Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story (3 page)

      
It was also completely unexpected, and it caused him to hold his breath for a full half minute when he first became aware of it.

      
But there was no mistake. A very different sort of visitor was soon going to arrive.

      
Vilkata’s senses, long trained to the implements and materials of enchantment, had been able to detect the approach of this caller from afar, though he doubted very strongly that anyone else in the village had the least inkling of who—or what—was coming.

      
Not the least doubt now. There was a subtle smell of sickness in the air, a feeling like an uneasy shifting of the world beneath the blind man’s chair, so he could easily have imagined himself perched on the mast of some ship far out of sight of land on the great sea, with storms surrounding him. This evening there was for a little while a more unusual manifestation, a heavy throbbing as of a distant drum. This last Vilkata was able at once to recognize as no mere human sound, and indeed it proceeded from a source that was ordinarily well beyond the reach of human ears.

      
From the moment when the man who had been the Dark King first detected his approaching visitor, he entertained no doubts about its nature. Most humans would have been terrified, but Vilkata was not altogether dismayed. The time had been when he, by choice, had spent more hours of each day with demons than with human beings.

      
The knowledge that a demon was swiftly approaching, the first such visitation he had experienced in fourteen years, was not now the total surprise that it would have been a day ago, or on any day when no one had laid hands upon his Sword. Still the event shocked Vilkata into a mental state more closely approaching normality.

      
The drumming sound soon faded and disappeared, but the other manifestations grew rapidly in strength. This evening the first overt sign of the newcomer’s immediate presence was—happy surprise!—a welcome return of vision to the blind man. Not ordinary vision, no, rather a lurid and distorted approximation, more colorful than ordinary human eyesight and keener in some respects. Despite this seeming acuity, Vilkata knew well that the demonic mode of sight was even less trustworthy than that enjoyed by common folk.

      
“I can see,” he suddenly whispered aloud, into what had been the unrelieved darkness of his hut. Now the stark outlines of walls and furniture, the colors drab, were plain in lightless night. His first reaction was that of a man awakening from dull sleep to horror and ugliness. Was
this
the room in which he spent his days, and years? This shabby hovel, cramped and dirty—

      
Before Vilkata could complete the thought he heard the demon’s voice. The syllables sounded in the man’s ears as any human might have heard them, light desiccated sounds evoking thoughts of dead leaves swirling among dry bones.

      
“Receive and enjoy my humble gift of sight. Dark King,” the demon said—and its tone was reassuringly deferential, as of old.

      
Vilkata thought that he recognized—or rather that he ought to recognize—this particular demon. In the old days he had known many of the foul things—many. He ought to remember this one’s name…

      
The man mumbled his response, as if he were speaking to himself, unaccustomed to any real conversation,

      
“I can see my room now—but not my visitor.” Still the thing’s name eluded him, still its individual presence hovered tantalizingly on the brink of recognizability.

      
“I hesitate to show myself,” the dry bones scraped.

      
“I know your nature, visitor. That would indeed be hard to mistake. What can you have to fear from me? Be bold and show yourself, assume whatever form you choose. What is your name?”

      
Without further hesitation the demon took form in Vilkata’s vision, appearing as if from nowhere, adopting a shape utterly incompatible with its voice—or with its real nature. The chosen form was that of a naked woman. Vilkata was not surprised. In all the dealings he’d had with demons in the days of his power, naked humanity was one of the most common illusions they projected.

      
Distrustfully he stared at this almost-convincing semblance of a female human body, lusty and youthful. The woman-face was blurred in detail, as usual in these visions, but what did that matter? The rest of the body, the sexual regions in particular, was very clear. Long black hair fell around full breasts. The firmly rounded thighs were slightly parted, the painted eyelids half lowered, the red lips smiling. The nameless female, archetype of a palace courtesan, sprawled wantonly in a crude chair across the room, her body unadorned save for a long string of pearls.

      
The Dark King knew well that as a rule these erotic images lacked substance. He commanded sharply: “Put on a different shape, I do not care for that one.”

      
“As you wish, Lord Vilkata.” The woman’s lips moved to form the dry demon’s voice, and even as they moved, they changed. In a twinkling her shape had become that of a male human, an anxious-looking, honest, sturdy yeoman of early middle age, unarmed and clothed for rough service, standing beside the chair in which the woman had been sitting. Briefly the yeoman’s shoulders sprouted rudimentary wings, which disappeared again the moment Vilkata frowned at the manifestation.

      
The eyeless man who was no longer blind prodded, in a suddenly strong voice: “I asked you your name.”

      
“I am Akbar, Lord Vilkata,” said the yeoman in humble tones, going down on one knee in the center of the shabby, uncarpeted wooden floor. “Perhaps you remember me.”

      
“Akbar. Yes, of course. I do remember now.” The demon of that name had been one of the most cowardly and otherwise contemptible of the host who had served the Dark King—though by no means the least powerful. “You may rise.”

      
The figure of the yeoman bounced up briskly to his feet, capable-looking hands clasped before him. “Long have I sought to find you, Dark King. I am anxious to serve you again, and I promise to do so as faithfully as before.”

      
Well, Vilkata could believe that kind of promise; because no demon, least of all the dastardly Akbar, had ever served anyone with any kind of faith. But all of their race were very powerful, and if you had the power and skill in magic to control demons, knew their limitations—and were willing to accept the risks—they could be very useful.

      
Suddenly the man in the crude chair frowned. “Why have you come seeking me now, after all this time? It must have something to do with the Sword.”

      
The yeoman bowed. “My master is as clever as always.”

