Fictional cults and deities - Main genre: Quest, Adventure, somewhat fairytale - Point of view: Why is it necessary for me to be something other than what I am? Series Storyline - Originality: N - Main scenario: N - Notable best characters: The Emperor - Notable worse characters: N - Type of Rule: As chaotic as the coinspinner's book, this one is much better than most of the lost swords books, but still very far from the fantastic Empire of the East trilogy. Dec 26, Patricia Hamill rated it it was amazing Shelves: This story follows Wayfinder, a god-forged sword with the power to lead its holder to his or her most cherished goal.
This story takes a lot of unexpected twists and turns as the swords switches hands from the lonely vineyard farmer, Valdemar, who wants to find a wife, to Yambu and Zoltan, to Ben, to the persistent Blue Temple, and finally to Tigris, the dread Wizard Wood's sadistic right-hand woma As usual, Fred Saberhagen really delivers with The Seventh Book of Lost Swords: This story takes a lot of unexpected twists and turns as the swords switches hands from the lonely vineyard farmer, Valdemar, who wants to find a wife, to Yambu and Zoltan, to Ben, to the persistent Blue Temple, and finally to Tigris, the dread Wizard Wood's sadistic right-hand woman.
Will Valdemar find the perfect wife? Will Ben find Woundhealer to save the ailing Princess Kristen? Will Yambu and Zoltan find the truth they so desperately desire? Will Tigris acheive her own surprising goal not here revealed due to spoilers? Interesting in this story is the way the Sword of Wisdom tends to take the goals of it's previous wielders into account.
The result is a fantastic web of people, adventure and acheivements with unexpected consequences. Aug 21, Todd rated it liked it. Continuing the Saberhagen nostalgia reading. Book 7 was fun like the original trilogy. Fast moving, lots happening.
The characters are simple and the endings are happy but it's a fun journey. Dec 01, Alex rated it it was amazing. Its been a while so I may blunder but I seem to recall there weren't any exceptions to the awesomeness outside of the fact that the first three were a little slower than the rest.
Feb 01, Jefferson Coombs rated it liked it Shelves: I was glad when I started this project to find that more Sword books were written. I remember after finishing the 6th Book of Lost Swords that a conclusion had not been reached. This book is very light reading but I found it to be fun and a good escape from reality. Jan 28, Justin Salisbury rated it liked it Shelves: Jan 28, Justin Salisbury rated it liked it Shelves: This is a rather odd fantasy setting, but I really enjoy these books. Dec 25, Mariana rated it really liked it. The farslayer's sword is the sword of vengeance with which two feuding families slaughter each other.
Zoltan meets the mermaid, Black Pearl, again. Jul 19, Caerigna Lunaltii rated it liked it. Informative to the series, but too much about human stupidity for my taste.
I had a hard time getting through it despite its entertainment value. Jefferson rated it liked it Dec 25, Peter rated it liked it Jan 30, Bryan Caddy rated it really liked it Nov 11, T Hill rated it liked it Feb 13, Divad Notrm rated it it was amazing Jun 06, Carl Brown rated it really liked it Sep 19, Eileen Cockcroft rated it really liked it Jan 14, Brandon rated it really liked it Jan 28, Ryan rated it liked it Mar 30, Steven Oaks rated it really liked it Nov 18, Howard rated it really liked it Feb 24, Robert Smith rated it it was amazing Feb 25, Chad Shamrowicz rated it really liked it Mar 27, Katherine rated it liked it Oct 23, Miriam rated it liked it Feb 23, Matt rated it it was amazing Jan 09, Brandy rated it it was amazing Feb 04, Joyner rated it really liked it Jan 15, Andrew rated it it was amazing Sep 24, Catt rated it it was amazing Aug 15, Charles Frogg rated it it was amazing Oct 25, There are no discussion topics on this book yet.
Fred Saberhagen was an American science fiction and fantasy author most famous for his ''Beserker'' and Dracula stories. Saberhagen also wrote a series of a series of post-apocalyptic mytho-magical novels beginning with his popular ''Empire of the East'' and continuing through a long series of ''Swords'' and ''Lost Swords'' novels. Most to be feared was the absence of any white symbol at all--that would mean fate had put into his hands Soulcutter, the Tyrant's Blade. The young giant's eyes closed briefly. His strong, almost-handsome face was troubled.
Awkwardly he uttered words aloud: I do not want the responsibility of trying to hide that demon's blade. Or of trying to destroy it. Valdemar's prayer stumbled to a halt, as he realized that for him the second most fearful of the Blades would probably not, after all, be that called the Mindsword.
Given that one, he could simply refrain from drawing it; for him, he thought, the power to bend others to his will would pose no great temptation. Farslayer would be far more likely to be his downfall. There were certain people in the world, oppressors of humanity, for whom--though he had never met them--the youth felt a dislike that threatened always to spill over into personal hatred; and if the life of one of those persons, wherever they might be, should be so helplessly delivered into his hands, Valdemar feared his own latent capacity for violence.
