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

a way, a direction, that would let me fill my ambition of getting into your service, Lord Wood sir, and continuing in your service, successfully, for a long, long time…”

      The Sarge stopped there, because the great wizard called Wood was laughing; it was a silent and horrible display.

Chapter Thirteen

      Prince Mark was heading south. He rode astride a great black cantering riding-beast, with the bulky form of the old wizard Karel similarly mounted at his side. They were long out of sight of home. Days ago the Prince had ridden forth from the great gate of Sarykam at the head of a hundred cavalry, supported by magicians, beastkeepers, a couple of supply wagons, and semi-intelligent winged scouts and messengers. Ever since their departure the Prince and his expeditionary force had been riding hard to reach the region where his friends and enemies were still contending for a pair of priceless Swords.

      The Prince was wearing two swordbelts, each supporting one sheathed Sword, so that a black hilt showed on each side of his waist. During most of the day Mark had little to say. His gaze was usually fixed straight ahead, and his countenance grim. He was ready for a fight, armed to the teeth, coming to the struggle with both Sightblinder and Shieldbreaker in his possession. The Swords Stonecutter and Dragonslicer, considered unlikely to be of much use in the current situation, had been left in the armory in Sarykam.

      The swift-moving Tasavaltan column kept moving generally south, in the direction of the region from which Ben had last reported his position. Scouts, both winged and human, ranged ahead continually.

      Mark as he rode was nagged by the feeling that he ought to have brought Stephen with him. But he knew it was better that he had not; he felt comforted by the idea that the boy would be with his mother and perhaps afford her some relief from her endless gloom.

* * *

      At sunset, the Prince and his troops reached the fringe of the barren country lying to the southwest of the Tasavaltan border. Mark ordered a halt. This would be a dry camp; tomorrow would be time enough to look for water.

      Several times during the past few hours, winged scouts had returned from the southwest to meet the column on the march. Now yet another of these great birds, speeding from the same direction across the twilight sky, arrived at the encampment.

      This scout reported the ominous presence of griffins in the area.

      The Prince cursed at the indications that the enemy was now in the field too, in force. Mark ordered the beastmaster to dispatch more birds to investigate.

      “Day-flyers, sir, or night?”

      Mark ordered some of each sent into the air.

      In the light of a lowering sun, Mark glanced at the three or four specially trained loadbeasts accompanying the column, which appeared to be bearing hooded human riders. Actually the figures on the loadbeasts’ backs were the swathed forms of giant owls, whose heads and shoulders became visible as the hoods were removed. These birds would presently be launched to scout and harass the enemy under cover of darkness.

* * *

      When Mark chose the campsite, Karel and his magical assistants busied themselves weaving protective spells around the area. The Prince personally oversaw the posting of sentries, ate lightly, then entered his small tent. Grimly impatient for morning, he wrapped himself in a blanket, stretched out on the ground, two swordbelts beneath him, his body in contact with both of his sheathed Swords, and tried to get some sleep.

* * *

      The Prince sometimes tried to calculate whether he had spent more of his life in the field, in one way or another, than he had under a roof. Certainly he sometimes felt that way. The familiar sounds of a military camp—low voices, a fire crackling, someone sharpening a blade—were soothing rather than disturbing. Yet sleep eluded Mark. His mind could not cease struggling with plans and calculations.

      The ominous signs of Blue Temple presence, and worse, in the land ahead suggested that one of his chief enemies might well now be in possession not only of Woundhealer, but of Wayfinder as well. But the Prince could take comfort in the fact that against the Sword of Force, even the Sword of Wisdom would be no more useful than a broken dagger. Wayfinder, Mark felt confident, could never tell its owner how to locate Shieldbreaker or Shieldbreaker’s holder, or how to avoid any danger posed by him.

      The Prince shifted position on his blanket, feeling as wide awake as ever. What would he do if he were Wood?

      Of course, Wayfinder would be able to tell its owner the whereabouts of the magician Karel, say—or the location of the Sword Sightblinder—and from that information an enemy might well be able to deduce that Mark was somewhere near. No Sword or combination of Swords could solve all problems.

      Sleep eventually came to Mark, in the form of a troubled doze. And with sleep came disturbing dreams that shattered into unrecognizable fragments as soon as he awoke, leaving a feeling of anxiety.

      And one thing more. He had awakened with a new plan.

* * *

      The Prince conferred with the wizard Karel just before dawn, and Karel agreed that Mark should ride on, alone but carrying both his Swords, ahead of the main body of his troops.

      The old wizard had some forebodings about what seemed a chancy scheme, and at first had argued against it. But Mark was impatient, and stubborn enough to adopt the idea even against Karel’s opposition.

      At sunrise, as the Prince swallowed hot tea and chewed on a hard biscuit, preparatory to riding out alone, Karel warned him that carrying Shieldbreaker and Sightblinder at the same time, even with both Swords sheathed, could cause him problems.

      “I must warn you, Prince, that holding both of these Swords drawn at the same time may well produce some powerful psychic effect even on you, who in some ways seemed to possess a