Wayfinder's Story Read online

  Mounting a slight rise, Ben, who was a little ahead of the others, came to a stop, grunting. The bandits’ flatboat had survived, substantially intact, its encounter with the rapids. It now lay run aground several hundred meters away, a little downstream from the ford.

  Ben pointed, and said to his three companions: “That’s the boat I swam away from.”

  The flatboat’s sweeps and poles, or most of them, were missing, as was the covered cargo, whatever that had been. There was no human presence, living or dead, on the boat or near it.

  Some small four-legged scavengers, whose presence had evidently been keeping the hungry birds aloft, slunk away along the shoreline as the four humans approached. One of the scampering little beasts turned to bare its fangs, until Zoltan slung a stone at it, scoring only a near miss, the missile kicking up a spurt of sand.

  “I think I see a dead man,” said Valdemar in a strained voice, standing as tall as he could and squinting ahead from his great height. “There. Just upstream from the ford.”

  The four advanced, still cautiously, the three who were armed with hands on weapons. It was soon possible to confirm Valdemar’s sighting. Then almost at once they came in sight of another fallen body, lying nearer to them, motionless beside a slaughtered riding-beast. And then a third man, this one obviously dead, his skull crushed in.

  “No more than a day ago,” Zoltan muttered, looking closely at the handiest corpse and sniffing.

  Soon the total of human dead discovered had reached approximately a dozen, all within a stone’s throw of the ford.

  Ben, peering closely now at the bodies, announced that he could recognize some of the bandits from whom he had so recently escaped. He confirmed that this definitely was—or had been—Brod’s band, though the Sarge himself had not yet been found.

  “Some of them are wearing blue and gold,” Valdemar commented in a subdued voice. “That has to mean Blue Temple, doesn’t it?”

  Ben nodded. “Brod kept his rendezvous with them,” he mused. “Can’t say I’m surprised that a fight started—but over what?” He drew Wayfinder, which he had momentarily put away, muttered over the Sword, turned it this way and that.

  Signs on the ground indicated that riding-beasts, and perhaps loadbeasts too, had galloped here, had run in panicked circles on the flat land where the stream widened and smoothed into the ford. All this could be read according to the tracks, which were quite plain in the moist sand of the riverbank. The imprints were a day old, or not much more than that, drying and crumbling around the edges. But no running animals were now in evidence; whatever mounts and loadbeasts might have survived the fight had evidently scattered.

  Zoltan, darting about on the field of combat more energetically than any of his companions, was seeking among bushes and boulders, bending over bodies, examining one after another in rapid succession.

  The four, exchanging comments, reached a consensus: One side, either Blue Temple or bandits, had tried to cheat the other. Or perhaps both had simultaneously attempted some kind of treachery. Then they had efficiently killed each other off.

  Ben was still leveling his Sword, turning it this way and that, frowning, trying to interpret what the bright blade told him now. Wayfinder’s point was twitching.

  Violent death was nothing new to any of the travelers, except perhaps to Valdemar.

  “Have you seen this kind of thing before?” the Silver Queen inquired of him.

  The towering youth replied with a shake of his head. He appeared to be repelled, and somewhat upset by the unpleasant sights.

  He muttered: “Foolishness, foolishness. Why are folk determined to kill each other? It’s as if they looked forward to their own dying.”

  “I have no doubt some do,” Yambu assured him.

  Now Zoltan, who with a veteran’s callous practicality had begun rifling the packs of the fallen, announced with a cheerful cry the discovery of food.

  The provisions were mostly dried meat and hard biscuit. He began to share them out with his companions. He came upon spare clothing, too, and announced the welcome find.

  Zoltan compared his own right foot with that of a corpse. “I think this one’s shoes may fit me. Just in time, mine are wearing through.”

  There was a cry—really more a grunt—of excitement, from Ben. Not long distracted from his quest by a mere battlefield, he had been guided by Wayfinder to a wounded loadbeast.

