Shieldbreaker's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  He was given an even better reason to hold back. The Sword of Chance itself, as soon as the young Prince began to raise the heavy steel to deliver a killing blow, tugged at Stephen’s arm, unambiguously directing him to let Amintor live.

  Obeying this tugging indication by the Gods’ Counselor, the young Prince pondered what he ought to do with the Baron and his unpleasant cohort, if he was not to endeavor to wipe them out.

  Roughly he demanded of their leader: “So, you have not found the young Prince yet?”

  The shaken Amintor had rejoined his party and was climbing back into his saddle. “No, sire. We have hardly started—”

  “Never mind. Abandon that pursuit. I have new orders for you.”

  Stephen had the satisfaction of seeing Baron Amintor’s assurance crack momentarily, this elder warrior blink at him in astonishment and poorly concealed fear. After a moment the Baron ventured: “But Majesty, what of the Sword the young Prince Stephen still carries?”

  “Do not dispute my orders!”

  “Of course, you are the senior partner. But—” Then Amintor quailed. “What are the new orders?”

  Again imagination flagged, and Stephen was momentarily stuck. Then inspiration flashed again. “What would you expect them to be? Use your head, man!”

  “I—I—to rejoin my army. To see that my forces reach and occupy Sarykam as swiftly as possible.”

  “Clever. Good thinking, Baron. Would you like me to provide demonic transportation for you?”

  The Baron declined that offer.

  “One more thing, Baron. The wizard Karel will stay here with me.”

  “As you wish, sir. Of course.”

  Karel, delighted to be allowed to serve his new god directly, stood worshipfully beside the image of his Master, while Amintor and his remaining escort rode out of the garden and out of sight, starting on the new mission.

  * * *

  Back in the palace, the Dark King was pondering intensely his problems and his opportunities. He understood that Arridu, as well as his squadron of lesser demons, were likely to remain under the Mindsword’s lingering influence for only a few more hours at most. His only prudent course from now on would be to assume that all his demons had thrown off Skulltwister’s yoke.

  Fortunately for himself, Vilkata had never been forced to depend entirely on the Mindsword when dealing with Arridu’s race. He had taken care to establish an independent magical control over his demonic cadre. Even after the Mindsword’s influence had faded, the vicious creatures would still be constrained to serve him, as many another mighty member of their race had been in the past.

  * * *

  The Dark King thought that, of course, the difference between demons in an ordinary tamed condition and those under the Mindsword’s bondage was that in the former case it was not totally unthinkable that the foul creatures should turn treacherous. In fact it was almost certain that, sooner or later, one of Arridu’s strength would make the attempt to do so.

  Vilkata’s thin lips smiled faintly. He, the Dark King, if anyone, knew how to manage demons.

  And he judged that an opportunity had now arrived for him to satisfy at least in part his curiosity about the Swords.

  * * *

  The fact was that Arridu, until very recently a stranger to the Swords, was still not totally convinced of just how incomparably strong those weapons were. In fact Arridu, going along with his Master’s wish to rid the world of most of them, announced that he could manage that.

  “You? Are you saying that you by your own powers can break a Sword that was forged by the gods themselves?”

  Arridu, projecting an image of serene power, was quietly self-assured. “I see no gods about me now.”

  “They have been vanquished. Exterminated.”

  “But I have not.” Truly it seemed that the great demon did not believe that any mere artifact of metal and magic, whether forged by a god or not, could resist his strength.

  The Dark King, staring at his most powerful vassal, nodded slowly. He was in a mood to accept this challenge. He thought he could be certain of the outcome.

  Vilkata considered that there had always been difficulties, certainly, in the way of any plan to destroy all the Swords. Not the least of these obstacles being that the only known means of permanently eliminating any Sword, the only method by which any had yet been demolished, was by bringing the Blade of lesser strength into violent opposition with Shieldbreaker.

  At least that was the consensus of knowledgeable opinion. Vilkata, wavering somewhat in his assurance, questioned on the point by the confident demon, had to admit that he wasn’t at all sure how often Sword-smashing had seriously been tried.

  * * * * * *

  Descending into the airy cellars of the Tasavaltan armory to try it now, Vilkata gave Arridu full permission, nay, commanded him, to do his best to obliterate or at least damage Stonecutter. To swing a heavy blacksmith’s hammer right at the keen edge, with superhuman strength.

  For the purpose of this test, Vilkata ordered the Sword of Siege to be set up in a vise on a handy workbench, under an Old World light. Arridu selected a hammer, the biggest and hardest available from the armorers’ shop in an adjoining room, and, after warning his Master to take cover, wielded the tool with all his strength.

  This effort produced impressive pyrotechnics, a stunning blast and a ruined hammer, but no detectable damage to the Sword.

  Arridu in baffled rage, and his Master in restored confidence, inspected the result carefully. Not the finest chip or nick marred even the very thinnest edge of Blade.

  “Let it stay there, in the clamps.” And Vilkata raised Shieldbreaker, whose muttering drumbeat swelled. In another moment, Stonecutter had perished, in a blast whose flying fragments left the Dark King totally unscathed.

