Read Online Swords: 10 - The Seventh Book Of Lost Swords - Wayfinder's Story by Fred Saberhagen - Free Book Online

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.
           Ben decided not to wait. A couple of additional missiles landed in the general neighborhood. He thought he could hear Brod, surfaced and clinging to another rock, or back on the boat, bellowing in rage. Gulping a breath, Ben went under water again, striking once more for the west bank, swimming powerfully, staying under as long as he could.
           Briefly he worried that the bandits might find oars for the rowboat, and