The First Book of Lost Swords - Woundhealer's Story (17 page)

      
The creature flew straight for Mark, and from an altitude of about fifty meters—so close that stones and arrows were on the verge of being loosed at it—it dropped something, a “small packet that came plummeting down almost at the feet of the Prince’s riding-beast. In the next moment the messenger was spiraling upward to a safe altitude, where it drew wide circles in the sky, as if waiting to see how the communication it had brought might be received.

      
“Why do the bastards always use reptiles?” Ben asked of no one in particular.

      
“Because,” said the chief magician, “reptiles have a certain affinity for demons.” He gestured to an assistant.

 
      
“ ’Ware poison, Highness! Let me look at that present first!” The aide cried out and in an instant had swung down from his mount and carefully taken charge of the object that had been dropped. It was a small leather packet, not big enough to hold much more than a folded sheet of paper.

      
When all due magical precautions had been taken and the packet was opened, the contents proved to be exactly that. And when the folded paper was opened, it revealed a neatly lettered message.

Salutations to Prince Mark, from an old acquaintance:

      
I am prepared to trade Swords with you. Yours for mine, Woundhealer for Shieldbreaker, even up, fair and square. Consider that it is impossible for you to overtake me now, and that we should both benefit from such a trade.

      
There has been fair dealing in the past between the two of us personally, and there is no reason why that cannot continue now.

      
Look atop the next cliff to which my trail brings you. Someone will be there to talk about a truce and a conference.

      
      
Amintor

      
Mark read the message through once more and then read it yet once again. As he read he knew a sinking feeling located somewhere near his stomach because he recognized that he was seriously tempted by the offer. Whatever the worth of Shieldbreaker might be, it was never going to heal his son.

      
By this time Ben had ridden up beside him and was openly reading the message over Mark’s shoulder. Others had crowded around, and the Prince let them have the paper to pass around among them and read. Already Ben was profaning gods and demons, and a murmur of derision was beginning among the others present at the idea of Amintor’s even proposing such a trade.

      
But Ben perhaps realized the true state of affairs. He was not smiling, and he was watching Mark closely.

      
Mark said: “It won’t hurt us to look atop the next cliff, as the note suggests.” An old soldier was openly surprised. “It won’t?”

      
At once a lively discussion sprang up among Mark’s aides as to what kind of treacherous ambush the former Baron was likely to be preparing for them now.

      
The beast master advised: “The best you could possibly say for this note is that it’s an effort to delay us.”

      
Mark thought that as such it would be unnecessary. If Amintor was already somewhere beyond the next cliff, as he must be, then he had gained high ground; and if he was not actually as far ahead as Mark had feared, he certainly had the advantage of terrain. There was no way the Prince was going to catch him now—not unless Mark were willing to leave his son’s litter behind and set out with picked riders at full speed. Then it might be possible.

      
He nodded, listening to the ongoing outrage of his friends at the suggested trade. Then he said to them: “And yet—I can remember times in the past when the Baron did deal fairly.”

      
“When he thought it was in his interest to do so!”

      
“Of course.” The Prince looked at the trail ahead, squinting into the bright sky. “But I think that I will talk to him anyway. We’ll be on guard against another ambush. And a few words cannot hurt.”

      
One of the magicians muttered some words of doubt about that. But it was not a reasoned objection, even in terms of magic, and Mark ignored it.

      
The column advanced again. Presently, as the designated cliff grew near, a lone figure did appear on its low crest. The man was well above the advancing Tasavaltans and so out of their likely range of success with bow or sling; yet he was not too far away to conduct a shouted conversation.

      
Mark might not have been able to recognize that figure at first glance had he not been expecting it. Baron Amintor, never thin, had bulked fatter in the past eight years.

      
The figure waved, and called in a powerful, familiar voice. “Halloo! Do you have my message?”

      
The Prince rode a little closer before he shouted back. “Why should I trade anything with you? How do I even know what you’re carrying in that scabbard?”

      
And even as he uttered the words he realized that the man before him was wearing two swords, one on each side.

      
The Baron, right-handed and therefore a little awkward with the motion, drew the blade at his right side and held it up. The hilt remained all but invisible, smothered in his grip; but the sun caught on the blade, and even at that distance his claim to have one of the Twelve Swords became quite convincing.

      
Again his voice came firmly to Mark across the gulf between. “As to why we ought to trade, Prince, I think I can leave that up to you to answer. Surely you can think of at least one good reason. Why is your elder son not riding at your side today?”

      
Just behind Mark, Ben’s voice, sounding like a rumble of distant thunder, began to swear.

      
Amintor had paused for a shouted reply that did not come. Now he called: “If you are worried about what I plan to do with the Sword of Force when it comes into my possession, be assured that I have no ambitions ever to be anything more than a minor brigand. Not at my time of life. I will do nothing that might inconvenience in any way the royal family of Tasavalta—or their armies—that is the farthest thing from my intentions. Still, the Sword I hold is mine now, and I do not propose to give it up for nothing.”

      
“How much gold do you want for it?” Mark heard himself calling back.

      
“No, Prince. Not gold. I don’t think you can be carrying enough of that in your little train there. No, I have told you what I want, and I do not intend to bargain.”

      
“If Your Highness is minded to do business with that man,” said the disapproving voice of one of Mark’s magicians, “then let him come into our camp alone, with the Sword, under a flag of truce. And let him loan us its power, for as long as it will take to treat Prince Adrian. You might ask him what price he will accept for that.”

