Shieldbreaker's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  And over the past several months the Sword of Chance, coming suddenly into his possession like an answer to his prayers—not that he had really offered any prayers—had allowed him to realize his dream, at least as far as forming the army he had wanted.

  As for being able to lead his army into battle, well, he supposed that wish would be granted him, in the Sword’s good time.

  It occurred to the watching Baron that other travelers must be approaching the city this morning, as on any other morning, and that a few of these, at least those with the strongest reasons for doing so, must be actually entering, despite all the obvious signs of disaster.

  In fact he was soon able to observe some of these, who with evident trepidation were making their way to a place near the central square. The Baron watched with measured interest as at that point they came to grief through not being quick enough to emulate the fanaticism by which they now found themselves surrounded.

  Amintor’s natural disinclination to interfere with whatever was happening to the victims was not disturbed by any counsel of his Sword. Coinspinner lay inert at his side.

  * * *

  Sipping tea from the vendor’s cracked mug and trying to better understand the situation, the Baron made an effort to mentally reconstruct last night’s events here in the capital. It seemed to him that Vilkata, armed with the Mindsword and doubtless accompanied by his usual swarm of demons, must have launched his sneak attack upon Sarykam no more than a few hours ago. Then the Dark King, having quickly secured the palace and achieved his own apotheosis in the hearts of a key segment of the population, must have given orders to take hostages. Having taken that precaution he had himself moved on, no doubt in pursuit of Mark or other enemies. And, of course, Vilkata would have taken Skulltwister with him.

  It seemed likely that the conqueror would be returning to his conquered city fairly soon. Certainly the Dark King knew as well as anyone how impermanent were the Mindsword’s spells; unless they were renewed every couple of days, Vilkata would stand in serious danger of losing his grip upon the capital.

  With these facts in mind, Amintor looked up at the skies, frowning, alert for the sight of demon or griffin with the Dark King on its back, the rider with a gleaming, cheering Sword in hand. Skulltwister bothered him. The Baron was ready to accept risks, even high risks sometimes, but he had a chronic terror of falling under the Mindsword’s spell. Often enough he had seen what that weapon did to others.

  He turned his head sharply to study a new disturbance at ground level. Here came another little mob of chanting fanatics, marching down the street right past his bench. The Baron stared back at them coldly as they went by. He shivered slightly, and felt for the reassuring black hilt at his side.

  Well, he supposed he could continue to rely on his own Sword for indirect protection—and for more than that. Coinspinner had guided him to Sarykam, and he thought it must have done so to help him achieve more than mere survival.

  Everything the Baron knew about the Sword of Chance suggested to him that opportunity for great gain or advancement, perhaps of several kinds, abounded here in this conquered city. Now, if only he could determine how best to take advantage of the occasion. …

  But naturally Coinspinner would show him how, if he only gave it the chance.

  Amintor started to sip his tea again, then impulsively threw half a cup of the vile stuff away. Getting to his feet, he limped about again. He felt it was time to be moving.

  Several times in the space of the next half hour he consulted his Sword, trying to attract as little attention as possible in the process. Each time he frowned at the negative result and strolled on. In his own perception he was doing little more than killing time; but as far as he could tell, the Sword of Fortune, giving him only slight indications or none at all, was advising him to continue.

  * * *

  An hour or so after breakfasting, the Baron was sitting in a sidewalk shop, imbibing still more hot tea—this of slightly better quality—and waiting for opportunity to present itself. The state of keyed-up alertness in which he had entered the city had long since faded; nature was asserting herself, and he was beginning to get sleepy, having been in the saddle most of the night. The tea at least was helping him to keep his eyelids open.

  Then abruptly Amintor was jarred to full wakefulness. The voices around him had suddenly taken on a new tone. He became aware of an accelerated swarming and gathering in the streets, a concerted movement finally involving thousands of people, all converging upon the central square before the palace. The normal business of the day, tentatively begun, was once more being put aside.

  Amintor reacted decisively, getting swiftly to his feet and moving with the crowd. Proceeding at a fast limp, sometimes almost running, he wondered whether he should draw his Sword again. But he decided that was unnecessary for the moment, as Coinspinner had certainly brought him here. He allowed himself to be carried along.

  The stream of people in which he moved joined other streams, from other streets, all eddying in a great pool across the central plaza. The Baron drew in his breath sharply upon recognizing, despite the distance, the virtually unmistakable figure of the Dark King. The tall, blind albino had come out on one of the second- or third-level balconies on the high palace of gray stone. There was the usual half- visible blurring of demonic presence in a small cloud above the wizard’s head, and Amintor thought—though it was difficult to be sure at that distance—that he could see small bandages in several places on Vilkata’s body.

  Rapidly the enthusiastic crowd—if Amintor’s private calculations regarding the number of converts were correct, the throng must be heavily augmented by folk only pretending to be converts—pressed forward, gathering as closely as possible underneath the balcony. There were thousands or tens of thousands of people now, looking up with evident awe and worship. When Vilkata’s distant figure gestured that they should be still, they fell for the most part into reverent silence.

