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

northerner of its own volition.
The northerner fell free of Wirikidor's blade and crumpled to the ground,
obviously dead. With a shudder, Valder dropped the unnatural weapon. Wirikidor
fell from his hand and lay on the ground inches from the dead man's face.
Valder stared at it, his earlier horror giving way to astonishment. The
sword had left his hand! Was the enchantment broken?
Cautiously he picked it up, then put it down again.
There was no resistance or adhesion; the sword behaved like any other
inanimate piece of steel.
Puzzled, Valder picked it up again and looked it over carefully. It
appeared unchanged, except that the victim's blood, unlike water, clung to it.
He wiped the blade on his dead opponent's sleeve and then cautiously slid it
into the scabbard on his belt.
The blade fell smoothly into place without resistance of any sort.
He stared at the hilt. Had the enchantment been good only for a single
use? Had using the sword broken the spell? The wizard had said that
"Wirikidor" meant "slayer of warriors"; well, it had indeed slain someone,
although Valder was not convinced that the northerner had been much of a
warrior.
He considered for a moment and then drew the sword again and looked at it
closely. He saw nothing enlightening, merely the simple steel blade he had
always had. With a shrug, he attempted to return it to its sheath.
The blade turned away from the opening.
He stared at it for a long moment. "Damn it," he said, "and may demons
carry off that idiot wizard!" He knew there was no point in disputing anything
with Wirikidor. If it chose not to be sheathed, he would not be able to
sheathe it.
He stripped the northerner's body of provisions and other useful items,
such as the discarded crossbow. Although he had little hope, given their
relative sizes, he tried unsuccessfully to pull on the man's battered boots;
as he had expected, none of the clothing was big enough to be of any use to
him.
As he worked he told himself that at least he had learned something about
his magical defense. The sword was bloodthirsty, for one thing. For another,
blood apparently canceled some of the spell but only until the sword was
sheathed and then drawn again.
He paused. No, he told himself, it wasn't that simple. He had cut himself
to test the blade, and that had had no effect. It was not just blood that was
responsible but something else.
He had heard legends of foul weapons, demonic or sorcerous in origin,
that sucked the souls from their victims; could it be that he now carried such
a weapon? He had never heard of such a weapon being created by wizardry -- but
then, the old hermit had been using spells of his own invention.
One part of the usual version of the story said that the victims
invariably died with their faces frozen in expressions of unspeakable terror.
He glanced at the dead northerner's face; while scarcely calm, the expression
of shock and pain did not live up to the descriptions of those whose souls had
been stolen.
No, he didn't think it was the northerner's soul that had appeased
Wirikidor and allowed it to be sheathed -- albeit briefly. Perhaps the blood