Farslayer's Story by Fred Saberhagen Read Free Book Online

Vengeance. Though of course it can be more than that.”
    Gelimer blinked. “It sounds truly terrible.”
    “Oh, it is, believe me. You whirl it around your head, and chant—I forget just what words you’re supposed to use, though my uncle did tell me once.”
    “Your uncle is a magician, perhaps?”
    “No.” Then young Zoltan for just a moment put on a look of wary intelligence, like one who realizes that he has almost said too much. Gelimer pricked up his ears. Then the youth went smoothly on: “Anyway, I’m not really sure that any of those trimmings, the whirling and chanting and so on, are really necessary. The point is, when you throw Farslayer with deadly intent, it will go on to bury itself in the heart of your chosen target, whether man, god, or demon. Even if that target is halfway around the world and you don’t know where, surrounded by defenses.”
    “Magical or material? I mean, what if your target was enclosed by material walls?”
    “Walls of stone or wood or magic, it would make no difference. Farslayer would come through ’em like so much smoke.”
    “Oh.” And perhaps Gelimer’s expression of careful vacuity changed now; but if so, the change was quickly smoothed back into blankness.
    “Oh yes. There’s no defense, of steel armor or of sorcery, that can save the intended victim, once Farslayer is thrown against him—or her. Two of the gods, Mars and Hermes, have died of that very blade.”
    “Now that I find hard to believe.” The hermit was trying to provoke more details.
    Young Zoltan was quite ready for a little good-humored argument. “I know someone who with his own eyes saw Hermes lying dead, with the wound made by Farslayer still in his back.”
    “That someone must have led a very adventurous life.”
    The young man glanced up when he heard the deliberate tone of disbelief, then calmly disregarded it. Suddenly Gelimer found the youth’s implied claim of expertise considerably more convincing.
    The hermit asked innocently: “And is there no possibility of defense at all?”
    “None at all, I should say, apart from the other Swords. If you had Shieldbreaker in your possession, for example, you’d be able to laugh at anyone who threw Farslayer against you. Shieldbreaker’s already destroyed two other Swords, Doomgiver and Townsaver, when people were foolish enough to bring them into combat directly against it.”
    “I see. I suppose your adventurous friend saw them destroyed also?”
    “No.”
    The hermit saw that now he had gone too far. “Please, I did not mean to imply that I doubted your word. I only thought that perhaps some friend of yours had somewhat embellished his stories. There are many good folk who like to do that from time to time.”
    “But that’s not what happened in this case.”
    “I believe you, and I am sorry. Please, go on. I find the subject of the Swords intensely interesting.”
    “Well—where was I?”
    “You mentioned Shieldbreaker.”
    “Yes. Then there’s Woundhealer, which can cure any wound, even a thrust of magic through the heart, if it’s brought into play promptly enough. And then, maybe, Sightblinder—I don’t know if Sightblinder would offer any protection against Farslayer or not. It’s an interesting thought, though.”
    And with that the youth, his good humor apparently restored, suddenly threw back his head and began to recite:
     
    Farslayer howls across the world
    For thy heart, for thy heart,  
    who hast wronged me!
    Vengeance is his who casts the blade
    Yet he will in the end no triumph see.
     
    The youth made a good job of the recitation, putting a fair amount of feeling into it. Gelimer made himself smile in appreciation. He had heard some of the old verses about Swords before, decades ago, and over the past days those rhymes had been slowly coming back into his memory, as he continued to think and fret about the subject.
    Young Zoltan cheerfully continued his cataloguing of the remaining Swords. The hermit made