Swords: 10 - The Seventh Book Of Lost Swords - Wayfinder's Story (14 page)

      
Wayfinder twitched visibly in the Chairman’s hands, but that was all. Evidently it was still giving only an ambiguous indication at best.

      
Hyrcanus evidently found this behavior unacceptable. “Surely you can respond more definitely, Sword. If I said I wanted to find the Emperor, how would you answer me?”

      
This question was so obviously hypothetical that Hyrcanus scarcely paused before recasting it, with firm Blue Temple legalism.

      
“Sword, I bid you guide me to meet the Emperor.”

      
But again the Sword only demonstrated uncertainty.

      
The Chairman set his treasure gently down upon the table, and drummed his fingers next to it. “Well, Director, how are we to interpret this? That we are only to wait here, to meet the Emperor? That does not seem to make much sense—unless he is coming to call upon us.” He added drily: “An unprecedented event, surely.”

      
“I agree, Your Opulence.”

      
In the following silence, Yambu’s voice sounded quite unexpectedly, so that everyone turned to look at her. “Perhaps the Emperor
is
on his way here, to meet you.” Her face wore what Valdemar thought an odd expression, even considering her situation.

      
Her statement was received with mixed reactions by the men in power. These were knowledgeable, worldly leaders. They were constitutionally wary of the unknown in all its aspects, and whatever knowledge they possessed about the Great Clown, beyond what ordinary people knew, they did not particularly fear him.

      
Hyrcanus looked with interest at Yambu. “You know him, then?”

      
“I am indeed the Silver Queen. I suppose I know him if anyone does. I have borne his child.”

      
“If he is coming here now,” said the elderly Director after a time, “do you suppose he will be bringing his greatest treasure with him?”

      
The Silver Queen said, “I do not know.”

      
Hyrcanus, letting Wayfinder lie on the table but rubbing the hilt as if for luck, stood up, pushing back his chair as if he wished to stretch.

      
He raised his eyes to find his male prisoner watching him intently. “Well, fellow? Had you any experience similar to this when Wayfinder was yours?”

      
Valdemar nodded slowly. “I admit it puzzled me a time or two. If that is what you mean.”

      
No one asked him to elaborate, and he did not try.

      
Standing awkwardly beside him, Yambu was gradually growing more perturbed, as if she found the prospect of an Imperial visit somehow unsettling.

* * *

      
Time passed, very slowly in Valdemar’s perception. Outside the pavilion, the Blue Temple’s military people were stolidly going about their routine business of guard duty and camp making. Nothing of consequence seemed to be happening.

      
Not that the two high officials were going to be content simply to wait for the Emperor. No, people kept coming to the door of their tent with practical questions, matters that required answers. The commander of the cavalry, still awake himself though (as Valdemar thought) most of his troops—who had evidently ridden all night—were probably asleep, came in respectfully asking to be informed: Would they be breaking camp first thing the next morning? Would they spend the remainder of the day and night interrogating their fresh-caught prisoners?

      
Hyrcanus had excused himself, Valdemar supposed probably for a latrine break, and the question was left to his second-in-command to answer.

“
      
Oh, I doubt that.” The Director, stretching, allowed himself a smothered yawn. “You might as well haul that stuff away and pack it up again.” He gestured toward the rear of the tent; and only now did Valdemar realize what the piled instruments of torture were, as a pair of soldiers packed them up again, and bore them out.

      
When the Chairman returned, a few minutes later, rubbing his hands together, the Director questioned him about the prisoners too: Was there really any point in dragging the wretches all the way back to headquarters?

      
“Perhaps, perhaps not. How can we know at this stage? Let us see if my question brings any result within the next few hours.”

      
The morning hours dragged on. Hyrcanus and his Director were, as they thought, being their usual practical, businesslike selves when the clouded sky outside the tent seemed to split in half, and the gold and blue pavilion was torn away from above their heads.

      
Valdemar closed his eyes and yelled, momentarily certain that the last instant of his life had come.

Chapter Ten

      
It was still morning, on that cloudy, rainy day, when the young woman commonly known as Tigris, accompanied by ferocious (though not very numerous) supporting forces—including one demon of more than ordinary power—and riding her own griffin, came crashing in with a murderous assault upon the newly established Blue Temple camp.

      
The Blue Temple griffins, being the cowardly creatures that they were, rose into the air, breaking their tethers, and took flight immediately. At the moment of the attack, Hyrcanus’s people were doing their best to be alert, but they were simply overmatched, and the attack was a complete success.

      
Valdemar had never seen Tigris before, nor had he any means of identifying any of Wood’s other people or creatures. The result was that while the fighting raged around him the young man had not the faintest idea of the true nature of this fresh batch of invaders.