      
Mark, shouting, put the proposition to the Baron.

      
“Why I might do that,” the answer came booming back. “I might. I should warn you, though, that my price for such a loan will be exactly the same as for the Sword itself. And if I am there in your camp, alone, how is our trade to be carried out?”

      
“How is it to be carried out in any case?”

      
“I have some ideas on that subject,” yelled Amintor, “that I believe you will find satisfactory. And let me repeat, after the trade is made, I have no plans to do anything that will disturb you in any way. My modest ambitions will take me in another direction entirely.”

      
Mark and his aides now fell into a low-voiced conference. There was of course no reason to think that the rogue wouldn’t lie, and the Prince’s advisers were unanimous in rejecting the idea of trying to conclude such a trade as the Baron proposed. At the same time, they had to admit there was a certain plausibility in what Amintor said.

      
The vision of Adrian was in Mark’s mind when he turned back to face Amintor; but he could feel at his back the uneasiness of those who could not see that vision with the eyes of a father. He knew they were wondering why he didn’t reject out of hand the idea that such a trade might be possible.

      
Yet still the Prince hung back from complete acceptance. At last he shouted back: “I must think about it!”

      
The Baron’s distant figure nodded, a generous gesture visible at long range. “Think wisely, and well,” his return shout counseled, “but do not think too long. My business, such as it is, requires that I depart these regions as soon as possible. Let your shadow lengthen by only a hand, and I’ll expect an answer. Shout again when you are ready.”

      
With that, the figure on the cliff top turned round nimbly and disappeared. Mark supposed that a riding-beast might be waiting just over the crest.

      
The first move the Prince made was to redeploy his own troops so they should not be where Amintor had just seen them. Then Mark set out a double guard and again called all of his chosen advisers into a council. He was disregarding the deadline of a hand’s change in his shadow’s length; shadows were starting to disappear altogether as clouds gathered for what might well be another afternoon of rain and difficult aerial scouting. Anyway, Amintor was the one who had suggested a truce and proposed a trade. That meant the Baron was truly interested in such a deal and was not going to ride away while a chance of it still existed.

      
The people with Mark were still unanimous in their opposition to the idea.

      
His magicians, having now investigated the matter in their own way, advised him that the Sword the Baron offered was indeed Woundhealer—the conclusion made matters no easier for Mark in making up his mind.

      
The cavalry officer pressed him: “With neither side trusting the other, Highness, how could it be arranged, assuming you were willing to go through with it?”

      
“There’s probably some way to manage that.”

      
“You will pardon me if I speak frankly, sir.”

      
“Go ahead.”

      
“I think you cannot be serious about wanting to give away such an advantage in war.”

      
Ben had perhaps the most powerful argument. “It may be true that our friend over there is only a brigand now. Probably he is. But if he had Shieldbreaker at his side, to go with his smooth tongue, who can say what he might become? I don’t believe for a moment all that about his ‘time of life.’ ”

      
A magician chimed in. “And, once he has the Sword of Force, he might be able to trade or sell it to someone else. Someone who does have an army, and ambitions.”

      
“What was that other sword that he was wearing, I wonder? An ordinary blade, maybe, or—?”

      
“You are the magicians, not I. Discover the answer if you can, and tell me. If you cannot, I must make up my mind without knowing.”

      
Mark had answered firmly, but he felt a chill. Complications, unpleasant possibilities, were piling up. Things he hadn’t thought of before, in his absorption with the problem of his son. Still, he remained stubbornly unwilling to give up the idea of the trade.

      
He could think of at least one argument to put in on the other side. “We know how to fight against Shieldbreaker.” Ben scowled. “Aye, and so must many others. Including Amintor himself, even if he hasn’t yet shared the secret with his followers. Are you trying to say the Sword of Force is of little value? Consider how well it served you yesterday.”

      
There was no arguing with that. But Mark would not let himself be argued out of trying to make the trade. He said: “It’s vital to the whole realm that Adrian should be healed. It’s not just that he’s my son.”

      
The others were silent. But he could see in their faces the grudging admission that the point was valid.

      
Ben was not through arguing. “Is there any reason to think that Amintor does not know how to fight against the Sword as well as we do?”

      
“Those troops he left to ambush us—”

      
“When he set up the ambush I’ll bet he didn’t yet know who was following him, and he didn’t have any idea that he was up against the Sword of Force. You’ll find he deploys his people differently the next time he tries it. There’ll be two men, at least, unarmed so the Sword can’t hurt them, ready to jump on you and drag you from your mount. Others, well-armed, close around those two, to protect them from your armed friends.”

      
Mark forced himself to smile. “You make it sound easy.”

      
Ben shook his head stubbornly. “Not easy, but it would be possible. If Vulcan could be overcome that way, you’re not too tough.”

      
The Prince and his old adviser argued on while the rest of the council, though agreeing still with Ben, sat by in stubborn silence. The more the arguments went on, the more Mark favored trying to make the trade. None of those who objected to it were able to suggest another way in which he might obtain the Sword of Healing for his son.

      
Ben got up angrily at last, turned his back on the Prince, and walked away.

      
Mark glared after him in black anger. But he did nothing about the snub. Instead he mounted and rode back to the approach to the cliff where he had last communicated with Amintor. Reining in his mount, he called out in a great voice.

      
There was no answer. He called again, roaring in a voice even louder than before.