Mindsword's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  And today there were other stretches of time, each so far no more than a few minutes in duration, when he was assailed by doubts as to whether he should be serving Carlo at all. Terrible, grave doubts…

  With an inward shudder he put such frightening uncertainties aside. How, Ben had wondered, was he truly to serve a master so afflicted by bad magic as Carlo was? Certainly not by simply following orders. No, in a case like this, one nodded and smiled when the master gave orders, assenting to all that was commanded—and then one went and did what was obviously best for the glorious lord, who in his present state could not be trusted to know that for himself.

  It seemed to Ben that the most immediate threat to his glorious master Carlo was neither Mark nor the master’s overbearing father, but the demon Akbar. That creature now, according to Karel’s best intelligence, seemed to be gaining some kind of ascendancy in Murat’s camp.

  Once that demon had been eliminated, Ben decided, Carlo would also be well served by the death of both Murat and Mark—Carlo’s father now presented,” in Ben’s judgment, at least as great a threat to Carlo’s success as did the Prince of Tasavalta.

  Besides … Ben’s ugly, deceptively stupid-looking face grew sad at the mere thought of having to eliminate Mark. He could see, though, that such an act might well become necessary at some point, since Carlo’s welfare was at stake. Ben had known Mark and counseled him and fought beside him for many years, since they were both boys, long before either had seemed likely to amount to anything in the world’s affairs, and therefore Ben was sad about the situation. Not, of course, that such considerations would keep Ben from killing the Prince, if glorious Carlo might benefit from such an act. Naturally, no personal attachments could be allowed to count for anything against the master’s welfare or the advancement of his marvelous career.

  Naturally … though once more doubts arose…

  The idea of eliminating the demon, of course, engendered no sadness in Ben. Nor would he be sorrowful to see Murat depart. Once the Crown Prince could be put out of the way, Carlo would not only be freed of his ridiculous enslavement to his father, but ought to inherit his father’s claim to the Culmian throne—and if either Sightblinder or the Mindsword, or preferably both, could then be put into Carlo’s hands, he should be able to make that claim good.

  But any Sword given to Carlo under present circumstances, as Ben realized perfectly well, would be quickly passed on to his megalomaniac father. Therefore, Ben had made no effort to enter the enemy camp and place Sightblinder in his glorious master’s hands.

  Besides … he was beginning to have doubts.

  * * *

  Murat, keyed up by gradually heightening excitement as the hour of his planned attack drew near, was keeping firmly in mind the necessity, at all costs, of maintaining his control over Akbar. From the moment he, the Crown Prince, sheathed the Mindsword, that control would inexorably weaken. For the rest of Murat’s life, or until he could find some way to destroy the beast, he would have to draw that Blade again at least every couple of days, or risk having Akbar escape from his control.

  And in his darkest dreams Murat could hardly imagine any outcome worse than that.

  * * *

  The Dark King was raging quietly as he rode at a steady pace, continuing his methodical progress toward Sarykam. He fingered the sore place on his forehead, still raw and throbbing despite his magical efforts to heal his own flesh. He knew how poisonous the Mindsword’s blade was said to be; even the hilt, it seemed, was capable of causing a particularly nasty wound. An injury that cried out, with every throb, for special vengeance.

  The last vestiges of Vilkata’s magical enslavement to Murat were now dissolved, and he was trying en route to decide on the best way to strike at his enemies, the Crown Prince now definitely included among them. But Vilkata’s anger did not cause him to forget his enemies’ strength. Ideally, he would destroy them all by getting them to eliminate each other. Obviously that was easier said than done.

  Vilkata’s most recent encounter with the demon had done nothing to help his composure. Whether the renewed contract would facilitate his plans remained to be seen. His difficulties were compounded by the fact that in attempting any intrigue against Akbar he risked the loss of his demonic vision. For this reason, the wizard had already summoned other demons to his aid; but how many of their number were going to arrive, and how much help they would be when they did, was, to say the least, still problematical.

  * * *

  Murat felt confident that he and his son, riding aboard the demon, would have an excellent chance of taking the defenses of the Tasavaltan capital completely by surprise. Of course, the Crown Prince reminded himself, Karel’s cunning should never be underestimated.

  Having been a guest in the Tasavaltan royal palace a year ago, Murat had the general layout of that edifice clearly in mind. Originally he had hoped to have Akbar carry himself and Carlo to some point actually inside the palace, but the palace was not huge, as such constructions went. Logic and memory combined to assure the Crown Prince that no point within the building could be more than a hundred meters from Kristin’s bedchamber.

  Murat had therefore considered several alternate landing places, but none of these would offer sufficiently quick access to the Princess—not even if he were to use his Sword at once on landing, establishing for himself a zone of dominance inside the very heart of the enemy headquarters. Still, physical obstacles in the form of walls and locked doors would intervene between him and his goal.

  No, he must command the demon to bring him very close to Kristin. But he was determined not to draw his Sword, this time, until he had an opportunity to speak to her. And Kristin had a chance, a final chance, to answer him freely. … Of course, it was possible that circumstances should once again compel him to draw his Sword at once when he arrived.

