“I believe the reason griffins are preferred is, as Your Majesty so wisely points out, that great wizards are inclined to be distrustful of my kind. Because, my lord, those inferior people lack the means that you possess, of enforcing trustworthiness.”
The Crown Prince nodded; that sounded only reasonable to him. He muttered, so quietly that even Akbar had to attend carefully to hear him: “I trust no human being any longer, even if their intentions are good toward me.”
“I am overwhelmingly honored, Master, to think that I am now the one to be so honored, so—”
“Cease your babbling! If I trust you at all, fiend, it’s only because you’re much simpler than any human being. Pure malignance—but channeled by the Sword now, so all the ill intentions must flow away from me. What do I trust? This Sword, as long as I can hold it in my own hand. And that’s about all.”
The maiden bowed silently, even while remaining seated on the bed, making her figure an archetype of humility,
Murat told the pretty image: “I have decided that I will probably bring my son with me when I attack. And I will certainly go with the Sword sheathed, when the time comes, because otherwise Karel will be able to track me by the radiant magic of this Sword, and will know at once where I am going, and when, and probably by what means of transportation. Do you concur with my decisions?”
“Regrettably, Master, as regards the need to muffle the power of your Sword, I fear I must.”
“But then, when I sheathe the Sword, Karel may very likely know that too.”
“It does not seem possible to conceal very much from that one, sire, when his full attention is upon us, as it is now, and we are the focus of all his skills.”
Murat considered whether to try to make the sudden quenching of the Mindsword’s magic, from the view of watching Tasavaltan wizards, less suspicious by deploying his handful of cavalry in a deceptive sortie at the same time. Give the enemy something else to watch and wonder about.
He wondered whether the best deployment, in such a scheme, would be in a number of small groups, sallying out quickly in several directions from a center.
* * *
“The enemy,” Murat explained to his son and Captain Marsaci an hour later, when starting to reveal the plan of his attack to them, “will think I am still with you, marching with my Sword sheathed, hoping to keep the identity of my particular group a secret.”
“And where will you really be, sire?” asked the captain.
“I’ll explain about that a little later. At the last minute.”
“It’s true,” agreed Marsaci, “that if our little band is split up into small groups, the enemy can be expected to waste time trying to avoid the Sword. They won’t know which groups are safe to attack. They may well retreat in all directions.”
“What would your orders be, Captain, were you commanding the other side?”
“Against the tactic we just discussed, sir?” It seemed that the captain had already given the problem some consideration. “I’d most likely retreat from all these small forces, and let them do what ravaging of the countryside they might. I’d have massed archers and slingers ready, at a distance. That’s what I’d say ought to worry us, sir. Bows and slings don’t need accuracy as individuals if they come in thousands. I imagine General Rostov must have some such plan in place.”
“Very likely, Captain, you are right.”
* * *
Murat waited until he was alone with his son, before he confirmed his decision about the attack.
“You are actually planning to ride the demon, Father?” Carlo had trouble believing it.
“I see no reason why I shouldn’t. The Sword will keep the foul one loyal to me. Only, when I am in Sarykam, surrounded by enemies, I’ll need one person with me whom I can trust, even without the Sword. Now there is only you.”
Carlo was stunned, and turned pale at the mere thought of being carried on Akbar’s back, but he could not refuse. Only for his worshiped father would he agree to be transported by a demon. Despite his loyalty, he feared that the experience when it actually came might be too much for him.
* * *
Murat and the demon had agreed between them that Kristin’s exact location should be easier to establish than Mark’s. She had left several tokens of herself, including a hunting knife and even strands of hair, in the farmhouse. With such aids to magic Akbar felt confident of being able to locate her quite handily.
At the end of his conference with Akbar, Murat dis- patched the demon on a reconnaissance mission to make the attempt, if it should be possible without alarming the people in the city.
* * *
The demon, in the course of carrying out this mission, happened to observe Vilkata, riding well mounted and equipped, and by now halfway to the city.
His interest awakened, Akbar drifted closer, curious as to how his former partner had managed to outfit himself so quickly and so well, and what his current goal might be. Obviously banishment by the master had not brought about collapse.
The demon thoughtfully observed the wizard’s steady progress. At first he was content to watch the man from afar, but soon decided to draw nearer, feeling almost careless as to whether his presence should be detected or not.
* * *
On the first part of his journey toward the capital, Vilkata had been busy formulating new plans to help Murat. But gradually those efforts had ceased. A day had now passed since he had been dispatched on his secret mission by Murat, and two days since he had last been exposed to the power of the Mindsword. For the past several hours the old wizard had been experiencing strange and frightening moments, mental flashes and foretastes of thinly disguised malignant hatred and contempt for his great lord.
