Swords: 10 - The Seventh Book Of Lost Swords - Wayfinder's Story (21 page)

      
He clutched for dear life at the Sword of Wisdom, and cried to it for help. He did his best to lift it, as if to strike a blow.

      
The demon only chuckled, a truly hideous sound. The ghastly wraith-shape of it drifted in the air in front of Valdemar.

      
“What do you mean to do, young man? Strike me with your Sword?”

      
“I…” At the moment, brave words seemed impossible to come by.

      
“Wayfinder will not protect you … nothing will … if I simply reach out to you … like this …”

      
Fear and nausea gripped him, then dragged their slimy presences away. Val wondered why the demon did not simply seize Wayfinder out of his almost paralyzed hands. But the shadow drifted on, and the Sword of Wisdom was still his.

      
It was, it had to be, only playing with them, like a cat with a pair of mice.

      
Delia, utterly miserable, pathetically ignorant, clung to him, wanting to be comforted.

      
Val’s fears were confirmed. The vile creature had only pretended to depart, for now it came drifting back. Its vague shape gathered over Delia, and it whispered something frightful into the young woman’s ear.

      
Shocked, uncomprehending, Delia screamed and wept.

      
Valdemar tried to summon up his nerve, his will, to rise to her defense, but physical and mental cramps assailed him, and he fell back groaning.

      
Delia shrieked again. Horrible memories had stirred in her when she heard the demon speak Wood’s name.

      
Then, as unexpectedly as it had come, the demon was gone.

      
Delia expressed her fear that the Ancient One was coming to get her. “Val, that’s what it meant. That—
thing
which spoke to me just now—whatever it was. It told me things that made me start to remember—Val, hold me!”

      
And Valdemar, still sick and trembling from the recent presence of a demon, found himself doing his best to comfort Delia.

      
He held her while she wept, and promised to protect her—and in his ignorance he could even believe for a time that he might be able to afford her such protection.

* * *

      
As for the Ancient One himself, with every passing hour, each incoming report, he was becoming more firmly convinced of his former assistant’s treachery. Though by this time, as Wood assured himself grimly, the objective truth concerning her guilt or innocence really no longer mattered. He had decided to consider her guilty, and that was that.

      
Whatever she had really done or not done, after this he would never again be able to trust her even minimally. Too bad; at one time she had shown great promise…

      
Wood now welcomed back—as warmly as he ever welcomed any being—the demonic scout who had just tormented Tigris.

      
Listening attentively, the Ancient One received from this creature a new report. The news, related with much demonic merriment, was that Tigris had certainly been reduced to childish helplessness. And now—this was the crowning effect—seemed to be on her way to a new existence as a farmer’s wife.

      
The Ancient One reacted to this announcement with a great deal of amusement and satisfaction.

      
He went so far as to reward the messenger—at least, he promised a substantial, though unspecified, reward, to be delivered in the future.

      
The demon praised its master’s generosity—its gratitude sounded as sincere as the virtue that it praised. And it slavishly rejoiced at having brought good news.

      
“Yes. Well, well.” The human nodded. “All things considered, such a fate will do quite well as the first phase of our settlement of accounts with her.”

      
“And the next phase of her punishment, Master?” The servile creature almost gibbered with delight. “When may we expect to enjoy that?”

      
Tersely, in a voice tinged with regret, the Ancient One explained that for the next few hours or perhaps days he was going to be too busy dealing with his chief opponents to pay this traitress much attention.

      
He concluded: “But do keep me informed.”

      
“Most gladly, Master!”

* * *

      
Valdemar still asked the Sword for safety, and the Sword still required him and Delia to fly. The flights thus commanded were random jaunts, as far as Val could see, getting them nowhere in particular, but rather keeping them in the same area of almost uninhabited country, uncomfortably close to the camp from which Tigris had kidnapped him—how very long ago that seemed!

      
And Val was growing increasingly worried about the griffin. He supposed that the creature had grown tired, lacking its proper magical nourishment, or reinforcement. Or perhaps, thought Valdemar, the beast was simply becoming increasingly restive in the control and company of these two milksops.

      
When he asked Delia if she remembered anything about the animal’s diet, she only shuddered and insisted that she knew nothing whatever on the subject. Valdemar couldn’t decide whether she was telling the truth or not.

