Shieldbreaker's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  As the bulky man in pilgrim gray continued along one of the main streets, still being guided by his Sword in the general direction of the palace, the signs of recent disturbance and violence were multiplied. In the distance many voices were chanting something. They were human voices, he felt quite sure, not the utterance of beasts or demons, but he could not make out the words. The Baron saw no reason to assume that all the violence was over—quite the opposite—but he had always been ready to accept a reasonable amount of risk when he thought there was also a good chance that a profit of some kind could be made.

  He rode past several more dead bodies lying in the street, and another hanging halfway out of a second-story window. Here was a building upon whose sides someone had scrawled, in red paint that was still fresh, gigantic words. These might have been in some way helpful to the seeker after knowledge, but unfortunately the building had collapsed soon after being thus decorated—in fact it appeared to have been flattened by some superhuman power, which was perhaps the fact—reducing the messages to gibberish. No way for anyone to read those fractured, crumbled slogans now.

  * * *

  Amintor’s methodical, Sword-guided advance was now bringing him very near to the main plaza and the palace. He detoured, without stopping, closely around a building that was burning fiercely, while a handful of people with buckets made an effort, only desultory, to wet down the neighboring structures.

  But the fire had not drawn a crowd. It was attracting no more attention than did the bodies of the victims of violence. Plainly, on this strange morning the majority of the good citizens of Sarykam—presumably a majority still survived—had little thought or emotion to spare for the death and destruction which had been wrought among them overnight. Looking into the glittering eyes of some of the survivors, the visitor thought that another and transcendent excitement consumed their minds and spirits.

  At least half of the people he had seen so far, living and dead, were still in night-dress, and one or two stark naked, with no one paying much attention. A number of other folk, the traveler noted, had hastily improvised a livery of black and gold for themselves to wear. Many had been marked by the night’s festivities with soot and ashes, and some with blood. Not just your city riff-raff either. To judge by their generally well-fed appearance and neat barbering, they might have been until very recently among the city’s most prosperous and reasonable inhabitants. Now the good burghers marched and chanted, even while some of their houses stood freshly ruined and others were burning down before their eyes. Folk of the Blue Temple (although the Blue Temple had only a very modest foothold in this city), the Red Temple, and the White, were all behaving uncharacteristically.

  On one streetcorner stood a group of a dozen people singing, or trying to sing. The syllables they were chanting so hoarsely rang plainly in the visitor’s ears. They made up a man’s name and title, and they, like the livery of gold and black, belonged to an individual he recognized. Nay, one he thought he knew quite well.

  Hand on his Sword-hilt, his own eyes now glittering with hopeful ambition, Amintor advanced. Now the palace was only two blocks ahead.

  * * *

  He had been less than half an hour in the city, but that was more time than the Baron needed to realize that in his long and far from sheltered life he had several times before seen conduct very similar to that now being displayed by the citizens of Sarykam. These people around him, engaging in such uncommon behavior, reminded him less of drug-overdosed devotees of the Red Temple than they did of folk fresh-caught by the Mindsword’s spell.

  A loud shout made the new arrival turn his head. He reined in his mount when he discovered that the cry had been directed at him. A group of six or eight young people, mounted upon a motley collection of loadbeasts and riding-beasts, was trotting toward him down a side street. All were wearing armbands of gold and black. The stocky youth who rode at the head of this small armed band now shouted another challenge at Amintor.

  As they came up to him, the leader declared in a loud, raucous voice that they were seizing Amintor’s riding-beast.

  “Our glorious new King, Vilkata, will have need of many servants and many soldiers, of cavalry and messengers!” As he reached out to take the reins from Amintor, the stout youth glared at the visitor as if daring him to dispute the fact.

  * * *

  For just a moment as the Baron considered this demand, his broad, lined face was utterly blank of any expression. But an instant later he was smiling broadly as he swung himself down from the saddle. With a gesture at once proud and commanding he handed over the reins to his challenger, making the donation into a personal accomplishment.

  In the circumstances Amintor was perfectly ready to abandon his tired riding-beast—let someone else feed the animal and care for it. He was confident that Coinspinner would find another mount for him whenever one was needed.

  The Baron walked with a moderate limp, noticeable as soon as he alighted from his mount.

  The little band of youths, a couple of them girls, all their faces slack, sat blinking down at him from their saddles or bareback mounts. Obviously they had been put somewhat off balance by the apparent enthusiasm of Amintor’s compliance. It was equally obvious that they remained suspicious of this stranger, and that they wanted to be sure of his complete devotion to their great and glorious leader, the rightful ruler of the entire world, Vilkata the Dark King.

  Certainly no doubt remained in the Baron’s mind about the identity of the man who must have descended on this city during the night, bearing the drawn Mindsword and thus creating his own apotheosis.

  Vilkata. Yes, indeed.

  Amintor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, remembered a great deal of that potentate’s long history. The most recent highlight in that saga had been Vilkata’s magical banishment, along with a flock of his demons, about two years ago, from this very metropolis. Since that time, as far as the Baron was aware, the world had heard nothing from the Dark King.

