After stepping across the threshold of the Sword-chamber, Vilkata paused again before approaching the inner vault, whose doors he saw were closed. He delayed a moment to study more closely the body on the floor. With faint disappointment the Dark King saw that the dead man was no one he could recognize as an enemy.
Particularly the intruder now took note of the blasted Sword-hilt in the corpse’s hand.
Vilkata bent to investigate further; even without touching this relic he thought he could identify it, even drained of magic as it was. There was no doubt that these scorched wooden splinters, no gram of metal left, had once been part of the Sword Dragonslicer.
No doubt at all?
“Pitmedden.”
“Master?”
“Do you pry his fingers open. I want to get a better look at that black wood, to make absolutely sure.”
Some part of the vision-demon’s nature took on the form of a dwarfish, malignant-looking human child, unnaturally hairy, crouched by the dead man’s outflung right arm. In a moment the dead fingers loosed their grip.
The white dragon-symbol, offering a final confirmation of the smashed weapon’s identity, was still visible upon the hilt.
A shattered Sword just now was even a worse sign than a dead body, because it was a sure indication that Shieidbreaker had already been brought into action.
Vilkata, scowling at this discovery, was suddenly no longer sanguine about his chances of finding the Sword of Force available when the inner Sword-vault—obviously this construction standing in the center of the chamber—should be opened.
In another moment he had employed the secret incantation given him by Karel, and the two doors thudded back.
Vilkata frowned to find the vault already emptied of its best treasure.
Only one Sword, obviously Stonecutter, was still in its rack. For the time being, Vilkata let it stay there. Above and below the single occupant, four empty velvet spaces yawned.
A moment later Karel appeared—for the second time in a few moments, as Vilkata thought. Princess Kristin’s mighty uncle, as helpless in the Mindsword’s grip as the humblest of servants, having now in great concern for his Master’s welfare followed him downstairs, caught up with the Dark King in the Sword-chamber, discovered in his turn the body of Bazas, recognized the man, and expressed grief over the loss.
“What loss is that?” demanded the Eyeless One. Karel murmured something to the effect that it was to be hoped that Bazas before dying had also seen the light, the glorious truth about Vilkata.
Vilkata mumbled viciously. “Old idiot, are you going to prove as useless as you look? What does it matter what a dead man thought or felt? The real loss is here; the most important Swords are gone. I want to know who has them.”
Karel obediently turned his attention to the inner vault. He was clearly surprised, and every bit as chagrined as Vilkata, by the absence of Sightblinder and Shieidbreaker. “I do not know who has them, Master,” he admitted sadly.
Vilkata shook his head impatiently at this evidence of ineptitude. “Well, where was Shieldbreaker when you saw it last? And Sightblinder? Surely they are customarily kept here?”
“Yes, sire. I had thought they would be here now.” The old wizard continued to look stricken at the loss.
“Well, find them! You know the people here, the lay of the land. Use your vaunted powers!”
The elder wizard looked gently pained. “Master, if whoever now possesses those two Swords does not wish to be found, neither my powers nor any others will search effectively.” And the graybeard made a helpless gesture.
Of course he was right. The Dark King gestured too, and muttered, summoning into the armory more demons, who rolled down the stairs like so many billows of smoke. A moment later, fearing Shieidbreaker in the hands of some unknown enemy, he shouted to bring more human converts to his side as well, potential unarmed champions and defenders if he should need them.
* * *
To the young Prince, who had been brought to a virtual halt two rooms away, these additional demons, which would ordinarily have sickened him to the point of disability, now seemed no more than storm-wraiths passing at a distance. Armed as the boy was, they could neither harm him nor even really see him; each demon, Stephen supposed, must be perceiving him as one of their own kind, or as the wizard whom they worshipped, no matter that the real wizard was visible only a few paces distant. Such was the power of the Sword of Stealth. …
Stephen’s mind was for the moment clear again, though he had to struggle to keep his perceptions and his balance steady. Once more his feet were carrying him relentlessly, almost silently, toward the Sword-room, and in each hand he still held a heavy weapon poised.
Whatever conscious fear he had experienced a few moments ago was now completely gone, and even his dizziness and disorientation were now abated, swallowed up in a burst of murderous rage directed at this intruder. Shieldbreaker’s steady, muffled hammering sounded no louder than the beating of his own heart.
When he saw who stood beside the Dark King in the pose of an adviser, Stephen’s rage, unreasonably enough, extended to Karel. But Karel at the moment was in no danger; he was not the one who had to be struck down.
The young Prince’s quarry, a powerful man, an almost matchless wizard, seemed unable to hear or see the doom which was coming upon him. This tall creature before Stephen, pale and eyeless as a cave-worm, repulsively malignant and at the same time helpless, was the evil man who two years ago had almost killed Stephen’s mother and had come near bringing disaster upon the whole realm.
* * *
Yet again the moment of final confrontation was postponed. One of the flock of circling demons, evidently caught up in an ecstatic urge to worship the figure it perceived as its true Master, came flitting toward Stephen—then, at the last moment, turned in terror, on the point of flight from whatever sudden alteration it now saw in the shape before it.
