Shieldbreaker's Story Read online

  The cheering, roaring noises which now came drifting down from the upper palace confirmed Stephen’s horrible suspicion that the Mindsword must be in action. This insight, along with the undoubted presence of demons in the palace, and the fact that Bazas in his madness had shouted the Dark King’s name, strongly indicated that this latest attack, like that two years ago, must be led by the terrible Vilkata.

  But so long as he, Stephen, had the Sword of Force in hand, so long was he protected against any other weapon, including Skulltwister. In fact he alone ought to be able to defend the palace against any kind of attack—any kind save one.

  As Prince Mark had impressed over and over again upon his sons, the only way known to defeat Shieldbreaker was to disarm oneself completely and then grapple as a wrestler with whoever held the Sword. But, as Stephen had known in theoretical terms for years, there was no way a demon could ever disarm itself; the foul creatures were nothing but weapons, at least as far as this Sword was concerned. Whenever they attacked its wielder directly, Shieldbreaker was capable of slashing them out of existence, as surely as if its edge could be laid against whatever material objects concealed their unclean lives.

  Yesterday Stephen might have had a difficult time believing that, no matter what his teachers taught; but now that he had seen and felt the Sword of Force in action, had witnessed the virtual annihilation of another Sword and a powerful demon, he no longer felt any doubt.

  And now the Dark King had come again to Sarykam, attacking, no doubt seeking frightful vengeance for his past defeats.

  Stephen twisted his feet, as if he would dig the heels of his boots into the stone floor. Straightening his back, he set it firmly against the open Sword-vault. Then, ignoring the continuing pain in his right shoulder, he raised his Sword to guard position, unconsciously adopting the tactics in which he had been drilled with ordinary weapons.

  Then, confident in his armament though still feeling stupid with surprise and weariness, he waited for the next attack.

  Moments passed, and the suspense stretched out unbearably. Not for a moment did the young Prince believe that the danger of combat was over. Shieldbreaker, quivering with the muscles of the young Prince’s right arm, muttered and stuttered to itself. Now, gradually, he could not doubt the fact, the sound was growing louder once again.

  Think! he commanded himself, shaking his head in an effort to clear it of shock and pain and horror. At the moment, as far as he could tell, the fate of the whole realm was indeed resting on him, and he had to think. Shieldbreaker could be, was, an overpowering weapon. But—

  But the Dark King, or any other human ally of these attacking demons, would be able to disarm himself of other weapons, and to wrestle Stephen for possession of the Sword of Force—in such a contest the unarmed human inevitably won. And with the Mindsword in action, Vilkata and his demons would have a host of fanatically eager human allies, doubtless including everyone else who had been in the palace when the enemy struck. Bazas as a newly converted madman could have attacked successfully unarmed, had he only waited until Stephen actually had the Sword of Force in hand.

  * * *

  Even as the young Prince did his best to think, to prepare, to nerve himself to meet whatever form the attack was going to take next, Vilkata the Dark King was dismounting from a demonic steed which had just landed on the highest level of the palace.

  The Dark King’s planning for this attack had prudently included the caching in a secret place, the deepest recesses of a coastal cave not inconveniently far from Sarykam, of several of the glassy Old World spacecraft, one of which had only hours ago completed its task of carrying the wizard back to Earth from the distant Moon. Akbar’s promise had been made good, and the return voyage had taken no more than two Earthly days. Much as Vilkata still distrusted technology, it was plain that such devices could in many ways be useful.

  * * *

  Now, even as Vilkata set foot on the palace roof, he cast a sharp glance toward a pair of bodies lying nearby. Two sentries, their useless weapons scattered at their feet, had been silently murdered by demons within the past few minutes. The pair of corpses, still clad in livery of Tasavaltan blue and green, now drained of blood and psychic energies, resembled dried-out, somewhat less-than-lifesize dolls.

  Vilkata looked up higher. The narrow, towering eyries of the fighting birds and winged messengers, stone spires rising even above the roof where the Dark King had alighted, had been savagely raided already. Eggs had been smashed, grown birds and nestlings slaughtered, and some of the interiors of wood and straw were burning.

  Vilkata nodded with satisfaction. Surprise had certainly been achieved, and at the moment no opposition to the invaders was in evidence. The Dark King had not only made sure that Prince Mark was elsewhere, but had warily planned his attack on the palace and armory so that his own personal entry should be slightly delayed. Let his demons confront the heavy counterattack, if there was to be any; he would see what happened to them before entering the fight himself.

  Naturally cautious in the matter of personal risk, Vilkata had considered the possibility that he might have to face Shieldbreaker in combat today. Of course he was well acquainted with the proper way to fight against the Sword of Force; but he had two very strong objections to personally disarming himself, if and when he should be confronted with that weapon.

  First, since a demon counted as a weapon, disarming would almost certainly mean giving up his demonic vision for some unknown period of time.

