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

      Gently she persisted. “But who are you? Where are we?”

      When Valdemar did not answer, she began to be a little afraid of him. She saw him as a very formidable person—even apart from his obviously gigantic physical strength. He had an air of confidence and reliability.

      After a while she told him as much, in simple words.

      He gazed at her with returning suspicion. “So, I am to believe that you are only a child now, and easily impressed? Is that it?”

      She laughed girlishly. She could not really remain afraid of this young man for long. He was too … too…

      “Ah, Lady Tigris, if only 1 could be sure … but how can I determine what you are really—but you have let me have the Sword, haven’t you? Oh, truly you are changed!”

      The lady was frowning. “What did you call me?”

“Tigris. Lady Tigris.”

      “But why do you call me that? Are you playing some game?”

      “No game, no game at all. Not for me, certainly. By what name should I call you, then?”

      “Why, by my own.”

      “And that is—?”

      “How can a friend of mine not know my name?” She paused, thinking, her red lips parted. “But then I didn’t know yours, did I? … my name is Delia. And now I remember that you did tell me your name before—Valdemar. That has a strange sound, but I like it.”

      He looked at her for what felt like a long time. “What else do you remember about me?”

      “Why, that you are my friend. You have been helping me to—do something.” Gradually, with an effort, Delia was able to remember a few other things that he had told her about himself, before—before the world had changed.

      Valdemar asked: “And what do you remember about the Sword of Wisdom?”

      She blinked at him. “What is that?”

      He stared at her, the wind of flight whipping his long dark hair. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said at last.

* * *

      The longer the flight went on, the longer she looked at him, the more definitely she who had been Tigris began to flirt with Valdemar, innocently and sensuously at the same time.

      Valdemar at first took no real notice of her smiles and subtle eyelid-flutters, and occasional voluptuous stretches. He was watching the griffin grimly, and from time to time he repeated his latest question to Wayfinder: “Point me—point both of us—the way to safety.”

      Under his inexpert piloting, the great winged creature, continuing to change course on demand at frequent, irregular intervals, carried the couple back to some place that was half familiar-looking; Val, who as a rule had a fairly good sense of direction, had the feeling they were not far from the armed camp from which Tigris had marched him—it seemed like a terribly long time ago.

      Obviously Wayfinder was not guiding them directly toward his vineyard. Well, having once decided to trust his life to the Sword’s guidance, he supposed he had better trust it all the way. And anyway, he wouldn’t want to arrive home with a griffin.

      They landed in the middle of a small patch of forest.

* * *

      Wood, once having made his decision to take the field in person, had not delayed. Within a few minutes he was airborne, flying on his own griffin.

      On his arrival at the camp which had been taken by Tigris, he took charge at once, and ruthlessly. By dint of seriously terrorizing her former subordinates, he was soon able to confirm—if any confirmation was still needed—that Tigris had indeed captured the Sword Wayfinder, and had deliberately failed to notify him.

      All of Tigris’s people who remained in or about the camp automatically fell under grave suspicion in the eyes of the Ancient One. Those who Wood thought should have prevented her defection were placed in the hands of interrogation experts.

      Wood had been in personal command of the camp for less than an hour when an alarm was sounded. But this time the news was good: another griffin, bringing in the Sword Woundhealer, along with a prisoner.

      After gloating briefly over the Sword—no hands but his own took it from the semi-intelligent beast—Wood turned his attention to the prisoner. At the moment the wretch looked more dead than alive.

      Thinking he recognized the fellow as Prince Mark’s nephew, the Ancient One employed the Sword of Mercy to heal his injuries—quite likely he would be worth something in the way of ransom.

      In a moment, as soon as Zoltan’s eyes were clearly open, Wood asked him gently: “Where is she now? Tigris?”

      On recognizing where he was, and who was speaking to him, the youth looked gratifyingly sick with terror. “I don’t know,” he whispered hopelessly.

      “No? Well, I suppose there’s really no reason why you should. But I’m sure there are interesting things you do know, young man. Things that I shall be pleased to hear—you and I must have a long chat.”

      That was postponed. More news arrived: yet another new prisoner had just been picked up in the vicinity of the camp, upon which he appeared to have been spying.

      Wood turned his attention to this man.

      Brod, dragged in and supported by several guards, tremblingly assured the wizard he had only been watching the camp because he had long wanted to devote himself to the service of the mighty magician Wood as a patron. He had been trying to find the best means of approach when he was taken.

      The Ancient One stared at him. Nothing pleased him so much as a proper attitude of respect in those he spoke to. Brod, who thought he could feel that gaze probing his bone marrow, clutched at the only hopeful thought which he could find: at least he had not been trying to tell a lie.

      “Tell me, Brod…”

      “Yes, sire?”

      “What would you ask, if you were given the chance, from the Sword called Wayfinder? I take it you know what I am talking about.”

      “Oh yes sir, yes sir. I know that Sword.” The Sarge swallowed with a great gulp. “Well sir. I’d ask