In a spasm of hatred and revulsion the youth armed with the two Swords killed the demon. An effortless flick of the young Prince’s right wrist, a single drumbeat from the Sword of Force, and the hideous thing was gone—he wondered why the man who was going to be his next victim should not at least have heard that much warning? Because, the demon-killer quickly understood, Sightblinder muffled and transformed everything. …
Yet perhaps the Dark King had heard something after all. His demeanor changed; he was almost alert. Warned by his powers that some new violence had occurred, but unable to pinpoint precisely what had taken place or where, he looked about him nervously. …
The magical and physical searches of the armory and lower palace, which moments ago Vilkata had commanded certain demons to perform, had already been carried out. Helpless against the Sword of Stealth, the searching demons had discovered no human presence unaccounted for—none save their Master’s own, and that of his loyal converts.
The searchers were once more swirling round him even now, reporting. “There is no one here who means you harm, great Master, no enemy at all. …”
But of course, the Dark King thought, cursing suspiciously, such a negative result was all one would expect in the case of an enemy working under Sightblinder’s protection—the searchers however diligent and clever, would be unable to perceive—
* * *
In the next moment, just as Stephen with weapons raised approached the door to the Sword-chamber, Karel, the real Karel standing just inside, turned an astonished countenance to confront him briefly.
“Master?” the old man asked, in wild bewilderment. Then, turning from Stephen to the genuine Vilkata standing just beside him, he uttered the same word once more.
“Master?” And with that the helpless old magician, befuddled like all Sightblinder’s victims, fell down in a near-trance of terror or worship, and was for the moment forgotten by the dueling powers that were about to come crashing into conflict.
* * *
Vilkata’s thought on the subject had no chance to develop furth
er. Stark terror gripped the Dark King’s guts and seemed to stop his heart.
Because a figure of utter and abysmal terror had just stepped from somewhere into the very room where he was standing. This entity came seemingly from nowhere, and immediately the Dark King knew in his bones that this confrontation meant his doom.
Facing him now was Prince Mark, in full battle gear, smiling a terrible smile of triumph, and lifting Shieldbreaker for the killing blow—or was the truth yet worse than that?
The fact that the approaching figure was being transformed even as Vilkata watched it made the apparition more terrible rather than less—the truly powerful were often capable of appearing in any guise they chose. The Eyeless One now perceived with merciless clarity, he was for a moment utterly convinced, that he was confronted by Orcus, the king demon, archfoe of Ardneh.
Not Mark. Still worse even than a triumphant Mark.
Orcus of old legend, the equal at least of Arridu in strength, peerless even among demons in sheer malignity, and somehow now rendered immune to Sightblinder’s control…
But in the next moment the figure was transformed again, and the Dark King beheld Ardneh himself, a body looking squarish and half-mechanical, ancient and utterly terrible to demons; the implacable enemy as well of wizards who preferred demons to humanity.
And yet again, repeatedly, Vilkata’s perception of the figure changed. Flickering in rapid succession, there came an image, more an intimation, of Vilkata’s own archrival in evil magic, Wood—then he was certain he was seeing Wood, pretending to be Orcus. Then vice-versa.
And now once more he beheld Prince Mark, fully armed with the Sword of Force, immune to any influence Skulltwister could exert. …
Whipsawed by these various possibilities, the Dark King was left in a state of terror beyond thought, worse than what could have been evoked by any single, simple presence. His instinctive reaction was to pull a trigger of enchantment, to activate a long-prepared reflex of flight.
He knew that his Enemy, whatever mask It wore, whatever powers It wielded, was One. Certainly someone, a single being, had slipped inside Vilkata’s ring of ferocious demonic bodyguards, had confused and blinded them, neutralized them, with such ease and strength that they might as well not have been there at all.
* * *
And in these moments of Vilkata’s freezing terror, the young Prince approaching, his deliberate strides now bringing him almost within Sword’s-length of his foe, his own perception now feverishly enhanced by holding Sightblinder, was able to do more than recognize with absolute certainty his father’s great and almost lifelong enemy the Dark King.
Now Stephen found himself empowered, even compelled, to study the man, in the most chilling and disgusting detail.
The face strongly featured, except for the ghastly empty eyesockets—a face looking neither young nor old—the clothing, rather nondescript for a great king and wizard—the pallid, powerful body.
With a feeling of unutterable loathing, the young Prince stepped forward and willed to strike with the Sword in his right hand.
And, at the same time, the thought existing simultaneously, Stephen consciously reminded himself that he must be ready to try to rid himself of Shieldbreaker on short notice, should his enemy at the last instant be unarmed. Then he, Stephen, would have to use the weapon in his other hand instead; use Sightblinder as a simple piece of sharpened, weighty steel, a physical killing device like any other sword. The Swords were all of them, save Woundhealer, effective in that simple deadly way.
