* * *
The confusion precipitated by the attack among the demons and converts guarding the palace had quickly escalated into total chaos—perhaps it was only chance that some of the Dark King’s loyal creatures, discovering him in a high tower, stammered out the story of what they had just seen. They were positive that he, the Dark King himself, had given and was still giving puzzling and contradictory orders for a general release of hostages.
Vilkata, recalled by this alarm from a certain magical enterprise which had distracted him, recognized that some enemy armed with Sightblinder must be attacking—but he had been more than half expecting some such move for hours, and thought himself ready to meet it.
The Dark King looked forward, with the gleeful anticipation of impending triumph, to holding Shieldbreaker in one hand and Soulcutter in the other—and then walking among these Tasavaltans and enjoying watching what became of them.
But the Sword of Despair was not available just yet, and the joy of wielding Soulcutter against his enemies was going to have to be postponed for just a little while.
* * *
Scrambling up a ladder to the tower’s roof, the Dark King brought into action his secret weapon, a griffin he had recently obtained, and leapt into the saddle already secured to the magical hybrid’s back. The great lion’s head turned on its long neck, looking back for orders; the vast wings spread, the gigantic eagle-talons scratched at stone in an eagerness to taste soft human flesh.
In moments Vilkata was airborne, hovering over the most central courtyard—the point of riding a griffin rather than a demon was, of course, to render himself immune to being swirled away to the Moon again by Mark or his misbegotten offspring.
The Dark King was holding Shieldbreaker drawn and ready, and in his demonic vision Sightblinder below was no more than a silvery twinkle in the hands of one he recognized as a scorned enemy. And Coinspinner was there too, in the hands of another he had long hated! Today there were prospects for good hunting with the Sword of Force!
In the blink of an eye, Vilkata and his magic mount were hurtling down upon the raiders, ready to put a stop to their daring raid and to their lives as well.
Mass confusion was compounded, with rival Masters issuing contradictory orders. Even when Vilkata was present with the Sword of Force, Zoltan with Sightblinder could still deceive everyone else. To that extent another Sword could indirectly be effective against a leader armed with Shieldbreaker.
The difficulty on the Tasavaltan side was that Stephen and his friends were at times uncertain as to which figure was Zoltan and which Vilkata.
Zoltan was bellowing commands for all that he was worth. “He is the impostor, I tell you! But be careful, he carries the Sword of Force. You men, disarm yourselves and seize him.”
But there was no use trying to disarm a man flying overhead and out of reach.
Vilkata, gripping his own Sword firmly, swept low over the field astride his griffin, seeing very clearly the doomed impostor issuing orders in his name. With a howl of glee, the Dark King smashed Sightblinder from Zoltan’s hands. The magic Sword of Stealth was transformed into a shower of dead and deadly splinters, and Zoltan fell.
Once more the palace echoed with the violent explosion of a ruined Sword—but in the next instant the Dark King came near falling from his saddle.
His griffin-mount, understanding that something had gone wrong, landed abruptly. Vilkata clutched at the sockets where his eyes had been.
He was freshly blinded, his grip on triumph shaken.
Young Prince Stephen had just hurled into distant exile the latest demon to appear before him—it was Pitmedden, who had been providing Vilkata with his only vision of the surrounding world.
Chapter Seventeen
At the moment Sightblinder was destroyed the great majority of the thousands of hostages were already free, and the remnants of the captive horde were streaming swiftly out of the palace through its many exits, spreading away across the grounds, escaping the Dark King’s malevolence in dribbles and gouts of flight and panic.
Among those last to leave the palace were a number of people who fled unwillingly, converts still stubbornly clinging to their conversion; they were now in headlong flight only because they had heard their god, Vilkata himself, order them to do so.
Converted and unconverted alike departed unmolested. Stephen had for the time being banished all of their demonic gaolers, and the human converts Vilkata had assigned as guards were chaotically bewildered and demoralized. Thrown into a panic by their Master’s misfortune, those near Vilkata were desperately intent on shielding him from further harm. They were frenzied by his blindness, a deprivation of external help against which the Sword of Force had done nothing to protect him.
Adding to the confusion in the courtyard, the Dark King’s griffin-mount, prowling near him on the ground, slashed with lion-claws at the faithful who would still have helped their Master, and bared fangs large as human hands, keeping friends and foes alike at bay.
* * *
Vilkata in the courtyard had for a little while remained astride his plunging griffin, though unwilling to trust it airborne when he could not see; soon he had slid from the creature’s back. Now, on foot, with Shieldbreaker still firmly in his hand, and guarded from unarmed attack by the griffin and a circle of fanatical human converts, he was prohibitively dangerous for either friend or foe to approach.
Cursing and raging, the Dark King had no demons to bring him quick reports; and still he dared not attempt to fly, to pursue his enemies and their remaining Sword, until one of the creatures should return to provide him with sight. He called out repeatedly to his human bodyguard, urging them to protect him.
Coinspinner was still in the hands of the Silver Queen, but the Sword of Chance would of course be ineffective in any direct action against the man who still brandished Shieldbreaker.