  Murat stared bleakly into the distance for a moment. Then his thoughts moved on.

  As soon as Akbar had delivered his two passengers, he was to hasten away to a safe distance from Mark, who would very likely be somewhere nearby, and stand by for another summons.

  As for Murat himself, once he had spoken to Kristin, she would grant him—he devoutly hoped—her free devotion.

  Only after she had done that, and with her blessing, would he once more draw his Sword.

  On the other hand—

  There was still the possibility—

  If she should refuse him—not likely, granted, but just suppose—if this time the Princess refused him, thereby confirming his worst suspicions about her treachery but no, she was not going to refuse him.

  No, she would not.

  Murat smiled to himself. It seemed that one way or another, under conditions of acceptance or denial, he would be drawing the Mindsword again shortly after his arrival in the palace. With that act he would inevitably assert his power over a large number of people, including a good fighting force of soldiers—just as in his dream.

  Some of that herd of new supporters, the Crown Prince thought, with stone walls between themselves and him, wouldn’t even realize at first that he, their new, glorious leader, was nearby. But he had no doubt that their conver-sions would be just as thorough.

  Not only would his new followers be eager to fight for him from that moment forward, but perhaps many of them would prove very useful as hostages. Willing hostages, people who would never try to escape … yes, there were many favorable possibilities.

  * * *

  Presently Murat’s thoughts turned to his son. Exactly what task he would assign to Carlo when they had landed was, Murat now decided, impossible to determine until the time arrived. Suppose they should encounter a sentry in a corridor, or some servant or official, on the way to Kristin’s chamber; why, two men armed with ordinary weapons—Murat meant to bring along his battle-ax as well as his Sword—had a much better chance than one of removing the difficulty silently and with dispatch.

  And what if on the way they should encounter Mark? Or if Mark sh
ould be in Kristin’s chamber when they arrived?

  Murat looked forward to that meeting.

  * * *

  Alone in the farmhouse bedroom that had briefly been Kristin’s, the Crown Prince, alternately sitting, lying down, and pacing, dreamed and planned through the slow early hours of the night. As the time approached for launching his attack, Murat over and over again imagined himself entering Kristin’s room in her Tasavaltan palace. Most particularly he imagined her reaction—delighted, perhaps just a little frightened—at the moment when she saw him come in.

  Immediately he would assure her that she had no cause to be frightened. Not if she were loyal.

  Sometimes, in Murat’s imagination, the Princess was alone and asleep when he entered, and he had to touch her bare shoulder to awaken her.

  Again, Kristin would be wide awake despite the lateness of the hour, sitting with her candle at a writing table, and her eyes when she raised them to behold her lover’s entrance were filled with the most exquisite joy. …

  There was another version of this scene that Murat did not welcome to his imagination, but which still would not be denied: one in which Kristin was in bed, but not alone. …

  Several violent conclusions to that version ran through the mind of the Crown Prince, but for the time being he refused to allow himself to dwell on any of them.

  He had thrown himself on the bed, and his waking dreams soon faded insensibly into those of slumber. Troubled sleep brought the Crown Prince visions quite different from the scenarios constructed by his anxious waking mind. Here were experiences of orgasmic glory, in which millions of people gathered to worship him. Yes, millions, hordes beyond counting, joined by other beings who were more than human—joined perhaps by the gods themselves, returning to earth. They had all assembled to give worship to Murat, as it was said that once even the gods had come to give adoration to the Dark King.

  The Crown Prince groaned in his sleep. He had never known the Dark King in his days of glory. Vilkata, that filthy beggar? That debased and terrified old man? If the gods themselves could be made to worship that—

  Then Murat’s dreams turned more closely to his own situation. He’d completed his demon-flight to the palace in Sarykam successfully, and a sizable, no, a huge military force in the palace and the surrounding portion of the capital had been caught and converted. His only problem now was that these most recently converted troops could not be made aware that their master was actually present, within the very walls they guarded. Murat shouted and beat with his fists on the stone walls of the palace, to no avail.

  Of course, once his new worshipers knew how close to them their glorious new master really was, they would defend him to the death. More than that, they’d fan out eagerly beyond the hundred-meter limit to conquer a whole kingdom for him. And in the future, when the Crown Prince had sheathed the Sword again, the great bulk of these converts would of course remain his loyal subjects. And most of the Tasavaltan leadership—all those who survived—would do the same.

  Meanwhile there was a new threat, the stone walls of the palace seemed to be closing in—

  * * *

  In the deepest hour of the night Murat was awakened, just as his dreams were starting to go bad, by the demon, returning from a final reconnaissance flight. To deliver his report Akbar had assumed the by-now familiar form of a young maiden, who sat provocatively, wearing tighter and scantier clothing than ever before, on the edge of Murat’s simple borrowed bed.

  Akbar in his report now confirmed that Prince Stephen, as well as Mark and Kristin, was among the members of the royal family on the scene in the palace in the Tasavaltan capital.

