Shieldbreaker's Story Page 7

  The Sword of Stealth is given to

  One lowly and despised.

  Sightblinder’s gifts: his eyes are keen

  His nature is disguised.

  Yet Stephen hesitated. He also understood full well that the decision to hold two Swords drawn at once was not one to be taken lightly. On his recent birthday he had been allowed, very briefly and under Karel’s supervision, to make the attempt with these very two. His father, Mark, had demonstrated the ability to do that effectively. (For the first time, as a boy, and then holding them only briefly, Mark had had the feeling that a great wind had arisen and was about to blow him off his feet. That the world was altering around him, or that he was being extracted from it. Then Mark had fainted; this, too, the grown Prince had told his sons.) But the effect on Stephen had been the same as it would have been on most people: confusion, mental anguish, disorientation.

  Shieldbreaker and Sightblinder together, the young Prince knew, would provide anyone who held them with an almost absolutely unbeatable offense and defense. He knew of only one real flaw in this armament, but it was a daunting one—the inevitable psychic burden of carrying both Swords drawn at the same time. That would impose a disabling handicap on all but a few very capable men or women.

  But he knew he was going to have to take the risk.

  Shieldbreaker continued its muttering, the black hilt thumping soft magical impacts against Stephen’s palm. His right arm, still hurting at the shoulder, was tiring from the weight of the heavy Sword, and he let the arm sag again until the unbreakable point of the Sword of Force trailed on the stone floor; with this weapon there was no need, after all, to hold a ready position.

  And then, frightened of what he must do next, but unwilling to put off the attempt any longer, Stephen thrust his left hand boldly into the vault and closed his fingers around the black hilt with the white outline of a human eye- Sightblinder.

  This Sword did not come leaping up to meet his reaching grasp. But immediately on Stephen’s making contact with the Sword of Stealth, its magic surged along his arm and through his mind and body. A power similar to Shieldbreaker’s, yet different. This, on top of the lingering effect of the young Prince’s first brush with the demon, made him once more dizzy, and afflicted him with deep anxiety, the fear that reality might be about to crumble. The savage noises still drifting down from the upper palace seemed to be swallowed up in the sound of a great wind; it was distracting, even though the young Prince understood that the wind really existed only within his own mind and perception.

  But Sightblinder’s heavy magic worked its benefits as well. The power of the Sword of Stealth enhanced and focused Stephen’s own perception sufficiently to let him feel assured that the human voices he heard above were truly those of deadly enemies—no matter that most of those who spoke and sang had once been loyal friends—and that more demons were indeed swarming in the near vicinity.

  Feeling mentally menaced and disconnected, undergoing sensations so peculiar he would have been unable to describe them, threatened by impalpable winds of change, almost on the point of fainting, Stephen was suddenly sure that he could not, dared not, remain here in the presence of the enemy. Armed as he now was, though, he could and would get away, and would carry to his parents the two greatest treasures of the armory.

  The great problem with this plan, as the young Prince realized even before he tried to move, was that in this state of fierce giddiness induced by double magic he would have all he could do simply to stand erect. He feared he would not be able to walk across a room, let alone travel to a distant village, holding both Swords drawn. He would have to put one of the two weapons at least into a scabbard even before he tried to climb the stairs and leave the palace.

  Knowing that the Mindsword must be perilously near, Stephen did not dare to release his grip on Shieldbreaker’s hilt even for a moment. Propping up Sightblinder in a position where he could grab it again instantly, he worked left- handed to extract two sword-belts from the Sword-chamber’s inner rack. Working with his left hand and his right elbow, he managed, after a long struggle that at times seemed hopeless, to get the two belts fastened around his waist, so that one long leather scabbard hung at his right, the other at his left. Then he took up Sightblinder again, enduring the weight of double magic long enough to sheath the Sword at his right side, from which position he should be able to draw it handily left-handed.

