Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story (12 page)

      
Karel, announcing confidently that he was able to speak for Rostov and the other military officers, confirmed that they wanted no one but Mark as their Prince.

      
Mark doubted that the sentiment was quite as unanimous as Kristin’s uncle made it sound; but he could not worry about that now.

      
“Then let us send a messenger ahead, to try to stop the Council from taking action until we talk to them. Or let them send some representative to meet us in the field.

      
Hurrying eastward, the Prince of Tasavalta made plans for his attack on Murat.

Chapter Eleven

      
At twilight on the second day after the conversion of the Princess, as Murat’s party halted to make camp, he again dispatched his son, along with a few chosen troopers, on a scouting mission to see what Tasavaltan forces might be in the vicinity. The Crown Prince was sure that Karel and other enemies had his party under surveillance now, and it was only to be expected that they were planning some kind of counterstroke. The reconnaissance ordered by Murat was a routine precaution.

      
Carlo, full of unhappy presentiments before riding out of camp, grumbled to his father about Fate.

      
After a full day in the saddle, the Crown Prince’s leg was aching like a broken tooth. His response to his son’s philosophical bitterness was not sympathetic.

      
“Let us create a new fate if we do not like the one that confronts us. Anyway, to me, our current situation does not appear so bad.”

      
But at the last moment, struck by a foreboding of his own, Murat called his son back and handed him the sheathed Mindsword.

      
“I need not tell you that you must use it only to defend your life, and those of your men.”

      
Carlo accepted the gift automatically from his father’s hands, then paused, holding the heavy weapon gingerly, as if he were on the verge of refusing the loan.

      
“Take it,” Murat urged him tersely.

      
“Thank you, Father,” Carlo acknowledged quietly. In a moment he had buckled on the gods’ Blade, on the opposite side of his belt from his own sword.

      
As soon as the scouting party had ridden out of sight, Murat entered his tent, seeking such privacy as he could manage, and did his best to assess his situation.

      
Though he had no real belief in Fate, he had to admit that a number of factors seemed to be conspiring to keep him from getting his band of followers out of Tasavalta as quickly as he’d planned.

      
To begin with, there was his wound, which was not improving as he’d hoped it would. Forcing himself to ride had only made matters worse. The injured muscles in the limb had stiffened, the swelling was refusing to go down, and the pain had if anything grown worse. Sharp knifeblade pangs ran from knee to hip whenever the Crown Prince tried to move in certain ways, or alternately if he held the leg in the same position for any great length of time. The few troopers in his band who claimed some knowledge of healing could only shake their heads and offer the opinion that perhaps a nerve had been damaged by the unlucky slinger’s hit.

      
Riding for another full day with such an injury might well prove impossible, and he had the feeling, perhaps irrational, that it might cripple him permanently as well. When he made an announcement to this effect, some talk sprang up among the master’s worried devotees of rigging a litter in which he could be transported. But the Crown Prince refused categorically to consider using any such device. He wasn’t dying, he snapped at his subordinates, nor was he helpless; after a day or two of rest, he should be ready to ride on. Meanwhile, alertness by all hands, combined with his enemies’ knowledge that he possessed the Mindsword, ought to render the camp secure against attack.

* * *

      
It was well after dark when Carlo and his men returned from their scouting trip, which had proven uneventful. They had seen no Tasavaltan military people anywhere, though several flying scouts had been observed. Carlo dutifully handed the unused Sword back to his father.

* * *

      
Next morning at first light, Murat on peering out of his tent was slightly surprised to discover the familiar, repulsive figure of Metaxas squatting patiently nearby, at a little distance from the nearest sentry. The Crown Prince ignored the beggar’s presence at first, but as the day wore on the visitor continued to hover in the vicinity of the injured man. Murat had the impression that Metaxas managed to grope his way a little nearer, and again a little nearer, whenever a likely opportunity arose. Drawing almost no attention to himself, and managing somehow to keep out of everyone else’s way, the blind man appeared determined to maintain his presence near Murat.

