Beside him, Ben staggered and stumbled in his run, and would have fallen headlong had not Zoltan managed to sheath his own killing blade and catch the huge man under one arm, pulling and hauling him through torn cobwebs. Grunting with the effort, Zoltan kept Ben on his feet until the last shreds of the magic net had been left behind them.
Still the young man had trouble believing that the two of them were really going to get away; glancing back when they had run another fifty meters, he decided that he and Ben were being greatly helped in their escape by the fact that the attackers were concentrating so thoroughly on getting the Sword of Wisdom into their hands.
* * *
Valdemar kept hearing someone in command of the Blue Temple forces shouting orders to take that man alive. He knew the order referred to him. There was nothing to do but fight on, Yambu’s warning fresh in his mind, and the Sword in his hands making it substantially harder for the enemy to do what they wanted. If only, Valdemar prayed fervently, this Sword were Shieldbreaker …
A rough ring of enemies kept forming around him and Yambu. But he kept muttering rapidly at Wayfinder, asking the Sword of Wisdom to show him the best way to escape. Then, keeping up as best he could with the Sword’s rapidly changing instructions, he charged bravely at one Blue Temple weak point after another. The trouble was that soon there were no weak points in the rapidly closing ring.
Yambu meanwhile stayed on her feet, moving with agility to remain at Valdemar’s back. She kept doing magical things, things he could not comprehend, but that must be serving to keep the attackers at least temporarily off balance.
But the odds were too great, their resistance could not last. The enemy magic was stronger than the Silver Queen’s if not than Wayfinder’s. At last Valdemar, the Sword in his hands notwithstanding, felt himself overwhelmed by swirling powers, by rampaging physical forms. Gold and blue faintly visible in moonlight, were everywhere around him. Whether the force that finally overcame him was material or occult he could not have said, and anyway it seemed to make no difference.
Dimly aware that the Lady Yambu was still nearby and shared his fate, he was knocked down, disarmed, made prisoner. Then, with her limp and evidently unconscious body being dragged beside Valdemar, both of them were removed a short distance from their place of capture, to a place where a strange bright light was shone on their faces, and their captors puzzled in mumbling voices over their identity.
That question having been answered to the winners’ satisfaction—or else determined to be not quickly answerable, Valdemar could not tell which—the pair were moved another short distance. There they were left on the ground, seemingly temporarily abandoned.
Quickly Valdemar discovered that his arms and legs had been efficiently paralyzed by magic. But within moments after those who threw him down had turned away, he managed to shake free of some kind of cover, evidently a material one, which had been thrown over his head.
His first use of this limited power of movement was to look for Zoltan and Ben, wondering if they were still alive, and what had happened to Woundhealer. Three or four meters away lay the dim, inert form of the Silver Queen. The young man spoke to the lady quietly, but received no answer.
The attack, as Valdemar saw when he once more began to obtain a clear view of his surroundings, had been carried out by a small but powerful force of Blue Temple troops, magicians, and inhuman creatures. A few reptiles had already come down out of the clouded, slowly brightening sky. Larger forms were looming there.
Even as he watched, a pair of the giant wings he had earlier sensed overhead came closer. A creature landed. Valdemar, harking back to stories heard in childhood, realized that it must be a griffin. He could only gaze in wonder.
This was a large creature, much bigger than a riding-beast, with eagle’s head and beak and wings, and legs and talons of a gigantic lion. Across its back was strapped a kind of saddle, flanked on each side by a kind of hanging woven basket, a sidecar or howdah. One or two men—Valdemar could not get a clear look at first—were riding on the beast. There would have been room for three, with a driver in the central saddle.
On the ground, the four-legged monster knelt, then crouched. The first of the passengers to disembark was a well-dressed man, short, redfaced and bald, who made an awkward dismount from one of the sidecars.