  The others saw him pointing the Sword at the animal where it stood amid some scrubby bushes, which until now had screened it from their observation. The load-beast’s harness was marked with the Blue Temple insignia of gold and blue, and it carried a full load on its back. The beast was favoring its right foreleg, streaked with dried blood. There was water here, and some good grazing along the river, so the animal must have been disinclined to wander far.

  No doubt, thought Zoltan, the scavengers had so far let the loadbeast live because there was easier meat on hand for the taking.

  In Ben’s hands the Sword of Wisdom was pointing straight at the trembling, braying animal.

  Valdemar said: “Put the poor creature out of its misery, at least.”

  But Ben had already sheathed the Sword of Wisdom, seized the animal by its bridle, and pulled it out of the bushes so he could get at its burdens more easily. In another moment Ben was unfastening panniers from the loadbeast’s back and dumping their contents on the ground.

  His companions, alerted now, scarcely breathing, were all watching him in silence.

  Of all the bundles that had been strapped to the back of the burdened animal, only one was long and narrow enough.

  When the coverings of this package were ripped away by Ben’s powerful hands, it proved indeed to contain a Sword, black-hilted and elegantly sheathed.

  “Wait! Before you draw. That could be Soulcutter…” Valdemar fell silent.

  Ben was holding the sheathed and belted Sword up for the others to see. A single look at the white symbol on the hilt, depicting an open human hand, allayed whatever fears they might have had. Here was Woundhealer, the very Sword they had come looking for.

  Ben, with grim satisfaction, strapped on the Sword of Mercy. Then he turned, his eyes sweeping the horizon, warily ready for someone to challenge him for his prize.

  Valdemar studied him for a moment, then turned away, once more examining the fallen on the field.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Yambu.

  “I want to see if any of them are still alive.”

  Indeed one of the fallen, and only one, still breathed. Evidently he had managed to drag himself under a bush, and so lay relatively protected from the sun, the scavengers, and discovery.

  Ben on getting a look at the fallen man at once recognized Sergeant Brod. “This is the very one I wrestled with.”

  The squat leader of the bandits, his chest rising and falling laboriously under his leather vest, lay in a welter of his own dried blood, dagger still clutched in his right hand, not many meters from the treasure the two armed factions must have been struggling to possess. Either he had not known Woundhealer was there, or he had been too badly hurt to reach it.

  Valdemar cried out suddenly, his voice for no apparent reason argumentative: “Ben! If that’s really the Sword of Healing, you’d better use it!”

  Ben, faintly puzzled, looked at the young giant in wary silence.

  “Use it, I say!” Valdemar sounded angry. “The man is dying. Even if he was your enemy.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t use it?” Ben asked mildly. Stooping, he grabbed Sergeant Brod by both ankles and pulled his inert weight roughly straight out from under the bush, evoking a noisy breath that might have been a gasp of pain, had the victim been fully conscious.

  Valdemar looked slightly surprised and vaguely disappointed, as if he had been ready for a confrontation with Ben.

  Bending over the fallen man once more, Ben pulled the dagger from Brod’s hand, and took the added precaution of kicking out of his reach another weapon w
hich had fallen nearby.

  “Just in case,” he muttered. “Actually, I look forward to speaking with an eyewitness of this skirmish. Might be a help, even if we can’t believe much of what he says.”

  Once more Ben delayed briefly, this time to search the pockets of the fallen man, and his belt pouch. Evidently the search turned up nothing of any particular interest.

  Then Ben, who was no stranger to the Sword of Mercy and its powers, postponed the act no longer, but employed Woundhealer boldly, thrusting the broad blade squarely and deeply into the victim’s chest.

  Valdemar flinched involuntarily at the sight. Zoltan and Yambu, more experienced observers of Swords’ powers, watched calmly.

  The bright Sword’s entry into flesh was bloodless—though it cut a broad hole in the Sarge’s leather vest, which Ben had not bothered to open—and the application of healing power was accompanied by a sound like soft human breath.

