file:///G|/rah/Fred%20Saberhagen/Fred%20Saberhagen%20-%20Swords%2003%20-%20The%20Third%20Book%20Of%20Swords.txt

The Third Book of Swords
Fred Saberhagen
Version 1.0


CHAPTER 1

        Up at the unpeopled borderland of cloudy
heaven, where unending wind drove eternal snow
between and over high gray rocks, the gods and
goddesses were gathering.
        In the grayness just before dawn, their tall forms
came like smoke out of the gray and smoking wind,
to take on solidity and detail. Unperturbed by wind
or weather, their garments flapping in the shriek-
ing howl of air, they stood upon the rooftop of the
world and waited as their numbers grew. Steadily
more powers streaked across the sky, bringing rein-
forcement.
        The shortest of the standing figures was taller
than humanity, but from the shortest to tallest, all
were indisputably of human shape. The dress of
most members of the assembly displayed a more
than mortal elegance, running to crowns and jewels
and snow-white furs; the attire of a few was, by
human standards, almost ordinary; that of many
was bizarre.
        By an unspoken agreement amounting to tradi-
tion the deities stood in a rough circle, symbol of a
rude equality. It was a mutually enforced equality,
meaning only that none of their number was will-
ing to concede pride of place to any other. When
graybearded Zeus, a laurel wreath embracing his
massive head, moved forward majestically as if
after all he intended to occupy the center of the cir-
cle, a muttering at once began around him. The
sound grew louder, and it did not subside until the
Graybearded One, with a frown, had converted his
forward movement into a mere circular pacing,
that soon brought him back to his old place in the
large circle. There lie stopped. And only when he
stopped did the muttering die down completely.
        And still with each passing moment the shape of
another god or goddess materialized out of the rest-
less air. By now two dozen or more tall forms were
in place around the circle. They eyed one another
suspiciously, and exchanged cautious nods and
signs of greeting. Neighbor to neighbor they mut-
tered in near-whispers through the wind, trading
warily in warnings and backbitings about those
who were more distant in the circle, or still absent.
The more of them that gathered, the more their
diversity was evident. They were dark or fair, old-
looking or young-looking. Handsome-as gods-or
beautiful-as goddesses-or ugly, as only certain
gods and goddesses could be.
        Twice more Zeus opened his mouth as if he
intended to address them all. Twice more he
seemed on the verge of stepping forward, taking the
center of the circle, and trying to command the
meeting. Each time he did so that warning murmur


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swelled up into the frozen air, through the blasting

wind, giving notice that no such attempt was going
to be tolerated. Zeus remained silently at his own
station in the ring, stamping his feet now and then
and scowling his impatience.
        At last the individual gossipings around the ring
began to fade toward quiet, give way to silent wait-
ing. There was some general agreement, tacitly
attained, that now a quorum had been reached.
There was no use trying to wait until all the gods
and goddesses were here, all of them never
attended a meeting at the same time. Never had
they been able to agree unanimously on anything at
all, not even on a place or an agenda for their argu-
ments.
        But now the assembly was large enough.
        It was Mars, spear-armed and helmeted, who
broke the silence; Mars speaking in a voice that
smoldered and rumbled with old anger. The tones
of it were like the sounds of displaced boulders roll-
ing down a glacier.
        Mars banged his spear upon his shield to get the
attention of the assembly. Then he said to them:
"There is news now of the Mindsword. The man
that other humans call the Dark King has it. He is,
of course, going to use it to try to get the whole
world into his hands. What effect this will have on
our own Game is something that we must evaluate
for ourselves, each according to his or her own posi-
tion."
        It was not this news he had just announced to the
assembly that was really angering Mars. Rather it
was something else, something that he wanted to
keep secret in his own thoughts, that made him
almost choke on rage. Mars did not conceal his feel-
ings well. As he finished speaking he used a savage
gesture, a blow that almost split the air, simply to
signify the fact that he was ready now to relinquish
the floor to someone else.
        Next to speak was Vulcan-Vulcan the Smith with
the twisted leg, the armorer and Sword-forger to the
gods.
        "I am sorry," began Vulcan, slyly, "that my so-
worthy colleague is unable to continue at the moment.
Perhaps he is brooding too much about a certain
setback-one might even call it a defeatthat he suffered
at the hands--or should one say the paws-of a certain
mortal opponent, some eight or nine years past?"
        The response of Mars to this was more sullen,
angry rumbling. There also was a murmuring around
the circle, some of it laughter at Mars, some a
denunciation of Vulcan for this obvious attempt to
start an argument.
        Aphrodite asked softly, "Is this what we have come
here for, to have another quarrel?" Her tall body, all
curves, all essence of the female, was wrapped in
nothing but a diaphanous veil that seemed always on
the verge of blowing away in the fierce wind but
never did. She like the other deities was perfectly
indifferent to the arctic cold.


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        Near her, Apollo's taller form appeared emphasized
for a moment in a lone ray of light from the newly
risen sun. The Sun's bright lance steadily pierced the
scudding clouds for just as long as it took the god to
speak, and held his body in its light. Apollo demanded,
"I take it that we are all agreed upon one thing at
least?"
        Someone else was cooperative enough to ask
Apollo: "What?"
        The tall god replied, "That Hermes has not come

back from his mission to gather up the Swords again.
That he is never going to come back."
        "That's two things," another member of the group
objected.
        Apollo took no notice of such carping. "That our
divine Messenger, who no doubt thought himself as
secure in his immortality as most of us still think we
are in ours, has now been for four years dead?`
        That word, of all words, had power to jolt them all.
Many faced it bravely. Some tried to pretend that it
had not been spoken, or if spoken certainly not heard.
But there was a long moment in which even the wind
was voiceless. No other word, surely, could have
brought the same quality and duration of silence to this
assembly.
        It was the relentless voice of Apollo that entered
into this new silence and destroyed it, repeating: "For
four years dead."
        The repetition provoked not more silence, but the
beginning of an uproar of protest; still the voice of
Apollo overrode the tumult even as it swelled.
        "Dead!" he roared. "And if Hermes Messenger can
be slain by one of the Swords, why so can we. And
what have we done about it, during these past four
years? Nothing! Nothing at all! Wrangled among
ourselves, as always-no more than that!"
        When Apollo paused, Mars seized the chance to
speak. "And there is the one who forged those
Swords!" The God of War pointed with his long war-
spear, and aimed an angry stare at the crippled Smith.
"I tell you, we must make him melt them down again.
I've said all along that the Swords are going to destroy
us all, unless we are able to destroy them first!"
        Leaning awkwardly on his lame leg, Vulcan
turned at bay. "Don't blame. me!" Wind whipped
at his fur garments, his ornaments of dragon-scale
clashing and fluttering in the gale. But his words
ate through the windstorm plainly, suffering no
interference from mere physical air. "The blunder,
if there was one, was not mine. These very faces
that I see all about me now spoke urging me, com-
manding me, to forge the Swords."
        He turned accusingly from one to another of his
peers. "We needed the Swords, we had to have
them, you all told me, for the Game. The Game was
going to be a great delight, something we hadn't
tried before. You said the Swords must be distrib-
uted among the humans, who in the Game would be
our pawns. Now what kind of pawns have they
turned into? But no, you all insisted on it, no matter


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how I warned you-"
        Again an uproar of protest was breaking out, and
this time it was too loud for any one voice to over-
come. Objectors were shouting that, on the con-
trary, they had been the ones against the whole idea
of the Swords and the Game from the very start.
        Naturally this provoked a strong counterreaction
from others present. "What you mean is, you've
been against the Game ever since you started losing
in it! As long as you thought that you were winning,
it was a great idea!"
        One of the graybeard elder gods, not Zeus, put in:
"Let's get back to our immediate problem. You say
that the man they call the Dark King has the
Mindsword now. Well, that may be good or bad
news for some of us in terms of the Game, but does
it matter beyond that? The Game is only a game,
and what real difference does it make?"
"You fool! Are you incapable of understanding?