When Yambu, with Ben looking on, questioned the Sword as to how best to defeat their enemy, Coinspinner unmistakably urged her toward the nearest exit from the courtyard.
Meanwhile, Stephen had been separated from his friends and lacked any magical guidance. But he saw that there was no way to attack Vilkata at present, and he too moved quickly to get himself out of the courtyard and away from the palace before the Dark King could recover his sight. More reptiles, and perhaps more griffins, were coming to sweep the place clear of potential enemies.
In the rush to get away, the young Prince left the palace by a different exit from Yambu and Ben. Neither party paid much attention to this fact at the time.
* * *
Vilkata was enraged by the awareness that some of his enemies must be getting away—but he was savagely pleased at having achieved the destruction of Sightblinder. That meant there was now one less Sword-prize in the world for which his many rivals and enemies might contend; and his own ultimate goal of dominating the world with a single Sword was further advanced by the same amount.
The Dark King’s pleasure was increased on hearing confirmation from his converts that Zoltan, cousin to the accursed Tasavaltan royalty, was undoubtedly dead.
* * *
Yambu and Ben, trotting away from the palace at a good pace for folk no longer young, heeding Coinspinner’s urging though they scarcely needed it, looked about them as they ran in an effort to locate Stephen, but without success.
And naturally no messenger-birds were available just now; the report to Kristin and Mark would have to wait.
The Silver Queen and her massive escort paused to catch their breath after a few blocks. Ben seized the opportunity to borrow Coinspinner from Lady Yambu. The Sword of Chance assured him that he should remain with her to reach whatever was his most important goal.
* * *
Stephen, running in a different direction, had escaped from the palace with his life and little else. He found himself once again moving through almost-deserted streets, still separated from his friends.
This separation was not necessarily any worse th
an inconvenient. Before launching their raid on the palace, the methodical veterans had designated a point of rendezvous for survivors, if their attempt to free the hostages should somehow miscarry.
Stephen went to the appointed spot—an intersection otherwise of no particular significance—and waited, under cover, for a quarter of an hour. When none of his comrades showed up, he comforted himself with the hope that they had probably survived anyway; and he decided that he had better move along, keeping a wary eye out for flying reptiles.
Mourning the death of Zoltan, but believing that his cousin had not died in vain, the young Prince started to make his way out into the countryside, where he hoped to be able to locate his parents.
* * * * * *
It was late in the day before Prince Mark and Princess Kristin learned, from a winged scout fortunate enough to survive the leather-winged predators, of the attack on the palace by their people armed with two Swords, and the general success of that endeavor, despite the death of Zoltan.
The bird could give its master and its mistress no news of Stephen—or of Yambu or Ben—and Kristin and Mark were once more uncertain of their son’s fate, and of the current whereabouts of the Sword of Chance.
The day wore on, and their knowledge of the situation improved minimally as more bits of information came in.
Mark, even before the attack on Sarykam, had heard some rumors concerning the independent army of mercenaries being organized in a neighboring territory by his old foe Baron Amintor.
To Kristin he muttered: “Wouldn’t have expected him to have a great deal of success, at this stage of the game; but he appears to have been successful.”
* * *
Amintor had been too distant from the palace to be caught up in the struggle to free the hostages, or in its aftermath. But his new partner, Arridu, was prompt at bringing him news, including that of Sightblinder’s destruction. The Baron smiled grimly to hear of such a serious setback for the Dark King.
Shortly after the Baron had received word and Arridu had once more taken himself away, Amintor succeeded in making contact with the most advanced scouting unit of his own mercenary army, a fast-moving cavalry patrol. One of this party’s scouting reptiles spotted him and guided him to the meeting.
To the Baron’s considerable relief, his second-in-command rode out to meet him. Amalthea was perhaps twenty years his junior, tall, dark, and slender, an attractive woman and a skilled magician as well as an effective warrior—a rare combination and one that suited Amintor perfectly. He understood very well that only the power of Coinspinner had made it possible for a man of his own age and condition to recruit a junior partner who was so eminently satisfactory in so many important ways.
Amintor felt a fierce joy when he beheld Amalthea cantering toward him, followed immediately by a pang of regret as he realized how likely it was, given his loss of the Sword of Chance, that she would not be with him much longer.
Still, for the time being, their relationship remained secure, as far as he could tell. Amalthea welcomed her leader in a warm though not greatly demonstrative fashion. She favored him with a simple kiss, while the picked mercenaries of the cavalry patrol looked on impassively.
Then Amalthea drew back a little. “Is there something wrong with you?” she asked sharply.
No doubt, he thought, her magician’s sense detected Vilkata’s stay-awake treatment. “A spell—one more spell, more or less…” The Baron shrugged. He was still breathing heavily from the excitement, the exertion, brought on by Vilkata’s magic.
“What kind of spell? And where is Coinspinner?”
“As for the spell, I tell you it is nothing of importance. Only a few words from our glorious leader, with the object of helping me keep awake. And Coinspinner has taken itself away.” That last explanation was near enough to the truth, the Baron thought, to serve the purpose. “You’ve brought what I asked for?”
