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

breaking the blade by chopping at trees or rocks, but nothing caused the sword
to manifest any useful abilities. The only signs of magic were its refusal to
be covered or sheathed and its insistence upon remaining in contact with its
owner at all times. The latter trait, Valder realized, could be useful -- he
would never need to worry about being disarmed in battle. On the other hand,
he might have a hard time surrendering, should he need to do so. All in all,
he doubted that the sword's odd pair of magical characteristics would be
enough to protect him if he ran afoul of another enemy patrol. He suspected
that the magic must be far more extensive, but he could not determine anything
more of its nature.
He risked a more daring experiment, nicking the little finger of his left
hand on the blade; this demonstrated that the sword did not protect him from
all harm, that the sword was exceptionally sharp but not unstoppable, since he
did not lose the finger, and that the sword did not change its behavior upon
tasting blood. It behaved exactly as any ordinary sword would, as far as the
edge was concerned, save that most swords were not as sharp.
Of course, as he was its owner, his blood and his finger might not
produce the same reactions as someone else's would.
After that, he could think of nothing more to try. He got to his feet and
began walking again, this time heading west by southwest toward the ocean,
with the sword dangling in his hand.
By the time he reached the rocky shore, the sun was sinking toward the
waves, drawing a broad stripe of golden light from the land to the horizon,
and Valder's belly was knotted with hunger. Forgetting himself for a moment,
he tried again, unsuccessfully, to sheathe the sword, so that he might wade
out among the rocks in pursuit of something to eat. When the blade's refusal
to slide home reminded him of the enchantment, he looked the weapon over
thoughtfully, wondering whether it might be of help in obtaining food.
He could think of no way to use its known peculiarities and decided on a
little random experimentation. He swirled the blade through a tidal pool
without result, but was interested to discover, when he drew it out again,
that it was dry. The metal had shed the water completely, in a way ordinary
steel did not. Valder supposed that this meant he need never worry about rust.
Further experimentation demonstrated that a sword was not an ideal tool
for digging clams, but it worked, and sand did not mar the blade, nor did
prying up rocks bend it or dull the edge. Valder no longer doubted that the
sword had special virtues; he was not as yet convinced, however, that they
were anything that would be of much use in getting him safely home.
He ate his dinner of clams fried on fire-heated rocks slowly and
thoughtfully, considering the sword. He knew so very little about it, he
thought.
"Wirikidor," he said aloud. Nothing happened. The hilt still clung to his
hand, as it had since he first drew it.
"Ho, Wirikidor!" he cried, more loudly, holding the sword aloft.
Nothing happened.
"Wirikidor, take me home!" he shouted.
Nothing happened; the sword gleamed dully in the fading daylight. The sun
had dropped below the horizon while he ate.
"Wirikidor, bring me food!" The clams had not completely filled the
yawning void in his gut.