Mindsword's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  * * *

  As Murat appeared in the doorway of the tent, Vilkata tried to throw himself on the ground before his new master. The Crown Prince signed to the soldiers to release his arms.

  “Great Lord Murat!” the beggar wailed, from the dust.

  “What is it, man?”

  “Can you possibly be merciful to me? I am the most wretched, treacherous—”

  There was no mercy in Murat’s voice. “Get hold of yourself! Speak plainly, and be brief, or by all the gods, I’ll—”

  Some of the soldiers standing by voiced their readiness to kill this confessed traitor out of hand.

  Murat ordered them to wait until they had heard what the fellow had to say.

  Meanwhile, he who had been called Metaxas rolled on the earth, still beating his breast and proclaiming his guilt, tears running down his bearded cheeks.

  “Forgive me, Lord! I would destroy myself now, to expiate my sins—except that now you truly have terrible need of help, help that only I can give you!”

  The Crown Prince, losing his temper, savagely kicked the prostrate form before him. The impact sent waves of renewed pain up through his own leg, but at the moment he scarcely noticed.

  “Are you going to tell me what the matter is, or not?”

  “Yes, Lord! I am—I must confess that from the beginning I have been in your camp under false pretenses. Even before we met, I was plotting to do you harm.”

  Kristin had now quietly emerged from the tent, her borrowed cloak discarded, garbed in the dress that she had worn beneath it. She was staring past Murat at the eyeless man, and her face was frozen in an expression of horrified fascination.

  “Oh?” Murat, bringing his concentration back to Vilkata, could not at first take seriously such a confession from such a source. “You? Plotting how, against me? With whom?”

  “With Akbar—does Your Lordship know that name?”

  The Crown Prince stared at the strange figure huddled on the earth before him. “Akbar? No. I have heard no one in this camp called that. Is he a Tasavaltan?”

  Once more Vilkata screamed in remorse, even more terribly than before. “Alas! Lord Murat, it is not the name of a man!—but of a demon.” And with those words he melted entirely into sobs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A demon,” Murat repeated in a whisper. On legs suddenly gone weak he retreated, one step, two steps, getting out of reach of the shaking, pale-skinned, black-haired hands that would have clutched his ankles seeking forgiveness. The Crown Prince knew a sensation as if a lump of ice had suddenly, by some enemy magic, been made to materialize inside his stomach.

  Clinging with one hand to the tent pole just inside the open flap, Murat bent forward, eyes fixed on the crumpled figure before him.

  “Who are you, then?” he demanded, in a terrible whisper.

  In the course of the eyeless man’s convulsions of repentance, the bandage that had covered the upper portion of his face had fallen off, and as he sat up he turned his horrible empty sockets toward the Princess.

  “I am Vilkata,” he rasped. “I was once the Dark King.” Kristin screamed.

  The wretch who huddled on the ground before her shrank back. His speech failed him completely for the moment, and he confirmed his confession with a spasmodic nod.

  The Princess slumped, and might have fallen had not Murat quickly moved to support her. Lifting her tenderly, he turned and carried her back into the tent.

  He was out again in a moment, ignoring the small gathering crowd of puzzled troopers and converted bandits. Bending down to seize the helpless, hapless Vilkata by the front of his garments, the Crown Prince hauled him to his feet.

  “A demon, you say.” This time the word was heard by most of the onlookers, and an abrupt silence fell among them.

  “Alas, sire, yes—”

  “Where is this alleged demon now?”

  Vilkata swore he was ignorant of the whereabouts of Akbar. “But I do know, Master, the trick of summoning the foul thing.”

  “You know the trick? You tell me that a demon is under your control? Or are you babbling, old man, are you utterly mad?”

  The Dark King screamed again. “Alas, no, my master, I am not mad. Would that I were!”

  Controlling himself with a great effort, he who had been calling himself Metaxas went on to explain.

