Mindsword's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  “Father?” Carlo awaited orders. The young man was pale, but bearing himself well; he had already drawn his own sword and looked ready to fight to the death if his father should command it.

  Murat had as yet unsheathed no weapon. The pledge he had made to himself, in his own mind, never to draw the Sword for his own benefit, was indeed a solemn one. But now circumstances were gravely altered. Now not only was his own life at stake but his son’s as well, and not only their lives but possession of the Princess Kristin’s treasure.

  While Murat hesitated, the band of ruffians were closing in calmly and efficiently to their front and rear, little by little improving their already overwhelming position, edging their riding-beasts momentarily closer and closer still—except for three who remained well out of sword-range, holding bows and arrows ready.

  Until now the highwaymen had gone about their business without wasting breath on words. But now at last the bandit leader, one of the four who waited ahead, called out to his victims, demanding that the pair dismount and hand over all their worldly possessions. As he pronounced this ultimatum, the robber’s voice and attitude were rather cheery. If, he said, the surrounded pair surrendered their material possessions without fuss, he would graciously allow them to keep their lives.

  Murat, his right hand resting lightly on the black hilt, replied in a firm princely voice. “I think that we will hand over nothing.”

  “Oh, no?” The bandit leader sounded neither angered nor surprised by Murat’s defiance, but suddenly tired and rather sad. He was a squat man, with a long graying mustache, who occupied his saddle as if he might have been born there. “Well, then, your fate be on your own heads.” But still the brigand delayed, giving his men no command to attack, squinting at Murat now as if trying to settle some new doubt in his own mind. Presently he added: “Your clothing will be worth more to us if we can get it without holes or bloodstains. I grant you one last chance to reconsider.”

  “Instead,” said the Crown Prince, raising his royal voice once more, “I propose a rather different arrangement. If you and your men will let us pass, and go promptly and peacefully on your way, I will refrain from drawing my Sword.”

  There was no immediate reply from the mustached man. A great many people knew about the gods’ Twelve Swords, and quite a few had seen at least one of them at some time. For a moment the bandit leader did not appear to react at all. Then he said in the same tired voice: “Anyone can craft a sword with such a dull black hilt.”

  Murat did not respond.

  With a gesture the weary-looking robber ordered his archers to nock their arrows.

  And Murat, feeling a profound reluctance mixed with an unexpected fiery anticipation, drew the Mindsword from its plain sheath.

  His own first sensation was one of surprise. The naked Sword now in his grip and control had much less effect on him than it had had when he approached the unclaimed weapon. Now the vast power of the gods’ magic went flowing outward, away from the Sword’s holder in all directions.

  The bandits’ riding-beasts, as well as Carlo’s, exploded in rearing and plunging excitement. This was caused, Murat supposed, by the sudden turmoil gripping their masters’ minds and bodies. One or two men in the enemy ranks were thrown, but no one save Murat, not even the victims themselves, paid much attention to this fact. Each of the men caught in the web of magic had to respond in his own way to the wrenching internal change imposed from without. Some of the bandits cast down their weapons violently, some sheathed them with great care. Several of those who were not thrown dismounted voluntarily, while others went galloping in little circles, shouting incoherently like drunken men or lunatics.

  Among the bandits only their leader remained physically almost motionless. He bowed his head for a long moment, and his rough hands gripping the reins went white-knuckled.

  His shoulders heaved. Moments later, he raised a tear-stained face to plead with Murat. “Forgive me, lord!” the robber cried in a breaking voice. “I did not know you—I could not see you clearly when we approached, I did not realize—”

  “You are forgiven,” Murat called back mechanically. His chief emotion was relief that the armed threat had disappeared, that his life and his son’s life were safe. And at the same time he knew horror at what he had been forced to do. The Sword in his right hand felt very heavy; on drawing the Blade he had raised it overhead, but now he let his right arm sag down slowly to his side.

  Suddenly remembering Carlo, the Crown Prince reined his riding-beast around. His son, sword still drawn in his right hand, was just bringing his own plunging mount under control. And with a pang Murat saw that Carlo, like the bandit leader, was weeping.

  The young man stretched out a hand toward him, and choked out words. “Father … are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course I am. And you?” Hastily Murat sheathed the radiant steel in his right hand.

  Carlo sobbed. “If—if any of them had hurt you, I’d—I’d have—I don’t know what.”

  Deeply moved, and vaguely alarmed, Murat rode closer to his son. “Put up your sword, Carlo. It’s all right now, they can’t hurt either of us.”

  Meanwhile the bandits, all of them now dismounted and empty-handed, were prostrating themselves among a litter of discarded weapons, groveling before the Crown Prince.

  “Lead us, Master!” one of them cried.

  “Lead you?” he whispered, startled as if he did not understand at first. Later he was to wonder why he had not understood at once.

  Instantly the plea became a chorus. “Lead us!”

  “Take us with you, wherever you are going! Don’t abandon us here!” shouted another bandit. It was a cry from the very bottom of the heart.

