The Fourth Book Of Lost Swords : Farslayer's Story (Saberhagen's Lost Swords 4)

by Fred Saberhagen

  “The next thing?”

  “Well. I mean, someone over there will see Hissarlik fall, or find him dead, and then immediately pick the Sword up and kill you with it. Isn’t that the way things went a month ago?”

  Bonar’s eyes lighted up, the eyes of a man who at last understands a line of questioning, and has an answer ready. “Ah! Yes, you see, that’s where we made our mistake before. My sisters and I have talked about that. Next time we’ll manage things the clever way. First decide on a specific target, and then wait for that target to be in the proper position, or lure him into it if necessary. By proper position I mean somewhere where we can get the Sword back quickly after we use it. It means being patient. Perhaps it means setting ambushes, which is always difficult. But you’re perfectly right, there’s no use in making your enemy the gift of such a weapon to use against you. Not if you can help it.”

  Mark smiled faintly. And now Zoltan did give up, at least for the time being.

  But his questioning had prompted Bonar to ask a question of his own, addressed to Mark.

  “Your Majesty—uh, sir…”

  “Just call me Mark. ‘Prince’ will do if you really want to use a title.”

  “Ah, thank you, ah Mark. If you had the Sword in your hands at this moment, what target would you pick? This wizard Wood you keep warning us about, I suppose. But am I not correct? Wouldn’t you try to arrange some kind of ambush first, get the Sword back to use again?”

  Mark, shaking his head again, took thought. Then he answered seriously and courteously. “I certainly wouldn’t hurl any weapon at Wood just now. He is still in possession of Shieldbreaker, so Farslayer would probably be destroyed. One way to get rid of the damned thing, I suppose. But certainly it would fail to kill him, as long as he holds the Sword of Force.”

  “Is getting rid of Swords such a problem, then?” Now Bonar was enviously eyeing Stonecutter, which Mark wore at his side.

  “Believe me, there are times when it seems like a good idea to destroy one, or all of them. Though it’s almost impossible. Perhaps that’s what your cousin Cosmo had in mind when he rode off with Farslayer.”

  “Do you think so?” the Chief asked doubtfully. He appeared to be having a hard time digesting that idea.

  Mark turned to Zoltan and said: “I mean to have a talk with that hermit you mentioned. We’ll take our search for your mermaid out to the islands first if necessary, and then—”

  One of the fishermen, rowing industriously, muttered something. From under frowning, shaggy brows he looked up and around the sky.

  “What did you say, man?” Mark asked him sharply. “Something about demons?”

  The shaggy brows contracted further. “Aye, sir. I’m saying they have been seen in the valley. And that there’s a smell in the air just now, this moment, that I don’t like.”

  Bonar started to ask: “Does the Sword you wear, Prince, give you some protection against—”

  “Wait!” Mark gestured sharply for silence. Now he too was frowning up at the cloudless sky.

  The other men in the boat looked at one another. To all of them, a pall of night and gloom and sickness seemed to be descending upon the sunlit water in the middle of the day.

  None of the five men spoke. There was no need. Even those among them who had never before confronted a demon were in no doubt of what this was. One of the rowers, he who had just spoken, now dropped his oar. On trembling legs the man arose, meaning to cast himself overboard. But Zoltan’s hand went out and fastened on the fisherman’s wrist, and after a moment the terror-stricken one sank back onto his bench.

  Zoltan knew something that none of the local people did.

  The horror that had just arrived was now sitting, almost fully visible, upon the surface of the water nearby, confronting the five men huddled in the boat. As none of them were any longer using the oars, the boat had now begun to drift.

  It was Mark who spoke first, addressing the silent thing that hovered on the water. The confidence in his voice astonished most of his companions.

  “Who are you?” he asked boldly.

  “I am Rabisu.” The voice was a watery gurgling, and somehow it impressed Zoltan’s hearing as slime held in his hand would have impressed his sense of touch. “Rabisu. And you must now hand over to me that weapon that hangs at your belt. It will make a good addition to my collection.”