This Game, that you're so proud of winning-it got
out of hand long ago. Haven't you been listening?
Did you hear nothing that Apollo just said about the
death of Hermes?"
        "All right. All right. Let's talk about Hermes Mes-
senger. He had supposedly gone to collect all the
Swords again, to get them out of human hands,
because some of us were getting worried. But do
you think he would really have destroyed the
Swords, once he had them all collected? I don't
think so."
        That suggestion was greeted by a thoughtful
pause, a general silence.
        And that silence broken by a slow and thoughtful
voice: "Besides, are we really sure that Hermes is
dead? What solid evidence do we have?"
        Now even Apollo the reasoner felt compelled to
howl his rage at such thickheadedness. "One of the
Swords killed Hermes! Farslayer, hurled from the
hands of a mere human!"
        Apollo got a venomous retort. "How can we be
sure that that's what really happened? Has anyone
seen the Sword Farslayer since then? Did any one of
us see Hermes fall?"
        At this moment, Zeus once more stepped for-
ward. He conveyed the impression of one who had
been waiting for the exactly proper instant to take
action. And it seemed that he had at last timed an
attempt correctly, because for once he was not
howled down before he could begin to speak.
        "Wisdom comes with experience," Zeus intoned,
"and experience with age. To learn from the past is
the surest way to secure the future. In peace and
wisdom there is strength. In strength and wisdom
there is peace. In wisdom and-"
        No one howled him down this time, but after the
first dozen words hardly any of his fellow deities
were still listening. Instead they resumed their
separate conversations around the circle, taking time
out from the general debate while they waited for
Zeus to be finished. This treatment was even deadlier


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than the other. Zeus soon realized what was
happening. He retreated again to his own place in the
ring, and there withdrew into a total, sulky silence.
        Now-at another place along the ring there was a
stirring and a swirling movement among the snow and
rocks. Attention became focused on this spot, just as a
new member joined the company there. Rather than
coming out of the sky as the others had, this god
emerged up out of the Earth. The form of Hades was
indistinct, all dimness and darkness, a difficult object
even for the faculties of another deity to comprehend.
        Hades in his formless voice said that yes, Hermes
was certainly dead. No, he, Hades, hadn't actually
seen the Messenger fall, or die. But he had been with
Hermes shortly before what must have been the
moment of that death, when Hermes was engaged in
taking some Swords away from some humans. It was
Hades' opinion that Hermes had been acting in good
faith in his attempt to collect the Blades, though
unfortunately they had been lost again.
        Now another side discussion was developing. What
about that offending human, the one that had
apparently thrown Farslayer at Hermes and brought
him down? The awful hubris that could strike a god,
any god, to earth cried out to heaven for vengeance.
What punishment had been dealt to

the culprit? Surely someone had already seen to it that
some special and eternal retaliation had been
inflicted?
        The same thought had already occurred, long ago,
to certain other members of the group. Alas, they had
to report now that when they first heard of the
offending human he was already beyond the reach of
even divine revenge.
        "Then we must exact some sort of retribution from
humanity in general."
        "Aha, now we come to it! Just which part of
humanity do you propose to strike at? Those who are
your pawns in the Game, or those I claim as mine?"
        Apollo's disgust at this argument was beyond all
measure. "How can you fools still talk of pawns, and
games? Do you not see-?" But words failed him for
the moment.
        Hades spoke up again, this time with his own
suggestion for the permanent disposal of the Swords.
If all those god-forged weapons could somehow be
collected, and delivered to him, he would see to their
burial. All the other deities present could permanently
cease to worry.
        "We might cease doing a lot of things permanently,
once you had all the Swords! Of course you'd be
willing to accept twelve for yourself-and incidentally
to win the Game by doing so! Where would that leave
us? What kind of fools do you take us for?"
        Hades was, or at least pretended to be, affronted by
this attitude. "What do I care now about a game?
Now, when our very existence is at stake. Haven't
you been listening to Apollo?"
        "Our very existence, bah! Tell that stuff to some
one who'll believe it. Gods are immortal. We all


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know that. Hermes is playing dead, hiding out
somewhere. It's part of a ploy to win the Game.
Well, I don't intend to lose, whatever happens. Not
to Hermes, and not to Apollo, and particularly not
to you!"
         Aphrodite, murmuring softly, announced to all
who would listen that she could think up her own
ideas for getting back the Swords. Those who had
the Swords, or most of them anyway, were only
mere men, were they not?
         Apollo spoke again. This time he prefaced his
remarks by waving his bow, a gesture that gained
him notably greater attention. He said that if the
Swords could be regathered, they should then be
turned over to him, as the most logical and trust-
worthy of gods. He would then put an end to the
threat the weapons posed, by the simple expedient
of shooting them, like so many arrows, clean off the
Earth.
         Before Apollo had finished his short speech most
of his audience were ignoring him, bow and all,
even as they had ignored Zeus. Meanwhile in the
background Mars was rumbling threats against
unspecified enemies. Others were laughing,
secretly or openly, at Mars.
         Vulcan was quietly passing the word around the
circle that if others were to gather up the Blades
and bring them back to him, and if a majority of his
peers were to assure him that that was what they
really wanted, he'd do his best to melt all of the
Twelve back into harmless iron again.
         No one was paying the least attention to Zeus
mighty sulking, and he reverted to speech in a last
effort to establish some authority. "It seems to me

that the Smith here incorporated far too much of
humanity into the Swords. Why was it necessary to
quench -the Blades, when they came from the fire
and anvil, in living human blood? And why were so
much human sweat and human tears introduced
into the process?"
         Vulcan bristled defensively at this. "Are you try-
ing to tell me my trade? What do you know about it,
anyway?"
         Here Mars, gloating to see his rival stung, jumped
into the argument. "And then there was that last
little trick you played at the forging. Taking off the
right arm of the human smith who helped you-
what was that all about?"
         The Smith's answer-if indeed he gave one-was
lost in a new burst of noise. A dozen voices flared
up, arguing on several different subjects. The meet-
ing was giving every sign of breaking up, despite
Apollo's best thundering efforts to hold it together a
little longer. As usual there had been no general
agreement on what their common problems were,
much less on any course of action. Already the cir-
cle of the gods was thinning as the figures that com-
posed it began to vanish into the air. The wind
hummed with their departing powers. Hades,
eschewing aerial flight as usual, vanished again


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straight down into the Earth beneath his feet.
        But one voice in the council was still roaring on,
bellowing with monotonous urgency. Against all
odds, its owner was at last able to achieve some-
thing like an attentive silence among the handful of
deities who remained.
        "Look! Look!" was all that voice was saying. And
with one mighty arm the roaring god was pointing
steadily downslope, indicating a single, simple line
of markings in the snow, tracks that the mundane
wind was rapidly effacing.
        There could be no doubt about those markings.
They were a line of departing footprints, heading
straight down the mountainside, disappearing behind
snow-buried rocks before they had gone more than a
few meters. Though they marked strides too long and
impressions too broad and deep to have been made by
any human being, there was no doubt that they had
been left by mortal feet.