      
On finding himself unhurt after the first few moments of the attack, Valdemar began to hope that he might after all be able to survive. By this time a heartening explanation had suggested itself, namely that these conquerors were the friendly Tasavaltans of whom he had heard so much from his traveling companions; Valdemar’s spirits rose sharply with the prospect.

      
Had the youth been aware that a demon was among the attacking force, this would have dashed his risen hopes. But although the proximity of the foul thing soon began to make him physically ill, the young man was unable to either see or identify the source of his symptoms.

      
Valdemar’s companion in captivity, the Silver Queen, was considerably more experienced and knowledgeable. Quickly recognizing the nature of the latest onslaught, Yambu felt her heart sink. Almost instantly she was able to recognize Tigris, and the presence of a demon as well.

      
The Silver Queen would have made some effort to enlighten her fellow prisoner, but she could neither talk to him effectively nor help him at the moment.

* * *

      
As had been the case in the previous assault, the struggle in magical and physical terms was intense but brief. Too late, one after another, the pair of high Blue Temple officials tried to grab up the Sword of Wisdom. But the neat tables full of paperwork had already been knocked over, and the top of the pavilion ripped away before either of the Executives could get his hands on Wayfinder. The Sword fell to the ground, and was covered in folds of collapsing fabric. The clerks ran in panic, or writhed in pain as enemy weapons struck them down.

      
At this point the magical bonds constricting Valdemar’s movements began to slacken, and the youth enjoyed a few moments’ hope that he would be able to escape. As he looked, Hyrcanus himself was slain. Valdemar, watching, could not have named the cause of death; one moment the Chairman was grimacing in alarm, and the next he was slumping inertly to the earth.

      
A moment later Valdemar himself was buried 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 did not really hear.

      
In Valdemar’s eyes the young woman’s face was so hard and ruthless that he felt morally certain she could not really be as young as she appeared.

      
Now she came a few steps closer, pointing Wayfinder deliberately at his midsection, so that momentarily he once more felt in danger of being skewered. From the steady way she held the heavy Sword, it was apparent that her slender wrists must be stronger than they looked.

      
Fiercely she demanded of Valdemar: “You … very well, what is important about you? There must be something. What are you good for, what use am I to make of you?”

      
The only response that came to the lips of the dazed youth was: “Well, you are certainly not the Emperor.”

      
One of the lady’s eyebrows rose. “I should hope not.” It was a wary, calculating answer. “Were you expecting him?”

      
She sounded as if she thought the Emperor’s arrival not a totally ridiculous idea. Why, Valdemar wondered, were all these knowledgeable people apparently taking the Great Clown so seriously?

      
To his captor he replied: “Someone just moments ago—I mean the Chairman—was asking that Sword about the location of the Emperor’s treasure.”

      
“I see.” Again what he said was being taken seriously.

      
Meanwhile, Tigris was evaluating her young captive as impressively arrogant. At first glance he was only a peasant, but of course there had to be something special about him, for the Sword of Wisdom to pick him out as her ticket to freedom.

      
He was continuing to stare at her in what she considered to be a very insolent way—allowing for the fact that men did tend to stare at her. The look had some fear in it, as might be expected of anyone but a madman in his situation. But it contained a measure of haughty defiance too.

      
Just as Tigris was about to speak again, a small bird, unperturbed by drizzling rain and sullen cloud, began singing somewhere nearby. Her reaction, the way she turned to get a look at the bird, made Valdemar turn his head too. Yes, there was the little feathered thing, looking quite ordinary, perched in the branches of a tree not far from the destroyed pavilion.

      
The diminutive songster, seemingly indifferent to the affairs of humans and the weapons of the gods, produced a few more notes, then flew away, as if suddenly frightened by something beyond the range of Valdemar’s senses.

      
Tigris turned her attention to her prisoner again.

      
Valdemar felt a sudden return of the physical sickness. Still he was unable to assign a cause.

      
The lovely young woman regarded him in silence a little longer. Then she said: “I am still trying to fathom why the Sword of Wisdom should have pointed you out to me. Have you any idea why?”

      
Before Valdemar could attempt a reply, one of the lady’s human subordinates came up to request orders, interrupting her train of thought. Turning aside, she commanded this man to dispatch a message to Master Wood. “Inform the Master that we have had great success.”

      
“Shall I tell him, my lady, that the Sword we have taken here is not the one we were expecting to find?”

      
“No, fool! The Master will know of that already. Use just the words I have just spoken: ‘great success.’ Nothing more and nothing less.”

      
“Yes, my lady.” The soldier bowed himself away. Tigris returned her full attention to Valdemar.

      
“Where is the Sword of Healing?” she demanded abruptly.

      
“I don’t know.”

      
Tigris stared at him. If she was really determined to find Woundhealer, he thought, all she had to do was put to work the Sword she had just captured. But he was sure that she had had some other goal in mind when she put her first question to Wayfinder. And she had been quite as surprised as he was at Wayfinder’s answer.