaving him staring at a blank stone wall.

“Hello, Valder,” a familiar voice called from behind. He turned.

He was in a library; the walls of rough gray stone were mostly hidden by shelves of books and scrolls. The ceiling was coffered wood, the floor polished flags. In the center of the chamber stood a large oaken table, and sitting atop the table was a handsome young man in his late teens, wearing military tunic and kilt but no breastplate or helmet. His curly black hair was in disarray, his eyes bright, and a broad grin covered his face. Valder recognized him immediately as his former bunkmate, Tandellin Landin’s son.

“They told me you were still alive, but I wanted to see for myself,” Tandellin said.

Valder grinned back. “And they told me that you were still alive, and I figured I had best leave well enough alone. What’s this spell costing you?”

“Oh, not all that much; Sharassin’s a friend of mine. All I had to do was buy her the ingredients and provide her with a few vials of blood—but one of the ingredients was a pan of beaten silver, so you better appreciate this!”

“Oh, I do!” Valder hastened to reply. “How long do we have?”

Tandellin shrugged. “I’m not sure—I think until you wake up.”

“Plenty of time, then—I just went to sleep.” He hesitated. “At least, I think I just went to sleep, but you know how dreams are.”

“Well, let’s not waste it, then. Tell me what happened—we all thought the northerners got you when they first came charging down out of the woods at us.”

Valder related his adventures, glad to be able to do so at his own speed and without being completely serious about everything. Even though he had told the story several times, this was the first chance he had had to tell it to a friend rather than an interrogator.

When he had finished he asked, “And what about you?”

“Oh, I was just sitting in camp when the attack came. At first I was out there with my bow and sword, like everybody else, but when we saw that we didn’t stand a chance Captain Lorret sent half a dozen men south to see if we could find reinforcements. He picked the youngest, I suppose because he thought we could run fastest—I was the last one he chose, and he told me to head straight for General Gor’s fortress. I did—and I’m still here, because I was too tired to go back out and fight after I got here. I was up on the ramparts with a bow when the enemy finally got this far, though; don’t think I hit anything. And I may have been spending some time with wizards, but I haven’t gotten my sword enchanted—just my heart. Or maybe somewhere lower down. You’ll have to see Sharassin some time; she’s really … well, you’ll have to see her.”

Valder laughed. Even though it was only a dream, it felt good; he had not laughed much in recent months. It was indescribably good to know that someone, somewhere, still cared about him. He had lost contact with his family years earlier, and friends had come and gone, and of them all only Tandellin had taken the trouble to find him again.

He asked after other friends, and was dismayed by how many had died or vanished. After that the conversation rambled on, largely taken up with the gossip of the Fortress.

Tandellin was making a lewd suggestion as to why General Gor hadn’t yet married when Valder suddenly felt himself seized and shaken. The library walls wavered and dimmed around him. “I must be waking up,” he called, “Stay in touch!” Then Tandellin and the library were gone and he was lying on his cot in General Karannin’s camp, looking up at two hard-faced guardsmen, their features eerily lit by a single shaded lantern.

He glanced around the tent. Radler and Korl were watching silently from their beds; Tesra slept on, oblivious.

“Come on,” one of the guardsmen demanded, in a voice like stone scraping stone.

Valder made a vague noise of agreement and rolled off the cot onto his feet, somehow managing not to snag Wirikidor on anything. He started to smooth down his hair and adjust his clothing, but the guardsmen politely convinced him not to bother by grabbing his arms and moving him gently but irresistably out of the tent.

Valder went along without further argument or delay. Apparently, he thought, he was about to find out what special duty had been chosen for him.

The guardsmen said nothing further, but merely escorted him to an undistinguished tent near the dragon pens. They thrust him inside and then vanished into the night.

Inside he found himself facing two men, a tall brown-haired officer and a short pale man in civilian attire but wearing a sword on his belt like a soldier.

“I’m Captain Endarim,” the officer said. “You’re Valder of Kardoret?”

Valder acknowledged his identity.

“Good. I think we’ve figured out what to do with you.”

No answer seemed to be called for, so Valder said nothing. He looked politely interested and glanced at the other man, inviting an introduction. None came.

“Darrend and the rest have explained something of the workings of your sword to me,” the officer said. “They have also sworn, under oath to a good theurgist, that they have no chance of duplicating it. That means that you’re unique, and a resource not to be wasted.” He rose up onto his toes for a moment, then dropped back, as if emphasizing his point.

“Yes, sir,” Valder answered noncommitally. He did not particularly care to be called a resource. This was a rude contrast to his warming magical chat with Tandellin.

“We’ve been giving the matter considerable thought, as to how best to employ you. Putting you in open combat seems wasteful. You would need to be constantly sheathing and unsheathing your sword to be really effective, and you might get yourself killed in between.”

“Yes, sir,” Valder said again, noting to himself that this pompous captain seemed to be unaware of the semi-immortality the sword theoretically provided. Even if he could not be killed, however, he had no desire to be cut up, so the point was essentially correct.

“You’ve been trained in reconaissance, and have demonstrated over the past few months that you can take care of yourself and survive alone behind the enemy lines. You can, as I understand it, kill any man with ease, and with great speed—that should allow you to deal with sentries. I’m told the sword provides a certain measure of protection, though I’m not clear on that. And you’re ideally suited to fighting individuals, rather than groups. It seems to us, therefore, that there is one job exactly right for a man with your talents. We want to send you after not just enemy soldiers, but the really important men among the enemy—generals, sorcerers, members of the government, and so forth. Each such man you remove is worth dozens, maybe hundreds, of enemy soldiers. Do you follow me?”

Valder followed him all too well. “You want me to be an assassin?”

“That’s an ugly word, but you do have the right idea.”

“I’m not sure…”

Endarim cut him off. “Before you go any further, let me say that the pay for such work is excellent. You would rate as a captain, to start, and go up from there. You would have no other duties; when not working your time would be your own.”

“It’s not that,” Valder said. “I’m just not sure that I could do the job. I don’t know how to find these men you want me to kill, for example, and I really don’t like the idea of killing…”

“Of course you don’t like the idea of killing,” Endarim interrupted him, “but this is war, soldier. The more damage we do to the northerners, by whatever method, the less they’ll be able to do to us. If you can kill one enemy sorcerer you might be saving the lives of a dozen or more of your own comrades in arms! As for the technical problems, our wizards will help you with that. We have used assassins before. Finding targets and delivering our men to the right area has never been very difficult. The problem has always been getting through the personal defenses and getting our man out alive—and your sword should make that part much easier.”

“I…”

“Listen, Valder, we prefer to have volunteers for this sort of work, but you’re a special case. I can order you to take on assassination duty if I have to, because you are, without a doubt, one of the most promising candidates we’ve ever had, thanks to that sword, and we need a good assassin right now. We would prefer that you go willingly, because that would greatly improve your chances of survival, but we don’t insist on it. If you refuse an order we may even resort to a geas.”

“Are you ordering me, then, sir?”

“No, I’m not—not yet. Listen, try it once and see what you think. If it’s that much worse than regular combat for you maybe we can put you somewhere else—but that magic sword you’ve stumbled onto doesn’t entitle you to any more pampering that any other man in the Ethsharitic army, soldier, and one way or another you’re going to fight and you’re going to kill.”

“Yes, sir.” Valder was not happy, but he saw that his only options were obedience or desertion—and he was not a deserter. He knew, first-hand, that the northerners were ruthless and were out to destroy Ethshar. He loved his homeland and its people, even if he had never actually seen very much of either. All he knew was the army, since that was all he had seen since turning sixteen, and a healthy young man wasn’t welcome anywhere else. He had no choice. He liked to believe that there was always a way out of everything, but he could not see one here.

“Good,” the captain said. “Very good. I’ll have your formal orders drawn up tomorrow, and you’ll start drawing pay at your new rank.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Valder—I wouldn’t tell anyone what you’re doing. It wouldn’t do any good for everyone to know we use assassins, and I’m sure it wouldn’t do you, personally, any good. It may seem dashing and romantic at first, but assassins are never really popular. They make people nervous.”

“Yes, sir.” Valder had wondered vaguely why he had been brought here in the middle of the night, and now guessed that it was to maintain the secrecy of the assassination project.

“If anyone asks, you’re a wizard’s assistant now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’ll start immediately. Kelder, here, will tell you what to do.” The captain waved at the civilian. Valder looked at him, openly curious now.

“Come on,” the man called Kelder said, speaking for the first time. He had a high, thin voice.

Valder looked him over. He was short, of medium build, with an unusually scraggly beard and mustache. His skin was unhealthily pale, his hair a nondescript brown and thinning. His clothes were of undistinguished cut and material, though better than peasants wore. The sword on his belt was standard military issue, very like Wirikidor in appearance.

After this brief appraisal Valder glanced back at the captain, who was already turning his attention elsewhere, looking at a stack of papers on his cot. With a mental shrug Valder turned and followed the civilian out of the tent.

They headed directly toward the back of the camp, past the dragon pens and the last few rows of tents and into Camptown, where the vintners and whores, undaunted by the late hour, still plied their trades. The main camp was mostly dark, but here about half the tents were still brightly lit, often with multicolored lanterns. Valder heard singing somewhere and nearly tripped over two soldiers lying semi-conscious in the dirt, obviously very drunk.

Kelder led the way past the rowdiest area, past the bright lanterns and thinly-clad women, almost to the edge of the circle of wives’ tents that served as a market. He ducked suddenly into a small tent, the abrupt change in course catching Valder by surprise.

He started, then followed.

Once settled on the dirt floor of the little tent—there was no furniture nor room for any; a quilted mat served as a bed—Valder demanded, “Who in Hell are you, anyway?”

“I’m called Kelder,” the other replied. “No parentage, no birthplace, no eponym—just Kelder. I’m a spy.” He smiled, as if he had just made a joke. Valder stared at him uncertainly, not sure whether he was joking or not.

“Seriously,” the little man went on, “I’m a spy. In fact, I’m in charge of espionage for this entire front, which, unfortunately, doesn’t mean much, because we haven’t got any espionage to speak of here. General Gor sent me to fix that, and I happened to arrive in time to hear about you and your sword. You may be interested to know that we have seven wizards and two witches searching for your mysterious hermit with all the magic at their disposal, and a relay of theurgists praying for information about him. We take this very seriously. A scouting party will be sent up the coast to look for him, as well. So far we haven’t found anything, but a wizard who can casually throw around eighth-order spells is worth a little effort. We don’t have very many of them. Whether we find him or not, though, we have you and Wirikidor.”

Valder could think of nothing to say; he stared at the man in the dimness; the only light was what seeped through the tent’s canvas.

“I suppose you’re feeling overwhelmed by all this. You’ve gone from being an ordinary scout on an unimportant bit of coastline to being involved in all sorts of strange things, tangled up with wizards and spies and assassins. Life can be like that. I’d like to give you time to sort it all out, but I’m afraid we can’t spare any. I’m to train you, and then you’ll start work. Ten days from now, with any luck, you’ll kill the Northern Empire’s chief sorcerer on the western front.”

Valder started to protest.

“Let me rephrase that,” Kelder said. “Within the next ten days you’ll give Wirikidor the opportunity to kill the enemy’s chief sorcerer on the western front.” He smiled. “You’re going to be very useful, Valder.”

Valder was not at all sure of that, but he did not argue. If assassination proved unbearable he could botch it, and they would reassign him. He found it impossible to believe that he was going to kill any sorcerers.

Nine nights later, as he stood over the body of a dead sorcerer, he still found it hard to believe.

Chapter Fifteen

His first five assassinations were made in fairly quick succession, at two or three day intervals; each time Kelder told him how to find and identify his target, each time a wizard or two got him into the general area, and each time he managed to get in and out without serious injury. Two of the five were sorcerers; he was never told just who the other three were.

Wirikidor disposed of all of them in short order, in addition to dealing with assorted guards and other interference. Valder had been pleasantly surprised to discover that sorcerers died as easily as anybody else once the blade reached them; he had expected them to be at least as bad as the shatra had been, reaching for the sword or doing other eerie, discomforting things after they should have been dead. His fears proved unfounded; sorcerers folded up and died just like anybody else when their throats were cut.

This was not to say he had no trouble; one sorcerer had had an ugly metal talisman that spat magical fire at him and gashed his left arm rather badly. Valder had brought the talisman back with him after killing the man, but turned it over to Darrend for study and never saw it again.

After the fifth mission he was left alone for a full sixnight, giving him time to recover—and time to think.

At mid-evening of the sixth day he lay sprawled on his cot, staring at the dark canvas overhead. His left arm still ached dully where the sorcerous wound had been, despite a prompt and mostly effective healing spell; that ache combined with the lingering effects of an inadequate dinner washed down with oushka made it difficult to concentrate.

It had not been good oushka, either; Valder suspected it was made locally, and was quite certain it was watered. Watered oushka was replacing wine as the standard tipple, because wine was becoming impossibly expensive due to short supply.

Several supplies were running short, which was why his dinner had been rather skimpy. The army was relying ever more heavily on forage, rather than proper supply caravans, and grasslands and forests did not provide very much in the way of forage. Sustenance spells were being left intact when men came in from patrol, in order to save food—and because fewer wizards were available to renew them when the men were sent out again.

In fact, it seemed to Valder that every resource was being stretched thin. The magical assistance provided for his assassinations varied from night to night, according to what was available, and there was no longer a single witch in the entire camp. He had heard from his tentmates that entire regiments were going into battle with no magical support at all. No more troops were coming up from the rear, and the camp had been stripped, leaving Valder wondering whether any replacements were being sent to the front. He was not sure what had become of the men and material, but they did seem to be far less plentiful than in times past.

