Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story (11 page)

      
“Simply that I am going to be their Princess, as before—but no, not quite as before. There will be certain changes in the realm, but only for the better, because from now on I will serve in the name of the most glorious Crown Prince of Culm, who is soon to be Prince of Tasavalta also—and tomorrow, perhaps, the Emperor of the World!”

      
Murat sighed gently. “I think it will be better, my dearest, more conducive to peace, if you do not claim any thrones for me just yet.”

      
The Princess hesitated. “Very well—I suppose you’re right.” She crumpled a paper and threw it away, picked up a fresh sheet and began again.

      
Minutes later, the letters having been hastily distributed nearby, the Crown Prince, Princess Kristin, and their entourage were on their way out of Sarykam.

* * *

      
When the city was an hour’s ride behind them, the Crown Prince began to see Tasavaltan cavalry in the distance, but so far the uniforms of blue and green were only scouting, warily maintaining a prudent interval of several hundred meters.

      
Presently there also appeared a few high-flying winged scouts, keeping track of Murat’s small moving column from above.

      
Murat had cursed energetically on learning that Sightblinder was already gone. But the full implications of his failure to seize that Sword were only now becoming apparent to him. The Sword of Stealth in the hands of a determined enemy meant that from now on, he’d have to be agonizingly suspicious every time he saw someone he loved approaching him—and doubly fearful if ever he saw a being he feared too much to face in combat. Not that, in Murat’s case, there were many human or inhuman entities who’d fit either category.

      
Ah, if only he’d been able to get Sightblinder into his own hands! Then he might have been able to enforce peace. That weapon and the Mindsword might well have formed a practically irresistible combination for controlling minds. Besides providing its possessor with deceptive concealment, Sightblinder also allowed him or her a better perception of the true nature of other folk.

      
Yes, he was going to have to take the most careful precautions against the great and subtle Sword of Stealth.

      
And not, perhaps, only against that one. To the best of the Crown Prince’s knowledge, six more of the Twelve Swords forged by the god Vulcan were still scattered about the world.

      
Murat had passed almost his entire life not being in possession of any of the Swords, and in that state had never spent much time worrying over what might happen if one were used against him. But on those rare occasions when he had got his hands on one of the Twelve Blades, he always found himself suddenly much concerned about the others.

      
Of course, anyone having one Sword became a much more likely target for whoever controlled the rest. The titular Crown Prince of Culm as an itinerant and landless nobleman was one thing, and the same man as a Sword-holder was quite another. It was as if the acquisition automatically thrust him, willy-nilly, into some great, only vaguely defined game, whose players had each as his object the domination of the world.

      
The Crown Prince carefully corrected his thought. The other players, perhaps, had such an objective. His own ambitions remained much more modest.

      
Now moving briskly along toward the frontier that he and Carlo and Kristin must cross on their way to Culm, Murat considered what he knew of each of the other Swords still in existence. The strongest was probably Shieldbreaker, which immunized its bearer completely against the Mindsword’s power, or indeed against the action of any other Sword or lesser weapon, whether material or magic. Only an unarmed opponent could—and almost certainly would—prevail against the holder of the Sword of Force.

      
The great and evil magician Wood had grasped that fact, certainly, a year ago when he had been forced to cast away the Sword of Force to save himself in Sha’s casino. Someone else must have picked up Shieldbreaker there. But who had done so, and who might hold that tremendous weapon now, were unanswerable questions to Murat. Nor was it likely that anyone in Tasavalta had the answers, as his new ally the Princess had already assured him.

      
Next on the list, somewhere out there in the world, was Wayfinder. The Sword of Wisdom could help its owner avoid fatal traps, doubtless including the Mindsword’s sphere of influence, and could indicate to him or her the proper path to any goal. Wayfinder’s use entailed certain drawbacks, however, usually increasing its owner’s risks.

      
Kristin, who shared much of her husband’s extensive knowledge of the Swords, had confirmed that no one knew what had happened to Wayfinder either. At least neither she nor her husband had heard anything new of the Sword of Wisdom since it had vanished from the body of the dead god Hermes, some eighteen years ago.

* * *

      
…The Mindsword’s sphere of influence, yes. What factors set its limits, exactly? Murat had observed that the effective distance seemed to vary slightly from one use to the next, but what caused the expansion or contraction he did not know. Whatever the causes, he knew that his Sword’s influence extended throughout a space of about a hundred meters in every direction from the Sword itself.

