The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story by Fred Saberhagen (best books for 7th graders TXT) 📗

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 shoulder 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.

      “They must have discovered some better use for Wayfinder than tracking us.”

      “Better than hunting down another Sword?—it sounds strange, but the truth must be that they don’t realize that we have Woundhealer. Possibly they don’t even know that it was in our camp.”

      The day passed in hiking, scanning the skies, which fortunately remained clouded, and foraging for berries. When dusk came on, Ben changed course, now leading the way generally north and east, in the direction from which they could expect the approach of Prince Mark and his people.

* * *

      Half an hour after the Blue Temple attack, morning was brightening slowly and sullenly as Chairman Hyrcanus was establishing himself in an organized field office.

      In intervals between his other tasks, Hyrcanus kept coming back to look at the supine figure of the captive woman. Each time he looked, and shook his head, and went away again. He said: “If this is indeed the Silver Queen, it would seem that she has somehow grown young again.”

      “Magic,” offered the Director succinctly.

      Another Blue Temple wizard, evidently some kind of specialist brought in for a consultation, sighed uncertainly. “No mere ordinary youth-spell, I can vouch for that.” He glanced toward Valdemar, still lying under magical paralysis. “What does her companion say?”

      “He says that she might be anyone, for all he knows. We’ll conduct some serious questioning presently.”

      But Hyrcanus and his aides were giving the Silver Queen and Valdemar only a small part of their attention. Much more of their time was spent in gloating over their captured Sword, and getting the field office organized.

      A swarm of hustling soldiers heaving poles and fabric, aided by some minor magic, had needed only a few minutes to complete the task of erecting the Chairman’s pavilion.

      This large tent was put up very near the place where Valdemar still lay, with a light rain falling on his face. From the moment when the pavilion started to take form, he had a good view in through its open doorway. New lights, even stranger than the magically augmented torch, were somehow kindled inside it, to augment the morning’s feeble daylight.

      Valdemar kept looking toward Yambu. He could see her face rather more clearly now, still unconscious, or submerged in some kind of self-inflicted trance.

      A bustle of blue and gold activity continued around the pavilion and inside it. Gradually the movements became more orderly. As soon as the work was finished, the Director ordered that the two captives be brought into the big tent, with a view to beginning their formal questioning.

      Valdemar was hauled roughly to his feet, and words muttered over him, giving him movement in his legs, and some degree of control. Then he was marched in through the fabric doorway. Chairman Hyrcanus himself, red-faced and puffing as if the labor of erecting the tent had fallen to him personally, still garbed in heavy winter garments despite the relative warmth of spring, was seated behind a folding table near the center of the pavilion, still grumbling in an almost despairing tone about the sacrifices he had had to make to venture personally into the field on this operation so vital for the Blue Temple’s future.

      The Director, seated at the Chairman’s side, tried to soothe him with expressions of sympathy.

      Standing before the central table, Valdemar heard once more, somewhere behind him, the voice of Sergeant Brod. Turning his head, he saw that the Sarge had reappeared, evidently still trying to make himself useful to the Chairman and his people. But Brod