Could it be, he asked himself through a thin haze of pain and alcohol, that the war really was drawing to a close? It didn’t seem possible—yet it didn’t seem possible that the army could stretch itself much further, either.

What would happen, he wondered, if the war did end? What would become of him? What did he want to do with his life? What did one do with a life that might last forever if he could avoid drawing his sword?

Valder supposed that one did very much the same thing one did with any life. No one ever knew how long he would live, after all; Valder did not know how long he would live, merely that the rules were different for him.

But then, what did he want to do with himself, whether for a normal span or all eternity?

He knew what he did not want. He did not want to kill anybody else. Counting the various guards and others as well as his intended targets, and adding in the four he had killed before reaching camp, he had drawn Wirikidor seventeen times, and seventeen men had died on its blade. That was too many. If peace actually came he did not intend to draw Wirikidor again.

He did not want any sort of adventure any more. He had had quite enough of that, first with his three months in the wilderness and then with his five assassinations. He wanted to settle down quietly somewhere, with a place of his own and perhaps a family. Not a farm—he had no interest in working the soil and was not fond of tending animals. A shop, perhaps—he knew nothing of the mercantile trades, but they seemed appealing.

His head hurt. He reminded himself that he was still a soldier, and that the war was still going on, as it always had. The war would probably be going long after he was dead, even if he lived to a ripe old age. The promise of living forever was still too new and too incredible to accept, after living all his life in the sure knowledge of his own mortality, so he ignored it for the present.

He would be a soldier until he had served his full thirty years if the war went on. He would be forty-six when he was finally discharged, just over twice his present age. That was hard to imagine. Some men were still strong and healthy at that age—General Anaran was fifty or so, but was said to still be in perfect condition. Valder might be equally lucky, and emerge still vigorous, ready to start a new career. The army usually offered such men promotions or other incentives to re-enlist, but Valder told himself that he would never be so foolish as to be swayed by such blandishments. He would go and open a shop somewhere, dealing in wines, perhaps. He could leave Wirikidor in a back room and forget about it. Even just working for some wealthy merchant might be enjoyable; every civilian business was always short of men, since the army got first pick.

He had been taking orders all his life—first from his parents and then from his officers. Taking orders from a merchant could be no worse, and he would have none of the risks or responsibilities of running his own business.

On the other hand, he was getting tired of taking orders from anybody, and he still had two dozen years to serve. There was no knowing what he would be like at forty-six. People change, he decided, including himself.

He had just reached this profound conclusion when the tent-flap swung open and Kelder entered.

Startled, Valder swung his feet to the floor and sat up. Before he could rise Kelder said, “Don’t get up yet.”

Valder stopped where he was, looking up at the self-proclaimed spy.

“May I sit?” Kelder asked politely.

Valder gestured at the empty cot opposite, and Kelder settled on it. Valder was puzzled; he had assumed when he first saw Kelder that his rest was over and he was going to be sent out to kill another northerner, but in that case he would ordinarily have been summoned either to Kelder’s tent in Camptown or Captain Endarim’s near the dragon pens for a briefing. He was not sure what to think now; this change in the pattern might mean anything. He tried to decide whether he dared protest again that he did not want to be an assassin; after he had been successful on his missions no one had taken his claim seriously any more.

They had no idea what it was like, alone and terrified in the enemy’s camps and cities, knowing that the only way he would be brought back was if he either completed his task or was seriously injured. He was no hero; he hated the thought of pain, and carried out his assassinations as quickly and efficiently as he could so that he could go home that much faster.

Kelder knew his views, but had still sent him out repeatedly. He decided there was no point in rehashing the matter.

“I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you,” he said instead.

“I was away,” Kelder replied, “but now I’m back. I have your new orders.”

“What new orders?”

“From General Gor. I told him about you, and he thinks you’re being wasted here, killing sorcerers and administrators.”

Valder was unsure whether that was good or bad. Much as he hated what he had been doing, it was always possible that what General Gor had in mind for him would be even worse.

He suppressed a slight shiver at the thought of General Gor thinking about him at all. Gor commanded the entire land-based Ethsharitic military west of the Great River’s basin, after all; he was one of the four or five most powerful men in Ethshar, along with General Anaran and General Terrek and Admiral Azrad, and perhaps whoever was the current civilian head of state.

“What,” Valder said at last, “does General Gor have in mind?”

“I wouldn’t presume to guess General Gor’s thoughts, Valder—and I wouldn’t say even if I did. However, your orders state that you’re to be transferred from General Karannin’s command to General Gor’s personal staff, effective immediately, with the same title and position. It seems to me—though this is strictly a guess and I’ll deny ever saying it—that our illustrious commander has no objection to your current services other than the choice of targets.”

“More assassinations, then?”

“I would think so.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Don’t be silly, Valder. That would be treason, you know that.”

“But damn it, Kelder, I don’t want to be an assassin! It scares me half to death, and I hate killing people—I get sick to my stomach.”

“There are times when I don’t like being a spy.”

“I wouldn’t mind spying as much, I don’t think. Couldn’t I do that?”

“Oh, maybe you will; I can’t say. I’m just here to give you your orders and get you safely to Gor’s headquarters on the coast. It’s too late tonight; we leave at dawn.”

“But…” Valder’s objections trailed off.

Kelder smiled ruefully. “I sympathize, Valder, honestly. You have no choice, though. That hermit trapped you for life when he enchanted your sword; we can’t possibly allow something like that to remain unexploited.”

Valder glared resentfully at Wirikidor where it hung at the foot of his bed.

Kelder stood up and pulled the tent-flap open. “We leave at dawn,” he said.

Valder watched him go, then lay back hoping that somehow dawn would not come.

Dawn came on schedule, however, and they departed.

Valder was startled by the transportation provided. They rode no horses, used no levitation spells; instead, Kelder led him to a small lavender tent in the magicians’ circle, empty save for a rich tapestry that seemed stupendously out of place in a military camp. It hung from a crossbar nailed to the rear tentpole, its ornately fringed lower edge dragging in the dirt, and depicted a seascape seen from a stone rampart.

Kelder calmly walked directly into the tapestry, pulling Valder in after him.

To his astonishment he found himself standing on the seaward battlement of General Gor’s coastal fortress, Kelder at his side. The salt air washed into his nostrils, and he realized for the first time how accustomed he had become to the stench of General Karannin’s camp, compounded largely of sweat, dust, and cattle. The sun was rising behind him and pouring out across the sea, lighting the wavecrests with gold.

He turned around, expecting to see an opening back into the little tent, but instead he saw the upper court of the Fortress.

“Now, that tapestry,” Kelder remarked, “that’s a twelfth-order spell, and it took a very good wizard a year to produce it, but it does come in handy. They carefully avoid changing this section of the ramparts so that it will keep working. It has its drawbacks—you’ll notice that it only works one way, and that we had to leave the tapestry behind. It will be shipped wherever it’s needed next. I wanted to get you here immediately, and there simply isn’t anything faster, so I requisitioned the tapestry; nobody else was using it just now, so I was able to get it.”

Valder was still staring about in amazement at the solid stone of the Fortress, trying to convince himself it was not a dream or illusion. “Oh,” he said. Then a thought struck him. “Why did you wait until dawn if the tapestry works instantly?”

“Because the tapestry depicts this spot just after dawn, of course. We’d arrive at dawn regardless of when we left, and I prefer a good night’s sleep to several hours in some wizardly limbo. We could have entered the tapestry at any hour, true enough, but we would not arrive here until the hour the tapestry showed, regardless of how long a wait that might require. We wouldn’t have noticed anything; to us the trip would still be instantaneous, but we would actually have lost those nighttime hours. I did that once; it messed up my sleeping schedule for days. And the weather can affect it, too—in fact, we may have missed a day or two if the weather was bad, but the prognostications were all favorable, so I don’t think we have.”

“I never heard of anything like that before.”

“Of course not; it’s a military secret, like almost any useful magic. Only the Wizards’ Guild and important officers know anything about most of the more powerful wizardry. You’d be amazed what wizardry can do; there are spells for any number of things you would never have thought possible.”

“Could they make more tapestries?”

“There are others, but right now no wizard can be spared for long enough to make more.”

Valder was over his shock and beginning to think again. “Couldn’t they use them to dump assassins, or whole regiments, behind enemy lines, maybe right in the enemy’s capital?”

Kelder sighed. “It’s a lovely theory, isn’t it? But it won’t work. The wizard making the tapestry needs to see the scene he’s weaving very, very clearly. If it isn’t absolutely perfect, right down to the smallest detail, the tapestry won’t work—or at least won’t work properly. We don’t have any way of seeing clearly enough behind enemy lines; our scrying spells are good enough for most needs, but not for making these tapestries.”

After a moment’s pause he added, “Yet.”

Valder decided against pursuing the matter; instead he looked around the battlements. He had seen this fortress from a distance, assuming that it was indeed General Gor’s headquarters, but he had never before been inside its walls. Tandellin was here somewhere, he remembered.

The place was impressive. The stone walls appeared to be several feet thick, and the outer faces were steep enough that he could see nothing of them from where he stood. He did not care to lean very far out over the seaward parapet; the height was dizzying.

From where he stood he could see nothing beyond the fortress walls but the sea, the sky, a few gulls, and very far off in the northeastern distance a line of dark green hills. The citadel was built atop the highest ground in the area, a jagged cliff that towered above broken rocks right at the ocean’s edge—Valder remembered that from his previous visit.

The wall he stood upon stretched for almost a hundred yards in either direction; behind it, the courtyard was more than a hundred feet across, but long enough that that seemed disproportionately narrow. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of people were going about their business there. Men were sharpening swords or practicing their use, women were hanging clothes out to dry, and members of both sexes were sitting or standing in pairs or groups, talking. Off at the northern corner two sentries peered out over the ocean; to the south a bend in the wall and a small guardhouse hid the next pair from Valder.

“Well,” Kelder said, “if you’ve finished admiring the view, we have an appointment with one of General Gor’s staff, a Captain Dumery, who is to get you settled in and tell you your next assignment.”

“Oh,” said Valder unenthusiastically. He had no interest in any assignments, and the mere mention of one had ruined his enjoyment of his surroundings.

Kelder ignored the soldier’s tone and led the way to one of the staircases down into the court. They descended, and from the foot of the steps proceeded across the court, through a vestibule into a corridor, down a flight of stairs, back along another corridor, across a large hall, along still another corridor, down another flight, across yet another corridor into a smaller hall, from there into an antechamber, and finally into a small room lined with tightly-packed shelves. Valder was startled to see a small window-slit with a view of the ocean; he had gotten turned around and would have guessed that they were deep in the interior of the Fortress, facing south toward the shipyards, and nowhere near the seaward side.

The room was inhabited by a small, white-haired man who invited them to sit down. He himself was perched on a stool, so that when Valder and Kelder took the two low chairs provided he could, short as he was, still look down on his visitors.

“You’re Valder?” he asked. His voice was thin but steady.

Valder nodded.

“That’s Wirikidor?”

“Yes,” Valder said.

“It works the way Darrend says it does?”

“It seems to.”

“Good. Then we want you to kill the Northern Emperor.”

Valder stared up at the old man in silent astonishment. Kelder started, and said, “You’re not serious!”

The white-haired man shrugged. “Oh, well, maybe I’m not. If we can locate him, however, I think this man might be our best shot. After all, that sword is like nothing anyone has ever had before, so far as I know, and they probably have no defense against it. They can defend against just about everything else we throw at them!” He sighed. “Unfortunately, we can’t locate him. Never could. So we’ll be sending you against anyone important we can locate, Valder. Any problem with that?”

“Ah,” Valder said, trying to give himself time to think. “You know, I assume, that the sword is going to turn on me eventually, after a certain number of drawings.”

“Yes, of course—but you have a long way yet to go. Darrend told me that it would take a hundred or so deaths before it could kill you, and you’ve only used up what, maybe five?”

“Seventeen,” Valder corrected him.

“So many? Ah, well, that still leaves us with eighty-three, give or take a couple.”

Valder was desperately unhappy at the sound of this, but could not think how to phrase a protest. Before he could work out what to say the white-haired man raised a hand in dismissal. “I’ll call you when we need you,” he said. “My secretary will tell you where to go.”

Valder started to speak, but Kelder shushed him and hurried him out of the room.

Chapter Sixteen

While Valder remained inside the fortress walls, life as General Gor’s assassin was not unpleasant. The food was good and plentiful, where the meals in General Karannin’s camp had not been, although a far larger portion of it was seafood than Valder might have liked. The floors were dry stone, rather than dirt or mud, and most of them had some sort of covering, whether carpets, rush matting, or at least strewn straw, so that they were not unpleasantly cold and hard underfoot. He had been assigned his own little room deep in the bowels of the stronghold, with a tiny slit of window letting in air and, for a few hours a day when the sun was in the right part of the sky, light. He could not see out of the opening, which was eight or nine feet from the floor, but he judged it to be facing southwest.

To keep him from being called upon for menial duties, he had been issued new clothing. His worn and weathered old uniform was disposed of, and he was instructed that from now on he was to wear the grey and black tunic and black kilt that indicated the wearer to be performing some special service for General Gor. This outfit was more practical for sneaking about at night, and had a certain drastic elegance, but Valder thought it uncomfortably reminiscent of northern uniforms; he was reluctant to be seen in it until he had observed other people in the Fortress, including Kelder, similarly attired.

