Mindsword's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  Ben, silent and gloomy, was now riding close beside him once again.

  In half an hour, the messenger suddenly took wing again, squawked a brief farewell, and soon vanished over a hill ahead.

  Ben and Mark maintained a steady pace, each man looking ahead to try to spot some source of water and forage for their animals. Their journey, like some others they’d undertaken, had been long and hard but had brought no visible reward.

  Now at last the two men began to discuss the message, and Mark speculated on what exactly might have happened to cause Karel to send it.

  Ben offered such comments as he could think of that might be helpful; they were not long, or many.

  The Prince, his mood growing blacker the more he thought about Karel’s note, finally made a bald admission. “Ben, I have long neglected my wife and family.”

  “Ha. So have I; not that Barbara any longer cares much what I do.”

  “It’s my fault if you have. What have we accomplished on all these journeys?”

  Ben could find only a vaguely encouraging answer to that. Which under the circumstances wasn’t much.

  * * *

  Next day, as the weary pair were nearing the Tasavaltan border, they were met by a mounted party, including Karel himself, hastening out to meet them. The old wizard had already received Mark’s answer and, relieved that he was already so near, had ridden to intercept him. Having the advantage of winged scouts, the magician and his companions had felt confident of being able to locate the returning pair efficiently.

  Mark, on first catching sight of the approaching search party, stared intently, shading his eyes with a broad hand, at the figure in its lead.

  When he spoke, the relief in his voice was evident. “Thank all the gods, Kristin’s well. She’s ridden out herself to meet me.”

  Ben opened his mouth, but then said nothing. At the head of the approaching party he beheld not Princess Kristin but a certain red-haired girl. Even at the distance he had no trouble recognizing her, as strong and young and vitally alive as she had remained for many years now in his memory.

  Realization of the truth followed only a moment later, though too late to dull the renewed pang of loss. The figure they were looking at was of course neither that of the Princess nor Ben’s old love. It was someone else, and whoever it was was carrying Sightblinder.

  Mark was not so quick to come to this conclusion—after all, he had good reason to believe that Kristin was still alive.

  “Yes, it’s Kristin, all right,” the Prince announced. Then he glanced at his old friend, away, and back again.

  “Why are you looking like that?”

  “Because that’s not who I see.”

  The Prince swung back to face the approaching party. “Kristin, certainly. Or…” He looked at Ben again, and in a moment understanding came. “Yes … yes, of course.”

  * * *

  Actually it was stout Karel himself riding at the head of the welcoming delegation, with the Princeling Stephen close behind him. The old magician entrusted his Sword to an aide as he approached, turning a young officer tempo-rarily into a figure of fantasy whom the others present, all more or less inured to Sightblinder’s effects, generally managed to ignore.

  Stephen, spurring his mount forward, was the first of the approaching party to reach his father. Clinging to Mark’s arm, the lad began at once to pour out a tale of magical horror and outrage.

  Reporting loyally to Mark in turn, Karel confirmed the bitter story, adding some details. Then he informed his Prince that General Rostov had already taken one of the other Swords, Stonecutter, from the armory into the south-ern mountains, where an effort was under way to cut off the road that would offer Murat his most direct route back to Culm.

  “Then there can be no doubt it is Murat again.”

  “There can be no doubt.”

  Next Karel and Stephen between them related, more or less efficiently, more details of what had happened to Kristin.

  The Princeling in a strained voice told his father once more what he’d seen with his own eyes: his mother encountering that evil man who’d been here last year, the Crown Prince of Culm, who had turned out to be such a thief and traitor.

  Stephen, watching that encounter from a distant hill, had been too far away to be sure of the stranger’s identity at first. He had seen the blue-green uniforms riding with the unknown man, and so had not taken alarm immediately. He’d watched with curiosity, thinking that possibly a squad of cavalry was bringing in a prisoner, or else escorting some visitor of importance.

  And then, riding a little closer to see better, Stephen thought he had recognized the evil Crown Prince. He had seen the man drawing a Sword, and had observed by its effects the otherwise invisible wash of magic from that weapon, felling or stunning everyone within about a hundred meters.

  Mark was staring intently at his son, hanging on his every word. “And your mother? What more of her could you see?”

  “She did not fall from her mount, Father, but she dismounted of her own accord. And then a moment after that, the villain dismounted too—I think he was hurt when our men charged, because he needed help afterward to get off his riding- beast—and then it seemed to me that Mother went with him willingly after that.” Stephen’s voice faded almost to inaudibility on the last words, and he bit his lip.

  It all sounded very convincing, and Karel, looking as grim as Mark had ever seen him, could do little more than confirm the essentials of Stephen’s story. Murat of Culm, at the head of a small armed party—but nothing like a real invasion force-—had ridden into Tasavalta carrying the Mindsword. First he had ensorcelled a whole patrol of cavalry, and then had taken Princess Kristin hostage—Karel’s own arts now told him that she was thoroughly under the Sword’s spell. If there were any doubt remaining, she had left written messages proving as much.

  The Prince, listening, felt numb and hollow, an empty man going through motions because it was his duty. “Messages?”