      
When he asked the Sword for help in feeding their chief means of transportation, Wayfinder obliged. Evidently there was some kind of food the griffin favored, and when Valdemar turned to the Sword for help, Wayfinder directed them to a landing place where the creature browsed contentedly for a time, burrowing its head into the dense foliage of a grove of peculiar trees. Valdemar was unable to tell at first glance whether the beast was eating leaves, fruit, or perhaps something more meaty that dwelled in the high branches; he made no effort to find out.

      
“Is it a very big magic, then?” The young blond woman was staring gravely, wide-eyed, alternately at Valdemar, and at the Sword he was consulting with regard to their next move.

      
He was disconcerted by the way she put a thumb or knuckle in her mouth, her pink lips sucking at it.

      
Also he wanted to tell her that her garments needed some adjustment. He was more certain than ever that in her previous persona her clothing must have been protected by some magical means. Now this enhancement was no more, and seams and fabric, not made to withstand rough usage without help, here and there starting to give way. Her blouse, or tunic, or whatever the right name was for the upper garment she was wearing, was tending to come open in front. Matters were tending toward the immodest. How could he think of her as a potential bride?

      
Valdemar told himself that he was not really accustomed to dealing with children.

      
He said: “Of course this Sword is magic, magic of tremendous power. Haven’t I just been telling you?”

      
The griffin was showing signs of reasonable contentment as it continued feeding. Valdemar assumed that he and Delia would soon be riding on the monster’s back again. He wondered if some curse was on him too, that circumstances kept arising to delay his return home.

      
Of course, once he had reached that goal, another problem would arise: What ought he to do then with the Sword? Any such treasure would inevitably draw trouble, as Valdemar saw the situation. He would have to hide it, get rid of it, trade it off somehow as soon as an opportunity arose.

      
But that could wait until he was safely home. Once Wayfinder had seen him that far, Valdemar was sure he wanted nothing more to do with any magic of the gods.

      
As for his wife … whoever she might be … He sat looking long and soberly at Delia.

      
“What am I to do with you, girl, when we’ve got that far? I don’t know. Will you at least be safe from demons when we’ve reached that point?”

      
She could no more answer that question than an infant. She looked back at her caretaker with mild concern, waiting for him to find some reassuring answer.

      
“At least,” Valdemar growled, “I’ll know where I am then, and I’ll be able to do something…”

      
He picked up the Sword and once more asked it to show him the way home.

Chapter Fourteen

      
The Sword of Wisdom failed to respond at all to this important question, or to the others Valdemar asked. Valdemar took this to mean that he too should adopt a course of inactivity. That would be all right if it didn’t last too long; he could use the rest. Anyway, the griffin had not yet finished its protracted feeding.

      
Also Val was still being bothered by his cut fingers. The skin around the little wounds was red and sore and even felt warmer than the adjacent flesh, as if he were getting a local fever. Healing was slow, not helped by the fact that he had to keep using his hand.

      
Delia, despite her claim to have spent her childhood on a farm, protested that it bothered her to have to deal with blood and injury. But when Valdemar coaxed her, she agreed to do what she could to help him.

      
First, wearing an absentminded look, she searched among the nearby bushes and eventually came up with what she said were useful herbs, varieties to help the small wounds heal.

      
While engaged in this search, she took time out to complain, she had not been able to find the kind of berries she would really like to eat. “There should be little red berries, in the spring …”

      
“I suppose your farm was a long way off from here.”

      
“I suppose it was,” the young woman answered vaguely. Then she lifted her head sharply. “Listen!”

      
“What?” Valdemar turned uneasily, hand groping for his Sword.

      
“The birds. Hear them? Except they’re not the same kind that used to sing on the farm.”

      
Eventually, with Delia’s assistance, Val succeeded in getting an effective bandage on his hand. The poultice of leaves that she bound on stung a little at first, but then felt vaguely comforting.

      
As Delia finished tying the last knot in the little bandage, he continued to stare at her thoughtfully. Long ago Valdemar had abandoned the last suspicion that this shocking innocence was some kind of a trick, a pose on her part. And she showed no signs of snapping out of it. No, it seemed that she was his responsibility now.

      
So far the pair of them had had enough to eat; fortunately the griffin had been carrying some field rations, mostly hard bread and cheese, in one of its panniers. But those supplies were quickly running out, and Valdemar realized that to keep himself and his supposed bride going he was going to have to somehow scrounge more nourishment from other sources.

      
He would have to think seriously about that problem soon. At the moment he was very tired.

