Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story (10 page)

      
And now, as if he’d spoken his thought aloud, the woman he loved began to insist that the wrongs her lord had suffered in his own country took precedence—they must be righted before he and she turned their attention to anything else.

      
She spoke with an air of simple practicality. “I see now, my dear, how it must be. We—if you agree, of course—will at once proceed together to Culm. There you will straighten out matters with your family, and settle any difficulties that may arise with anyone else whose opinion and goodwill you consider important. You will be appearing among your own people as the new Prince of Tasavalta,” Kristin added complacently, “and I think such an accession of territory and population cannot fail to help them see things your way.”

      
Once more Murat stared at the black hilt at his side. Now he began to see the possibility of good fortune in the fact that he’d been unable to go through with his original plan of handing the Sword over to Kristin at their first meeting. For the first time the Crown Prince had to admit to himself that there might be definite advantages in going about things differently.

      
For one thing, it was plain that Tasavalta could know no peace as long as he was here with the Sword. His presence in their land, and the fact that he had the Princess with him, could not long remain a secret from most of the people. Either he had to leave Tasavalta for the time being, or else prepare to convert the bulk of the population to his cause—and he still shrank from such a conquest. So far he’d used the Sword only in self-defense, and he’d not go a step beyond that if he could help it. He wanted no allegiance that had to be bought with magic.

      
No, the best thing to do was withdraw from this land, for a time, until Kristin had recovered her own will, and could make her own decisions freely—meanwhile doing his best to make sure that she would still look on him favorably when that happened.

      
“One day I
will
give you the Sword, Kristin. As you know, it was my intention to do so as soon as we met, but—”

      
“Please, my lord. If you love me, do not try to force me to accept that gift.”

      
It was more than Murat could do to keep from blurting out how much he loved this beautiful, devoted woman. Loudly he proclaimed that he was as much enthralled by her as she was by the Sword.

      
“It is not your Sword, my love, that enthralls me. What is the Sword, after all? It is only an incident.”

      
The Crown Prince gave a wild laugh, and made an extravagant gesture with both arms. “How will I ever be able to leave you?”

      
The Princess reacted with alarm. “Do not speak of such a thing, my beloved. Not even in jest!”

      
“I will not! I’m sorry, I promise, I will not!”

* * *

      
Trying to ignore the pain in his leg, hoping to get to sleep in his lonely blanket roll, Murat tried to picture to himself their arrival in Culm. He thought the pair of them ought to rate a reasonable welcome—at least he hoped so. With even a minimum of good luck he ought to be able to live there for a time without having to draw the Sword again. There, in his homeland, he ought to be able to keep it sheathed.

      
In the morning they would have to ride, whether his leg still galled him or not. He did not intend to be in Tasavalta when Prince Mark returned.

      
Murat was on the verge of sleep when his attention was caught by a figure standing nearby, almost motionless in the light between two dying fires. It was the blind man, Metaxas.

      
The Crown Prince sat up, conscious of the weighty presence of the sheathed Sword, snugly almost beneath him, as it always was these days when he lay down.

      
“What do you want, beggar?” he demanded, hearing the words come out more roughly than he had intended. More mildly he added: “Be careful, you’ll walk into a fire.”

      
“I thank the great master for his concern, but it is not necessary; I can sense the heat. The truth is that I remembered something that I feared my lord might have forgotten.”

      
“And what is that?”

      
“Only,” said Metaxas, “only that there are still three other Swords, forged by the gods, in the royal Tasavaltan armory in Sarykam.”

Chapter Nine

      
In the morning, when Murat reminded Kristin of the existence of three more Swords in the Tasavaltan armory, she eagerly confirmed the presence there of such weapons, and blamed herself for not having thought of them before.

      
When the Crown Prince mentioned the blind man’s visit to him during the night, her face clouded, though at first she made no comment.

      
“Do you remember him now?” Murat asked her. “From your childhood?”

      
“No. Though there were many servants about when I was a girl, and I cannot be sure. I suppose he had his eyes then?”

      
“I had assumed so, though I never asked him. Shall we have the fellow here now and question him?”

      
“Not for my sake,” Kristin answered quickly. “I do not like him. The Dark King was eyeless too, and I still sometimes encounter him in my nightmares. The way he looked at me—I know he could see me somehow—while his magicians were-—causing me pain.”

      
“I would do anything,” Murat told her softly, “rather than cause you pain again.”

      
Kristin gave her beloved an adoring smile. Then, becoming businesslike, she urged the Crown Prince to issue marching orders. If possible they ought to seize the three Swords in the armory quickly, to prevent their falling into the hands of Mark or some other potential enemy. “Of course it may be too late already. But I think that we must try.”

      
Grimacing, Murat thought the matter over. He had hoped to avoid entering the capital, but…

      
He asked: “Which Swords are there?”

