The Last Book Of Swords : Shieldbreaker’s Story (22 page)

      
There came a whistle and a ringing in the air, a flash of silver. The Dark King, Shieldbreaker still held high in his right hand, his countenance betraying no surprise, had withdrawn from his unarmed assailant by a single step.

      
At Vilkata’s feet the Baron lay dead, instantaneously transfixed by a bright Blade.

      
Amintor’s body still twitched, fingers closing spasmodically as if to grasp some prize, but his eyes stared lifelessly. He had been slain by Farslayer, flying at him from some unseen hand.

      
Only a moment passed before Amalthea appeared, emerging from summer greenery some meters behind the Dark King, walking slowly forward among the trees. Her manner was demure and subservient to Vilkata, who was not at all surprised to see her. Obviously they had met before. A look of understanding passed between them. The enchantress had decided she would be better off serving the Dark King directly.

      
An instant later Arridu appeared too, materializing out of thin air, smoothly assuring his Great Master that had the Sword of Vengeance not killed the traitor, he would have done so.

      
“It appears you both were right,” the Dark King complimented his two assistants. “The fool was planning treachery all along.”

      
In the next moment, brushing aside the congratulations of his aides upon his cleverness, the Dark King, laughing triumphantly over Amintor’s skewered corpse, planted a boot on the Baron’s chest, and plucked forth the Sword of Vengeance from the Baron’s heart.

      
For a long moment Vilkata found himself brandishing two Swords, Farslayer and Shieldbreaker, at the same tune, a rare experience even for him. His demonic vision suddenly began to play tricks on him. …

      
Or rather, he thought in a flash of insight, he was forcibly reminded of something he should always have kept in mind, but tended to forget—that his self-chosen mode of perception had always been playing tricks.

      
Whatever its exact provenance, this particular vision was unsettling.

      
From somewhere there came into his view unbidden an odd glimpse of a small room, stone-walled and cramped, containing a torture-rack and little else, the rack complete with anonymous, screaming victim. And this made the Dark King suddenly feel better—he could get used to this business of the two Swords.

      
Vilkata was not afraid of casting the Sword of Vengeance in among Mark’s vengeful friends—not as long as he, Vilkata, had Shieldbreaker in hand to fend off the likely riposte.

      
Holding the black hilt of Farslayer at arm’s length in both hands, spinning his body gracefully, the Dark King chanted the old rhyme: “For thy heart, for thy heart, who hast wronged me—”

      
In a blur and a flash, Farslayer was gone, howling away into the distance, from the moment of its launching become invisible with its own speed.

      
As soon as he had thrown the Sword, Vilkata felt confident (though, as always, there remained a shade of nagging, suspicious doubt) that he’d killed Mark. Only Shieldbreaker could have protected the Prince, and the Sword of Force was still here at his own side.

      
Hastily he drew his protection, held it ready, smiling as he awaited the counterblow from Prince Mark’s grieving friends.

* * *

      
The Prince of Tasavalta was on his riding-beast, leading a growing force of mounted troops and infantry toward Sarykam to reclaim his capital, when the Sword of Vengeance came for him.

      
Mark was granted no more than a moment of warning.

      
Only the Prince himself, and a few people who were closest to him, saw or heard Farslayer flying toward him.

      
It was Kristin, as so often watchfully protective at the Prince’s side, who in a flash drew Woundhealer from where it was kept ready, belted at her own waist.

* * *

      
Vilkata’s gift came bursting through whatever magical defenses Mark had in place—Karel, recovered now from Mindsword-magic but still at a distance, had seen to it that those barriers had become considerable, though intended only against weaker attacks than this. Neither the Prince nor his chief magician would have wasted time and energy trying to build defenses against this weapon.

      
The shock of Farslayer’s impact knocked Mark clean out of his saddle, impaling him bloodily. No voluntary cry broke from his lips, only the mechanical grunt of air out-driven by the impact of Farslayer’s hilt against his chest.

      
Kristin was no more than an eyeblink later with Woundhealer, which she plunged right into her husband’s heart, then did her best to catch his falling body before it struck the ground.