  Karel dug into a pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, which he handed over to Mark.

  “This one is addressed to you, sir.”

  Hastily Mark broke the little seal, unfolded the paper and read it, first silently and then aloud. There, in what was undeniably his wife’s familiar handwriting, were words telling him that he had been divorced and deposed as Prince. The message concluded with good wishes for his future welfare. It read, thought the Prince, rather as if he were some senior official being nudged firmly into retirement.

  Mark started to crumple the paper to hurl it from him, then thought better of the gesture and instead handed the document back to Karel’s reaching hand. Any token from Kristin might possibly give a great wizard some magical advantage when the contest for her will was fought—as it was going to be—and in the circumstances every possible advantage would be needed.

  “But she is physically unharmed?” The Prince marveled at how calm his own voice sounded.

  The magician bowed his head slightly. “So it would seem, sir.” Everyone else was gravely silent.

  “Then we must do our best to see that she stays that way. Where are they now?”

  Karel described the place where Murat and his enthralled followers were currently encamped, then detailed the military and magical steps he and General Rostov had already taken. Besides dispatching a force to cut the southern road, Rostov was deploying chosen units of his army on the home front, while a reserve of troops had been mobilized and stood ready for the Prince’s orders.

  Mark, listening, put aside grief and fear and began to grapple mentally with the practical difficulties of attacking an opponent armed with the Mindsword.

  “Any word from Murat himself? Is he asking for negotiations?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then we’ll not give him the satisfaction of asking for them either.”

  Quickly making decisions, the Prince formally assumed command, then sent a small detachment of men under Ben to take over the efforts being made
with Stonecutter to close the mountain passes and high trails leading toward Culm. Rostov, once relieved from duty there, would be free to oversee a general mobilization.

  Having dismounted to sketch a couple of crude maps in the dust, Mark wiped them out again with his boot, and climbed back into the saddle, this time on one of the fresh mounts brought out from the city by the welcoming party.

  He announced: “We’ll concentrate first on keeping the villain in our country, until we can plan how best to attack him.”

  Ben saluted and rode off quickly on a fresh mount, taking with him a few picked men from the small escort of troops who had come out with Karel.

  Everyone else soon set off at a brisk pace, in a different direction. On Karel’s advice the Prince was leading them in the general direction of Sarykam.

  Mark as he rode soon issued more orders. A messenger was dispatched to his older son Adrian, giving the facts of the incursion and kidnapping, and such scanty reassurances as were possible. Karel had been reluctant to send word to Adrian until he could talk to Mark.

  Mark was anxious to take the field against Murat, but Karel thought it would be best for the Prince to meet first with the Tasavaltan Council. That body was already in session, considering whether to depose Kristin at least temporarily as Princess, since she had demonstrably taken leave of her senses.

  “What good will that do us? The point is that we must get her back, do you not agree?”

  “Wholeheartedly, Prince. But the Council is involved. If they should depose the Princess Kristin, it would become the duty of your son Adrian to assume the throne. And I fear your own formal authority as Prince Consort might be undermined as well.”

  “My friend, if I have any authority in my adopted land at all, it is only because you and the other Tasavaltan leaders choose to give it to me. Our son Adrian is still too young to rule, and in any case he’s too far distant to be brought home in a few days. The Council must see that the problem can’t wait for that.”

  Karel, announcing confidently that he was able to speak for Rostov and the other military officers, confirmed that they wanted no one but Mark as their Prince.

  Mark doubted that the sentiment was quite as unanimous as Kristin’s uncle made it sound; but he could not worry about that now.

  “Then let us send a messenger ahead, to try to stop the Council from taking action until we talk to them. Or let them send some representative to meet us in the field.

  Hurrying eastward, the Prince of Tasavalta made plans for his attack on Murat.

  Chapter Eleven

  At twilight on the second day after the conversion of the Princess, as Murat’s party halted to make camp, he again dispatched his son, along with a few chosen troopers, on a scouting mission to see what Tasavaltan forces might be in the vicinity. The Crown Prince was sure that Karel and other enemies had his party under surveillance now, and it was only to be expected that they were planning some kind of counterstroke. The reconnaissance ordered by Murat was a routine precaution.

  Carlo, full of unhappy presentiments before riding out of camp, grumbled to his father about Fate.

  After a full day in the saddle, the Crown Prince’s leg was aching like a broken tooth. His response to his son’s philosophical bitterness was not sympathetic.

  “Let us create a new fate if we do not like the one that confronts us. Anyway, to me, our current situation does not appear so bad.”

  But at the last moment, struck by a foreboding of his own, Murat called his son back and handed him the sheathed Mindsword.

  “I need not tell you that you must use it only to defend your life, and those of your men.”

  Carlo accepted the gift automatically from his father’s hands, then paused, holding the heavy weapon gingerly, as if he were on the verge of refusing the loan.

  “Take it,” Murat urged him tersely.

  “Thank you, Father,” Carlo acknowledged quietly. In a moment he had buckled on the gods’ Blade, on the opposite side of his belt from his own sword.

  As soon as the scouting party had ridden out of sight, Murat entered his tent, seeking such privacy as he could manage, and did his best to assess his situation.