  “Rabisu.” Mark appeared to be meditating upon the name. “I’ve never heard of you before.” So far the prince’s hand had made no move toward his Sword. He was squinting into the full horror of the thing that hovered above the water, squinting as if loathsomeness could be as dazzling as brightness.

  Meanwhile, in the background, the handful of other fishing boats that had been busy on the visible stretch of the river were all making as rapidly as possible for shore, some heading toward the north bank of the river and others toward the south. The thought crossed Zoltan’s mind that under ordinary conditions the fisherfolk of the two enemy camps could evidently share the river in peace.

  The presence drifting above the water, just keeping up with the drifting boat, appeared to be hesitating, as if it might have been impressed by the bravery of the man who spoke to it. “You are no magician,” it said to Mark at last. The statement was not quite a question.

  “That is correct, I am not. Tell me, foul one, which Sword is it that you are seeking?”

  On hearing such an insolent response Bonar collapsed completely. He cowered abjectly in the bottom of the boat, as many a strong man might have done in his place. Zoltan was keeping his own head up bravely. It cost him a considerable effort, even though Zoltan knew something about his uncle that the head of the Clan Malolo did not.

  “Unbuckle your swordbelt and hand it to me!” roared the demon.

  “What if I draw my Sword instead?” And at last Mark’s hand went to the black hilt.

  And still the demon hesitated to attack. “Before you can draw it, little man, you will be dead!”

  “I think that I will not be dead as soon as that. In the Emperor’s name, forsake this game, and begone from our sight!”

  There was a disturbance above the water, and in the air above the boat, an explosion like the breaking of a knot in which the winds of a hundred storms were all entangled. Such a blast must certainly have swamped the fishing craft, but the disturbance came and went with magical swiftness, before any movement of the water or the air immediately around the boat had time to be effective. This concussion was followed instantly by a roaring bellow, uttered in a voice too loud to be human. It was the voice of the demon, no doubt about that, but in another instant the bellowing had grown faint with distance, and in an instant more it had grown fainter still.

  Higher above the world, and fainter.

  Gradually, but soon, it was entirely gone.

  In less time than it takes to draw a breath the river around the fishing boat was once more silent, sunlit, and serene. There might never have been such things as demons in the world.

  Prince Mark sat for a moment with his eyes closed. Then, leaning forward in his seat, he put a hand on the shoulder of one of the collapsed rowers. Gently he tried to shake the man out of his paralysis. But for the time being, at least, it was no use. The prince sighed, moved himself to the rowers’ bench, and reached for an oar.

  His nephew Zoltan had already taken the other one. With a couple of good strokes they overcame the boat’s drift, and were once more headed upstream toward the islands.

  Bonar, looking shamefaced, had by now managed to regain an upright position on his seat. For a time there was silence except for the creak of oarlocks. Then the chief of Clan Malolo, looking about him in all directions, asked softly and wonderingly: “Where is it?”

  “The demon is gone,” said Mark patiently. “It’s all right now.”

  The young clan leader turned back and forth in his seat, gaping at the Tungri, which ran calm and undisturbed. The day was peaceful. “But gone where? Is it likely to come back?” />
  “It might very well come back here sometime. But there’s no immediate danger. We can go on and talk to the mermaids, visit the islands as we planned.”

  Hearing calm human conversation around them, both of the original rowers presently revived. Seeing their three passengers serene, and the danger gone, they rather guiltily went back to work, Mark and Zoltan relinquishing their oars.

  Bonar was certainly not going to let the matter rest. “But what happened to the demon? It was a real demon, wasn’t it?”

  Zoltan said: “Oh, it was a demon, all right. As real as they ever get. But my uncle enjoys certain powers over such creatures. Mainly the power to keep them at a distance.”