      
And what an influence! All along Murat had known, in a theoretical way, what he might expect the Mindsword to do for him, because he knew what it had done for others who’d possessed it in the past. But the actual experience of drawing and using such a weapon had been beyond his power to foresee. He wondered if the previous owners of the Sword of Glory had felt the same way. Who had they been? The most famous of them, of course, was Vilkata, the Dark King whose image still haunted Kristin’s nightmares, a man Murat had never met, now missing for fourteen years and presumed dead.

* * *

      
After checking with Carlo on their line of march, the Crown Prince proceeded with his mental inventory of Swords. There was of course Soulcutter—Murat experienced a faint internal shudder at the mere thought of that Sword, though he had never seen it in action, even from a safe distance. He’d heard that the Silver Queen, who’d used it once, had spent most of her years since then on one religious pilgrimage after another.

      
Murat knew that Soulcutter had beaten the Mindsword at least once before. But on that occasion, an open confrontation between armies, the two Blades had never been brought into actual physical opposition. The Crown Prince had no idea which might prevail if that were to happen.

      
—And Coinspinner, which had so recently been his, might one day be his again. That Sword came and went as if by its own random preference, and no human being, it seemed, could do anything to keep it once it chose to leave. The Sword of Chance would probably provide anyone who held it with the good luck necessary to stay out of the Mindsword’s sphere of influence; and Coinspinner was also capable of inflicting bad luck, sometimes disastrously bad, upon its owner’s enemies.

      
The Sword of Mercy could give protection against injury or death to anyone who held it. And it could heal even the wounds, otherwise practically incurable, inflicted by the Mindsword when it was used as a physical weapon.

      
The last of the six Swords still somewhere out there in the world was Farslayer. Enough to say of the Sword of Vengeance that it could unerringly strike the Mindsword’s holder, or any other target, when thrown from any distance. No defense was effective—except of course that provided by Shieldbreaker. Neither Kristin not Murat could guess who now held Farslayer.

      
Keeping an eye out for more Tasavaltan cavalry, Murat urged his steed to a faster pace. He and his followers still had a considerable distance to go to reach the boundaries of Culm.

Chapter Ten

      
Prince Mark and his single companion were still some hours’ ride west of the Tasavaltan border when the small winged messenger from Sarykam, having located the Prince, came spiraling and crying down toward him, a tiny black omen falling out of a vast gray sky.

      
The Prince reined in.

      
“Ben!” he called in a cautious voice. At the same time he held out his left arm to make a perch for the small courier.

      
The huge man who had been riding a few meters ahead of Mark along the narrow trail turned at the call, then tugged his own mount to a halt and watched the messenger descend.

      
Of the two riders, both still under forty, the Prince was slightly younger, somewhat taller, and much less massive, though certainly robust enough by any ordinary standard. Both men had time to dismount before the spiraling, skittish messenger ceased to fly in circles and came to perch upon the Prince’s wrist.

      
Having alighted at last, the small feathered creature stuttered in its inhuman, birdlike voice that it was carrying a written communication to the Prince from the wizard Karel.

      
“Mark, Mark, are you Mark?” it demanded boldly of the man who stroked its head, as if it might even now be able to withhold its burden from an impostor.

      
“I am Mark—you know it, wretched beast—you must have seen me around the palace since you were a hatchling. Hold still and let me have the message!”

      
And the Prince of Tasavalta reached for the tiny leather pouch and slipped its belt off over the creature’s head.

      
Ben made no comment, but lumbered closer, openly positioning himself to look over the Prince’s shoulder and read the message as soon as it should be unfolded.

      
The written words, in old Karel’s familiar script, were few. Mark’s magician-uncle urgently and tersely urged him to abandon all other projects, whatever they might be, and get home as soon as possible. The phrasing hinted at tragic happenings in Tasavalta, though clearly reassuring Mark that there had been no death in the royal family. What had actually gone wrong was not spelled out, against the possibility that the message might fall into the wrong hands.

      
Ben, having read the message, grunted and said nothing.

      
Mark made no comment either, but folded the paper briskly and stuck it in his pocket. Then he tossed the winged creature back into the air, calling after it: “Tell the old one I am coming, as quickly as I can.”

      
“Pardon, Prince, but I must rest!” the winged one squawked.

