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

doubt it looked an excellent weapon—and it is. But perhaps you did not understand its real value?”

      “Perhaps I did not.”

      To Valdemar it seemed no more than a reasonable answer, but there must have been something wrong with his tone of voice, for he was awarded another kick. Soon his ribs were going to get sore.

      “Perhaps you were not using the Sword properly? Not engaging its full powers?”

      “Perhaps I was not.”

      Chairman and Director turned away and walked a little distance, to put their heads together for some more mumbling. Then the latter emerged from the huddle to announce: “We’ll question him more thoroughly later. What about the woman?”

      Soon both officials were bending over Yambu. Magical assistance was called for, and provided. Soon the Director admitted: “She seems to have put herself into some kind of trance. We’ll soon have her out of it when we’re ready to talk.”

      Hyrcanus, squinting and frowning, taking a closer look at the woman, ordered someone to bring him a better light. When a magically-enhanced torch, so bright it almost hurt to look at it, was held over the sleeping face, Hyrcanus said in a low voice that she reminded him of the Silver Queen, but that seemed improbable, and in any case this woman appeared too young.

      Another subordinate approached the Chairman deferentially, to inquire of him exactly where he wanted his pavilion put up; some soldiers and a minor magician were ready to get to work on that task now.

      Hyrcanus considered, and told him. Then he and his Director continued their discussions, with Valdemar still able to hear most of what was said. One of the soldiers had pointed out that curiously three or four of his comrades had been killed at some little distance from the spot where the two prisoners were taken.

      “Killed by whom?”

      “That’s it, sir. We don’t know.”

      The Director of Security demanded: “Are we sure there were four of these people on the scene before we attacked?”

      “Yes sir.”

      “Then it is obvious that two have somehow managed to get away. You should not have allowed that!”

      The military officer’s only defense was that orders had been to make sure the Sword was captured, no matter what else happened.

      The two high officials moved a little farther off. From, what Valdemar could overhear, they were remarking how strange it seemed that the Sword of Wisdom had not only failed to save the camp, but failed to guide its wielder to some means of avoiding death or capture.

      The Chairman was coming back. “I wonder if this could be in fact the Lady Yambu.”

      Sergeant Brod, presented at last with a chance to be useful, did not allow it to go to waste. “Sir! Master Chairman. It is in fact the lady herself that we are looking at. I have seen her before, and I can swear to it!”

      “You? Again?” Hyrcanus, frowning, looked around at his subordinates, appealing silently for someone to take this fellow away.

      A small squad of soldiers moved to do the job; Valdemar, hearing only a mutter and a scuffle, thought philosophically that he would not be surprised to see Brod, back again.

      “If she is Yambu,” Hyrcanus was brooding to himself, gazing once more upon that silent face, “if she is…then she at least would have realized the value of the Sword with which her little group was traveling.”

      “That is certainly the case, Your Opulence,” agreed the Director.

      Then he raised his eyes to meet Valdemar’s. “Well, fellow? Who do you say she is?”

Chapter Nine

      Until Zoltan was sure that he and Ben had left the enemy behind, he continued running with Woundhealer transfixing his own body, his left hand gripping the hilt to hold the Sword in place. So far he and Ben were managing to stay together, though this required Zoltan to slow down. The young man calculated that Ben’s presence would be a mighty advantage toward their goal of getting Woundhealer home.

      The continued presence of the Sword of Healing inside his rib cage engendered in Zoltan a very strange sensation, neither pleasure nor pain, but rather a sense that some tremendous experience, whether good or bad, must be about to overwhelm him. The feeling was mentally though not physically uncomfortable.

      Both men ran on, without speaking, under the gradually brightening sky of early morning. As soon as Zoltan could be reasonably sure that no enemies were in close pursuit, or ahead of them, he paused and released Woundhealer’s hilt; there was no need to pull in order to extract the Blade. Instead it slid itself smoothly and gently out of his heart and lungs, away from his torso. Once more a sighing sound came from the Sword; then it was once more inert.

      Zoltan felt physically fine. Taking a quick inventory of his body, he could discover no residual harm or damage at all from the several deadly blows he had recently sustained.

      His giant comrade, swaying and groaning at his side, was in considerably worse shape, and in need of Woundhealer’s immediate help.

      Ben, completely out of breath, indicated with a silent gesture that he wanted Zoltan to hand over the Sword to him. The younger man complied.

      A quick application of Woundhealer abolished Ben’s injuries as if they had never been. Now the voice of the older man was clear and strong. “Ah, that’s better. Much better.”

      With Ben retaining the Sword of Mercy, the men moved on together, at the best pace the older man could manage. Their running flight had already put several low rolling, almost barren hills between them and the site where the Blue Temple attack had fallen.

      Zoltan, beginning to chafe and fret with the need to accommodate his slower partner, now suggested: “I might take it and run on ahead.”

      “No.” The answer was definite, though made brief to conserve breath.

      Making himself be patient, Zoltan allowed his more experienced companion to set their course. The sky continued brightening, but only gradually and sullenly; more spring rain appeared to be on the way. Ben was not heading directly toward Sarykam, but somewhat to the