Chapter Nine
Dimly Stephen was conscious of the fact that the houses on either side of his grandparents’ had also suffered heavy damage, though neither was as badly off as the cottage he had so often visited. One of the adjoining buildings was also smoking, as if it might soon start to burn; and two or three additional fires were visible at some distance in the neighborhood.
But just now the young Prince had no time or thought to spare for neighbors. He ran forward, still convulsively gripping a black hilt in each hand, though for the moment he had almost forgotten why it was essential to retain the Swords. Stephen’s weary arms were allowing the two unbreakable points to drag, god-forged steel striking sparks from the cobblestones of the street.
Three or four neighbors, in nightshirts and hastily thrown-on clothing, had been standing within a few meters of the smoldering ruins. However these folk perceived the bearer of the Sword of Stealth, they at once drew back to give him plenty of room. One of the onlookers, getting a close look at Sightblinder’s version of Stephen’s approaching figure, screamed and ran away.
The other bystanders had not taken to their heels, at least not yet. For the moment the young Prince ignored them all, keeping his attention riveted on the jumbled ruins before him. Maybe, he thought wildly, Jord and Mala hadn’t been home in their bed when disaster struck. Maybe…
Gasping, his whole body burning and aching with strain and weariness, Stephen halted under a fruit tree in what had once been his grandparents’ grassy yard. It was all sickeningly unfamiliar now. A few meters ahead of him, small flames snapped avidly at freshly splintered wood, illuminating ruin. The fire seemed eager to establish a solid foothold in the timbers and siding which lay tumbled and broken among the shattered masonry and tiles.
“Grandfather! Grandmother!”
There was no reply.
Once more Stephen called upon his tired arms to lift his Swords so that the long blades ceased to drag. So armed, he edged closer to the ruin. The flames were not big enough—not yet—to force him back, nor were they growing swiftly. Intermingled in the wreckage with the broken and burned pieces of the building’s structure were household items: pots, pans, furniture—there was a padded chair he thought he recognized—bundles of old clothes…
The gaze of the young Prince moved on, came back. In a moment he realized with horror that what he had thought for a moment were two bundles of old clothes, three-quarters buried in the rubble, were really the bodies of his grandparents, clad in nightshirt and nightgown. Gray hair was visible, exposed pale arms and legs.
Suddenly all of the night’s horror, which had been starting to seem dreamlike, regained immediate reality. The grandson of Mala and Jord noted that the couple lay almost side by side, as if they had been together when the walls of their home crashed in around them—or possibly one had come to try to help the other. …
“Prince? Prince Mark?” Someone was pulling tentatively on Stephen’s arm, speaking to him in a voice he dimly recognized. Turning, Stephen came face to face with a nextdoor neighbor, a man whose name he could not remember at the moment, but whom the boy had sometimes seen and spoken with on visits. The neighbor’s face was altered, and he, like Stephen himself, seemed almost paralyzed by horror.
“Prince Mark?” the man repeated.
That name administered a shock of hope. The young Prince looked around dazedly, to see if his father might indeed be present. He needed a moment to realize that Sightblinder must be presenting him to the neighbor in his father’s image.
“What is it?” Stephen at last responded to the man who stood beside him.
“May all the gods defend us, Prince Mark, the demons have done it. Killed the old people, knocked down their house and ours, too. The rest of the neighborhood is damaged, as you see. But now that you’re here, you can shout the demons away again—you can do that, can’t you? You must!”
For the moment, Stephen could only stare helplessly at the man.
The neighbor gazed back, pleadingly, his eyes now focused just over the top of Stephen’s head—no doubt where Sightblinder was showing him the face of the taller Mark.
“Prince? We’re going to win now, aren’t we?” The man’s voice cracked. “The army’s coming?”
The moaning sound was slight at first, and Stephen almost failed to hear it over the background of nibbling flames and distant uproar in the streets. But it brought his eyes back to the crushed bundles under the rubble, and a moment later he saw movement in one of them. The moaning grew.
