The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  After gloating briefly over the Sword—no hands but his own took it from the semi-intelligent beast—Wood turned his attention to the prisoner. At the moment the wretch looked more dead than alive.

  Thinking he recognized the fellow as Prince Mark’s nephew, the Ancient One employed the Sword of Mercy to heal his injuries—quite likely he would be worth something in the way of ransom.

  In a moment, as soon as Zoltan’s eyes were clearly open, Wood asked him gently: “Where is she now? Tigris?”

  On recognizing where he was, and who was speaking to him, the youth looked gratifyingly sick with terror. “I don’t know,” he whispered hopelessly.

  “No? Well, I suppose there’s really no reason why you should. But I’m sure there are interesting things you do know, young man. Things that I shall be pleased to hear—you and I must have a long chat.”

  That was postponed. More news arrived: yet another new prisoner had just been picked up in the vicinity of the camp, upon which he appeared to have been spying.

  Wood turned his attention to this man.

  Brod, dragged in and supported by several guards, tremblingly assured the wizard he had only been watching the camp because he had long wanted to devote himself to the service of the mighty magician Wood as a patron. He had been trying to find the best means of approach when he was taken.

  The Ancient One stared at him. Nothing pleased him so much as a proper attitude of respect in those he spoke to. Brod, who thought he could feel that gaze probing his bone marrow, clutched at the only hopeful thought which he could find: at least he had not been trying to tell a lie.

  “Tell me, Brod…”

  “Yes, sire?”

  “What would you ask, if you were given the chance, from the Sword called Wayfinder? I take it you know what I am talking about.”

  “Oh yes sir, yes sir. I know that Sword.” The Sarge swallowed with a great gulp. “Well sir. I’d ask a way, a direction, that would let me fill my ambition of getting into your service, Lord Wood sir, and continuing in your service, successfully, for a long, long time…”

  The Sarge stopped there, because the great wizard called Wood was laughing; it was a silent and horrible display.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Prince Mark was heading south. He rode astride a great black cantering riding-beast, with the bulky form of the old wizard Karel similarly mounted at his side. They were long out of sight of home. Days ago the Prince had ridden forth from the great gate of Sarykam at the head of a hundred cavalry, supported by magicians, beastkeepers, a couple of supply wagons, and semi-intelligent winged scouts and messengers. Ever since their departure the Prince and his expeditionary force had been riding hard to reach the region where his friends and enemies were still contending for a pair of priceless Swords.

  The Prince was wearing two swordbelts, each supporting one sheathed Sword, so that a black hilt showed on each side of his waist. During most of the day Mark had little to say. His gaze was usually fixed straight ahead, and his countenance grim. He was ready for a fight, armed to the teeth, coming to the struggle with both Sightblinder and Shieldbreaker in his possession. The Swords Stonecutter and Dragonslicer, considered unlikely to be of much use in the current situation, had been left in the armory in Sarykam.

  The swift-moving Tasavaltan column kept moving generally south, in the direction of the region from which Ben had last reported his position. Scouts, both winged and human, ranged ahead continually.

  Mark as he rode was nagged by the feeling that he ought to have brought Stephen with him. But he knew it was better that he had not; he felt comforted by the idea that the boy would be with his mother and perhaps afford her some relief from her endless gloom.

  * * *

  At sunset, the Prince and his troops reached the fringe of the barren country lying to the southwest of the Tasavaltan border. Mark ordered a halt. This would be a dry camp; tomorrow would be time enough to look for water.

  Several times during the past few hours, winged scouts had returned from the southwest to meet the column on the march. Now yet another of these great birds, speeding from the same direction across the twilight sky, arrived at the encampment.

  This scout reported the ominous presence of griffins in the area.

  The Prince cursed at the indications that the enemy was now in the field too, in force. Mark ordered the beastmaster to dispatch more birds to investigate.

  “Day-flyers, sir, or night?”

  Mark ordered some of each sent into the air.

  In the light of a lowering sun, Mark glanced at the three or four specially trained loadbeasts accompanying the column, which appeared to be bearing hooded human riders. Actually the figures on the loadbeasts’ backs were the swathed forms of giant owls, whose heads and shoulders became visible as the hoods were removed. These birds would presently be launched to scout and harass the enemy under cover of darkness.

  * * *

  When Mark chose the campsite, Karel and his magical assistants busied themselves weaving protective spells around the area. The Prince personally oversaw the posting of sentries, ate lightly, then entered his small tent. Grimly impatient for morning, he wrapped himself in a blanket, stretched out on the ground, two swordbelts beneath him, his body in contact with both of his sheathed Swords, and tried to get some sleep.

  * * *

  The Prince sometimes tried to calculate whether he had spent more of his life in the field, in one way or another, than he had under a roof. Certainly he sometimes felt that way. The familiar sounds of a military camp—low voices, a fire crackling, someone sharpening a blade—were soothing rather than disturbing. Yet sleep eluded Mark. His mind could not cease struggling with plans and calculations.