Moments later, a second elderly Blue Temple official came into Valdemar’s field of vision. He was older and less ruddy of countenance than the first. Valdemar could not be sure whether this man had disembarked from the same mount, or from a slightly smaller griffin which had landed close behind the first.
It was soon evident that the attacking force was commanded by the rather short, red-faced man. Valdemar now heard this individual addressed as Chairman Hyrcanus. The elder, obviously second in importance, was called the Director.
Valdemar, with some difficulty raising his head a little farther against the bonds of magic that still held him down, was able to watch and listen as the Chairman expressed his satisfaction at having the solid ground under his feet again.
Now from among the mixed group of Blue Temple military and irregulars who had gathered there emerged a face, and a voice, that Valdemar to his surprise could recognize. Chairman Hyrcanus was greeted by Sergeant Brod, who came pushing forward from amidst the latest detachment of cavalry to reach the scene.
At least the Sarge, having somehow attached himself to the attackers, made an attempt to offer the Chairman such a greeting.
But the official, scowling at this interloper, would not listen. “Who’re you?” Hyrcanus demanded; and then, before the man could possibly have answered, turned irritably to his cavalry officer. “Who’s this?”
The officer seemed to shrink under his leader’s glare. “The man is a local guide we have signed on, Your Opulence. He’s been useful—”
“Another expense, I suppose.” The Chairman turned away with an impatient gesture. “Get my pavilion up.”
Thus brusquely rebuffed, Brod looked about. Catching sight of Valdemar and Lady Yambu, he came to stand over them, an expression of satisfaction gradually replacing the scowl on his ugly face.
“Reckon I’ve met you folks before. Good mornin’ to ye.”
“Good morning,” said Valdemar, thinking he had nothing to lose thereby. Yambu did not answer; the Lady’s eyes were closed, her face relaxed as if in sleep.
While Brod hovered nearby, evidently wondering what to do next, Valdemar saw and heard the officer in command of the small Blue Temple cavalry force, standing at attention before Hyrcanus, respectfully ask the Chairman if there were any further orders? If not, his men had been riding all night and were in need of rest.
Hyrcanus, abstractedly seeing to the careful unloading of a trunk from one of the griffins’ cargo baskets, gave the troops permission to rest, once camp was properly established and a guard posted.
Then Hyrcanus, stretching and twisting his body as if he might be cramped from a long ride, exchanged some words with his Director of Security. Both men complained about the weariness and nervous strain brought on by this regrettably necessary means of travel.
The Chairman also congratulated his Director of Security on the fact that that gentleman’s wits, such as they were, seemed to have been fully restored.
The Director chuckled, dutifully and drily, at the little joke—if such it was.
Then both of the Blue Temple executives, the Chairman in the lead, came to gaze sourly at their prisoners.
Staring at the supine youth, Hyrcanus demanded: “Who are you, fellow?”
“My name is Valdemar.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“You—are Chairman of the whole Blue Temple?” Valdemar didn’t know much about how such great organizations were managed, or, really, what he would have expected their managers to be like—but certainly he would have anticipated someone more impressive than this dumpy, commonplace figure.
Brod, evidently still determined to gain points with the gr
eatest celebrity he had probably ever encountered, had edged his way forward, and now took the opportunity to kick Valdemar energetically in the ribs.
“Show some respect to Chairman Hyrcanus!” the Sarge barked.
Someone else, in the middle distance, called: “We have the property ready for your inspection, sir.”
Hyrcanus, readily allowing both kicker and victim to drop below the horizon of his attention, turned away. Valdemar got the impression that this man cared little for anyone’s respect; the property, whatever that might be, was of much greater interest.
Valdemar supposed that the interesting property ready for inspection was the Sword of Wisdom. He stretched his neck, but couldn’t quite make out the object on the ground that Hyrcanus and the others gathered round to look at.
Whatever it was, after a short conference, Hyrcanus was back, looming over Valdemar.
“Fellow, they tell me that you were standing watch, sentry duty, at the time of our arrival.” The Chairman had the look of a man who was perpetually suspicious.