Yes, it would be better if he got rid of this unknown Sword at once, not tempting himself by looking for the symbol which it must bear upon the hilt. Valdemar's hands quivered but they did not move. Because he might, for all he knew, be holding Woundhealer, the Sword of Mercy. That glorious possibility was enough to eliminate any chance that the mysterious gift was going to be put down into a crevice in the rocks before he had identified it.
After minutes of immobility, the youth with a sudden jerk stripped back the gray cloth completely from the black hilt. A small white arrow-symbol, pointing upward to the pommel, leapt into view. Neither the best nor the worst of possibilities had been realized. The weapon in Valdemar's hands was Wayfinder. The Sword of Wisdom, it was also called--Ardneh grant it bring him that! Valdemar breathed somewhat more easily.
Toward Wayfinder he felt timidity and awe, but no overwhelming fear. Gently he peeled away the remaining wrappings, exposing a plain leather sheath. Without pausing for further thought, he clasped the hilt and drew forth a Sword's full meter of incomparable double-edged blade.
The faint light of fading day and dying fire gleamed softly on steel smoother and sharper than any human armorer had ever crafted, at least since the lost civilization of the Old World. Beneath the surface of the metal a lovely mottled pattern was perceptible. Valdemar ran a tremulous finger along the flat side of the tremendous blade. No, despite his youth, he was no stranger to the touch of magic. But he had never in his life felt anything the like of this.
A happy thought struck suddenly. Some of the new strain and worry vanished from his youthful face.
Guide me, therefore--guide me to the person--to her--to the woman I have--I have almost despaired of ever finding. The one who is most fit, most suitable, to share my life. Though he was utterly alone, the young man could feel his cheeks warming.
But not particularly afraid. The woman halted suddenly. Eileen Cockcroft rated it really liked it Jan 14, But by the time he had reached the third terrace, his caller had already disappeared into the wet twilight shrouding the domesticated vines, the scant wild bushes, and the granite outcroppings of the lonely mountainside. Yambu thought about it. The youth's nerves thrilled with the surge of magic.
Frowning suddenly, he quickly amended: Having concluded this awkward speech, Valdemar arose, gripping the black hilt firmly in both of his great hands, fingers overlapping. Tentatively he moved the great blade in a horizontal circle.
One direction alone, almost straight east, set the Sword's tip quivering. The youth's nerves thrilled with the surge of magic. He cried out, wordlessly. For just a moment the movement had become so violent that the weapon almost leaped free of his grip. On a warm spring afternoon, seven days after the day when Valdemar had unwrapped the Sword, and more than a hundred kilometers distant from his hut, two pilgrims were making their way across a heavily wooded hillside that formed one flank of a deep ravine.
The first of these gray-clad travelers was a woman, apparently about sixty years of age, but still vigorous and hearty.
There was nothing feeble in the way she moved across the steep slope, among the thickly-spaced, narrow trunks. Her silver hair was long, but bound up closely. The strains of a long life showed in the woman's face, but no burden that seemed too much for her present determination. Like many other female pilgrims or other travelers, she wore boots, trousers and a loose jacket, and was armed for self-defense with a short ordinary sword.
The crowded treetrunks made it all but impossible for two to travel side by side. The woman's companion, who walked three or four paces behind her and carried a similarly serviceable but somewhat more impressive weapon at his belt, was a man in his early twenties, sturdily built, of average size. The young man's appearance, like the woman's, suggested both the weariness of long travel and a remaining capacity to deal with formidable difficulties. The woman halted suddenly.
She frowned and squinted at the sun, which shone brightly from beyond the medium thickness of the canopy of the tall trees' small spring leaves. Then she inspected the terrain, as well as she could from her position in the midst of a forest.
It carries us farther and farther to the east. Shall we try climbing to the top of the ridge again? Or going down into the ravine? No reason to think the bottom of this ravine will be more hospitable than any of the others we've struggled through during the past two days. An army of men with axes would have earned their pay clearing a road. Above the high canopy of leaves a silent, broad-winged shadow drifted; that of a half-intelligent enemy, cruel-clawed and implacably hostile. When the wind-borne reptile had drifted out of sight and hearing, Zoltan spoke again, his voice cautiously low.
This one may be dry, but the next--" He fell silent at the woman's imperious gesture. Her face had just now abruptly turned away from him, and she was listening intently for the repetition of a small sound just detected from ahead. In a moment Zoltan, looking over his companion's shoulder, could see a tall human shape, garbed in dull colors, moving among the dun-colored trunks, still fifty meters off, approaching along the hillside at their level.
Both travelers watched in ready silence, hands on swordhilts.
The single figure approaching seemed to be making no effort at stealth. In both hands the towering, broad-shouldered man, clad in what appeared to be a farmer's rough shirt and trousers and woolen vest, gripped a long-bladed sword And Zoltan, watching, felt the hair stir on the back of his neck.
This could be a Sword indeed! The stranger continued moving along the slope directly toward the pilgrim pair, though as yet he had given no indication that he was aware of their presence. Zoltan, staring at the approaching figure with a look of intense, frowning concentration, whispered: Amid the forest of 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 that happened he stopped in his tracks, startled, while continuing for a moment to hold the Sword leveled in their direction. Then, looking somewhat flustered, he grounded the bright point. At last the young farmer--for so his clothing made him appear to be--said: 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. 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.