The Fourth Book Of Lost Swords : Farslayer's Story (Saberhagen's Lost Swords 4), Fred Saberhagen [100 best novels of all time TXT] 📗

his alertness. But Yambu, listening, looked at Zoltan strangely. Her gaze said that later, when the two of them were again alone, she would insist on being told the truth.

Chapter Four

      In the hours following the departure from the hermitage of the pilgrim pair, Gelimer, feeling himself unable to make headway on profound problems, decided to concentrate for the time being on simple ones. He began to take an interest in his garden, to see how the various herbs had passed through the winter, and to make somewhat belated preparations for the busy season of spring. It was a peaceful interlude. There were moments when he could almost have been convinced that the man who had brought the Sword, as well as his two most recent visitors, and all their problems including the Sword itself, were nothing but creations of his imagination.

      The hermit’s respite from the problem of Farslayer was brief. About noon on the day after the two pilgrims’ visit, his fourth visitor of this extraordinary spring showed up.

      This latest arrival was a man in his mid-thirties, dark-skinned and lean, and with a fierce, competitive eye. He had come a long way, and he had seen hard traveling, as could be told by the state of his mount and his equipment. Still he was well dressed, his riding-beast was a noble animal, and the way he wore his weapons at his belt suggested that they had most likely seen hard use at some time or other.

      With an unconscious groan Gelimer straightened his back from garden chores, and calmly made this latest traveler welcome. Last night what must finally have been the last storm of the season had dusted three or four more centimeters of snow over his garden and everything else in sight, including the new grave in the grove, and the fast disappearing carcass of the last riding-beast to have carried its master along these trails. Here in the sun the snow had already melted, but in the woods its white veil would still endure.

      Since the day after the death of its last owner, the Sword itself had been hidden as well as the hermit knew how to hide anything. Gelimer doubted very much that anyone was going to find it, barring interference by some major wizard.

      “Thank you for the invitation to dismount, good hermit … ahh!” And the formidable-looking rider, in turn, groaned with relief as he swung himself down from his saddle.

      The visitor introduced himself as Chilperic. No second name. And Gelimer still did not allow his suspicions to be aroused, when, almost as soon as he had settled himself upon a chair inside the house, this newest visitor inquired: “I suppose that a fair number of travelers are fortunate enough to enjoy your hospitality, good hermit? You occupy a somewhat strategic situation here.”

      “This site where I live?” Gelimer looked around him, as if he could see out through his wooden walls. “It is important only in potential. Ah, ’twould be strategic indeed if there were any measurable amount of traffic up and down the river here, but the water’s almost always too rough for that. Or if armies were often marching through this pass … but for twenty years at least that hasn’t happened, either. The war-makers both upstream and down all have enough to do in their own territories without tackling more. So this is only a lonely mountainside, left to me. Often months go by without a soul appearing at my door.”

      “I see. Interesting. And has this past month been entirely devoid of visitors?”

      Now, Gelimer was unable to accept this innocent-sounding question at face value. Indeed, he was almost convinced already that the serious search for the Sword, which he had been more than half expecting for many days, had finally arrived. For some reason it surprised the hermit at first that the searcher, if such he was, did not appear to be a local man at all. But on second thought, that was really no surprise.

      Gelimer answered: “On the contrary, sir, the past month has been comparatively busy. There have actually been three other travelers before yourself.” Here the hermit paused to sip his mead. Then he went on, trying to give the impression of a man who did not need to be prodded to talk to one random visitor about another, who in fact was even eager to talk on the subject, because he had something mildly unusual to tell.

      “The first one who stopped here gave me the impression of a man fleeing something, or someone.” And here the hermit, who had been granted time to think what he should do, went on to give a rough description of the man who had died with the Sword run through him, and of the strangely shaped bundle that man had been carrying. It was Gelimer’s idea, right or wrong, that an honest owner looking for his lost treasure would come out honestly and say what he was trying to find.

      Chilperic sipped at his mead, too. If the shape of the stranger’s bundle had suggested anything to him, he did not say so. When he spoke again his tone indicated no more than a polite interest, though indeed the question he asked was pertinent enough: “Ah, and how long ago was this?”

      The hermit allowed himself an equally polite effort to recall. “Let me see now. Was it before this past full moon, or after? But lately most of the nights have been cloudy anyway. I really cannot say with any certainty.”

      The other leaned forward, and spoke with evident sincerity. “I will be glad to make it worth your while to try to remember. The fact is that I have been searching for this man.”

      “I see. And what will happen when you find him?”

      “Oh, I am not a manhunter. Nothing like that.” The visitor, smiling, leaned back in his chair again. “I seek him only to satisfy my own curiosity. Nor do I really travel in search of this fellow you describe.