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

you and I,” Valdemar, patting the black hilt, assured his new companion.

      “That’s good.” Her tone suggested complacent acceptance, if nothing like full understanding.

      “It is a magic Sword.”

      “Magic. Ah.” And Delia nodded solemnly, with an appearance of wisdom.

      “Are you acquainted with magic, then?”

      “No,” she said vaguely. “No, I don’t think so. Except—”

“Yes?”

“Except sometimes, when I still lived on the farm, I think … there were things that I could do.”

      “What kind of things?”

      “When plants were sick, sometimes I could make them well.”

      “Really? Then I will have to tell you about my vines.”

* * *

      A shadow, as swift as it was insubstantial, abruptly fell over the two young people.

      Simultaneously Valdemar was once more stricken with the helpless sickness in his guts; this time he recognized the cause, and now his fear was greater than before.

      The presence this time was smaller and more nearly bearable than Dactylartha’s had been. But the young man had no doubt that this sudden intruder was a demon too.

      He clutched for dear life at the Sword of Wisdom, and cried to it for help. He did his best to lift it, as if to strike a blow.

      The demon only chuckled, a truly hideous sound. The ghastly wraith-shape of it drifted in the air in front of Valdemar.

      “What do you mean to do, young man? Strike me with your Sword?”

      “I…” At the moment, brave words seemed impossible to come by.

      “Wayfinder will not protect you … nothing will … if I simply reach out to you … like this …”

      Fear and nausea gripped him, then dragged their slimy presences away. Val wondered why the demon did not simply seize Wayfinder out of his almost paralyzed hands. But the shadow drifted on, and the Sword of Wisdom was still his.

      It was, it had to be, only playing with them, like a cat with a pair of mice.

      Delia, utterly miserable, pathetically ignorant, clung to him, wanting to be comforted.

      Val’s fears were confirmed. The vile creature had only pretended to depart, for now it came drifting back. Its vague shape gathered over Delia, and it whispered something frightful into the young woman’s ear.

      Shocked, uncomprehending, Delia screamed and wept.

      Valdemar tried to summon up his nerve, his will, to rise to her defense, but physical and mental cramps assailed him, and he fell back groaning.

      Delia shrieked again. Horrible memories had stirred in her when she heard the demon speak Wood’s name.

      Then, as unexpectedly as it had come, the demon was gone.

      Delia expressed her fear that the Ancient One was coming to get her. “Val, that’s what it meant. That—thing which spoke to me just now—whatever it was. It told me things that made me start to remember—Val, hold me!”

      And Valdemar, still sick and trembling from the recent presence of a demon, found himself doing his best to comfort Delia.

      He held her while she wept, and promised to protect her—and in his ignorance he could even believe for a time that he might be able to afford her such protection.

* * *

      As for the Ancient One himself, with every passing hour, each incoming report, he was becoming more firmly convinced of his former assistant’s treachery. Though by this time, as Wood assured himself grimly, the objective truth concerning her guilt or innocence really no longer mattered. He had decided to consider her guilty, and that was that.

      Whatever she had really done or not done, after this he would never again be able to trust her even minimally. Too bad; at one time she had shown great promise…

      Wood now welcomed back—as warmly as he ever welcomed any being—the demonic scout who had just tormented Tigris.

      Listening attentively, the Ancient One received from this creature a new report. The news, related with much demonic merriment, was that Tigris had certainly been reduced to childish helplessness. And now—this was the crowning effect—seemed to be on her way to a new existence as a farmer’s wife.

      The Ancient One reacted to this announcement with a great deal of amusement and satisfaction.

      He went so far as to reward the messenger—at least, he promised a substantial, though unspecified, reward, to be delivered in the future.

      The demon praised its master’s generosity—its gratitude sounded as sincere as the virtue that it praised. And it slavishly rejoiced at having brought good news.

      “Yes. Well, well.” The human nodded. “All things considered, such a fate will do quite well as the first phase of our settlement of accounts with her.”

      “And the next phase of her punishment, Master?” The servile creature almost gibbered with delight. “When may we expect to enjoy that?”

      Tersely, in a voice tinged with regret, the Ancient One explained that for the next few hours or perhaps days he was going to be too busy dealing with his chief opponents to pay this traitress much attention.

      He concluded: “But do keep me informed.”

      “Most gladly, Master!”

* * *

      Valdemar still asked the Sword for safety, and the Sword still required him and Delia to fly. The flights thus commanded were random jaunts, as far as Val could see, getting them nowhere in particular, but rather keeping them in the same area of almost uninhabited country, uncomfortably close to the camp from which Tigris had kidnapped him—how very long ago that seemed!

      And Val was growing increasingly worried about the griffin. He supposed that the creature had grown tired, lacking its proper magical nourishment, or reinforcement. Or perhaps, thought Valdemar, the beast was simply becoming increasingly restive in the control and company of these two milksops.

      When he asked Delia if she remembered anything about the animal’s diet, she only shuddered and insisted that she knew nothing whatever on the subject. Valdemar couldn’t decide whether she was telling the truth or not.

      When he asked the Sword for help in feeding their chief means of transportation, Wayfinder obliged. Evidently there was some kind of food the griffin favored, and when Valdemar turned to the Sword for help, Wayfinder directed them to a landing place where the creature browsed contentedly for a time, burrowing its head into the dense