He quickly discovered that the new uniform had one very definite advantage: it attracted women. Valder, unsure just what special services Gor was in the habit of demanding, was not sure why this was so, but it was undeniable that women who had scarcely glanced at him in his old green kilt and battered breastplate now stared at him with hungry eyes and looked for excuses to speak with him. Since he did not know when he might be sent off on a mission that could easily end in capture or mutilation he refused to make any sort of long-term arrangements, but did spare an hour now and then to accompany a particularly eager or attractive young woman back to her quarters.

He hoped that such women were not disappointed, that the black and gray uniform had not led them to expect something more than an ordinary man.

He had been in the Fortress for almost a day before he managed to find Tandellin. The youth’s barracks was nowhere near the areas Valder found himself frequenting, but once he had taken care of the minimal necessities of settling in he took the time to track down his former bunkmate.

Tandellin had been permanently posted to the Fortress as part of the garrison; he stood a watch on the ramparts for six hours a day and was on call as a messenger and errand boy for six more. Calls came frequently. Still, he was able to find time for a quiet drink and conversation with Valder in a seldom-used storeroom on the evening of the day following Valder’s arrival.

When they had exchanged a few polite phrases, Valder asked, “How are things going? Still running errands for that wizard?”

“Sharassin? No.”

The answer seemed uncharacteristically brief. “What happened?” Valder asked.

Tandellin grinned crookedly. “If you must know, she found out where I had been spending some of my time when I was off duty and she wasn’t. She didn’t take it well. Just as well; she was transferred out a few days ago anyway.”

Valder grinned back. “So where were you spending that time—or wasn’t it always the same place?”

“Oh, it was the same place all right. Her name is Sarai of the Green Eyes.”

Valder waited, but Tandellin did not continue. “What’s this?” he said. “No description? No suggestion that I really must meet her? Could there be something special about Sarai of the Green Eyes?”

Tandellin’s grin turned sheepish. “Maybe there is.”

“Ah, well, congratulations, my boy, if it’s true.” Valder was genuinely pleased. He was a great believer in love and marriage, or so he had always said—though he had, as yet, no particular inclination in that direction for himself. It delighted him to see Tandellin showing signs of settling down, giving up the wildness of youth. The world needed more quietly settled people, he was convinced, something to provide stability and offset the chaos of the eternal war.

That thought brought to mind his own part in the war, systematically trying to produce chaos among the enemy by killing the men who kept order. He wondered whether any northerners were attempting similar missions in Ethshar. If so they did not appear to be very successful, since the approximate whereabouts of the commanders, Azrad, Gor, Terrek, and Anaran, were common knowledge, yet no assassins had killed any of them.

Given a choice, Valder decided, he would much have preferred to be maintaining order in Ethshar rather than creating chaos in the Empire—but since acquiring Wirikidor he had had no choice. Wirikidor was very much an agent of chaos, it seemed, and his superiors would not allow him to keep the blade sheathed and ignore it, as he wanted to. Some time soon, when they had found a target worthy of him, he would once again be sent out to wield Wirikidor. That took a great deal of the pleasure out of life in the Fortress.

It was three days after his arrival that Captain Dumery’s secretary found him and led him to his first briefing.

That first mission went well; he was able to kill the enemy general they had chosen quickly and without killing anyone else. That brought his total to eighteen.

The next, three days later, was disastrous; Valder managed his part well enough, but it was a joint mission, involving himself, a wizard who provided magical transportation, and a cocky young thief, and the thief botched his part. Valder and the wizard made it back alive, though the wizard had a long scar to show for it and Wirikidor’s total was up to twenty-five, which did not include the intended target.

Twenty-five down, seventy-five to go—or seventy-three or seventy-seven. Valder almost began looking forward to his next task; if he kept on using Wirikidor at that rate he would be forced to give up assassination in a matter of months. Dumery could not order him to draw the sword once the possibility of it turning on him became imminent. He would still be a soldier, but no longer an assassin; he could leave Wirikidor safely in its scabbard and fight with more ordinary weapons.

He had been resting up from that errand for a day or so when he was summoned, not to Captain Dumery’s little office, but to meet General Gor himself. With some trepidation, he went.

Gor of the Rocks was of medium height, but heavy, broad at shoulder and hip, with thick black hair and beard. He stood with his feet planted well apart, as if bracing himself, and wore the standard brown tunic and green kilt of the Ethsharitic army, his badges of rank hung in a bunch on a chain around his neck.

“Valder, is it?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Valder answered.

“From now on you take orders from me, and nobody else; not Captain Dumery, not Kelder, not Azrad or Anaran or Terrek. You understand that? If I want you I’ll send for you, but you take your orders for where to go and what to do when you’re outside this fortress from me and me alone. I don’t want you wasted on any more messes like that last one Dumery thought up. You did well enough—brought back Cardel, and the gods all know we need every wizard we can get at this point—but you shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Wasted seven out of a hundred!”

“Yes, sir,” Valder said with calm resignation.

“Good. You’re getting your food and pay on time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. This war is finally getting somewhere, Valder, and we need all the help we can get, even swords with curses put on them by deranged hermits we can’t find, if they can be useful. You may not like what you’re doing, and I wouldn’t blame you. It’s not exactly glorious, sneaking in and killing people with an unbeatable magic sword—more like butchery than soldiering, in a way. Still, remember, it’s useful. You’re doing something that may turn out to be essential.”

“Yes, sir.” He admired Gor’s estimate of his own thoughts and attempt to answer them. He did not agree with it; his objections were not rational but emotional, and had nothing to do with glory or its lack. Still, the general was at least trying to help him accept his role, which was more personal attention than he had expected.

“Good luck, then. I’ll send someone when I need you.”

Valder nodded, bowed, and withdrew.

He was somewhat overwhelmed by General Gor, who had managed to cover everything essential within three minutes, including his little speech of encouragement. On consideration, though, assassination was not so much like butchery as like burglary, save that rather than jewelry Valder stole lives.

With Wirikidor’s talents and habits, it did seem very much like stealing.

It was ten days after that that Gor sent for him and gave him another assignment.

This one was planned very neatly and went off smoothly. That, Valder discovered, was to be the standard in his work for Gor. The general did not plan the assassinations himself, but he did review the plans and modify or reject them if they were in any way flawed or incomplete.

From then on it was a rare and difficult mission when Wirikidor was drawn more than once. The missions came less often, but seemed more important. Valder disposed of the Empire’s minister of transportation, assorted generals, and even a prince, as well as unidentified targets. Assignments came, on the average, one every three sixnights.

In between he was free to roam the Fortress, spending Tandellin’s off-duty hours drinking and gaming with his old friend and spending most of the rest of the time either with women or alone on his bed staring unhappily at the ceiling.

Winter came and went, and Valder continued his duties ever more reluctantly. The count of his victims mounted. He was horrified, after one exceptionally complex errand involving three related targets he took to be the entire family of a northern nobleman, to realize that he was no longer absolutely sure what the correct count was.

Occasionally one of his brief liaisons developed into something more; the first was with a girl named Hinda, a few years younger than himself, who stayed in his room for almost a month before finding a more cheerful companion. She was followed by someone who called herself Alir; Valder suspected that that was not her real name, though the only reason for his suspicion was her excessively romantic nature. She seemed to be convinced that Valder was doing something very exciting and glorious whenever he was out of the Fortress, and finally departed when, even in bed, he refused to say just what it was that he did for General Gor.

He acquired friends of both sexes as well as lovers, though none were especially close. He grew to like Sarai of the Green Eyes, a vivacious girl of eighteen or so, and was glad when Tandellin included her in their evenings together. He encountered Kelder occasionally and found that once the little man was no longer telling him who to kill he was pleasant company. He came to actively dislike Captain Dumery, who seemed to resent having Valder removed from his authority. In this latter opinion he was joined wholeheartedly by several of the men in Tandellin’s barracks, but few agreed with his assessment of Kelder, who was generally considered to be a fool.

The summer of the year 4997 arrived, and by the fourteenth of Summerheat Valder’s count had hit eighty, give or take one. He lay alone in his room for a long time, staring at the vaulted ceiling and considering this.

He had killed eighty men. With the connivance of the old hermit and his enchanted sword he had ended fourscore lives. Most soldiers never actually managed to kill anybody. He, himself, in his six years of regular service, had never been certain he had killed anyone. He had drawn blood on occasion, in skirmishes or with his bow, but he had never known whether anyone he had struck had died.

Wirikidor, on the other hand, never left any room for doubt. He had killed eighty men and sent eighty souls to wherever northerners’ souls went—Hell, presumably. Those men might have been anything—good, evil, or somewhere between. He had no way of knowing anything but that they had been the enemies of the Holy Kingdom of Ethshar.

(Why, he wondered, was it called a kingdom? So far as he knew there had never been an actual king. He had never been very clear on just how the civilian government did operate, having spent his entire life under martial law in the lands outside the traditional boundaries where there was only the military, but he thought he would have heard of a king if one existed.)

What would the gods think of a man who had killed eighty men? Would they condemn him as a murderer, or praise him for doing so much to rid the World of the demon-guided enemy? Everyone agreed that the gods favored Ethshar over the Empire, but not all agreed on why they did not directly intervene in the war, even when petitioned. One school of thought maintained that they were, in fact, waging war on an entirely different level, but were being countered so exactly by the demons aiding the Northern Empire that no sign of this conflict penetrated to the World. Another school argued that the gods were so pure that they could not take, were actually incapable of taking, any aggressive action; that they found violence so repugnant that they could not bear to help even their chosen people in the violence of war. There were dozens of variations. If the gods were repulsed by violence, though, then had Valder damned himself by wielding Wirikidor?

If he had, it was far too late to do anything about it now. He wished that he had never drawn the sword, or that he had never told anyone how he had come to kill the shatra on the plain that day.

His thoughts were interrupted by someone shouting in the corridor outside his room; the words were unintelligible, and he tried to ignore the noise.

He was, he told himself, a young man, scarcely twenty-three. He owned a magic sword that would, supposedly, prevent him from dying indefinitely. Yet, less than a year after acquiring this wonderful weapon, less than a fourth of the way through his term of service in the military, he had used up four-fifths of his ownership of the sword.

That, he told himself, was stupid. It was idiotic to go on squandering his life in this manner. His life was tied to his ownership of the sword; with each killing a part of his life slipped away. His superiors were forcing him to throw it away.

He would refuse, he promised himself, to continue doing so. As politely as he could, he would tell General Gor at the first opportunity that he, Valder of Kardoret, had done his duty, contributed his fair share to the war effort, and would no longer be available for assassinations. After all, they could not kill him; only Wirikidor could do that.

The shouting in the corridor was still going on, and now someone was pounding on his door. Annoyed, he rose and lifted the latch.

Tandellin tumbled in, panting. “Valder, have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The enemy has broken through on the eastern front, clear into the homeland! Old Ethshar itself is under attack by demons, they say, real demons, not just shatra! General Terrek is dead, and the Kingdom is in retreat. Everyone is to be ready to leave on a moment’s notice; the wizards are getting spells ready, and we expect to be sent to the new front at any time.”

“Demons?”

“Oh, there are hundreds of stories about them! There’s definitely something new happening!”

“Demons.” Wirikidor would be of no use against demons. He knew of nothing that would be—but then, he did not know what wouldn’t be, other than his own sword with its insistence on killing men. Nobody, so far as he knew, had ever actually fought a demon before. Even the very few Ethsharitic demonologists, or the theurgists who worked both sides, never directly fought the demons they conjured up, but instead controlled them through complex magical restraints and elaborate prayers that only the original summoner could use. If the northerners had really unleashed demons on Ethshar the war might well end very soon—perhaps with no victor at all.

This, he thought, would be a good time for the gods to intervene if, by some chance, they had been waiting for the right moment, like the magicians in the songs who always appeared in the last stanza to rescue the doomed heroes.

He strapped on his sword and headed for General Gor’s office, to see if he had any orders. This was not, he knew, a good time to try resigning from his job as an assassin.

Chapter Seventeen

Valder sat in the bare stone antechamber feeling stupid. Naturally, Gor had been besieged with questions, advice, requests, demands, and information; he had no time to spare just now for an assassin. Valder knew that had he given it any thought he would have realized as much. What could an assassin do in a battle against demons?

Having come to offer his services, however, he was not about to slink back to his room. Instead he sat and waited while officers and messengers ran in and out, so that he might be ready if summoned, and so he might catch a few bits of information in passing. All the magicians in the Fortress and some brought from elsewhere were busily gathering information—the wizards by various spells, the theurgists by prayer, the witches and the lone sorcerer by arcane methods Valder did not understand. Gor’s two demonologists had utterly failed to make contact with anything, or so rumor had it, which seemed to confirm that quite literally all the demons of Hell were loose in the east.

As people hurried in and out Valder could catch snatches of conversation, and every so often someone would pause to rest, or be asked to wait, and might be willing to answer a hurried question. Nobody seemed very sure of what was happening. A steady babble poured out through the door of the inner chamber, but Valder could make sense of none of it.

Then, abruptly, the babble died. In the sudden silence as the echoes from the stone walls faded Valder heard a single voice exclaim, “Gods!”

He heard questioning voices raised, and the silence was washed away as quickly as it had come by officers and men demanding to know what had silenced the magicians.

Valder could not make out the reply, and was astonished by the an outburst of wild cheering. He could stand it no longer. He rose and marched up to the door.

“What’s happening?” he demanded of the guard posted there.

“I’m not sure, sir,” the soldier said, deferring to Valder’s special uniform.

“You couldn’t hear what was said, what started the cheering?”

“I’m not sure, sir—I think he said something about a counterattack, that the gods themselves had counterattacked. I don’t really know. The gods couldn’t do that, though, could they?” The soldier’s voice was pleading and uncertain, though he struggled to maintain the properly stolid expression a sentry was expected to have.

