Swords: 10 - The Seventh Book Of Lost Swords - Wayfinder's Story Read Free

dun trunks the seeker so superbly armed had approached within ten meters of the two motionless travelers in dull gray before he saw them. When he did, he stopped in his tracks, startled, continuing to hold the Sword leveled in their direction. Then, looking somewhat flustered, he grounded the bright point.
           For a long moment all three remained silent.
           At last the young farmer—for so his clothing made him appear to be—said: “Greetings.” His voice was soft, but the pair who heard him got the impression that only a conscious effort made it so. “Greetings, in Ardneh’s name.” He was peering closely at the lady, and appeared to be trying to conceal growing disappointment and confusion.
           “And to you,” replied the lady. “May you find peace and truth.” Zoltan at her elbow murmured similar sentiments.
           “My object is entirely peaceful,” the other assured them, gesturing with an enormous hand. He seemed now to be recovering from his initial shock, whatever might have been its cause. He was a head taller than most men, and of massive build, his body carrying a minimum of fat. His clothing, particularly his boots, gave evidence of an extended journey. He carried pack and canteen, as any traveler most likely would. A long, plain, leather sheath belted at his waist, of a size to hold his Sword, looked vaguely as if it should belong to someone else.
           He added: “I am called Valdemar.”
           “I am Yambu,” the woman told him simply. “This is Zoltan, who has chosen to travel with me. We are both pilgrims, of a sort.”
           The young farmer nodded and smiled, acknowledging the information. His hair was dark and curly, his blue eyes mild, flanking an interestingly bent nose. The more one looked at him, the bigger and stronger he appeared.
           “Yambu,” he repeated. “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes moved on. “And you are Zoltan.” Then some memory visibly caught at Valdemar, so that his gaze went back to the silver-haired woman. “An unusual name, ma’am.” he remarked.
           “Mine? Oh yes. And an unusual weapon that you are carrying today, young sir.”
           Perhaps Valdemar flushed slightly; in his weathered face it was hard to be sure. “Lady, in my hands I hope this Sword is something other than a weapon. It has guided me here—to you. Your pardon, lady, if I aim the blade at you again; I promise you I mean no harm.”
           Taking care to remain at a distance well out of thrusting range, Valdemar lifted his Sword’s point again. All three could see distinctly how the fine blade quivered when it was leveled straight toward Yambu.
           The lady did not seem much surprised. “And what desire of yours,” she asked, “does Wayfinder expect me to satisfy?”
           This time there was no doubt that Valdemar was blushing. “I see you know this Sword’s name. So I suppose you know what it is. That should—that ought to—make it easier for me to explain. As I said, my goal is peaceful. I…”
           “Yes?”
           “I am a farmer, lady. Actually I have a vineyard, which I have left untended. And I am looking for a wife.”
           There was a pause.
           “Ah,” said Yambu at last. A thin smile curved her lips. “And you confided this wish to the Sword of Wisdom?”
           “Yes ma’am.”
           “And the Sword has brought you to me.”
           “Yes ma’am.”
           “And I am not quite the bride you have been imagining. Well, rest easy in your mind, young man. Were you to make me a proposal of marriage, I would not accept it.”
           “Yes ma’am,” repeated Valdemar. He looked partly relieved and partly chagrined.
           “We must discuss this,” said the lady, “but just now my companion and I face problems of greater urgency. Have you experienced any particular difficulty