      
The Sword of Wisdom would of course lead them to good things to eat, as soon as he wanted to make that his priority. But Valdemar had the feeling that they were under pursuit, if not direct attack, and he had learned that the Sword could only handle one question—or one main goal—at a time. He would not risk his life and Delia’s for food until actual starvation threatened.

      
Sitting against a tree, he was pulled back from the brink of sleep by his companion leaning over him.

      
“Is it a very big magic?” Delia now repeated, innocently. She was gazing thoughtfully at the Sword, which lay in Valdemar’s lap, his hand on the black hilt.

      
Earlier, Valdemar remembered with a sense of irony, this woman—or rather this woman’s other self—had been the one to accuse him of feigning an innocence too great for the real world.

      
“It is indeed,” Valdemar replied at last, with the slow patience of near exhaustion. “It is a gigantic, tremendous magic. And also very sharp—be careful!” He had thought for a moment, from the eager way his charge was leaning forward, that she had been about to run a testing finger right along the edge of Wayfinder’s Blade.

      
She who had once been Tigris had never objected to Valdemar’s having complete charge of the Sword of Wisdom. But from the way she was gazing at the weapon now, it was obvious that something—whether it was the bright beauty, the supernal keenness, or the intricate under-the-surface pattern of the steel—held a strong fascination.

      
He slid Wayfinder back into the sheath still fastened at his waist.

      
And then he leaned back against the tree. His eyelids were getting very heavy, and he would rest for just a moment.

* * *

      
Delia, feeling a mixture of mischief and curiosity, reached for the Sword again as soon as Val, losing his battle to exhaustion, dozed off.

      
And at that moment the griffin, as if sensing that something of importance was about to happen, silently turned its head, watching Delia keenly as she reached for Wayfinder.

      
She could not test the sharpness of the edge while the Sword remained sheathed. Softly she put her hand on the black hilt and drew the weapon forth, so quietly that Valdemar slept on.

      
Holding the Sword with a double grip on the sturdy hilt, made Delia feel strange. Her arms and hands were going tingly in a way that she knew—somehow—had something to do with magic. The sensation made her forget about testing the physical edge. She held up the Sword to smile at it in innocent admiration.

      
Val had told her that the Sword answered questions, and helped people. “What should I ask?” she whispered aloud. The question seemed addressed more to herself than to the instrument of the gods.

      
The griffin, at the moment chewing its mysterious nourishment, chewing with the jaw-motions of a cow, and the fangs of a gigantic lion, had no answer for her.

      
Warily Delia turned her head, looking carefully at Valdemar to make sure that he was still asleep.

      
Then inspiration came. Small hands white-knuckled with the strain of gripping the black hilt, she raised the heavy Sword of Wisdom and whispered to it again.

      
“Show me the way to make him want to keep me with him,” she whispered devoutly. And smiled a moment later—because sure enough, Wayfinder had just twisted slightly in her hands—pointing at what?

      
At nothing in particular, that she could see. Just at some bushes.

      
Moving eagerly and quietly, holding the heavy Blade extended carefully in front of her, Delia investigated. The Sword led her through a screen of brush, and on a few meters more, to a point where she heard the sounds of murmuring water just ahead.

      
Still following the Sword’s guidance, she soon arrived at a small stream, partially dammed by a fallen tree and lodged debris. Above the dam a pleasant little pond had formed, partially shaded by standing trees. The day was warm and sunny for a change, and the pool invited her to test it with her fingers. Not prohibitively cold. Certainly it looked deep and clear enough to provide a bath.

      
Sniffing fastidiously at her armpits, she grimaced, and could not remember ever before being this dirty.

* * *

      
What had awakened Valdemar he did not know, but full consciousness suddenly returned. Sitting up straight, with a reflexive wrench of all his muscles, he felt a cold hand at his heart when he saw that the Sword of Wisdom was no longer in its sheath, which was still belted securely at his waist.

      
Delia was missing too. Maybe she had only stepped into the bushes to relieve herself. Jumping to his feet, Val called her name, first softly and then at considerable volume. To his vast relief, an answer came drifting from somewhere in the middle distance. A moment later, he thought he could hear prolonged splashing.

      
Quickly the young man pushed his way through the bushes to investigate.

      
He stopped abruptly as soon as the pond came into view. The Sword at least was safe, stuck casually into the moist earth at the water’s edge.