“I don’t know,” Valder said. “I’m no theologian.” The whole affair seemed unreal. He knew very well that gods and demons existed, had always existed, but aside from the halfbreed shatra they had always been aloof from human affairs, intervening in the World only when summoned by elaborate invocations, and even then usually offering little more than advice and the occasional petty miracle. Had this somehow changed? The whole universe seemed to be turning topsy-turvy around him.

Valder found himself wondering whether perhaps he wasn’t lying delirious in a coastal marsh in the summer of 4996, imagining it all. He had led an ordinary life for twenty-two years, boring and predictable—born to a soldier and his woman of the moment, raised in an assortment of camps and villages, signed up at sixteen and trained as a scout, and assigned to the western coast where nothing of importance ever happened. Then, suddenly, everything had shifted. The enemy had attacked, seemingly out of nowhere, destroying his home unit and driving him into the wilderness, where he found an old hermit who had enchanted his sword and thereby granted him the possibility of eternal life—or of a rather nasty doom. That enchantment had made him an assassin, prowling the streets of northern cities and camps that most of his former comrades never knew existed. Former comrades, because his work as an assassin set him apart.

All that, however, seemed logical and coherent compared with the news that demons were attacking eastern Ethshar, and the gods themselves counterattacking. The World had always been fraught with magic, controlled by unseen forces, but those forces had always been predictable unless manipulated by men and women. The gods had never been prone to whims.

What would this superhuman conflict mean to the World, to the war—to Ethshar and to Valder?

The cheering in the inner room had spread, become universal, and then died down again. Now Valder heard the unmistakable tones of orders being given, and a stream of men and women began pouring out past him. Among them was Kelder, who spotted Valder and paused, stepping out of the onrushing human current for a moment.

“Go get some rest,” he said. “None of us can do anything right now; it’s all in the hands of the gods. That’s not just a pious saying any more, but the literal truth. Go back to your room and get some sleep, so you’ll be well-rested if we need to move quickly. Everyone is getting this same order—wait and be ready. Go on.”

Reluctantly, Valder got to his feet and went. He was not in need of sleep, but he sank back on his cot again nonetheless, one hand slipping down the side of the mattress to grip the rope webbing beneath. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, until he knew every joint in the vaulting and the shape of every stone.

The universe was coming apart in the east, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Eventually he must have dozed off, because he was awakened by a knock on the door.

“What?” he managed to say in reply.

“Everybody in the upper court—General Gor has an announcement. Everybody up!”

Whoever the messenger was, he had a voice like an avalanche. He roared off down the corridor, rousing all and sundry.

Valder was still fully dressed, and at this point cared not at all about his appearance, so that he rose immediately and without ceremony headed for the upper court, hoping to find a spot where he could hear the general directly rather than needing to rely on relays.

That hope did not last long once he reached the top of the stairs; his corridor, not surprisingly given its out-of-the-way location, must have been among the last to be called. Men, women, and even children jammed the courtyard, and some were standing on the surrounding ramparts as well. He squeezed to one side to allow the people behind him to emerge and looked about for General Gor, hoping that he would be able to follow the proceedings from where he was. The din was unbelievable, even under the open sky, as everyone present seemed to be trying to guess what Gor was going to say.

Valder saw no point in that particular game, since a brief wait would tell all. He was more interested in trying to figure out who all the hundreds of people were. There seemed to be far more present than he had thought the Fortress housed; had some been summoned in from elsewhere?

Before he could pursue this line of thought he was pushed back by guards emerging from the stairway door; to his surprise, immediately behind them came the general himself. Once out in the sun—for the first time Valder noticed that it was late morning; he was unsure of what day—Gor turned and ascended one of the emergency ladders to the battlements. To his surprise, Valder found himself standing almost directly below, in the front row of the entire mob. He had expected General Gor to appear elsewhere, as had, apparently, almost everyone else; it took several minutes for the noise to fade as people gradually noticed Gor’s arrival.

When at last the roar of conversation had died to a dull muttering of breath, shifting feet, and rustling garments, Gor took a deep breath and announced in a powerful, carrying bellow, “I am Gor of the Rocks, heretofore High Commander, Field Marshal, and General Commanding the Western Forces of the Holy Kingdom of Ancient Ethshar.”

Valder wondered at this formality. Surely all present knew who Gor was!

“I have come here today to tell you several things. The World in which we now live is not the one we have all known for so long—and the time has come to reveal that most of you did not know the old World as well as you thought you did.” He paused to catch his breath and a low murmur swirled through the crowd.

He looked about and hesitated, then shouted, “The war is over!”

If he had intended to say anything more right away, he never had a chance; the wave of cheering battered at him like a stormwind. He grinned and looked out at the sea of faces and flailing arms, mopped perspiration from his brow with his sleeve, then folded his arms and waited for the noise to abate.

The noise did not abate for several seconds, during which time Gor said, apparently to himself but loudly enough that Valder, almost beneath his feet, managed to catch it, “Oh, gods, I have always wanted to live to say that!”

Finally, after a solid minute, the cheering subsided; Gor raised his arms for quiet, and when satisfied with the lessened sound level he said, “I’m sure that most of you have heard that our ancient enemy, the Northern Empire, unleashed the demons of Hell itself upon the eastern marches of our nation. This is true, and I’m sorry to say that at first the attack was a great success—if any of you had family or friends to the east of the southern mountains, I’m afraid that they are almost certainly gone, as what fragmentary reports our magicians can provide indicate that all the eastern lands, from the Empire’s borders right to the southern edge of the World, are now a burning waste. General Terrek is dead, and his armies destroyed.”

He paused to allow that to sink in; shocked murmurs arose and died. The earlier elation was gone, and Valder was sure that many of the people were now wondering whether the war had ended in victory or defeat. For his own part he was sure, from Gor’s face and the fact that the Fortress itself still survived undamaged, that at worst a truce had been arranged.

Gor continued, “The fact that our vile foes resorted to demonic aid, despite the horrible price such aid always demands, shows us that as we had thought, their situation had become desperate and their cause hopeless by any other means.”

He paused again, then continued, “Many of you may also have heard rumors about divine intervention, and I am pleased to say that these stories, too, are true! The gods themselves, in all their glory, intervened on behalf of their chosen people! The theurgists tell me that an ancient compact prevented both gods and demons from interfering directly in human affairs, and that once that compact was broken by the northerners and their demonic mentors the gods were free to unleash divine retribution for centuries of injustice and evil. We have established this divine intervention by every means at our disposal: divination, clairvoyance, oneiromancy, and every variety of verification we could devise. There can be no doubt at all of the effects, but we will probably never know the details—only the inhabitants of the Northern Empire were witnesses to the final conflagration, and in the past day the Northern Empire has ceased to exist!”

He paused there for the inevitable renewed cheering. When the crowd had calmed down sufficiently to allow him to continue, Gor said, “The gods have achieved in a single day what we could not in all these centuries of war! The Black City, capital of the Empire, has been blotted from the face of the World as if it had never been, and the other northern cities lie in ruins or worse. The Imperial Army is broken and scattered. The demons have been forced back into the Netherworld—and, that being done, the gods in turn have retreated into Heaven, swearing never again to interfere so directly in human affairs. The openings from the World into both Heaven and Hell have been permanently sealed; there can be no more prophets, no more shatra, no more night-roving demons, no divine messengers, no unsought miracles. Let us all offer a prayer of gratitude to the beings that forsook their nonviolent principles to defend us against evil!”

That roused a cheer, followed by a moment of confused muttering. When Gor judged that the faces turned expectantly toward him made up most of the crowd, he spoke again.

“Now, I fear I have some unpleasant news.”

The crowd sobered; an uneasy hush fell.

“Oh, it’s not all bad. The war is over, and with the help of the gods we won. A few northern stragglers remain to be mopped up, but nothing significant. However, the World may not be quite as you have imagined it to be at the war’s end—those of you who have thought about it at all.

“Firstly, due to the withdrawal of the gods, some of the laws of magic may have changed. I’m no magician, I can’t say anything very definite about it, but my advisors tell me that magic we have taken for granted may no longer work. What this means remains to be seen.

“For most of you that’s a minor detail, though. Far more important for all of you is that, whatever you may have expected, the end of the war does not mean that you will all be going home to our motherland of Old Ethshar. You can’t.”

Gor apparently had not intended to stop there, but the hubbub was such that he had no choice. He held out his arms and waited for the crowd to quiet somewhat before continuing.

“There are two reasons that Azrad, Anaran, and myself will not be leading you home. Firstly, there is simply no room for the three million men and women who now occupy the camps and battlefields. The eastern half of Ethshar—yes, fully half—was destroyed by the demonic invasion, and is now uninhabitable. In the remainder—well, you all know that this war has dragged on for generation after generation, and that our defenses were sound. Despite the ravages of war the population of our old homeland has increased steadily, and there is simply no room for more.”

He paused; the crowd waited expectantly.

“That’s the first reason. The second has been carefully kept secret for years, lest it damage morale and aid the enemy. Now that that enemy is destroyed, the time has come to reveal the truth. Ethshar is no more.”

Gor paused again, as if expecting a loud response, but received only a puzzled silence.

He said, “Or rather, I should say, Old Ethshar is no more. The government collapsed almost a hundred years ago, and where the Holy Kingdom of Ancient Ethshar once was—or at least the western half of it—there are now dozens of squabbling little fiefdoms, each claiming to be the rightful government of the country, and therefore our superiors. We in the military have refused to acknowledge any of these factions, and instead have been operating independently—Azrad, Anaran, myself, and until his death, Terrek, have answered to no one but ourselves. We four were chosen, not by the civilian government as we led you to believe, but by the commanders who came before us. We have traded with the small kingdoms that were once Old Ethshar for the supplies we need, and have defended them against the northerners, but have never heeded their authority. We are the government of Ethshar—not of the Old Ethshar that was once our people’s homeland, but of the new Ethshar, the Hegemony of Ethshar, all the lands that have been taken and held by our victorious armies. All the lands that lie outside the old borders—all the lands outside the borders now that the Empire is destroyed—are ours. Are yours! Captured with your strength and your blood and your courage, they belong to you, not to the cowards who stayed behind and couldn’t even hold their own nation together!”

This was apparently intended to evoke a cheer, but the response was feeble and quick to die, as each individual in the crowd tried to absorb what had been said, evaluate it and guess what it meant for him or her, what place he or she might hold in the new order.

Valder wondered if it actually was a new order, when in fact the generals had been running everything for centuries anyway.

“There is much to be done,” Gor went on, hiding any disconcertment he might feel at the lukewarm response. “This stronghold is to become our new northwestern capital, one of three, to be called Ethshar of the Rocks. I fully expect that in our lifetimes, now that the demands of the war are gone, it will grow into a great and beautiful city.”

An uneasy murmur seemed to be bubbling up here and there in the crowd.

“Of course, the army will be disbanded as quickly as possible, save for a small contingent to keep the peace and defend against any marauding northern survivors. My staff will remain in authority temporarily, but will be converted from a military establishment to a civilian government. The rest of you will be discharged as fast as you can be—with full pay, of course! After that you will be free to do as you please, to stay here and help build our new city or to go where you like and do what you will. For those who wish to take up farming or other settled tasks, all the lands in the Hegemony not already privately owned, all the plains that reach from this ocean to the Great River, will be free to any family that wants them. You need merely find your new home and claim it, and use it—only claims by those who actually work the land will be recognized, as we need no landlords or other parasites.”

Valder tried to digest this. How did one go about becoming a wine merchant? Would he need to claim a vineyard somewhere? He was not interested in growing the grapes and making the wine, merely in selling it. Would he be free to do that under the revamped regime?

And what would he do with Wirikidor? A merchant did not need a sword.

That was nothing to worry about, he told himself. He could just put Wirikidor away somewhere and forget about it, live a normal life—a normal life that would go on indefinitely. He would never be called upon to kill twenty more men, not in peacetime.

He was so involved with consideration of his own future that he paid no attention to the crowd around him, which was restive and uneasy.

“That’s all,” Gor announced. “I’ve said what I came to say. If you have any questions ask your superiors. We aren’t keeping any more secrets. And as quickly as the change can be made, we will no longer be the Western Command of the Holy Kingdom of Ethshar, but an integral part of the new Hegemony of Ethshar, and I will no longer be a general, but rather overlord of the city of Ethshar of the Rocks. After centuries, peace has come! The war is over, and victory is ours!”

Even Valder, lost as he was in his own musings, noticed that the crowd was still so unsettled and confused by the news that this surefire applause line received only a brief, half-hearted cheer.

Chapter Eighteen

For three days after the self-proclaimed overlord’s speech the busiest man in the Fortress was the paymaster. Hundreds of soldiers took Gor at his word and mustered out as fast as they could get through the red tape, each one collecting his back pay—less a fee for early discharge, of course, a fee carefully calculated to keep the treasury solvent without letting anyone feel seriously cheated. It came to a single silver piece, which Valder had to admit was reasonable enough, and the cash settlements were reportedly being made promptly and honestly.

When Valder attempted to collect his pay and go, however, he was refused. Enlisted men were free to go, but as yet officers and special services people were being asked to wait.

Valder thought about just packing up and leaving anyway. He doubted that anyone, in this chaotic new peace, would care about a deserter. However, he had a goodly sum owed to him; whatever its other drawbacks, assassination paid well. He knew he would need money to set himself up in the wine business, and so he waited.

In doing so he was operating on the assumption that he actually intended to become a wine merchant, but now that the prospect was an immediate reality, rather than a vague plan for the distant future, he was having second thoughts. What did he know about being a merchant?