  That would make things difficult; but the second objection, in the Dark King’s estimation, was even deadlier. He clearly could not disarm himself without giving up the Mindsword, the very foundation of all his current power. He dared not hand over that weapon to any of his followers, human or demonic; nor did he doubt for a moment that, within a few heartbeats’ time after he should put Skulltwister down, someone, friend or foe, would pick it up. Even if one of his loyal slaves should pick it up, having in mind some purpose tending to Vilkata’s advantage, still at that moment the fierce devotion engendered in everyone else by the Sword would swing to a new object.

  Most definitely unacceptable!

  The Dark King could easily picture a hundred disastrous scenarios sprouting, diverging, from that point. In the worst of them his own demons, instantly converted to some fresh loyalty, pounced on him and tore him into psychic shreds—a fate infinitely more painful even than the analogous physical destruction would have been.

  No, if, against his best hopes and expectations, he were confronted today by the Sword of Force, he planned to retreat, with Skulltwister still securely his. There would be time and opportunity to plot and strike again.

  * * *

  Having surveyed the palace rooftop and dismissed his demon-mount with orders to stay vigilantly nearby, Vilkata observed an open doorway not far ahead of him. Mindsword held before him like a torch, he approached the entrance cautiously.

  For the time being he was alone, save for Pitmedden, his demonic provider of vision. This creature, hovering invisibly at the Dark King’s side, was currently his sole companion and bodyguard. None of the demons who had made up the first wave of the attack had yet come back to report, and this disturbed Vilkata vaguely. In particular, he had hoped to have an almost immediate report from Akbar, who had been charged with seizing control of the room or place in which the Swords were kept, and guarding it fiercely until his Master should come to take over his new property.

  Having reached the open door leading down from the rooftop, Vilkata stood gazing down the first flight of descending stairs, which were dimly, indirectly lighted by some lamp or cresset somewhere on the next lower level. Surely, he thought, the mighty Akbar could not be very far ahead of him. The creature, like its colleagues, was bound by the Mindsword to Vilkata in perfect loyalty. They were all compelled to gain for its master all the treasures of magic buried here, in particular the Sword Shieldbreaker—but under strict orders not to pick that weapon up, not even touch it. Only
to keep anyone else from picking it up until Vilkata himself could reach the site and do so.

  With a few brisk words to Pitmedden, the Dark King entered the palace, passing down the first stairs with confident strides. He knew that as the human beings in the rooms and passageways surrounding him were engulfed by the Mindsword’s sphere of influence, every one of them without exception—each person, waking or sleeping, within an arrow-shot or so—would automatically become his fanatical ally and worshipper.

  More, he felt confident that his demons would be largely unopposed—because Prince Mark was absent.

  Chapter Five

  For a long time, for years even before his first attack on the palace at Sarykam, Vilkata had been grimly aware of the fact that strong magical powers (quite apart from Prince Mark’s special talent) were continuously on sentinel duty there. These protective forces, ordinarily quite adequate to keep demons and other malign entities at a distance, were primarily under the control of old Karel, who was Princess Kristin’s uncle, and also one of the most formidable magicians on Earth. The Dark King was not sure but that that old man might not be his equal—assuming, of course, that the Mindsword was left out of the calculation.

  But even without counting the Mindsword, the powers now at Vilkata’s command were far greater than ordinary. When the new attack fell on the palace and the surrounding city, Karel’s sentinels, human and otherwise, were able to give the inhabitants only a belated warning, and could delay the giant attacking demons only briefly.

  This first line of Tasavaltan opposition was swept out of the way in a matter of moments.

  Within moments after the first of his demons went bursting into the palace, Vilkata also personally entered the royal residence, determined to descend as quickly as possible into the lower regions, where he knew the armory was located, and where Prince Mark’s collection of Swords was ordinarily stored. Within moments he was moving quickly downstairs, the Sword of Glory drawn cheering and roaring in his hand.

  Around the invader and in advance of him there spread a murmur of mingled joy and sorrow, voiced by first one, then a dozen, then a hundred human throats. These were the voices of servants, guards, palace inhabitants of every station, all of them taken unawares, in their beds or awake, each converted in an instant into a fanatical servant and worshipper of the Dark King. Most of those falling under the Mindsword’s influence were in other rooms or corridors than those through which Vilkata passed, and they failed to witness their new Master’s arrival or his first passage.

  Even those who had not yet seen the invader or his Sword knew exactly the name and titles of the man they were suddenly constrained to worship, and could have marshalled arguments to demonstrate that their sudden change of heart in favor of Vilkata was perfectly rational and honorable. Their joy was at his glory, their poignant sorrow at their own blind failure to acknowledge him for so long, until their lives were transformed by this moment of transcendent revelation.

  The sharpest outcries came, naturally enough, from those few people who happened actually to encounter their new Master, Mindsword held before him like a bright slice of light, in his first swift passage through the palace. Trusted servants and old family retainers, who moments earlier would rather have died than betray their Prince and Princess, were bewitched into wretches stumbling and stammering in their eagerness to repent of these feelings. Their yells of joyous shock brought out from their rooms of sleep or work a steadily growing throng of new converts, men and women nightshirted or wrapped in blankets, all eager to adore Vilkata.