  * * *

  Looking at the doors of the inner vault, which still stood open, Stephen made a great effort to think coherently. Stonecutter of course was still inside the vault, but it would simply have to stay there. Yes, no doubt he ought to close those doors before he left—that would set at least a small additional obstacle in the path of whoever was about to overrun the palace wholly. He grabbed one door and slammed it; the other one came with it automatically. No special closing incantation was required.

  * * * * * *

  As the young Prince prepared to leave the armory, Shieldbreaker in his right hand kept muttering to itself as if in eager expectation of the joys of combat. Cautiously, being very careful never to let go for an instant, he changed his grip on the black hilt from his right hand to his left, to better balance the physical weight of the sheathed Sword of Stealth. He thought that any difficulty he could eliminate, even the most minor, might make the difference for him between success and failure.

  On his way to the door he had to detour slightly to avoid stepping right over the old man’s body. But before setting foot out of the Sword-chamber the young Prince paused, fascinated against his will, to take one more horrified look at Bazas.

  Almost straddling the corpse, which lay sprawled upon its back, Stephen for the first time took note of the ruined hilt of Dragonslicer, black wood splintered and still smoldering, still clutched in the old man’s hand.

  At that sight, another thought went fluttering through the youth’s shocked, half-disconnected mind: But how now was he ever going to be able to complete his father’s gift—?

  Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, the young Prince shuffled past the dead man and stepped through the doorway. He turned his back on the Sword-vault chamber, and started automatically for the nearest stair. He had done very little conscious planning, but was holding to the fixed idea that his parents several days ago had gone to the village of Voronina, some sixty kilometers away, and that he must reach them there with the two important Swords.

  If only, Stephen prayed, circumstances did not compel him to travel any distance with both Swords drawn. And if only he could decide correctly which one he had to have drawn at any moment. …

  Walking with a persistent slight unsteadiness, he was halfway across the room in which the abandoned workbench stood holding its neat and meaningless pile of dragonscales, and where the Old World lamp now burned unheeded, when what seemed a better plan of action struck him with the force of inspiration.

  The house of Stephen’s grandparents, of Mark’s mother, Mala, and foster-father, lord, was right here in Sarykam, at no enormous distance from the palace. Surely he, Stephen, would be able to carry his two Swords on foot successfully at least that far. In the house of lord and Mala he would be able to get help.

  But now more demons were coming toward him. The vile creatures were moving somewhere near. …

  Hastily Stephen snatched Sightblinder lefthanded from its sheath. Once more his head went spinning with the force of double magic, but now he could see, feel, exactly where the foul things were. Still more than a hundred meters distant, they were no immediate threat, but at any moment that might change.

  Restricted by his burden to a staggering and seriously uneven progress, the young Prince went forward carrying both Swords drawn. He would continue to do so, he told himself, at least until he could get out of the palace.

  Experiencing recurring waves of a feeling that the world was twisting itself into knots around him, a sensation unpleasantly reminiscent of the night last winter when he’d secretly experimented w
ith drinking too much wine, Stephen kept going.

  He had gained no more than a couple of rooms’ distance from the Sword-vault, traversing with difficulty the darkened armory on a course for the nearest ascending stairs, when through a concentric pair of doorways on his left he observed movement, that of one person walking.

  The enhanced perception granted the young Prince by Sightblinder showed him the single figure clearly: that of a man bearing in front of him a Sword raised like a torch, who had just now descended to the level of the armory by another stair, several rooms away.

  For a moment Stephen could not react. The mental strain of carrying the two Swords was growing worse, not lessening. Invisible surges of power seemed to blend inside his nervous system, with unpredictable effect. Nevertheless Sightblinder still augmented the boy’s sight sufficiently to allow him to become aware of the invader before the invader saw him; and it also enabled Stephen to identify the Dark King with certainty, even from several rooms away. That man had just come hurrying—alone, except for the one demon which clung to him like an incubus, and functioned as his eyes—down, down into the dimly lighted armory.

  Not that this towering, eyeless albino, in the ordinary course of events, would have been very difficult to identify.