  “Until a few minutes ago, my lord, I had managed to avoid the power of illuminating, healing magic in the Blade you carry. Wretch that I am, I deceived you, having in mind only my own advantage. I only pretended to be convinced of your perfection—I only feigned loyalty, while at the same time Akbar and I were plotting to seize Skulltwister as soon as a good chance should present itself.”

  Murat’s interior lump of ice was, if anything, growing larger and colder. His hopes that the eyeless man was no worse than mad were fading rapidly.

  “We’ll deal later with whatever crimes you may have committed. Are you telling me the truth now, you offspring of diseased demons?” And again Murat seized the hapless villain, this time brandishing the Sword right under his victim’s nose. Again the Blade glowed with unnatural brightness in the muted firelight. “I want the truth!”

  Utterly collapsing, the beggar swore over and over that he was now telling the complete truth. The demon had provided for him, was still providing, a kind of vision that functioned despite his lack of eyes; the demon and he had plotted together to do the master harm.

  Under the circumstances, with the man subjected now to the full glowing power of the Mindsword, the Crown Prince at last was forced to believe him. Conviction in the matter of demonic vision was reinforced by an impromptu test; when Murat silently brought his Sword-point close to the eyeless face, the cowering one tried to draw away, as if in fact he could see the danger.

  After ordering several troopers to keep a strict watch over the confessed partner of demons, Murat drew Carlo a little aside to confer with him.

  Murat started to speak to his son, then paused, staring at the weapon still gripped in his own fist. Then he demanded: “You say there was a skirmish, but you did not draw the Mindsword? Did I hear you truly? Or were sleep and nightmares still ruling my brain, when you came in to report?”

  Carlo stared at him. “Yes, Father, that’s what I told you. We had to fight a skirmish.”

  “Good. Good, then I can trust my memory. In these last few days there have been times when my life seems to be turning into the stuff of dreams. Or nightmares.” The Crown Prince heaved a great sigh. “I’ll hear the story of your skirmish in detail later. Tell me now, what are we to do with this ragged wretch who claims to be a king, and own a demon? Do you believe his tale?”

  Carlo gestured helplessly. “I cannot doubt that the man is now telling the truth. Or at least that he believes his own story. But I don’t know what to advise you, how best to deal with him.”

  “Let us be rid of him, as quickly as we can.” This came, in a quiet voice, from Kristin, emerging from the tent. The Princess looked pale, but had otherwise recovered from her faint.

  “A demon,” Murat repeated distantly. Now something in the two words seemed to grip his imagination in an unhealthy way, almost to paralyze him.

  “Be rid of him, I say,” Kristin repeated urgently. “What other choice is there?”

  And Carlo, overcoming his own indecision, seconded her advice. “I agree with the Princess, we must be rid of him, and of his demon.”

  Murat, shaking his head as if to clear it of some unwanted presence, had to agree with their point of view.

  “Yes, I suppose we must. But first there are some things that I must find out. I’ll see if he’s able to summon this demon before us, and make sure of the truth of the matter.”

  “No.” Kristin shook her head.

  “This Blade I hold will protect me during the summoning, and no one else need be present. For your safety we-—this beggar—or king—and I—will go outside the camp to do what we must.”

  Carlo looked agonized
, but he had learned to tell when arguing with his father was certain to be futile.

  Kristin said to Murat: “I see you are determined.”

  “I am.”

  “Then promise me at least one thing, my lord—do not sheathe your Sword again, at least not until you are safely out of Tasavalta. And free of demons.”

  Murat looked at the Sword, and back at his beloved. Once again, for a moment, he seemed afraid.

  The Princess went on. “Your safety, my Lord Murat, is the most important consideration for all of us. And for you to keep the Sword of Glory always in hand is now the best way—nay, the only way—to ensure your welfare.”

  The Crown Prince nodded slowly. “You are all depending upon me now. I know that.”

  The Princess took him by the arm. “One more thing—I’m sure that man is the Dark King.”

  “Sure?”

