Swords: 10 - The Seventh Book Of Lost Swords - Wayfinder's Story (6 page)

      
While the men began what seemed an unfamiliar process of casting off, the Sarge, as if he wanted to talk, came to sit on a small box facing Ben.

      
Any effort at breaking ropes would have to be postponed. Ben, ready to try a different tactic, announced: “If I
were
this fellow from Purkinje, or wherever, why my friends might pay a better price for me even than my enemies.”

      
“Maybe.” Brod sounded doubtful of that proposition, to say the least.

      
“Did you ever try to get money for
anything
out of the Blue Temple?”

      
The other looked at his prisoner thoughtfully. “I know what you mean, friend. But they’ll pay this time, in advance, or they won’t get you. ‘Sides, we’ve contracted to do another little job for them.”

      
“What’s that?”

      
The answer had to be postponed. Brod rose to supervise his unskilled crew’s efforts to get the boat free of the shore.

* * *

      
By dint of much poling, and the blaspheming of many gods, along with energetic sweeps of the four long steering oars, the flatboat was at last dislodged from the riverbank and under way downstream. Ben was no great expert in these matters, but in his judgment the men manning the sweeps and poles were being pretty clumsy about it. The difficulty wasn’t entirely their fault, though. Obviously this craft had been designed for use somewhere upriver, maybe for ferrying livestock about, and had somehow been taken over by these goons, who were riding it downriver into waters somewhat rougher than those for which it had been built.

* * *

      
At about this time Ben noticed a distracting presence, one he certainly didn’t need just now, maneuvering on the outskirts of the scene. This was a large, gray-feathered bird, and with a sinking feeling he recognized it as a winged messenger from Sarykam. At any other time he would have been pleased to get some word from home, and to have an opportunity to send word back. Just now, though, the hovering presence of the courier threatened the last faint credibility of his pose as Charles the Smith.

      
Perhaps the creature was bright enough to understand this in some dim way; as if unable to make up its small mind whether or not to communicate with Ben, the bird came no nearer than the bottom of the upended rowboat, where it perched uncertainly and cocked its small-brained head at him. Presently one of the bandits threw a chip of wood at it, causing it to take wing for the shore. But after being driven from the boat, the messenger just flew along the shore from tree to tree, at a little distance.

      
Brod had noted the bird’s presence, and was evidently shrewd enough to understand what it signified.

      
“Reckon maybe it wants some blacksmithin’ done? New shoes, maybe, so it can run like a ridin’-beast?” The Sarge enjoyed another laugh.

      
Ben did his best to pretend he didn’t know what bird Brod was talking about.

* * *

      
Several hours passed in uneventful voyaging, with the current bearing the clumsy craft downstream at a good pace. A tributary came in on the east bank, and the river—Ben had never learned its name—broadened appreciably. Rocky hills on the horizon ahead suggested that the water might get rougher there, when this river became narrower and swifter, forcing itself between them.

      
Still the gray-feathered messenger effortlessly kept pace, darting from tree to tree along the shore. Trying to put that problem out of his thoughts for the time being, Ben considered Sergeant Brod. The brawny Sergeant was still smiling at his prisoner from time to time, nodding, appraising him. He seemed to have a more than commercial interest in the famous—well, semi-famous—Ben of Purkinje as well. Ben was vaguely aware that he enjoyed an almost legendary reputation for strength, among people who were interested in keeping track of such things.

      
The Sarge came to stand in front of Ben. This time he put his foot on the box. At length he remarked: “They say you’re a pretty good wrestler.”

      
“Me? No. This Ben of Purkinje maybe is. I don’t bother with that kind of thing.”

      
“Don’t bother with it?” Brod screwed his eyes almost shut in puzzlement.

      
“No.” Ben shook his head. “What’s there to know about wrestling? It all comes down to who is stronger, and there I always have the edge. Nothing like blacksmithing to build the muscles. Lucky for you, you had six men to help you tie me up.”

      
The redness of the Sarge’s face seemed to be deepening. “Lucky for me? What by all the gods’ elbows can you mean?”

      
Ben shrugged.

      
By now a couple of Brod’s followers were starting to take an interest. Obviously they were fascinated by the prospect of watching a wrestling match between these two titans.

      
Afterward, Ben was never quite sure just how the first specific proposal had been made, or by whom.

      
“Think you could take him, Sarge?”

      
“Gwan! Sure, our Sarge could take ’im. Could take anyone!”

      
“Wrestling on a boat?” Ben, glancing nervously at the surface of the river so perilously near at hand, displayed apprehension at the mere idea.

      
Either Brod was supremely confident in his own strength and skill or he was shrewd enough to realize that his authority might be adversely affected if he failed to meet this adversary fairly. For whatever reason, he made no objection when someone started to untie the old rope with which Ben’s arms were bound.

      
Someone else suggested they tie a rope around Ben before the bout, so they could pull back their valuable prisoner in case he tried to swim away. Ben for a moment considered seconding the request for such a safety measure, confident that it would be denied. And sure enough the scheme was hooted down. No one could wrestle with a rope tied round them, could they?

      
The rocky hills ahead were somewhat closer now, and the river was gradually becoming swifter and rougher here, with traces of white water ahead. Just a few such traces, along both banks, which were growing steeper, so that the passage between increasingly rocky shores, Ben thought, might at some point require careful steering. Better steering than even skilled boatmen could manage with these sweeps.

      
The ropes were off.

      
Brod was considerably younger than Ben. Ben, sizing his opponent up, was struck for the first time by the fact that this fellow was young enough to be his son.

      
But he couldn’t
really
be … could he?

