The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story by Fred Saberhagen (motivational books for women txt) 📕

insignia of gold and blue, and it carried a full load on its back. The beast was favoring its right foreleg, streaked with dried blood. There was water here, and some good grazing along the river, so the animal must have been disinclined to wander far.

      No doubt, thought Zoltan, the scavengers had so far let the loadbeast live because there was easier meat on hand for the taking.

      In Ben’s hands the Sword of Wisdom was pointing straight at the trembling, braying animal.

      Valdemar said: “Put the poor creature out of its misery, at least.”

      But Ben had already sheathed the Sword of Wisdom, seized the animal by its bridle, and pulled it out of the bushes so he could get at its burdens more easily. In another moment Ben was unfastening panniers from the loadbeast’s back and dumping their contents on the ground.

      His companions, alerted now, scarcely breathing, were all watching him in silence.

      Of all the bundles that had been strapped to the back of the burdened animal, only one was long and narrow enough.

      When the coverings of this package were ripped away by Ben’s powerful hands, it proved indeed to contain a Sword, black-hilted and elegantly sheathed.

      “Wait! Before you draw. That could be Soulcutter…” Valdemar fell silent.

      Ben was holding the sheathed and belted Sword up for the others to see. A single look at the white symbol on the hilt, depicting an open human hand, allayed whatever fears they might have had. Here was Woundhealer, the very Sword they had come looking for.

      Ben, with grim satisfaction, strapped on the Sword of Mercy. Then he turned, his eyes sweeping the horizon, warily ready for someone to challenge him for his prize.

      Valdemar studied him for a moment, then turned away, once more examining the fallen on the field.

      “What are you looking for?” asked Yambu.

      “I want to see if any of them are still alive.”

      Indeed one of the fallen, and only one, still breathed. Evidently he had managed to drag himself under a bush, and so lay relatively protected from the sun, the scavengers, and discovery.

      Ben on getting a look at the fallen man at once recognized Sergeant Brod. “This is the very one I wrestled with.”

      The squat leader of the bandits, his chest rising and falling laboriously under his leather vest, lay in a welter of his own dried blood, dagger still clutched in his right hand, not many meters from the treasure the two armed factions must have been struggling to possess. Either he had not known Woundhealer was there, or he had been too badly hurt to reach it.

      Valdemar cried out suddenly, his voice for no apparent reason argumentative: “Ben! If that’s really the Sword of Healing, you’d better use it!”

      Ben, faintly puzzled, looked at the young giant in wary silence.

      “Use it, I say!” Valdemar sounded angry. “The man is dying. Even if he was your enemy.”

      “Did you think I wouldn’t use it?” Ben asked mildly. Stooping, he grabbed Sergeant Brod by both ankles and pulled his inert weight roughly straight out from under the bush, evoking a noisy breath that might have been a gasp of pain, had the victim been fully conscious.

      Valdemar looked slightly surprised and vaguely disappointed, as if he had been ready for a confrontation with Ben.

      Bending over the fallen man once more, Ben pulled the dagger from Brod’s hand, and took the added precaution of kicking out of his reach another weapon which had fallen nearby.

      “Just in case,” he muttered. “Actually, I look forward to speaking with an eyewitness of this skirmish. Might be a help, even if we can’t believe much of what he says.”

      Once more Ben delayed briefly, this time to search the pockets of the fallen man, and his belt pouch. Evidently the search turned up nothing of any particular interest.

      Then Ben, who was no stranger to the Sword of Mercy and its powers, postponed the act no longer, but employed Woundhealer boldly, thrusting the broad blade squarely and deeply into the victim’s chest.

      Valdemar flinched involuntarily at the sight. Zoltan and Yambu, more experienced observers of Swords’ powers, watched calmly.

      The bright Sword’s entry into flesh was bloodless—though it cut a broad hole in the Sarge’s leather vest, which Ben had not bothered to open—and the application of healing power was accompanied by a sound like soft human breath.

      Recovery, as usual when accomplished through the agency of Woundhealer, was miraculously speedy and complete. The man, his color and energy restored, sat up a moment after the Sword had been withdrawn from his body. He looked down at his pierced and bloodied garments, then thrust a huge hand inside his vest and shirt and felt of his own skin, whole again.

      A moment later Brod, now staring suspiciously at Ben, got his legs under him and sprang to his feet with an oath. “What in all the hells do ye think yer doing?”

      Ben stared at him with distaste. “What am I doing?” he rumbled. “I may have just made a serious mistake.”

      The Sarge was scowling now at the Sword in the other’s hand. “Reckon you know that’s my proppity you got there?”

      No one answered him. Ben slowly resheathed Woundhealer at his belt. He grunted: “You might express your thanks.”

      Brod turned slowly, confronting each of his four rescuers in turn. When he found himself facing the lady, he introduced himself to her, using some extravagant gestures and words.

      Yambu was neither much impressed nor much amused. “I am not the one who healed you, fellow.”

      Brod finally, reluctantly, awkwardly, thanked Ben.

      “I had a reason.” Ben gestured at the field of death by which they were surrounded. “Now entertain us with a story about your little skirmish here. And you might as well tell the truth for once.”

      “You think I’d lie?”

      “The possibility had crossed my mind.”

      Protesting his invariable truthfulness, Brod began to talk. He told his rescuers that his worst problem had been surviving the scavengers, having half a dozen times come close, he thought, to being eaten alive. He said that whenever he had regained consciousness he had waved