  The ominous signs of Blue Temple presence, and worse, in the land ahead suggested that one of his chief enemies might well now be in possession not only of Woundhealer, but of Wayfinder as well. But the Prince could take comfort in the fact that against the Sword of Force, even the Sword of Wisdom would be no more useful than a broken dagger. Wayfinder, Mark felt confident, could never tell its owner how to locate Shieldbreaker or Shieldbreaker’s holder, or how to avoid any danger posed by him.

  The Prince shifted position on his blanket, feeling as wide awake as ever. What would he do if he were Wood?

  Of course, Wayfinder would be able to tell its owner the whereabouts of the magician Karel, say—or the location of the Sword Sightblinder—and from that information an enemy might well be able to deduce that Mark was somewhere near. No Sword or combination of Swords could solve all problems.

  Sleep eventually came to Mark, in the form of a troubled doze. And with sleep came disturbing dreams that shattered into unrecognizable fragments as soon as he awoke, leaving a feeling of anxiety.

  And one thing more. He had awakened with a new plan.

  * * *

  The Prince conferred with the wizard Karel just before dawn, and Karel agreed that Mark should ride on, alone but carrying both his Swords, ahead of the main body of his troops.

  The old wizard had some forebodings about what seemed a chancy scheme, and at first had argued against it. But Mark was impatient, and stubborn enough to adopt the idea even against Karel’s opposition.

  At sunrise, as the Prince swallowed hot tea and chewed on a hard biscuit, preparatory to riding out alone, Karel warned him that carrying Shieldbreaker and Sightblinder at the same time, even with both Swords sheathed, could cause him problems.

  “I must warn you, Prince, that holding both of these Swords drawn at the same time may well produce some powerful psychic effect even on you, who in some ways seemed to possess a curious partial immunity to the Swords’ power.”

  “I have done as much before.”

  “Perhaps. But I warn you that your immunity is far from complete.”

  “I understand that, Uncle.”

  “Have you, since leaving home, tried either of the Swords you carry?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then do
so.”

  Now, in the relative privacy of his uncle’s tent, Prince Mark drew from its sheath the god-forged blade that rode on his right hip.

  Sightblinder, as always, produced some spectacular effects when it was drawn. Mark was aware of no change in himself. But he knew that in the eyes of his uncle he was somehow transformed into a figure evoking either terror or adoration. Even the great magician Karel, here in his own tent, surrounded and supported by all his powers, and knowing intellectually that the figure he saw was only a phantasm of magic, was powerless to see the truth behind the image.

  “What do you see, Uncle?”

  The old man passed a hand across his eyes. “The details of the deception do not matter. I no longer see you in your true nature, of course, but an alien image which frightens me, even though I know …” The old man, averting his eyes from Mark, made a gesture of dismissal.

  Prince Mark sheathed Sightblinder, which he had held in his left hand, and saw Karel relax somewhat. Next the Prince drew Shieldbreaker. The Sword of Force was silent, and inert, because no immediate danger threatened. Mark gripping the black hilt was aware of the vast power waiting there, but he felt no more than that.

  Then, still gripping Shieldbreaker, the Prince pulled the Sword of Stealth from its sheath once more, and stood holding both Swords at the same time.

  He saw by the change in his uncle’s face that his own appearance had once more altered, perhaps even more terribly than before. The nerves in Mark’s arms and shoulders tingled; the effect was strange, but well within his range of tolerance.

  Carefully Mark sheathed both Swords again, Sight-blinder first.

  He tried to reassure Karel, but the old man remained cautious, and perturbed. He warned the Prince, unnecessarily, not to be caught in combat with an unarmed foe whilst holding Shieldbreaker.

  “I know that,” Mark patiently reminded his counselor.

  Karel still looked worried.

  The Prince, putting a hand on the old wizard’s shoulder, reminded him that he, Mark, was no stranger to the Swords. And he assured the old man—though not without a certain mental reservation—that the effect of holding the two Swords at once had not been strong enough to cause him any real concern.

  * * *

  At the same dawn hour when Mark set out alone from his camp, Ben was urged out of a light sleep, into instant alertness, by the tug of a rapier-pointed claw upon his garment.

  Crouching over him where he sat with his back against a tree was a winged messenger from Mark. This helpful, friendly bird, having been instructed by Karel, brought Ben the welcome news that Tasavaltan troops were not very many kilometers away, and the Prince himself was even closer.

  The birds’ sense of horizontal distance was notoriously inaccurate, so Ben did not derive as much comfort from this news as he otherwise might have.

  * * *

  As the hours passed, Valdemar continued to observe the destruction of the personality, even the physical identity, of the sorceress who such a short time ago had come riding at the head of a force of demons and human thugs to slaughter her enemies and kidnap him.

  Not that Delia appeared to care in the least—she kept humming little snatches of simple, cheerful songs—but her clothing was now sodden with rain and getting dirty. Evidently it was now deprived of what Valdemar supposed must have been the magical protection afforded the garments worn by Tigris. Even the woman’s face was notably changed from that of the conqueror who had devastated the Blue Temple camp. Valdemar wondered if he could have recognized this as the same individual, had he not seen with his own eyes the several stages of the change. Rain and circumstances seemed to have washed and scoured away an aura of bad magic, and perhaps some subtle though mundane makeup as well, from her countenance.

