With the door latched on the inside, it seemed an impossible situation.
Not knowing what else to do, and moving in something of a state of shock, Gelimer wrenched the Sword out of the stranger’s body that task wasn’t easy, for the blade seemed to be held in a vise of bone and stood for a few moments with that black hilt in hand, looking about him suspiciously, ready to meet some further attack, an attack that never came.
“Geelong, I don’t suppose that you—? But of course not. You don’t have any real hands, to grip a hilt, and … and of course you wouldn’t, anyway.”
The watchbeast looked at its master, trying to understand. And certainly no man would ever be able to stab himself in such a way.
Eventually the hermit wiped the blade on the coarse cloth that had been its wrapping—the steel came clean with magical ease—and put it back into the sheath that he found lying discarded on the floor in the middle of the room. Then he went to arrange the body more neatly and decently on the bed, wadding the Sword wrapping cloth underneath in an effort to save his own blankets. There was not going to be that much more bleeding now.
Then he decided that the only practical thing to do was to go back to sleep again, after satisfying himself that his door and his window were indeed closed tightly, and latched as securely as he could latch them. Geelong continued his whimpering, until Gelimer spoke sharply to the beast, enjoining silence.
A few moments after that the hermit was asleep by the fireside as before. The silent presence of the occupant of the bed did not disturb his slumbers. All his life Gelimer had known that it was the living against whom one must always be on guard.
* * *
In the morning, before the sun was really up, the hermit went out to dig a grave, and to see to one or two other related matters. The snow had stopped an hour ago, and by now the sky was clear. He left the sled in its shed, but he took Geelong with him.
The fallen riding-beast, as Gelimer had expected, was dead by now, already stiffened. The saddle it bore was well made, and the beast itself had been well fed, he thought, before it had started out on its last journey. There were no saddlebags; most likely the journey had been short.
With considerable effort, and with the aid of his dumb companion, Gelimer tugged the dead animal to the edge of the next cliff down, and put it over the drop, and looked after it to see where it had landed. Not all the way into the river, unfortunately; that would certainly have been best. Instead the carcass was now wedged in a crevice between rocks on the lip of the next precipice. Good enough, thought Gelimer, quite good enough. In that place, the hermit thought, the carcass should be well exposed to flying scavengers, and at the same time out of sight and smell of any human travelers who might be taking the usual trails.
Having disposed of the dead beast, the hermit now went to dig a grave for the dead man.
He dug it in the stand of trees nearest his house, where many centuries of organic growth and deposit had built up a deep soil, supported by one of the largest ledges on this side of the mountain. As soon as the sun was well up, in a brilliant sky, last night’s snow began melting rapidly, and thus caused very little interference with his digging. Here the air never remained cold enough for long enough to freeze the ground solidly or to any considerable depth. Black dirt piled up swiftly atop melting snow as Gelimer plied his shovel.
When the grave had grown to be something more than a meter deep, Gelimer called it deep enough, and hiked back to his dwelling to evict its patient tenant. He noted hopefully as he walked that there was still enough snow on the ground in most places to allow him to use the sled for transport.
The trip back to the grave, with mournful Geelong pulling the burdened sled, was uneventful. Into the earth after the stranger went the bloodstained cloth that had once wrapped the Sword.
Gelimer said a devout prayer to Ardneh over the new grave just as soon as he had finished filling it in. When he opened his eyes afterward, he could see, at no great distance among the massive trunks, a place where some years ago he had laid another unlucky traveler to rest. And if he turned his head he could see, just over there, another. That grave, representing the saddest failure of all, held a young woman with her newborn babe.
After the passage of a few years these modest mounds had become all but indistinguishable from the surrounding floor of the grove, covered with dead leaves and fallen twigs under the melting snow. In a few years this new grave too would totally disappear. That is, if it was allowed to do so. That was something Gelimer was going to have to think about intensively. He still had no real clue to the identity of the man he had just buried.
Frowning, the hermit put his shovel into the sled and urged Geelong back to the hut. The Sword that awaited him there, he was beginning to think, might well pose a more difficult problem than any mere dead or dying traveler.
Now even in the shade the snow was melting rapidly, and in another hour or so all tracks made in it would be gone. That was all to the good.
Secure inside his dwelling place once more, the hermit drew the Sword out of its sheath, and looked at it even more carefully than he had before. Perhaps he should have put this treasure into the grave too, and tried his best to forget about it; he had come very near to doing just that. He foresaw that no good was likely to come of this acquisition. Yet there was no doubt that the thing was immensely valuable, and he supposed it must be the rightful property of someone. He had no right to lose the wealth of someone else.
Gelimer was still troubled by the face of the Sword’s last possessor—handsome, haunted, but now finally at peace.
Chapter Two
Almost a month passed after the stranger’s burial before the hermit looked upon another human face, living or dead. Then one day he was standing inside his house, almost lost in meditation, when Geelong suddenly lumbered to the door, sniffing and whining. A moment later a completely unexpected voice called from outside, hailing whoever might be in the house.
