The demonic maiden moved a step closer to the man, spreading her open hands in a kind of invitation. Her dress had slipped again, her shoulder was bare, her full bosom rather more than suggested.
The girl said: “I myself will be honored to carry you, Master, you and your Sword together, swiftly as the wind. No one in the city will have a chance to flee your righteous wrath before we are upon them.”
“Swiftly as the wind, you say?”
“I understate my capabilities, Master. We might travel more swiftly than that, by far.”
Murat, despite his innate dislike of this creature, found himself tempted by its suggestions. “And what of Mark’s power to banish you, that you feared so greatly?”
“I can smell that one at a good distance, and I’ll stay safely away from him. While at the same time I’ll drop you and your Sword close enough to bother him a great deal—till the Prince of Tasavalta becomes your worshipful servant. Trust me, Master!”
* * *
Carlo, looking for his father, caught up with him shortly after the demon had been dismissed.
“Father, who—what was that, that fled just now when I came up?” The youth sounded horrified.
Murat was annoyed at his son’s reaction. “One with whom I had business.”
“Father—”
“You will tell me not to deal with demons. I tell you that they are no worse than people.”
Carlo had nothing to say to that.
Slowly making his way with Carlo back to the farmyard, the Crown Prince also came back to his bleak thoughts of Kristin. Tenderness had been replaced by wounded anger. He’d have this enigmatic Tasavaltan woman yet, whether or not she was really laughing at him now!
In his heart Murat knew that the most decent and trustworthy adviser remaining to him was his son—but he had to admit that Carlo was perhaps not the most competent.
When the two men were back in the farmhouse again, and the demon, as far as they could tell, was well out of sight and hearing, Carlo engaged his father in an urgent discussion.
“I am worried that you dismissed the Eyeless One.” “Really? I thought you had no liking for him.”
“I hadn’t. But at least he stood between you and—that other.”
To himself, Murat thought that his son really had no idea what the Dark King had been, or what he very well could be capable of being once again.
The Crown Prince said: “You need not worry about that man. We shall manage quite well without him.”
“What I worry about is you, Father.”
“The Sword keeps me safe.”
Carlo did not seem reassured, and Murat was irritated. But the Crown Prince, still full of tender feelings for his son, considered sending Carlo home to safety before launching his swift attack on Sarykam.
He made a tentative suggestion along this line, but it was swiftly rejected.
“No, Father, my place is here with you.”
Murat rejoiced inwardly to hear those words, and immediately decided to entrust his son with some key role in the coming attack. On making this decision the Crown Prince realized that he had now already, perhaps unconsciously, decided to follow the plan of attack suggested first by Vilkata and then by the demon.
Murat in starting to elaborate these plans at first considered marching his men away from the farmhouse, to get a little closer to the city before he struck at it like lightning. But before long he came around to the view that it might be wiser to stay encamped as long as possible where he was, amid plentiful supplies and with good shelter for people and animals.
Ominously, he had received no communication yet from the Prince of Tasavalta.
It would seem that Mark had no intention of arranging a parley, or Murat would have heard from him long before now; but perhaps it would be wise to take the initiative in that regard himself? He could send Carlo to talk to the Tasavaltans under a flag of truce. He’d not go himself to any meeting without the Mindsword, and as long as he had that the other side would not care to come close enough to talk.
That night Murat got but little sleep. At first light, having made up his mind to his proper course of action, he ordered his men, just for practice, to break camp at once.
In the midst of the flurry of activity produced by this command, the Crown Prince, Sword still in his hand, stalked about among his troops, looking around him sharply, wondering if any of his men were laughing at him when he wasn’t looking. They could very well be laughing at the way he’d been cheated out of his woman. To his face the men all seemed overtly sympathetic, but—
A new suspicion had been born. Murat couldn’t help but wonder.
* * *
…and then, after he’d had her, enjoyed her fully, or perhaps even before he’d done that, would come the punishment of Mark. That punishment would consist of, or reach its climax with, the obliteration, or at least the removal from the Great Game, of the stubbornly undeposable Prince of Tasavalta.
* * *
Having countermanded his order to break camp, Murat looked once more with affection upon Carlo.
“You, my son, are the only person with whom I really enjoy talking anymore.”
“I wish I could be of more service to you, Father.” It seemed a heartfelt hope.
“You are. And you will be.” Serenely, and without transition, the Crown Prince went on to ask: “Tell me, am I the one who is destined by the gods to gather all of the Blades of Power into my hands?” The question seemed to have come into his mind from nowhere.
“The gods are dead,” his son commented, after a pause, in worried puzzlement.
Chapter Eighteen
Vilkata, dozing uneasily in his cramped earth, was awakened by a little occult thing, a messenger invisible to ordinary eyes, come gibbering in terror to whisper an urgent report into the magician’s ear. This creature was one of the tiny powers he had set to guard him as he slept, and the burden of its whispered, fearful message now was that a strange and utterly monstrous demon, far more terrible than Akbar, was lurking near the wizard’s hide-away.
