Both offenders bowed in reverence.
“First, I command you to tell me: Is any other plotter, human or otherwise, implicated?”
Both villains at once began to blubber in unison—even the demon’s image seemed to cry. With one voice, speaking with tearful vehemence, they assured their new master that no other conspirators had been involved.
“Very well. I’ll take your word on that—for the time being. Next, tell me, what exactly was the object of your conspiracy?”
Akbar stuttered, doing an excellent imitation of an appealing maiden in distress. Vilkata confessed that they had been plotting, of course, to get their hands on Murat’s Sword. Both partners wept—Vilkata could still weep, it seemed—and tore their hair—or seemed to tear it—at the mere thought of having contemplated such a crime.
But after a few moments of this demonstration, Vilkata pulled himself together.
“I was—I am—the Dark King.” This much was no longer a confession, but had become a proclamation, made with a certain pride. “Like other players in the great game, I wanted to eventually possess all the Swords. Like others, I wanted to rule the world with them.”
The Crown Prince glared at him. “And now? What are you now, fallen king, failed wizard? No longer a player in the great game, as you call it. What do you now want?”
“I am—I devoutly hope to be—Your Lordship’s magician, and faithful counselor. Certainly I would still be glad to have a Sword, or many Swords. But now, I would want them only as effective tools, that I might be better able to serve my lord.”
“Well answered—I suppose.” The Crown Prince nodded judicially. “And the demon?”
Akbar, both he and his fellow plotter agreed, was to have been content with the role of second in command when his master Vilkata had succeeded in winning his way back to power.
Murat, suddenly feeling tired almost to exhaustion, lowered his Sword and thought for a moment. Then he made a gesture that was not quite one of dismissal.
“All right, enough. You may spare me the vile details.” But his curiosity on other subjects was still unsated, and a moment later he was questioning the scoundrels again.
The next thing the Crown Prince wanted to know was the location of Akbar’s life. Everyone knew that the only absolutely sure way of controlling any demon was to have in one’s control the object wherein its life was hidden.
Vilkata swore that he had no idea where Akbar’s life might be concealed—that was naturally the last thing that any demon wanted to reveal. He turned to his former partner expectantly.
Akbar, who unlike the man seemed to remain in a state of abject surrender—the maiden’s head drooped pitiably—proclaimed himself unable to withhold anything from his new master.
“Well, then?”
The demon’s slender maiden’s arm stretched out, forefinger pointed at Murat’s right hand.
Her tender voice murmured: “My life is hidden in the Mindsword itself.”
Vilkata’s jaw dropped, in what appeared to be genuine surprise. But the wizard-king said nothing for the moment.
Murat gazed at the Blade in his own hand, first with astonishment and then with new calculation. He swished the god-forged steel several times through the air.
At last he looked back at Akbar. “So! Very clever of you, beast. How did you happen to be able to accomplish such a feat of concealment? But never mind, I can hear that tale later.”
“At any time my master wishes.”
The look of calculation had not left Murat’s face. Suddenly he turned to the human magician and ordered him to make fire.
Vilkata blinked at his master. “Sir?”
“It’s a simple enough command. I want you to create fire for me, a small flame, here and now. Right here on the ground in front of me. Surely, as you claim to be a mighty wizard, such a feat is not beyond your powers? It seems to me that it might serve as a test for some low-level magical apprentice.”
“I fear, my lord, that I can no longer claim to be a mighty wizard. But—you are quite right. Fire ought to be simple enough.”
Creeping about on all fours, Vilkata with unsteady hands gathered dried grass and twigs from the fringes of the hedgerows, heaping his harvest into a little pile before Murat. The magician muttered words into his dark beard. A moment later, a small tongue of flame danced forth atop the pile.
Another moment, and the Crown Prince was holding the Mindsword’s blade directly in the fire. At the first touch of the live flames the demon emitted a scream of torment. In another moment Akbar was thrashing about on the ground, the demure maiden gone, the creature’s apparent body contorting madly as it changed into a bewildering variety of shapes.
The Crown Prince kept at his roasting for a little while, confident that a little heat was not going to hurt his Sword. Rare indeed, he thought, would be the human being who felt any compunction about putting any demon to the torment, for whatever reason; and he himself could feel none now. But for the moment, being under the necessity of holding rational discourse with the thing, he ceased to punish it.
“Very clever,” he remarked, when the Blade had cooled somewhat, and Akbar had ceased to scream, now lying huddled and twitching on the sand much as a broken human being might have done. “Very clever, choosing one of the Twelve Swords in which to hide your miserable life. Since the Swords are all but indestructible, there would seem to be no practical way for your life to be destroyed; therefore I cannot reasonably threaten you with extinction. But as we have just seen, your existence can be made hell; and I promise you it will be, if you disobey me.”
The demon raised its face enough to peer at him with one clear human-looking eye. “Never again will I even think of disobedience, Lord! Never! My only wish now is to serve you faithfully!”
“See that you do not forget it!”