Whatever he might do, however, he would almost certainly want money, and he saw no harm in waiting a few more days to collect it. Tandellin, too, was staying, for the moment; he had not yet decided what to do with himself, and as he explained it, “Why give up free room and board?” Sarai, too, was staying, and somehow with the arrival of peace it became implicitly accepted that Tandellin and Sarai would be married when they got around to it.

Valder remained uneasy about staying in the Fortress, however. He tried to reassure himself as he watched the men and women trickling away down the hillside, leaving the inner corridors ever less crowded. He caught glimpses of their faces—some as they turned back for a last look at the Fortress, others as they turned to face new directions. Some were smiling, full of life and hope, ready to conquer a piece of the World for themselves. Others seemed worried and uncertain as they left behind the only life they had ever known.

For three days new-made civilians walked away down the hillside, and for three days, at irregular intervals, soldiers would march up into the Fortress, alone or in patrols or squads or entire regiments, to be made into civilians and join the outward stream. A few were determined to remain soldiers, of course, and the barracks population fluctuated, rather than decreasing steadily.

As yet Gor had done nothing about his announced intention of building a city around the Fortress and its adjoining shipyards, but a ramshackle city was growing up anyway, a city of tents and crude huts. People were arriving faster than they could be dealt with and sent away, and no one wanted to bother finding places inside the walls for all the newcomers. Furthermore, many of the new civilians who descended the hill went no further than the impromptu camps.

Valder had not ventured outside the Fortress for fear he would have difficulty getting back in; his tall, narrow room with its inaccessible window was not much, but he had become accustomed to it, and greatly preferred stone floors to dirt. He suspected that when someone found the time to update accommodations it would be given to someone more useful in peacetime than himself, but he intended to use it while he still could.

He did find himself spending hours on end standing on the ramparts above the largest landward gate, watching the departing figures and trying to decide whether he actually envied them or not. He made no secret of his time at this post, so he was not surprised when, on the third day after the overlord’s speech, someone called his name.

He turned to see a messenger boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, standing at the top of the nearest ladder. “Are you Valder of Kardoret, sir?” he called.

Valder nodded.

“I’ve been looking all over for you! The general—I mean, the overlord wants to see you immediately!”

“General Gor, you mean?” Valder was puzzled. He could think of no reason that Gor would want to see him, now that the war was really over. There were no more enemy officials to assassinate.

Or were there? Perhaps he was to be sent against the stragglers. Stories had come in of encounters with northern forces who were still fighting.

Of course, those who didn’t fight were often butchered by overenthusiastic Ethsharites even after they surrendered, so Valder hardly blamed those who resisted. Still, he had not thought that Wirikidor’s special talents were called for. Wizards and ordinary soldiers were more practical for such work than assassins.

Perhaps he was to take care of a lingering shatra the wizards could not handle.

“Yes, General Gor,” the boy was saying, “except he’s an overlord now. Didn’t you hear the speech?”

“Yes, I heard the speech,” Valder admitted as he crossed to the ladder. He wondered what the correct form of address might be for speaking to an overlord.

He followed the boy down the ladder and into the Fortress, through the maze of rooms and passageways until he found himself in Gor’s office, unchanged by the switch from military to civilian authority.

A secretary leaned over and whispered through his beard, “Address him as ‘my lord,’” answering Valder’s unasked question. Apparently the point had come up before.

Gor looked up and said, “Ah, Valder. I would like to speak to you in private.” He rose and crossed the room, and opened a small door in the rear wall, a door Valder had never really noticed before. He gestured, and Valder reluctantly came and stepped through the door into the tiny room beyond. A glance behind him showed him that some of the half dozen secretaries and aides in the office were at least as surprised as he was at this unexpected secrecy.

Once inside the bare stone chamber, Gor carefully closed and locked the door. The room was small, perhaps eight feet wide and ten feet long, with two simple wooden chairs the only furnishings; Gor seated himself on one and indicated that Valder was to take the other.

Wary, Valder obeyed.

Once both men were seated Gor wasted no time on preliminaries. “Valder, I don’t know what you had planned to do now that peace has come, but I’d like you to stay on here.”

Confused, Valder stammered in asking, “As a soldier, you mean?”

“As a member of my staff—soldier or civilian, it doesn’t matter. Take your choice.”

“Why? What would I do?”

“Why? Because I think I might find an assassin very useful.”

“An assassin? In peacetime?” Valder was shocked and made no attempt to hide that fact.

“Yes, in peacetime—perhaps more than ever. When somebody gives me trouble now I can’t just order him hanged, you know; not any more. I know that there are people who aren’t happy with this triumvirate that Azrad and Anaran and I have set up; by the gods, there are times when we aren’t very happy with it ourselves! Still, it’s better than chaos, and that’s what there would be if we stepped down. That’s what happened in Old Ethshar when it wasn’t clear who was in charge, and it’s not pretty at all—all the small kingdoms fighting over the bones of the old one. I don’t want to see that happen out here in the Hegemony. I’ll use whatever methods I need, whatever methods I can find, to prevent it, and that includes assassination. Wizards can handle some of it, but magic leaves traces, and most magic can be guarded against—just as the northerners tried to guard against it. That sword of yours seems to be an exception, though—you got through in the north where wizards couldn’t, and it would be no different here. Besides, I may need to eliminate a wizard or two, and they have a guild—they’re more loyal to their guild than to anything else, including me or any other mortal, so I can’t often get them to attack each other. I think Wikridor, or whatever its name is, could be just what I need to keep the Wizards’ Guild in line.”

“Wirikidor,” Valder corrected absently.

“Wirikidor, then.”

“Um.”

“Well, man, what do you say? The job will pay well, I can promise you that.”

“Sir—ah, I mean my lord—I don’t think I can do it. The day you told us the war was over I had been planning to come to you and resign and ask for different duties. I don’t like being an assassin. I can’t take any more of it. It isn’t in me to do this sort of killing. If I hadn’t stumbled into owning this sword, I wouldn’t … well, I wouldn’t have been an assassin, certainly.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like killing! I don’t like danger, or sneaking about, and I don’t like killing. I don’t like blood. When the war was going on it wasn’t too bad—everybody was doing it, after all, killing or being killed, and there was a reason for it. We were defending ourselves. Now, though, I wouldn’t be killing the enemy, but our own people, just to protect you. I…” Valder suddenly realized that not only was he expressing himself badly, but he was on the verge of saying something irretrievably tactless. He changed direction abruptly. “And besides, the sword is cursed, you know, and is due to turn on me soon if I keep using it. I couldn’t serve you for very long in any case. All I want to do, sir—my lord—is to collect my pay and retire quietly, perhaps set myself up in business somewhere. I’m not interested in fighting or killing or government or politics. I never was. Please, my lord, don’t misunderstand me, but do just let me go.”

He stared hopefully at Gor. The overlord, obviously irritated, had gone from leaning back in his chair to leaning forward, elbows on knees. Now he rose, his hand falling naturally to the hilt of his sword. “You’re sure of your decision?”

Valder rose, but pointedly kept his own hand well away from Wirikidor. “I’m quite sure, my lord. I will not be your assassin.” An odd feeling of confidence seeped into him as he stood facing Gor. Here he was, defying one of the three most powerful men in the world—and he had nothing to fear! Gor could not kill him; Wirikidor would make sure of that. Nor could Valder be demoted or court-martialled, now that the war was over; he was sure that an attempt at military justice against a man who had tried to leave the army peacefully would result in a public outcry Gor could ill afford, and what would demotion matter any more?

Gor seemed to sense Valder’s changed attitude; his own became less certain, less belligerent, and he glanced at Wirikidor. “You won’t speak of this conversation with anyone, I hope,” he said. “I would not appreciate that. Unpleasant things might happen. I can allow you to go in peace, Valder of the Magic Sword, but I cannot allow you to work against me. I know the sword guards you against death, but there are other unpleasant things that can happen. Remember that and say nothing.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Good.” Gor turned to open the door. “That’s all, then.”

“Not quite, my lord.” Valder stayed where he was, and allowed his hand to drop nearer Wirikidor’s hilt. In this room he had the upper hand; if he drew Wirikidor there could be no doubt that Gor would die. Of course, there would also be no doubt about who killed him, but Valder could claim it was an accident, and given Wirikidor’s untrustworthy nature he might be believed.

He had no intention of drawing the sword, but it made a very effective threat indeed.

“Oh?” Gor was wary, and, Valder sensed, very dangerous. He might hope to wound Valder and delay him long enough to slip out and allow the sword a choice of victims.

“I realize it’s an imposition, but if you could send a message to the paymaster to release the money owed me, I would like to be discharged and go about my business. You don’t need me around here any more, talking to people.”

“Oh, is that all?” Gor relaxed visibly. He turned and opened the door, then leaned through and called to the people waiting in the main office. “Bragen! Inform the paymaster that Valder of Kardoret has been discharged without prejudice and is to be paid the full amount due him upon request!”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the secretary who had told Valder the appropriate form of address.

“Thank you,” Valder said as he made his way past Gor and out of the little room.

Gor did not answer; he was already bellowing for some other officer to pay attention.

Valder and Bragen marched side by side down the corridor, not speaking. Valder was thinking and planning intently, as he had not really done for months.

Gor was not a man prone to making empty threats; he undoubtedly really did have wizards working for him who would not balk at an assassination or two. He might well decide that Valder was simply too dangerous to have running around loose, particularly in his own home. That was why Valder had insisted on his immediate discharge and full pay; he did not care to stay in the Fortress where Gor might stumble across him and be reminded that Wirikidor was a real threat, and where Valder could easily be found if the overlord decided to do something about him. It was time to go, and quickly, as he had no desire to be blinded or hamstrung or imprisoned.

In his first rush of worry he was not even certain he should take the time to collect his few personal belongings and make his farewells to Tandellin and other friends, but he decided, while the paymaster was counting out his coins, that Gor would be too busy to worry about him for at least a few hours yet. He would have time, once his pay was all securely in hand, to gather his things and stop by the barracks briefly.

That settled, the next question was where to go. Since the ocean lay to the west and an almost-empty wilderness to the north, his choices were limited. To the east was the former Central Command, under Anaran of the Sands; beyond that he was not sure, since the demonic attack had wiped out the old Eastern Command. Somewhere to the southeast was Azrad’s Coastal Command, which had always been concerned with supply and communication rather than combat, and beyond that, across the Gulf, lay the small kingdoms that had once been the Ethsharitic homeland.

He had no interest in wandering about in the wilds, nor in being alone. If he were to hide from Gor, as it seemed he might need to, it would be easier to lose himself in a crowd than somewhere in the wilderness. Any decent wizard could locate the general area an individual was in, with a few simple spells, and if he were living by himself somewhere he would be easily found by such methods—but the spells could not pick one man out of a camp.

The Fortress and the surrounding area were certainly crowded enough, but he did not care to stay so close. What of the other two headquarters, then?

Anaran was based on the south coast, well on the other side of the major western peninsula, and Azrad’s home port, reputed to be an actual city rather than a camp, was far beyond, on the northeastern corner of the eastern peninsula, not far from the mouth of the Great River and almost at the borders of the small kingdoms—after all, Azrad had been in charge of ports and coasts throughout the World, and his command had been the link between the other three and the old homeland.

Azrad’s base sounded promising; it was on the far side of Anaran’s, making it that much less accessible to Gor, and furthermore he judged that there would be far more business opportunities there, where trade was already established. He might not wind up a wine merchant, but by all the gods he would find something and not wind up a farmer!

When he stopped in and told Tandellin he was leaving, Tandellin naturally asked where he would go.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he muttered.

“Yes, you do, Valder; you wouldn’t just leave this suddenly if you hadn’t picked a destination.”

Sheepishly, Valder admitted, “Well, I was thinking of Azrad’s home port—should be plenty of work there.”

“So there should. Good luck, then, in finding it!” With that, Tandellin embraced him and then turned away.

Valder was slightly startled; he had expected Tandellin to try and extend the conversation, not cut it short. Unsure whether to be relieved or hurt, he headed for the gate, and just an hour after the end of his interview with the overlord he was marching down the hillside with a full purse on his belt, bound for Azrad’s headquarters.

Chapter Nineteen

Valder was no sailor, nor was he particularly fond of the sea, though he did think its scent freshened the air nicely. Still, he decided after due consideration to travel by ship, rather than overland. He estimated the distance to Azrad’s home base at more than a hundred leagues, a long and weary walk under the best of circumstances. Nor did such circumstances exist, as the roads, he knew, were not good. Much of the route had been disputed territory at one time or another in the past few decades, and although roads had been built to accommodate troop movements, they had been intended as temporary and had not been maintained. A few had been torn up by actual battles.

And a walk it would have had to be, as no horses or other beasts of burden were available. The hundreds of people who had left the Fortress before him had bought or stolen every one to be found in a two-league radius.

Once this became clear, Valder took the first shipboard vacancy he could find. Fortunately, ships were coming in steadily, so that this caused no delay.

He was surprised to learn that these ships were bringing people in from further south and east, people who hoped to find greater opportunities in this most northerly of the three new capitals. Less startling was the observation that dozens of others were following his own course, leaving the Fortress for places closer to the old homeland.

He wondered how things stood elsewhere. Was all the Hegemony as unsettled as this? The sudden end of the war had apparently left hundreds or thousands of people unsure where they might fit in.