CHAPTER 2
        The one-armed man came stumbling along through
midnight rain, following a twisted cobblestone alley
into the lightless heart of the great city of Tashigang.
He was suffering with fresh wounds now-one knife-
gash bleeding in his side and another one in his knee-
besides the old maiming loss of his right arm. Still he
was better off than the man who had just attacked
him. That blunderer was some meters back along the
twisted alley, face down in a puddle.
        Now, just when the one-armed man was about on
the point of going down himself, he steered toward a
wall and leaned against it. Standing with his broad
back in its homespun shirt pressed to the stone wall of
somebody's house, he squeezed himself in as far as
possible under the thin overhang of roof, until the
eaves blocked at least some of the steady rain from
hitting him in the face. The man felt frightened by
what had happened to his knee.
From the way the injured leg felt now when he tried
to put his weight on it, he wasn't going to be able to
walk much farther.
        He hadn't had a chance yet to start worrying
about what might have happened when the knife
went into his side.
        The one-armed man was tall, and strongly built.
Still, by definition, he was a cripple, and therefore
the robber-if that was all he had been-might
have taken it for granted that he'd be easy game.
Even had the attacker guessed that his intended
victim carried a good oaken cudgel tucked into his
belt under his loose shirt, he could hardly have pre-
dicted how quickly his quarry would be able to
draw that club and with what authority he'd use it.
        Now, leaning against the building for support, he
had tucked his cudgel away in his belt again, and
was pressing his fingers to his side under his shirt.
He could feel the blood coming out, a frighteningly
fast trickle.
        Except for the rain, the city around him was
silent. And all the windows he could see through the


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rain were dark, and most of them were shuttered.
No one else in the huge city appeared to have taken
the least notice of the brief clash he had just sur-
vived.
        Or had he survived it, air all? Real walking, he
had to admit, was no longer possible on his dam-
aged knee. For the present, at least, he could still
stand upright. He thought he must be near his des-
tination now, and it was essential that he reach it.
Pushing himself along the wall that he was leaning
on, and then the next wall, one stone surface after
another, he stumbled on, hobbled on.
        He remembered the directions he had been given,

and he made progress of a sort. Every time his
weight came on the knee at all he had to bite back
an outcry of pain. And now dizziness, lightheaded-
ness, came welling up inside his skull. He clenched
his will like a fist, gripping the treasure of con-
sciousness, knowing that if that slipped from him
now, life itself was likely to drain quickly after it.
        His memorized directions told him that at this
point he had to cross the alley. Momentarily
forsaking the support of walls, divorcing his mind
from pain, he somehow managed it.
        Leaning on another wall, he rested, and rebuilt
his courage. He'd crawl the rest of the way to get
there if he had to, or do what crawling he could on
one hand and one knee. But once he went down to
try crawling he didn't know he'd ever get back up
on his feet again.
        At last the building that had been described to
him as his goal, the House of Courtenay, came into
sight, limned by distant lightning. The description
had been accurate: four stories tall, flat-roofed,
half-timbered construction on the upper levels,
stone below. The house occupied its own small
block, with streets or alleys on every side. The seek-
er's first view was of the front of the building, but
the back was where he was supposed to go in order
to get in. Gritting his teeth, not letting his imagina-
tion try to count up how many steps there might be
yet to take, he made the necessary detour. He
splashed through puddles, out of one alley and into
an even narrower one. From that he passed to one
so narrow it was a mere paved path, running beside
the softly gurgling, stone-channeled Corgo. The sur-
face of the river, innocent now of boats, hissed in
the heavier bursts of rain.
        The man had almost reached the building he
wanted when his hurt knee gave way completely.
He broke his fall as best he could with his one
arm. Then, painfully, dizzily, he dragged himself
along on his one arm and his one functioning leg.
He could imagine the trail of blood he must be
leaving. No matter, the rain would wash it all
away.
        Presently his slow progress brought him in out of
the rain, under the roof of a short, narrow passage
that connected directly with the door he wanted.
He crawled on and reached the narrow door. It


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was of course locked shut. He propped himself up
in a sitting position against it, and began to
pound on the door with the flat of his large hand.
The pounding of his calloused hand seemed to the
man to be making no noise at all. At first it felt
like he was beating uselessly, noiselessly, on some
thick solid treetrunk . . . and then it felt like noth-
ing at all. There was no longer any feeling in his
hand.
        Maybe no one would hear him. Because he was no
longer able to hear anything himself. Not even the
rain beating on the flat passage roof. Nor could he
see anything through the gathering grayness. Not
even his hand before his face ....

        At a little after midnight Denis the Quick was
lying awake, listening to the rain. That usually
made him sleepy, as long as he knew that he was
securely warm and dry indoors. But tonight he was
having trouble sleeping. The images of two attract-
ive women were coming and going like provocative
dancers in his imagination. If he tried to concen-
trate on one, then the other intruded as if jealous.

He knew both women in real life, but his real-life
problem was not that he had to choose between
them. No, he was not so fortunate, he told himself,
as to have problems of just that kind.
        Denis was well accusomed to the normal night
sounds of the house. The sound he began to hear
now, distracting him from the pleasant torment of
waking dreams, was certainly not one of them.
Denis got up quickly, pulled on a pair of trousers,
and went out of his small bedchamber to investi-
gate.
        His room on the ground floor of the house gave
almost directly on the main workshop, which was a
large chamber now illumined faintly by a sullen
smoldering of coals banked in the central forge.
Faint ghost-gleams of firelight touched tools
around the forge and weapons racked on the walls.
Most of the work down here was on some form of
weaponry.
        Denis paused for a moment beside the fire,
intending to light a taper from its coals. But then
he changed his mind, and instead reached up to
the high wall niche where the Old World light was
kept.
        The back door leading into the shop from outside
ground level was fitted with a special peephole.
This was a smooth little bulge of glass, cleverly
shaped so that anyone looking through it from
inside saw out at a wide angle. Another lens, set
into the door near its very top, was there to let the
precious flameless torch shine out. Denis now lifted
the antique instrument into position there and
turned it on; immediately the narrow passage just
outside the door was flooded with clear, brilliant
light. And even as Denis did this, the sound that had
caught his attention came again, a faint thumping
on the door itself. Now through the fish-eye lens he


