The Fourth Book Of Lost Swords : Farslayer's Story (Saberhagen's Lost Swords 4) Fred Saberhagen (the unexpected everything txt) 📖

      The human figure who had just arrived was at this instant in the act of dismounting from the griffin’s back. This was a diminutive female with her long blond hair bound up closely, dressed in a close-fitting jacket and trousers, what looked like eminently practical garb for hurtling through the air astride a monster’s back. The woman was very young—to all appearances, at least—and very pretty. She could only be the healer that Wood had promised to send.

      Meanwhile the griffin was crouching on the lawn in the pose of a docile cat. Still, it managed to impress and even cow most of the local people who were quickly gathering—at a respectful distance—to behold it. Chilperic thought that the monster’s presence might well worry the more thoughtful among the local people, offering as it did more evidence that whether they liked it or not they were now closely involved in the affairs of the great world.

      The young woman with the neatly controlled blond hair and the small backpack immediately decided—whether through deduction or divination—which of the people present was the clan leader. For the moment she ignored everyone else, including Chilperic, and came walking straight to Hissarlik. Her movements possessed a grace that Chilperic had seldom seen matched. Genuflecting briefly before the Tyrant in a gesture of great respect, the new arrival introduced herself, in a soft voice, as Tigris, physician and surgeon.

      The Tyrant, staring distractedly at this beauteous arrival—as many a more experienced man in his place would have done—murmured and mumbled something in return. Then he recovered himself sufficiently to take the young lady formally by the hand and bid her welcome.

      “Thank you, my lord.” The healer’s eyelashes fluttered demurely, and her gaze became downcast. “Will you now have a servant show me to my quarters—my room will be next to my patient’s, I pray—and provide me with a maidservant to attend me? Soon I will be ready to examine the patient.”

      “I, uh. Yes, of course.” The Tyrant, recovering further, clapped his hands and gave the necessary orders.

      Meanwhile the griffin, as if it had received some hidden signal, spread its wings again—at a closer look those limbs appeared to be more reptilian than avian—and soared suddenly into the air. The gawking crowd fell back even further, but Tigris ignored the departure of the beast completely. She had now raised her eyes and was gazing, in a way that might be thought inappropriate for a physician, at the man she had greeted as her lord.

      Only when she turned away to follow the servant who was to lead her to her quarters did her gaze brush Chilperic’s. It was a cool, appraising glance. He supposed it likely that the lady had come with some special orders from Wood having to do with himself. He would have to take the opportunity to meet with her alone as soon as it was practical.

      Hissarlik’s grim young cousin, Anselm, limped from somewhere to intercept the healer just as she was about to enter the house. At first Chilperic thought that Anselm intended to stop her from going in, but after a few moments’ conversation they entered the manor together.

      As for the Tyrant himself, his gleaming eyes followed his new guest until she was out of sight. Only then did he turn, with a sigh, and speak to Chilperic. “Though I have scarcely met the woman as yet, I am deeply impressed. Your master, the Ancient One, certainly fulfills his promises quickly.”

      “Oh, indeed he does,” Chilperic assured the Tyrant. “I would not be likely to attach myself to any master who did not.”

      “Nor would I be.”

      “I see.”

      Now the two men, by unspoken agreement, began to stroll. They passed around the side of the sprawling house, and entered what must once have been a flower garden, though it was sadly neglected now.

      As they walked, Hissarlik started to discuss his plans for the future. His only real goal, it appeared, was to determine just how, working together, he and his new friend Chilperic were going to wipe out once and for all those infamous Malolo brigands across the river.

      The older man smiled at him, gently and agreeably. “Undoubtedly a very worthy objective, sire. But before I can undertake to give you assistance in such a project, there are one or two other matters that I must see to for my master.”

      “Oh. I see,” Hissarlik said vaguely. He did not seem to be paying complete attention. His head turned away and his eyes kept straying toward the house, where certain windows on the second floor seemed likely to be those of the entranced family sorceress, next to those of the beautiful blond physician. “And what would those matters be?”

      Patiently Chilperic reiterated the story of how sincerely his own dread master, Wood, wished and pined to possess the Sword of Vengeance. Once that goal had been attained, then certainly the mighty Wood would be ready to reward his friend Hissarlik even more generously than by sending a healer—provided of course that in the meantime Hissarlik had been of help in recovering the Sword.

      Chilperic lowered his voice slightly when he imparted the next bit of information, which was that Wood might even have in mind something like the offer of a real partnership.

      The Tyrant, now sitting at ease in a worn-out garden chair, under a leafless tree at one end of his neglected garden, scratched his head. “Well, that’s all very fine, of course. If I had possession of the Sword, or anything else your master wants, I’d gladly give it to him. I hope he knows that. But the truth is I don’t have Farslayer, nor do I know where it is. You don’t believe I have it, do you?”

      “Of course not, sire. You don’t have possession of the Sword now. If you did you would already be attacking the Malolo.”

      “That’s right.”

      Chilperic paused momentarily. “But I do have an