Swords: 10 - The Seventh Book Of Lost Swords - Wayfinder's Story (7 page)

      
Ben decided not to wait. A couple of additional missiles landed in the general neighborhood. He thought he could hear Brod, surfaced and clinging to another rock, or back on the boat, bellowing in rage. Gulping a breath, Ben went under water again, striking once more for the west bank, swimming powerfully, staying under as long as he could.

      
Briefly he worried that the bandits might find oars for the rowboat, and launch it successfully. But in the continuing confusion that threat now looked increasingly unlikely.

      
Currents and rocks grew tricky, and he endured a struggle in rough water to reach shore—but, being an excellent swimmer, he made it safely.

      
Definitely he was ready for a rest. But now was not the time. Stamping and squishing, he moved inland, getting Brod and all his people thoroughly out of sight and sound.

Chapter Four

      
Getting away from the river as expeditiously as possible, Ben struggled to put distance and obstacles between himself and the bandits. Their angry yells—concerned more, he was sure, with their own plight than with his escape—were drowned by the water raging at the rocks; and then all sounds coming from the river faded altogether.

      
Unfortunately the messenger-bird from Sarykam had now disappeared as well. For the next half hour he concentrated on making strides inland, staying on the hardest ground he could find, just in case anyone should attempt to trail him. No doubt the Blue Temple had promised a good reward.

      
After half an hour it was necessary to pause for a brief rest. Once he had squeezed some residual water from his clothing, he continued west at a steady pace.

      
The landscape ahead of Ben spread itself out in a rugged, arid, and uninviting prospect. In several places he could observe distant hills approaching the size of mountains. There were no roads, fences, or houses to be seen. In another half hour his steady pace became hesitant. Then he began to angle to the north. Lacking anything in the way of food, or even a canteen, he was reluctant to go straight out into what looked like utter desolation.

      
Ben spent the night in the open, having encountered no one, and seen few signs of settlement. He lay down in the chill of early night, grateful that at least by now his clothing had dried completely, and wishing for last night’s itchy hay. He breakfasted on a couple of juicy roots, and kept on going.

      
A full day after his escape from the flatboat, now walking almost straight north, he caught sight of three people on foot in the distance. They were approaching him from the northwest, on a course that seemed calculated to intercept his own. Ben halted, squinting with a hand raised to shade his eyes. Even at a distance it was obvious that these three were not members of Brod’s cutthroat gang.

      
Shrugging his shoulders, he resumed his advance. As the distance between them diminished, he observed that there was something familiar about two of the approaching figures; and one of those two was holding in both hands a gleaming thing, like a long sword.

      
Or, rather, like a very different kind of weapon. Something much more than any ordinary sword.

      
A minute after making that discovery, Ben was exchanging enthusiastic greetings with two of the travelers he had so fortunately—as he thought—encountered.

      
One of these two old acquaintances, she who had once been the Silver Queen, was saying to Ben: “So, you are my gate to peace and truth, you man of blood? It seems unlikely. And yet the Sword of Wisdom has fastened me upon your trail.”

      
Ben looked at the Sword, and at the woman who held it. He said: “I think I must hear some explanation.”

      
As soon as the greetings between old friends had been concluded, Valdemar and Ben were introduced. Valdemar was certainly the taller of the two gigantic men, but Zoltan, watching, thought it hard to judge which was the more massive. The two clasped hands, and sized each other up with quick appraising glances.

      
Presently Ben heard what Valdemar’s request to the Sword of Wisdom had been: to be guided to some woman who would match his image of an ideal wife.

      
The older man sighed wearily. “Maybe I should have asked that oracle the same question, years ago.”

      
The day had been gray ever since sunrise, and now a threat of rain was materializing. Casting about for a place of safety and reasonable comfort, the party of four took shelter from a shower under an overhang of cliff. From here it was possible to look back in the direction Ben had come from the river, so any bandits who might be after him ought to become visible in time to be avoided.

      
The three old friends naturally had much to talk about. Zoltan demanded of Ben: “Tell us how things are going back in Sarykam. How long ago did you leave there?”