Whatever personal anxiety the Dark King might have experienced on receiving this intelligence was swallowed up in an awful concern for the dear Lord Carlo. Immediately Vilkata, his body stiff and bent, muscles aching from yesterday’s unwonted exercise, came creeping out of his small mud-walled cave to investigate. The bruised scrape on his forehead still throbbed faintly. He emerged into a dull sunless morning of thick mist and beaded moisture everywhere.
Hastily applying several tests, the wizard, somewhat to his surprise, could detect no traces of a demonic presence in the immediate vicinity. He considered calling his other sentinel powers to him for interrogation, but soon discovered they all had fled beyond his reach—in itself an ominous sign, to say the least.
Climbing the creek bank with some difficulty, then walking warily in the direction indicated by his small frightened sentinel, Vilkata had not far to go before his demonic vision showed him a rider in the mist. The man was moving slowly, wrapped in a dark cloak to suit the weather, and leading a spare mount equipped with its own saddle.
“A demon? Hardly that!” Vilkata breathed, studying the rider’s figure from the rear with a demonic intensity of perception. In another moment he had let out a little cry, surprisingly childish, and was hurrying forward to overtake the mounted man.
Actually running again despite his aching limbs, the wizard as he approached the other called softly: “My lord! My lord, am I forgiven? Do you come seeking me?”
The rider halted his mount and swung round in his saddle, presenting to the approaching magician’s keen demonic vision the noble, thoughtful visage of Murat. But for a moment the Crown Prince did not reply to his banished servant.
“My Lord Murat! Forgive my offenses, and allow me to be of service to you!” Then Vilkata paused, staring in belated realization. “You have sheathed the Mindsword again!”
There was the black hilt at Murat’s side, the bright steel muffled in dark leath
er.
“I considered that I did not need such protection at every moment,” the Crown Prince responded at last, allowing his right hand to rest briefly on that hilt.
The Dark King had now caught up, and stood gasping after his brief run.
“I trust Your Majesty will not have cause to regret the decision. I fear that you have many enemies. Only a moment ago I had warning of a tremendous demon in the vicinity.”
“Indeed?” But for some reason Murat did not appear to be impressed. In a moment he had dismissed worrisome demons with a careless toss of his head.
“As for your desire to be of service, magician, why, I accept it gladly. I suppose our falling out was not entirely your fault.”
Vilkata, his heart pounding with joy to hear these words, bowed deeply. “I rejoice to hear you say it, sire, but I must insist that all the blame was mine.”
The wizard was now standing close enough to his master’s mount for him to be able to cling to the other’s stirrup, and he longed to do so. But at the same time he feared another rebuke. Instead of clinging, he clenched his hands together.
“Master, what plan have you decided on? Have you marched your handful of men forth from the farm yet?”
“Not yet.”
The Eyeless One breathed a sigh of relief. “Then what of the plan that I suggested?”
The Crown Prince, looking thoughtful, once more shifted his position in his saddle. He said: “Explain to me once more the advantages of your suggestion.”
Rapidly Vilkata rehearsed the advantages of surprise, of striking rapidly with the Mindsword at the enemy heart.
“Yes, of course. But how did you intend that I should transport myself and my Sword to Sarykam?”
“Riding on the demon, Majesty!” the Dark King ex-plained triumphantly. “Naturally I will accompany you to make sure that nothing goes wrong. Together we can reach the enemy capital from here in only minutes, instead of days or hours!”
“That mode of transportation would never have occurred to me.” Murat’s expression was solemnly guarded.
Terrified lest he might have offended again, Vilkata hastened to offer reassurance.
“Of course it will be necessary to control Akbar sufficiently to make our passage absolutely safe—I can see to that—and with your Sword it should present absolutely no problem anyway… Has Your Highness seen anything of the demon since I—since I left camp?”
“No. No demons at all.”
“That’s good, sire, very good. As I mentioned a moment ago, very recently I have received a warning—one cannot be too careful with demons. I should be present at your next meeting with Akbar—shall I return with you now to camp?”
Murat evidently found that this question required some thought, reinforcing Vilkata’s growing impression that the master today was in a strange, new, preoccupied mode.
“No,” the Crown Prince said at last. “I can manage whatever demons may appear for myself, with the Sword. But managing the creatures is one thing, and … and the truth is that I have a special mission for you elsewhere.” “Sire, with all due respect, and having your own safety always foremost in mind, I must protest. The management of demons is—”
The Crown Prince, looking haughty, cut him short. “Do you wish to continue in my service or not?”
“Of course, Lord, of course I do! Tell me of my special mission. Where am I to go? I’ll go anywhere! And to do what? Anything my lord commands!”
“Calm yourself. The task I require of you is a simple one, though I suppose it will not be easy. I want you, somehow, by your art, to destroy the demon Akbar.”
“Ah!”
“You seem surprised. You should not be. When you ruled as the Dark King, you were a powerful magician. Are you still great enough to find this horrible creature’s life and snuff it out?”
“To find—” Vilkata goggled.
“To find its life. And put an end to it. Any idea how to go about that job?”
“But—but—in your Sword, Great Lord!”
