Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story (23 page)

      
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 should 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 receiving 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.

 
      
Putting on garments and taking them off without for a moment ceasing to hold the Sword was something of an accomplishment, but by now the Crown Prince had had several days in which to practice. For him the necessary maneuvers had already become something like second nature.

      
Only when Murat was fully dressed and ready did it occur to him that the time had come, according to his own plan, for him to sheathe his Sword. After a momentary pause he did so. Though there was no one in the little room to see him, he performed the act with a ceremonious gesture.

      
Then the Crown Prince at once left his room. After a perfunctory tap on the door of the adjoining chamber, he entered quickly. Inside he found a sleepless Carlo already up and armed.

      
The lad looked tired and pale, but bravely he announced his readiness to go.

      
In the upstairs hallway, father and son encountered Captain Marsaci, who had come for them, bearing a torch, promptly at the appointed time. With the captain lighting the way, all three men proceeded downstairs.

      
Some hours before Murat had decided that to launch their flight from inside the farmhouse would be impractical. He had chosen the hayloft, in the barn, as offering the best security from observation.

      
The demonic maiden, who had disappeared from Murat’s room a few minutes earlier, sat waiting upon a bale of straw for the three men as they climbed a wooden ladder. Behind her the big doors through which hay was normally loaded were standing open to the night.

      
Marsaci sneezed, on entering the dim, dusty space. Then the captain started to sneeze again, but the spasm was aborted when he belatedly caught sight of the demon waiting for them. Despite the demure appearance of the image, Marsaci did not for a moment mistake it for a real girl.

      
“Are you ready, my lord?” the maiden asked, addressing Murat as she got to her feet.

      
“Ready.”

      
In an instant her form had swollen to several times the maiden’s size, and changed into the shape of a giant, winged reptile, crouched on two hind legs that looked too heavy for anything that could fly. A wicked head, armed with long yellow fangs, turned on a long neck to grin at the waiting men. The torch shook in Marsaci’s hands, and he mumbled something.

      
Blaspheming various gods, Murat clapped his hand on his Sword-hilt and snarled an order.

      
“A bird! Let us have a bird, vile creature!”

      
“As you say, Master.” And in a twinkling rough scales were replaced by sable feathers. A giant black bird, with yellow eyes and curved raptorial beak, crouched ready to be mounted. No saddle or bridle were in evidence; perhaps that meant none would be needed.

      
Boldly Murat stepped forward, and without hesitation straddled the creature’s back. He turned his head to stare at his son.

      
Reluctantly Carlo clambered aboard behind his father, clutching the older man around the waist with both arms.

      
There was no delay. The Crown Prince barely had time for a last word to Marsaci before father and son were swiftly carried into the air.

      
Carlo groaned and gasped.

      
Murat gasped too, a sound of triumph rather than of fear. Then he let out a loud yell of exultation. They were being borne upward at breathtaking speed, into an aerial realm of clouds, sluiced with cool mist and shot with intermittent moonlight.

      
The night air howled past the travelers at a terrific velocity, but the Crown Prince soon discovered that his journey was not, after all, going to be swifter than the wind. Carlo behind him was suffering a fit of terror, and came near plunging to his death and dragging his father with him.

      
His father, getting little or no help from Akbar, was forced to struggle awkwardly to hold his son on the bird’s back.

      
Shouting at Carlo did no good, and Murat directed his yells at the demon. “Stop! Return to the earth! Land, I command you!”

      
At last, in response to bellowed orders from the Crown Prince, the rush of air diminished. The dark earth rose to meet them, and a landing was effected in some farmer’s field.

      
Disembarking from his black, feathered mount, Murat dragged Carlo whimpering and almost sobbing aside, the pair of them trampling waist-high corn. In the distance, toward the city, thunder grumbled and rain was threatening.

      
The Crown Prince shook his son, and cursed him.

      
“What are you afraid of? Not heights, don’t tell me that. I have seen you stand on a clifftop without whimpering, and climb a castle wall where there were no stairs.”

      
“It is the demon—the demon, Father—the touch of it is horrible—”

      
“Nonsense. The touch of defeat, of failure, is the only real horror. Pull yourself together, be a man!”

      
Carlo managed to establish some measure of self-control. “I can only try, Father.”

      
“You can do more than that. You can succeed!”

      
They were on their way back to where they had left Akbar, when Carlo suddenly put a hand on Murat’s arm.

      
“Father, I have a confession to make. Something you must know, in case I die before I have another chance to tell you.”

      
Murat stopped in his tracks. “What is it?”

      
“Once, on patrol—the time we fought the skirmish—I once used the Mindsword.”

      
Stopping in his tracks, the Crown Prince stood for a moment as if paralyzed. Then he screamed: “How could you lie to me? How many converts did you make? Where are they now?”