  The invading wizard pushed his way through these where they were in a position to impede his progress. He proceeded rapidly on foot through torchlit or darkened hallways—Old World lamps were far too rare for common use.

  The Dark King had now been rejoined in his progress by a close bodyguard of demons, these latter worked up and raging with fear and hatred of their enemy the Prince.

  After having made doubly sure that Mark himself was absent from the palace, they lashed out at surrogate victims, even at doubly helpless converts, with murderous fury and tremendous violence.

  Gleefully they reported that their colleagues outside the palace were devastating the dwellings of known enemies throughout the city.

  For sport the demons now escorting Vilkata butchered in passing some of Mark’s formerly faithful servants and loyal followers, an amusement for which their indulgent master granted them permission by default; but any humans who Vilkata thought might be privy to the secrets of the Tasavaltan government were forbidden as prey.

  Chief among these last was Karel himself, the uncle of Princess Kristin, a stout, apple-cheeked old man who was by far the realm’s most powerful wizard. Against the Mindsword, of course, the old man was as defenseless as the lowest kitchen servant. He came stumbling out of his modest palace apartment in his nightshirt, tears already streaming down his round red cheeks at the thought of how he had so long and wickedly opposed the very Master of the World.

  Vilkata, remembering past defeats, would have found it very satisfying to kill Karel and certain other of his old foes, now that the opportunity had come. But he did not indulge this craving. In fact he issued strict orders to his demons to see to his old enemies’ survival. Of course utilizing as many of these important people as possible in the service of his own cause was undoubtedly the more intelligent course, and that was the plan Vilkata chose to follow.

  Eager as the Dark King was to reach the armory, he stopped to question and to listen to some of these freshly converted important folk. All of them were anxious to tell the Dark King (who, as any right-thinking person must understand at once, was the only being in the universe truly worthy of loyalty and worship) under what kind of protection, and approximately where in the deep central vaults of the Tasavaltan armory, Mark’s trove of Swords was kept. One after another these teary-eyed defectors also hastened to inform their incomparable new Master that, to the best of their knowledge, at least a couple of Swords were still there.

  The Dark King delayed his descent into the depths of the palace an instant longer to demand: “And are any of the royal family at home?”

  The converts looked at one another uncertainly. All of them were desperately eager to be helpful, but at the same time in dread of inadvertently giving the Master wrong or incomplete information. It was Karel himself who finally answered: “Only the young Prince Stephen is here, great lord!”

  Bad luck! But better one small fish than none. “And where is he?”

  Not in his usual sleeping quarters, that was quickly reported by a scouting demon. Nor did the modest bed in Prince Stephen’s room appear to have been slept in during the past few hours. The youth was old enough to have been visiting the bedroom of some maid or mistress, Vilkata supposed; or perhaps he had been taking advantage of his parents’ absence to enjoy some other form of carousal.

  No one had any useful suggestions to offer. Vilkata ordered an immediate and thorough search of the palace for Prince Mark’s brat, and demons and converted Tasavaltans went rushing and whooping away to carry out his order. But the invading wizard was not going to spend any time on that effort himself; certainly not just now, when down in the armory there might be Swords to be had for the picking. At all stages of his planning for this attack, the Dark King had made the armory his primary target, his first concern being to seize at once whatever Swords might be available-particularly Shieldbreaker.

  On to the armory!

  The descent of the Eyeless One continued through the many levels of the palace, becoming something of a triumphal procession. Ceaselessly the Sword of Glory worked its magic, emitting its customary roaring cheer as the Dark King bore it forward and downward like a torch.

  As he advanced, descending, he wondered again what had become of Akbar, whom he had sent on ahead. At least the demon would not be up to any treachery, the holder of the Mindsword told himself—he could feel perfectly confident of that.

  * * *

  Down in
the Sword-chamber, the young Prince at that moment was still leaning with his back against the open vault in which the Blades were customarily kept. Stephen was just emerging from a brief and successful struggle with his own fears—fear of death, and, worse just now, fear of making the wrong decision.

  With the exception of his long work session with Dragonslicer, just interrupted, Stephen had never been allowed to handle any of the Swords unsupervised. But at one time or another, as part of his education, he had been given every Sword available to hold at least briefly, and had been taught the theory and something of the practice of their use. The result was that now he felt reasonably well acquainted with these weapons, whose history was so intimately intertwined with that of his own family.

  It had come as no great surprise to the young Prince that Shieldbreaker had leaped up obediently to meet his touch, and then with matchless violence had disposed of a giant demon, as well as Dragonslicer and the unfortunate man who had been holding it.

  But Stephen’s education regarding the Swords also assured him that now, with the palace in the hands of a strong enemy force, Shieldbreaker was not going to be enough. He was well aware that if he were armed with that Sword only, it would be only too easy for a knowledgeable human attacker to overcome him.

  He turned his head to look back and down into the Sword-vault, studying the two weapons still remaining in their velvet nests. Stonecutter would not help him in his present circumstances, and could be disregarded. But there was one other Sword still in the vault, and that one was quite another matter. The boy realized that his duty, and his very hope of survival, required him now to pick up Sightblinder as well as Shieldbreaker.