* * *
Awaiting the hermit in his front yard, regarding him when he came out with a look of fresh and youthful confidence, was a young man of about eighteen. Curly brown hair framed a broad and honest-looking face, above a strong and blocky body, not particularly tall. The youth was clad in the gray boots and tunic of a religious pilgrim, but he still wore a short sword belted to his side—a reasonable and common precaution for any traveler in these parts.
It struck Gelimer as odd, though, that this visitor was carrying nothing at all besides the weapon, no pack or canteen.
“Good morning to you, Sir Hermit. Or do I read your white robes wrongly?” The young man’s voice was as cheerful and confident as were his face and bearing.
“No, you read them properly. I have lived here alone for some twenty years, trying to serve Ardneh as best I can. My name is Gelimer.” He stroked the watchbeast’s ears as it crouched beside him, trying to quell the excitement inevitably produced by any visitor.
“And I am Zoltan. I come from the land of Tasavalta, which as you must know lies far to the north and east of here. My companion and I find ourselves somewhat inconveniently stranded at the moment. There was a little wind and rain last night, which confused the captain of our riverboat completely, and he succeeded in running us aground on some of the many rocks below.” And the youth nodded carelessly toward the gorge, from which the faint voice of the Tungri could be heard as always.
“Ah, then no doubt you are embarked upon some pilgrimage downstream? But I am forgetting to be hospitable. You are doubtless hungry and thirsty. Come in, come in, and —”
“Thank you no, Hermit Gelimer. So far we’ve not lacked for food or drink.”
“You mentioned a companion?”
“Yes, a lady. Being somewhat older than I am, she preferred to stay below with the boat rather than climb the cliff. But she too is well provisioned.”
Still Gelimer continued to press his offer of hospitality. Presently Zoltan, who seemed at least willing to continue the conversation, accept
ed.
No traces of last month’s visitor now remained inside the dwelling. Zoltan chose one of the two chairs and sat down, crossing his legs and making himself at ease.
“From Tasavalta, you say?” The hermit was heating water on the hearth now, starting to brew tea. Meanwhile Geelong had lain down with head on forepaws on his mat, still perturbed by the fact of another visitor in the house. The last one had not worked out at all to the watchbeast’s liking.
Gelimer continued: “That is the country, is it not, where the king has so many magic Swords stocked in his treasury?”
The visitor shook his head. “The rulers of my homeland are a prince and princess, rather than a king. Prince Mark and Princess Kristin. They do possess a few of the Twelve Swords so it is said. But I think they keep them in the armory.”
“Ah yes. Of course.” And Gelimer, carefully spooning out tea—a treasured gift from another traveler—took thought as to just how to proceed with his questioning. He wanted to gain knowledge without giving any of his own away.
He already knew what almost everyone else knew about the Twelve Swords, those mighty weapons that had been so mysteriously forged, more than thirty years ago, by some of the now vanished gods. And the hermit had heard some of the stories to the effect that the Swords themselves had had more than a little to do with the strange disappearance of their powerful creators.
Each of the Twelve Blades was burdened with its own distinctive power, and according to all the testimony of witnesses there was no other force anywhere under the sun capable of standing against the power of any one of them.
“I know that there are twelve of them, or were,” Gelimer went on, talking to his newest guest. “But I forget what their names are.” He blinked, trying to look as holy and unworldly as he could. Sometimes he could be successful at it.
His young guest, thus encouraged and apparently finding no reason to be suspicious, was soon rattling off the names and attributes of the various magic weapons, as if he indeed might be something of an expert on the subject. From the few blades that were generally admitted to be kept in the Tasavaltan vaults, his cataloguing soon moved on to others. Presently it arrived at the one in which Gelimer had reason to be particularly interested.
“—and then there’s Farslayer, which is sometimes also called the Sword of Vengeance. Though of course it can be more than that.”
Gelimer blinked. “It sounds truly terrible.”
“Oh, it is, believe me. You whirl it around your head, and chant—I forget just what words you’re supposed to use, though my uncle did tell me once.”
“Your uncle is a magician, perhaps?”
“No.” Then young Zoltan for just a moment put on a look of wary intelligence, like one who realizes that he has almost said too much. Gelimer pricked up his ears. Then the youth went smoothly on: “Anyway, I’m not really sure that any of those trimmings, the whirling and chanting and so on, are really necessary. The point is, when you throw Farslayer with deadly intent, it will go on to bury itself in the heart of your chosen target, whether man, god, or demon. Even if that target is halfway around the world and you don’t know where, surrounded by defenses.”
“Magical or material? I mean, what if your target was enclosed by material walls?”
“Walls of stone or wood or magic, it would make no difference. Farslayer would come through ’em like so much smoke.”
“Oh.” And perhaps Gelimer’s expression of careful vacuity changed now; but if so, the change was quickly smoothed back into blankness.
“Oh yes. There’s no defense, of steel armor or of sorcery, that can save the intended victim, once Farslayer is thrown against him—or her. Two of the gods, Mars and Hermes, have died of that very blade.”
“Now that I find hard to believe.” The hermit was trying to provoke more details.
Young Zoltan was quite ready for a little good-humored argument. “I know someone who with his own eyes saw Hermes lying dead, with the wound made by Farslayer still in his back.”
