Swords: 10 - The Seventh Book Of Lost Swords - Wayfinder's Story (19 page)

      
The griffin, on feeling its heavier passenger stir, looked round lazily; but at least it had done nothing—yet—in the way of a serious rebellion.

      
Valdemar had the Sword of Wisdom still gripped in his right hand. Raising it again, he bluntly demanded: “Where is the woman I should marry?”

      
His wrist was twisted by an overwhelming force. Remorselessly the weapon continued to point out Tigris.

      
Dismounting with a grunt, straightening stiffened limbs, Valdemar walked around to the animal’s right flank and awakened his companion, who rewarded him with a cheerful, vacant smile.

      
Then, chewing on some of the food they had removed from that cargo basket, he attempted to nail down the Sword’s meaning beyond any doubt. Addressing Wayfinder, he demanded: “Are you trying to tell me that this, this one with me now, is the very woman? That this creature is not simply meant to be a help of some kind to finding my rightful bride?”

      
The Sword, without a tremor, still indicated Tigris.

      
“Oh, by all the gods!” the young man roared. Such was his disgust that he felt a serious impulse to throw this Sword away.

      
He did in fact make an abortive gesture toward that end, but such was his practical nature that the Sword went no farther than necessary to stick the sharp point in a nearby tree. A moment later and Valdemar had hastened to retrieve the weapon of the gods. Wayfinder might produce some unpleasant surprises, but still it seemed to be the only hope he had.

      
A few minutes later they were preparing to fly again. This time Valdemar occupied the saddle, and Tigris went indifferently into the left basket, where he had ridden as her prisoner.

      
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 moment he said nothing, only shaking his head slightly.

      
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.