The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story Fred Saberhagen (phonics books txt) 📖

      Moving about a little, surveying the field, he grimaced at the sight of his fallen comrades, their bodies stabbed by Blue Temple blades and gnawed by scavengers. But the Sarge was able to be philosophical about their loss. “The magic hasn’t been made yet that’ll do any of these a bit of good.”

* * *

      Meanwhile Zoltan had quietly borrowed the Sword of Mercy from Ben, approached the injured loadbeast, and tried Woundhealer on the leg which it kept favoring, listening meanwhile to Ben’s ongoing interrogation of Sergeant Brod. It did not sound like Ben was managing to learn anything of importance.

      Almost at the Sword’s first touch, the animal’s braying ceased, and the wound disappeared from its leg. It looked at Zoltan in mild satisfaction, accepting with inhuman complacency its miraculous return to health. The young man rubbed its head before it turned aside to graze along the riverbank.

* * *

      By now the Sarge, in response to insistent, probing questions from Ben and the Silver Queen, had launched upon a rambling and at least generally plausible explanation of just how the fight for Woundhealer had come about between his gang and the Blue Temple people. The latter, Brod said, had been in the process of escorting the Sword of Healing back to their headquarters, and had hoped to engage the bandits—at a ridiculously low fee, according to Brod—as additional guards.

      He complained bitterly about Blue Temple stinginess, which he said he was sure lay at the root of their treacherous behavior.

      Zoltan, his cynical amusement growing as he listened, thought that this Sarge was not so much a dedicated enemy of truth and Tasavalta, as a complete opportunist.

      Brod, his imagination now warmed by the fact that his audience so far seemed to believe him, began to stretch his story. Now, it seemed, the Sarge had been trying for some time to get the Sword of Healing for the noble Prince Mark of Tasavalta.

      Ben and Zoltan exchanged glances in which amusement and outrage were mingled.

      Yambu appeared to share their sentiments. But by now she had moved a little apart from the others, and, sitting on a rock in deep thought, did not seem to be giving much thought to the Sarge and his tall tales.

      Valdemar now was looking with distrust and disgust at the man whose rescue he had insisted upon.

* * *

      Brod returned Valdemar’s gaze with some curiosity, and demanded to know this young giant’s name. When he had been told, his next question was: “Ever do any wrestling?”

      “Some.” “Ah. Aha! Maybe you and I should try a fall or two one day.”

      “I don’t know why.” Valdemar did not appear at all interested in the challenge.

      Brod shrugged. “Have it your way.” He squinted once more at Ben and Zoltan. “Atmosphere’s a little chilly in these parts. Guess maybe I’ll be on my way.”

      “An excellent idea,” said Ben shortly, standing with his powerful arms folded.

      Brod made a casual move to rearm himself, bending as if to pick up a fallen weapon or two from the field, but this action was cut short by a sharp “No” from Ben.

      Brod straightened. “What?”

      “Don’t pick up any tools. Just start walking.” Zoltan too was watching Brod closely, and Zoltan’s hand was on the hilt of his own serviceable sword.

      The bandit leader, all injured innocence, loudly protested, “You’d send me away as nekkid as a babe? Man’s got a right to protect himself, don’t he? There’s wild animals in these parts.” He paused, as if gathering breath to deliver the ultimate argument, then spat: “There’s bandits!”

      “Get walking,” said Ben quietly. “Before I change my mind.”

      Brod turned. “Lady Yambu? A high-born lady like you wouldn’t…” His voice died, withered by the expression on Yambu’s face.

      Ben, his right hand on the hilt of one of his two belted Swords—the one devoid of healing power—continued to consider the Sergeant thoughtfully.

      Brod fidgeted uncomfortably under this inspection. He glowered, but then with an obvious effort, he smiled, achieving at least a pretense of gratitude and cooperation. “All right. All right. Maybe you’re right. I’m going, just the way you want.”

      The others, remaining more or less suspicious, watched him walk a semicircle, first, as if completely undecided as to which way he wanted to go. Then the Sarge moved in the direction of the ford, and went downstream along the near bank of the river. On reaching the grounded flatboat, a hundred meters or so from where his watchers stood, Brod waded to it and climbed aboard. There he helped himself to the small boat that still was lashed to the deck, loosing the lashings, and manhandling the small craft into the water.

      Zoltan, idly pulling the long thongs of his hunting sling through his free hand, commented: “Might be some weapons there.”

      Ben shrugged. “Let him help himself; as long as he keeps moving, away from us.”

      Now that Ben had the Sword of Healing securely at his belt, he had only one thought: to be done with worrying about Brod and other unimportant matters, and convey his new treasure quickly back to Sarykam.

      Another gray Tasavaltan messenger-bird arrived at this point, as if it had been waiting for the Sarge, antagonistic as he was to Ben, to take himself away. Ben made welcome use of the opportunity to dispatch a written note to Mark, informing the Prince that his friends had now acquired the long-desired Sword.

      Then Ben, Valdemar, Yambu, and Zoltan all availed themselves of Woundhealer, clearing up all of their own hurts, old and new; the most recent of these being a couple of minor injuries sustained by Ben in the course of his wrestling bout and subsequent escape from the flat-boat.

* * *

      Accepting the Sword of Mercy, Yambu murmured: “This knee is wont to give me problems …” And with a surgeon’s steady hand, she pulled up one leg of her gray trousers, and thrust the hurtless Blade straight into the pale skin