  The Princess herself had been located with quite satisfactory accuracy—she seemed to be spending most of her time in the bedchamber which she shared, in more ordinary times, with the Prince. This chamber was located high in the palace on the eastern side, overlooking the city and the harbor.

  Murat was impatient. “I know where her rooms are. And are they sharing one bed now?”

  Akbar considered the question carefully. Slyly he seemed to take his time. “That I could not determine, Master, being mindful of your warning to avoid discovery.”

  * * *

  Mark, having seen Kristin settled as comfortably as possible into their old quarters, was sleeplessly working alone in a room just down the corridor. In more peaceful times he used this chamber for a study; just now it was something like a command post.

  The Prince was standing at a map table, poring over some documents by lamplight, when there was a knock at the door.

  When he barked an acknowledgment, a sentry, his face wearing an odd expression, put in his head. “Someone to see you, sir.”

  “Someone? Who? What do you mean—”

  Then Mark fell silent, staring with wide eyes. The door was pushed in farther. Just behind the sentry stood the Emperor, smiling at his son.

  Slowly Mark turned to face his visitor.

  “Leave us,” he told the sentry in a low voice.

  “Sir—”

  “Leave us, I say.”

  The soldier backed out. The Emperor came in, and closed the door. He stood with hands clasped behind him, and his gray eyes moved past Mark to the table.

  “Is that an accurate map?” he inquired.

  Whatever opening statement Mark might have expected from his father, it wasn’t that. He could only gape for a moment in astonishment. “The map? I suppose so.”

  Turning back to the map, gazing helplessly at the documents spread out on it, the Prince was astonished when in the next moment a sheathed Sword appeared, flying through the air almost over his shoulder, to crash down in the middle of the map.

  The Prince spun around—to behold not the Emperor but Ben, Swordless and grinning at him heartily, his huge hands spread in greeting.

  * * *

  At that same hour Kristin, sitting in her chamber alone save for an ever-watchful nurse, was greeting a less surprising visitor.

  It was Stephen, come visiting in his nightshirt, hopefully, wistfully, to see if his mother was getting better.

  “How are you, Mother?”

  She held the boy and stroked the rough texture of his hair. “I’m quite all right. I’m going to be quite all right.”

  “Are you—are you and father still—?” Stephen couldn’t quite manage to get the terrific question out in any form.

  “I’m here now,” Kristin answered at last, softly. She held her son and rocked him, back and forth. “And your father’s here too. No one can promise you anything about tomorrow.”

  “Mother—”

  “No one ever can do that.”

  The boy seemed about to speak again, when a muffled commotion erupted somewhere out in the corridor. There were distant cries, and running feet. Kristin sighed, and kept to her rocking chair. Stephen hurried out to investigate, to return in a few minutes with the good news that Ben was back, and unharmed, and that he had brought Sightblinder.

  “Isn’t it good news, Mother? Isn’t it?”

  The Princess was standing now. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. It’s good news, Stephen.”

  In another moment Karel, accompanied by a physician, was coming in to see her.

  “Gentlemen, you still hope by your arts to keep me pleasantly controlled?”

  Her uncle bowed sadly. “Madam, we want nothing but your own best good.”

  Kristin was weeping.

  * * *

  An hour later, and once more after that, Mark too looked in on his wife. The first time he found her sleeping, and he retreated patiently, eager as he was to speak with her joyfully of Ben’s return.

  At the time of her husband’s second visit Kristin was awake, and as they conversed she held Mark’s hand and gazed at him ambiguously, as if she were trying to communicate something beyond the limited power of words.

  Once or twice she also snarled at him in anger.

  Chapter Twenty

  At the hour when Murat was receiv
ing from the demon his last scouting report before the flying attack was launched, Ben, sitting in a high room in the palace in Sarykam, was describing to the Tasavaltan leaders his encounter in the field, several days ago, with Carlo, and his more recent meeting with Vilkata.

  Vilkata, when Ben had seen him last, had been mounted on a riding-beast, headed in the direction of Sarykam.

  Given this information, Karel decided to establish a watch for this evil wizard at the city gates. So far the gates were still being kept open on a normal schedule, despite the general state of readiness imposed on the capital. But the watch at each entrance would be doubled.

  Mark, before leaving for an extensive tour of the gates himself, commented: “The Sword’s effects on our friend Vilkata will be wearing off, as they did on Ben. We can’t be sure he’ll still be trying to serve Murat.”

  “We can be sure,” said Karel, “that he means us no good.”

  As for Murat and Carlo, Ben could tell his comrades no more about their plans than could anyone else in Sarykam. He could only suppose that the Crown Prince intended some bold stroke, and that the Princeling, under continuous pressure from the Sword of Glory, would still be slavishly following his father.

  * * *

  Murat, immediately after receiving his last briefing from Akbar in his lonely farmhouse bedroom, began his final personal preparations for the attack. The Crown Prince armed himself with a knife, in addition to his Sword, and stowed in pockets and pouches a very minimum of other equipment. He thought not much was necessary. He meant to conquer the palace and all the supplies it contained, or else die quickly in the attempt.