Though he could not be sure of the exact source of the sound, it testified that at least one of Stephen’s grandparents-—he could not tell who—still breathed.
“They’re alive—!”
Upon making this discovery the young Prince cried out incoherently and gestured awkwardly, with Sword-filled hands. Realizing that he would need his hands free to save his grandparents from the slowly growing fire, he sheathed both Swords, an operation that seemed nightmarishly slow and awkward—he had to thrust several times with each steel tip to find the narrow opening in its respective sheath.
When Stephen released Sightblinder’s hilt, the neighbor standing beside him recoiled, startled.
“Prince Stephen—but where’s your father? He was just here.” The man was blinking and stammering in confusion.
Stephen mumbled some kind of answer, even as he turned his back on the man to go climbing awkwardly into what was left of the ruined building, scratching his legs and ankles in the process. Reaching for Grandfather and Grandmother, whose bodies, partially buried, both lay just below reach, he started to dig into the rubble with his bare hands.
The long scabbards hanging on each side of Stephen’s waist got in his way with every movement when he crouched to attack the wreckage. With feverish haste he slipped both Sword-belts off, setting them down within reach.
Grabbing a long, thick beam in an attempt to lift and move it, the young Prince succeeded only in burning his fingers, and discovering that his strength was not equal to the task.
The neighbor who had been talking to Stephen now climbed energetically into the rubble beside him and did his best to help. With that example before them, two more people, who had evidently been watching from a little distance, now came to give assistance.
With four pairs of hands to dig and lift, there appeared to be some chance of getting the two old people out of the wreckage—but one long beam was still wedged in place, preventing the rescue.
Even the united strength of everyone on hand was not going to be enough. The beam was held down at both ends.
The lad promptly turned to his Swords again, and slid the long blade of Sightblinder from its sheath. With the other rescuers standing back to give him room, he dug other pieces of wreckage out of the way, then braced his feet and swung the Sword like a long axe, chopping at the beam.
As soon as he took up the Sword of Stealth again, his image once more changed in the eyes of everyone watching.
As Stephen had expected, a Sword’s indestructible blade proved a good digging tool, an excellent chopper, an unbreakable pry bar. You had to be careful, of course, about stabbing or slicing the victims you were trying to rescue. In this case, fortunately, there was adequate clearance, and the bodies plainly visible.
It occurred to Stephen that, if the rules of Sword-magic worked as he had reason to believe they did, Shieldbreaker used as a digging or cutting implement ought not to hurt the flesh of an unarmed victim buried in the wreckage. But it crossed his mind also that either Jord or Mala could be armed, having grabbed up some weapon when an alarm was sounded.
Letting the Sword of Force rest in its scabbard, he continued chopping with the Sword of Stealth.
Stephen labored on, using the keen, indestructible edge to sever the fallen roof beam which at first had frustrated the rescue efforts. The seasoned wood was as thick as his leg; but the weighty sharpness of the steel made the Sword at least as good as an axe for this mundane purpose.
&nbs
p; One of the neighbors, seeing what good success Stephen was having, grabbed up Shieldbreaker and used it to chop with too—the young Prince noted distinctly how the Sword of Force remained silent at this mundane task, like some proud warrior forced into routine, supposedly less heroic, labor.
As soon as the beam had been chopped through in two places, the helpful neighbor put Shieldbreaker awkwardly, but almost reverently, back in its sheath.
Now that the beam was cut, Stephen used Sightblinder as a lever, leaning his weight on the Sword to force up the remaining length of timber while others pulled the bodies free. Moments later, the bodies of Jord and Mala had been dragged and lifted as carefully as possible out of the smoldering rubble and laid gently on the grass.
