The Fourth Book Of Lost Swords : Farslayer's Story (Saberhagen's Lost Swords 4) by Fred Saberhagen (ereader iphone .TXT) 📕

saw that my father had been struck down by Farslayer, they naturally assumed that it had come magically into the grotto from a distance and that one of the Malolo must have thrown it. Of course none of them blamed Cosmo, or even thought of him, I suppose. If they ever thought of him at all, he was not considered dangerous.

      “And so began our night of the great slaughter but I knew no more about it. I knew nothing else very clearly for about a month.”

      Soft Ripple, abstracted now, continued to swim silently beside the boat.

      And Bonar, riding in the other boat from Megara, confirmed how, on that night of terror, Cosmo had returned from one of his magical night outings, at about the time of the first (as the Malolo thought) Sword-death.

      It had been a night of vile weather, of sleet and wind and snow. As a result, almost all members of both rival families had been gathered around their respective hearths.

      There had been quite a number of eager, excitable young Malolo men on hand that night, the flower of the family youth. The same thing across the river. And the leaders on both sides had been killed quite early that night.

      Cosmo on coming home that night had of course said nothing about his having been on Magicians’ Island, or about the patriarch of their enemies having died there at his hand.

      But Bonar could say something now about his cousin having gone to that island frequently.

      He added that, on that night, Cosmo had tried to get the others to interrupt the cycle of killing. But as usual no one had paid him much attention. Cosmo had been no more highly respected by his own family than he was by their enemies. He was looked on as a failed magician, who had not been very good at anything else, either. His pleas and warnings on the night of killing had been scorned and disregarded.

      Then the Sword had struck again—for what was to seem to others the last time that night—coming in through the stone walls of the Malolo manor and killing someone.

      This time Cosmo had been first on the scene and had drawn the weapon from the corpse. But instead of striking back in his turn, like a true Malolo, he had seized Farslayer and run out into the night with it.

      Soon the remaining family members, few, bereaved, and bewildered, discovered that he’d reclaimed the mount he’d recently left in the stables, and galloped off, the gods knew where.

      Before leaving he’d said something, a few words to a stablehand, that indicated he felt responsible for some reason for the slaughter that had now overtaken his own family.

      “We cannot be sure what he was thinking. But it seems that he meant to take the Sword somewhere where it could do no harm.”

      “A goal with which I can feel some sympathy,” said Prince Mark. “In fact I can remember trying to do something like that once myself. When I was very young.”

      The two boats moved on steadily toward the south shore, where Mark and his friends were determined to find the hermit Gelimer.

Chapter Eighteen

      Hissarlik, sitting on his high chair in his great hall and enjoying a solitary meal, suddenly gave a great shriek, and tumbled writhing to the floor.

      Three servants, who were the only people in the room with the clan chief at the moment, became aware at that same moment of the return of a terrible visitor: the same Sword that a month ago had well-nigh depopulated the house of its owners and masters.

      This time the onlookers’ first glimpse of the weapon came as it fell clashing on the floor beside their wounded Tyrant. Hissarlik’s clothes and the floor around him were being drenched in a steady outpouring of his blood.

      Two of the servants rushed immediately to the assistance of the Tyrant. In moving the Sword out of the way, they saw that it held, impaled near its tip, a rather peculiar-looking leather wallet. The wallet was heavily spattered with Hissarlik’s blood; and it was not immediately recognizable as leather, having curled up into a dry and lifeless-looking scrap of what looked like parchment.

      Hissarlik was not yet dead. In fact he was not even completely disabled, though his side had been deeply gashed and blood poured from his wound. Ashen-faced, he demanded to be helped to rise. With a servant’s help he got himself up on his shaky knees, and then by dint of grasping another servant’s arm, hauled himself to his feet. Then, almost falling again, he bent over with difficulty to grasp the deadly Sword by its black hilt and pick it up.

      The third of the servants present, who for some days now had been secretly in the pay of Tigris, had already dashed out of the room to tell her newest employer what had happened.

      Meanwhile, Hissarlik, even though his eyes were glazing, had shaken free of the arms that supported him. He was holding the Sword’s hilt with two hands now, and doing his staggering best to spin around.

      He muttered a name, and threw the Sword, which vanished in a flash through the stone walls of the room, as magically as it had come in through them. A moment later, the latest wielder of the Sword of Vengeance had fallen again, to lie at full length on the floor. Hissarlik’s eyes were glazing more rapidly now.

      A door banged open. Tigris, who had been unable to stay with him at every moment, came rushing in angrily from two rooms away. She was moments too late to witness Farslayer’s latest departure.

      “Where is the Sword? What have you done with it? You fool, you’ve thrown it away, haven’t you!” In a controlled rage, she knelt beside the fallen man. “Did I hear you cry out a name? That of the target, it must have been!”

      The dying Hissarlik, his side still spouting blood, was trying to focus his eyes on the face of Tigris as she bent over him.