  Recovery, as usual when accomplished through the agency of Woundhealer, was miraculously speedy and complete. The man, his color and energy restored, sat up a moment after the Sword had been withdrawn from his body. He looked down at his pierced and bloodied garments, then thrust a huge hand inside his vest and shirt and felt of his own skin, whole again.

  A moment later Brod, now staring suspiciously at Ben, got his legs under him and sprang to his feet with an oath. “What in all the hells do ye think yer doing?”

  Ben stared at him with distaste. “What am I doing?” he rumbled. “I may have just made a serious mistake.”

  The Sarge was scowling now at the Sword in the other’s hand. “Reckon you know that’s my proppity you got there?”

  No one answered him. Ben slowly resheathed Woundhealer at his belt. He grunted: “You might express your thanks.”

  Brod turned slowly, confronting each of his four rescuers in turn. When he found himself facing the lady, he introduced himself to her, using some extravagant gestures and words.

  Yambu was neither much impressed nor much amused. “I am not the one who healed you, fellow.”

  Brod finally, reluctantly, awkwardly, thanked Ben.

  “I had a reason.” Ben gestured at the field of death by which they were surrounded. “Now entertain us with a story about your little skirmish here. And you might as well tell the truth for once.”

  “You think I’d lie?”

  “The possibility had crossed my mind.”

  Protesting his invariable truthfulness, Brod began to talk. He told his rescuers that his worst problem had been surviving the scavengers, having half a dozen times come close, he thought, to being eaten alive. He said that whenever he had regained consciousness he had waved his dagger at the predators, and by that means managed to keep them at bay.

  Moving about a little, surveying the field, he grimaced at the sight of his fallen comrades, their bodies stabbed by Blue Temple blades and gnawed by scavengers. But the Sarge was able to be philosophical about their loss. “The magic hasn’t been made yet that’ll do any of these a bit of good.”

  * * *

  Meanwhile Zoltan had quietly borrowed the Sword of Mercy from Ben, approached the injured loadbeast, and tried Woundhealer on the leg which it kept favoring, listening meanwhile to Ben’s ongoing interrogation of Sergeant Brod. It did not sound like Ben was managing to learn anything of importance.

  Almost at the Sword’s first touch, the animal’s braying ceased, and the wound disappeared from its leg. It looked at Zoltan in mild satisfaction, accepting with inhuman complacency its miraculous return to health. The young man rubbed its head before it turned aside to graze along the riverbank.

  * * *

  By now the Sarge, in response to insistent, probing questions from Ben and the Silver Queen, had launched upon a rambling and at least generally plausible explanation of just how the fight for Woundhealer had come about between his gang and the Blue Temple people. The latter, Brod said, had been in the process of escorting the Sword of Healing back to their headquarters, and had hoped to engage the bandits—at a ridiculously low fee, according to Brod—as additional guards.

  He complained bitterly about Blue Temple stinginess, which he said he was sure lay at the root of their treacherous behavior.

  Zoltan, his cynical amusement growing as he listened, thought that this Sarge was not so much a dedicated enemy of truth and Tasavalta, as a complete opportunist.

  Brod, his imagination now warmed by the fact that his audience so far seemed to believe him, began to stretch his story. Now, it seemed, the Sarge had been trying for some time to get the Sword of Healing for the noble Prince Mark of Tasavalta.

  Ben and Zoltan exchanged glances in which amusement and outrage were mingled.

  Yambu appeared to share their sentiments. But by now she had moved a little apart from the others, and, sitting on a rock in deep thought, did not seem to be giving much thought to the Sarge and his tall tales.

  Valdemar now was looking with distrust and disgust at the man whose rescue he had insisted upon.

  * * *

  Brod returned Valdemar’s gaze with some curiosity, and demanded to know this young giant’s name. When he had been told, his next question was: “Ever do any wrestling?”

  “Some.” “Ah. Aha! Maybe you and I should try a fall or two one day.”

  “I don’t know why.” Valdemar did not appear at all interested in the challenge.

  Brod shrugged. “Have it your way.” He squinted once more at Ben and Zoltan. “Atmosphere’s a little chilly in these parts. Guess maybe I’ll be on my way.”