  Mark shrugged, under Bonar’s awestricken gaze. “It’s true that I’m no wizard. But I do have such a power, from my father, who happens to be the Emperor.”

  “Ah,” said Bonar. But he did not really sound as if he understood, or was convinced of anything. Zoltan could scarcely blame him. Many—if not most of the world’s people—thought of the Emperor as nothing more than some kind of legendary clown.

  The clan chief persisted in trying to puzzle it out. “This power over demons that you say you have—indeed, that you have demonstrated. Does it never fail?”

  Mark smiled grimly. “It hasn’t failed me yet, or I wouldn’t be here. Though I must admit I’m never completely sure it’s going to work at the moment when I start to use it.”

  The boat was moving steadily on toward the islands. Now in the forward seat again, Zoltan talked and sang, hoping that his voice would be heard and recognized beneath the water, trying to summon up a very special mermaid.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Having done the best he could to set the mermaids searching for the Sword, Chilperic was not disposed to dawdle on the riverbank. After making sure that a couple of militiamen remained on the shore to carry news from the fishgirls should there be any, he started back to the manor as soon as possible. He was intent on keeping in close touch with the healer Tigris, and wanted to be first to hear of any change in the condition of her patient.

  By the time he and Hissarlik got back to the manor, Chilperic’s modest hopes of success for the mermaid project were already fading. He remembered all too well their sullen unwillingness, and he doubted the efficiency of Hissarlik’s spell. Chilperic’s remaining enthusiasm for that effort diminished steadily as the remaining hours of the afternoon wore on. By sunset he had virtually abandoned hope that the fishgirls were going to prove at all helpful. And he supposed that any program of underwater search they might have begun would have to be abandoned with the onset of darkness, since there was no way to provide the creatures with Old World lights, the only kind that might be used beneath the surface.

  Meanwhile, Chilperic was only too well aware that time was passing and his mission here was no closer to being accomplished. The Ancient Master was not going to be pleased. Soon, Chilperic thought, he was going to have to overcome his reluctance to summon the demon, and order Rabisu to make a direct search for the Sword. There were moments when he wondered uneasily just what the demon might be up to on its own.

  Just after sunset, when Chilperic was in his room alone, Tigris the healer came in secrecy to see him. The small blond woman held a finger to her lips for silence as soon as he saw her in his doorway, and she slid quickly past him into his room without waiting to be invited.

  “I have news regarding my patient,” was her greeting.

  “She is—?”

  “On the road to recovery.”

  “Very good!”

  “The Lady Megara’s conscious now, and in fact ready to have a visitor, if the visitor is careful to treat her gently.”

  “I certainly shall. But I must ask her some questions. Have you said anything about this recovery to any of the family yet?”

  “Of course not.” Tigris lifted her pretty chin. “You and I, dear Chilperic, serve the same master, and so my first report must be to you whenever that is possible.”

  “I should hope so. Tell me, has the woman said anything of importance to you?”

  “Not really. She’s asked a few questions as to how long she has been ill. I saw no point in lying to her about that.”

  “No, I suppose not. Anything else?”

  “Not that you’d find interesting. Mainly she was curious about my identity. Natural enough. I’ve already warned her that I might be coming back to the room with a professional colleague, though I haven’t actually said you are a physician.”

  “Better and better.” Chilperic smiled briefly, then looked grim again. “Tell me, what exactly was wrong with her? Had it anything to do with her practicing magic?”

  “In my opinion—which is valued highly, as you know, in some rather high places—”

  “Yes, I concede that.”

  “In my opinion, the Sorceress Megara’s disability was not due so much to magical backlash—though something like that may have contributed—as it was to a mere shock of a much more ordinary kind.”

  “A mere—?”

  “Emotional trauma. Such as might be caused, for example, by the death of someone to whom she was closely attached. They tell me that her father was Farslayer’s first victim, on that famous night when the feuding clans all but destroyed each other. And that she was found lying unconscious beside his body. An experience like that would be quite enough to send some people into extended shock. Perhaps to make them lie in a trance for a month.” And Tigris smiled a brittle smile.

