Mindsword's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  Murat thought the situation over, and suffered helplessly, and thought some more. His men continued waiting anxiously for orders, but in his uncertainty he let them wait. His intellect assured him that Kristin’s conversion to loving him must have been genuine—hope whispered to him that such a transformation might have, must have, would have taken place, even without the Mindsword’s power to assist.

  But he found his intellect essentially helpless against the seed of doubt, once planted.

  A cunning and evil turn of his imagination showed him the Princess and her husband, even now, embracing each other, slyly laughing at him together.

  After a few moments of that tormenting vision, Murat took himself firmly in hand, telling himself that there was no reason to suspect, let alone believe, anything of the kind. For a time he managed to put his doubts aside.

  But whenever the Crown Prince tried to bring back in memory those predawn screams, supposedly Kristin’s, heard by himself as well as by the sentry, they persisted in turning into shrieks of joyous, spiteful laughter.

  Calling the abused former sentinel yet once more before him, Murat questioned him for what seemed the hundredth time.

  “You say she went out from my camp willingly?”

  And for the hundredth time the frightened soldier gave essentially the same answer.

  “Yes, my gracious lord, willingly as far as I could tell. But then when she had joined the two men up on the hill—”

  “Never mind. It is enough. She went out willingly.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As the hours of the afternoon passed and still no marching orders were given by the great Lord Murat, no definite decision of any kind announced, Carlo grew increasingly worried about his father. And the Princeling became to some extent concerned about his own safety as well. He considered his own safety vitally important, and not for purely selfish reasons. The truth was that none of the others in camp knew Carlo’s father as he did. And, Sword-magic or not, none of them could be expected to serve the Crown Prince as well as he, who understood his father’s every mood and whim, who knew when the Crown Prince really meant an order and when he spoke only out of anger and might soon regret his words.

  Certainly no evil magician, and no demon, could be entrusted with the responsibilities of acting as second in command. Carlo meant to do everything he could to minimize the influence upon the great Lord of such unworthy ones.

  * * *

  Vilkata spent most of the afternoon alone in an upper room of the farmhouse, engaged in deep thought. Though he realized intellectually that his bondage of helpless service to the Crown Prince had its roots in magic, still he was conscious of no slightest wish to escape that bondage.

  Now established in a more or less honorable and trusted position, he was dutifully doing his utmost as a schemer and intriguer to make plans in Murat’s favor, to ensure that no one else did anything to harm the lord. And one person in particular soon claimed the burden of his thought.

  Before the Dark King had been many hours a faithful servant of Murat, it had crossed his mind that Kristin’s eventual removal from the scene might be required. When, before dawn this morning, he had discovered her flight, his first thought was that the departure of the Princess was likely to prove a blessing in disguise. Might Kristin, as Murat’s consort, have been ultimately a harmful influence upon the lord, bad for his career?

  The Dark King pondered long upon this question, but the more he pondered the less certain he felt of the answer. Many rulers benefited from the presence of a faithful, loving consort.

  Perhaps things would have been different in his, Vilkata’s life, his own period of real kingship much prolonged, if he had possessed such a dependable helpmate in the days of his own glory…

  …but all that was ancient history now. Shaking his head, he who had been the Dark King brought his thoughts eagerly back to the present. His present career, in the service of the One True Lord, Murat, was far more glorious and important than anything he might have achieved in promoting any other cause, including his own.

  If Princess Kristin was, or would have been, of doubtful value to the Lord Murat, then what of his son?

  Carlo, now … the presence of a grown and potentially rebellious son … it was hard to discover any positive value at all in that. Of course Carlo, while gripped in the Sword’s power, would find it impossible to be openly rebellious against his father. But in the future, someday when the Sword had been sheathed again, or the son had been allowed to travel for sometimeoutsideits influence…

  The Dark King’s head ached when he thought of the possible risks to Murat’s power in such a situation. Coldly he pondered. Sooner or later, he decided, Carlo would probably have to go.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Murat was nursing some new suspicions of his own. He wondered whether Vilkata had been able to resist Karel’s sleep-making magic, but had for some reason pretended otherwise. And had the cunning Eyeless One somehow induced Akbar to go along with that pretense? The possibilities for intrigue seemed endless.

  The Crown Prince tried his best to put these new worries out of his mind, telling himself firmly that they were nonsensical for any holder of the Mindsword. But despite his best efforts he could not entirely disregard them.

  * * *

  While Murat and Vilkata brooded separately, one of the converted troopers was asking Carlo, in genuine puzzlement, why his royal father had not taken the woman to his bed when he’d had the chance. Why should any woman believe that a man really wanted her when he’d refused to do that?

  Carlo could find no good answer.

  * * *

  Indeed, Murat himself had now begun to think along the same lines. What a chivalrous fool he’d been! But never mind, he’d get Kristin back. And if—if—her loyalty had been fraudulent the first time round, well, it wouldn’t be on the second.

  He’d find a way of making sure.

  There was no reason why the holder of the Mindsword should be forced to endure treachery.