      
Then, for a few terribly moments, Mark endured having the Sword of Vengeance stuck right in through his breastbone, next to the Sword of Love, the two Blades crossing, clashing, somewhere near the center of his body. His eyes were open, his face working, as if he were struggling to endure, to understand.

      
The Princess, shifting her grip to the other hilt, pulled Farslayer from Mark’s body and cast it blindly aside.

* * *

      
A swarm of supporters, crying out their shock and rage, at once gathered round the fallen Prince. Meanwhile, the peasant Bodker, grateful and fanatically devoted to the man who had healed his child, and neither knowing nor caring whether Vilkata possessed Shieldbreaker—perhaps possessing little knowledge of any Swords—grabbed up Farslayer and hurled it angrily, muttering his clumsy prayer that it should slay whoever had just tried to kill the Prince. …
 

* * *

      
The Dark King was still waiting alertly, Shieldbreaker pounding and drumming in his hand, when Bodker’s gift arrived; after a startled moment of noise and glare and flying fragments, Vilkata of course remained unscratched.

      
Again there had been the Sword-shattering blast—again the lethal spray of fragments of ensorcelled metal.

      
Nearby demons screamed in pain; their lives, being elsewhere, of course, were safe.

      
Meanwhile the Dark King endured a split second in which he feared that his defense had failed him—but after that split second he laughed wholeheartedly at this evidence of what he saw as his own continuing invincibility.

Chapter Eighteen

      
The two veterans, Ben of Purkinje and the Silver Queen, were making their way in near-silence south along the coast, the east wind from the sea whipping their graying hair. Yambu rode with an almost unconscious queenly dignity, most of the time holding the reins in her left hand, carrying Coinspinner unsheathed in her right. Her wiry arm drooped with the Sword’s weight, but her grip on the black hilt held steady, sensitive to its least vibration. The lady’s eyes continually scanned the road ahead. Her giant escort, grim-faced and for the moment no more than mundanely armed, kept his large and powerful mount close behind hers.

      
Since leaving the city behind them, the Silver Queen’s companion had twice asked for and been loaned the Sword from her. Twice he had tested Coinspinner’s powers with questions containing obscure allusions, phrases that would have been hard to understand even had the wind not whirled the words away so quickly.

      
Twice the result had evidently been affirmative, for Ben each time gave back the Sword and followed the lady on in silence. It was evident that the Sword of Chance had recommended these two people to each other.

* * *

      
The Dark King now had adopted Amalthea as his chief human aide—or at least had promised her that status—and meant to leave her in control of his army, formerly Amintor’s.

      
Meanwhile he, Vilkata, had other things to do. He told his new assistant no details of his own immediate plans, only that he was going away for a day or two and that she should save what she could of the army which had been Amintor’s. Doubtless that would require a temporary—only temporary—retreat from Tasavalta. But the army would be useful when the Dark King came back to renew his attack with overwhelming force, and it was important that as much of it as possible be preserved.

      
One of Vilkata’s first acts on arriving back on Earth from his two-year exile had been to order his demons to conceal his spacecraft in a seashore cave only a few hours’ hike south of Sarykam. The Dark King had considered it prudent to keep this equipment standing by in case some sudden need for it arose. Riding on his griffin now, he was able to reach the site in minutes.

      
Vilkata, on his way to the cave in which the spacecraft lay hidden, consoled himself, in conversation with Pitmedden, that in the freeing of his hostages he had suffered only a temporary setback. He had driven his enemies from the field in their most recent skirmish, and with his own hand had cut down a nephew of Prince Mark.

      
But of course those achievements fell far short of total victory. The complete conquest of the realm of Tasavalta, let alone that of the entire world, seemed as remote as ever.

      
Given Soulcutter and Shieldbreaker both in hand, of course, he would possess the means to rout his enemies for good and all. Arridu whispered, and the great prize beckoned. Thinking he now had a priceless opportunity to obtain the Sword of Despair, the Dark King with his demonic vision eagerly scanned the darkness ahead for the seashore cave.

* * *

      
Ben and Lady Yambu were being guided by the Sword of Chance in the same direction that Vilkata had chosen for his flight. As they rode, they saw him go soaring, streaking overhead, traversing the daylight sky at a much swifter pace.