* * *
In fact Murat no longer had the least doubt of the loyalty of either of his new slaves. Before dismissing the demon and his human partner, he formally placed them in charge of the magical defenses of the camp, warning them that they would be held responsible for any enemy success. Let there be no more mice, or other tricks. The pair responded with effusive expressions of gratitude and loyalty, vowing their determination that Karel would be frustrated.
The Crown Prince also ordered his newly allied occult experts to take the offensive as soon as possible against his enemies, Prince Mark in particular. The partners agreed enthusiastically with this objective.
Then, with a gesture of disgust, Murat ordered them both out of his sight for the time being.
In moments they were gone, the demon vanishing as abruptly as it had come, Vilkata trudging back to camp. Finding himself alone in the little hollow, the Crown Prince sat down in the sandy soil beside the dying fire, and threw on some twigs to keep it going.
Bleakly Murat tried to understand the new situation in which he now found himself. At the moment his chief worry was just how he would ever be able to free himself of this demon when the time came, as it inevitably would, to do so.
No matter the degree of loyalty to which Akbar might now be constrained, as soon as the Sword’s overwhelming power had been removed from him for a while—a matter of a few days at most—the demon could be expected to strike back at its former master and tormentor more readily, and with a more terrible effect, than even the most revengeful human. In the case of a demon, Murat could see no chance of a conversion becoming permanent, as happened in a certain proportion of the human ones.
* * *
Presently Murat, moving tiredly, also made his way back to camp. There he rejoined Kristin and his son, who both expressed great relief that he had come through the ordeal unscathed, and bombarded him with questions about the demon.
Kristin, as soon as she had heard the story of the summoning and confrontation just passed, protested mightily against any alliance with demons, or with the Dark King, who she described as a demon in human form.
But right now Murat felt disi
nclined to heed her objections on this point.
He returned to his tent, where, alone as before, he tried to get some sleep before dawn.
* * *
At dawn some enterprising Tasavaltan commander dispatched winged creatures, not couriers but larger raptors, trained for hunting, in a surprise attack on Murat’s camp. These flyers were all but mindless and so all but immune to the Mindsword’s power. Their objective, which had obviously been firmly impressed upon them, was to drive off the loadbeasts and riding-beasts from Murat’s camp.
The convert troopers standing guard duty at the time, and the remainder who were quickly wakened, sent up a barrage of arrows and rocks, wounding several of the attackers and driving the others off, before the four-footed targets could be stampeded.
Vilkata was at Murat’s side almost as soon as the Crown Prince came running out of his tent. The wizard hastened to assure his master that new magical defenses would be promptly put in place, to squelch any future flying assaults effectively.
“Akbar, Your Highness, ought to be particularly good at that.”
“So he ought. But perhaps we ought to take some other measures as well.”
* * *
Murat and his followers had long been aware of the existence, somewhat less than a kilometer from their present camp, of a sturdy farmhouse and its outbuildings. Murat and Marsaci had expected this farm to be occupied as an observation post by Tasavaltan reconnaissance units —or that it would be so occupied if there were any such observers so close to Murat’s camp.
Now those well-built walls and roofs were beginning to look inviting, for bad weather was now setting in, summer thunderstorms and hail marching closer from the western horizon. The Crown Prince decided to take a look at the place, and if no disadvantages became apparent, occupy it himself.
Holding his Sword still continuously drawn, and riding at the head of his small force, Murat advanced at a deliberate pace toward the comfortable-looking farmstead.
The farmer and his family could be seen fleeing, mounted on loadbeasts, before the invaders came within two hundred meters. No Tasavaltan troops appeared anywhere, and Murat began to think that they had not after all been using the place as a post for observation or command.
Occupation of the hastily abandoned farm was accomplished without further incident, and provided a bonus. Besides shelter, Murat’s party had now come into possession of a great number of fowl, and a dozen or so four-legged beasts that could be killed for food, or put to carrying burdens. Such luxuries as eggs and milk were suddenly available. A good supply of rich cheeses was discovered in the cellar, along with a good stock of salted and dried provender.
An hour after his decision to move camp, Murat sat musing with Kristin in the new comfort of the farmhouse.
“Not a palace, my Princess. But in the course of time we’ll come to live in palaces.”
“I have had palaces, and I do not need them. All that I need, my lord, is you.”
“You will have me into eternity. I swear that.”
Murat leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling for the first time in days almost at rest. When he opened his eyes again he admired the construction of the house that they were in, and wondered that mere farmers could afford, or cared about, such pleasant decorations.
The Princess murmured that this was little more than the typical Tasavaltan farmhouse. She mentioned that of course they would leave gold when they departed, or find some other means to pay the farmer for the use of his property and the supplies consumed.
For some reason Kristin’s proposal irritated Murat. He was short of ready cash, and doubted that any of the rest of his loyal party had much money with them either.
But the Princess persisted. “They are my people, Lord. It is our custom here to compensate our people, when possible, for losses suffered in time of war.” It sounded almost like a rebuke.
“A worthy custom,” the Crown Prince said, trying to be agreeable. And in fact he did sympathize to some degree with the abused and evicted peasants; yet he remained irritated. “I have not declared war on these householders, or attacked them. Of course they might have stayed at home and welcomed us; you know, don’t you, that I’d have seen the farmer and his people came to no harm at my men’s hands?”
