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

the expression on Lady Yambu’s face, and the sidelong look she cast at Gesner, she evidently shared Zoltan’s thoughts. He supposed the wobbly preservative spell was the work of Gesner, who did not exactly give forth an aura of competence.

      Violet, Bonar’s younger sister, had begun sobbing quietly as soon as she entered the room of death. With dull brown hair and a thin body, Violet was plainer than Rose, and also had a fiercer look.

      “What happened?” Lady Yambu asked, turning from the bodies to stare curiously at the young chief of the clan.

      “We fought.” Bonar gestured helplessly at the carnage before him. “It was about a month ago.”

      “Fought whom? Only among yourselves?”

      “Of course not.” The youth’s cheeks reddened and suddenly he looked sullenly angry. “Against the damned Senones. The clan of scoundrels across the river. Our ancient enemies.”

      The lady looked at the crowded tables. “Would it be fair to say that your enemies won that fight?”

      “I think not.” Now the lad’s pride was stung. “We killed as many of them as they of us.”

      “And where did this fight take place?” asked Zoltan, walking now between the rows of tables, looking at first one and then another of the bodies. As he inspected the dead more methodically he realized that each of them had been slain by a single thrust, through the torso, from some broad-bladed weapon. No other wounds of any kind were in evidence on any of the bodies.

      Violet spoke up suddenly. “It happened here, in our house. And also in the stronghold of those scum across the river.”

      Yambu turned to her. “Here and there? I don’t quite—?”

      “Have you ever heard of the magical weapon called Farslayer, or the Sword of Vengeance?” Bonar’s question came out in a bitter monotone, between clenched teeth.

      Zoltan had to make an effort to keep himself from flashing Yambu a sudden, almost triumphant look of understanding. But he kept his eyes on Bonar. “Yes,” he said. “I have heard of it.”

      “Good. Then you will understand. Our two clans, neither leaving its own stronghold, fought the whole battle with that single weapon.” Bonar’s gesture was an aborted movement of one hand, directed toward the tables and their burdens. “My own father lies here, and two of my uncles. And—” For a moment it seemed that the new chief of the Malolo clan might be about to break down and weep.

      Rose, who was now bearing up better than before, took over the job of adding details. She related in a muddled way how, a month ago, the people of this clan and those across the river, each at the time locked into their own fortress, had engaged at long range in an hour or more of terrible slaughter.

      Zoltan nodded. “There’s no doubt about it being Farslayer, then. Of course. And you just kept casting it back and forth…”

      “Yes,” said Bonar. “Yes. I’ll see them all dead yet.”

      “And where is the Sword now?” the Lady Yambu asked.

      “We don’t know,” said Violet. “We haven’t seen it since that night. For a while we thought that our cousin Cosmo had taken it to the enemy. But—many days have passed now, almost a month, and no more of us has been struck down.”

      There was a silence in the room. Everyone was looking thoughtfully at the bodies.

      “Well, if your enemies have the Sword, they are hesitating to use it,” Yambu agreed at last. “But where did it come from on that night of slaughter? Did the enemy have it first, or you?”

      None of the household’s survivors could offer a certain explanation of how the fight had started. But when the Sword struck its first victim in this house, a number of people had been on hand who could recognize the magical weapon for what it was, and explain its dreadfully simple use to the others. Almost immediately everyone had known how to use it to strike back at the enemy.

      “You hold it—so,” Rose was explaining, her two delicate wrists crossed in front of her, small white fingers clenched on an imaginary hilt. “Then you spin around in a kind of dance” And her feet stepped daintily in dainty shoes, performing a demonstration. “Maybe the dance isn’t even necessary, but most did it that way. Some of the people chanted before they threw the Sword: ‘For thy heart, for thy heart…’ and they would name a name—someone on the Senones side, you see.

      “My father and brothers knew all their names over there, they knew just who they wanted to kill the most. And then, when you have chanted and spun the Sword, you just let go.”

      The dainty dance came to an unsteady halt. The small white fingers opened, at the end of the extended wrists. “And then—the Sword would leap from the thrower’s hands, and vanish. Each time I saw it go, it made a splash of color in the air, as pretty as a rainbow. And an ugly little howling sound, like a hurt cat.

      “And then, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, it would always come back—the same way. Over there, they knew all of our names, too.”

      Rose sat down suddenly, rocking gently on a bench, and covered her eyes with her small white hands.

      Violet and Bonar each had a few random details of that night’s battle to add. So the bloody exchange of death at long range had gone on, and long before morning most of the family on each side were dead.

      Zoltan took another walk among the tables, looking and thinking. This corpse must be the survivors’ father, and these two—there was a family resemblance—their dead brothers. The great majority of the dead in this vaulted room were men. But not all. Evidently there had been more than one woman living in this manor who had made herself deeply hated across the water.

      One, at least, of the trestled bodies was wearing a heavy steel breastplate. Probably this was the previous clan chief—had he been the first to fall that night, had he put this armor on as a decoration? If the