  Vilkata, still closeted in the small bedroom he had been granted as his own, weighing as best he could the benefits and problems attendant upon each possible course of action, was coming around to the conclusion that Kristin would be, at least for the time being, a desirable mate and ally for his lord. Every great lord should have a queen, or empress, and no one more fitting than the Princess of Tasavalta was likely to become available to Murat in the immediate future.

  The next problem, of course, would be to get her back. The Perfect Lord would no doubt soon declare that as his objective, and Vilkata began racking his brain to find the best way to accomplish the goal.

  Later on, of course, Princess Kristin could be replaced if, for reasons of state, a different consort should become more desirable.

  * * *

  Vilkata did not mention this last consideration when, late in the afternoon, he was again called to consult with his lord.

  But the former Dark King, speaking from experience, did repeatedly urge deviousness and caution in moving against Mark and the other resistant Tasavaltans, even though it was also necessary to avoid prolonged delay.

  “As I see the situation, sir, it will be best if we can somehow lull the enemy into thinking that we are ready to talk peace. Then, advance upon them quickly, strike like lightning with the Mindsword!”

  Murat shook his head gloomily. “Mark will not be lulled so easily. Nor will his chief advisers.”

  “True.” Vilkata thought a moment longer. “An alternate plan would be to occupy the enemy capital, then negotiate. If we move quickly enough into a heavily populated region, particularly Sarykam, all of the local people will not be able to avoid your Sword. You will acquire a great number of hostages.”

  Murat rubbed at his once-neat beard, now grown untended. There were specks and small streaks of gray among the black.

  “When I entered the capital a few days ago, it appeared to be completely deserted.”

  “Indeed, sire. But Yo
ur Highness did not use the Sword when you were there.” The wizard’s tone was gently chiding.

  “True, I didn’t want to use … yes, true. There might have been people, many people, hiding within its range. At that time I didn’t want…”

  Murat’s words trailed off, as if he had now forgotten what he had then been trying to avoid.

  “But this time you will enter with Sword drawn, as swiftly as you can ride.”

  The Crown Prince sighed heavily. He squinted in the direction of the other man, as if at something difficult to see. “It might work, but—hostages?”

  `“Hostage-taking can be a very effective measure, when properly carried out. I myself have on a number of occasions—”

  Murat blinked. He appeared to rouse himself from a dream. In a changed voice he demanded, once more: “Hostages?”

  Vilkata blinked also. Sensing unwillingness in his master—worse than unwillingness, a rapidly growing anger—he tried to change his approach.

  “They are forcing you to such measures, Master,” the Dark King murmured defensively. “What the enemy forces you to do is not your fault.”

  Murat, grieving for his lost Princess, suddenly found himself plunged into horror at the very sight of this man whom she had so violently hated and feared. This man who had once even tortured her. Who—

  The Crown Prince had a sudden thought: Perhaps it was the very presence of Vilkata and his demon that had forced Kristin to desert his camp.

  He roared at the wretched demon-handler: “I will answer for my own faults! I find your advice distasteful. More, I find the sight of you disgusting!”

  “Sire, I only—”

  Lunging forward impulsively, striking hard with the black hilt, Murat knocked down the object of his wrath. Then the Crown Prince stood over Vilkata, shouting at him, while the fallen magician, his forehead bleeding, struggled to regain his senses.

  “In fact, foul man, I find you and your schemes inhumanly repulsive, and I wish to see you no more. Out of my sight!”

  * * *

  Vilkata crawled, then stumbled to his feet. More shocking than the blow itself was the realization that he had so angered his beloved lord. In the face of such wrath the Dark King did not dare to argue, or to delay his departure; he simply ran, as fast as aging legs could carry him, while turncoat troopers and former bandits stared. Vilkata’s first thought in this emergency, reeling and weeping at rejection as he was, was that he must not allow the master to kill him—because if that should happen, how could he serve his faultless master anymore?

  Reeling past the barn and the adjacent corral, with blood from a forehead wound still trickling into his empty sockets, the Dark King made no effort to claim a mount, but stumbled out on foot into the lately unworked fields surrounding the farm buildings.

  Even now, from the very beginning of this unhappy exile, even before he began to consider where he himself would find his food and shelter, Vilkata was planning ceaselessly for some way to continue to help Murat—and of course to win himself back into Murat’s favor, so that he could serve to much greater effect.

  About a kilometer from the farm, in the steep side of a narrow creek’s tall earthen bank, the wizard found a kind of cave, recently abandoned by some small animal, and in imminent danger of complete collapse. Here was immediate shelter. Here, he thought, his arts and a minimum of practical craft should enable him to keep himself alive and free for the time being. Soon, in no great number of days and hours, his master was going to have grave need of him again. All the strength that the Dark King could muster was going to be needed, he was sure.

  Forcing his body back into the tiny cave as far as possible, Vilkata muttered spells meant to conceal himself from discovery, and to strengthen the crumbling earthen roof through which the pale roots of wild grass depended. That he might have warning of any approaching danger—or opportunity—the Dark King spent his next half hour in the summoning and deployment of a score or so of minor powers, half-real and insubstantial beings that were at the command of any practicing magician.