      
Some of the cheerfulness so recently restored now faded swiftly from Ben’s eyes. He said softly: “They are not going well.”

      
Yambu, like Zoltan, was strongly interested in what news of Tasavalta Ben might provide. “Then tell us,” she urged.

      
Ben drew a deep breath. “I’ll try to put the worst of it in a nutshell. There was an attack on the palace last year; all of the royal family survived, but Princess Kristin was badly crippled in a fall from the roof. For a time everyone feared that she would die. Now—some say death is the happiest result that can be expected.”

      
All of them were quick with more questions. Ben’s answers offered them little or no comfort. The stones of a Palace courtyard had badly damaged Kristin’s spine, had broken other bones, and crushed internal organs. Her mind, spirit, and body had all been badly damaged.

      
Zoltan, who was Prince Mark’s nephew, muttered blasphemies in a low voice. Yambu frowned in silence.

      
Valdemar, who knew next to nothing of Tasavalta or its rulers, still expressed his indignation, and his loathing of villains who could cause such pain. He then demanded to know who was guilty of launching the attack.

      
Ben shrugged. “Chiefly Vilkata and his demons, along with a certain Culmian prince. We’re rid of them all now. Good riddance. But—too late to help our Princess.”

      
Yambu was looking closely at her old associate. “And you, Ben? How are you, apart from this evil that has befallen those you love? How are your own wife and daughter—Barbara and Beth are their names, are they not?”

      
“As far as I know, my daughter and my wife are well enough in body,” Ben answered shortly. “Let me put it this way. My life at home has recently been such that I do not mind spending most of my days and nights away from home.”

      
Yambu was sympathetic. “How old is the girl?”

      
“Seventeen.”

      
“That can be an age of difficulty.”

      
Ben made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “When I myself arrive at some age that fails to bring its troubles, lady, I will make a note of it.”

      
Zoltan gave Ben one sympathetic look, but then the young man’s thoughts quickly turned to the difficulties his aunt and uncle, and all their realm, must be experiencing.

      
He asked: “Tell us of my Uncle Mark.”

      
Ben seemed glad to leave the talk of his personal affairs. “Your uncle is unhappy,” he answered shortly, “as one might expect.”

      
At that point he fell silent, staring past the lady’s head. When the others turned to see what he was looking at, they saw, and Yambu and Zoltan recognized, one of the half-intelligent messenger birds of Tasavalta, sitting on a branch of the only sizable tree in the immediate vicinity.

      
Getting to his feet, Ben addressed the bird: “I had given you up, messenger. Well, now I am here, free to talk with you. What word have you for Ben?”

      
Spreading soft wings, gliding from its branch to a nearby rock, the creature chirped in its inhuman voice: “Ben, the Prince asks you for news. The Prince asks you for news.”

      
“Well, when you reach the Prince again, tell him the news could be a lot worse; because here I am, still alive, and I have met friends who are armed with a Sword. But it could be better, because I am no closer to finding the Sword we want.”

      
“Say message again. Say message again.”

      
“I will, messenger, I will. But later. There’s no hurry about this one.” Ben spoke slowly and distinctly, as if to a child. “Rest now. Message later. Rest now.”

      
The bird flew back to its higher perch, where it settled itself as if to rest. “The Prince is at home, then,” Zoltan commented.

      
Ben nodded. “Since Kristin’s crippling, he’s spent more time in Sarykam than he did in the past two or three years put together. No more roaming the world, trying to look out for the Emperor’s business.”

      
“And what of their sons?” Yambu wanted to know. “How old are the two princelings now?”

      
Ben considered. “Stephen must be twelve. He has a temper. He’ll be a dangerous man in a few years.”

      
“And Prince Adrian?”

      
“Two years older. Secluded, somewhere well away from home, I don’t know where, perfecting his wizardry. I expect we’ll not see much of him for a year or two to come.” It was common for serious apprentices in the arts of magic to withdraw from the mundane world for a time of preparation.

      
“And nothing can be done for Kristin?”