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could see the one who made the sound, as a
slumped figure somewhat blurred by the imperfect
lens. The shape of the fallen figure suggested the
absence of an arm.
        With the flameless light still glowing in his hand,
Denis stepped back from the door. The House of
Courtenay generally contained some stock of the
goods in which its owners dealt, including the fancy
weapons that were the specialty of the house. Also
there was usually a considerable supply of coin on
hand. The place was a natural target for thieves,
and for any member of the household to open any
exterior door to anyone, particularly at night, was
no trivial matter. The only thing for Denis to do
now was to rouse the household steward, Tarim,
and get his orders as to what to do next.
        Crossing the workshop, Denis approached the
door to the ascending stair that led to the next
highest level of the house; Tarim slept up there,
along with most of the rest of the resident staff.
Denis opened the door-and stopped in his tracks.
        Looking down at him from the top of the first
flight, holding a candle in her small, pale hand, was
one of the characters from his recent waking
dream, the Lady Sophie herself, mistress of this
house. Denis's surprise was at seeing the lady there
at all. Family quarters were located on the upper
levels of the house, well above the noise and smoke
and smell of the shop when it was busy, and of the
daytime streets. Her tiny but shapely body was
wrapped in a thick white robe, contrasting sharply
with her straight black hair. It was hard to believe

that any faint sound at the back door could have
roused the lady from her bed.
        The mistress called down: "Denis? What is it?"
He thought she sounded nervous.
        Denis stood there hugging his bare chest.
"There's someone at the back door, Mistress. I
could see only one man. Looked like he was hurt,
but I didn't open."
        "Hurt, you say?"
        It looked and sounded to Denis almost as if the
lady had been expecting someone to arrive tonight,
had been waiting around in readiness to receive
them. Denis had heard nothing in particular in the
way of business news to make him expect such a
visitor, but such a nocturnal arrival in itself would
not be very surprising. As the headquarters of a
company of traders, the house was accustomed to
the comings and goings of odd people at odd hours.
        Denis answered, "Yes, Ma'am, hurt. And it looked
like he only had one arm. I was just going to arouse
Tarim . . ."
        "No." The mistress was immediately decisive.
"Just stand by there for a moment, while I go get
the master."
        "Yes, Ma'am." It was of course the only answer
Denis could give, but still it was delayed, delivered
only to the lady's already retreating back. Denis
was puzzled, and a moment later his puzzlement


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increased, for here, already fully awake and active
too, came Master Courtenay himself. Courtenay
was a moving mountain of a man, his great bulk
wrapped now in a night robe of a rich blue fabric.
With a lightness and quickness remarkable for his
size, the master came almost skipping down the
stairs, his lady just behind him.
        Arriving on the ground floor, the master of the
house faced Denis directly. The two were almost of a
height, near average, though Courtenay weighed easily
twice as much as his lean employee, and was possibly
three times as massive as his small wife: Courtenay
was not yet thirty, as nearly as Denis could judge, and
very little of his bulk was fat, though in his robe he
looked that way. Nor could he be described as stupid,
as Denis had realized on his own first day here,
despite what a first glance at Courtenay's face
suggested-of course he could hardly be unintelligent
and have prospered as he evidently had.
        The master brushed back his almost colorless hair
from his uninviting face, a gesture that seemed more
one of worry than of sleepiness. In his usual mild
voice he said, "We'll let the rest of the household go
on sleeping, Denis." Behind the master, his lady was
already closing the door to the ascending stair. "The
three of us will manage," Courtenay went on. "The
man's hurt, you say?"
        "Looks like it, sir."
        "Still, we'll take no chances more than necessary.
Help yourself to a weapon, and stand by."
        "Yes sir." In the year and a half that. he had been
at the House of Courtenay, Denis had learned that
there were stretches of time in which life here began
to seem dull. But so far those stretches had never
extended for any unbearable length of time.
        Over on the far side of the shop, the mistress was
lighting a couple of oil lamps. And when she brought
her hands down from the lamp shelf and faced around
again, Denis thought that he saw something trailing
from her right hand. He caught only a glimpse of the
object before it vanished

between folds of her full robe. But, had he not been
convinced that Mistress Sophie was only a delicate
little thing who loved her luxury, he would have
thought that she was holding the leather thongs of a
hunter's or a warrior's sling.
        The more recent years of Denis's young life had
been generally peaceful, first as an acolyte of Ardneh
in the White Temple, then here in the House of
Courtenay as apprentice trader and general assistant.
But he had spent the longer, earlier portion of his
existence serving a different kind of apprenticeship.
That had been in the slum streets of Tashigang, and it
had left him indelibly familiar with the more
unpeaceful side of life. So now he was reasonably
calm as he moved to the display of decorative
weapons that occupied a good part of one side of the
large room. There he selected an ornate battle-
hatchet, a weapon of antique design but sharp-edged
and of a pleasantly balanced weight. With this in hand,


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Denis nodded that he was ready.
         Master Courtenay, already standing by the back
door, returned the nod. Then he turned to the door and
made use of the peephole and the Old World light. In
the next moment Courtenay had unbarred the door
and yanked it open. The crumpled body that had been
sitting against it on the outside came toppling softly
inward.
         Denis sprang forward, quickly closed the door and
barred it up again. Meanwhile the master of the house
had stretched the unconscious man out full length on
the floor, and was examining him with the aid of the
Old World light.
         The mistress, one of the more conventional lamps in
her hand, had come forward to look too. Quickly
she turned to Denis. "He's bleeding badly. You were a
servant of Ardneh, see what you can do for him."
         Denis was not usually pleased to be asked to
administer medical treatment; he knew too well his
own great limitations in the art. But his urge to please
his mistress would not let him hesitate. And he knew
that his years in Ardneh's service had left him almost
certainly better qualified than either of his employers.
He nodded and moved forward.
         The man stretched out on the floor was not young;
his unconscious face was weatherbeaten over its
bloodless pallor, and the hair that fanned out in a wild
spread on the flat stones was gray. Standing, he would
have been tall, with a well-knit, sturdy body marred by
the old amputation.
         "His right arm is gone." That was the mistress,
speaking thoughtfully, as if she were only musing to
herself.
         Denis heard her only absently; the man's fresh
wounds were going to demand a healer's full attention.
A lot of blood was visible, darker wetness on the
rainsoaked clothing.
         Quickly Denis began to peel back clothes. He cut
them away, when that was easier, with a keen knife
that the master handed him. He also tossed aside a
mean-looking cudgel that he found tucked into the
victim's belt.
         "I'll need water, and bandages," he announced over
his shoulder. There were two wounds, and both
looked bad. "And whatever medicines we have to stop
bleeding." He paused to mumble a minor spell for that
purpose, learned in his days as Ardneh's servitor. It
was about the best that Denis

could do in the way of magic, and it was very little.
Perhaps it brought some benefit, but it was not going
to be enough.
        "I'll bring you what I can find," replied the mistress
of the house, and turned away with quick efficiency.
Again Denis was surprised. He had long ago fixed
her image in his mind as someone who existed to be
pampered . . . could that really have been a sling he'd
seen her holding?
        But now the present task demanded his full
attention. "We ought to put him on my bed," said
Denis. And Courtenay, strong as a loadbeast and


