Free The First Book of Lost Swords - Woundhealer's Story by Fred Saberhagen

it could not be easily seen. Besides the Sword itself, appearances suggested nothing very remarkable about its owner. He was outfitted more like a bandit chieftain than an officer of cavalry, and indeed the clothing worn by his followers was very far from uniform. The men in the group—and the few women who were among them—made up an ill-assorted but well-armed gang, with no sign of any livery or colors, though pieces of the uniforms of several different armies could be distinguished among their garments.
           At the leader’s right hand rode a woman dressed chiefly in animal skins, and whose face and body were painted in ways that suggested she must be some kind of a minor enchantress. That she was not a magician of overwhelming skill could be deduced from the obvious way that her youth-spells struggled with the years to preserve her own appearance.
           From their hilltop these leaders looked out over a dozen buildings and an extensive compound, mostly garden, all centered on the white stone pyramid, at least ten stories tall, that was the Temple itself.
           The enchantress was the first to speak. “The Sword, if it is there, is lightly guarded.”
           The bulky man beside her turned his head. “Are you sure? Do your powers tell you that?” His voice was skeptical.
           “My eyes tell me. I cannot be sure.”
           “Then use your powers,” the man grumbled, “if you really have any. And make sure. As for eyes, I have two good ones of my own.”
           “I have powers,” she flared, “and one day I’ll make sure that you respect them.”
           He only grumbled again. Even that answer sounded as if it were merely as a matter of form. His attention had already moved back to the Temple, and the woman’s threat, if it had really been that, was disregarded totally.
           The enchantress dismounted and got to work. From a bag she carried she extracted fine powders of various colors and blew them into the air in different directions, a pinch at a time, from her hardened and somewhat dirty palm. The men around watched curiously, but for a time no one had anything to say.
           Presently the woman was able to promise the bulky man—who waited expressionlessly for her report—that the magical protection of the treasure he had come here to get would be trivial at best; she would be able to set it aside easily. “That last prisoner we sacrificed,” she assured him, “was a great help.”
           The man beside her nodded calmly. He had really not expected much in the way of magical tricks and traps from the White Temple; nor much in the way of armed force, either. His only real worry on his way here to take the treasure had been that someone else might have beaten him to it.
           Now he motioned to his other followers and raised his voice enough to be sure that they all heard him. “We’ll ride in, then. We will take what we want, but no more than that. And let there be no unnecessary killing or destruction.”
           Hard-bitten lot that the troopers were, they received that last order without protest. Indeed, there came in response a murmur or two that sounded like approval. There were many people who considered any move against the White Temple to be unlucky. Those who still believed in gods—and what bandit did not, at least on occasion?—were vastly reluctant to risk making enemies of Draffut and of Ardneh.
           The Temple people inside the compound, and those few who were outside near the front gate, noticed the approach of the bandits when the riders were still some distance off, but their entrance was unopposed. The two White Guards at the entrance retreated rapidly, not bothering to try to shut the gates.
           Extending from just outside those gates into the foot of the pyramid itself, there stretched a line of people who had come here hoping to be healed—the sick and injured,