      
“In the ordinary ways of healing and of magic, nothing. There is only one real hope, of course,” Ben concluded shortly.

      
“The Sword Woundhealer.” Yambu nodded, and sighed.

      
Ben nodded too. “Of course we had the keeping of it there in Sarykam for years, but … there’s no use worrying over that now. Mark nowadays thinks of little else but somehow getting Woundhealer back. He stays in Sarykam himself, but he sees to it that every clue, every hint we can obtain—whether reasonable or not, I sometimes think—is followed to the end.

 
      
“That is why I am here now. There was one rumor, one hint, about Woundhealer, that we thought especially promising. It put the Sword somewhere in this area.”

      
“And you came alone to track down this hint?” asked Valdemar, who until now had been largely silent.

      
Thunder grumbled overhead, and more rain was starting to come down. Ben looked at his questioner. “I was not alone when I set out. Six other people and three of the great birds came with me. I can give you the unpleasant details later, but at this point only I, out of seven humans, am still alive; as for the birds, they no longer travel with me, but one of them finds me from time to time, as you have seen. Thus I am kept somewhat in touch with Sarykam.”

      
Ben related to Yambu, Zoltan, and Valdemar additional details of his struggle with the band of river bandits, and his escape.

      
Zoltan asked: “Are they seeking the Sword of Mercy too?”

      
“Perhaps. They had something going with the Blue Temple, besides selling me to them—or they thought they did.”

      
In turn, the Silver Queen and Zoltan told Ben the tale of their recent harassment by the leatherwings, of their fortunate encounter with Valdemar and the Sword he had been so strangely given, and how during the last few days the three of them, with Wayfinder’s help, had managed to avoid the flying reptiles.

      
Ben gestured toward the Sword of Wisdom. “Speaking of your treasure there, I suppose you’ll have no objection to my borrowing its powers for a while?”

      
Yambu smiled faintly. “I have been expecting you to ask. Let me see if I can guess for what purpose.”

      
“No doubt a single guess will be all you’ll need. I want first to locate the Sword of Healing, and then to get my hands on it.”

      
“Have you no more selfish wants than that, big man?”
      
“That will do for the time being.”

      
In unconsciously queenly fashion, Yambu raised Wayfinder in her own hands and apostrophized the Sword: “I asked you, Sword, for peace, and you have led me to this man of blood.”

      
Zoltan saw Ben frown slightly at that.

      
Yambu continued: “I see my own quest must give way to one of greater urgency. But before I hand you over to him, Sword, what else do you have to tell me? Is it possible that by following him I will discover the peace that has eluded me for so long?”

      
The other three, watching closely, could see plainly how the Sword tugged, slowly twisting in her hands until it bent her wrists, aiming itself at the huge man.

      
Without further comment the Silver Queen reversed her grip on the black hilt, and handed Wayfinder over to Ben.

      
Reaching for the weapon eagerly, he murmured thanks. Once Wayfinder was in his grasp he wasted no time, but at once demanded of it bluntly: “Sword, lead me where I want to go!”

      
The Sword of Wisdom in his hands at once twisted around sharply; Zoltan, though no stranger to the Swords and their powers, felt his scalp prickle. The weapon reminded him of some intelligent animal, responding differently as soon as it came under the control of a different master, perhaps a warbeast roused from sleep and scenting blood. Zoltan thought that this time he saw the blade actually bend, until the tip pointed somewhere to the northeast. That direction, he thought, was close to, though it did not exactly coincide with, the bearing of Sarykam.

      
Still holding the Sword leveled, Ben shuffled his feet, as if getting his weary legs ready to move again. He asked his companions: “Are all of you ready to move?” It did not appear to have entered his thoughts that any of the three might choose not to accompany him.

      
Valdemar stood up, towering over everyone else. He said slowly: “I began my journey holding in my hands that Sword you now have, and with my own goal, not yours, in mind. And so now I have my doubts about going with you.”

      
At that Zoltan turned on him sharply: “I suppose you think your quest is more important than this one?”