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

under the folds of collapsed fabric. Struggling ineffectually, the youth could tell by the sounds reaching his ears that more swordfighting was taking place. He could see nothing of the conflict.

      With some strength and feeling coming back into his tingling limbs, Valdemar struggled against the enveloping folds that were keeping him a prisoner. He could only hope that Yambu, luckier or more skillful in the arts of magic, or perhaps both, might be able to get free in the confusion.

      During the few moments in which the Director and the Blue Temple troops continued to make a fight of it, all local Blue Temple spells were shattered; and Yambu, given such an opportunity, did what she could to make the best of it.

      Valdemar at last managed to crawl partially out from under the folds of the collapsed pavilion.

      Before him the latest attackers, as they came slicing their way in, led by a woman, concentrated their efforts on getting control of the Sword of Wisdom.

      And these attackers, in blue and silver livery, were ruthlessly successful.

      In a few minutes at the most, the female leader and their forces had stunned, scattered, or killed all Blue Temple opposition. The warrior woman had fairly got Wayfinder into her pretty white little hands.

      At the last moment, the Director of Security, emerging from some obscure hiding place, attempted to escape. Valdemar saw him first, scuttling on all fours, then slowly trying to crawl away, and finally trying to play dead—but he was discovered and pounced on, captured alive.

      And what of the Silver Queen? Valdemar, looking in all directions, realized with a faint dawning of hope that he could no longer see Yambu anywhere.

      The young woman who had led the attack took a moment to examine the Chairman’s body.

      She then complained to some of her subordinates; evidently she was dismayed to find this eminent person dead.

      Her anger flared at those who had killed him, and Valdemar thought she would have been angrier had she not been distracted by the discovery of Wayfinder.

      Someone asked her whether the body of such a leader could be put to any use magically. No, she said that it was worthless—perhaps she did not want to divert her time and effort from a greater opportunity. “Might as well feed him to my griffin.”

* * *

      And now Tigris, annoyed at having been forced to waste even a few moments on other problems, was picking up Wayfinder, claiming the great Sword for herself.

      She looked at the Sword of Wisdom with great satisfaction, and, thought Valdemar, considerable surprise. It seemed to him as if this lady warrior had not been expecting this Sword at all. Again he wondered about Zoltan and Ben, and prayed to Ardneh that one of them at least might be able to keep Woundhealer safely away.

      The Director, somewhat dazed, was being brought before his conqueror. He managed a slight bow. “Lady Tigris,” was all he said.

      She was still absorbed in the contemplation of her new treasure. The prisoner being held before her would have fallen had not the grips on his arms held him up. Now he looked about him as if uncertain of where he was.

      At last giving him some attention, Tigris remarked: “You’re not looking well, my friend.”

      The Director only stared at her wanly.

      She added, speculatively: “You know, sometimes people never completely get over the kind of treatment that you received from my Master in your Temple.”

      The elderly man smiled, as if that idea pleased him. The smile, in the circumstances, made him look like the village idiot.

      But now Valdemar’s opportunity of leisurely observation was coming to a sudden end. A soldier had discovered him, and in moments he had been disentangled from the wreckage of the pavilion. Soldiers in mixed dress, looking like a gang of peasants, were dragging him before the Lady Tigris.

      Gesturing for the Director to be taken away, she frowned at Valdemar. Her free hand moved in a subtle gesture, and her blue eyes narrowed as she stared at the gigantic young man.

      “You are not Blue Temple,” Tigris said. It was not a question.

      “No ma’am. I was their prisoner.”

      Tigris adjusted the swordbelt she had so recently fastened around her slender waist. Meanwhile her gaze at Valdemar did not waver in its intensity.

      “I more or less expected to take a few prisoners,” she murmured to herself. “One can always find good use for prisoners. But …”

      She raised the Sword she was still holding in her right hand, so that for a moment Valdemar thought she was going to kill him right away with Wayfinder.

      Then, to his immeasurable relief, he realized that she was only going to ask the Sword a question.

      “Sword,” she whispered again, “where am I to turn to win—that which I most desire?”

      Valdemar at the moment was physically closer to the enchantress than any other person. No one else, perhaps, except the stolid soldiers who were holding his arms, was near enough to have heard the question. No one else, perhaps, observed the look of sheer surprise in her eyes when Wayfinder, in response, swung up in the enchantress’s grip to point directly at Valdemar.

      He was at least as astonished as the young woman holding the Sword of Wisdom.

      “This one?” she muttered, in slightly louder tones. “And what am I supposed to do with him—sacrifice him?”

      But that kind of question, as the questioner herself appeared to understand full well, was not the kind to which Wayfinder could be expected to reply.

      Meanwhile other matters began intruding, frustrating her evident wish to concentrate on the Sword. The blue and gold pavilion had been thoroughly wrecked in the skirmishing, and one of the young woman’s aides was wondering what to do about it. She commanded him to see that the wreckage was got out of the way and searched for whatever of value it might contain.

      “And are we to camp here, Lady Tigris?” the soldier asked.

      The lady, seemingly indifferent to the rain, which darkened and plastered her blond hair, muttered some kind of an answer that Valdemar