  “I recognize him now, from the day long ago when—when he almost killed me. And I pray you to get rid of him, because I fear him now just as terribly as I did then.”

  “I have the Sword, and—”

  “Even so, Sword or no Sword, what I most dread now is that this evil counselor’s presence will be harmful to my most great lord. I would not trust the man the thickness of a knifeblade, regardless of any magical protection. Regardless of how he may swear, and protest, and what he may do to demonstrate his loyalty.”

  “Father,” said Carlo, swallowing. “Let me repeat, I think the Princess is right.”

  The Crown Prince looked at them both, then at his Sword once more.

  He said: “I like the idea very little. But—as a temporary measure only, until we have reached a place of reasonable safety—I’ll carry this tool with me naked, and even sleep with it at night.”

  For a moment it seemed that Murat would say more. But his next thought, unspoken, only hung in the air as he looked at Kristin. And she thought that she could read it: That means that for the time being, no one is going to share my bed.

  * * *

  The low-voiced conference among the three was at an end. Now, determined to test the eyeless man’s confession by having him attempt to summon the demon, the Crown Prince, with Carlo and the Princess looking on in horrified fascination, once more confronted the wretch who had called himself Metaxas.

  The beggar’s eye bandage had been restored to its proper place, and he squatted on the ground under the suspicious stares of a pair of guards, standing over him with weapons ready. Other men nearby had equipped themselves with torches.

  No, the crouching man admitted, he had never bounced the Princess of Tasavalta on his knee—that had been only a near-blasphemous pretense. Yes, he had once been the Dark King, and yes, the horrible accusation hurled at him by the blessed Princess was quite true—he had once been prepared to torture her to death in an effort to increase his own magic powers. Only the interference of the man who was later to become Prince Mark had kept him from committing that hideous crime.

  Murat’s anger blazed at the bald admission. Caught up in a holy, murderous fury, the Crown Prince extended the naked Sword in his strong arm toward his victim’s throat, until another centimeter’s thrust would have drawn blood.

  “I’d kill you at once, swine. But I mean to extract more information from you before you die.”

  This time Vilkata had not cringed away from the Blade. “Certainly I deserve death, Lord. But there are secrets I can tell you first, information I can provide that you must have.”

  “It seems we are in agreement on that much.” Murat pulled back his Sword-point slightly. “And where is your demon partner now? If he indeed exists?”

  Before Vilkata could answer, there came a murmur among the onlookers. Kristin, tough lady that she was, could no longer bear this continued confrontation with her former torturer. On the verge of fainting again, she pleaded with her new lord: “Send him away! Or kill him!”

  Lowering his Sword, Murat spoke to her in soothing tones. “My love, will you go back to the tent now? Carlo, escort her.”

  “Let me remain, my lord,” the Princess pleaded, “to see the demon if it comes. I want to share your peril if you are determined to face the foul beast, and it should somehow be able to avoid or even overcome the Sword’s power.” “Go back to your tent, I say. Carlo, escort her.”

  Gently but firmly the young man took the Princess by the arm, and led her away. She made no further protest.

  * * *

  As soon as Kristin and his son were out of sight, Murat, after a word to Captain Marsaci, ordered his newly acquired magician to stand and walk. Then he directed the eyeless man, who proved his ability to get around without special guidance, some fifty meters or so beyond the fringe of the camp. There the two came to a secluded hollow in an angle between hedgerows. This was a spot where, Murat decided, any bizarre demonic manifestations would likely remain unobserved by anyone at the distance of the camp.

  * * *

  Vilkata, who for the last few minutes had regarded all his previous schemes with utter loathing, had been examining his conscience to see what additional offenses he might be required to accuse himself of.