“My Sword? What do you mean?”
“Is not the foul beast’s life still there, where Akbar himself confessed that it was hidden?”
Murat, face turning blank again, cast a long look down at the black hilt by his side.
Then he turned an unreadable gaze back at Vilkata. “I suspect,” the great lord said at last, “that the beast has relocated its life elsewhere since it made that confession.” “Ah—or that the demon—lied to us about it?” Silently Vilkata cursed his own gullibility. Even a man could lie, under the Mindsword’s power—provided the motivation were to help his lord. And if a man, certainly a demon. Or might there be some other possibility…?
“All I know,” said the Crown Prince, “is, somewhere, somehow, there has been deception.” He paused as if considering weighty matters. “Can you still see well enough? I mean—despite Akbar’s absence, you are still managing to function without eyes? You found me, and recognized me, without much trouble.”
Vilkata raised a hand to his face-bandage. His fingers felt that the cloth was in place, but it was not apparent to his own sight. “Yes, Master. Once granted me, the demonic vision is quite independent of Akbar’s presence.”
“Then take this mount,” ordered Murat decisively, shaking the reins of the spare that he was leading. “There are food and other necessities in the saddlebags. Also an edged weapon or two attached—though one of your talents will probably prosper better by not relying on such crude implements. Go where you want, do what you will, take as much time as necessary. Only locate the demon’s life and slay him.”
Almost unconsciously Vilkata accepted the offered reins. “Perhaps I will be able to find where his miserable life is hidden now. Perhaps I know a way…”
“You will find it!”
“Yes, Lord!” Under the piercing gaze of his Master, the Dark King straightened up. “As you command. And when I have slain Akbar, Lord? What then?”
“That’s better. That’s what I like to hear, confidence.” Murat smiled and nodded. “Accomplishing such a task should keep you busy for a while. When the demon’s dead, and not before, come look for me again.”
“Let it be as you command, Master.”
Under that commanding gaze Vilkata mounted quickly, and rode off in the general direction of Sarykam; before the mists swallowed him, he turned for one more brief look at his beloved Lord Murat. Then he was gone.
Waiting quietly in his saddle until the other was out of sight, Ben of Purkinje released a long breath, and slowly sheathed the great Sword Sightblinder.
* * *
Around midday, Crown Prince Murat, who had not left his camp for a moment during the misty morning hours, was again closeted in consultation with the demon Akbar. For this purpose Akbar had been allowed inside one of the upper rooms of the farmhouse. So far the demon’s indoor manifestations had been restrained, though not entirely without effect upon the people in the other rooms. Once the sounds of distant retching carried into the conference chamber.
Today’s discussion between slave and master had not made very much progress before Akbar respectfully inquired of the Crown Prince whether the great lord had had any contact with the villainous Vilkata since dismissing him.
Murat was only slightly interested. “No, I still consider myself well rid of that scoundrel. By the way, does he still enjoy the eyesight that you provided?”
The demon’s imaged maiden had seated herself on the edge of a narrow bed. Her peasant skirt was creeping up toward her knees, and today her form was a little fuller and more provocative than yesterday. The changes had been subtle, but Murat had noticed them, though he had not yet decided whether to remark on them or not.
In answer to the question about the banished magician’s eyesight, Akbar temporized. It was, he claimed, not easy to reclaim such a gift.
“Unless the miscreant himself should fall into my power, and if that happens I will do with him whatever Your Majesty might like me to do.”
<
br /> Murat frowned. The whole subject was still distasteful. “Never mind him for the moment.”
The discussion moved on to other matters. Murat, before finally committing himself to the plan suggested by Vilkata and now enthusiastically seconded by Akbar, was trying to anticipate any problems likely to arise in its execution.
One thing in particular bothered him.
“But when it comes down to you, or any other demon, actually carrying me, and perhaps my son—”
“I pray you, Master, do not consider any other member of my race for the job.”
“—what I want to know is, are you going to assume some solid form, capable of flight? Take the shape of a great bird, I suppose? Or what?”
“A bird, yes, if that should be the master’s preference.” The maiden paused, smiling. “Would you like to see?”
“No, never mind.” The Crown Prince brooded for a few moments. “The important thing is, you are certain of being able to transport me—or us—in safety?”
“Absolutely certain! If you do not like the idea of riding on a bird, you—we—could be invisible in flight. I can carry several people, or a number of objects, about with me at any time, in secrecy. Trust me, Lord!”
“I think we understand each other on the matter of trust—exactly where is Princess Kristin now?”
“I cannot be entirely sure, Master, but Prince Mark has—I think almost certainly—taken her back to the palace in Sarykam.”
Murat took thought for a while, shifting his Sword from one hand to the other as he did so. By now this action had become habitual, automatic, almost unconscious.
“And,” he asked at last, “if I decide to bring Prince Carlo with me to Sarykam?”
“I can carry several persons, Great Lord. As I have said. In perfect safety.”
“I know that human wizards, even those powerful enough to control demons, are not wont to ride upon demons. Griffins are the magic steeds of choice, for those who can obtain and master them.”
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