These fits, moments when the Dark King hovered on the brink of forbidden guilty anger, so far had departed as quickly as they came, leaving him feeling shaken, trembling in horror. Each time he forced the incident out of his mind, until the next occasion came. So wrapped up in his calculations was the Dark King that the true explanation of these terrifying episodes had not yet dawned on him. But whatever his feelings now toward Murat, Vilkata’s suppressed hatred of the demon Akbar was coming to the fore. All of the magician’s art and all his instincts insisted that his best chance of finding this hated demon’s life lay in proceeding to Sarykam. Sooner or later, whether the foul creature still labored faithfully in Murat’s service, or now sought to disrupt his plans, it was sure to leave its traces there.
Frequently during the past few hours the Dark King’s concentration had wandered from his assigned mission. The Dark King became aware of Akbar’s surveillance almost as soon as it began, though at first he pretended to have noticed nothing. He was not particularly surprised by Akbar’s interest; no doubt the demon, whether faithful or treacherous toward their common master, was as suspicious of him, Vilkata, as he was of it. Nor did he allow himself any false hopes that this encounter might provide a chance for him to destroy it; the thing’s life still might be hidden almost anywhere.
* * *
At last Akbar, giving free rein to his curiosity, and believing that by this time he had probably been observed anyway, openly approached his former partner.
Vilkata raised his eyes, and reined in his mount, as if only at this moment had he become aware of the other’s presence.
“Well met, partner,” he said at last.
“Well met, as you say.” The demon paused. “It seems, great magician, that you are prospering in exile.”
“Fate has not been unkind, so far.”
“So I see … Tell me, former partner, has our glorious master’s glory begun to dim for you as yet? You have now been for some days out of the reach of his Sword.”
Vilkata pretended more shock than he felt. “For me the glory of the great Lord Murat will never dim. Is it not the same with you?” And even as he spoke Vilkata felt one of the twinges, a moment of rebellion, coming on. Whatever he felt, he was going to conceal it from this beast that faced
him now.
“Of course. Great is our lord.” To the magician the words sounded rather perfunctory. And the demon hovered, in the form of a small black cloud, as if it were uncertain of what action to take next.
“Yes, great. I…”
Vilkata suddenly fell silent. He stretched up in the saddle, pale hands raised to cover the eyes that he had not possessed for many years. His mount, sensing an abrupt change in its rider, came to an uncertain halt.
“Is something wrong?” Akbar’s voice was innocence itself.
“The Mindsword…” whispered the man. His tone, and attitude, suggested terrible pain.
This time the demon answered nothing, but only waited silently.
When at last the man brought his hands down from his face, he seemed to have weathered a crisis. His next words were spoken almost calmly.
“You are with me now, Akbar, because I summoned you.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. It was a subtle summoning, and I am not surprised that you may think you sought me out of your own volition. But here you are, in nice accordance with my latest plan.”
At some point since its arrival the black cloud had settled to the earth, where it now assumed the form of an inoffensive dwarf. As the dwarf seemed to bow, something of the old fawning attitude came back into Akbar’s manner.
“What, mighty Dark King, does that plan involve?”
“You told us once, the master and I, that your life is hidden in the Mindsword.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, I am absolutely certain that it is there no longer.”
There was a silence. The dwarf was staring, with penetrating, very human-looking eyes, up at the mounted man.
“If it ever was there,” continued the Dark King. In a moment he added: “Are we going to reform our partnership?”
At last the demon answered. “Are you on your way to Sarykam?”
“Perhaps.”
“The glorious master will soon be there.”
* * *
Moments after delivering that somewhat enigmatic statement, the demon had departed. And Vilkata, the last shreds of his loyalty to Murat gone, a slowly building rage giving him new strength and new confidence in his reborn abilities, took the first steps toward summoning some other demons.
He was the Dark King, and enslaved no longer. And now he meant to sate himself with power and revenge.
Chapter Nineteen
On the morning after recapturing Kristin, the Prince of Tasavalta had withdrawn temporarily to the capital, bringing with him, under heavy escort, his estranged, mesmerized, and captive wife. The Princess, making the journey in a covered wagon, was kept under observation day and night by teams of magicians, nurses, and armed defenders. Mark established this strict guard not only to forestall any further attempt by Murat to communicate with the Princess, but because he feared what she herself might do under the lingering pressure of the Sword of Glory.
The day-to-day management of military affairs had been left in General Rostov’s hands. Mark’s concern continued to be more for Kristin than for the country whose rule he shared with her, though he well understood how inseparable the two were. He wanted to keep his wife with him, and at the same time was eager to remove her to a place where she could get better care, remote from the dangers of the battlefield. Violent conflict now seemed unavoidable.
Also, as Mark confided to his friends and aides, the farther Kris was kept from Murat, the more she would be spared continual reminders of her lover’s presence nearby. And the less likely that—Ardneh forbid—she would ever be exposed to the Mindsword again.
Another need, in itself enough almost to compel Mark’s return to the capital, was his postponed meeting with the governing Council. He had to admit the Council was right in demanding to see him soon.
The royal couple and their party traveled swiftly, but by the time they came in sight of the capital, it seemed to him that Kristin’s affliction had already lasted an eternity. The Prince found it necessary to keep reminding himself, as the wagon bore his wife in through the great city gates of Sarykam and toward their familiar quarters in the palace, that three full days had not yet passed since Kristin had walked away from her lover, taking herself out of the range of influence of the Sword of Glory.