  Amintor, cheering and falling silent in tune with those around him, felt somewhat uneasy, despite his own firm grip on the hilt of the Sword of Chance. He considered prudently working his way back through the crowd to the far side of the square; but surely the Mindsword’s power, if it should be drawn, would extend that far.

  He took some comfort from the fact at the moment neither of Vilkata’s pale hands were holding any Sword, though there might well be one sheathed at the man’s side.

  Vilkata soon began an oration, of which Amintor could hear no more than a few isolated words because of the fresh outbreak of screaming the speech provoked among the multitude—until the people’s god once again, more sternly this time, commanded silence. Once he was perceived as being serious on that point, a deathlike hush fell over the assemblage.

  With relative quiet established, Vilkata in his smooth, deep voice at first complimented the mass of his followers on the zeal they had so recently displayed in hunting down and killing anyone suspected of still adhering to the cause of the old royal family. But in the next breath the Dark King sounded a different note, saying that the time for such random slaughter had now passed—all the citizens of Sarykam were to be considered valuable assets in his cause, except, of course, for any unregenerate scoundrels who proved unwilling to serve.

  Turning from side to side upon his balcony, waving both arms to acknowledge the renewed cheering of his worshippers, Vilkata from time to time revealed the dark hilt of a Sword at his side.

  Now the speaker let his hand rest on that dark hilt. The crowd roared anew. Amintor, watching, nervously continued to assume that this was the Mindsword.

  The Baron knew a chill of fear. If he should draw Skulltwister again right now, I’m lost. …

  But Coinspinner, by whatever means, was evidently still doing an adequate job of looking after its owner; or else some other tremendous power was on the Baron’s side. For though Vilkata’s hand stayed resting on the dark hilt, he did not draw his Blade.

  The Baron, forcing himself to
relax again, mused that Coinspinner might very well have brought him here for the very purpose of becoming the Dark King’s partner; what he had told the fanatics earlier had contained more than a grain of truth. The two men had in fact worked together in the past.

  And the Sword of Chance seemed to confirm this idea as soon as Amintor tested it. The magic-laden tip of Coinspinner twitched decisively in the direction of Vilkata on his distant balcony.

  Granted this seeming encouragement, trying to put thoughts of Skulltwister out of his mind, Amintor began to use his bulk to work his way in that direction.

  Meanwhile Vilkata, even as he stood looking out over the adoring throng, found himself obsessed by the idea that every one of these folk now offering him such frenzied adoration would very shortly be starting to come out of the Mindsword-fog. A few of them—and the thought was enough to give him chills—might be already faking their devotion. The very first defections, he surmised, had occurred already. They would have begun within a few hours of Skulltwister’s smashing, an event now some eight hours in the past.

  Perhaps the most urgent problem that he faced was that there were very few humans whom he could even begin to trust on any basis other than enslavement—and, at the moment, none of those people were within a hundred kilometers. Demons were useful in many ways, sometimes invaluable, but that race certainly had its limitations.

  * * *

  The Baron, having managed to consult his own Sword once again as he kept pushing his way through the crowd—his actions with that formidable weapon earned him a few suspicious looks from people around him—persevered in his bold effort to approach the Dark King.

  The closer Amintor got to the balcony, the more his progress was disputed. Trying to elbow one’s way through a throng of jealous worshippers was inherently dangerous. A murmur went up, then an outcry, at last enough of a disturbance to attract the attention of the Eyeless One upon his balcony. The Baron gestured with his free hand, and called out. A guardian demon, watchful, came buzzing overhead.

  Vilkata’s demonic vision was evidently acute, for a moment later he had recognized Amintor and was shouting orders for the crowd to make way; and once the Master’s will was made known to the crowd, they instantly complied. Very quickly the Baron was pushed and drawn into the palace, then, after some further delay marked by arguments among converts, he was conducted to Vilkata’s side.

  * * *

  It was unnecessary for Amintor to climb all the way to the balcony, for Vilkata in his eagerness had come down from it to meet him in an intermediate room. On first coming into each other’s presence, the two men hailed and greeted each other warily, though with considerable show of good fellowship and enthusiasm.

  Vilkata at once felt confident that Amintor was not under the Mindsword’s influence; certainly the Baron’s manner, while respectful, was vastly different from the adoring attitude of those by whom the two men were surrounded.

  The Baron, as if he could deduce what thoughts were running through the Dark King’s mind, stated the fact explicitly. “I am here by my own decision, Majesty.”

  “I am glad to hear it … some years have passed since we have seen each other. You look healthy and prosperous.”

  “Indeed, too many years, Your Majesty.”

  Vilkata’s eyeless gaze fell to the black hilt at the other’s side, which Amintor was making no effort to conceal. “What brings you to Tasavalta, and to this city, Baron, at this auspicious time?”

  “With your permission?” Amintor—taking care to move his hand very slowly and cautiously—drew Coinspinner, just enough to let the Eyeless One have a good look at the hilt.

  The pale brows above the empty sockets rose. “Aha! So the Sword of Chance has counseled you to come this way—I take it that your arrival in the city was quite recent?”