“Yes, I was.” Valdemar’s bitterness at having failed in that duty came through. “What of it?”
Brod, having moved into the background again, was not in sight at the moment. It was an ordinary soldier who kicked Valdemar this time, though Valdemar really hadn’t been trying to be insolent. These people, he thought, were really difficult to deal with.
Hyrcanus asked him impatiently: “And you were holding the Sword called Wayfinder as you stood guard?”
The youth saw no reason not to admit that fact.
The red-faced man nodded. “No doubt it looked an excellent weapon—and it is. But perhaps you did not understand its real value?”
“Perhaps I did not.”
To Valdemar it seemed no more than a reasonable answer, but there must have been something wrong with his tone of voice, for he was awarded another kick. Soon his ribs were going to get sore.
“Perhaps you were not using the Sword properly? Not engaging its full powers?”
“Perhaps I was not.”
Chairman and Director turned away and walked a little distance, to put their heads together for some more mumbling. Then the latter emerged from the huddle to announce: “We’ll question him more thoroughly later. What about the woman?”
Soon both officials were bending over Yambu. Magical assistance was called for, and provided. Soon the Director admitted: “She seems to have put herself into some kind of trance. We’ll soon have her out of it when we’re ready to talk.”
Hyrcanus, squinting and frowning, taking a closer look at the woman, ordered someone to bring him a better light. When a magically-enhanced torch, so bright it almost hurt to look at it, was held over the sleeping face, Hyrcanus said in a low voice that she reminded him of the Silver Queen, but that seemed improbable, and in any case this woman appeared too young.
Another subordinate approached the Chairman deferentially, to inquire of him exactly where he wanted his pavilion put up; some soldiers and a minor magician were ready to get to work on that task now.
Hyrcanus considered, and told him. Then he and his Director continued their discussions, with Valdemar still able to hear most of what was said. One of the soldiers had pointed out that curiously three or four of his comrades had been killed at some little distance from the spot where the two prisoners were taken.
“Killed by whom?”
“That’s it, sir. We don’t know.”
The Director of Security demanded: “Are we sure there were four of these people on the scene before we attacked?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then it is obvious that two have somehow managed to get away. You should not have allowed that!”
The military officer’s only defense was that orders had been to make sure the Sword was captured, no matter what else happened.
The two high officials moved a little farther off. From, what Valdemar could overhear, they were remarking how strange it seemed that the Sword of Wisdom had not only failed to save the camp, but failed to guide its wielder to some means of avoiding death or capture.
The Chairman was coming back. “I wonder if this could be in fact the Lady Yambu.”
Sergeant Brod, presented at last with a chance to be useful, did not allow it to go to waste. “Sir! Master Chairman. It is in fact the lady herself that we are looking at. I have seen her before, and I can swear to it!”
“You? Again?” Hyrcanus, frowning, looked around at his subordinates, appealing silently for someone to take this fellow away.
A small squad of soldiers moved to do the job; Valdemar, hearing only a mutter and a scuffle, thought philosophically that he would not be surprised to see Brod, back again.
“If she is Yambu,” Hyrcanus was brooding to himself, gazing once more upon that silent face, “if she is…then she at least would have realized the value of the Sword with which her little group was traveling.”
“That is certainly the case, Your Opulence,” agreed the Director.
Then he raised his eyes to meet Valdemar’s. “Well, fellow? Who do you say she is?”
Chapter Nine
Until Zoltan was sure that he and Ben had left the enemy behind, he continued running with Woundhealer transfixing his own body, his left hand gripping the hilt to hold the Sword in place. So far he and Ben were managing to stay together, though this required Zoltan to slow down. The young man calculated that Ben’s presence would be a mighty advantage toward their goal of getting Woundhealer home.
The continued presence of the Sword of Healing inside his rib cage engendered in Zoltan a very strange sensation, neither pleasure nor pain, but rather a sense that some tremendous experience, whether good or bad, must be about to overwhelm him. The feeling was mentally though not physically uncomfortable.