  Murat cast one more look around him, while his left hand, trembling, sought out the black hilt once more. The Mindsword’s radiant power was sheathed, quenched for the time being, but its presence persisted strongly in the surrounding light and air, as the sun’s heat might linger in low country after the sun had set.

  Gradually the men who were prostrate on the ground, and Carlo weeping in his saddle, managed to regain full control of themselves.

  “Get to your feet,” Murat curtly ordered his new devotees, as soon as he judged that they were calm enough to listen to him. Being an object of worship was already making him uncomfortable.

  Now instantly obedient, his former enemies got to their feet only to advance on their new lord with empty hands raised in supplication. They clustered timidly yet eagerly around the Crown Prince, daring to clutch gently at his boots and stirrups, relentlessly importuning him to become their leader.

  The gray-mustached man who had been their leader before the Sword was drawn now came pushing his way through and ahead of the others, pleading as fervently as any.

  “Master, allow me to introduce myself. I am called Gauranga of the Mountains, and I place myself and my poor company of villains entirely at your service. I am their leader, and the only one with any skill at all in magic. We are not much, perhaps, but we are the most accomplished and successful band of brigands for many kilometers around.”

  Murat could not help feeling a certain sympathy for the poor outcasts, despite their recent murderous intentions. But other concerns still dominated his thoughts.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Carlo? The Sword’s influence fell upon you also. I didn’t want that to happen but as things were I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry—”

  “I’m fine, Father,” the lad interrupted. And really he now looked perfectly well. Then his young face clouded again. “It was only when I thought—when I feared that they might hurt you—”

  “Yes. Well, they didn’t.” The Crown Prince turned his head to speak sharply to one of his new devotees. “Let go of my stirrups, you, and stand back a little—that’s better. They didn’t hurt either of us.”

  Murat, inspecting his son, felt reassured. It was unlikely, after all, that Carlo could have taken any real harm. Historically the Sword’s effe
cts were very often only temporary; and what was more natural, after all, than that a son should honor and love his father?

  The condition of the bandits was another matter. A few minutes ago, they had all been thieves and murderers—and they had hardly changed in that respect, Murat realized. They would grab up their weapons instantly if he were to point out to them someone he wished robbed or murdered; grab up their weapons and fight for him, win, or die in the attempt.

  In a few more moments he and Carlo were ready to move on. But a dozen men on foot still surrounded them, begging not to be left behind.

  “What do you want of me?” Murat demanded of them irritably. But he realized it was a foolish question even before the words had left his lips.

  “Be our leader!” the bandits clamored eagerly, almost in unison.

  Now Gauranga, the former leader of the robbers, spoke up again, enthusiastically offering for Murat’s consideration a scheme his band had long contemplated. There was a certain walled village that the robbers knew of, a settlement so large and strongly defended that the risks of attacking it had been judged unacceptable. But now, in the service of their glorious new leader, they would gladly stake their lives in such an effort.

  “But the lord must not risk his own life!” Another bandit broke in, suddenly aware of the peril implicit in his former leader’s proposition. “Our new lord must stay in a place of safety!” Others growled their agreement.

  Before Murat could decide how best to placate the gang and get them out of his way, another bandit had the floor and was arguing that the lord would be in no real danger even if he were to join in the attack.

  “The Sword he carries will open the eyes of the villagers, even as it did ours.” And then, as the elated bandit went on to explain, all the inhabitants’ treasure, their food and drink, their gold and their daughters, would become instantly available for plundering. Once the whole village belonged to the lord, he could distribute its wealth among his followers as he chose.

  At this prospect a joyful babble arose, only to die out again as soon as Murat broke in firmly. “No! No, I am not going to attack any village, and neither are you. I command you all: from this moment forward, attack no one unless I give you permission.”

  There was a murmur of surprise at this, though nothing that could have been called an objection. Briefly the Crown Prince regained the quiet, respectful attention of the group.

  Then a question burst from one of the worshipers. “What is your name, Lord?” Another pleaded: “Will you tell us your name?”

  Again a general clamor mounted. From the exaggerated tones of pleading and worship in the men’s voices, someone just arriving on the scene might have thought that they were mocking the silent man in their midst. But he, who had experience of the Swords, knew better.

  It was Carlo, his adoring son, who shouted out his title—Crown Prince of Culm—and then with huge pride claimed the Crown Prince as his father.

  A disproportionately loud cheer arose from the small group.

  “See?” one of the thieves demanded triumphantly of his fellows. “I knew it all along! Real nobility!”

  “The greatest!”

  With a quick, reluctant salute Murat acknowledged the newest round of cheers. He felt weary. He needed time to think. “Very well, you may come with me, for the time being.”

  Renewed cheering answered him. The Crown Prince was thinking that this was certainly the quickest way out of the situation, and such an escort ought at least to discourage other bandits from attacking. The presence of this gang would reduce his chances of having to go through this all over again.

  While he thought of it, he sternly ordered his recruits to protect, obey, and honor his son as well.

  “He shall be second only to yourself, sir.”

  “And,” Murat reiterated, “there must be no more robbery and murder. Not while you serve me.”