As he stood at the ship’s rail and watched Gor’s demesne fade in the distance he assured himself that he had done the right thing. True, all his living friends were still in or near the Fortress, but his departure meant a clean break with his past as an assassin, and with all the rest of his former life. Nobody would know him in Azrad’s city; nobody would know that Wirikidor was anything more than an ordinary sword such as any veteran might carry. He would make new friends, in time, friends who would not care what he had done during the war, and he would live peacefully as long as he kept Wirikidor sheathed.

If he kept it sheathed long enough, he could just outlive everyone who knew of its existence.

He wondered if that was really a good thing. He enjoyed life, or at least he usually had, but might it get wearing eventually? Living on indefinitely while everyone around him grew old and died might be depressing. Of course, he would presumably be growing older too.

That thought brought him up with a start. Just how would that work? Would the sword keep him young, or merely alive? It would not protect him from injury—his left arm still ached sometimes where that sorcerer had wounded him—so why should it protect him from aging?

In that case, would it really prevent him from dying of old age? Darrend had said the only way he could die without breaking the spell was on Wirikidor’s blade, so presumably it would keep him alive somehow.

Living for several centuries and aging normally all the time might be worse than death—if anything could be. He had seen men who were worn out at sixty, others who still enjoyed life at eighty, but after a century or two surely no life would still be worth living.

Well, maybe the sword would keep him young. He had plenty of time left before he had to worry about it, and there was always a way out of anything—though not always an easy or pleasant one. He turned away from the rail and went below. His stomach was uneasy.

The ship stopped briefly at a town called Shan on the Sea, at the tip of the southwestern peninsula, but Valder paid little attention. He was too seasick just then to rise from his hammock.

The second stop was at Anaran’s vast walled camp, now called Ethshar of the Sands; by then Valder was well enough to stagger up on deck and lean heavily against the rail. He debated with himself as to whether he should disembark and put an end to the internal discomfort he felt by returning to dry land, but finally decided to continue. He was recovering, and knew that he would be safer in Azrad’s city.

In any case, the maze of tents and temporary buildings that covered the flat sandy ground was not particularly encouraging. A large building of polished stone was under construction in the center, its immense unfinished dome half-hidden by scaffolding. An extensive system of lighthouses, port facilities, and coastal defenses lined the waterfront. In the distance he could see an impressive city wall. Everywhere else, however, Ethshar of the Sands was a tangle of narrow unpaved streets lined with mismatched tents and crude houses apparently thrown together from driftwood and wreckage. People were jammed into these structures in incredible numbers, even more than in Gor’s Ethshar of the Rocks.

All this was plainly visible as the ship inched in toward the docks, and seasick or not, Valder thought it best to stay on board and sail for Azrad’s port—Azrad’s Ethshar, the crew called it.

Within a day or two of leaving Ethshar of the Sands that decision seemed wise indeed, as his stomach had finally adapted to the ship’s motions and he was able to stroll the deck casually, watching the progressively greener and lusher coastline slip by. When they had rounded the headlands at the tip of the peninsula that separated the Great Ocean from the Gulf of the East the countryside seemed even more beautiful, the loveliest Valder had ever seen.

Finally, two sixnights after leaving the Fortress, Valder caught sight of Azrad’s Ethshar.

At first it was nothing but a gray line on the horizon, a gray line amid the green that grew and grew until it covered the entire shoreline. By the time the ship crept up one of the canals to its own dock Valder had had a chance to readjust his thinking.

This was no “camp,” in any sense of the word; even calling it a city seemed an understatement, as it was far larger than any he had ever seen, larger than he had imagined any city could be. The waterfront extended for miles, every inch of it lined with docks and warehouses, piers and tenements. Two large canals cut their way inland, and were likewise lined with docks and warehouses. No mere tents or shacks were anywhere to be seen; these buildings were mostly stone or brick, and not particularly new.

That was reasonable, of course, since this had been the headquarters for the navy, not the army, and for the extensive supply system that had kept both branches of the military fed and equipped. Although technically outside the borders of Old Ethshar, the enemy had never claimed the area, never approached it or threatened it in any way, so there had been no reason not to build it up, and the navy had not had much else to do in the war against a landlocked enemy.

Valder’s consideration of the subject was rudely interrupted by a gang of blue-kilted sailors, marching arm in arm along the deck bellowing, “All ashore! All ashore!”

He managed to get back to his tiny shared cabin long enough to snatch up his bundled belongings, and then found himself, with the rest of the passengers, herded down the gangplank onto the dock, where they were left to their own devices.

Almost immediately, some of the new arrivals turned around and clamored for passage elsewhere—Ethshar of the Rocks, Ethshar of the Sands, Shan on the Sea, anywhere but this strange, forbidding place of stone and brick. None of them had ever seen a real city before; after all, this was the only one in the Hegemony at present, though two more were building, and travel to the small kingdoms had been carefully restricted for a century or so.

Valder was an exception. He had visited three different northern cities in the course of his assassinations, so the endless rows of buildings, the stark bare walls and streets did not seem completely alien and unfamiliar. The northern cities had been smaller and half-empty, almost abandoned, and Azrad’s Ethshar teemed with life, which seemed a good sign. Such a place was surely far more promising than the other two Ethshars; he marched down the dock to where it met the waterfront and turned left, inland, onto the street there.

This street paralleled the canal, and as might be expected so near the docks it was lined with buildings that had shops on the ground floor and brothels or warehouse space upstairs. He saw no inns, which seemed a bit odd, but the shops did include shipfitters, ropemakers, coopers, carpenters, sailmakers, chandlers—and a distressing number of wineshops. The market here, Valder realized, was already full. If he were going to go into the wine business he would need to go elsewhere; if he were going to stay here he would need to choose another occupation.

He noticed all this while fighting his way through crowds. The streets were jammed with people, going in both directions at varying speeds, clad in a fantastic variety of dress. The tangle at one intersection was such that he had to fight his way into the thick of the crowd simply to avoid being forced over the ankle-high parapet and into the canal. He was grateful that all the traffic was on foot, as horses or oxen would have made the tangle impassable.

A few hundred feet from the dock where he had disembarked the canalside street was joined diagonally by another, and where they met was a good-sized triangular marketplace, where farmers and fishermen were hawking their wares. At the near end three men stood on a raised platform, one of them shouting numbers to a small crowd, another wearing chains. Valder realized with a start that this was a slave auction in progress.

He had known that such things existed; the few northern prisoners who survived had presumably wound up as slaves somewhere, and certain crimes were punishable by enslavement, but this was the first time he personally had come into direct contact with the institution of slavery.

He wondered where the man being auctioned off had come from, and how he had arrived in his present state—and just what a healthy slave was worth. He had no intention of buying one—he had no use for a slave and did not want the added responsibility—but he was intensely curious all the same to learn what a man’s life was worth in silver. He pressed forward to listen.

He was too late; the auctioneer called out, “Sold!” just as Valder came close enough to make out what was said. He waited for a moment to see if any more slaves were to be sold, but this one had apparently been the last in the lot. The auctioneer stepped down from the platform, and the other free man led the slave away.

Mildly disappointed, but also thrilled with the exoticism of this strange city, Valder shrugged and turned away, and nearly stepped on the tail of a tiny golden dragon, scarcely three feet long, that was being led past him on a chain held by a plump women in red velvet. Valder stared after it; he had not realized that even newborn dragons could be so small.

When the little monster had vanished in the throng Valder resumed his former route, pushing his way southward through the crowd toward the inland end of the market. He had reached the midpoint of the plaza when he suddenly realized that he had no idea where he was going. He was in Azrad’s Ethshar, and that was as far as he had planned. His hope of setting himself up as a wine merchant was best abandoned, as the competition was too fierce and too well established. He was alone in a strange city, with a few clothes and personal items, a full money-pouch, a magic sword, and nothing else.

Obviously, the first order of business was to find food and shelter. A city would have inns, certainly; he need only find them. Once he had a room and a meal he could take his time in deciding what to do. He had his whole life before him—and a very long life it might be, at that—to do with as he would and as he could. He was free, unfettered, and uncertain, with no obligations and no plans.

He had rather expected to find inns near the docks, but none were evident. The next logical place would be near the city gates. That left the question of where the nearest gate might be.

He reached the narrow end of the market and found himself with a choice of two streets, one heading east across the head of the canal and the other angling off to the southwest. He chose southwest, and struggled onward. The crowds were somewhat thinner here, but seemed to move faster, though still exclusively pedestrians.

Roughly five hundred feet from the intersection the street he had chosen ended in a T, offering him northwest or southeast. He stood for a moment at the corner, puzzled, then stopped a passerby in a pale yellow tunic and asked, “Which way to the city gate?”

The man glanced at him. “Westgate?”

“If that’s nearest.”

The man pointed southeast and said, “You follow this to Bridge Street, turn right, follow that until it merges into West Street, follow that to Shipwright Street, and that goes to Westgate Market.” Before Valder could thank him or ask for more detail the man had pulled away and vanished in the crowd, leaving Valder wondering if he might have asked the wrong question. There might well be inns closer at hand.

Still, he had directions, and he followed them as best he could. The street leading southeast ended at a broad avenue after a single block; although Valder saw no sign of a bridge nor any indication of the avenue’s name he assumed he had the correct street and turned right.

Bridge Street, if that was what it was, seemed interminable, and was as crowded as the other streets. After he had gone roughly half a mile, elbowing his way along, he reached an intersection where the avenue did not continue directly across, but turned at an oblique angle. He hesitated, but guessed that this must be the junction with West Street and turned right. A glance at the sun convinced him that he was now heading due west.

As he progressed the nature of his surroundings altered somewhat. The shipfitters and ropemakers had vanished when he left the canal behind, replaced by wheelwrights and metalworkers, and to some extent the brothels and warehouses had given way to residences. This new street was lined with weavers and cloth merchants, tinkers and blacksmiths, carters and tanners. Valder had never seen so many businesses gathered together before; any street in this city put to shame the traveling markets that had serviced military camps.

The buildings in this area also appeared to be newer than those right on the canal, favoring the modern half-timbered style for upper floors rather than the older custom of solid stone from foundation to ridgepole. That made sense, of course; naturally the city would have started out clustered around the port and only gradually grown inland.

West Street, if that was in fact the street he was on, ended eventually at a diagonal cross-street; Valder chose the left turn, to the southwest, without hesitation. Quite aside any more abstract considerations, he could hear and smell a market, and from the corner of West Street he glimpsed the top of a stone tower that he took to be a gate tower.

Sure enough, as he rounded the next curve he found himself looking down a straight street at a market square, a very crowded market square, in the shadow of two immense towers.

He wanted to hurry forward, as the long walk had made him impatient, but was unable to do so. The street was too populous, and it seemed that a significant part of the crowd was not moving. A good many people were just standing, not walking in any particular direction.

He managed to force his way into a stream of people that was moving steadily toward the market, marveling at the endless throngs as he did so. He had not realized there were so many people in all the World as he had seen in Azrad’s Ethshar.

A hand thrust itself in front of him and a voice demanded, “Alms, for a crippled veteran!”

Valder thrust the hand aside with a shudder and marched on. Beggars! He had somehow not expected beggars in this vast, overwhelming city. Of course, it made sense that they would be here. They would naturally want to go where there was money to be had, and Azrad’s Ethshar certainly had money.

A signboard caught his attention. It depicted a huge golden goblet with purple wine slopping over the rim, and a line of runes across the bottom read, Food & Lodging. Valder turned his steps in that direction, back out of the flow of traffic.

A good many people, mostly scowling, stood around the door of the inn, but they did not interfere as Valder shoved his way through. He stepped over the threshold into the dim interior and stopped dead.

The inside of the inn was almost as crowded as the street. The main public room, just inside the front door, was more than twenty feet on a side, but except for a narrow path that led from the door to one end, across the hearth, down along the row of barrels, and then to the back corner where a stair and two doors led to other rooms, the floor was completely covered with blankets, displacing all the expected tavern furnishings. These blankets were neatly laid out in rectangles about two feet wide and six feet long, and on each one a man or woman sat or stood or lay, each with his or her personal possessions stacked at one end. Some had nothing but a spare tunic, while others had large, unwieldy bundles. Virtually all wore the green and brown of the Ethsharitic armies.

Startled and confused, Valder followed the path across the hearth and paused at the first barrel. The innkeeper emerged from one of the doors.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Ah… a pint of ale, for now.”

“That’ll be four bits in silver,” the innkeeper warned.

Valder stared at him in astonishment, forgetting the crowded floor for the moment in the face of this greater shock. “What?”

“Four silver bits, I said. We’ve only got half a keg left, and no more due for a sixnight.”

“Forget it, then. What about water?”

“A copper a pint—no change for silver, either.”

“That’s mad! You’re selling ale for the price of a fine southern vintage, and water for the price of the best ale!”

“True enough, sir, I am indeed. That’s what the market will bear, and I’d be a fool not to get what I can while these poor souls still have their pay to spend.”

“It’s theft!”

“No, sir, it’s honest trade. The gate and the market are so jammed, and the roads so full, and the ships so busy with passengers, that I can’t get supplies in. We have a good well out back, but it’s not bottomless, and yields only so much in a day. Our supplies are limited, and it seems the demand is not. I understand that the taverns nearest the gate are only accepting gold now.”

“And your rooms?”

“All taken, sir, and the floor here as well. I’m an honest man, and I won’t lie about it, there is nowhere left to put you that won’t block my path. They’re sleeping four to a bed upstairs, with six on each floor, and a blanket and a space down here would cost you a full silver piece if I had any left.”

“It’s all mad. Where are all these people coming from?”

