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.
The yeoman holding the door open bowed lightly toward Vilkata.
“A pleasant morsel, Master,” the dry leaves rasped, “for the two of us to share tonight. For each of us to enjoy, in his own way. What r
emains will be appropriate as a small present for these villagers. A token of your appreciation of their years of hospitality.”
Vilkata began to laugh. His mirth rose louder and harder, as he had not laughed in years. Meanwhile the girl seemed to be petrified.
“Bring her in,” the Dark King commanded presently.
But the yeoman only bowed himself aside, out of deference, it seemed. “Nay, you, Master, shall of course be first.”
Vilkata looked at his new partner. Then he arose from his crude chair, on limbs and joints that had suddenly regained something of their youthful suppleness and strength, and stalked toward the door.
The girl screamed at his approach, and broke free of her paralysis. She ran into the little kitchen behind her. There was no door leading directly outside from the kitchen, and she went for the only window.
The man who had once been the Dark King, and now would be again, caught her from behind; the back of her simple dress tore in his grip as he pulled her back into the room. Now she slumped in his grip, and seemed to have no voice for screaming left.
But a moment later the girl broke free, with a spasmodic effort. Careening against the table in the center of the room, she snatched up a kitchen knife.
The demon blurred into action once more; one of the yeoman’s hands, suddenly sharp-taloned at the end of an arm unnaturally elongated, swung forward past Vilkata’s shoulder to strike.
The knife fell from the girl’s hand. Her face, suddenly bloody, grew blurred in the Dark King’s demonic vision, as she slumped forward into his ready grasp.
Chapter Three
Crown Prince Murat’s destination on his lonely ride was Tasavalta. Slightly more than a year had passed since his first visit to that realm. In the course of that visit he had met Princess Kristin for the first time. Murat had spent only a few days in her presence, and had not laid eyes on her since his hasty departure from her land. But throughout the intervening months the image of her lovely face had never completely left him; the impression of grace and beauty inspired by her chastely clothed body had endured.
Now, on the first day after Murat had found the Sword, Kristin’s presence was brighter and clearer than ever in his mind’s eye as he rode alone toward her homeland, traversing the desolation of the southern foothills of the Ludus Mountains.
Around midday the Crown Prince was roused from certain improbable daydreams concerning himself and the Princess by the discovery that he was being followed. Glancing back along the way he had come, he caught a glimpse of a single rider on his track, no more than two hundred meters behind him.
Setting all daydreams aside for the moment, Murat began to concentrate intently on matters at hand. Guiding his riding-beast into a maze of tumbled, almost house- sized boulders, he circled back to intercept his own trail, and at a carefully selected point of vantage waited to surprise the man who followed him. Disdaining to draw in his own defense the weapon he was carrying as a gift for the Princess, Murat instead unholstered an ordinary battle-ax from its place beside his saddle. Then he waited, listening to the approaching sound of hooves, ready for whoever might be coming.
Moments later a young man, armed, rode into sight, almost within arm’s length. Murat drew back his ax—
“Father! Don’t strike!”
The weapon was lowered, as the man who wielded it recoiled. Then the Crown Prince leaned forward in his saddle, staring with the stupidity of total astonishment into the eyes of his only son. Only in the last year or two had the youth grown into his full stature, and for a moment his father had failed to recognize him.
“Carlo!”
“Father!”
The ax was quickly reholstered, by a fumbling hand. After a moment or two of awkwardness—father and son had not seen each other for many months—they dismounted and embraced.
“You are looking well,” Murat commented at last, holding his son at arm’s length. Carlo, dark and round-faced, well dressed and well armed, was not as tall as his father, but in a year or two he would probably be physically stronger.
“And you,” the lad responded, “are looking tired.”
In the next moment explanations, and demands for news, poured out on both sides.
Carlo had left Culm only a month ago, and could report on what was happening there. Unfortunately the conditions that had turned his father into a semivoluntary exile still obtained. The aged Queen, Murat’s stepmother, still ruled, with her sickly consort at her side. And the royal couple, like many others in the homeland, still blamed Murat for failing to bring home the healing Sword of Love.
Without being asked, Carlo added to his report the information that his own mother and his sister were now living with his mother’s relatives. “I told Mother that I meant to find you, Father.”
“And had my dear wife any message for me?”
Carlo, suddenly downcast, had to admit that she had not.