* * *
And Vilkata in that same instant, overwhelmed by a mind-bending agony of fear, instinctively raised his own weapon, and at the same time willed with all his soul his magical escape. …
* * *
The man’s body was almost completely dematerialized in flight before metal clashed on metal and one phase of the gods’ great magic broke against another.
In the almost instantaneous surge of combat, the Sword of Force responded at once to the movement of Vilkata’s Sword, and simultaneously to Stephen’s will to kill. There was a jar of opposition, an instant of overwhelming violence—the Mindsword was blasted into splinters.
A stunning explosion accompanied the clash, an echo in the ears of Stephen of the recent blast in which Dragonslicer had perished. This latest detonation stung at Karel’s helpless, fallen body, and wounded more than one of the converted people who happened to be standing near. The demons nearby too felt pain from the passage of those smoking fragments.
* * *
Stephen, as in his earlier encounter with Bazas, felt his arm pulled violently through a hacking motion. Fresh pain shot through his shoulder.
The young Prince assumed for a moment that his enemy must be dead. Then, when he could see clearly again, he realized that none of the bodies he could now see on the stone floor was that of the Dark King.
* * *
Vilkata had been slightly injured by the Sword-blast, but not enough to interfere with his escape. He continued instinctively to concentrate all his remaining energies upon the magical retreat he had already willed.
The Dark King’s vanishing, to somewhere outside the palace walls, was magically swift, quick enough to save him from most but not all of the Sword-fragments.
Had Vilkata’s flight been an eyeblink slower Stephen could have and would have killed him on the spot, thrusting Sightblinder awkwardly, left-handed, into the guts of the suddenly unarmed man.
That thrust was ready, but it was never made.
Chapter Seven
With a crash that resounded in his own ears like a minor thunderclap, Vilkata’s body arrived—somewhere.
So rapid had been his magical escape from the underground armory that he had even been separated from Pitmedden, the demon who provided him with vision, thus rendering himself at least temporarily sightless. Still, the flight-spell had succeeded admirably, and the Dark King felt reasonably sure that for the moment at least he was physically safe.
The utter, weak-kneed terror induced by his confrontation with the ultimate horror in the armory was gone. He had escaped, and for the moment he was alone. …
But where was he now?
All he could be certain of was that he was lying awkwardly facedown upon a curved surface that felt like wet stone, his body caressed by a whispery breeze that suggested outdoor air, amid invisible surroundings which smelled like a mudpuddle. This place, wherever it was, was quiet, shockingly so after the abrupt termination of the Mindsword’s cheering noise. But somewhere nearby water was trickling audibly.
Against the power of the spell Vilkata had just uttered, mere stone walls, regardless of their thickness, could have had little or no constraining effect, and he had no doubt that he was now outside the palace walls.
But where?
A quick groping about him with both hands provided no very helpful information. His body was draped, in what occurred to him must be a most undignified manner, over a hard, wet surface curved, now that he thought about it, like the rim of one of the fountains in the central plaza of Sarykam—certainly the shape felt more like a fountain than a watering trough. He remembered a number of each located in the plaza before the palace, and along the adjoining streets.
And the Dark King could still feel, clutched in his right hand but emptied of all magic, the Mindsword’s hilt. Reflexively he passed the fingers of his left hand over the raw, splintered end, making absolutely sure that all the Blade with all its power was really gone.
Long moments passed in which the Dark King continued probing his immediate environment by groping around him with both hands and listening intently. He learned very little by these means, but did get his body into a less awkward position. He was sitting now on the fountain’s rim, his booted feet on some kind of pavement. Wherever he was, his sight-demon still had not caught up with him.
Another thing to worry about. Suppose the creature had not survived the encounter with Shieldbreaker? That was a distinct possibility. And co
uld Pitmedden’s fellows, the Dark King’s entire force of demons, have been scattered or destroyed as well?
He, Vilkata, continued to be utterly alone and Swordless. Gradually his body reassumed the crouched defensive posture he had instinctively adopted as his magic shot him like a spirit out of the armory.
Muttering spells, he loaded and surrounded his own sightless body with further protective magic. Afraid to move, he crouched where he was, and continued to concentrate upon his hearing.
Below a variety of other sounds, he could detect those of nearby crickets, cheerful elementary creatures remarkably unperturbed by human and demonic travail and violence. Farther off were a couple of barking dogs, and a distant outcry of human voices. And, at the moment, very little else.
Vilkata grunted as he came to realize—somewhat belatedly because of the general wetness of his surroundings—that he was bleeding from several small wounds, tears and punctures in his arms and legs. The wounds called themselves to his attention by starting to grow painful—inordinately so, it seemed, for their size. Gingerly he probed them, one after another, with a finger. They were throbbing as if they might have been made by some poisoned weapon. After a moment’s thought the Dark King realized that these injuries had very likely been made by tiny fragments of the shattered Mindsword.
He muttered curses to himself, and waited. Another seemingly endless interval—it was really only the space of a breath or two—passed before the demon Pitmedden managed to catch up with his angry Master and, apologizing abjectly for the delay, magically reattached itself to his very brain.
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