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disdaining help, scooped up the limp heavy form as if
it had been that of a small child, and held it patiently
while Denis maneuvered first the door to his room
and then the coverings on his bed.
        The hurt man's eyelids fluttered just as he was
being put down on the bed, and he muttered a few
words. Denis heard something like: "Ben of Purkinje,"
which certainly sounded like a name. That of the
victim himself? No use asking. He was out cold
again.
        Soon the mistress was back, with such useful items
as she had been able to lay her hands on quickly,
water and clean cloth. She had also brought along a
couple of medicine jars, but nothing that Denis thought
was likely to help. While Denis went to work washing
and bandaging, the master picked up the sodden
clothing that had been stripped away, and went
quickly through the pockets. But whatever Courtenay
was looking for, he apparently did not find it. With a
sigh he threw the garments back on the floor and
asked: "Well, Denis, what about him?"
        "He's lost a lot of blood, sir. And, where the
wounds are, the bleeding's going to be hard to stop.
I've packed this hole in his side as best I can."
As he spoke Denis was still pressing a bandage into
place. "We could use spider webs, but I don't know
where to get a bunch of 'em quickly. His knee isn't
bleeding so much now, but it looks nasty. If he lives,
he won't be walking for a while."
        The Old World light had been replaced in its
customary wall niche, and the mistress had now
brought one of the better ordinary lamps into Denis's
room. By the lamplight she and her husband were
staring at each other with what struck Denis as
curious expressions.
        "Knife wounds, I think," said Master Courtenay,
shifting his gaze at last back to Denis.
        "Yes sir, I would say that's what they are."
        "He couldn't have come very far in that condition."
        "I'd have to agree with that, sir."
        The master nodded, and turned and walked out of
Denis's room, leaving the door open behind him. He
didn't say where he was going, and nobody asked.
The mistress lingered. Denis, observing the direction
of her gaze, wondered what it was about the patient's
arm-stump that she found so fascinating.
        Having been a member of the household for a year
and a half now, Denis was-sometimes, almost-treated
like one of the family. Now he made bold to ask, "Do
you recognize him, Mistress?"
        "I've never seen him before," the lady answered,
which to Denis sounded like the truth used as an
evasion. She added: "Will he live, do you think?"
        Before Denis had to try to make a guess sound

like an expert opinion, there came again the sounds of
someone at the back door of the shop. The sounds
were different this time: demanding shouts,
accompanied by a strong and determined hammering.
        Following his mistress out into the shop's main
room, Denis shut the door of his own room behind


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him. The master, Old World light in hand again, was
once more approaching the back door. Even as
Courtenay turned on the light and peered out through
the spy-lens, the pounding came again. This time it
was accompanied by a hoarse voice, somewhat
muffled by the door's thickness: "Ho, in the house,
open for the Watch! In the Lord Mayor's name,
open!"
        The master of the house continued to peer out.
"Three of 'em," he reported in a low voice. "No lights
of their own. Still, it's the real Watch-I think."
        "Open!" the smothered roaring voice demanded.
"Open or we break it down!" And there came a
thump thump thump. But they were going to have to
thump harder than that before this door would take
them seriously.
        Quietly the mistress said to her husband: "We don't
want to . . ." She let the statement trail off there, but
Denis listening had the strong impression that her next
words would have been: arouse suspicion.
        Whatever meaning the master read into her
halfvoiced thought, he nodded his agreement with it.
Looking at Denis, he ordered: "Say nothing to them
about our visitor. We've seen no one tonight."
        "If they want to search?"
        "Leave that to me. But pick up your hatchet again,
just in case."
        When all three of the people inside were ready,
Courtenay undid the bars and opened the door again.
In the very next instant he had to demonstrate
extraordinary agility for a man of his weight, by
jumping back out of the way of a blow from a short
sword.
        The three men who had come bursting in, dressed
though they were in the Lord Mayor's livery of gray
and green, were plainly not the Watch. Denis with his
hatchet was able to stand off the first rush of one of
them, armed with a long knife in each hand. Another
of the intruders started toward Lady Sophie. But her
right arm rose from her side, drawing into a whirling
blur the sling's long leather strands. Whatever missile
had been cradled in the leather cup now blasted stone
fragments out of the wall beside the man's head,
giving him pause, giving her the necessary moment to
reload her weapon.
        "Ben of Purkinje!" cried out the third invader,
hacking again at Master Courtenay with his sword.
"Greetings from the Blue Temple!" This attacker was
tall, and looked impressively strong.
        Master Courtenay, after advising Denis to be armed,
had himself been caught embarrassingly unarmed on
the side of the room away from the rack of weapons.
He had to improvise, and out of the miscellany of tools
around the forge grabbed up a long, iron-handled
casting .ladle. It was a clumsy thing to try to swing
against a sword, but the master of the house had
awesome strength, and now demonstrated good
nerves as well. For the time being he was holding his
own, managing to protect himself.
        The man who had started after the Lady Sophie



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now turned back, indecisively, as if to give the
swordsman aid. It was an error. In the next instant the
second stone from the sling hit him in the back of the
head and knocked him down. The sound of the impact
and the way he fell showed that for him the fight was
over.
        Denis was distracted by the lady's
achievementunwisely, for a moment later he felt the
point of one of his opponent's long knives catch in the
flesh of his forearm. The hatchet fell from Denis's
grip to the stone floor. Scrambling away from the
knives, clearing a low bench in a somersaulting dive,
Denis the Quick lived up to his nickname well enough
to keep himself alive.
        He heard one of the bigger workbenches go over
with a crash, and now he saw that Master Courtenay
had somehow managed to catch his own attacker by
the swordarm-maybe the fellow had also been
distracted, dodging feints of a slung stone. Anyway it
was now going to be a wrestling match-but no, it
really wasn't. In another instant the swordsman,
bellowing his surprise, had been lifted clean off his
feet, and in the instant after that Denis saw him
slaughtered like a rabbit, his back broken against the
angle of the heavy, tilted table.
        The knife-wielder who had wounded Denis had
now changed his strategy and was scrambling after
the lady. Suddenly bereft of friends, he needed a
hostage. Denis, reckless of his own safety, and
wounded as he was, threw himself in the attacker's
way before the man could come within a knifethrust
of the mistress. Denis had one quick glimpse of the
lady, her white robe half undone, scooting successfully
on hands and knees to get away.
        And now Denis was on his back, and the knife was
coming down at him instead-but before it reached
him, the arm that held it was knocked aside by a
giant's blow from the long ladle. The iron weight
brushed aside the barrier of an arm to mash into
the knifer's cheekbone, delivering most of its
energy there with an effect of devastation. Denis
rolled aside, paused to look back, and allowed him-
self to slow to a panting halt. The fight was defi-
nitely over.
        In the workshop, only three sets of lungs were
breathing still.
        The lady, pulling her robe around her properly
once more (even amid surrounding blood, terror,
and danger, that momentary vision of her body was
still with Denis; he thought that it would always
be.) Now she let herself slide down slowly until she
was sitting on the floor with her back against one of
the upset benches. Evidently more angered then
terrified by the experience, she said to her husband
acidly, "You are quite, quite sure, are you, that they
represent the Watch?"
        Coutenay, still on his feet, looking stupid, breath-
ing heavily, could only mumble something.
        Once more there came the sound of pounding on
a door, accompanied by urgent voices. But this
time the noise was originating within the house.