      
“Come back and rest, then, on my saddle, or behind me if you can. It seems that I must ride.” And Mark swung himself up into the saddle again. Moving homeward once more, no faster than before upon a mount already tired, he absently dug out food and water from his saddlebags for the messenger.

      
Ben, silent and gloomy, was now riding close beside him once again.

      
In half an hour, the messenger suddenly took wing again, squawked a brief farewell, and soon vanished over a hill ahead.

      
Ben and Mark maintained a steady pace, each man looking ahead to try to spot some source of water and forage for their animals. Their journey, like some others they’d undertaken, had been long and hard but had brought no visible reward.

      
Now at last the two men began to discuss the message, and Mark speculated on what exactly might have happened to cause Karel to send it.

      
Ben offered such comments as he could think of that might be helpful; they were not long, or many.

      
The Prince, his mood growing blacker the more he thought about Karel’s note, finally made a bald admission. “Ben, I have long neglected my wife and family.”

      
“Ha. So have I; not that Barbara any longer cares much what I do.”

      
“It’s my fault if you have. What have we accomplished on all these journeys?”

      
Ben could find only a vaguely encouraging answer to that. Which under the circumstances wasn’t much.

* * *

      
Next day, as the weary pair were nearing the Tasavaltan border, they were met by a mounted party, including Karel himself, hastening out to meet them. The old wizard had already received Mark’s answer and, relieved that he was already so near, had ridden to intercept him. Having the advantage of winged scouts, the magician and his companions had felt confident of being able to locate the returning pair efficiently.

      
Mark, on first catching sight of the approaching search party, stared intently, shading his eyes with a broad hand, at the figure in its lead.

      
When he spoke, the relief in his voice was evident. “Thank all the gods, Kristin’s well. She’s ridden out herself to meet me.”

      
Ben opened his mouth, but then said nothing. At the head of the approaching party he beheld not Princess Kristin but a certain red-haired girl. Even at the distance he had no trouble recognizing her, as strong and young and vitally alive as she had remained for many years now in his memory.

      
Realization of the truth followed only a moment later, though too late to dull the renewed pang of loss. The figure they were looking at was of course neither that of the Princess nor Ben’s old love. It was someone else, and whoever it was was carrying Sightblinder.

      
Mark was not so quick to come to this conclusion—after all, he had good reason to believe that Kristin was still alive.

      
“Yes, it’s Kristin, all right,” the Prince announced. Then he glanced at his old friend, away, and back again.

      
“Why are you looking like that?”

      
“Because that’s not who I see.”

      
The Prince swung back to face the approaching party. “Kristin, certainly. Or…” He looked at Ben again, and in a moment understanding came. “Yes … yes, of course.”

* * *

      
Actually it was stout Karel himself riding at the head of the welcoming delegation, with the Princeling Stephen close behind him. The old magician entrusted his Sword to an aide as he approached, turning a young officer tempo-rarily into a figure of fantasy whom the others present, all more or less inured to Sightblinder’s effects, generally managed to ignore.

      
Stephen, spurring his mount forward, was the first of the approaching party to reach his father. Clinging to Mark’s arm, the lad began at once to pour out a tale of magical horror and outrage.

      
Reporting loyally to Mark in turn, Karel confirmed the bitter story, adding some details. Then he informed his Prince that General Rostov had already taken one of the other Swords, Stonecutter, from the armory into the south-ern mountains, where an effort was under way to cut off the road that would offer Murat his most direct route back to Culm.

      
“Then there can be no doubt it is Murat again.”

      
“There can be no doubt.”

      
Next Karel and Stephen between them related, more or less efficiently, more details of what had happened to Kristin.

      
The Princeling in a strained voice told his father once more what he’d seen with his own eyes: his mother encountering that evil man who’d been here last year, the Crown Prince of Culm, who had turned out to be such a thief and traitor.

      
Stephen, watching that encounter from a distant hill, had been too far away to be sure of the stranger’s identity at first. He had seen the blue-green uniforms riding with the unknown man, and so had not taken alarm immediately. He’d watched with curiosity, thinking that possibly a squad of cavalry was bringing in a prisoner, or else escorting some visitor of importance.

      
And then, riding a little closer to see better, Stephen thought he had recognized the evil Crown Prince. He had seen the man drawing a Sword, and had observed by its effects the otherwise invisible wash of magic from that weapon, felling or stunning everyone within about a hundred meters.

