The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story, Fred Saberhagen [13 ebook reader TXT] 📗

had some difficulty in believing this ordinary-looking female had once been Tigris—even though he had never had a good look at the enchantress. It seemed to the Sarge that Wood’s long-range punishment had been devastatingly effective. In fact, if Wood had not thoughtfully provided him with a certain magical means of identification, he would probably have failed to recognize her at all.

      Val lay on the floor of the hut groaning, by all indications unable to move.

      The Sarge, making sure he had Delia in a safe grip, bent over to get his first good look at the weapons on the earthen floor, the tools Val had just been trying to reach. He was astonished and momentarily distracted by what he saw.

      “Swords!—by all the gods!”

      Shifting his grip on Delia’s arms, he muttered: “Let’s jus’ see which ones we got…” And bent over, meaning to look closely at the black hilts projecting from the swordbelt.

* * *

      It was now or never. Val, seeing double, his head and neck aflame with pain, a deadly weakness dragging all his limbs, summoned up what strength he could and hurled himself forward, grappling Brod around the knees.

      Brod struck viciously at his assailant, stretching the already injured man out helpless on the floor. But he had to let go of Delia in the process.

      In the moment when Brod was busy defending himself from Val, Delia managed to pull one of her hands free. Diving to reach the Swords, she was able to pull Sightblinder from its sheath.

      With the same movement of her arm, she threw the weapon as far as she could, so it went flying into a far corner of the hut.

      When Brod instinctively released her and went plunging after the Sword, she stuck out a leg and tripped him, so that he came down with a slam that drove the breath out of his body. A moment later she had seized Woundhealer and without hesitation thrust its bright blade straight into her lover’s chest.

      The Sarge, regaining his feet and lunging forward once more after the tantalizingly available Sword of Stealth, had almost got his fingers on its hilt when the great weight of Valdemar’s body, once more fully functional, landed on him from behind. Skidding forward with Val’s momentum, both men went crashing out through the old hut’s flimsy wall.

      Wrestling hand to hand, the two went rolling over and over. Brod’s effort to knee his opponent failed. Valdemar’s huge arms quivered, straining against muscles every bit as powerful as his own.

      Suddenly the Sarge stiffened, looking over Valdemar’s shoulder at a terrible male figure that towered above them both. The figure’s blue eyes glared, its empty hands were extended in the gesture of a wizard about to loose a blasting curse.

      Valdemar saw nothing of this apparition. He only felt Brod’s body convulse, and heard him scream out: “Master Wood!” before he retched up blood and died.

      Turning, Valdemar beheld only Delia. He saw her in her true form, for she had let go the hilt of Sightblinder, whose blade remained embedded deeply in Brod’s heart.

      Val, struggling to his feet, recalled once urging Ben to use Woundhealer to save this very man. And Val muttered now: “No. No more. You’ve had enough chances.”

* * *

      Tethered at a little distance from the hut they found Brod’s riding-beast, along with a spare mount saddled and ready. The saddlebags of both animals contained food and other useful items.

      “He said something, didn’t he, about having been sent to bring me back?” Delia shuddered.

      “It wasn’t you they really wanted, love. It was that other woman, Tigris.”

      “I don’t want to hear about her, or think about her.”

      In less than half an hour the pair, wishing with all their souls to put the horrors of their last few days behind them, were hastening away from the scene of their most recent struggle.

* * * * * *

      Delia, her spirits risen again with the return and triumph of her lover, began to play with Woundhealer, giggling and marveling at the inability of this sharp Blade to cut her fingers off, or even scratch them.

      How different this Sword from the one that had so treacherously hurt Val’s fingers earlier!

      Watching her perform such tricks gave Val the shivers, and he ordered her to stop. For once in a meek mood, she obeyed without a murmur.

      Valdemar noted also, with belated apprehension, that the Sword of Mercy had only partially, if at all, restored Delia’s memory. He supposed that Wood’s expunging of her evil experiences, both as perpetrator and victim, would not be construed as an injury.

      Somehow, out of renewed spirits and talk of a future that suddenly seemed clear, the topic of marriage came under discussion.

      The urge for wedlock came with the greatest intensity upon Valdemar. His sense of propriety, an innate conservatism in matters of society and morals, was really stronger than Delia’s.

      Delia wondered aloud if she was too young for matrimony, and whether she ought to take such a step without consulting her mother.

      “Would that be possible?” her companion asked, vaguely surprised.

      “No. No, I don’t see how. I don’t know if she’s still alive.”

      Valdemar was in a mood to insist on a ceremony.

      “Otherwise it would be shameful to continue to take advantage of you in this way.”

      “Is that what you call it? ‘Take advantage’? Come, take advantage of me again!”

* * *

      On the next morning the couple awakened to idyllic sunshine. From the state of the morning sky it seemed likely that, for a change, a whole day might be going to pass without rain.

      “Delia?”

      “Yes?”

      “I think perhaps the most proper thing for us to do is to perform some kind of wedding ceremony ourselves.”

      Chewing on a grass blade, the young woman thought over this idea. “Yes, we can do that if you like.”

      Having won his point, the youth still felt it necessary to explain his thoughts and feelings. “Otherwise the difficulty, as I see it, is going to be in finding someone qualified to marry us.

      “Even when we get back