  Stephen tensed, and in his sudden concentration even came close to forgetting for the moment that he was carrying two drawn Swords.

  Vilkata. The Dark King.

  This was the man—say, rather, the monster—who, two years ago, had almost killed Stephen’s mother, inflicting upon her months of physical and mental agony. The evil magician who was the deadly enemy of Stephen’s father. The fiend who preferred the society of demons to that of people, and who had wrought great havoc upon the whole world—the realm of Tasavalta in particular.

  The boy’s naturally combative nature, and his princely training in the theory and practice of war, asserted themselves, and he was ready to attack.

  Chapter Six

  At once, without the need to pause or think, the young Prince turned away from the stairs he had been about to climb and began to retrace his steps toward the Sword-chamber. He was moving to intercept the invader. Scarcely conscious of the continuing pain in his shoulder or the bruises on his knees and elbows, Stephen stalked his hated enemy. Shieldbreaker was once more in his right hand, drumming softly as he held it ready for a thrust. In the left hand of the young Prince, Sightblinder continued to exert its silent power; with the help of the Sword of Stealth the youth was able vaguely to perceive the demon accompanying his foe, a half-transparent cloud of something in the air beside the wizard’s head.

  Meanwhile the eyeless magician had satisfied himself that he was now on the deepest level of the palace. The bright image of the Tyrant’s Blade, gripped fiercely in the Dark King’s right fist, emitted a muted roaring, to itself and to the world, the sound of a fire started by some enthusiastic mob.

  Unaware of Stephen watching him from three rooms away, Vilkata paused briefly at the foot of the stairs to gaze about him with his unnatural vision. In the next moment the Dark King, without looking back, beckoned to someone or something above and behind him, at the top of the stone stairs; then the man turned his back on the stairs, and turning away from Stephen also, strode forward purposefully.

  In response to the Master’s commanding gesture, a small squad of demons, fanatical and protective, came pouring after Vilkata down the stairs, to take up their positions swirling behind him like an evil mist. None of these creatures darted ahead to scout, because the Eyeless One had already warned them that he must be first to enter the room where the Tasavaltan Swords were kept. The Dark King walked at the head of his powers alone—except, of course, for Pitmedden, who continued to provide his sight.

  Yes, Vilkata was thinking, the weapons and tools arrayed here in profusion left no doubt that he had reached the armory. Now, to locate the room of Swords…

  Holding the murmuring, faintly roaring steel of Skulltwister—in his own demonic vision a towering spear of pale fire—raised before him as he advanced toward the Sword-vault through the lowest level of the palace, Vilkata sighted from the corner of his eye a movement on his left which was not demonic. To his surprise he became aware that someone else, a single human figure, was walking there in the dim light, indeed was steadily approaching him.

  A moment later, scowling doubtfully, the Dark King felt an inward chill as he identified the newcomer as the newly-converted Karel. Yes, Princess Kristin’s wizard-uncle, the same almost-tearful convert who just a minute ago, up on one of the higher levels of the palace, had informed Vilkata of the words of the incantation necessary to open both inner and outer sealings of the Sword-vault.

  As Pitmedden’s vision presented the image of the Tasavaltan magician, the old man’s hands, slightly upraised, were empty. Karel’s mien was humble, his smile gentle and apologetic, as befitted a convert in the full flush of his enthusiasm.

  Vilkata was vaguely puzzled. Only moments ago he had left Karel behind him, at the head of the last flight of descending stairs. Had the Tasavaltan wizard so quickly disobeyed orders and followed him downstairs out of some irrational concern for Vilkata’s welfare? Or did Karel perhaps come bearing urgent information? Some fresh news of Prince Mark? Or—?

  “What is it now?” the Dark King snapped at the approaching one. Meanwhile his swarm of demons hung over his head, snarling and droning among themselves, like poison bees around his ears. However Vilkata’s bodyguard perceived this human walking toward them, the figure caused them no alarm.