  Though he had no real belief in Fate, he had to admit that a number of factors seemed to be conspiring to keep him from getting his band of followers out of Tasavalta as quickly as he’d planned.

  To begin with, there was his wound, which was not improving as he’d hoped it would. Forcing himself to ride had only made matters worse. The injured muscles in the limb had stiffened, the swelling was refusing to go down, and the pain had if anything grown worse. Sharp knifeblade pangs ran from knee to hip whenever the Crown Prince tried to move in certain ways, or alternately if he held the leg in the same position for any great length of time. The few troopers in his band who claimed some knowledge of healing could only shake their heads and offer the opinion that perhaps a nerve had been damaged by the unlucky slinger’s hit.

  Riding for another full day with such an injury might well prove impossible, and he had the feeling, perhaps irrational, that it might cripple him permanently as well. When he made an announcement to this effect, some talk sprang up among the master’s worried devotees of rigging a litter in which he could be transported. But the Crown Prince refused categorically to consider using any such device. He wasn’t dying, he snapped at his subordinates, nor was he helpless; after a day or two of rest, he should be ready to ride on. Meanwhile, alertness by all hands, combined with his enemies’ knowledge that he possessed the Mindsword, ought to render the camp secure against attack.

  * * *

  It was well after dark when Carlo and his men returned from their scouting trip, which had proven uneventful. They had seen no Tasavaltan military people anywhere, though several flying scouts had been observed. Carlo dutifully handed the unused Sword back to his father.

  * * *

  Next morning at first light, Murat on peering out of his tent was slightly surprised to discover the familiar, repulsive figure of Metaxas squatting patiently nearby, at a little distance from the nearest sentry. The Crown Prince ignored the beggar’s presence at first, but as the day wore on the visitor continued to hover in the vicinity of the injured man. Murat had the impression that Metaxas managed to grope his way a little nearer, and again a little nearer, whenever a likely opportunity arose. Drawing almost no attention to himself, and managing somehow to keep out of everyone else’s way, the blind man appeared determined to maintain his presence near Murat.

  But Kristin, who arrived at Murat’s tent at dawn to spend her time with the Crown Prince, trying to do something for his wound, soon became irritated by what she considered the beggar’s intrusive presence, and told the fellow to take himself away.

  Metaxas at once obediently arose, turned, and started to move off, tapping his way with a crude cane someone had provided for him. But before he had gone half a dozen steps he turned back, pleading.

  “Your pardon, my lady. Pardon me, Great Lord. But in my youth I possessed some small skill in the healing arts.”

  Murat and Kristin both looked at him doubtfully, then at each other. Nothing else was doing the injury any good.

  Evidently encouraged by silence, the beggar made the most of his chance. “With your permission, I would like to try to alleviate Your Worship’s pain, to make it sooner possible for Your Worship to ride again, and lead us where you will.”

  “What manner of treatment do you have in mind?” Murat rasped at him, his voice half-suspicious, half-contemptuous.

  Metaxas launched into an excited plea. “Oh, the master need not be concerned! I will not ask for hair, or fingernails, or any substance proceeding from the great lord’s body. Not a scrap of his clothing will I require, nor even a pinch of dirt from his footprint. It should be enough, with your permission, for me to chant a few words from afar.”

  Murat stared doubtfully at the wretch for a few moments, then shrugged. “Chant, then,” he agreed. “Preferably from the greates
t possible distance that will allow you to remain within the camp. Or go farther, if you will; suit yourself about that.”

  The eyeless man bowed, muttering words of gratitude. By this time a pair of half-suspicious Tasavaltan guards, taking their cue from their master’s attitude and tone, had come to flank Metaxas, and they guided him in his withdrawal to the other side of camp.

  Murat engaged once more in conversation with Kristin, and promptly forgot about the former beggar. But a few minutes later the Crown Prince, happening to move his leg, noted that the pain was much diminished. The improvement had occurred with magical suddenness.

  Soon he had to admit to himself that Metaxas had demonstrated his ability to work a minor healing spell, even while not being allowed to touch the patient.

  When Murat called Kristin’s attention to this fact, she was delighted at the improvement, but at first unwilling to give credit to the eyeless man. Murat, however, insisted that he knew the touch of healing magic when he felt it, and the Princess was forced to admit that the great bruise on his leg now looked better. The swelling in his thigh had clearly started to diminish, though the leg was still too painful for him to consider riding except in the most immediate emergency.

  Despite Kristin’s continued antipathy to the begger, Murat had him summoned again and thanked him. Then, in response to a pleading look from the Princess, he banished his benefactor once more to the far side of camp.

  Even had Murat been ready to ride at once, still there would have been delay in getting on the road to Culm today. The men in charge of the riding-beasts and loadbeasts came to report a newly discovered problem. A swarm of mice, which everyone was sure must have been produced or at least mobilized by Karel’s magic, had appeared overnight to devour and scatter much of the grain in camp. Feed would have to be carried for the animals on a trip across the badlands. It would be folly to trust to forage on the journey; there were certain to be long barren stretches where the grazing was inadequate.