  “Shortly before dawn, Majesty.” Amintor was wincing involuntarily, making a not entirely successful effort to ignore the close proximity of the Dark King’s demons.

  The Dark King smiled in amusement, then scowled fiercely. “Do they bother you, my little pets? Hey there, Arridu, Pitmedden—all the rest of you—stand back a little! Give this, my partner, room to breathe.”

  At once the noisome cloud of demons, their looming presence, became, gratefully, less obtrusive.

  Amintor raised a not completely steady hand to wipe his forehead. “My thanks,” he said sincerely, “and my apologies for any inconvenience. But such creatures inevitably make me feel a little sickish.” He did not mention the other side of his concern, which was not directly for his own personal welfare, rather that one of the pets out of sheer exuberant malignity would attempt to play some prank upon him, and Coinspinner, active at his side, would somehow blot the foul thing out of existence in a twinkling. Which would not endear the Baron to the Dark King.

  Vilkata shrugged, dismissing the subject of his pets and guardians. He stood waiting, evidently considering something very thoughtfully.

  The Baron seized what seemed to be an opportunity. “Your Majesty, I have never been one to hide my intentions in clouds of rhetoric. With all respect, I propose that you and I form a partnership—you, of course, to be the senior.”

  The Dark King did not appear to be at all surprised by the offer. Better, from Amintor’s point of view, he was immediately receptive to the plan, spreading his arms wide in a slow gesture, as if to say: It is accomplished! Not bothering with any coy pretense of reluctance. He confessed that he stood in need of relatively trustworthy human assistance.

  Not that the Dark King gave the impression of begging for help. Far from it. Vilkata’s willingness to take a partner was surely the confident seizing of an opportunity, not an act of desperation. A sixth sense warned Amintor that something in the situation remained unexplained. “But, Majesty, if you have the Mindsword, surely recruiting people to serve you is no problem?”

  All human onlookers, prodded by demons, had withdrawn to a distance of a room or two. Vilkata, taking the Baron by the arm familiarly, began to stroll with him along a marble hallway. Their boots clopped almost in unison, drawing rich echoes from the stone.

  The Dark King said quietly: “Since we are partners now, I’ll keep no secrets from you. Alas, I have it no longer.”

  “The Mindsword? Ah!” Amintor stopped in his tracks.

  “The fact is that no one does.” And Vilkata related in a few terse words the basic facts of his skirmish in the armory—leaving out, of course, the great fact of the abject terror he had experienced.

  He concluded: “At this moment I am in possession of perhaps a thousand enthusiastic human converts, for a few days more—perhaps for no longer than a few hours, in some cases. You know, Baron, how these things work.”

  “Indeed, I have some passing acquaintance with the effects of all the Swords. And your demons? To what degree, if I may ask, will your control of them be altered?”

  The Dark King shrugged, then explained that it was not the fact that his demons would soon be free of Skulltwister’s spells that worried him the most. Vilkata had been dealing with demons almost all of his long life, and he considered himself magician enough to handle his present crew, even without the Mindsword in hand to set the ultimate seal on his authority.

  But controlling people was in many ways more difficult.

  Amintor nodded. Then he asked: “If Skulltwister has been smashed, Your Majesty, then what Sword is it that you now wear at your side?”

  Vilkata smiled faintly. “Another reason we may hope for ultimate success.” And he allowed the Baron to see the small white hammer on the hilt, and gave some indication of how he had so recently come into possession of Shieldbreaker.

  Now Amintor could understand the confidence.

  When some minor details of the partnership had been concluded by mutual agreement, the Dark King—naturally confirmed in his expectation to be senior partner—now in effect getting his hands on Coinspinner, began to consider out loud whether it might be better to smash it right away.
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br />   When the suggestion was made, Amintor was horrified.

  The Dark King yielded the point. He admitted that it seemed preferable, almost essential, at this stage of affairs, to get all the help the Sword of Chance was capable of giving. For one thing, it could be an invaluable help in finding the other Swords and eventually getting them all out of circulation. Not to mention Coinspinner’s usefulness for other purposes as well—for example, in finally disposing of Prince Mark.

  The partners quickly agreed that Coinspinner’s first assigned task ought to be tracking down Prince Stephen—or whoever else the lonely warrior in the armory might possibly have been.

  Amintor, struck by what he considered inspiration, drew a deep breath and announced that he was presenting Coinspinner freely to his new senior partner as a gift. With a dramatic gesture he actually unbuckled the swordbelt and held it out.

  Vilkata was immediately wary of such generosity; the hideously smooth, pale face, eyeless but very far from blind, pressed a silent and suspicious query.

  The Baron was smoothly reassuring, and disarmingly frank. “In the first place, Your Majesty, I could not, even supposing that I wanted to, use this weapon against you, armed as you now are. And in the second place, the Sword of Chance has been with me now for many months; as you know at least as well as I, there’s no telling when it might fly away of its own accord. Therefore it seems to me that the best use I can make of it right now is to cement our bargain.” And he handed over the sheathed weapon.

  He was right, suspicion had not been allayed. Vilkata, reaching out as if to accept the great gift, gave it only a symbolic touch, then pushed the Sword of Chance right back to the giver.