  “An excellent idea,” said Ben shortly, standing with his powerful arms folded.

  Brod made a casual move to rearm himself, bending as if to pick up a fallen weapon or two from the field, but this action was cut short by a sharp “No” from Ben.

  Brod straightened. “What?”

  “Don’t pick up any tools. Just start walking.” Zoltan too was watching Brod closely, and Zoltan’s hand was on the hilt of his own serviceable sword.

  The bandit leader, all injured innocence, loudly protested, “You’d send me away as nekkid as a babe? Man’s got a right to protect himself, don’t he? There’s wild animals in these parts.” He paused, as if gathering breath to deliver the ultimate argument, then spat: “There’s bandits!”

  “Get walking,” said Ben quietly. “Before I change my mind.”

  Brod turned. “Lady Yambu? A high-born lady like you wouldn’t…” His voice died, withered by the expression on Yambu’s face.

  Ben, his right hand on the hilt of one of his two belted Swords—the one devoid of healing power—continued to consider the Sergeant thoughtfully.

  Brod fidgeted uncomfortably under this inspection. He glowered, but then with an obvious effort, he smiled, achieving at least a pretense of gratitude and cooperation. “All right. All right. Maybe you’re right. I’m going, just the way you want.”

  The others, remaining more or less suspicious, watched him walk a semicircle, first, as if completely undecided as to which way he wanted to go. Then the Sarge moved in the direction of the ford, and went downstream along the near bank of the river. On reaching the grounded flatboat, a hundred meters or so from where his watchers stood, Brod waded to it and climbed aboard. There he helped himself to the small boat that still was lashed to the deck, loosing the lashings, and manhandling the small craft into the water.

  Zoltan, idly pulling the long thongs of his hunting sling through his free hand, commented: “Might be some weapons there.”

  Ben shrugged. “Let him help himself; as long as he keeps moving, away from us.”

  Now that Ben had the Sword of Healing securely at his belt, he had only one thought: to be done with worrying about Brod and other unimportant matters, and convey his new treasure quickly back to Sarykam.

  Another gray Tasavaltan messenger-bird arrived at this point, as if it had been waiting for the Sarge, antagonistic as he was to Ben, to take himself away. Ben made welcome use of the opportunity to dispatch
a written note to Mark, informing the Prince that his friends had now acquired the long-desired Sword.

  Then Ben, Valdemar, Yambu, and Zoltan all availed themselves of Woundhealer, clearing up all of their own hurts, old and new; the most recent of these being a couple of minor injuries sustained by Ben in the course of his wrestling bout and subsequent escape from the flat-boat.

  * * *

  Accepting the Sword of Mercy, Yambu murmured: “This knee is wont to give me problems …” And with a surgeon’s steady hand, she pulled up one leg of her gray trousers, and thrust the hurtless Blade straight into the pale skin …

  There was no pain, and of course she had not thought there would be any. But the shock was unexpected, and tremendous, far greater than she had anticipated. In the instant when Woundhealer entered Yambu’s body the world changed, subtly but powerfully. Her chronically sore knee was healed, but the nagging pain and its relief were alike forgotten, in the simultaneous curing of a greater, deeper anguish, so long endured that the Silver Queen had ceased to be consciously aware of it at all.

  So long endured … ever since that day of evil memory, almost a score of years ago, when she had overcome the Dark King’s army with Soulcutter in her hands.

  “Ah …” said she who had once been the Silver Queen, and let the black hilt of this far different blade slide from her grip. The Sword of Love fell to the earth. She stood for a moment with head thrown back, a woman overtaken by some sudden fundamental pain, or ecstasy—no human, watching, could have said, in that first moment, which …

  The paroxysm shook her for no more than a handful of heartbeats. Then Yambu could move again.

  There were no mirrors at hand, and for long moments she could only marvel silently at the way her companions, open-mouthed, were staring at her now.

  And even more strongly did the Silver Queen wonder at her own internal sensations, when she paused to savor them. This, this, she could remember now, was what it felt like to be fully alive.