      
“Ha. Perhaps I am still clever, perhaps not. But there are certain things a man does not forget—what is it, then? What do you want?”

      
“It is with great humility, Master, that I propose—dare I use the word? —a partnership.”

      
“Say on.”

      
Vilkata listened carefully as the thing went on, always speaking with great deference, to suggest what their relationship should be: from now on it would stay with Vilkata, or at least be in touch with him frequently, and help him. His magically renewed vision would persist indefinitely, even when the demon itself was elsewhere. Akbar could also provide the aging man with new strength and energy, perhaps even some change in appearance, physically renewed youth—and, a matter of even greater importance, it would take him near the Sword he sought to recover.

      
“Take me near it? Does that mean, in plain language, that you will help me get it back?”

      
“Of course … and there is revenge, Master! I do not forget what is most important. I can help you attain the revenge you seek to have upon your bitterest enemies.”

      
Suddenly Vilkata was aware of a pulse beating in his own head. Blood returning, as it seemed, after years of almost-suspended life. “Yes? And what then?”

      
“What then, Master? My poor intellect does not permit me to follow—”

      
“I mean, what do you intend to gain from this partnership of ours?”

      
The thing’s dry, androgynous voice continued to be fawning, soothing, in contrast with the sturdy, honest yeoman’s figure: “All I ask in return from you, Great Master, is that you give me certain preferential treatment. When you have regained the power that once was yours—and, if and when the Sword of Glory is yours again, that you should appoint me as your second in command over whatever forces of human beings and demons you then command. Your viceroy, over whatever lands you may then rule.”

      
The albino’s voice had become as dry as the demon’s own. “No thoughts of having the top place for yourself, I suppose?”

      
“Above yourself? Not I! No, no. Never! Remember, Great Lord, was I not content to be subordinate in the old days? When you ruled a kingdom, Master, and that Sword was yours before?” The yeoman spoke so earnestly; what a fine, sturdy peasant he seemed! “Was I not content?”

      
The thing seemed to be asking the question seriously, really hoping for an answer.

      
“I suppose you were,” Vilkata grudgingly acknowledged. “That is to say, I don’t recall any particular effort at rebellion.” In fact, as this conversation progressed he had gradually come to remember more and more about Akbar. Yes, definitely a cowardly sort of demon. Self-effacing, forever trying to avoid risk and responsibility, always seeking first of all to evade the pain of magical punishment and the possibility of destruction. One of the more easily managed demons, certainly. The very one he might have chosen to meet, had the choice been his, in his current state of weakness.

      
“There you are, my lord. I see that you do remember me. Why should you not, with my help, be able to regain your Sword?”

      
Wind whined, stirring the dry leaves; for a moment the yeoman’s face was blurred into a caricature. “You were a fine master, a great and intelligent master. I am not clever enough to be a master over clever men and demons—not without direction from above—but you assuredly are.”

      
The thing was waiting for an answer.

      
“Of course I will accept your offer,” the Dark King said after a moment. What choice had he, really? It would be pointless, he thought, for him to issue warnings, to say anything of his abiding suspicions. At one time his magic had been quite capable of managing demons, including creatures vastly more formidable, because less cowardly, than this one. His powers might be shaky now—but fortunately there was no need to try to establish magical control over Akbar just yet. The demon was coming to him willingly, and Vilkata saw no reason, given time and a chance to regain his physical and psychic strength, why his powers of control should not eventually be dominant again. Gradually, subtly, he would regain the upper hand…

      
“Our pact is concluded, then?” the sturdy, hearty yeoman asked him anxiously. “Our pact is made, and sealed. Where is the Mindsword now?”

      
“It is not far from here at all, Master. Not very far. Allow me to show you, Master, what I see.”

      
And in a moment, by means of his demonically provided vision, just as on occasion in the old days, Vilkata was once more able to behold a physically distant scene. This picture was of a rider traveling alone, wearing the Mindsword at his side. Magic and symbolism informed the vision, so that the Dark King perceived the weapon of the gods as a pillar of billowing flame, long as a spear.

      
“Take me to it!”

      
“I shall, Master, I shall! Never fear. But that Sword, as you know, is very powerful. We must take no chances. We must have a plan.”

      
“You mean the fellow might detect us when we get near him, or even as we approach, and use the Sword on us? Is he a magician, then?”

      
“
Perhaps
he is not … but consider that he has managed to obtain possession of a Sword that other magicians have sought for many years, and failed to find.”

      
“Indeed he has done that … and he might well get wind of us, and draw the Sword at an untimely moment—yes, there is that.”

      
Vilkata had no wish to spend the rest of his life in the abject adoration, the selfless service, of any other being.

      
“There is that, Master, as you say. We would not want him to draw the Sword when we were near. The danger is very real.”

      
Impatiently the Dark King waved a hand before his face, and the wraith of that distant, unknown rider vanished. He, Vilkata, was once more gazing with eyeless and demonic vision at his immediate surroundings, the dark, drab, ugly room of his long exile.

      
“Of course,” he said. “And I—wait.” His voice turned sharp, and he directed his vision toward the small room’s only door, which now stood closed. “Who’s there?”

      
He knew, even as he spoke, that the person outside must be only the village girl who had stayed for the night, roused to a fatal curiosity by the sound of a strange voice in the Lord Vilkata’s room. But it would certainly be best to make sure.

      
There was a whisper and a blurring in the air. Without visibly occupying the intervening space, the figure of the yeoman, moving with inhuman speed and silence, was already standing at the door, pulling it quickly open.

      
Just outside, the slight figure of the young girl stood revealed, her face startled, empty hands beginning to rise before her as if in an effort to ward something off.