“That someone must have led a very adventurous life.”
The young man glanced up when he heard the deliberate tone of disbelief, then calmly disregarded it. Suddenly Gelimer found the youth’s implied claim of expertise considerably more convincing.
The hermit asked innocently: “And is there no possibility of defense at all?”
“None at all, I should say, apart from the other Swords. If you had Shieldbreaker in your possession, for example, you’d be able to laugh at anyone who threw Farslayer against you. Shieldbreaker’s already destroyed two other Swords, Doomgiver and Townsaver, when people were foolish enough to bring them into combat directly against it.”
“I see. I suppose your adventurous friend saw them destroyed also?”
“No.”
The hermit saw that now he had gone too far. “Please, I did not mean to imply that I doubted your word. I only thought that perhaps some friend of yours had somewhat embellished his stories. There are many good folk who like to do that from time to time.”
“But that’s not what happened in this case.”
“I believe you, and I am sorry. Please, go on. I find the subject of the Swords intensely interesting.”
“Well—where was I?”
“You mentioned Shieldbreaker.”
“Yes. Then there’s Woundhealer, which can cure any wound, even a thrust of magic through the heart, if it’s brought into play promptly enough. And then, maybe, Sightblinder—I don’t know if Sightblinder would offer any protection against Farslayer or not. It’s an interesting thought, though.”
And with that the youth, his good humor apparently restored, suddenly threw back his head and began to recite:
Farslayer howls across the world
For thy heart, for thy heart,
who hast wronged me!
Vengeance is his who casts the blade
Yet he will in the end no triumph see.
The youth made a good job of the recitation, putting a fair amount of feeling into it. Gelimer made himself smile in appreciation. He had heard some of the old verses about Swords before, decades ago, and over the past days those rhymes had been slowly coming back into his memory, as he continued to think and fret about the subject.
Young Zoltan cheerfully continued his cataloguing of the remaining Swords. The hermit made sure to seem to be paying equal attention to the verses and anecdotes about Coinspinner and Soulcutter and the other Swords that followed, that his interest in the subject might not seem too particular. Meanwhile, in his concealed thoughts, he was increasingly aghast. His worst fears about the treasure he had hidden had now been confirmed, and he still had no hint as to who ought now to be considered its rightful owner.
The hermit had not been keeping count of verses, but he was just thinking that the catalogue of Swords must be nearing its end, when it was interrupted. Geelong the watchbeast sprang up suddenly on all four legs and whined loudly, facing the door. Someone else must be approaching the house.
When Gelimer went out into the front yard this time he stopped short, blinking in mild surprise.
A white-haired lady, whose age at a second look was hard to guess, was standing confronting him on the north side of his little yard, as if she had perhaps just climbed up from the river. Her erect body, clad like Zoltan’s in pilgrim gray, might have belonged to a vigorous woman of forty, but her lined face looked twenty years older than that. The pilgrim gray she wore confirmed some connection with the youth, who now had followed Gelimer out of the house into the bright day of sunlight melting the last spring snow.
Zoltan quickly performed introductions.
“Lady, this is the hermit Gelimer, who has kindly offered us food and shelter should we be in need of either. Gelimer, this is the Lady Yambu, whom I serve.”
“Say rather, with whom you travel.” The lady’s voice, like her bearing, had something regal in it. She smiled at Gelimer and stepped forward to grip him heartily by the hand.
When
Zoltan had earlier informed him that his companion was a lady somewhat older than himself, several possibilities had suggested themselves to Gelimer. This lady did not appear to fit any of them very neatly.
“Yambu,” repeated Gelimer aloud, and frowned in thought. “Some years ago there reigned, far to the east of here, a queen who was called the Silver Queen, and that was her name, too.”
“That queen is no more,” the lady said. “Or she might as well be no more. Only a pilgrim stands before you.”
Smiling slightly, she shifted the direction of her gaze to Zoltan. “The captain has informed me that the Maid of Lakes and Rivers has now been permanently disabled,” she reported. “Therefore, from here we must proceed for a time on foot. There is no need for us to return to the boat, as I have brought along all that was essential of our baggage.” So saying, the lady slipped a pack of moderate size from her back and dropped it on the ground in front of Zoltan; it would be his to carry now.
Gelimer took a moment to reflect that the lady must be far from decrepit with age, to have made the steep climb up out of the gorge while carrying the pack. Then he courteously invited both of his visitors back into his humble house.
* * *
Half an hour later, the hermit was serving both the travelers some hot tea and simple food, meanwhile pausing frequently in his own mind to wonder what further questions he ought to ask them. They represented his first contact with the outside world since the Sword had come into his possession, and he thought that his next such contact might be months away.
But it would not do to stick too doggedly to the subject of Swords. When Gelimer asked the Lady Yambu politely about the object of her pilgrimage, she smiled at him lightly and told him that she was seeking truth.
“And Truth, then, is to be found somewhere downriver?”
She sipped her tea regally from its earthen cup. “I have had certain intimations that it might be.”
The Fourth Book Of Lost Swords : Farslayer's Story (Saberhagen's Lost Swords 4) Page 4