  In Vilkata’s endless concern to be of service to his incomparable lord, it had not yet crossed his mind that in a few days, now that he had left the Mindsword’s field of influence, he would begin to recover from its effects.

  * * *

  That point had already occurred to Murat, and within an hour after the departure of the Eyeless One; but such was the ruler’s contempt and hatred for the magician that when the realization came, he did not consider trying to get the foul one back.

  Another and more sobering realization, coming to the Crown Prince only after Vilkata had departed, was that he, Murat, did not possess anything like the magical knowledge he assumed would be necessary to summon his demon of supposedly constrained loyalty.

  At that point Murat did briefly consider trying to get his magician back. Probably, he thought, the man would show up in a few hours on the perimeter of camp, begging to be reinstated. Should he be allowed to return?

  After a little thought the Crown Prince shuddered, and permanently rejected the idea.

  * * *

  Shortly after sunset, the Crown Prince went strolling a little apart from his men, outside the boundaries of the farmyard, his Sword in hand as usual. He had not gone far before, to his considerable surprise, he beheld the demon quietly, almost unobtrusively manifesting itself in front of him.

  Murat halted in his tracks, warily twirling Skulltwister. Addressing the slight image of the maiden who now stood before him, he said softly: “I had thought that I would have to summon you.”

  “It is my experience, Great Lord,” the image replied modestly in its young girl’s voice, “that anyone who really wants to meet a demon on friendly terms is likely to get his wish. Or hers. In one way or another. Whether magic is employed or not.”

  The maiden did subtle things with her eyelids and lashes, and briefly showed her pearly teeth. Her dress this evening was somewhat disarranged, even slightly torn, so that it threatened to fall away completely from one fair, rounded shoulder.

  The Crown Prince, gazing at Akbar in this guise of a simple young girl, knowing well what it was that he really gazed upon, still found himself, to his own disgust, being aroused by the sight.

  With an inward shudder, and a violent effort, Murat put such thoughts and feelings from him.

  He said: “Wretched One, I have dismissed your partner, Vilkata. What have you to say to that?”

  The girl made a point of rearranging the dress that still kept slipping—oh, quite unconsciously—from one shoulder. She murmured: “Only that I am not surprised, Great Lord. In my own humble view, that man was far from being satisfactory in his capacity as your adviser. Certainly he was not worthy of preferment by a ruler as glorious as yourself.”

  “Why do you say that? What did you see wrong with him?”

  The maiden’s eyes twinkled. “I express my opinion, Lord, only because I have been invited to do so. As to the Dark King’s deficiencies, evidently you have discovered them for yourself—as I was confident you would, in your great wisdom.”

  “Then I take it you are not of the opinion that I should try to get him to return?”

  “Your Lordship will be the best judge of that. I await your commands.” And the demon-image curtsied deeply.

  “You know where the Eyeless One is now?”

  “I believe, Great Lord, that he has concealed himself. And he is a magician of some accomplishment. Still it is possible that I might find him if I searched.”

  “Does he still enjoy the vision that you provided for him?”

  “He does, and will, until I seek him out and darken it again. Shall that be my task?”

  Murat found himself heartily tired of the subject of Vilkata. He hesitated, and sighed.

  “What that man does now, or what he sees, is not a matter of the greatest importance. But should you, while carrying out your other duties, happen to discover his whereabouts—let me know.”

  The maiden wait
ed, poised, hands gracefully clasped in front of her. “It shall be as you say, Master.”

  Silently Murat took note of the fact that Akbar was now beginning to assume a rather different personality than the one he had presented in Vilkata’s presence-—calmer and less terrified. Less—pressured, perhaps.

  That wasn’t all. It seemed to the Crown Prince that there was now something vaguely—larger—about the demon. Not an increase in physical size, no, the image of the maiden looked much the same, slender and delicate. But…

  Murat found it almost impossible to define the difference, even to himself. But it was there.

  “May I inquire, Master, what strategy you now intend to adopt?”

  “I have not yet decided. Before the vile Vilkata left, he suggested a lightning attack, directed at the city…” Murat, with an ambiguous gesture, let his words trail off. Despite his own reaction to the idea of taking hostages, when the Dark King had suggested it, he now found himself admitting inwardly that there was some merit in the plan. Either Kristin had left him willingly, or the Tasavaltans had kidnapped her. In either case, someone in this land deserved to be punished.

  Akbar persisted gently. “I take it the plan is not merely for a lightning attack with thirty cavalry, against the city walls?”

  “Of course not. An attack with the Sword, in my own hand.”

  “Despite its source, Your Majesty, the suggestion may have some merit.” The demon seemed to be echoing the man’s thoughts. “May I ask how such an assault is to be accomplished, according to that lately banished one?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it. I suppose, by riding swiftly…” Then Murat, noting the amused expression on the demon’s girlish face, allowed his words to die again. After a pause he asked: “You have in mind some means better than an advance by riding-beast? I suppose Vilkata must have meant something other than that.”