  Chilperic said: “That’s right. They were both found out on Magicians’ Island. Evidently for some reason he’d gone out there that night to visit her. Or spy on her perhaps.”

  “So, having her father killed before her eyes could very well have done it. She would be standing there talking with this familiar and dependable figure—then zip! Sudden death comes in the window. Do you have any wine on hand, by any chance? Or maybe a drop of brandy?”

  Chilperic had, as a matter of fact. While finding a bottle and a glass, he shook his head. He could not generate any respect for people who allowed themselves to be disabled by things that happened to others. “Well, let’s go see her, then. She may know something that will help us find the Sword, and in any case we’ll have to deal with her if she resumes some position of leadership here within the family. You say I can talk to her now?”

  “If you try not to disturb her too much. Ah, that’s very good.” And Tigris set down the empty glass.

  Chilperic started to open the door to the hall, then stopped in the act of doing so. “I wonder if it would be wise to bring some member of the family along to the lady’s room. Naturally they’ll want to know of her recovery as soon as possible.”

  “As you wish. Perhaps that’s a good idea. It might be wiser not to confront the lady just now with two relative strangers, and no familiar face in sight.”

  It was just as well they had made that decision, for as soon as they went out into the corridor they encountered Hissarlik, who, as he said, was on his way to learn the latest on his aunt’s condition.

  A moment later the three people entered the sickroom, and the servant who had been on watch there bowed and curtsied herself back from the bed.

  Aunt Megara looked a different woman from the last time Chilperic had seen her. Although he understood she must be over thirty, she now appeared hardly more than a girl. She was also much more alert than when he had seen her before, and sitting up in bed. The whole sickroom—if you could still call it that—had become a much more cheerful place. Materials used in the treatments Tigris had administered, some of them apparently intended to work on a very high plane of magic, lay scattered about.

  “Aunt Meg—how are you? We were all greatly concerned.” Hissarlik stepped forward to the bed.

  “Better—much better.” The voice of the patient still lacked life, but she raised a pale hand, readily enough, to take that of her nephew. “And you,” Megara murmured. “I see that you are still alive, Hissarlik.” Perhaps the di
scovery pleased her, but it was not doing much to cheer her up. Their hands were already separated again.

  Chilperic, confident now that he would be interrupting no very fond reunion, took the opportunity of stepping forward. “Do you recognize me, Lady Megara?”

  The eyes of the tired and grieving woman turned toward him. “No, I think not. Should I?”

  The visitor bowed. “I am Chilperic, an associate of the physician Tigris who has so skillfully restored you. And I too have come here to be of what service to you I may.”

  The faded eyes fixed on him were more anxious than accusatory. “Why should you wish to do me service? You tell me your name, but who are you?”

  Chilperic bowed again. “The master I have the honor to represent—as does Tigris here—wishes to establish an alliance with the worthy house of Senones. His name is Wood, and he is a wizard of some renown.”

  “Ah.” The lady’s eyes moved to those of her nephew, and back again to Chilperic.

  The latter said smoothly: “You will of course want to have a family discussion about our proposal. There’s no hurry. But there is one matter I fear that I must question you about at once—something about which we must be fully informed before your restoration to health can be considered complete.”

  Tigris was looking at him now, and Hissarlik too, but Chilperic ignored them both. He said: “I am speaking about the Sword of Vengeance, Lady Megara, the weapon that killed your father. Where did that weapon first come from, on that terrible night? Who used it against him? Above all, where is it now? Your own future, and that of your family, depends on that.”

  Mention of Farslayer brought renewed horror into the lady’s eyes, and there was a pause. At last she shook her head. “I don’t know the answer to either question. I don’t remember much about that night. I was busy, practicing certain—rituals—in the cave out on Magicians’ Island. My father came to visit me—in his youth he had practiced a great deal of magic himself. And then—”