      
Ben found that an ugly suggestion, but not one that was going to cause him a whole lot of worry. Besides bulk and apparent strength, there was very little resemblance.

      
Ben moved out to the middle of the crude plank deck, rubbing his arms, stamping his feet to get the circulation going. Actually the blood was flowing pretty well already, but he wanted another chance to look around, getting a good view now of the stern of the boat, which had been behind him when he was tied.

      
Brod, doing his own muscle-flexing, was grinning at him. “You were really a good wrestler once, hey pop?”

      
“Did a lot better after I got my full growth.” Ben considered. “You probably will, too.”

      
There was really no problem about room. A central space was quickly cleared of a litter of odd personal possessions and miscellaneous garbage. Basically the arena was a deck of rough planks, covering the central two-thirds of the craft. The crew grinning and making almost-secret wagers—no one wanted to offend the chief by betting openly against him—arranged themselves around the rectangle, while with a minimum of preparation the two contestants moved to diagonally opposite corners of the space.

      
There rose a minor chorus of cheers, incoherent enough that Ben could not tell who they were meant to encourage.

      
The two contestants began circling, stalking each other.

      
Ben noted from the corners of his eyes that two of the gang who were currently supposed to be on watch, manning a couple of the large sweep oars, had abandoned their duties, preferring to keep an eye on the contest. The drifting raft was turning this way and that.

      
Brod growled, shuffled his feet and flexed his muscles. Both feet and muscles were really enormous.

      
Ben stood in one place, swaying slightly with the motion of the planks underfoot, doing his best to appear hesitant and uncertain, yet gamely determined. This was a clumsy blacksmith, wondering what to do. He looked wide-eyed, innocent in an ugly sort of way.

      
Brod, quicker than he looked, lunged at him. The two men grappled, grunting and straining, coming to no immediate conclusion, each testing the other’s strength and skill. The watchers yelled incoherently. Ben felt sure that some of them at least were cheering for him. Not that he gave a damn.

      
Ben and Brod broke apart, each backing up a step or two.

      
“Don’t know no wrestling, huh?” The Sarge shook his pigtails in what might have been admiration. Ben’s fingers had left red and white imprints on his hairy arms.

      
Ben seemed to be wondering what all the excitement was about. “Anybody can do this.”

      
The Sarge’s face stiffened. He charged again. At the impact, a cheer went up from the onlookers; Ben, bracing his booted feet, took the charge without being driven back.

      
“Don’t like the water, huh? ’Spect me to believe that?” Brod gasped between exertions.

      
Ben said nothing, saving his breath. He had the feeling he was going to need as much of it as he could get; the Sarge was just about as strong as he looked.

      
After the pair of them had made the round of the little arena a couple of times, struggling from fore to aft and port to starboard, Ben nodded to himself. He thought he now had his opponent pretty well figured out. Unfortunately, a real win in this situation was going to require more than putting Brod down on his back.

      
Before Ben could plan his next move, Brod took the initiative again, coming in a screaming, all-or-nothing charge. Ben, trying his best to sidestep, could get only partially out of the way. The two big men, arms momentarily linked like those of whirling dancers, spun out of the arranged arena, toward the edge of the raft-like deck, almost under one of the stern sweeps.

      
The watchers were screaming themselves hoarse. The long, unwieldy steering oars were bouncing in their locks, unmanned. The two wrestlers had come to a stop only a step from the water. Brod’s wide, astonished eyes, half a dozen centimeters from Ben’s stared at the unmanned oars. The little crowd of onlookers was sending up a greater roar than ever.

      
There came a crash, a great shuddering impact. The raft-like craft had struck a glancing blow against a rock.

      
Feet planted solidly, Ben kept his balance. He gulped his lungs full of air, held his breath, and strained his muscles. Lifting his opponent clean off his feet, he took him overboard. Brod’s scream had something in it of the tones of a delighted child.

      
Cold water smote them both, the fierce current twisting their bodies even as they sank. The Sarge’s grip loosened immediately as they hit the water. Ben pushed his opponent away, and let himself plummet as deep as the river would take him, trying to swim upstream. He rejoiced to find that right here, at least, the cold torrent was deep enough to offer concealment and protection.

* * *

      
When he had to come up for air, Ben looked back in the direction of the boat and was glad to see that half the people aboard had been knocked off their feet. No one at the moment was even thinking about pursuing Ben.

      
Right beside him, as in several other places in the vicinity, some rocks rose well above the surface, offering the fugitive a solid refuge while he caught his breath.

      
Many of the raftsmen looked terrified. Maybe they couldn’t swim. They clung desperately to whatever portion of the boat they could get their hands on. Some, shrieking and cursing, went sliding helplessly overboard.

      
Ben couldn’t wait around all day, watching the fun. Orienting himself toward the west bank, which looked to him a little more hospitable, he plunged under water again and started swimming.

      
Swimming with boots on was difficult indeed, but there hadn’t been time to take them off. Besides, he expected that he was going to need footgear when he came ashore.

      
Though the river was perhaps a hundred meters broad at this point, most of its depth was concentrated in a single narrow channel. Striking for the west bank, trying to angle upstream to put more distance between himself and the flatboat, Ben soon found he could once more plant his feet on the bottom and still get his face high enough to breathe.

      
Fortunately the majority of his former captors still had their hands full with other problems. But a few had recovered. A few missiles—one arrow, a slung stone or two—hurtled inaccurately after him. Ben saw the arrow pierce only the current, the rocks go banging and breaking on bigger rocks.

      
If he lingered in the neighborhood, the next step would probably be a determined swimmer or two, blade-armed, coming after him.