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

      Knowing well the powers of Sightblinder, and also that Mark would almost certainly have armed himself with the Sword of Stealth, Ben had braced himself mentally for such a moment. Still the shock was almost overwhelming.

* * *

      Mark, on seeing his friend turn pale, and sit down as if his knees had betrayed him, sheathed Sightblinder, and advanced to offer words of greeting and reassurance.

      In a minute Ben had pulled himself together, had given Mark the bad news about the loss of Zoltan and the Sword of Healing, and was ready for whatever had to be done next.

* * *

      The Prince took a turn at walking, loaning weary Ben his riding-beast for an hour or two. In this manner the pair headed south again. Mark told Ben that he had been for some time reasonably certain that an enemy camp was not far, because he had observed the converging reptile flight-paths.

      Ben confirmed that the lost Sword of Healing had been carried that way too.

      At dusk, advancing cautiously, the two men observed sparks of firelight ahead, suggesting the presence of a camp.

      Taking counsel together, the two experienced warriors decided that, armed as they were with Swords, they stood an excellent chance of being able to launch a successful raid without waiting for the arrival of the Tasavaltan troop and Karel.

      Mark emphasized: “If Wood is indeed in this camp, I want to get my hands on him before he has a chance to fly off with the Sword I need.”

      Ben raised a hand to silence him. Someone was approaching.

* * *

      Valdemar had been forced to leave the injured Delia in an abandoned hut, which at least offered shelter against the intermittent cold rain, while he sought help.

      Even in the gathering dusk, he quickly recognized Ben’s hulking figure.

      But standing beside Ben … in that first moment … was an almost-forgotten horror out of Valdemar’s own childhood, a faceless figure of which he could be certain only that it was frightful.

      And in the next moment, even as he recoiled in horror, the young giant beheld the image of horror replaced by one of his beautiful wife to be … and then that form faded too. Beside Ben there was only a tall man, sheathing what appeared to be a Sword.

      In a few moments introductions had been made, and explanations begun. From Valdemar Mark soon heard, in a drastically condensed version, the story of how the woman who had been Tigris was now lying in an abandoned hut, reformed and injured, in dire need of help.

      Valdemar in the course of this relation reported how Tigris had abducted him from this site, and mentioned the loss of Wayfinder.

      Ben expressed his doubts. “You think she’s reformed, young one? Maybe her magic’s been taken away, but I’ll shed no tears for that. It’s some kind of trickery she’s worked upon you.”

      “It’s not!”

      Quickly and firmly the Prince squelched this argument. There was no time for quarreling now. Even if the situation was in fact just as Valdemar described it, he, Mark, could not, would not, go off on a tangent now to help some woman in distress, however deserving she might be.

      And then the Prince made a plea of his own. “Help me now, Valdemar. Help Ben to guard me against attackers when we invade this camp, and I swear that I in turn will help you as soon as I can. With all the power of Tasavalta, and of the Swords, that I can bring to bear.”

      The towering youth let out a sound of frustration, something between a sigh and a snort. “I must accept your offer, Prince. It seems I have no choice.”

      Mark decided that they would not attack the camp till dawn, giving them all a chance to eat and rest. He shared out the food from his saddlebags. Before bedding down for the night, Mark and Ben discussed tactics with the inexperienced Valdemar. The two veterans made the point that the only enemy tactic they really had to worry about, whatever forces might oppose them here, was that of people deliberately disarming themselves and then hurling themselves on the Prince who carried Shieldbreaker.

      Valdemar nodded; the theory of the situation was easy enough to comprehend. As for putting it into practice: “I will do the best I can.”

      “Can’t ask for any more than that.”

* * *

      In the first gray light of dawn, the three men soon came close enough to Wood’s encampment to hear the sounds of people stirring, and smell the smoke of campfires.

      Evidently the Ancient One, confident in his strength, had made no particular effort to conceal his position.

      Mark, made wary by this lack of concealment, wondered whether Wood was more or less expecting him, perhaps even trying to lure him into making a solo attack.

      It turned out that Wood’s camp was magically protected against casual discovery, but with Shieldbreaker in one hand and Sightblinder in the other the Prince crossed the invisible boundary unharmed and unimpeded. Had it not been for a softly augmented thudding from the Sword of Force, he would not even have realized that he had encountered any defenses.

      Matters were different for the two men who formed his escort. Ben, despite his experience and alertness, was unaware of the magical protection until unnatural light flared around him and Valdemar, and immaterial weapons slashed at their minds and bodies.

      Shields and snares of magic closed on the three intruders, only to recoil an instant later like snapped bowstrings, broken by the unyielding central presence of the Sword of Force. Shieldbreaker’s voice beat loudly, light flared across the early morning dimness, and the claws of magic lashing out at it were instantly blunted and beaten back. Valdemar and Ben were staggered momentarily, but the power that might otherwise have destroyed them was quenched before it could have serious effect.

      Hoarse cries in human voices went up from near the center of the camp. Ben thought that perhaps the backlash of the broken