Only when at least that length of time had elapsed, so Karel had repeatedly warned Mark, would he have any right to hope that his wife would begin to show some basic change in her attitude of utter devotion to Murat,
Another major concern for Mark was Ben. Nothing had been heard from the huge man, or of him, since his disappearance from Rostov’s headquarters encampment, at the same time that Sightblinder vanished. He would have had unchallenged access to the tent where the Sword was kept. The only reasonable assumption that could be made was that Ben had stolen Sightblinder and carried it away.
Almost no one who was even slightly acquainted with Ben would have questioned his loyalty in ordinary circumstances, and Mark had often enough trusted him with his life. The inescapable conclusion was that Ben, in the course of the skirmish fought during his last patrol, must have fallen foul of the Mindsword.
“Therefore,” said Mark to Karel, as they were entering the city of Sarykam, “the report he gave us on his return from the patrol must have been all lies.”
The old wizard shook his head. “Perhaps not entirely lies.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, for example, it might very well have been Carlo and not Murat who was really leading the enemy squad—just as Ben reported. Information from the other survivors of the patrol confirms that.”
“Then Ben would have become enslaved to Carlo—but do you think Murat would have entrusted his son with the Sword?”
“It’s possible. And consider, Prince—if it were Murat to whom our comrade became bound by the Sword’s magic, then Ben’s first act on returning to our camp would most likely have been to attempt your murder.”
Mark, considering, had to admit that that seemed probable.
“But in fact,” Karel continued, “Ben attempted nothing of the kind. Which would seem to mean that he does not consider you his master’s most important enemy.”
“Then what is he doing, to serve Carlo?”
“I have been pondering that. Were I fanatically devoted to that young Culmian’s welfare, I think I should consider either Vilkata or the demon his worst enemy—with his own father perhaps not far behind.”
“Ah. Yes.” And Mark rode for a little time in silence. Then he said: “At least Ben’s three days should be up—very soon, if not already.”
“My Prince, there is no magical significance to that precise period of time. Recovery from the Sword’s power may come more quickly for some people. Or it may not come at all. But at least after about three days we may begin to hope.”
Once it became apparent that Ben must have fallen victim to the Mindsword, Karel had hastened to make sure that none of the other loyal Tasavaltans in Ben’s patrol had been similarly affected. The wizard had tested these men carefully for indications of Skulltwister’s influence, with negative results. Those surviving troopers had been questioned closely before the royal couple and their escort started for the capital, but they were able to add nothing substantial to the information they had already provided.
Ominously, all the men involved agreed that Ben had been separated from them for a considerable period during the skirmishing. For all they knew, their leader during that time might very well have encountered someone armed with the Mindsword. What little information they could offer about the commanding officer of the enemy patrol indicated he might very well have been Carlo and not Murat.
Karel and Mark speculated on the possibility of taking advantage of divided loyalties among the foe, if Carlo as well as Murat was making personal recruits with the Sword. But so far no way of exploiting the division had suggested itself.
* * *
Ben of Purkinje, his mind in turmoil, was riding methodically tow
ard home.
He had accomplished something, with Sightblinder, setting a powerful and dangerous wizard the task of killing a—possibly—even nastier demon. One of those enemies would surely destroy the other, and whichever perished, the blessed Lord Carlo would be more secure.
Beyond that, Ben wasn’t sure that he had achieved anything at all for his great lord.
There had been moments during the past day—moments coming more and more frequently—with the grip of the Sword of Glory beginning to loosen from his mind, when he was not quite sure, not only of his loyalty to Carlo, but of who he was himself. Such uncertainty of his identity was no great novelty for Ben, who’d been a foundling. Even the last part of his name didn’t really belong to him; the “Purkinje” had somehow become attached when, as a youth, he began to rise out of the obscure poverty of his beginnings; no one of any importance could be called simply “Ben.” The extra name had stuck, and after years of desultory efforts to disown it, he’d given up.
Today, brooding Ben was riding almost careless of any danger he might encounter on the road. His way was guarded by Sightblinder, his huge right hand resting on the hilt of that sheathed weapon. Steadily toward Sarykam he guided his mount, through farmland and over pastures, threading narrow strips of forest. Mentally he was free to concentrate upon his problems.
Today there were stretches, some of them hours in duration, when the obligation of devotion to Carlo still held sway. Magnificent Carlo, the Princeling of Culm, that young lord unequaled in his glory, who’d drawn the Mindsword only when Ben, encountering him alone in the field, had tried—crime unthinkable—to kill him or compel his surrender.
Then magnanimous Carlo, with the mandate of the gods flashing in his hand, had spared Ben’s life, and ordered him to serve the great Crown Prince Murat. Ben had tried at first to persuade the Princeling to pursue his own advantage. But very soon it had become obvious that Master Carlo was under some kind of an odious enchantment, which compelled him to serve his unworthy father.
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