“It is mad, sir, I won’t argue that. It seems as if the entire army of Ethshar is jammed into Westgate. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s the end of the war that’s done it, of course, and I’m sure we’ll never see anything like it again. If prices come back down I’ll retire a wealthy man at the end of the year—but who’s to say what prices will do, when once they’ve started changing? The army doesn’t set them any more, so I need to charge what I can get.”

“I have money, innkeeper, but I’ll be damned to a northerner’s hell before I’ll pay a silver bit just for water.”

“A copper piece will do.”

“I don’t intend to pay that, either.”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Please yourself. I have all the trade I need without you.”

“Isn’t there anywhere in the city that still charges honest prices?”

“I have no idea, really. There might be some poor fool somewhere. If so, he’s surely drained his every barrel dry by now.”

“Well, we’ll just see about that,” Valder said, knowing even as the words left his lips that they sounded foolish. He turned and, in a petty display of temper, marched directly across the array of blankets and back out into the street, ignoring the angry protests from those he stepped over.

Chapter Twenty

To Valder’s surprise, he found the situation to be exactly as the proprietor of the Overflowing Chalice had described it. In fact, each door closer to the Westgate Market brought another jump in prices. The inns and taverns that actually faced on the market were indeed accepting nothing smaller than a gold bit, even for water, let alone bread, cheese, or ale. Valder estimated that his entire accumulated pay, which he had thought ample to live on for two years or more, would scarcely buy a good dinner and a night’s lodging at the Gatehouse Inn—which was, oddly, not in the actual gatehouse or even adjoining it. The gatehouse itself was in the base of one of the two towers and was still manned by the army, as were the rest of both towers and the wall. Taverns and inns faced the gate from across the broad market square, and the Gatehouse Inn was at their center.

Strangely, the north and south sides of the market were completely open, marked only by a drop in the level of the ground, and Valder could see the city wall stretching off into the distance. Paralleling it, but a hundred feet or so in, was a broad smooth street, also stretching off out of sight. In the rough depression between the wall and the street were no buildings, no structure of any sort, but more blankets like those in the Overflowing Chalice—hundreds upon hundreds of them, each with its occupant. These, Valder realized, were the veterans too poor—or too frugal—to pay for space in an inn or tavern. Several, he noticed, were crippled or wounded, and most were ragged and dirty.

After he had inquired at a dozen or so inns without finding food, drink, or lodging at a price he was willing to pay, Valder found himself standing in the middle of the market square, surrounded by the milling crowds. To the north and south were the homeless veterans on their pitiful blankets; to the east were the incredibly-priced inns; to the west was the gate itself, fifty feet wide and at least as tall, but dwarfed by its two huge towers. He suddenly felt the need to talk to someone—not a greedy innkeeper nor a wandering, aimless veteran, but somebody secure and sensible. Without knowing exactly why, he headed for the gatehouse.

The towers, of course, were manned by proper soldiers, still in full uniform, and Valder found himself irrationally comforted by the sight of their polished breastplates and erect carriage. Three men were busily directing the flood of traffic in and out of the gate, answering shouted questions and turning back everything but people on foot, but a fourth was obviously off duty for the moment. He was seated comfortably on a folding canvas chair, leaning up against the stone wall of the gatehouse.

Valder made his way over and leaned up against the wall beside the soldier. The man glanced up at him but said nothing, and Valder inferred from this that his presence was not unwelcome.

“Has it been like this for very long?” Valder asked, after the silence stretched from sociable to the verge of strain.

“You mean the crowds? It’s been going on for two or three days, since they announced the war was over. Nobody knows what to do without orders, so they all come here hoping somebody will tell them.”

“It can’t keep up like this, can it?”

“Oh, I don’t think so—sooner or later everyone will have come here, seen what a mess it is, and given up and left again.”

“I expect a good many will stay; I’d say this is going to be a very large city from now on, even more than before.”

“Oh, no doubt of that; they’re already laying out new streets wherever they can find room inside the walls.”

“Is anybody doing anything about all these people?”

“Not really—what can they do? We have orders to keep out horse and oxen, to reduce the crowding in the streets, and Azrad did have free blankets issued, so that nobody would have to sleep in the mud, but that’s about it. There just isn’t anything to do with them. There’s plenty of land outside the walls if they want to go farm it, and I suppose there will be work for builders and the like, but beyond that I don’t know what’s going to happen to them all. I stayed in uniform for a reason, you know; the army may be rough at times, but it’s secure, even in peacetime. Someone’s got to watch the gates and patrol the borders and keep order.”

“You said the overlord gave out those blankets?”

“That’s right; that was intended to be the entire supply for the whole Ethsharitic army for the next three years, and they’ve been given away to whoever asked for them. Need one? We’ve got about twenty left, I think.”

“I might, at that, unless you can tell me where I can find lodging at a reasonable price.”

“Friend, there isn’t a place in this whole city where you can find cheap lodging except the Hundred-Foot Field and the barracks, and the word is that the penalty for civilians sleeping in the barracks is a hundred lashes—and you re-enlist. And not as an officer, either, regardless of what you were in wartime.”

“Seems severe, but I know better than to argue. What’s the Hundred-Foot Field?”

“You walked right past it.” He gestured vaguely toward the market. “That’s the space between Wall Street and the wall. The law says you can’t build there, ever, in case the army needs the space to maneuver or move siege machines—but the law doesn’t say anything about sleeping there on a blanket or two in warm weather. Even during the war we usually had a few beggars and cripples who slept there, and now it’s jammed full of these damned veterans, all the way around the city—or so I’m told, I haven’t checked. I never go south of Westwark, nor more than a few blocks into Shiphaven.”

“I don’t know my way around the city, but I take it those are neighborhoods?”

“That’s right; even without these veterans the city was already too big, and it’s more like a dozen little cities put together—Shiphaven and Westgate and Westwark and Spicetown and Fishertown and the Old City and the Merchants’ Quarter and so forth.”

“I hadn’t realized it was so big.” Valder glanced back at the mobbed marketplace. The crowd seemed to be thinning somewhat—or perhaps the fading light just made it appear to be. He realized with some surprise that the sun was below the western horizon, and the shadow of the city wall covered everything in sight. He still had not eaten, and had nowhere to stay the night.

“Ah—how many gates are there?”

“Three, though they’re planning to put in a fourth one to the southwest.”

“Are there inns at all of them?”

“I suppose so, but Westgate gets the most traffic. This is the main highway here, going through this gate, the road to Ethshar and Anaran and Gor and the northern lands, while the other gates just go to the local farms on the peninsula. I think most of the inns must be here.”

“How far is it to the next gate?”

The soldier leaned back in his chair and considered that for a moment. “I’d guess two miles or more,” he said. “It’s a big city.”

Valder glanced at the thinning crowds, then at the dimming sky. Torches were being lit in front of some of the taverns and shops, but the streets would still be dark. Walking two miles through an unfamiliar city at night on the slim chance that the other gates would be preferable, when he was already tired, was not an attractive prospect. “Let me have one of those blankets,” he said. “It looks as if I’ll be spending the night in the Hundred-Foot Field.”

The soldier grinned. “Right. Got to make that back pay last, don’t you?” He sat up and let the chair’s front legs down, then got to his feet. With a nod, he vanished through the gatehouse door, to emerge a moment later with a brown bundle. “It’s all yours,” he said, tossing the blanket to Valder.

Valder decided against replying; he nodded politely and slipped away into the crowd.

As he made his way southward on Wall Street looking for a blanket-sized opening in the Hundred-Foot Field, he kept a steady eye on the field’s inhabitants. The further from the market square he went, the less savory his view became, and by the time he had gone six blocks he had the blanket tucked securely under one arm in order to keep his hands free, his right resting on his sword-hilt and his left clutching his purse.

The wall, and Wall Street with it, jogged three times before he found himself a spot. He judged the distance from Westgate Market at roughly a mile, and briefly considered continuing on toward the second gate.

He quickly dismissed the notion, however. Night had fallen, and the light from the scattered torches and lanterns did not amount to much. He did not care to travel further by such uncertain illumination, particularly with a full purse. Furthermore, if the crowd from Westgate extended this far, might not the crowd from the next gate extend as far in the opposite direction, so that he would be walking into a throng similar to the one he had just departed? Westgate might be the most active gate, but the others would surely be almost as busy and expensive.

It was quite obvious that he was not going to get anywhere in Azrad’s Ethshar; far too many people had gotten here before him, and every available opportunity must certainly have already been taken. He would have to get out into the countryside, at least temporarily. He still had no interest in becoming a farmer, but surely something, some sort of an opportunity, would present itself.

He had not eaten since leaving the ship, and his stomach was growling persistently as he smoothed his blanket on the hard-packed bare dirt of the field. He promised himself that he would buy something to eat in the morning, no matter what the cost.

With a wary glance at his neighbors he settled down, keeping his right hand on Wirikidor’s hilt, his left still securely gripping his purse. He did not intend to be robbed. He fell asleep, finally, and awoke at dawn to find sword and purse still intact. Any thieves who might have been around had presumably found easier pickings.

He was stiff and cramped from sleeping curled up in his blanket. He struggled to his feet and stretched vigorously. All around him men and a few scattered women were still sleeping. A few were awake, some of them moving, some just sitting and gazing about sleepily. Valder found himself becoming depressed just looking at them—all this potential going to waste! He was determined that he, at least, would not sit and rot in the Hundred-Foot Field. He would get out of the city and find himself a career. He had not seen the horrendous inflation in prices anywhere but Azrad’s Ethshar—which was, of course, far more crowded than anywhere else—so he hoped his savings would tide him over.

He had wanted to lose himself in a crowd, where Gor would be unable to find him should he decide ex-assassins were dangerous, but the crowding in this city was more than he had imagined possible, so much so that now he was eager to leave it behind. Rolling up his blanket he picked his way carefully across his neighbors to Wall Street, where he turned left and head for Westgate.

No one took any special note of him as he marched out the gate onto the highway. The guard he had spoken with was nowhere in sight.

By noon he was almost four leagues from the city wall.

As the day progressed the traffic grew from virtually nothing moving to a steady stream in both directions. People were still drifting in toward the city from the disbanding armies, while others who had already seen the situation and given up on finding a place in Azrad’s Ethshar were heading back out to look for someplace better.

This struck him as futile, and he tried stopping a party heading in toward the city to tell them that there was nothing for them there. They ignored his warning.

“Maybe there’s nothing there for you, fellow, but perhaps we aren’t as picky,” the leader said, glancing significantly at Valder’s black and gray uniform. Like most people, he wore green and brown; very few people had bothered to acquire civilian clothes yet, though insignia and marks of rank were now rare and only those who remained soldiers were permitted to keep their breastplates.

“I’m not picky,” Valder insisted. “The whole place is mobbed. Food is running low, and lodging costs more for a night than it should for a year.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see this for ourselves. We don’t know you; why should we believe you?”

Valder shrugged. “I’m just trying to help,” he said.

“We don’t need your help,” the spokesman said, turning away. Valder watched helplessly as they trudged on toward the gates. When they were lost in the streaming traffic he turned and headed onward himself.

The highway had left the city running due west, but quickly curved around to the north, leading from the peninsula to the mainland. Valder knew a little basic geography, enough to know that the only land routes from Azrad’s Ethshar to anywhere worth mentioning would have to run northward across the isthmus to the mainland; there simply wasn’t anything except open countryside surrounded by sea to the south, east, or west. He supposed that some of that land might be suitable for farming—though he had an impression it was too sandy to be much use even for that—but he was not willing to try farming it.

That meant he had to head north, and that was what he was doing, but once he reached the mainland he had more of a choice. He could head back west along the coast to Ethshar of the Sands, perhaps—but that would take him closer to Gor, and though Ethshar of the Sands was less crowded than Azrad’s Ethshar it was more primitive, and he was not at all sure it would be any real improvement. Somewhere far to the north were the mines and mountains taken from the Northern Empire in the course of the last century or so, and beyond them the ruins of the Empire itself. He had no interest in mining, and knew that it was never the common miners who got rich from the jewels and metals they found, but those who owned the mines, or bought from the miners, or sold to the miners. A wine merchant might do well in the mining country, but first he would need stock, and as yet Valder had no stock and no idea where he might find any.

In all the wide arc of land between the mines and Ethshar of the Sands there was only wilderness, forests and grasslands, and a few scattered farms that had been established to help feed the armies fighting in that wilderness. Those armies had once had camps dotting the plains and forests in every direction, but were now disbanded. A few camps might survive as villages and towns, but Valder doubted any would have much to offer him.

That covered the compass from south sunwise through northeast, leaving only the east and southeast. That, of course, was where the old homeland had been. It had never actually been his own home, of course; he had been born in the camptown at Kardoret, a base on the line between the western and central commands, and had never seen Old Ethshar. The official story, which he had no reason to doubt, was that it was now fragmented into dozens of petty states, warring with one another. Valder had had his fill of war, certainly, but he wondered whether there might not be opportunities to be found there. Certainly, Gor of the Rocks had no authority there, and so could not pursue him; the Hegemony of Ethshar claimed only the lands outside the old borders.

His worries about the overlord might be unfounded, he knew, but even so the prospect of actually seeing the land he had fought for for so long, a land that had history extending back before the war, had a certain charm to it. Most of the veterans were unimaginative enough to accept the official line and stay in the Hegemony, he was sure, so the competition for work would not be as fierce in the Small Kingdoms.

That decided him. He would head for the Small Kingdoms, where Old Ethshar used to be. That meant he must bear right at every major fork, following the highways around the northern end of the Gulf of the East.

So far, however, he had seen no forks; the highway rolled on, indivisible, across the isthmus.