      
“There are Dragonslicer, Stonecutter—and, most important, Sightblinder.”

      
“Then the blind beggar told me the truth.”

      
“Who controls the first two may make little practical difference to us in our situation, but the Sword of Stealth could be a deadly weapon against you—indeed, against anyone.”

      
“How well I know it!” Murat closed his eyes for a moment, wishing for a chance to rest. Events were rushing him into territory he had not planned to enter. Still, that was a common enough situation for a soldier, and no protracted deliberation was necessary.

      
“No doubt you are right,” he said. “We must try to bring that one with us.”

      
Opening his eyes, he added: “I am surprised that Mark did not take Sightblinder with him on his latest journey, wherever he may have gone.”

      
The Princess hesitated before answering, and again a shadow crossed her face. At last she said: “Mark has good qualities. I suppose he thought that Sword might be needed at home, to defend the realm.”

      
Murat grunted something; he did not care to hear about the good qualities of the man who, he had every reason to expect, would soon be trying to do his best to murder him.

      
Then, turning, the Crown Prince issued orders to all his followers that they prepare to move quickly on Sarykam. In his own mind he proposed to deal with his leg wound by ignoring it—that was a common tactic for a soldier, and in the past it had served Murat well.

      
Next he addressed the Princess once more. “I had hoped to avoid entering the city, but I must try to get Sightblinder.”

      
“A wise decision, Father,” Carlo approved.

      
An early morning patrol sent out to take a last look around for Stephen returned, before camp was broken, with nothing to report. But the Princess no longer appeared particularly worried about her son.

      
“He’ll be all right. Frightened, I suppose, poor child, that his mother should be missing overnight—but there’s no help for that just now. We may find him at the palace in Sarykam.”

      
The Crown Prince shook his head, and his hand touched the black hilt at his side. “I had no wish to draw this weapon before, and I’ve less inclination to employ it now. But if the alarm’s been spread, by Stephen or anyone else, I suppose I’ll haveto use it at least once more when we reach the city.”

      
“Murat, my love, I fear you are too scrupulous. It is not as if you are hurting anyone when you draw that beautiful blade—I think it should be called the Sword of Truth as long as it is in your hands. While you have it, it will not harm my son, or any of my people, any more than it has harmed me.”

      
The Crown Prince said nothing in reply. Though he had assistance in mounting, it still cost him an effort not to cry out with the pain in his leg. But then he was in the saddle, and he found that he could ride, at least at a moderate pace. In a few minutes everything was ready, and the march to the city got under way, Carlo riding at Murat’s left side and Kristin at his right.

      
Once on looking back, during the morning’s ride, Murat noticed absently that the blind beggar was riding in the rear as usual, his mount dutifully following the animal ahead. The man represented a minor mystery to be sometime resolved.

      
In this way the small procession proceeded for some time, Murat riding in thoughtful silence. As soon as Kristin saw that he wanted to be alone for a time, she dutifully dropped a few meters behind.

      
As he rode, the Crown Prince was meditating on the Swords. It was true that Dragonslicer and Stonecutter each had very impressive powers, but they were also very specialized, and under present circumstances he did not see that either of those Swords was likely to be of much benefit to him if he should gain it, or much harm to his cause in the hands of an enemy. Nevertheless, Murat determined to take both of those Swords with him if he could, on the grounds that they were really Kristin’s, and the general principle that it was almost always better to possess any Sword than not to have it.

      
But Sightblinder was a different matter, and the more Murat thought of that Blade the larger it loomed in his calculations. The Sword of Stealth could render even an otherwise negligible opponent deadly dangerous; and Prince Mark was anything but negligible. In fact Murat knew him to be strong, clever, ruthless, and determined, and of all human beings perhaps the most familiar with the Twelve Swords’ powers. In Mark’s hands Sightblinder might well pose a murderous threat, even to one as well armed, experienced, and wary as Murat.

* * *

      
Sarykam, as Kristin assured him, was nearly a full day’s ride away, and Murat had no wish to arrive there at night or with tired men and exhausted riding-beasts. Therefore at sunset he called a halt, went through the painful process of dismounting, and ordered his followers to make camp. Murat saw to it that Kristin was provided with her own small tent, one that the troopers had been carrying; he and Carlo lay nearby, under the stars.

      
The Crown Prince had much to think about before he slept. When he said good night to Kristin, and made it plain that he did not intend to join her in her tent, she had asked him what was wrong.

      
In answering Murat chose his words slowly, and his voice was grim. “There is no difficulty that we cannot overcome in time. Princess—there is nothing I want more in this world than to embrace you. And, when you have been three days free of the Sword’s power, I intend with all my heart to do so.”

      
“Foolish man,” she whispered fondly. “Do you still believe that your Sword there has enslaved me? Is there some magical significance in a period of three days? What I feel for you is not going to change in three years, or in three centuries.”