Both men ran on, without speaking, under the gradually brightening sky of early morning. As soon as Zoltan could be reasonably sure that no enemies were in close pursuit, or ahead of them, he paused and released Woundhealer’s hilt; there was no need to pull in order to extract the Blade. Instead it slid itself smoothly and gently out of his heart and lungs, away from his torso. Once more a sighing sound came from the Sword; then it was once more inert.
Zoltan felt physically fine. Taking a quick inventory of his body, he could discover no residual harm or damage at all from the several deadly blows he had recently sustained.
His giant comrade, swaying and groaning at his side, was in considerably worse shape, and in need of Woundhealer’s immediate help.
Ben, completely out of breath, indicated with a silent gesture that he wanted Zoltan to hand over the Sword to him. The younger man complied.
A quick application of Woundhealer abolished Ben’s injuries as if they had never been. Now the voice of the older man was clear and strong. “Ah, that’s better. Much better.”
With Ben retaining the Sword of Mercy, the men moved on together, at the best pace the older man could manage. Their running flight had already put several low rolling, almost barren hills between them and the site where the Blue Temple attack had fallen.
Zoltan, beginning to chafe and fret with the need to accommodate his slower partner, now suggested: “I might take it and run on ahead.”
“No.” The answer was definite, though made brief to conserve breath.
Making himself be patient, Zoltan allowed his more experienced companion to set their course. The sky continued brightening, but only gradually and sullenly; more spring rain appeared to be on the way. Ben was not heading directly toward Sarykam, but somewhat to the west, where a few trees grew along a ravine that held a trickle of muddy water at its bottom.
Trudging toward the ravine, Ben and Zoltan made plans as best they could.
Both were eagerly anticipating the help promised from Mark, but neither could see any way to guess when such assistance might be expected to arrive.
“No hope for the lady back there, or the young man either,” said Ben, pausing momentarily to look over his shou
lder toward the place where their camp had been. All was silent in that direction, but Zoltan thought he could see, beyond a series of intervening hills, the glow of bright, unnatural lights, contending against the slowly brightening sky of morning.
“No. It seems a miracle that we got away.” Zoltan shook his head. “They looked like Blue Temple.”
Ben grunted. “So they did. That means it’s probably not a miracle. Whatever a job may be, if it’s nothing to do with counting money, they’re as like as not to botch it up.”
“I take it we’re pushing straight on to Tasavalta.”
“More or less straight. I mean to get there,” Ben said grimly. “With Woundhealer.”
Daylight was coming on in earnest now. The sky continued overcast, now and then dropping a spatter of rain, or lowering patches of drifting fog. The fugitives welcomed this weather, certain to render more difficult the task of any airborne searchers. “We have to assume there’ll be more reptiles.”
“Of course. And maybe worse than that.”
The few trees along the ravine offered only scanty cover. On a sunny day the Tasavaltans might have been forced to look for somewhere to remain hidden during the day. Clouds, rain, and fog offered some hope, but weather was subject to change.
Continuing their conversation as they hiked, Zoltan and Ben discussed the question of whether or not the Blue Temple attackers would know that they had got away. It seemed almost certain that they would.
“We hacked down a few people as we left.”
Zoltan nodded. “And if they know we’ve got this Sword—they’ll certainly be after us.”
“Unless they’re so distracted by having Wayfinder—and Yambu and Valdemar, perhaps alive—that they’re not interested in us.”
“Depends what they do with Wayfinder. If they’re going to use the Sword of Wisdom to hunt us down, or hunt this Sword we’re carrying, we’ve got no chance.”
Ben grunted stoically. “All we can do is move ahead. Keep trying.”
But the day wore on, and still no pursuit appeared, in the air or overland. Pleasantly surprised at their luck, Zoltan and Ben could only pray that it would hold.
The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story Page 11