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The door that closed off the ascending stair was
being rattled and shaken, while from behind it a
man's voice shouted: "Mistress! Master! Denis, are
you all right? What's going on?"
        The master of the house cast down his long iron
ladle. He stood for a moment contemplating his
own bloodied hands as if he wondered how they
might have- got that way. Denis saw an unprece-

dented tremor in those hands. Then Courtenay
drew a deep breath, raised his head, and called
back, almost calmly, "It's all right, Tarim. A little
problem, but we've solved it. Be patient for a
moment and I'll explain."
        In an aside he added: "Denis, help me get these
. . . no, you're hurt yourself. Sit down first and bind
that up. Barb, you help me with these visitors. Drag
'em around behind that bench and we'll throw a
tarp over 'em."
        Denis, in mild shock now with his wound, took a
moment to register the unfamiliar name. Barb?
Never before had he heard the master, or anyone
else, call the lady that . . . it wasn't going to be easy,
he realized, to bind up his own arm unaided. Any-
way, the wound didn't look like it was going to kill
him.
        Courtenay, while keeping busy himself, was still
giving orders. "Now close the street door." He
dropped a dead man where he wanted him, and
pulled out a heavy tarpaulin from its storage. "No,
wait, let Tarim see it standing open. We'll say some
brigands got in somehow, and..."
        Tarim and the other awakened staff were pres-
ently allowed to come crowding in. Whether they
fully believed the vague story about brigands or
not, they took their cue from their master's manner
and were too wise to question it. The outer door was
closed and barred. Tarim himself had to be dis-
suaded from standing watch in the workshop for
the rest of the night, and eventually he and all the
others were on their way back to bed.
        Alone in the workshop again, the three who had
done the fighting exchanged looks. Then they got
busy.
        Courtenay began a preliminary clean-up, while the
mistress applied a bandage to Denis's forearm,
following his directions. Her small fingers, soft, white,
and pampered, did not shrink from bloody contact.
They managed the bandaging quite well, using some
of the cloth that had been brought for the first patient.
        When the job was done, her fingers held his arm a
moment more. Her dark eyes, for the first time ever
(he thought) looked at him with something more than
the wish to be pleasant to a servant. She said, very
quietly but very seriously, "You saved my life, Denis.
Thank you."
        It was almost as if no woman had ever touched him
or spoken to him before. Denis muttered something.
He could feel the blood flowing back into his face.
What foolishness, he told himself. He and this lady
could never . . .


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        A quick look at the stranger now occupying Denis's
bed showed that the fight in the next room had not
disturbed him. He was still unconscious, breathing
shallowly. Denis, looking at him, came round to the
opinion that nothing was likely to disturb this man
again. With two wounded men now on hand, the
mistress announced that she was going upstairs to
search more thoroughly for medical materials.
        The master said to his lady, "I'll come up with you,
we have to talk. Denis can manage here for a few
moments."
        The two of them climbed in thoughtful silence, past
the level where Tarim and other workers slept, past
the next floor also. Reaching the topmost level of the
house, they passed through another door and entered
a domain of elegance. This began with a

wood-paneled hall, lit now by the flame of a single
candle in a wall sconce. Here the lady turned in one
direction, going to rummage in her private stocks for
medical materials. The master turned down the hall
the other way, heading for a closet where he
expected to find a fresh, unbloodied robe.
        Before he reached the room that held the closet, he
was intercepted by the toddling figure of a kneehigh
child, an apparition followed almost immediately by
that of an apologetic nurse.
        "Oh sir, you're hurt," the nurse protested. She was a
buxom girl, almost a grown woman now. And at the
same time the child demanded: "Daddy! Tell story
now!" At the age of two and a half, the little girl
fortunately already showed much more of her
mother's than her father's looks. Brazenly wide
awake, as if something about this particular night
delighted her, she waited in her silken nightdress,
small stuffed toy in hand.
        The man spoke to the nursemaid first. "I'm all right,
Kuan-yin. The blood is nothing. I'll put Beth back to
bed; you go see if you can help your mistress find
what she's looking for."
        The nurse looked at him for a moment. Then, like
the other employees, wise enough to be incurious
tonight, she moved away.
        The huge man, who for the past four years had
been trying to establish an identity as Master
Courtenay, wiped drying gore from his huge hands
onto a robe already stained. With hands now steady,
and almost clean, he bent to carefully pick up the
living morsel he had discovered he valued more than
his own life.
        Carrying his daughter back to the nursery, he
passed a window. Through genuine glass and rainy
night he had a passing view of the high city walls
some hundreds of meters distant. The real watch
were keeping a fire burning atop the wall. Another
light, smaller and steadier, was visible in a slightly
different direction; one of the upper windows glowing
in the Lord Mayor's palace. It looked as if someone
was having a busy night there too; the observer could
only hope that there was no connection.
        Fortune was smiling on the huge man now, for he


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was able to remember the particular story that his
daughter wanted, and to get through the telling of it
with reasonable speed. The child had just gone back
to sleep, and the father was just on his way out of the
nursery, shutting the door with infinite care behind
him, when his wife reappeared, still wearing her
stained white robe.
        "We have a moment," she whispered, and drew him
aside into their own bedroom. When that door too had
been softly closed, and they were securely alone, she
added: "I've already taken the medicine downstairs to
Denis. He thinks that the man is probably going to die
. . . there's no doubt, is there, that he's the courier
we're expecting?"
        "I don't suppose there's much doubt about that, no."
        The lady was slipping out of her bloodied robe now,
and throwing it aside. In the very dim light that came
in through the barred window from those distant
watchfires, her husband beheld her shapely body as a
curved warmed silver candlestick, a pale ghost hardly
thickened at all by having borne one child. Once he
had loved this woman hopelessly, and then another
love had come to him, and gone again, dissolved in
death. Sometimes he

still saw in dreams a cascade of bright red hair . . .
his love for his darkhaired wife still existed, but it was
very different now.
        As she dug into a chest to get another robe, she told
him calmly, "One of those we killed tonight cried out,
something like: 'Greetings to Ben of Purkinje, from the
Blue Temple.' I'm sure that Denis heard it too."
        "We're going to have to trust Denis. He's proved
tonight he's loyal. I think he saved your life."
        "Yes," the lady agreed, in a remote voice. "Either
trust him-or else kill him too. Well." She dismissed
that thought, though not before taking a moment in
which to examine it with deliberate care. Then she
looked hard at her husband. "And you called me
Barb, too, once, down there in his hearing."
        "Did I?" He'd thought he'd broken himself long ago
of calling her that. Ben-he never really thought of
himself as "of Purkinje"-heaved a great sigh. "So,
anyway, the Blue Temple has caught up with me. It
probably doesn't matter what Denis overheard."
        "And they've caught up with me, too," she reminded
him sharply. "And with your daughter, whether they
were looking for us or not. It looked like they were
ready to wipe out the household if they could." She
paused. "I hope they haven't located Mark."
        Ben thought that over. "There's no way we can get
any word to him quickly. Is there? I'm not sure just
where he is."
        "No, I don't suppose we can." Barbara, tightening
the belt on her clean robe, shook her head
thoughtfully. "And they came here right on the
heels of the courier-did you notice that? They must
have been following him somehow, knowing that he'd
lead them to us."
"Too much of a coincidence otherwise."
        "Yes. And the alliance still holds, I suppose,