      
“I’ll not wait as long as three years, I assure you. But grant me the three days, for my conscience. It seems a reasonable interval.”

      
“Of course.” The Princess smiled, and looked around their little camp. Everyone seemed to be studiously avoiding watching them. “By then, perhaps, we will have found a place where we can be more completely alone.” And, leaning forward, she swiftly kissed Murat on the cheek. A moment later she had disappeared into her little tent.

* * *

      
Next morning at dawn, the Crown Prince, his escort, and his close companions resumed their march. Murat tried to convince himself that his leg at least felt no worse than before.

      
As the city came into view in the distance, then grew closer and bit by bit more distinct, Murat became more intensely alert, and steadily more suspicious. These roads near the capital, which at this hour ought to have been at least moderately busy with all kinds of traffic, were ominously deserted.

      
Kristin, too, frowned on observing all these empty fields and highways, and spoke of her concern to her lover, who was riding at her side.

      
Murat only shrugged fatalistically. “I suppose we ought to have expected it. No doubt someone has spread word of what has happened—that you have joined me.” His hand was already resting upon the Mindsword’s hilt.

      
Kristin tossed her glorious hair, and smiled with a determined optimism that Murat decided he had not yet—quite—begun to find irritating. She said: “All of my people are going to learn the truth sooner or later anyway; our love cannot remain a secret.”

      
“Of course not.”

      
“Poor Murat. I see your conscience is still bothering you unnecessarily.”

      
The inhabitants were still totally and ominously absent when Murat and his group reached the city wall. The broad gate which normally allowed access to and from the high road was tightly closed. No sentries appeared on the high wall, and only a distant barking dog responded when the Tasavaltans escorting the Crown Prince and Princess tried to hail their countrymen.

      
At Kristin’s order several of her soldiers pushed and pulled on the massive timbers of the gate, but evidently it had been barred on the inside. The obstacle caused only a short delay; a couple of soldiers with a rope, working unopposed, made short work of getting atop the wall, and moments later were able to open the gate from inside.

      
One of the two troopers, on emerging from the gate, reported to Murat in a puzzled voice: “It looks deserted inside the walls, sir. How can my people fear you that much?”

      
Murat did not attempt an answer. He only commented to the Princess: “I fear we may find the armory already emptied of what we would like to find in it.”

      
“I share your fear,” said Kristin in a subdued and troubled voice. “Are they all in hiding, or in ambush? What can they be thinking of?”

      
Alertly, the party advanced toward the city’s center, traversing one street after another normally thronged with people, but this morning as deserted as the country roads had been. Certainly, Murat thought, someone had assumed leadership within the city, and had acted decisively and effectively during the night. Stout stone-built houses looked down in utter silence on the visitors. Were the folk who lived here all hiding behind their closed shutters and doors, or had they evacuated the city? Murat, riding the eerily quiet street, could not tell which course the populace had taken, and did not particularly care. Well, he could easily understand why these people were fleeing him and his Sword as if he were the plague. But even so, such a welcome was annoying.

      
The great square in front of the palace was as deserted as the broad streets. Again, somewhere in the background a single dog was barking, a forlorn and frantic sound. The stout doors of the armory, adjacent to the palace, were closed and locked just as the city gate had been, but Kristin was in possession of the keys, both mechanical and magical, that would enable her to enter here.

      
No human guards had been posted outside or inside the armory. Not one additional recruit, it seemed, was to be left for the Mindsword to enlist in an intruder’s cause. But the strong spells of protection woven by old Karel, Kristin’s magician-uncle, were still in place, and Kristin warned Murat and his son as well as the converted troopers against trying to enter. Only the Princess herself approached the doorway, through which she was able to pass freely.

      
The Crown Prince waited nervously, but he had not long to wait. In a matter of moments Kristin emerged again, her expression grim.

      
“My lord Murat, all three of the Swords are gone.”

      
Under his breath Murat blasphemed various of the long-departed gods. Beyond that there was not much to be said. No doubt someone—whether it was young Stephen or not made no difference—had reached the city long hours ago, bringing an eyewitness account, or perhaps some garbled version of one, telling what had happened to the Princess. Whoever had taken charge here on receipt of that news had issued orders swiftly and forcefully.

      
“Neatly done,” Murat commented. “But I wonder where they can all have disappeared to?”

      
“To no great distance, I suppose,” said Kristin, sadly. She was obviously hurt that her people had run out on her, without waiting to hear what she might have to say to them. “But it doesn’t really matter. I’ll explain to them.”

      
Finding pen and paper in the deserted office of the armory, she announced her intention to quickly write out several messages, some addressed to various individuals, others to her people in general. Then she would dispatch runners to leave these notes in prominent places within the city where they could not fail to be discovered.

      
Standing in the doorway of the little office, watching Kristin as she began to write the messages, Murat smiled fondly at her. “What exactly are you telling your people?”