      
Delia’s clothing, including an undergarment or two which Valdemar had never seen before, lay beside the upright Blade. The young woman herself, completely unclothed above the waist, covered by water below that, waved at Valdemar from midstream, no more than an easy leap away. She called cheerfully for him to join her in her bath.

      
“Val, come in, come in!”

      
“I’m coming!” he heard himself reply. His voice was a mere croak. Already he was striding forward, as if hypnotized. Somehow it was as if he were watching his own behavior from outside. He was aware of stripping off his own garments, and stepping down into the current…

* * *

      
Half an hour later, Delia, still unclothed, lying at ease amid the spring grass and early flowers a little inland from the water’s edge, was frowning prettily. She had hold of the huge hand of Valdemar, who, as naked as she was, lay almost inert beside her, and was turning it this way and that, as if interested in the articulation of the wrist.

      
“And now your bandage has come off again,” she was complaining. “What are we to do for your poor fingers?”

      
“Never mind my fingers.” Valdemar’s voice had a newly calm and thoughtful quality.

      
Something crackled in the brush nearby, galvanizing him into action, first lunging, then crawling awkwardly, to reach the Sword. With his bandaged hand on the black hilt he turned—to find himself facing nothing worse than the griffin, driven by curiosity to see what its two masters were about.

      
Delia, who had crawled after him, started tickling him playfully.

* * *

      
Another half hour had passed before Delia asked Valdemar whether the magic Sword could heal his ringers.

      
“No, there is another Sword, called Woundhealer, that would be needed to do that.”

      
“Woundhealer? Where is it?”

      
“I don’t know. It was with me for a while, before I met you—or rather I was with some people who were carrying that Sword. But where it is now … just help me put on a bandage again. My fingers will be all right, and we face bigger problems than a couple of little wounds.”

      
The bandaging went more easily this time, perhaps because Delia was less afraid of hurting him.

      
As she tied the last knot, Val said regretfully: “Better get dressed. We must be moving on.”

* * *

      
The griffin appeared to be through feeding, for the time being anyway. But Val’s renewed questioning of the Sword, with safety as his goal, this time elicited no clear indication from Wayfinder.

      
Valdemar, strolling about with his arm around Delia, bending now and then to kiss her, kept trying to picture her as his wife, working beside him in the vineyard. Yesterday such a vision would have seemed impossible. Now it was much clearer.

      
He began to talk to her about his vines and grapes, and about the good wine that could be made from them in a year or two when the plants were fully matured.

      
Delia, listening to Val’s description of his work, and his plans for the future, saw nothing frightening or unpleasant in the prospect. In fact she found herself quite pleased.

      
His description of the vineyard stumbled to a halt. “Does this suit you, then?” he asked.

      
“Yes,” she told him simply. “All I want now, Val, is to stay with you.”

      
“Oh. Oh, my dear. Delia.”

* * *

      
When the pair of them were busy gathering what food they could, foraging to augment the supplies still remaining from the griffin’s fast-diminishing store, she demonstrated a definite magical affinity for growing things—making thorny vines bend to and fro, to yield her their juicy berries without pricking her reaching hands and arms.

      
“I foresee a great future for you in the country, little woman.”

      
“I keep telling you, I have always lived on a farm.”

      
“And do your parents live there still?”

      
“I’m not sure.” A shadow crossed the young woman’s face. “I don’t want to think about them.”

      
“Then don’t.”

* * * * * *

      
Once more Delia, at a moment when her companion was inattentive, got her small hands—hands no longer as pale and soft as they had been—on the weapon of the gods. In simple words she whispered a new question to the Sword of Wisdom, asking it to guide them to the Sword called Woundhealer, so that her lover’s cut fingers could be healed.

      
Yet again they mounted the griffin. Valdemar, thinking that his own most recent query was the one to which the Sword was now actively responding, gave the beast commands. Quickly they were airborne.

      
They had not flown far before the young man noticed that a flying reptile was following them. He could not be sure whether it was actually trying to catch up with them or not, but the griffin was flying so slowly that that seemed a possibility.

      
Grimly Valdemar urged their mount to greater speed. The nightmare head turned on the long neck. The eyes, seeming to glow with their own fire, looked straight at him. But the griffin ignored the command.

      
“Faster, I said!” Val waved the Sword, as if threatening the beast with it. The threat was a bluff, and it proved a serious mistake.