  But now … yes indeed, the Dark King’s demons. Amintor thought that he could smell them in the air. Vilkata always had demons with him.

  While the fanatical youths were muttering among themselves, trying to decide what they ought to demand of him next, the Baron looked around the sky apprehensively.

  He was recalled from this concentration on what he considered more serious matters by a fresh challenge from the stocky youth, who now sat holding the reins of Amintor’s riding-beast as if uncertain what to do with them.

  The Baron glowered at him. “What did you say?”

  “We insist upon an oath of loyalty,” the youth repeated grimly.

  It was Amintor’s turn to blink. But then he laughed. “An oath? Why not? Have you a formula devised, or would you like me to create one for the purpose?”

  This provoked open disagreement among the self-appointed committee of conformity.

  The Baron let them argue for a time among themselves. Then, interrupting further fervent, quasi-religious babble, he inquired of them firmly: “And just where, at this moment, is that flawless divinity, the Dark King we all adore?”

  None of the young enthusiasts seemed to detect the mockery in their elder’s tone. They looked at one other with helpless expressions; it seemed that no one in the small group had any real idea of where their divine leader could be found, or what he might be doing.

  One of the band finally suggested, humbly, that their great Master might be in the palace.

  Amintor, casting a wary glance in the direction of that tall building, made a face of disgust upon noting that Vilkata’s bodyguard of demons were at least intermittently in evidence. Half a dozen or so of their half-material shapes could be seen flitting in and out of the upper windows. He decided that he would rather not go there just now—unless the Sword of Chance advised him to do so.

  Yet again he drew and tried his Sword, half expecting the magic of the gods to warn him to move in the opposite direction from the palace; but Coinspinner was quiet in his grip. D
oubtless, Amintor thought, the demons were relatively harmless just now. After a few buildings had been flattened in sheer demonic exuberance, and some key prisoners taken if that proved possible, the Mindsword’s holder had doubtless given orders that his new and soon-to-be-useful human subjects and other property were not to be molested.

  * * *

  A new clamor jarred him from his private thoughts. Now several of the little band of youths, their faces alight with sudden inspiration, were daring to demand of him his Sword—now that he had called their attention to it.

  Again, the Baron’s mind had been elsewhere, and he had to ask for the demand to be repeated. “What?”

  “I said, that looks like a good sword you have there. Hand it over, in the name of the Most High King.”

  The Baron favored with a mirthless smile the one who made this demand. “No, my Sword you will have to take from me by force.” Doubting that any of this slack-jawed crew had yet recognized the true nature of his weapon, he added: “But in fairness I warn you, making any such attempt would be a serious mistake.”

  Only one persisted in demanding that he give up the Sword. And Coinspinner, working more silently than dice, saw to it that the offender was punished for his temerity without any effort on Amintor’s part. A loose stone bigger than a fist came tumbling from the parapet of a half-ruined building to strike the fellow’s head a glancing blow, and bang his shoulder. When he lurched in his saddle and cried out, his riding-beast reared up and threw him to the street.

  Disregarding this warning—or perhaps unaware of cause and effect—the stout youth, utterly intent and sincere in his fanaticism, persisted in his attempt to challenge Amintor. At this the old man boldly claimed acquaintance, even hinted at strong friendship, with these people’s new god.

  “I enjoy already the privilege of acquaintance with the magnificent, the, the indescribable—how shall I put it?—the ineffable Vilkata.”

  A claim so bold caused the last challenger’s companions to withdraw a little from him, looking worried.

  Amintor in a firm voice dared them, if they really doubted he knew Vilkata, to put the matter to the test.

  That overawed, even if it did not entirely satisfy, the last fanatic. The Baron knew that if they were really convinced he was a danger, a menace to their new god, they would have fought him and his magic Sword to the death, to the last man or woman; and in that event Amintor had no doubt that, despite the odds and his advancing age, Coinspinner would see to it that he was still unscratched when none of the others were still on their feet.

  But in the end matters did not come to that. The Baron’s arguments, as usual, proved convincing. Presently the little band moved on and allowed Amintor to do the same.

  * * *

  As soon as he was free to move about again without harassment, the Baron’s own demeanor changed, with a facility worthy of a skilled diplomat.

  For the next half hour or a little more—while the sun finally cleared its high eastern horizon of oceanic fogbanks, to glare down pitilessly upon the wounded capital and its dead bodies—Amintor wandered the city. When he thought himself about to be once more challenged as a stranger, he went into an act, contorting his face and waving his arms like one in ecstasy, pretending to be enthralled like the most ardent of those he beheld around him.

  Slowly, traversing a zigzag course through several nearby streets, he completed an entire circuit of the palace and its grounds. The uneven new flag of black and gold hung limply from the highest tower. The great stone edifice itself, now plainly visible from every angle, appeared to have suffered more from the attack than most of the rest of the city. Baron Amintor could see where some of the bars protecting the lower windows had been torn aside. Structural damage was apparent, a forcible entry had been made upon one of the higher levels, as by something that could fly and was heroically destructive.

