The Fourth Book Of Lost Swords : Farslayer's Story (Saberhagen's Lost Swords 4) by Fred Saberhagen (most inspirational books txt) 📗

no need. Even those among them who had never before confronted a demon were in no doubt of what this was. One of the rowers, he who had just spoken, now dropped his oar. On trembling legs the man arose, meaning to cast himself overboard. But Zoltan’s hand went out and fastened on the fisherman’s wrist, and after a moment the terror-stricken one sank back onto his bench.

      Zoltan knew something that none of the local people did.

      The horror that had just arrived was now sitting, almost fully visible, upon the surface of the water nearby, confronting the five men huddled in the boat. As none of them were any longer using the oars, the boat had now begun to drift.

      It was Mark who spoke first, addressing the silent thing that hovered on the water. The confidence in his voice astonished most of his companions.

      “Who are you?” he asked boldly.

      “I am Rabisu.” The voice was a watery gurgling, and somehow it impressed Zoltan’s hearing as slime held in his hand would have impressed his sense of touch. “Rabisu. And you must now hand over to me that weapon that hangs at your belt. It will make a good addition to my collection.”

      “Rabisu.” Mark appeared to be meditating upon the name. “I’ve never heard of you before.” So far the prince’s hand had made no move toward his Sword. He was squinting into the full horror of the thing that hovered above the water, squinting as if loathsomeness could be as dazzling as brightness.

      Meanwhile, in the background, the handful of other fishing boats that had been busy on the visible stretch of the river were all making as rapidly as possible for shore, some heading toward the north bank of the river and others toward the south. The thought crossed Zoltan’s mind that under ordinary conditions the fisherfolk of the two enemy camps could evidently share the river in peace.

      The presence drifting above the water, just keeping up with the drifting boat, appeared to be hesitating, as if it might have been impressed by the bravery of the man who spoke to it. “You are no magician,” it said to Mark at last. The statement was not quite a question.

      “That is correct, I am not. Tell me, foul one, which Sword is it that you are seeking?”

      On hearing such an insolent response Bonar collapsed completely. He cowered abjectly in the bottom of the boat, as many a strong man might have done in his place. Zoltan was keeping his own head up bravely. It cost him a considerable effort, even though Zoltan knew something about his uncle that the head of the Clan Malolo did not.

      “Unbuckle your swordbelt and hand it to me!” roared the demon.

      “What if I draw my Sword instead?” And at last Mark’s hand went to the black hilt.

      And still the demon hesitated to attack. “Before you can draw it, little man, you will be dead!”

      “I think that I will not be dead as soon as that. In the Emperor’s name, forsake this game, and begone from our sight!”

      There was a disturbance above the water, and in the air above the boat, an explosion like the breaking of a knot in which the winds of a hundred storms were all entangled. Such a blast must certainly have swamped the fishing craft, but the disturbance came and went with magical swiftness, before any movement of the water or the air immediately around the boat had time to be effective. This concussion was followed instantly by a roaring bellow, uttered in a voice too loud to be human. It was the voice of the demon, no doubt about that, but in another instant the bellowing had grown faint with distance, and in an instant more it had grown fainter still.

      Higher above the world, and fainter.

      Gradually, but soon, it was entirely gone.

      In less time than it takes to draw a breath the river around the fishing boat was once more silent, sunlit, and serene. There might never have been such things as demons in the world.

      Prince Mark sat for a moment with his eyes closed. Then, leaning forward in his seat, he put a hand on the shoulder of one of the collapsed rowers. Gently he tried to shake the man out of his paralysis. But for the time being, at least, it was no use. The prince sighed, moved himself to the rowers’ bench, and reached for an oar.

      His nephew Zoltan had already taken the other one. With a couple of good strokes they overcame the boat’s drift, and were once more headed upstream toward the islands.

      Bonar, looking shamefaced, had by now managed to regain an upright position on his seat. For a time there was silence except for the creak of oarlocks. Then the chief of Clan Malolo, looking about him in all directions, asked softly and wonderingly: “Where is it?”

      “The demon is gone,” said Mark patiently. “It’s all right now.”

      The young clan leader turned back and forth in his seat, gaping at the Tungri, which ran calm and undisturbed. The day was peaceful. “But gone where? Is it likely to come back?”

       “It might very well come back here sometime. But there’s no immediate danger. We can go on and talk to the mermaids, visit the islands as we planned.”

      Hearing calm human conversation around them, both of the original rowers presently revived. Seeing their three passengers serene, and the danger gone, they rather guiltily went back to work, Mark and Zoltan relinquishing their oars.

      Bonar was certainly not going to let the matter rest. “But what happened to the demon? It was a real demon, wasn’t it?”

      Zoltan said: “Oh, it was a demon, all right. As real as they ever get. But my uncle enjoys certain powers over such creatures. Mainly the power to keep them at a distance.”

      Mark shrugged, under Bonar’s awestricken gaze. “It’s true that I’m no wizard. But I do have such a power, from my father, who happens to be the Emperor.”

      “Ah,” said Bonar. But he did