      
But Kristin, who arrived at Murat’s tent at dawn to spend her time with the Crown Prince, trying to do something for his wound, soon became irritated by what she considered the beggar’s intrusive presence, and told the fellow to take himself away.

      
Metaxas at once obediently arose, turned, and started to move off, tapping his way with a crude cane someone had provided for him. But before he had gone half a dozen steps he turned back, pleading.

      
“Your pardon, my lady. Pardon me, Great Lord. But in my youth I possessed some small skill in the healing arts.”

      
Murat and Kristin both looked at him doubtfully, then at each other. Nothing else was doing the injury any good.

      
Evidently encouraged by silence, the beggar made the most of his chance. “With your permission, I would like to try to alleviate Your Worship’s pain, to make it sooner possible for Your Worship to ride again, and lead us where you will.”

      
“What manner of treatment do you have in mind?” Murat rasped at him, his voice half-suspicious, half-contemptuous.

      
Metaxas launched into an excited plea. “Oh, the master need not be concerned! I will not ask for hair, or fingernails, or any substance proceeding from the great lord’s body. Not a scrap of his clothing will I require, nor even a pinch of dirt from his footprint. It should be enough, with your permission, for me to chant a few words from afar.”

      
Murat stared doubtfully at the wretch for a few moments, then shrugged. “Chant, then,” he agreed. “Preferably from the greatest possible distance that will allow you to remain within the camp. Or go farther, if you will; suit yourself about that.”

      
The eyeless man bowed, muttering words of gratitude. By this time a pair of half-suspicious Tasavaltan guards, taking their cue from their master’s attitude and tone, had come to flank Metaxas, and they guided him in his withdrawal to the other side of camp.

      
Murat engaged once more in conversation with Kristin, and promptly forgot about the former beggar. But a few minutes later the Crown Prince, happening to move his leg, noted that the pain was much diminished. The improvement had occurred with magical suddenness.

      
Soon he had to admit to himself that Metaxas had demonstrated his ability to work a minor healing spell, even while not being allowed to touch the patient.

      
When Murat called Kristin’s attention to this fact, she was delighted at the improvement, but at first unwilling to give credit to the eyeless man. Murat, however, insisted that he knew the touch of healing magic when he felt it, and the Princess was forced to admit that the great bruise on his leg now looked better. The swelling in his thigh had clearly started to diminish, though the leg was still too painful for him to consider riding except in the most immediate emergency.

      
Despite Kristin’s continued antipathy to the begger, Murat had him summoned again and thanked him. Then, in response to a pleading look from the Princess, he banished his benefactor once more to the far side of camp.

      
Even had Murat been ready to ride at once, still there would have been delay in getting on the road to Culm today. The men in charge of the riding-beasts and loadbeasts came to report a newly discovered problem. A swarm of mice, which everyone was sure must have been produced or at least mobilized by Karel’s magic, had appeared overnight to devour and scatter much of the grain in camp. Feed would have to be carried for the animals on a trip across the badlands. It would be folly to trust to forage on the journey; there were certain to be long barren stretches where the grazing was inadequate.

      
Nor were mice the only new difficulty. Harness kept breaking, every second or third time an animal was saddled or loaded. And the sky to the south was leaden, shot through by flickers of distant lightning, indicating that a savage storm was brewing.

      
Murat was well aware of Karel’s reputation, and had had no wish to make an enemy of such a powerful magician. But, as he reflected in conversation with Carlo and Kristin, events had swept him along, and there had really been no alternative.

      
His listeners slavishly agreed.

* * *

      
The rest of the day passed fairly uneventfully. During the following night, Vilkata as usual stretched out at full length on the earth beyond the firelight, at the extreme edge of camp. Lying so, and mumbling into his blanket, he was soon engaged in another secret conference with his inhuman partner.