  Only the physical parts of the transformation had taken any time at all. Never, since the thunderbolt fell, had Valdemar caught any hint that any part of her older, wasted and vicious personality might have survived.

  Valdemar had no doubt that the metamorphosis had resulted from a blow struck at Tigris by the great and mysterious magician she had feared so terribly, and from whom she had been so desperately trying to escape. One of the oddest things about the whole situation, as Valdemar saw it, was that the blow, the sudden transformation, had not really done her any harm. As far as he could tell, quite the opposite.

  And here was another turnaround to consider: He, who had been the prisoner of Tigris, was now Delia’s captor. Or more properly her keeper. Now he, the simple farmer, had become the worldly, experienced mentor. It was not a role he relished, but there was no one else to take responsibility for her, and the idea of simply abandoning her was unacceptable. Though in her previous persona she had treated him unjustly, still her new helplessness was disarming. And her new childlike personality was charming in its innocence.

  Delia was more talkative than Tigris had been. Almost every time Valdemar looked at her, he found her gazing back at him as if she sought his guidance. And she kept asking naive questions.

  * * *

  Earlier, under relentless questioning from this young woman, Valdemar had tried to explain how he had been guided to her by the Sword of Wisdom. He thought that Tigris had never quite believed that story; she had been chronically suspicious, and perhaps incapable of understanding a simple truth. Now, when he told Delia the same tale, she somehow had no trouble at all believing if not comprehending what he had done.

  “This Sword has brought us together, you and I,” Valdemar, patting the black hilt, assured his new companion.

  “That’s good.” Her tone suggested complacent acceptance, if nothing like full understanding.

  “It is a magic Sword.”

  “Magic. Ah.” And Delia nodded solemnly, with an appearance of wisdom.

  “Are you acquainted with magic, then?”

  “No,” she said vaguely. “No, I don’t think so. Except—”

  “Yes?”

  “Except sometimes, when I still lived on the farm, I think … there were things that I could do.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “When plants were sick, sometimes I could make them well.”

  “Really? Then I will have to tell you about my vines.”

  * * *

  A shadow, as swift as it was insubstantial, abruptly fell over the two young people.

  Simultaneously Valdemar was once more stricken with the helpless sickness in his guts; this time he recognized the cause, and now his fear was greater than before.

  The presence this time was smaller and more nearly bearable than Dactylartha’s had been. But the young man had no doubt that this sudden intruder was a demon too.

  He clutched for dear life at the Sword of Wisdom, and cried to it for help. He did his best to lift it, as if to strike a blow.

  The demon only chuckled, a truly hideous sound. The ghastly wraith-shape of it drifted in the air in front of Valdemar.

  “What do you mean to do, young man? Strike me with your Sword?”

  “I…” At the moment, brave words seemed impossible to come by.

  “Wayfinder will not protect you … nothing will … if I simply reach out to you … like this …”

  Fear and nausea gripped him, then dragged their slimy presences away. Val wondered why the demon did not simply seize Wayfinder out of his almost paralyzed hands. But the shadow drifted on, and the Sword of Wisdom was still his.

  It was, it had to be, only playing with them, like a cat with a pair of mice.

  Delia, utterly miserable, pathetically ignorant, clung to him, wanting to be comforted.

  Val’s fears were confirmed. The vile creature had only pretended to depart, for now it came drifting back. Its vague shape gathered over Delia, and it whispered something frightful into the young woman’s ear.

  Shocked, uncomprehending, Delia screamed and wept.

  Valdemar tried to summon up his nerve, his will, to rise to her defense, but physical and mental cramps assailed him, and he fell
back groaning.

  Delia shrieked again. Horrible memories had stirred in her when she heard the demon speak Wood’s name.

  Then, as unexpectedly as it had come, the demon was gone.

  Delia expressed her fear that the Ancient One was coming to get her. “Val, that’s what it meant. That—thing which spoke to me just now—whatever it was. It told me things that made me start to remember—Val, hold me!”

  And Valdemar, still sick and trembling from the recent presence of a demon, found himself doing his best to comfort Delia.

  He held her while she wept, and promised to protect her—and in his ignorance he could even believe for a time that he might be able to afford her such protection.

  * * *

  As for the Ancient One himself, with every passing hour, each incoming report, he was becoming more firmly convinced of his former assistant’s treachery. Though by this time, as Wood assured himself grimly, the objective truth concerning her guilt or innocence really no longer mattered. He had decided to consider her guilty, and that was that.

  Whatever she had really done or not done, after this he would never again be able to trust her even minimally. Too bad; at one time she had shown great promise…

  Wood now welcomed back—as warmly as he ever welcomed any being—the demonic scout who had just tormented Tigris.

  Listening attentively, the Ancient One received from this creature a new report. The news, related with much demonic merriment, was that Tigris had certainly been reduced to childish helplessness. And now—this was the crowning effect—seemed to be on her way to a new existence as a farmer’s wife.

  The Ancient One reacted to this announcement with a great deal of amusement and satisfaction.