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

having used the blade itself to cut a piece to size. And then he promptly made off with it, trusting to Sightblinder in his right hand to afford him an unimpeded exit from the battlefield.

      Valdemar had no trouble justifying this action to himself. The fight seemed to have been won, or at least was in a lull, with every prospect for an eventual Tasavaltan victory.

      He told himself that he had done his share, and more than his share, of the necessary fight against the evil folk who would have hounded Delia to her death or worse—their glorious enemy, the Prince of Tasavalta, was still alive, now protectively surrounded by his own fiercely defensive troops, all of them, unlike Valdemar, trained fighters.

      Overshadowing all other considerations, of course, was the fact that Delia desperately needed help, the help that he could bring her now—and that he feared might never reach her, if he were to trust the Sword of Mercy to someone else.

      With both leaders now fallen, a lull had fallen over the field of combat. The enemy had retreated to regroup, or were perhaps recovering from a rout, or else they were following the Tasavaltans who in turn were trying to retreat with their injured Prince. Val could not immediately see just what was happening, and in fact he did not greatly care. He moved out boldly, armed with the Sword of Stealth.

      Making steady progress, not looking back, he separated himself from whatever was left of the battle. He was going to bring help and healing to the woman he loved.

      He told himself as he trudged away that after he and Delia were safely out of trouble, the Prince of Tasavalta would be welcome to the Sword—to all the Swords.

      The Prince had not seemed a bad man, but Valdemar really put little faith in Mark’s promises of help—obviously the Prince was going to be fully engaged in his own problems for some indefinite time to come.

      Val could not blame him. In Mark’s place, he would have done the same.

* * *

      Presently the fighting flared up again around the Prince and his close companions, so that their search for the now-missing Valdemar, just tentatively begun, had to be abandoned for a time.

      Zoltan and Ben exchanged guesses as to whether Valdemar had been killed. Of course there was nothing to be done about it if he had been.

      Men had been dispatched to look for Wood’s body, for he might have been carrying a Sword or two. The corpse of the fallen wizard was discovered, and, with the help of Karel, recognized. But no unbroken Swords were with it.

      Sightblinder was gone from the field, but Shieldbreaker in Zoltan’s hand fought on, with devastating effect. Any minions of Wood whose morale had survived the loss of their leader, and who were still misguided enough to strike directly, with material weapons, at the holder of the Sword of Force, saw their spears and swords and missiles shattered and broken, and they themselves were slaughtered when they came within range of Shieldbreaker’s matchless force.

      Similarly, any who tried to attack that person with magic saw their spells, too, broken by the Sword of Force. Some minor wizards in Wood’s camp expired with startling visual effects.

      And again and yet again, cleverly trained and fanatically led, one frantic would-be wrestler after another cast down his weapons and tried to close with the figure assumed to be Mark.

      Again and again that man’s new bodyguard beat back these attempts with ordinary blades, cudgels, skill and strength.

Chapter Sixteen

      Valdemar, struggling against exhaustion after the prolonged fighting, kept moving as fast as he could, trudging on through rain and muck. He snatched brief periods of rest, when quivering knees and faintness told him that he must.

      In the first stage of his journey, carrying two Swords, he passed many wounded, numbers of them crying out pitiably. Setting his jaw, he closed his ears to the sounds of pain and carried Woundhealer wrapped and hidden past the victims of the fighting, telling himself that he had already done more than his share for the Tasavaltan cause. At moments when he closed his eyes, every groan of pain seemed to be sounding in Delia’s voice. He kept on moving as quickly and steadily as he could, back toward his beloved.

      When Valdemar was half a kilometer from the camp, he thought he heard the sounds of battle started up behind him yet again. He did not look back, but kept going, and the noises slowly faded once more.

      Resting only when his weariness compelled, Valdemar traveled for about an hour before coming in sight of the abandoned hut where he had left Delia. Running the last few meters, calling her name, he heard a welcome answer, and found her inside waiting for him.

      He remembered to put Sightblinder away before he entered.

      Delia, lying almost exactly where Val had left her, cried out to him in weak but joyous welcome.

      Woundhealer drawn, he rushed forward to his woman’s side.

* * *

      Minutes later, the couple were resting and eating, preparatory to starting their long journey to Valdemar’s vineyard, when a dull shadow fell across the doorway, blocking the dim light of the rainy day. Val looked up to glimpse a massive figure clad in Wood’s blue and silver livery.

      The young man had taken off his belt, and left both Swords imprudently just out of easy reach. In the next instant Val lunged for them, only to be felled by a stunning blow on head and shoulder.

      “Good day to you both, young folks,” said Sergeant Brod.

      Delia hurled herself on the intruder, but Brod, laughing, easily caught her and clamped her wrists behind her back in one of his huge hands.

      He said: “Things have gone a little wrong with the Master’s magic—but I see the spell he gave me to find you here is still working just fine.”

      But on taking a good look at the woman he had just caught, who continued to squirm and hiss and scratch, Brod