  He was now on the brink of confessing that he had some days ago made Murat’s leg injury worse by means of magic; but before he blurted out another crime, it occurred to him that Murat would be better off without being required to hear such a confession. Indeed, a moment’s reflection made the Dark King think that he ought not to have confessed as much as he already had. True, he deserved to die many times over for the harm he had inflicted upon the lord Murat, and upon the woman who had now become valuable and useful to the lord. But confession now would not help that. Above all, Vilkata’s death would not help Murat in his present difficulties, but hurt him instead. It was clear to the Dark King that his new master was likely to need all the help he could get in the days ahead.

  The master must be brought to trust, rather than hate, his most recently enlisted and cleverest adviser.

  * * *

  A few moments later, in the hollow between hedgerows, Vilkata, muttering and gesturing, went through his brief ritual of summoning Akbar.

  Murat, naked Sword in hand, was standing at a little distance from the wizard, inside an elaborated pentacle of magical protection which Vilkata had hastily sketched out on the ground. Not that Vilkata had much faith in the efficacy of such devices against demons, certainly not compared with the protective value of the Mindsword; but he was now determined to take no avoidable chances with his master’s safety.

  Scarcely had the magician’s fingers ceased to move in the gestures of the ritual of summoning, when the creature materialized, startling even Vilkata with its promptness. An androgynous human form, wrapped in dark garments, appeared out of nowhere, standing between the men. The manifestation was accompanied by a drumming or banging sound, which in a few moments trailed away into silence.

  Murat, controlling a sudden surge of fear and loathing, firmly stood his ground inside his pentacle, brandishing the Mindsword in front of him.

  The demon turned a blank, pale face in the direction of the Crown Prince, then recoiled with a scream of rage when it found itself gripped by the power of the weapon nestled in Murat’s right hand. But even demonic rage could not endure the Mindsword’s force. A moment after it screamed, the foul quasimaterial beast had assumed a dog-like shape, and a moment after that Akbar had thrown himself down, brutally fawning and cringing, near Murat’s feet.

  The dog shape did not persist for long. Looking as helpless as any mere converted human, Akbar groveled before his new lord and master, presenting himself in a series of suitably humble and would-be disarming images, some human and some animal. Babies, old women, cuddly pets, appeared and disappeared in swift succession.

  Murat, feeling a tremendous disgust, and at the same time exulting in the establishment of his authority, drew back a few paces. Now he felt confident that his safety was assured by the Sword of Glory, and did not depend at all upon the merely human magic embodied
in the diagram scratched in the earth.

  As in his earlier confrontation with Vilkata, the Crown Prince was holding the Sword level, pointed at the demon, as if he might be required to skewer an enemy physically upon the blade. But this time he felt less of an urge to kill, and greater physical loathing. In fact he felt sick to the point of nausea. Akbar’s current display of sniveling cowardice and self-abasement was if anything more repugnant to him than the show of demonic arrogance he had unconsciously been expecting.

  Vilkata was watching with great vigilance. Now he made a prearranged gesture to Murat, signifying that the demon was safely Murat’s to command.

  The Crown Prince called out in a sharp voice: “Foul demon! Your name is Akbar.”

  “Yes, Master.” The demon’s voice was unlike any sound that Murat had ever heard before.

  “I order you to choose some coherent shape, and remain in it, so a man can look at you at least.”

  At once the demon assumed a distinct human form, youthful, plump, and eunuchoid. It sat there smiling at its master timidly.

  Murat, finding this shape particularly repugnant, quickly commanded Akbar to change to something else. In a moment the eunuch had become a comely maiden, dressed simply and with a fair amount of modesty.

  The Crown Prince, even more than most people, had always feared and loathed demons. But tonight, to his great satisfaction, he found himself quickly able to master his natural sentiments and adopt a businesslike attitude.

  The demon seemed to sense almost immediately that the worst of the Crown Prince’s fear and disgust had passed. The maiden rose lithely to her feet, her peasant skirt swirling lightly, and said in a clear voice: “I am at your service, glorious Master! What are your commands?”

  Murat drew a breath of satisfaction. “My first demand upon you—and upon the unfortunate human who admits to having been your partner—is to be told all the details of the plot that you hatched between you.”