"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 1 - The Misenchanted Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

"I gave the sword a name; it's to be called Wirikidor."
"Wirikidor? What kind of a name is Wirikidor?"
"An old one, soldier. It's from a language so old that the name of the
tongue is forgotten and no trace remains of the people who spoke it. It means
'slayer of warriors,' and it was part of the spell I put on the thing, so now
that's its name."
Valder glanced down and resisted the temptation to grip the hilt again.
"I was never much for naming swords; some of the men do, but it never seemed
to do them any good."
"I didn't say it will do you any good, but that sword's name is Wirikidor
now, and I thought you ought to know, since it will be yours. Ah... that is,
it should be. It's got an untriggered spell on it, a variant of the Spell of
True Ownership; whoever draws it next will be its owner for as long as he
lives. Make sure that's you, soldier, and the blade will protect you."
"Protect me how?"
"Ah... I'm not quite sure, actually."
"It will protect me once I draw it, but I mustn't draw it until I'm
leagues from here?"
"That's right."
"What's to protect me until then?"
The wizard glared at him. "Your native wits, of course -- except that
leaves you unarmed, doesn't it? We'll just have to hope you won't need
protection, I guess."
Valder was becoming more awake and alert, awake enough to decide that
arguing with the wizard might not be wise. Still, he asked, "That's all you
can tell me about it, that it will protect me?"
"That's all I'm going to tell you, you blasted fool! Now take your sword
and get out of here!"
Valder looked around at the darkness surrounding them; the fire's glow
faded within a yard or two, and the clouds were thick enough to hide the moons
and stars. He saw no trace of the sun's light to either east or west.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"How should I know? I finished the spell at midnight exactly, or at least
I intended to, but you've kept me here arguing long enough that I have no idea
what time it might be. It's after midnight, and it's not yet dawn."
Valder said, "I don't know what time it is either, old man, but I do know
that I'm not going anywhere until dawn. An enchanted sword isn't going to do
me much good if I trip and drown in this stinking marsh."
The wizard glared at him for a long moment, then growled. "Please
yourself," he said as he turned and stalked off.
Valder watched his back fade into the gloom, thinking how absurd so small
a man looked when angry, then sat down and looked at the familiar scabbard on
his belt. He saw nothing different about it, yet the wizard had undeniably
worked over it for a day and half a night, with indisputably real magic. The
urge to draw it and see if the blade was visibly altered was strong, but
Valder had a healthy respect for magic of all sorts; if the old man said it
was dangerous, it probably was dangerous. Perhaps enough magic lingered in the
air from the spell-making to react with the sword's enchantment.
Or perhaps, the thought crept in, the wizard had decided to retaliate for
the destruction of his home, and the sword would work some terrible vengeance