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

      Time for the orders of the day. Valdemar put some thought into his request. “Sword … I want to go home, to my own hut and my own vineyard. I want to reach the place safely, and I want the world to leave me in peace once I am there. Also I want to have there with me—someday, somehow—the woman who should be my wife. Whoever she may be.”

      Pausing, Valdemar eyed Tigris. Sitting obediently in the basket where he had put her, she returned his gaze with an eager, trustful look that he at the moment found absolutely sickening.

      He returned his concentration to the sharp Blade in his hands. “With all those goals in mind, great Sword, give me a direction.” The response was quick and firm. “Very well! Thank you! Griffin, fly!”

      He gave the last command with as much confidence as possible. If the griffin only turned its head and looked at him, he was going to be forced into some act of desperation.

      Fortunately, things had not yet come to that. Gathering its mighty limbs beneath it, the creature sprang into the air.

      This morning’s flight lasted for about an hour, and during its entire course, controlling the griffin continued to be something of a problem. Tigris, giggling and babbling what Valdemar considered irrelevancies, distracted him and made his job no easier.

      Wayfinder at least was predictably reliable. In response to Val’s continuing requests for safety for both passengers, the Sword guided them through several aerial zigzags that had no purpose Valdemar could see. And then, point tugging sharply downward, it indicated a place to land.

* * *

      At that same hour, a great many kilometers away, the Ancient One found himself able to spare a little time and thought to contemplate the treachery of Tigris, and to decide upon the most satisfactory method of revenge.

      Another of Wood’s inhuman secret agents had just brought confirmation that he, Wood, had been able, from a distance, to inflict a severe loss of memory upon his most faithless subordinate.

      “And not only that, Master, but a complete regression to near-childhood. The foul bitch is deliciously, perfectly, helpless!”

      “It is a rather powerful spell.” Wood nodded, somewhat complacently. “I am not surprised at its success. If the Director of Security for the Blue Temple could not resist it, our dear Tigris had no chance … of course in her case, this treatment is meant as no more than a preliminary penalty. One might say it is not really a punishment at all, only a form of restraint. I want to neutralize the little wretch until I can spare the time and thought to deal with her—as she truly deserves.” He frowned at his informant. “Now who is this companion you say she has? No one, I trust, who is likely to kill her outright?”

      “Only a man, Master. Don’t know why she brought him along. Not much magic to his credit. Youthful, physically large. A lusty fellow, by the look of him, so I don’t think he’ll want to kill her very soon. He has of course taken over the Sword Wayfinder now.”

      “And I suppose he has been making use of it—but to what end, I wonder?”

      “No doubt I can find out, great lord. Indeed, you have only to give the word, and I will step in and take the Sword away from him. I, of course, unlike the faithless Tigris, would bring the prize directly to you, without—”

“You will not touch that Sword, or any other!” Wood commanded firmly. “From now on that privilege is mine alone!”

      “Of course, Master.” The demon bowed, a swirling movement of a half-material image.

      “I,” the Ancient One continued, “am presently going to take the field myself.”

      There yet remained in the old magician’s mind some nagging doubt that his lovely young assistant had really turned against him—his ego really found it difficult to accept that.

      Perhaps it would be possible to learn the truth from her before she died.

* * *

      At first she had been somewhat frightened, coming awake out of that awful dream—or sleep, or whatever it had been—to find herself straddling the back of a flying griffin. A griffin was an unfamiliar creature—certainly there had been nothing like it on the farm, home of her childhood, scene of most of her remaining clear memories—but it was not completely strange. She remembered—from somewhere—certain things about the species. Thus it proved to be with many other components of this strange new world.

      By now, the young woman who had been Tigris had just about decided that this world in which she found herself—the world that had in it such an interesting young man as her companion—was, taken all in all, a sweet, wonderful place.

      She who had been Tigris, her sophistication obliterated and her knowledge very drastically reduced by the magical removal of most of the memories of the later half of her life, continued to be very confused about her situation. But in her restored innocence the young woman was mainly unafraid.

      From her place in the passenger’s basket she gazed thoughtfully at Valdemar, looked at him for the thousandth time since—since the world had changed. Since—whatever it was, exactly, that had happened.

      Since, perhaps, she had awakened from a long sleep of troubled dreams—and oh, it was good to be awake again!

      She found herself still gazing at the strong young man. And she found him pleasant indeed to look upon.

      It was something of a shock—it was almost frightening—to realize abruptly that she did not know his name.

      In a loud clear voice she asked him: “Who are you?”

      Turning a startled face, the youth in the saddle stared at her. “It is now something like a full day, my lady, since we met. I have told you almost as much as I can tell about myself. Have you no memory?”

      She who had been Tigris did her best to consider. “No. Or, I have some memory, I suppose, but—I don’t remember who you are. Tell me again.”

      The young man continued to stare at her. For the