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

northerner was no better. He was faster than Valder, but less practiced --
hardly surprising in a boy of sixteen or seventeen. The two were fairly evenly
matched, so the duel continued -- but only, Valder knew, until the other
northerner got over his surprise.
Then his opponent stumbled, whether over a root or his companion's body
Valder did not see. Valder seized the opportunity, and Wirikidor's magically
sharp blade sank deep into the northerner's sword arm, cutting to the bone.
The northerner's sword dropped, and Valder brought Wirikidor back and
around, striking at the soldier's neck. The man went down and stayed down.
The third northerner came out of his dumfoundment too late and chose not
to take on, alone, the man who had slain his two compatriots. Instead, he
turned and ran.
Valder did not pursue him. The young fellow was obviously faster, even
without terror to aid him. Besides, a chase might lead directly into an enemy
camp. Instead, he looked down at his fallen foes.
The second man was still breathing and had managed to clamp his left hand
over his neck wound.
Valder stared down at him for a second or two, debating whether to kill
him or to attend to his wounds. He quickly decided to do neither, but snatched
the crossbow from the tree and, like his foe, turned and ran. He saw no need
to kill a helpless man, enemy or not, particularly when there was another
enemy who had gotten away and might return with reinforcements at any moment.
When he had put a little distance between himself and the scene of the
battle, he paused to catch his breath. His feet, he noticed, had certainly
been toughened by day after day of trudging barefoot through the woods; he had
just dashed blindly across sticks, stones, and undergrowth without heeding
what he stepped on.
He wondered whether he could risk going back after a pair of boots from
one of his downed foes, but decided against it.
He found a rag in his belt pouch and wiped the blood from Wirikidor's
blade. That done, he sank onto a mossy fallen tree, keeping a wary eye back
along his trail.
The sword had been wonderful against the first northerner and had almost
certainly saved his life -- but then its magical animation had deserted him
completely against his second foeman. Valder glared at the freshly wiped
blade. Had the spell worn off already?
He had no way of knowing. When he had the metal clean, he slid the sword
back into its scabbard; it went without protest.
Of course, that didn't prove anything. It had done that after he had
killed the coastal sentry, too.
He threw a startled glance at the hilt as a thought struck him. Was that
the explanation? Was the sword only good against single enemies? Did it need
to be sheathed to recharge the spell before it would again act on its own?
That, he thought, could be very inconvenient. He tried to imagine
fighting in a full-scale battle with such a sword. It would be marvelous until
it had killed one enemy soldier and then would be no more than an ordinary
blade -- or rather, a blade with a spell of sharpness on it. That would
certainly be better than nothing, but not by very much. One could scarcely
sheathe it in the midst of a melée and then draw it again.
He realized that it still might get him home, but only if he was careful