Swords: 10 - The Seventh Book Of Lost Swords - Wayfinder's Story by Fred Saberhagen Page B
Authors: Fred Saberhagen
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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 The man, his color and energy restored, sat up a moment after the Sword had been withdrawn from his body.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
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
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