“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 10
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 the unit had caught the brunt of the enemy’s drive to the sea and been badly mauled — in fact, it effectively no longer existed, the survivors having been distributed elsewhere. Fortunately, the survivors included men who knew Valder, 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. Valder assumed him to be a wizard, though he had not actually seen the man 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 moved off, 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.