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between Blue Temple and the Dark King."
        "Which means the Dark King's people may know
about the courier too. And about what we have in our
possession here, that the courier was going to take
away, if the rest of the shipment ever arrives." He
heaved another sigh.
        "What do we do, Ben?" His wife spoke softly now,
standing close to him and looking up. At average
height he towered over her.
        "At the moment, we try to keep the courier alive,
and see if he can tell us anything. About Deniswe're
just going to have to trust him, as I say. He's a good
man."
        He was about to open the bedroom door, but his
wife's small hand on his arm delayed him. "Your
hands," she reminded him. "Your robe."
        "Right." He poured water into a basin and quickly
washed his hands, then changed his robe. Half his
mind was still down in . the workshop, reliving the
fight. Already in his memory the living bodies he had
just broken were taking on the aspects of creatures in
some awful dream. Te knew they were going to come
back later to assail him. Later perhaps his hands
would shake again. It was always like this for him
after a fight. He had to try to put it out of his mind for
now.
        While he was getting into his clean robe, Barbara
said, "Ben, as soon as I saw that the man had only
one arm, you know what I thought of."

        "Mark's father. But Mark always told us that his
father was dead. He sounded quite sure of it."
        "Yes, I remember. That he'd seen his father struck
down in their village street. But just suppose-"
        "Yes. Well, we've got enough to worry about as it
is.
        In another moment they were quietly making their
way downstairs together. The house around them
was as quiet now as if everyone were really sleeping.
Ben could picture most of his workers lying awake,
holding their breaths, waiting for the next crash.
        In Denis's room on the ground floor they found the
young man, his face pale under his dark hair, sitting
watch over a stranger who still breathed, but barely.
The mistress immediately went to work, improving on
her first effort at bandaging Denis's arm. Ben thought
he could see a little more color coming slowly back
into the youth's cheeks.
        And now, for the third time since midnight, a noise
at the back door. This time a modest tapping.
        Something in Ben wanted to react with laughter.
"Gods and demons, what a night. My house has
turned into the Hermes Gate to the High Road."
        And now, for the third time, after making sure that
his wife and his assistant were armed and as eady for
trouble as they could get, Ben maneuvered light and
lenses to look out into the narrow exterior passage.
This time, as he reported to the others in a whipser,
there were two human figures to be seen outside.
Both appeared to be men, and both were robed in
white.


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        "It looks like two of Ardneh's people. One's
carrying a big staff that. . ." Ben didn't finish. Barbara
caught his meaning.
        Those outside, knowing from the light that they
were under observation from within, called loudly:
"Master Courtenay? We've brought the wooden
model that you've been waiting for."
        "Ah," said Ben, hearing a code that gave him
reassurance. Still he signed to his companions to
remain on guard, before he cautiously opened the door
once more.
        This time the opening admitted neither a toppling
body nor an armed rush. There was only the peaceful
entry of the two in white, who as Ardneh's priests
saluted courteously first the master of the house and
then the people with him. Denis, this time holding his
hatchet left-handed, was glad to be able to lower it
again.
        White robes dripped water on a floor already
freshly marked by rain and mud and blood. If the
newcomers noticed these signs of preceding visitors,
they said nothing about them.
        Instead, as soon as Ben had barred up the door
again, the older of the two whiteclad priests offered
him the heavy, ornate wooden staff. It was obviously
meant to be a ceremonial object of some kind, too
large and unwieldy to be anything but a burden on a
march or a hike. Tall as a man, cruciform in its upper
part, the staff was beautifully carved out of some light
wood that Denis could not identify. The uppermost
portion resembled the hilt of a gigantic wooden sword,
with the heads and necks of two carved dragons
recurving upon themselves to form the outsized
crosspiece.
        "Beautiful," commented Denis, with a sudden dry
suspicion. "But I wonder which of Ardneh's rites
requires such an object? I saw nothing at all like it in
the time I spent as acolyte."

        The two white-garbed men looked at Denis. Then
they turned in silent appeal to the man they knew as
Master Courtenay. He told them tiredly, "You may
show us the inside of the wooden model too. Denis
here is fully in my confidence, as of tonight. He's
going to have to be."
        Denis stared for a moment at his master, who was
watching closely what the priests were doing. The
younger priest had the staff now, and was pressing
carefully with strong fingers on the fancy carving. In
a moment, the wood had opened like a shell, revealing
a velvet-lined cavity inside. Hidden there, straight iron
hilt within wooden crosspiece, was a great Sword.
The plain handle, of what Denis took to be some hard
black wood, was marked in white with a small symbol,
the outline of an open human hand. The Sword was in
a leather sheath, that left only a finger's-breadth of the
blade visible, but that small portion of metal caught the
eye. It displayed a rich mottling, suggesting
centimeters of depth in the thin blade, beneath a
surface gleam of perfect smoothness. Only the Old
World, or a god, thought Denis, could have made a


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blade like that, . . . and Denis had never heard of any
Old World swords.
        "Behold," the elder priest of Ardneh said, even as
the hand of the younger drew forth the blade out of its
sheath. "The Sword of Mercy!"
        And still Denis needed another moment-but no
more than that-to understand fully what he was being
allowed to see. When understanding came; he first
caught his breath, and then released it in a long sigh.
By now almost everyone in the world had heard of
the Twelve Swords, though there were probably those
who still doubted their reality, and
most had never seen one. The Swords had been
forged some twenty years ago, the more reliable
stories had it; created, all the versions of the legend
agreed, to serve some mysterious role in a divine
Game that the gods and goddesses who ruled the
world were determined to enjoy among themselves.
And if this wonderous weapon were not one of
those twelve Swords, thought Denis_ . . well, it was
hard to imagine what else it could be. In his time at
the House of Courtenay he had seen some elegant
and valuable blades, but never before anything like
this.

There were twelve of them, all of the stories agreed
on that much. Most of them had two names,
though some had more names than two, and a few
had only one. They were called Wayfinder, and
Farslayer, and the Tyrant's Blade; there were the
Mindsword, and Townsaver, and Stonecutter,
called also the Sword of Siege. There were
Doomgiver, Sightblinder, Dragonslicer; Coin-
spinner and Shieldbreaker and the Sword o f Love,
that last thrice-named, also as Woundhealer and
the Sword of Mercy.
        And, if any of the tales had truth in them at all,
each Sword had its own unique power, capable of
overwhelming all lesser magics, bestowing on its
owner some chance to rule the world, or at least to
speak on equal terms with those who died ....