      
Mark was staring intently at his son, hanging on his every word. “And your mother? What more of her could you see?”

      
“She did not fall from her mount, Father, but she dismounted of her own accord. And then a moment after that, the villain dismounted too—I think he was hurt when our men charged, because he needed help afterward to get off his riding- beast—and then it seemed to me that Mother went with him willingly after that.” Stephen’s voice faded almost to inaudibility on the last words, and he bit his lip.

      
It all sounded very convincing, and Karel, looking as grim as Mark had ever seen him, could do little more than confirm the essentials of Stephen’s story. Murat of Culm, at the head of a small armed party—but nothing like a real invasion force-—had ridden into Tasavalta carrying the Mindsword. First he had ensorcelled a whole patrol of cavalry, and then had taken Princess Kristin hostage—Karel’s own arts now told him that she was thoroughly under the Sword’s spell. If there were any doubt remaining, she had left written messages proving as much.

      
The Prince, listening, felt numb and hollow, an empty man going through motions because it was his duty. “Messages?”

      
Karel dug into a pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, which he handed over to Mark.

      
“This one is addressed to you, sir.”

      
Hastily Mark broke the little seal, unfolded the paper and read it, first silently and then aloud. There, in what was undeniably his wife’s familiar handwriting, were words telling him that he had been divorced and deposed as Prince. The message concluded with good wishes for his future welfare. It read, thought the Prince, rather as if he were some senior official being nudged firmly into retirement.

      
Mark started to crumple the paper to hurl it from him, then thought better of the gesture and instead handed the document back to Karel’s reaching hand. Any token from Kristin might possibly give a great wizard some magical advantage when the contest for her will was fought—as it was going to be—and in the circumstances every possible advantage would be needed.

      
“But she is physically unharmed?” The Prince marveled at how calm his own voice sounded.

      
The magician bowed his head slightly. “So it would seem, sir.” Everyone else was gravely silent.

      
“Then we must do our best to see that she stays that way. Where are they now?”

      
Karel described the place where Murat and his enthralled followers were currently encamped, then detailed the military and magical steps he and General Rostov had already taken. Besides dispatching a force to cut the southern road, Rostov was deploying chosen units of his army on the home front, while a reserve of troops had been mobilized and stood ready for the Prince’s orders.

      
Mark, listening, put aside grief and fear and began to grapple mentally with the practical difficulties of attacking an opponent armed with the Mindsword.

      
“Any word from Murat himself? Is he asking for negotiations?”

      
“No, sir.”

      
“Then we’ll not give him the satisfaction of asking for them either.”

      
Quickly making decisions, the Prince formally assumed command, then sent a small detachment of men under Ben to take over the efforts being made with Stonecutter to close the mountain passes and high trails leading toward Culm. Rostov, once relieved from duty there, would be free to oversee a general mobilization.

      
Having dismounted to sketch a couple of crude maps in the dust, Mark wiped them out again with his boot, and climbed back into the saddle, this time on one of the fresh mounts brought out from the city by the welcoming party.

      
He announced: “We’ll concentrate first on keeping the villain in our country, until we can plan how best to attack him.”

      
Ben saluted and rode off quickly on a fresh mount, taking with him a few picked men from the small escort of troops who had come out with Karel.

      
Everyone else soon set off at a brisk pace, in a different direction. On Karel’s advice the Prince was leading them in the general direction of Sarykam.

      
Mark as he rode soon issued more orders. A messenger was dispatched to his older son Adrian, giving the facts of the incursion and kidnapping, and such scanty reassurances as were possible. Karel had been reluctant to send word to Adrian until he could talk to Mark.

      
Mark was anxious to take the field against Murat, but Karel thought it would be best for the Prince to meet first with the Tasavaltan Council. That body was already in session, considering whether to depose Kristin at least temporarily as Princess, since she had demonstrably taken leave of her senses.

      
“What good will that do us? The point is that we must get her back, do you not agree?”

      
“Wholeheartedly, Prince. But the Council is involved. If they should depose the Princess Kristin, it would become the duty of your son Adrian to assume the throne. And I fear your own formal authority as Prince Consort might be undermined as well.”

      
“My friend, if I have any authority in my adopted land at all, it is only because you and the other Tasavaltan leaders choose to give it to me. Our son Adrian is still too young to rule, and in any case he’s too far distant to be brought home in a few days. The Council must see that the problem can’t wait for that.”