  Still the men raised no objection, though now several of them looked thoughtful. Murat could imagine their concern: if robbery was now forbidden them, what were they to do from now on, how were they to survive?

  One man cried out—it was not an objection but a plea for help—that they faced an immediate food shortage.

  Murat and Carlo exchanged looks. Together, their two packs did not contain enough surplus food to provide more than one meal for so many.

  “Enough!” Murat shouted into a fresh murmuring, and once more obtained instant silence.

  “I have changed my mind,” he said. “I order you to go on about your business. Depart from my son and me. Obtain food as best you can, but kill no one for it.” It seemed to him a reasonable compromise, under the circumstances.

  He ought to have known better, but the reaction caught him completely by surprise. Stricken faces turned toward him. One howled to know why they were being so hideously punished. One or two others swore that they must kill themselves if their sublime master disowned them in this way.

  Others, Gauranga among them, objected more rationally: “Go about our business? But Lord, you have forbidden us our business!”

  Murat looked at Carlo. Carlo looked back at him, waiting in happy expectancy, ready to be delighted with whatever his glorious Father should decide.

  The Crown Prince closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a great weariness. In time, he repeated to himself, people tended to recover from what the Mindsword did to them. At least they recovered if they wanted to recover, if they were not exposed to the Sword’s continued influence, if other pressures were in place to have some contrary effect on them.

  He had no intention of ever drawing this particular damned Blade again. That being the case, he relented.

  “Very well, those of you who want to follow me may do so, for the time being. But sooner or later you must all go your own ways. I do not need your services.”

  Gauranga and his men looked sad on hearing this. Sad but determined, Murat decided. Some of them at least were certain to try to prove their worth as followers. And at least an immediate mass excommunication had been avoided.

  Chapter Four

  Murat and his son, attended by their new retinue of ragged but faithful followers, continued their cross-country progress at a somewhat slower pace. As the hours passed, and time came to stop for the night, the Crown Prince came to find the presence of the bandits, or former bandits, less ominous and worrisome. It was, after all, pleasant to be able to fall asleep knowing that his life and his son’s were guarded by sentinels of fanatical loyalty.

  The next day Murat was able to obtain food—to almost everyone’s surprise, he insisted on paying for it—from a village whose alarmed inhabitants were fortunate enough to enjoy a modest surplus. Murat intended to feed the former bandits, if he could, as long as they were with him, but beyond that he really felt no responsibility to them. After all, these men when in possession of their free will had been perfectly willing to kill him and his son. Nor was the Crown Prince willing to assume any responsibility, in his own mind, for what the current members of his armed escort might do after he eventually sent them away. Then they would be free men once more, and their conduct would be entirely up to them.

  By afternoon of the second day of his escorted journey, Murat started to find some amusement in the robbers’ continued adulation—they were often unintentionally entertaining, as drunken men or lunatics could sometimes be.

  Chuckling, he commented on this fact to his son, who worshipfully agreed.

  It was very fortunate, the Crown Prince thought to himself as they rode on, that he himself, instead of some raw youth—Carlo, for example, or almost anyone of Carlo’s age—had recovered the Sword of Glory. Much better for such dangerous power to repose in the hands of one like himself, an experienced man of the world, someone able to take such things in stride. In happier times he as Crown Prince had already received—perhaps, he thought, sometimes even deserved—his share of adulation. A man in his position learned to accept praise and devotion graciously, and not to allow such thing
s to warp his judgment.

  * * *

  As the odd group progressed southward the landscape grew hour by hour less barren, rugged, and desolate. More farms and villages appeared, and the trail they were following turned into a real road on which moved other travelers. These unanimously gave Murat and his rough escort a wide berth.

  Near sunset of their third day on the road together, the Crown Prince and his retinue came upon a blind beggar sitting at the wayside, a pale abandoned-looking man, some fifty years of age to judge by appearances, who raised his thin voice in a moaning plea for alms. In the red evening light the beggar’s clothes were gray as a pilgrim’s, so worn and tattered that their material and original design were hard to discern. The wooden begging bowl at the wretch’s side had nothing in it, as Murat saw when he reined near to toss in a small coin.

  A grimy bandage covered the mendicant’s eyes. His beard and curly hair might have been shiny black, just touched with gray, had they not been dull with dirt.

  At the sounds of the coin clinking in his bowl, and of the hooves of a large party stopping, the beggar raised his sightless face and turned it from side to side, as if to hear better.

  “Thank you, Master,” croaked the beggar at last, hearing no more coins.

  “I have not given you very much.” Murat raised his head to glance ahead and behind along the almost deserted road. “And you seem to have chosen a spot where you can expect but little more.”

  Now words poured from the beggar rapidly; evidently he was eager to talk to anyone who’d listen. “You see before you, kind Master, a victim of malignant fate. A persecution almost beyond belief has toppled me from a position of great respect and brought me here.”

  In Murat’s experience, most mendicants had some heart-rending story to tell, and some of their tales were doubtless true. But here was an oddity to intrigue the curiosity of the Crown Prince: this fellow’s speech was that of an educated man, a rare attribute in one of his profession.