  He smiled thinly, wondering if any of the royal folk inside had survived the night to become the Dark King’s prisoners. Whatever else was happening, there would be real satisfaction in seeing the proud rulers of this land brought low.

  * * *

  At this point Amintor observed some of the first gatherings of Vilkata’s hostages, a ragged formation of a few score folk, largely women and children, being rounded up by a demon and herded, shuffling and limping, toward the palace.

  It was obvious that a sizable minority of the group were converts, for they were going willingly, in fact were earnestly singing some improvised hymn in praise of their transcendent Master, even as they flinched, averting their faces from the stalking figure of the demon who had them in his charge. The majority were helpless captives, herded by demons and by stern convert guards.

  The Baron stood motionless, watching the ragged little procession out of sight. He wondered for precisely what purpose these Tasavaltans had been conscripted. Not for labor, for there were many poor specimens among them, and a number of powerful demons available if Vilkata wanted heavy work accomplished. It would seem that he wanted hostages.

  And now there was no doubt that demon-smell, far more psychic than physical, hung in the air. Amintor sniffed, and shivered.

  Demons aplenty, but no great number of human soldiers. In fact the visitor could see none at all but Sword-converts of passionate but precarious loyalty.

  Opportunity waited in this city, Amintor was more than ever convinced of that—Coinspinner would not have led him here for nothing. He would have a lot to offer in a partnership with the Dark King. And Vilkata, if his power here was to have any permanence, would soon have to base it upon something more than magic and demons.

  Chapter Eleven

  As the sun burned its way through the last of the morning’s high fog, Amintor wandered rather aimlessly about the city, getting no clear direction from Coinspinner, remaining in sight of the palace but not approaching it closely. He told himself that his Sword’s seeming indifference, the fact that it was giving him no advice and arranging no meaningful chance encounters, simply meant that he was in the right place. All he needed to do for the time being was wait.

  His saddlebags had gone with his riding-beast, but at the moment he had no need for any of their meager contents. When a need for anything arose, Coinspinner would provide.

  Presently, feeling somewhat tired and hungry after his long ride, Amintor seated himself on a bench, hailed a street vendor whose enterprise had not been totally discouraged by recent events, and ordered some breakfast: hot tea, fried bread, and broiled fish, the latter fresh-caught here in this seaport.

  The vendor’s pushcart shop-on-wheels was not the only business establishment now open. There were increasing signs that at least an imitation of normal economic activity was getting under way. Also the Baron observed that an improvised body-wagon was beginning to make the rounds, staffed by white-robed acolytes of Ardneh—it would be interesting to see what the Dark King tried to do with the White Temple—picking up the casualties of the hours just past. A Red Temple, a tall, narrow brick building with hedonistic statues writhing and posturing across its facade, was also among the first businesses to open, the click and whirr of gaming wheels starting to sound from inside the main room on the ground floor.

  All in all, the city was now giving an impression of starting to come awake from its nightmare, of pulling itself together—to some extent. Not that conditions were back to normal, or anywhere close to that. Still, the Baron saw many people putting aside weapons, beginning what must be their daily routines, despite the glazed and wary look in their eyes. Probably, thought Amintor, observing carefully, some who were not really Mindsword-converts were pretending that they were, thinking thus to protect themselves against attack. And perhaps real converts were playing the game the other way, as agents provocateurs.

  Hundreds, it seemed, were discarding and burning garments and flags of blue and green, making up new ones out of black cloth and any yellow fabric that might pass for gold.

  Still other folk, as if exhausted by noisy demons
tration or activities still more energetic, sat quietly now, their hands and garments sometimes smeared with blood, their faces numb and blank, as if they might be considering the inner meaning of their lives.

  The Baron, while munching on his bread and broiled fish, made use of his time to do some thoughtful considering of his own. Looming large was the fact that he himself had been in the city for a couple of hours now but was still unbewitched. The most likely explanation of that, of course, was that the Mindsword’s influence had only passed over these people and moved on elsewhere; Skulltwister was no longer on the scene, or at least no longer drawn and active.

  Another possible explanation, one Amintor considered much more unlikely, was that he was being individually protected by some magic of a potency equal to that of Shieldbreaker—if any such equality could be imagined.

  Had Coinspinner somehow, without his knowledge, obtained for him immunity to Skulltwister? The Baron shook his head. He thought the chance of that extremely remote, though he could not rule it out absolutely. In general the Sword of Chance provided protection by keeping its possessor away from danger. Coinspinner had brought him here to Sarykam, and so here he ought to stand in no great peril.

  The thought of Shieldbreaker reminded Amintor that the Sword of Force was, or had been, generally thought to be in Sarykam, under the control of Prince Mark. Well, if so, the Prince had obviously not been able to get his hands on it in time to save his city. If several Swords had really been kept here in the palace armory, as was popularly believed, a successful surprise attack might have captured one or more of them.

  The Baron’s thoughts drifted. What he had always wanted, really wanted in his heart of hearts, was the chance to be a general—better yet, a field marshal; to command a victorious human army, to win or at least have a fighting chance of winning the great game of power, the struggle in which for forty years all the Swords had played such a central part.