      
Coinspinner had provided the Silver Queen and her partner with excellent riding-beasts for this journey—a circumstance which suggested either that speed was important in their journey or that their destination lay at no great distance. Before leaving the city, the pair had come upon a pair of animals, untended, providentially abandoned in the middle of an otherwise deserted street, saddled, well-rested, and fed. Then the Sword, buzzing and twitching in the lady’s hand from time to time, led them on a brisk ride out of Sarykam.

* * *

      
After Ben’s latest trial with the Sword, the lady confronted him. “Are you asking for something else, big man, apart from some immediate tactical success?”

      
“And if I am?”

      
“No harm in it—I was only curious. As we left the square back there, I put a personal question to the Sword myself.” After a moment the lady added: “Since we are in retreat already—what I really want, apart from seeing these damned demons and their human lovers crushed, is once more to confront my husband.”

      
Ben was frowning. “Your husband, lady? I thought—”

      
“Call him my former husband, then. You know who I mean, however you prefer to name him. The so-elusive and mysterious Emperor. The older I grow, the more I am convinced that that confrontation is what I want—nay, what I need—above all else. There are answers I must have, and nowhere else to turn for them.”

* * *

      
Before another hour had passed, while, under the Sword’s guidance, still heading south along the coast, they had passed several encampments of refugees from the city, and were a dozen kilometers from the capital.

      
Soon afterward all signs of settlement dropped out of sight. The coastline here was rocky and inhospitable, with few harbors or real beaches. The stony earth held little soil for farming or even grazing, nor were these shallow, tide-riven coastal waters hospitable to fishing boats. Nevertheless, the only indication of the presence of human life was two or three of these craft several hundred meters off shore.

      
Atop a deserted-looking stretch of cliff, no different in its general appearance from the regions immediately to north or south, they discovered an entrance to a large cave, a gaping hole in the ground at least as big as a small house—no particular surprise in this area, though neither traveler had ever seen this particular cave before.

      
When Ben and the Silver Queen concentrated their attention on the opening, certain strange sounds and dim lights were faintly perceptible from the darkness deep within the cave.

      
But Coinspinner was silently tugging its clients in a different direction. Away from the discovered entrance, and down the cliffside, guiding their riding-beasts along an unmarked path which led them to another opening in the rock, right at sea level, quite likely a second entrance to the same cave. Whereas the upper opening was fairly plain on the top surface of a low cliff, the lower was inconspicuous, almost invisible until you were right on it.

      
Ben dismounted and advanced a few paces, to stand squinting in sunlight, peering into dimness. This lower entrance was awash, at least at the current stage of the tide. Waves continually splashed and roared into the space that had been carved from solid rock by their ancestors over a myriad of years.

      
The Sword of Chance bade the seekers wade into the cave; the low entrance made it necessary for them to leave their riding-beasts outside.

      
Some strange inhuman sound, a heavy shifting of great weight upon clawed feet, came out of the darkness ahead, raising visions of deadly monsters in Ben’s mind. “Dragon!” he whispered sharply, backing into a retreat.

      
Yambu’s hand was on his arm. “No, a griffin, I can see its wings.” Her eyes were evidently better than Ben’s in darkness. A leonine growl confirmed her identification. “It must be the creature Vilkata rode—remember, we saw him pass us in the sky.”

      
Ben relaxed a trifle. “What now? The Sword has led us to this thing—are we supposed to climb upon its…”

      
Ben’s voice trailed off. A premonitory wave of nausea, a seeming tilting of the watery shingle beneath his feet, warned him at last that the griffin was not the only guardian of this entryway.

      
Yambu was experiencing the same sensations, and her hand gripped hard at Ben’s arm. But the demon had scarcely appeared, a luminous form in warrior’s shape drifting in the cave entrance, when the Sword of Chance went into action in defense of its human bearer.

      
Ben’s heartfelt prayer was answered almost before it could take shape in his mind: Coinspinner could as easily visit catastrophe upon a demon as on a human or a beast. The thing had no more than confronted them when its image froze. Ben understood in a moment that some horrible accident had just happened to that demon’s life-object, however remote in space that object might be from the manifestation he confronted.