  * * *

  In the course of their subsequent discussion about the surviving Swords, Arridu calmly assured his master that he knew where the Tyrant’s Blade was to be found.

  Vilkata became very still, staring at the great demon, who had now assumed the likeness of an elder sorceress. Pitmedden buzzed like a great fly beside the wizard’s head. Vilkata demanded: “Soulcutter? Do you know what you are saying?”

  “Oh, indeed, Master, indeed I do. Now that you have taught me about the Swords, Master, I can understand certain events on the Moon which for the past twenty years have puzzled me.”

  “And what events were these?”

  “Those surrounding the visit, to a site near our place of imprisonment, of a man whom I can now identify. It was he who is called the Emperor, and he brought with him a certain object, and he caused that object to be there buried, deep, deep in lunar rock, where once volcanoes flowed; and he sealed the burial with mighty spells and other sealings.”

  Vilkata demanded more details, and Arridu was ready to provide them. Though, of course, the demon could not answer every question, Soulcutter, it indeed appeared, had somehow been carried to the Moon. Piecing together what Arridu now told him with certain facts he had long known, Vilkata decided that the deadly toy must have been put away there by the Emperor some twenty years ago.

  Still Vilkata had scarcely moved since Arridu’s claim, and promise, first fell upon his ears. The human wizard mused: “Aye, that would have been like him—the Great Clown, the matchless hypocrite. Saving Despair to use it, for his own advantage, later.” Vilkata chewed his pale lower lip.

  The speech of the elegant, gray-haired lady’s image was soft, utterly reassuring. “And I know where it is, great Master. Say the word, and that weapon shall be yours.”

  The Dark King thought for some time. Suspiciously he at last replied: “When the time comes, you will return there with me and show me where that Sword is buried, and help me remove such obstacles as may keep me from it; but it will be my hand alone that takes control of that Sword, or any other we may find.”

  “It is easy to see, great Lord, how that Sword might be of inestimable value to your cause.”

 
; “Indeed.”

  * * *

  Whenever the Dark King perceived the Sword of Despair, in reality or in imagination, the symbolism of his special vision presented that weapon to him as a narrow pillar of darkness, radiating tendrils of negation, stifling light and movement, hope and purpose, everywhere nearby. So, in his mind’s eye, he visualized Soulcutter now. …

  Yes, that Sword was what he needed to set in motion the perfect plan for domination.

  It would, of course, be folly for anyone not armed as well with Shieldbreaker to simply draw Soulcutter, thus exposing oneself to its deadly, corrosive power, along with all other humans, beasts, and demons within a long bowshot. But Vilkata was armed with the protective Sword of Force. He could walk unharmed, untouched, amid despairing armies.

  And there would, of course, be other ways to use the Sword of Despair intelligently. For example, to arrange for it to be unsheathed in the midst of an enemy army. For example, give Soulcutter to Mark or his associates, to some person among them who could be fooled or persuaded into drawing Despair at the right moment. …

  Oh yes, the tactical details would all have to be calculated very carefully. But the Dark King had no doubt at all that he could manage them.

  * * *

  An hour after Vilkata had dismissed Arridu from his presence, another conference took place, this one between Arridu and Amintor. It happened in the latter’s tent, while the Baron was resting, somewhere well outside the city, after the first few hours of the wild-goose chase he had been sent on by Stephen.

  Outside, around the tent, Amintor’s escort, all unaware of his visitor’s arrival, were going on about the routine chores of camp. The Baron felt seriously sickened by the close presence of this thing which had intruded its presence upon him.

  The demon, becoming aware of this reaction, caused itself to be perceived as having withdrawn to a somewhat more comfortable distance—the tent having apparently elongated itself rather strangely. Also, Arridu took the non- threatening appearance of a simple peasant, some prosperous small farmer who might have come to discuss the sale of an allotment of potatoes.

  “Thank you.” Amintor wiped sweat from his forehead, not bothering to try to conceal the action, or the discomfort which had caused it.

  The gray-stubbled peasant, sitting easily on a camp stool with fingers interlaced across his ample paunch, remarked that he, Amintor, had never been a slave of the Mindsword.

  “True. While you, of course…”

  “I have been subject to such enthrallment, but for the past few hours I have been free. The weapon called Skulltwister has been smashed—doubtless it could not have held me much longer in any case.”

  The Baron moistened his lips and tried to appear comfortable. “He has, of course, instructed you to say that you are now free. To try my loyalty.”

  “No. You know the Mindsword’s spells must fade with time. And I can prove what I say.” The peasant-demon, settling itself in as if for a leisured talk, went on to inform the man of how he, the Baron, had just allowed Sightblinder in young Prince Stephen’s hands to make a fool of him. “But I have not mentioned your failure to the great fool, who thinks I am still bound to him by a broken Sword.”

  The Baron, staring at the lifeless gray eyes of his informant, felt a chill as the conviction grew in him that for once a demon was telling him the truth: He had indeed been fooled by the Sword of Stealth in the hands of the Tasavaltan princeling.

  The demon, as if it could read his mind, nodded slightly. “Your partnership with the Dark King—such as it was—is already ruined. Therefore, Baron, you had better seek to make some other arrangement for your own survival as soon as possible.”