He marched on through the afternoon, despite mounting weariness. He was not accustomed to long walks any more, after his enforced inactivity at sea and his long stint as an assassin, where speed and stealth had been far more important than stamina. Furthermore, he realized he had broken his promise to himself in his rush to get out of the city, and had not eaten anything since his last meal aboard ship, which had been a large breakfast the day before. He had found water, at several small streams that crossed the highway, but no food.

For that matter, he had not encountered a stream recently, and although the day was no more than pleasantly warm he was again growing thirsty. He cursed himself for not having planned more carefully and brought adequate supplies.

Of course, he had expected to find everything he needed in Azrad’s Ethshar. The impossibly high prices had been a complete surprise, and had shocked him so badly that he had forgotten how essential food and drink could be. He had refused to buy anything at all, despite his sizable store of cash, and was now paying for his miserliness. He wished he had somehow wangled a Spell of Sustenance somewhere along the line, but he no longer even had a bloodstone; he had turned his last one in after his last assassination, in accordance with his orders.

If mere food and drink were so outrageously expensive in the city, he wondered what astronomical sum might be required to buy an enchanted bloodstone.

Somewhere along the highway, he told himself, there would surely be an inn or a tavern, or at least a farmhouse, where he might buy bread and ale, or at least water. With that in mind he kept marching, and even managed to pick up his pace a trifle.

The sun was reddening in the west when he reached the fork. As he had decided, he bore right. Some of his fellow travelers were already settling by the roadside for the night, some with elaborate camps, others with just a blanket. Virtually all the traffic that was still moving was using the left-hand fork, and Valder realized that that must be the road to both Anaran’s territory and the northern lands. Since the left fork headed due west and the right due north he would have assumed otherwise, if not for the traffic, but among those coming down the west fork were men and women in clothes far warmer than the climate called for, some with mining tools on belts or backpacks.

Those who had stopped for the night were strewn haphazardly along the wayside with whatever supplies they had brought, which hardly seemed to indicate the presence of an inn anywhere on the road. Valder had brought nothing, and still hoped to find shelter; he marched on past the fork, and almost immediately felt a cool breeze that carried the scent of water—but not the salt tang of the ocean.

The fork had been on the side of a low rise, with the west fork following the contour of the land while the north headed directly up over the crest. Valder pushed on over the ridgetop, to where he could see what lay beyond, could see the broad river that lay at the bottom of the slope, the widest river he had ever seen just half a mile further down the road.

That meant fresh water, though perhaps not the best, unless the river was somehow too polluted to drink from. There might well be fish and edible plants of some sort, rather than the endless grasses that covered most of the countryside.

The road itself ran on across the river by means of a bridge—a bridge Valder judged to be a prodigious feat of engineering, one that quite possibly had required magic in its construction, since the river was very wide indeed. Men were standing on the bridge; perhaps, he thought, he had finally found some clever farmfolk cashing in on the steady stream of traffic by selling their produce. Exhausted as he was, he stumbled down the slope toward the river.

Chapter Twenty-One

The men on the bridge were soldiers, in full uniform and heavily armed. They stood in front of a gate that blocked the south end of the bridge. Pitched nearby was an army-issue tent.

They did not appear to be there to sell vegetables. After a glance at them, Valder left the highway and made his way down the bank to the river. He drank his fill, wiped the sweat from his face and arms, splashed a little water on his tunic to cool himself down, then sat and rested for a few moments.

The last daylight was fading; on the bridge above him the soldiers were lighting torches. He glanced up at the hiss as the first one caught fire, and watched the procedure with interest.

This was obviously a toll bridge. He had heard of such things, though in wartime they had been illegal outside the borders of Old Ethshar—or rather, the Small Kingdoms, since Old Ethshar had apparently collapsed before Valder was born. Toll bridges might have interfered with the movement of troops or supplies, so they had not been permitted.

The war was over, however, and that law seemed to have been repealed—assuming this group was here legally. With four of them, and Valder alone, he had no intention of questioning their rights.

He glanced at the river. Already the far side was invisible. He could not possibly swim so far, he knew, and he doubted that a river of such a size could be forded anywhere within twenty leagues. Certainly, no one would get any goods across without using either a bridge or a ferry. He saw no ferries. All trade, then, would use the bridge. The toll collection should prove profitable.

When he was feeling somewhat less exhausted he got to his feet and climbed slowly back up the bank to the highway.

No traffic was moving. Three small parties, perhaps a dozen travelers in all, were camped along the roadside up toward the fork, with campfires burning. The only other people in sight were the soldiers on the bridge; in addition to their torches they had a small cooking fire in front of their tent.

Valder was at a loss as to what he should do next. He was tired, hungry, and lonely, with no idea what would become of him; these common problems seemed more important at present than his unique one of being linked for life to a magic sword he did not trust. The sword was strictly a long-term problem, while the others were all immediate.

He could handle his weariness by trampling out a circle in the grass and going to sleep—in fact, he could probably find an abandoned campsite and save himself the trouble of trampling one out. Food, however, was becoming a very serious concern, and the sight of a soldier hanging a kettle over the cookfire decided him. He trudged up onto the bridge.

The soldiers saw him coming, despite the gathering gloom. Two had cocked crossbows in their hands, but did not bother to aim or release the safety catches, while a third dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. Valder saw five in all; the fourth was the man tending the kettle, and the fifth was dozing nearby.

“Hello there!” Valder called.

“Hello,” the swordsman replied.

“What are you doing here?” His assumption that they were toll collectors was, after all, only a guess.

“Guarding the bridge.”

“Guarding it against what? The war is over!”

“Guarding against unauthorized crossing. It’s one copper piece to cross for veterans or their families, and no one else is welcome.”

“On whose orders?”

“Lord Azrad’s.”

That made sense. In fact, Valder respected Azrad for thinking of it. Not only would it add to the coffers, but it would keep the people of the Small Kingdoms—who would not be veterans, since the army had not been responsible for the homeland and had long ago moved all operations, including recruiting, elsewhere—from coming to Ethshar and further increasing the crowding in the cities. While the war had continued none would have dared to venture into the war zones and military lands without a good reason, but now that peace had come and the war zones were transformed into the Hegemony of Ethshar some might think there were opportunities to be exploited.

Valder had no intention of crossing the bridge until morning, when he could see the other bank and decide whether it was worth a copper piece, but he was very much interested in food and conversation before he slept. “What’s cooking?” he asked, pointing to the kettle. “It smells good.”

“Just stew; Zak caught a rabbit this afternoon.”

“Might I join you? I haven’t eaten in almost two days; I can’t afford the prices in the city.”

The swordsmen glanced at his companions, and although no objections were spoken aloud Valder sensed reluctance all around.

“I’ll pay a fair price, if you want; I’ve still got my back pay. I just wasn’t willing to pay those robbers in the city what they wanted.”

“I can agree with that,” one of the crossbowmen remarked. “If I had any doubts about staying in the army, those prices cured them. Silver bits for ale, they wanted!”

“Four the pint at the Overflowing Chalice, and worse in Westgate Market!” Valder agreed. “I can’t pay that! Better to drink seawater!”

That broke the ice, as the soldiers all chimed in with complaints. A moment later the whole crew, Valder included, was clustered around the kettle dishing out rabbit stew. No matter where or when, soldiers love to complain, and Valder had given this group an opportunity for which they were properly grateful.

They even forgot to charge him for the stew.

The food did not stop the conversation. Between bites Valder exchanged accounts of wartime action seen, commanders served under, and so forth. Coming as he did from the extreme west, Valder’s tales seemed strange and exotic to the guardsmen even though he avoided any mention of his work as an assassin. Their stories, in turn, seemed odd to him; they had lived and served without ever seeing northern troops. Their only action had been against magical assaults, either sorcerous or demonic, or against rebellion among the civilian population.

Valder had never lived in an area where there were civilians other than camp followers and perhaps a few traveling merchants or coastal fishermen. He had never heard of civilian rebellions and could not really picture how or why they might occur.

His lone scouting patrols through empty forest were just as alien to the southerners, of whom four of the five had never seen a forest. Also, it seemed that Azrad’s command structure was far tighter and more complex than Gor’s. When Gor had needed something done, he had pointed to a person and told him to do it; when Azrad had needed something done he had formed a committee to study the problem and set up the appropriate chain of command. Both systems had apparently worked. In fact, as the soldiers described it, once Azrad had all his systems established they ran themselves, leaving him free to devote his time to his own amusement, where Gor had remained closely involved with day-to-day operations.

This was all new to Valder; it had never occurred to him that there could be such variation within Ethshar, either Hegemony or homeland. He found great delight in this new learning.

When war stories began to wear thin, around midnight, Valder asked, “Why are there so many people in the city? Why doesn’t someone do something about it?”

“Where else can they go, and what can anyone do?” a soldier asked in reply. “Ethshar’s the only real city there is, and only soldiers are fool enough to sleep in tents. All these veterans want roofs over their heads, and the only solid roofs in the Hegemony are in Azrad’s Ethshar, so that’s where they go. Sooner or later they’ll realize they can build their own, I suppose, but for now they go to the city.”

“The supplies are running low there, I think.”

“Of course they are! Even before the war ended supplies were running low, and with all the eastern farmlands blasted to burning desert supplies are going to run even lower until someone starts farming all this grassland we’re sitting on. What food there is is probably sitting in warehouses rotting because the distribution system has all come apart with the end of the war!”

Valder glanced around at the darkness beyond the torchlit bridge. “Who owns all this land, anyway? Is it really free for the taking?”

Manrin, the swordsman, shrugged. “Who knows? I guess it is. After all, it was wilderness before the war, and it’s been under military law ever since. The highway Azrad’s keeping for himself, but the proclamation said the rest was available to whoever would use it.”

“Yes,” Saldan, the cook, said, “but who knows how to use it? Everybody has grown up learning to be soldiers, not farmers.”

A vague idea was stirring in the back of Valder’s mind, but he was too tired to haul it forward and look it over. Instead he tossed the last well-gnawed rabbit bone into the river and announced, “It’s been a pleasure talking, and my thanks for the meal, but I need some sleep.”

“It’s time we all slept,” Zak, one of the crossbowmen, agreed. “Manrin’s off until noon, but the rest of us are supposed to be up at dawn. Somebody kick Lorret awake; he’s supposed to take the night watch.”

Valder left the soldiers to their own business and walked off a few yards into the darkness. He found a spot where the grass seemed less scratchy than most, curled up in his blanket, and went to sleep.

He was awakened three hours later by fat raindrops on his face. He rolled his blanket out from under him and draped it over himself instead, and went back to sleep.

He awoke again just as the first light of dawn seeped through the clouds. The rain was still falling in a thin drizzle; his blanket was soaked through and stank of wet wool. He flung it aside and stood up, still tired, but unable to sleep any more without shelter.

“Somebody,” he muttered to himself as he staggered toward the bridge, “ought to build an inn here.”

He stopped, frozen in mid-step.

“Somebody ought to build an inn here,” he repeated.

That was the idea that had been lurking in the back of his mind during the night’s conversation. Somebody really should build an inn here, convenient to the river, the toll bridge, and the fork in the highway. All the land traffic in and out of Azrad’s Ethshar and the southern peninsula had to pass by this spot. All the traffic crossing the lower reaches of the Great River would use this bridge. All boats coming down the Great River to the sea—and Valder was sure there would be plenty in time—would come past. It was almost exactly one day’s walk from Westgate, just where northbound travelers would be ready to stop for the night.

Could there possibly be a better site for an inn in all the World? Valder doubted it. Only the war had prevented one from being built here long ago, he was sure. The land had belonged to the military, and the military was not interested in inns.

Somebody should build an inn here, and Valder was somebody. He had his accumulated assassin’s pay for capital. He had wanted a quiet postwar job other than farming, and innkeeping seemed ideal. He could undoubtedly recruit all the labor he needed in the Hundred-Foot Field.

He could scarcely believe his good fortune. Could he really have been the first to think of it?

He imagined what it would be like—a comfortable little place, built of stone since no forests were nearby, with large windows and thick cool walls in the summer, a wide hearth and blazing fire in winter. Wirikidor could hang above the mantle; surely that would be close enough to him that the sword would not object, particularly if he placed his own chamber directly above, and no one would think it at all odd or inappropriate for a veteran to keep his old sword on display, even in peacetime.

He peered through the gloom and rain and tried to decide exactly where to put such an inn. The best spot, he decided, would be right at the fork, between the west and north roads. He could claim a strip of land along the roadside from there to the river and build a landing for river traffic.

Or perhaps the inn should be right on the river? There might be some difficulty in claiming half a mile of roadside.

No, he decided, the river traffic would not be as important as the west road, since boatmen could sleep in their boats. If he could not have his landing he was sure he would still get by with the land traffic.

How, he wondered, did one go about claiming a piece of land? Perhaps the soldiers would know, he thought. He headed eagerly for the bridge.

Not surprisingly, most of them were still asleep, but Lorret, the night man, was bored and tired and glad to talk. He knew nothing of any official methods, but made suggestions and provided a few materials.

By the time the rain stopped at mid-morning Valder had marked off his claim with wooden stakes and bundled grass, all marked with strips of green cloth, his name written on each stake and each cloth with char from the night’s cookfire. He had paced off room enough for a large inn and a good-sized stable, a decent kitchen garden, and a yard, and then arbitrarily doubled each dimension—after all, if the land was free, why stint? He had indeed claimed his landing site near the bridge, but had decided against taking the entire half-mile of roadside. He did not really need it, after all, and there was no need to be greedy. His customers could come up the hill on the public highway readily enough.

That done, and with assurances from the soldiers that they would enforce his rights for him until his return, he set out for Azrad’s Ethshar to hire a construction crew.