      
…
the thing’s eyes stared into some terrible distance, where its hidden life was being menaced … no time for it to reach the spot, to try to defend itself…

      
The blank expression in the doomed demon’s countenance turned into one of tremendous shock. In the next moment the image had crumpled, then evaporated, and the watching humans knew it must be dead.

      
The griffin, indifferent to their presence, mumbled a sleepy lion-roar and seemed to be crouching, turning round, dog-like, as if preparing to go to sleep.

* * *

      
The Dark King, observing these events from a place of concealment within the cave, understood perfectly well what had just happened. Vilkata, gnashing his teeth at being so inconveniently deprived of one more demon, was fully alerted to the fact that his enemies were on his trail—and that they must have the Sword of Chance still with them.

      
Vilkata found the situation quite to his satisfaction. Now, with Pitmedden as usual providing him his sight, in this case letting him see around a corner, he waited in ambush, clutching his Sword, behind one of the gnarled rock formations in the inner darkness of the cave.

      
In this part the cave was deep and dark enough to keep out most of the sunlight. Some Old World lighting glowing indirectly out of the parked space vehicle provided a partial illumination.

      
Though Ben and Yambu had so far been given no direct evidence that Vilkata was here, the presence of the griffin and at least one demon certainly made his presence likely. They had to operate on the assumption that the Dark King was still armed with the Sword of Force, and that he might well have more demons with him, as well as a bodyguard of human converts.

      
Ben, now advancing into the cave, climbing wet rock past the somnolent griffin, warily got ready to throw down at a moment’s notice any mundane weapon he was holding. Perhaps he did thus far disarm himself.

      
He and the Silver Queen were both experienced in Sword-matters, and with a minimum of words and gestures made their arrangements for mutual defense. It was decided between them that Ben would hold their Sword and lead the way.

      
But Vilkata jumped out of ambush and struck, before Ben, being led by Coinspinner and still trusting in the guidance of that Sword, could throw it down.

      
When the Dark King, a lunging shape not instantly identifiable, came jumping out from behind a rock, Ben raised the Sword of Chance instinctively, just as Vilkata had raised his weapon in the armory under the palace.

      
Shieldbreaker emitted a barrage of drumming sounds. In the next instant, with a violent crash whose visual component lit the cave, Coinspinner had been destroyed.

* * *

      
Flying fragments of the broken Sword stabbed into Ben’s head, sent him slipping, sliding, finally tumbling, down a little slope. But the huge man was not immediately disabled, and for the moment could disregard the fact that he was hurt. An instant after the blast, Ben, bleeding from his face and scalp but again on his feet and now unarmed, charged uphill at Vilkata, who was still holding Shieldbreaker.

      
The Silver Queen, considerably more distant from the blast, had also been injured by stray bits of Sword, but not severely, though momentarily stunned by the concussion.

      
Seeing the energy with which Ben was coming after him, the Dark King muttered blasphemies, angered that his latest victim should retain such strength—and was coming unarmed.

      
Vilkata considered hastily whether to retreat, or stay and fight. He was unsure of just what powers or what people were here arrayed against him, and he had no intention of throwing down his own invaluable Sword—that would mean assuming some risk, however small, of not getting it back. Having come to depend upon the matchless, Sword-smashing power of Shieldbreaker in his own hand, the Dark King had no intention of giving it up.

      
Briefly Vilkata considered trying to deal with the still-advancing Ben by means of some lesser magic, or by hurling rocks. But common magic worked poorly when, as now, fighting blades were drawn. And the Dark King was determined not to be delayed in his trip to the Moon. Rather than deal personally with Ben and Lady Yambu, Vilkata snapped a few terse words to another of his lesser demons and turned away. The thing shrilled an obedient acknowledgment of its Master’s command.

      
The Dark King, with Pitmedden and one other minor demon still clinging to him like tendrils of evil smog, darted to the open hatch of the waiting Old World spacecraft and jumped in. The hatch closed with a soft thud behind him and the spacecraft almost immediately whirled aloft, to go rushing in near silence out of the cave through its upper aperture.

      
Ben and Lady Yambu, recoiling from this demonstration of the powers of Old World machinery, found themselves still free to move about. Though certain ominous and unfamiliar sensations in his head were now giving the man to understand that he had sustained some serious injury in the latest Sword-explosion.