“Of course.” Amalthea nodded. But had the woman hesitated fractionally before replying?
Leading Amintor to a little distance, just out of sight of their troops, Amalthea opened a large bundle of magical equipment and brought out a certain package—she had taken care that the soldiers not know that she was carrying it—and showed Amintor the Sword she had been taking care of for him.
It was another of Coinspinner’s gifts, of course.
Her eyes studied her elderly leader with concern as he unwrapped the weapon and looked it over.
The concentric rings of a target made up the stark white symbol on this particular black hilt. Farslayer. He nodded silently, knowing that he was going to need all the help that he could get.
Having inspected the Sword of Vengeance, the Baron sheathed it again and handed it back to Amalthea.
“And what am I to do with this?” she asked him sharply.
“You are going to have to use it.” He smiled at her in the way—if he could remember—that a young man would.
The woman only stared at him in silence, trying to fathom his plan, and perhaps his worth. Then she paused to do a little magic, seeing to it as best she could that they were not being spied upon.
Amintor added: “Use it when I am not with you. But at a time and in a way that I command.”
“Of course,” Amalthea responded, calm and business-like. “When and where?”
The Baron explained. The Sword of Vengeance was a marvelous threat, but its actual use was not without strong disadvantages. Chief among these was the tendency of the victim to be among friends when he was so helplessly skewered, and the concomitant tendency of the bereaved friends to retaliate in kind, when they found themselves so providentially provided with the means as well as motive.
Amintor, considering the matter coolly, as was his wont, thought it would certainly be satisfying to at last rid himself permanently of Mark, who had caused him so much trouble in the past, and continued to do so now. But Amintor was at the same time very reluctant to give Mark’s friends a return shot at himself.
Anyway, Amintor did not consider Mark his most immediately pressing danger.
He had barely finished his explanations, given explicit orders, and made sure that Farslayer was again securely hidden, when Vilkata’s demonic messenger—not Arridu this time—arrived to bid him hold himself ready for a conference. The Dark King, griffin-mounted, was on his way.
* * *
Some of the demons so recently banished by Stephen from inside the palace had been able to return relatively quickly to the Dark King’s service. Within an hour of his blinding, Vilkata had regained the ability to see and had jumped back into the saddle on his griffin’s back.
Before implementing the next step of his overall plan, which would involve going to the Moon, Vilkata wanted to settle matters between himself and Amintor.
* * *
When the two men met, in a small patch of summer forest, Amalthea retreated with her cavalry patrol, leaving Vilkata and Amintor alone except for certain members of the former’s escort.
The Dark King sarcastically demanded of the Baron what assurances the latter needed to be convinced that he now faced the genuine Dark King.
Amintor tried to sound conciliatory.
The senior partner, in a black humor, waved Shieldbreaker, and shouted that Sightblinder had now been blasted into fragments, damn it!
Then the Eyeless One, still brandishing the Sword of Force, angrily demanded of his junior partner: “What is the matter with you?” Under the circumstances, this could be only interpreted as rhetorical abuse. It was quite obvious that there were serious difficulties between them.
“Oh, Great King,” Amintor murmured, as if in an excess of self-reproach and fear, “pardon me!” And he moved clumsily as if to fall to his knees before his Master—a maneuver that brought him physically closer to his senior partner, by the two steps the Baron judged were essential.
From that position, crouching as if about to kneel, the Baron hurled his aging body forward, in a desperate effort to wrestle Shieldbr
eaker from its possessor. For once he would stake everything upon one move—because at this exact moment, if Amalthea were faithful, Farslayer should be coming to strike down his foe. If Vilkata dropped Shieldbreaker, he would die, and if he held the Sword, Amintor would wrest it from him.
There came a whistle and a ringing in the air, a flash of silver. The Dark King, Shieldbreaker still held high in his right hand, his countenance betraying no surprise, had withdrawn from his unarmed assailant by a single step.
At Vilkata’s feet the Baron lay dead, instantaneously transfixed by a bright Blade.
Amintor’s body still twitched, fingers closing spasmodically as if to grasp some prize, but his eyes stared lifelessly. He had been slain by Farslayer, flying at him from some unseen hand.
Only a moment passed before Amalthea appeared, emerging from summer greenery some meters behind the Dark King, walking slowly forward among the trees. Her manner was demure and subservient to Vilkata, who was not at all surprised to see her. Obviously they had met before. A look of understanding passed between them. The enchantress had decided she would be better off serving the Dark King directly.
An instant later Arridu appeared too, materializing out of thin air, smoothly assuring his Great Master that had the Sword of Vengeance not killed the traitor, he would have done so.
“It appears you both were right,” the Dark King complimented his two assistants. “The fool was planning treachery all along.”
In the next moment, brushing aside the congratulations of his aides upon his cleverness, the Dark King, laughing triumphantly over Amintor’s skewered corpse, planted a boot on the Baron’s chest, and plucked forth the Sword of Vengeance from the Baron’s heart.
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