      
“Only one—only one, Father. The man they call Ben of Purkinje. I do not know where he is now.”

      
Murat started to choke out more abuse, then paused. “There is no time now to settle this. How could you betray me in such a way?”

      
“No, Father! There was no betrayal! I swear it! I ordered him to help you.”

      
“To help me? How?”

      
But his son did not answer. The Crown Prince could see Akbar, at a little distance, still in bird-form, crouched and undoubtedly listening.

      
“Later we will settle this,” Murat grated at his son. “Mount! We are going on.”

      
Carlo, almost fainting, once more climbed aboard the silent demon. In moments they were airborne again. This time the Princeling did not struggle in the air, or show any signs of terror. Rather he rode as an inert weight, as if he were already dead.

      
The rushing flight continued, in darkness and near- silence. Presently Akbar turned back his bird’s head to announce that they had almost reached their destination. Neither of the human passengers was quite able to believe this. But before either of them really thought it possible, the city appeared.

      
“Sarykam,” the demon informed them, its voice a guttural grinding through the rush of air.

      
Indeed, there lay ahead, still far below the sable masses of those mighty wings, a vast sprawling darkness beneath the clouds, a region vaguely distinguishable from the ocean to the east, and from the fields and farms and orchards to west and north and south, picked out by specks of random firelight.

      
The distance to the capital was diminishing at a speed that seemed incredible to Murat. Already individual structures could be distinguished. Lower and even more swiftly flew the demon. The walls of the city took shape out of the darkness and rushed beneath the demon’s wings. And now more stone walls, even higher barriers, loomed just ahead.

      
These, unmistakably, formed the south flank of the palace.

      
Both passengers flinched involuntarily as the massive construction hurtled closer. The ramparts were marked with a few high narrow windows that looked too small to admit their flying bodies. One moment a violent crash seemed unavoidable. In the next—Carlo closed his eyes and did not see how the trick was done—the outer wall and its open windows were behind them, and he and his father were enclosed within a high and otherwise deserted corridor. Already they were on their feet, staggering to establish their balance upon a solid floor as the great black shape of their carrier dissolved to nothingness beneath them.

      
Murat barely had time to deliver a last command, in a fierce whisper, before the demon vanished utterly.

      
The two Culmians were alone in a long hallway of wood and stone, lighted at intervals by high lamps. The palace was quiet around them, and it seemed that their arrival must not have been observed.

      
Murat, hand on Sword-hilt, needed only a moment in which to get his bearings. “This way!” he muttered, and directed Carlo with a nod.

      
But the Crown Prince and his son had taken only a few steps in the indicated direction before a door opened ahead of them, and they stood face to face with a maidservant, her arms piled high with linen. Her eyes opened wide, enormously, and her mouth worked as if she might be about to scream.

      
Murat backed up a step, ready to draw his Sword at once. “If you are holding the Sword of Stealth,” he growled at the maid, “drop it at once, or—”

      
Before Murat could finish speaking, Carlo reacted more practically, stepping forward and striking the woman down with the butt of his own sword.

      
The two men stared at the maid, who now lay dead, or unconscious, on the floor.

      
Then Murat pulled his suspicious gaze away from her. “Come!”

      
Father and son moved on toward Kristin’s quarters. Then, peering warily round a corner, Murat discovered guards posted in a place that would make a final approach through the corridor impossible.

      
When he relayed this information to his son, Carlo whispered: “Father, now is the time for you to draw—”

      
“Quiet. This way.”

      
Murat pulled his son down another angle of hallway, then through a door, into a room which proved dark and untenanted. In another moment they were leaving this room again, through a window opening to a balcony.

      
From this balcony others to right and left on the same high level were visible, and accessible, if one was not discouraged by the need to cross sections of sloping, slate-tiled roof.

      
“The Princess’s suite connects to at least one of those balconies,” Murat whispered. “Follow me.”

      
The passage across the slippery roof had to be carefully negotiated, but it was quick. Then Murat and Carlo were on another balcony, then boldly entering what the Crown Prince proclaimed to be the Princess’s room.

      
It was a large, well-furnished bedroom, simply decorated, well lit by several candles. The bed was empty, though covers had been turned back, and Kristin was not to be seen. A middle-aged woman dropped her knitting and rose from a rocking chair to stare at the intruders.

      
She had time to utter only a slight preliminary noise before Carlo was beside her, holding his knife to her throat.

      
The Crown Prince, hand on Sword-hilt, stood frozen, gaze focused in the distance, obviously listening for something with a full intensity of concentration.

      
Carlo heard a small noise, as of a hastily closed door, from one of the connecting rooms.

      
“Kristin?” Murat, calling the name softly, lunged through a curtained doorway toward the sound.