Murat, having expected no other answer, shrugged; years ago his wife’s feelings and opinions had largely ceased to interest him. Then, seeing his son’s sad face, he smiled and tried to cheer him up. “I am glad that you came looking for me.”
Carlo brightened at that. He began to explain how, with considerable difficulty, he had managed to track down his father.
Then he asked, in a puzzled voice, and in the manner of one who really wanted to know, what his father was doing.
The older man gazed on his son with quiet satisfaction. “I have been on a quest of my own.”
“A successful quest?”
“Indeed! Very successful!” Murat, clutching the black hilt at his side, in his turn explained something—not all—about his search for, and recovery of, the Sword.
“But that’s wonderful!” Carlo was suitably impressed. “And where are you going now, Father? Back to Culm?”
“To Tasavalta.”
The youth shook his head, uncomprehending. “Tasavalta again! But why?”
“For a very good reason. On my last visit to that land, a year ago, I did someone a great wrong. Now at last I am able to do something to set the matter right.”
Carlo was frowning. He didn’t understand. “But—the Tasavaltans will want to throw you in prison, won’t they? Or worse?”
“Princess Kristin will listen to me. Especially when I present her with this Sword as a gift.”
“You intend to give it away? To the Princess in Sarykam?” The young man’s perplexity grew worse.
“Yes, that’s what I mean to do. Come, if you’re ready, let us ride on.”
The two remounted. As they rode on, side by side, Murat’s son was silent for a time. Then, still looking troubled, he said, “I hear that Prince Mark has a short temper. If they really believe that you have wronged them—” Carlo broke off, looking worried.
“Mark is generally away on some adventure. If he happens to be at home, well, I’m not afraid to face him. Short-tempered or not, he is said to be a fair man, and he will listen to me.”
Actually the Crown Prince spoke with somewhat more confidence than he felt. It had already occurred to him that in the unlikely event that Kristin’s clod of a husband was on hand when he, Murat, arrived in Sarykam, his welcome could well be unpleasant. But Murat had determined to take the chance.
Carlo, riding beside him, kept turning his head to look at the black hilt. At last the youth asked: “May I hold the Mindsword, Father? In the sheath, I mean. I won’t draw it, of course.”
His father considered the request seriously, then solemnly shook his head. “I think not. I have pledged not to draw it, nor to give it to anyone except the Princess herself.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but I still don’t understand why you intend to give it to Princess Kristin and Prince Mark.”
An edge crept into Murat’s voice. “I thought I had explained. A year ago I stole the Sword Woundhealer from that lady’s treasury. In doing so I wronged her greatly, though at the time I had convinced myself that what I was doing was the proper course of action. Now I
am determined to make amends.”
Carlo was silent. Murat wondered suddenly if he was thinking that his father had wronged others also, in times past, and never made amends in such grand style.
At last the youth spoke again. “Isn’t there some other way for you to right the wrong you feel you have committed against Princess Kristin?”
“This is the way I choose,” Murat said shortly, and tapped the black hilt with his palm.
Carlo, well acquainted with that tone, did not argue.
Shortly before sunset the two travelers stopped to make camp for the night. The subject of Swords was not discussed again between them before they slept, Murat lying with the sheathed Sword as close to him as a lover’s body.
In the morning father and son traveled on companionably toward Tasavalta, speaking of peaceful matters, using the time to renew their acquaintance.
* * *
Early on the second day after Carlo had joined Murat, the pair became aware that they were being followed. No such luck as a single stalker this time, but rather a band of eight, who definitely had the look of bandits. When father and son tried to outdistance their pursuers, four more riders appeared ahead, posted in just the right spot for tactical advantage, efficiently cutting off the travelers’ escape.
Father and son slowed their hard-breathing mounts to a walk, and presently to a halt. A ravine to their right and a rock wall to their left formed practically impassable barriers. The two found themselves trapped, effectively surrounded by a dozen mounted men who were poorly clothed, heavily armed, and plainly devoid of good intentions.
Murat had not yet voiced to his son his worst fear: that these might not be merely ordinary brigands, but the agents of some great magician or other potentate who had somehow learned that he, Murat, now possessed the Mindsword, meant to have it from him, and felt confident of being able to achieve that end. The Crown Prince had been aware all along that his finding might well have shaken the threads of several complicated wizard-webs.
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