  Arridu, originally somewhat contemptuous of the Swords, had been forced to concede that they must be respected. To cope with the Sword of Force he needed a human ally, or tool—someone with the nerve and knowledge necessary to wrestle Shieldbreaker away from Vilkata. Ideally, this human helper would be a non- magician, who could be dealt with more reasonably thereafter.

  The Baron seemed an eminently suitable choice. The man possessed both nerve and knowledge, and would therefore be worth some effort at persuasion. Amintor was somewhat physically decrepit compared to the magician, the much greater age of the latter having been more than compensated for by magic. But in this wrestling bodily strength was not a requirement.

  * * *

  Amintor, listening to the demon’s proposal without yet committing himself, appreciated the skill and daring with which the plan had been made. At the same time, he felt extremely reluctant to agree to anything of the kind without what he considered some enforceable guarantee of his role in the new partnership to follow. Second place in any partnership was generally good enough for him; he was not a man who really wanted to be supreme dictator.

  And—wasn’t there some relevant old proverb? If not, there ought to be. Only a lunatic, the Baron thought to himself, would ever willingly become a demon’s partner.

  The question was whether he, Amintor, really had any choice.

  “Then I am with you,” he said at last, trying to make the agreement sound hearty and whole-hearted.

  The tent restored itself to normal interior dimensions as the peasant got to his feet, his small eyes twinkling. “Of course you are,” the demon said reassuringly.

  “When do we strike?”

  “That has yet to be decided. Probably the next time you and the Dark King are together. But let the coming-together be his suggestion and not yours.”

  Arridu agreed with the Baron that Amintor at this point had best go on trying to rejoin his army.

  * * *

  When the thing was gone, Amintor once more stretched out, shakily this time, to try to get some rest. He wondered whether Vilkata’s wide-awake spell was going to keep him from sleeping altogether.

  Dozing, or trying to doze, the Baron also considered privately whether it was yet utterly hopeless for him to make a deal with Prince Mark and his royal wife, or with Stephen if and when he encountered the lad again. Amintor was quite ready to ally himself with Tasavalta, for the time being at least, if other choices seemed unsatisfactory. And the Tasavaltans, their capital in enemy hands, were in no condition to be too choosy about their allies.

  Darkness was falling outside his tent. His minor demons and his hapless converts went about routine activities. If only he could sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The compact realm of Tasavalta lay for the most part green and beautiful, in sunny early afternoon, some twelve hours after Vilkata’s surprise attack on the capital, Sarykam—and approximately two hours after Stephen had confronted Baron Amintor and relieved him of the Sword of Chance.

  * * *

  Ben of Purkinje—massive, heavily muscled, scarred, graying and ugly Ben, who was a couple of years older than the Prince and looked a little older still—and Prince Mark, companions since their early youth, had ridden together out of the village of Voronina before dawn, feeling the urgent need of a scouting expedition in the direction of the city.

  Mark was wearing Woundhealer at his right side, and at his left, just in case of untoward encounters, a mundane sword of comparable size and weight, an efficient killing tool.

  Captain Miyagi and his small company of soldiers had remained in the village with Princess Kristin, as had the beast-master and his trained animals, with the exception of one day-flying bird-messenger that went with Mark. In expectation that Vilkata’s invading forces would soon renew and extend their assault, the understanding was that the Princess would, at some time during the day, move her field headquarters to a different village. If all went well, her husband, having completed his reconnaissance for the time being, would soon join her there.

  * * *

  Mark and Ben, long familiar with each other’s thoughts, had little to say as they cantered toward Sarykam. The morning was well advanced by the time they came in sight of the city’s familiar walls.

  At this point the pair encountered a
handful of people, good Tasavaltan citizens, but now with the look of refugees about them, carrying homemade bundles and wearing expressions of bewilderment. One couple pushed a laden cart built to be hauled by animals. All of these people recognized the Prince on sight, and most of them knew Ben as well. All told at length of the devastation in the capital, and several were eye-witnesses of Vilkata’s demons taking hostages by the hundred.

  One man had heard a rumor that the Mindsword had been destroyed, but that all the weapons in the armory were captured by the foe. Another rumor was that Vilkata had been slain; and there were less happy rumors concerning things that might have happened to Prince Stephen. The father of the young Prince, well aware of the unreliability of tales in wartime, managed to hear these last without giving any overt sign of great dismay.

  * * *

  Leaving the refugees to settle their concerns of food and shelter for the coming night, Ben and Mark moved on a little way. They were considering whether to approach the city more closely, when in a suburban street one of the death squads dispatched by Vilkata against Mark, half a dozen Tasavaltan converts sent out as assassins, recognized the pair and attacked, shrieking their glorious Master’s name.

  Some of these men were literally frothing at the mouth with the violence of their hatred, with their joy at the prospect of killing and dying for the Dark King.

  Ben had only a moment’s warning, but that was all he needed. He met his attackers with considerable skill and overwhelming strength. Knowing that Woundhealer was available, in his partner’s hand, made it possible also to fight with an unusual recklessness.