  * * *

  Stephen, having closed now within a few paces of his enemy, seeing the tall man’s pale face with its scarred and empty sockets turn toward him, felt a chill of fear, despite his intellectual confidence in Sightblinder’s protection. When the villain snapped a question at him, the young Prince, suffering another wave of confusion, hardly understood what the man was saying.

  Under the continuing burden of the two Swords’ double magic, Stephen wondered who the Dark King took him for … a moment passed before the lad realized that it hardly mattered. Vilkata was not alarmed or alerted. There was no need for him, Stephen, to pretend anything. The Sword of Stealth would do all the necessary pretending for him.

  But duration and reality were crumbling. His next step toward the Dark King seemed to take forever. The young Prince tried to steel his nerves by reminding himself that his father, even as a boy, had held two Swords simultaneously and had survived the experience.

  Stephen advanced another pace toward his foe, and yet another. In fact he was walking almost at normal speed, yet each stride seemed to be protracted through endless time. It seemed to be taking him minutes, hours, just to get from one room of the armory to the next.

  The tall, hideous figure of his enemy shrugged, and turned away from him again … but the double magic of the Swords was roaring in Stephen’s ears, and now, whatever else happened, he was going to have to stop, for just a moment, to try to organize his thoughts. …

  Brutal, physical noise cleared the cobwebs of magic from his mind, and momentarily shocked the young Prince back to full awareness. Ever louder and more savage had grown the sounds of disturbance drifting in through the high, barred windows of the lower levels of the palace. The cheering, roaring tumult issuing from the Mindsword itself was being drowned out, swallowed up in the rush of similar sounds from human throats. It sounded as if a joyous crowd was pouring out into the streets around the palace to welcome the arrival of their glorious new Master. The conversion had overtaken hundreds, perhaps thousands of the citizens of Sarykam in their sleep, had engulfed everyone within the palace and the houses on the nearby streets, all who had been within an arrow’s flight of the Sword of Madness along whatever route its bearer had used to enter the city.

  Now the roaring had become more raucous. Individual screams and challenges testified that something like all-out war had erupted in the precincts of the city surrounding the palace. Of course, besides the possible tho
usands of new converts, there would still be an even greater number who had remained outside the Mindsword’s sharply defined range. The fanatical converts could not but see the latter now as deadly enemies, no matter that they might have been close relatives or friends an hour ago—and the converts were ready to strike for their Master in deadly earnest, and with the full advantage of surprise.

  Stephen blinked and looked around, to find himself alone. Now where had Vilkata got to? He must be up ahead, he must by now have reached the repository of the Swords. Now the young Prince, still doubly armed, clinging to his sanity and alertness as best he could, forced himself to follow.

  * * *

  The Dark King had already forgotten for the moment the perfect image of a nodding, smiling, speechless Karel, approaching him obsequiously, because Vilkata was sure that he had now reached the Sword-chamber itself. Still holding the Mindsword raised before him like a torch, he had arrived at the doorway of a vaulted room which, if the directions he’d been given were correct, must be the very one he wanted.

  The wizard placed a sensitive hand high on the stone wall, fingers delicately stroking. Shreds of old Karel’s protective magic clinging to the doorway, ineffective now but still perceptible, assured the invader that he had come to the right place—and supporting evidence, tending to confirm that this was no ordinary room, was visible in the form of a dead body, physically mangled, on the floor inside.

  Vilkata paused, scowling. Just here and now, he could not interpret the presence of a corpse as a sign that things were going well.

  His escort of demons, droning almost mindlessly, still filled the air around him.

  Using the glowing point of Skulltwister, the tool readiest to hand, the Dark King quite easily, almost absent-mindedly, put aside whatever bits of Karel’s handiwork still survived about the doorway. Taking note of the nature of these remnants of enchantment as he did so, and of how completely their fabric had been torn apart, he thought: Akbar has certainly been here. That senior demon, and few other beings, human or demonic, could have shredded Karel’s defensive handiwork in such a way. But then the question persisted: Where was Akbar now?