This latest effort left the young Prince swaying on his feet with weariness. Tears of grief, anger, and fatigue were running down his cheeks, even as he looked down on the bodies of his grandparents. Mala and Jord were quiet now, and motionless. Stephen could not be certain for the moment that either of the old folk still breathed; but neither was he absolutely sure as yet that either one was dead. Both were marked with blood.
* * *
Sightblinder was still in the right hand of the young Prince when he bent anxiously over the old people to try to talk with them. Now he could be sure that his grandmother was dead; but Jord was muttering, trying to say something clearly.
Some helpful neighbor had gone to get water. Coming back, he tried to give the old man a drink. Jord’s eyes focused slowly on Stephen crouching beside him. In a moment the old man muttered: “Don’t leave me, Mark.”
Stephen hesitated, then retained his grip on the black hilt. He would let his grandfather see Mark, if that was what Jord wanted.
“I ought not to have kept a Sword on the wall, son. …”
Stephen had heard the story, from his father, often enough. It came from Mark’s childhood. “It’s all right, gr—. It’s all right.”
The old man let out a feeble breath. He had almost no voice left. “I shouldn’t have forged Swords. Not that Vulcan gave me much choice.”
And presently Stephen realized that those were the last words Jord was ever going to speak.
Stephen, preoccupied with grief, was still holding Sightblinder, unsheathed, when the great demon Arridu came swooping down upon the scene. The distraught young Prince did not even notice the wave of sickness brought by the demon until the foul thing was very near, until the neighbors had either scattered in blind terror, or fallen down in fear and demon-sickness. …
When Stephen turned his head at last, to his horror he beheld the figure, larger than humanity, of a man in black armor, bending to grab up the sheathed Sword of Force from the place where the Sword’s last user had set it down.
A demon, an ungodly great demon by the look of it, had Shieldbreaker; though the Sword of Force was still undrawn, inactive in the enemy’s hand—
The monster turned an almost paralyzing gaze on Stephen, and spoke. Nearly frozen in terror, the boy could scarcely hear or understand the words of its soft, rumbling voice; nor did he realize that they were uttered in humility: “The great Sword lay unattended here, dear Master. Any of these human beasts might have grabbed it up. I hold it for you—”
On the verge of fainting, Stephen lashed out at Arridu as best he could.
“In the Emperor’s name, forsake this game—!” The young Prince thought he could feel the veins standing out upon his forehead as he yelled.
And the Sword of Force and its hideous bearer were both gone, whirled aloft and out of sight in an instant.
* * *
Not until the demon had been banished, and a measure of sanity and stability had returned to the locality, did the young Prince realize the extent of his own blunder—Shieldbreaker must have gone with the demon!
Now that it was too late, the horrible memory came clear: his glimpsing the undrawn Sword of Force in Arridu’s grip…
Stephen knew tremendous horror and guilt at the great loss … and fear that at any moment the demon, invincibly armed, would be coming back to eat him alive.
* * *
Meanwhile the last terrorized neighbor had crawled away somewhere. Stephen was alone in the night, with the crackling fire and the howls of riot and murder coming from the distant reaches of the city.
There was no disputing the fact that now both his grandparents were dead. There was no disputing either that the loss of Shieldbreaker was, for the moment at least, irretrievable. The doom of its return was hanging over him, and over all the Earth.
Staring numbly at the dead bodies of his grandparents, listening to the disorder and the horror of Sarykam around him—Arridu’s brief presence had stirred up new tumult over an area of several square blocks—Stephen swayed on his feet with weariness.
Where now? What now? From somewhere in the back of his mind a simple, natural suggestion presented itself: He might try going to the house of Ben of Purkinje. Conscious planning might well have rejected that idea: If the enemy had sought out people as far removed from power as Jord and Mala, surely the home of Ben and his family would have received much more intense attention; if that house survived at all it would be watched.
Stephen started walking, seeking sanctuary, without being aware that he had made any decision about where he ought to go. Already the thought of Ben’s house had slipped from his conscious awareness.