“I know that, my lord.” The Princess smiled her beautiful smile for him.
“The truth is, Kristin, that I do sympathize with your farmers, and I would like to pay them if I could. But I sympathize even more with my own faithful followers. I think it not entirely Sword-magic that now binds them to my cause.”
“Indeed, my lord, I’m sure that it is not.”
Murat nodded. “They are, and will be, hard-pressed by the enemy, and I am not about to stop them from eating this farmer’s food, or enjoying the shelter of these buildings. Anyway, you are these farmers’ rightful monarch, are you not? Surely they ought not to begrudge you and your escort some hospitality.”
Kristin meekly bowed her head.
“Anyway,” the Crown Prince continued, “I also find it irritating that Tasavaltans like these peasants should not only willfully refuse to hear our case, but actually decline to obey orders given them in the name of their rightful Princess. Remember the messages you were at such pains to distribute? I am beginning to think that it might serve some of these people right if they do suffer a little abuse.”
Suddenly the Princess was trying to keep from weeping. But for the time being her lover did not notice.
“Yes,” said Murat, “let some of these fat farmers try going on short rations for a while, as our loyal folk have been pleased to do willingly in our service—as even you, my dear, might be compelled to do before we finally succeed in establishing ourselves in Culm.”
And why should his beloved Princess and he himself go hungry when these rascal oafs had more than enough for themselves, and no thought of sharing willingly?
* * *
So matters stood, or very nearly, when another day dawned. Kristin had spent her first night in the farmhouse in a bedroom alone, and Murat had slept, Sword in hand, in the upstairs hallway just outside her door.
By now Murat’s leg had recovered almost entirely; he was even considering that if he should be wounded again, he might allow the magician Vilkata some personal tokens of himself, that the healing spells should be more effective.
He now felt perfectly able to ride again. He decided he was well, and there was probably no more need for Vilkata’s healing magic. In this decision the former Dark King now willingly concurred.
The Crown Prince considered taking his Sword and galloping out with a few troopers on a swift reconnaissance, trying to see if a certain alternate route to Culm was clear, or if that way too had been blocked.
But he hesitated. In fact he was coming around to the idea that it would be better after all, in fact it might be necessary, to stay in Tasavalta and conquer it.
Chapter Fourteen
Mark, after crossing the Tasavaltan border, had changed his original plan and decided to delay his return to the capital—the Council and its decisions would have to wait. Instead he rode directly with Karel and a small escort to join Rostov at the general’s field headquarters, hastily established in a farming district four or five kilometers from Murat’s encampment.
On reaching Rostov’s headquarters, amid a confusion of gathering troops, arriving supplies, and hurrying messengers, Mark learned that Ben had arrived there some hours earlier, and had already gone out with Stonecutter and a small squad of cavalry, to see what additional barriers might be created between the intruder and his native Culm.
Ben returned from his expedition somewhat earlier than expected, only a few hours after Mark’s arrival in the headquarters camp. At least some of the Tasavaltan soldiers who had gone out with Ben were missing, and Mark’s old friend reported they had been lost in an unplanned skirmish against a patrol of defectors led by Prince Carlo.
The Prince only nodded; skirmishes had to be expected. “Any h
ope of carving some new barriers with Stonecutter?”
“I don’t think so. The terrain doesn’t lend itself to that.” Ben’s huge frame was slumped in a creaking camp chair, as if he were inordinately tired.
Mark nodded. “We’ve had no indication until now, have we, that Murat’s son is with him?”
Rostov and Karel both confirmed this opinion. “How’d you make the identification, Ben?”
Mark had to repeat the question before the big man seemed to hear him. Then Ben shifted his weight in the chair. “I heard one of our renegade Tasavaltans call him Prince Carlo. Also he was wearing a Sword.”
“He wore the Mindsword in a skirmish but he didn’t draw it?”
“I couldn’t swear it was that particular Sword, but if Murat and his people have others at their disposal, we’d probably have heard about it. And I suppose I might even be wrong about the hilt—there are black hilts in plenty. Still, as you know, the real thing has a certain look about it…”
“I know,” said Mark.
“The Princeling and I both came on the scene a little late, after the fight had started. I got my people out of there as quickly as I could once I saw how he was armed.”
“Wise decision.”
Ben rubbed his eyes. No, he told Mark, he hadn’t seen anything of Murat himself, nor, of course, of Kristin.
After answering a few more questions from Rostov and Karel, Ben, who looked worn out, was sent to get some rest. Mark remarked that his old friend didn’t seem quite right. Well, losing people in a fight was always a wearing experience.
* * *
That night the moon was full and bright, the weather no worse than partly cloudy. After the Prince of Tasavalta had tried to rest for an hour or two, he was up again, unable to be quiet while Kristin was so near and at the same time so completely out of reach.
Someone had just escorted into camp the displaced and outraged family whose home had just been occupied by Murat, and Mark spoke eagerly to these people, learning what little he could about the enemy disposition. He also had the farmer sketch out for him the floor plan of their house, though at the moment the knowledge seemed unlikely to have any useful application.
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