      
As soon as the demon arrived, it began lamenting—almost silently—Vilkata’s continued failure to seize the Sword.

      
In a whisper almost choked with anger, the man sternly ordered his subordinate partner to stop whining. He, Vilkata, could now report that he seemed to be gaining the Crown Prince’s favor, and could look forward to playing a larger and larger role in service as Murat’s magician—since the removal of Gauranga, there was no one else among the converted bandits or soldiers remotely qualified to play that part. But patience was essential; he, Vilkata, might have, could have, done better with the healing had he been granted the boon of hair or fingernails or spittle. But the royal couple were still suspicious of him, and he had not dared to seem to want such powerful tokens.

      
“And were you, Master, able to make the injury worse from a distance, before you promised to try to make it better?”

      
“Actually I was. You see, the fellow continues to assume that I have been caught in his Sword-magic, like all the other members of his entourage.”

      
Akbar rejoiced fawningly in his master’s success, and praised his farsighted wisdom. He, the demon, devoutly wished that he had been able to do more for their common cause. But alas, Fate as yet had not seen fit to decree him any opportunities.

      
Vilkata delivered a cold judgment. “You and the young Prince both seem to believe in Fate.”

      
“Alas, it may be that we are both seeking to avoid responsibility. Master?”

      
“Yes?”

      
“If I may dare to ask—what
are
the prospects for your snatching the Sword?”

      
The Dark King sighed. “As I have said before, I am waiting for a good chance, in fact an excellent chance. Because I am unlikely to be granted a second one should the first effort fail. And while we are on the subject,” Vilkata added, “let me say that the eyesight you have given me seems not altogether reliable in imaging the Sword itself. When I can get a clear look at the weapon at all, the shape of the handle seems obscure.”

      
“I am doing the best I can, Master.”

      
“Try and do better,” Vilkata snapped—or came as close as he could to snapping without speaking the words aloud.

      
“I will try.” Akbar sounded exceedingly timid, if not actually frightened.

      
“And more than that is going to be required of you. I will have to rely heavily on your help to make me look good as a magician. My own powers are still weak, although with exercise, and with your help, my faithful Akbar, they are beginning to revive.”

      
“Of course, Master! Call upon me at any time for assistance. Does your vision continue to be satisfactory, other than the difficulty with the Sword?”

      
“In the main, satisfactory, I suppose. Somewhat less garish colors would be preferable. And the difficulty with the Sword, as you put it, threatens to undermine our entire plan.”

      
“That is too bad. I can only do what I can. No doubt the trouble arises because of Skulltwister’s own powerful magic.”

      
“Perhaps. In the old days, with others of your kind assisting me, I never had any trouble seeing this Sword or any other.”

      
“I will do what I can.”

* * *

      
By the time another day had dawned, Murat’s leg felt almost well enough to let him ride. But experience counseled another day of rest. Once more Carlo, again carrying the Sword on loan, took a few men and went out scouting.

      
The pair of winged scouts were sent out also; and in a couple of hours came back to their Tasavaltan-defector handler with the unwelcome news that the main road leading toward Culm, really little more than a trail, had been cut.

      
“From what the beasts tell me, the road’s completely gone, sir,” the converted beastmaster reported.

      
“Gone! An entire road?”

      
“Wiped out, at a couple of really narrow places, in the passes. Lord Murat, from the description my little flyers give me, it looks like some heavy magic’s been worked against us there. Something’s cut away limestone and even granite there, like so much cheese.”

      
“Stonecutter’s work.”

      
“I should say so, sir. Very likely.”

* * *

      
By now Murat’s three days, his self-imposed waiting period before he should accept Kristin’s love, had passed. But he found himself making no move to enter her tent. It was as if he were really waiting for something else—perhaps, he thought, a time when they could be truly alone with each other, and at peace. The Princess gazed at him lovingly, and was content to accept what he decided.