At least Sightblinder was still his—his hand still gripped, unconsciously, the hilt of the sheathed Blade—and he was vaguely aware that, unless an enemy armed with Shieldbreaker came against him first, the Sword of Stealth would get him safely out of the city and to his parents.
But first he must find a place where he could rest.
Walking slowly, still moving without a conscious plan, the young Prince felt himself in the grip of bitter guilt over the fact that he’d lost Shieldbreaker. Stumbling, he felt himself abruptly overwhelmed by tiredness. There were moments when the world turned gray, and he came near fainting on his feet.
Before traveling very far away from the ruins of his grandparents’ house, without even getting anywhere near the city gates—even before deciding what his next move had to be—he left the street, seeking some shelter where he could rest.
Turning from the noise of the street to pass through the open gate, he found himself behind high stone walls, in the garden of Ben’s half-wrecked and freshly deserted house. This was definitely a more elegant neighborhood than Jord’s and Mala’s. …
Only after he had entered the grounds surrounding the big house did he consciously recognize this as the home of Ben of Purkinje and his family. It was not a place that Stephen had often visited. The roof had been smashed in, but here, too, the enemy had come and gone. Perhaps that meant it would be a safe place, for a little while, in which to rest. He’d rest for only a moment, relying on the Sword of Stealth, and then he’d move on. …
The young Prince stretched out in a grassy place under some bushes … but for the time being, sleep refused to come. The horned Moon, lately risen, and the stars provided all the light he needed. He lay directly on top of the naked Blade of Sightblinder, the fingers of both his hands interlaced around the hilt … he would rest for just a moment … he supposed there was nothing for it now but to make his way to Voronina, the village where his parents were—or where they had been. As soon as they got the news of the attack, they’d be on the move … somewhere.
But he’d find them. He could still bring them Sightblinder, and while he had that Sword and no other to carry, the journey ought to be quite feasible.
One Sword he still had—and that one he was not going to let go of. His life, and likely much more than his own life, depended on his ability to retain the Sword of Stealth.
Now, if he could only rest, close his eyes for a few moments, he would be able to push on again.
* * * * * *
Vilkata, tightening his grip on the palace in the last hour before dawn, had secreted himself in one of the upper chamb
ers, from which he kept issuing a stream of orders to demons and converts, patiently establishing his new base of operations in rooms which only hours ago had belonged to his great enemy.
Meanwhile the Dark King was steadily recalculating, reconsidering his situation. Like other people on both sides of the conflict, dwellers within the city as well as outside its walls, he was profoundly interested in what interference, if any, could be expected from the Swords still remaining in the world, or what advantage gained from them.
He assumed that Shieldbreaker and Sightblinder were still in the hands of his lone enemy of the recent confrontation. The locations of Soulcutter, Farslayer, and Coinspinner remained unknown as far as the Dark King was concerned; and each of these weapons in its own way was capable of completely turning the balance of the great game.
Grimly, Vilkata had determined that the loss of the Mindsword was not going to plunge him into a panic. His enemies were reeling too, and badly hurt; he had struck a hard blow at their leadership by converting Karel and others, he had slaughtered a number of their proud and stiff-necked populace, and occupied their capital.
Mark, he supposed, and the surviving Tasavaltan military, would need a day or two at least to make preparation for some attempt at striking back. In about that time, also, the converts’ zeal would be starting to turn to ashes. So it was plain to the Dark King that in one or two days he might well have to retreat—unless in the meantime he somehow managed to acquire substantial human help, of some kind not dependent upon the Mindsword.
He considered the option of retreating now. He could summon his loyal demons, declare that he had intended nothing more than a raid on Sarykam, and withdraw from the city, perhaps to the seacoast caves where he had secreted the Old World spacecraft. But the idea of retreating at the first setback, sharp though it had been, rankled; and the Dark King quickly decided that to withdraw, now, at least, would be premature.
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