        The older priest had carefully accepted the naked
Sword from the hands of the younger, and now
Denis observed with a start that the old man was
now approaching him, Denis, with the heavy
weapon held out before him. Half-raised as if in

some clumsy system of attack, it wobbled slightly
in the elder's hands.
        Even in the mild lamplight the steel gleamed
breathtakingly. And Denis thought that a sound
was coming from it now, a sound like that of human
breath.
        Whether he was commanded to hold out his
wounded arm, or did so automatically, Denis could
not afterwards remember. The room was very
quiet, except for the faint slow rhythmic hiss that
the Sword made, as if it breathed. The old man's
thin arms, that looked as if they might never have
held a weapon before in all his life, reached out. The


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blade, looking keener than any razor that Denis had
ever seen, steadied itself suddenly. It moved now as
if under some finer control than the visibly tremu-
lous grip of the old priest.
         And now the broad point had somehow, without
even nicking flesh, inserted itself snugly under-
neath the tight bandage binding Denis's forearm.
The bloodstained white cloth, cut neatly, fell
away, and the Sword's point touched the wound
directly. Denis, expecting pain, felt instead an
intense moment of-something else, a sensation
unique and indescribable. And then the Sword
withdrew.
         Looking down at his arm, Denis saw dried blood,
but no fresh flow. The dried, brownish stuff
brushed away readily enough when he rubbed at it
with his fingers. Where the dried blood had been,
he saw now a small, fresh, pink scar. The wound
looked healthy, easily a week or ten days healed.
         It was at this moment, for some reason, that
Denis suddenly remembered something about the
man who, the legends said, had been forced to assist
Vulcan in the forging of the Swords. The stories
said of that human smith that as soon as his work
was done he had been deprived of his right arm by
the god.
         "It is shameful, of course," the elder priest was
saying, "that we must keep it hidden so, and sneak
through the night with it like criminals with their
plunder. But if we did not take precautions, then
those who would put Woundhealer to an evil use
would soon have it in their possession."
         "We will do our best," the lady of the house
assured him, "to keep it from them."
         "But at the moment," said the master, "we have
a problem even more immediate than that. Sirs, if
you will, bring the Sword this way with you, and
quickly. A man lies dying."
         Denis led the way, and quickly opened the door to
his own room. The master stepped in past him, and
indicated the still figure on the bed. "He arrived
here not an hour ago, much as you see him. And I
fear he is the courier who was to have carried on
what you have brought."
         The two priests moved quickly to stand beside
the bed. The young one murmured a prayer to
Draffut, God of Healing. The first quick touch of the
Sword was directly on the wound still bleeding in
the side of the unconscious man. Denis, despite his
own experience of only moments ago, could not
keep from wincing involuntarily. It was hard to
imagine that that keen, hard point would not draw
more blood, do more harm to human flesh already
injured. But the slow red ooze from the wound,
instead of increasing, dried up immediately. As the
Sword moved away, the packing that Denis had put

into the wound pulled out with it. The cloth hung
there, stuck by dried blood to the skin.
        Feeling a sense of unreality, Denis passed his
hand over his eyes.


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        Now the Sword, still in the hands of Ardneh's
elder servant, moved down to touch the wound on
the exposed knee. This time when the bare metal
touched him, the man on the bed drew in his
breath sharply, as if with some extreme and
exquisite sensation; a moment later he let out a
long sigh, eloquent of relief. But his eyes did not
open.
        And now the tip of the Sword was being made to
pass back and forth over his whole body, not quite
touching him. It paused again, briefly, right above
the heart. Denis could see how the arms of the old
priest continued to tremble, as if it strained them to
hold this heavy weapon-not, Denis supposed, that
this Sword ought to be called a weapon. He won-
dered what would happen if you swung it against
an enemy.
        The tip of the blade paused just once more, when
it reached the scarred stump of the long-lost arm.
There it touched, and there, to Denis's fresh sur-
prise, it did draw blood at last, a thready red trickle
from the scarred flesh. Again a gasp came from the
unconscious man.
        The bleeding stopped of itself, almost as quickly
as it had started. The old priest now slid the blade
back into its sheath, and handed it to his assistant,
who enclosed it once again within the staff of wood.
        The elder's face was pale now, as if the healing
might have taken something out of him. But he did
not pause to rest, bending instead to examine the
man he had been treating. Then he pulled a blanket
up to the patient's chin and straightened.
        "He will recover," the elder priest announced,
"but he must rest for many days; he was nearly
dead before the Sword of Mercy reached him. Here
you can provide him with the good food he needs;
even so his recovery will take some time."
        Master Courtenay told the two priests of Ardneh
softly, "We thank you in his name-whatever that
may be. Now, will you have some food? And then
we'll find you a place to sleep."
        The elder declined gravely. "Thank you, but we
cannot stay, even for food." He shook his head. "If
this man was to be the next courier, as you say, I
fear you will have to find a replacement for him."
        "We will find a way," the lady said.
        "Good," said the elder, and paused, frowning.
"There is one thing more that I must tell you before
we go." He paused again, a longer time, as if what
he had to say now required some gathering of
forces. "The Mindsword has fallen into the hands of
the Dark King."
        An exhausted silence fell over the people in the
workshop. Denis was trying desperately to recall
what the various songs and stories had to say about
the weapon called the Mindsword.
        There was, of course, the verse that everyone had
heard:

The Mindsword spun in the dawn's gray light
And men and demons knelt down before


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The Mindsword flashed in the midday bright
Gods joined the dance, and the march to war
It spun in the twilight dim as well
And gods and men marched off to-

         "Gods and demons!" Master Courtenay swore
loudly. His face was grave and gray, with a look
that Denis had never seen on it before.
         Moments later, having said their last farewells,
the two white-robed men were gone.
         Denis closed and barred the door behind them,
and turned round. The master of the house was
standing in the middle of the workshop, with one
hand on the wooden Sword-case that stood leaning
there against the chimney. He was looking it over
carefully, as if it were something that he might
want to buy.
         The lady was back in Denis's room already,
looking down at the hurt man on the bed. Denis
when he came in saw that the man was now sleep-
ing peacefully and his color was a little better
already.
         Out in the main room of the shop again, Denis
approached his master-whose real name, Denis
was already certain, was unlikely to be Courtenay.
"What are we going to do with the Sword now,
sir? Of course it may be none of my business." It
obviously had become his business now; his real
question was how they were going to deal with
that fact.
         His master gave him a look that said this point
was appreciated. But all he said was: "Even
before we worry about the Sword, there's another
little job that needs taking care of. How's your
arm?"
         Denis fixed it. There was a faint residual sore-
ness. "Good enough."
         "Good." And the big man walked around behind
the big toppled workbench, and lifted the tarpaulin
from that which had been concealed from Ardneh's
priests.
         It was going to be very convenient, Denis
thought, that the house was so near the river, and
that the night was dark and rainy.

CHAPTER 3

        The chase under the blistering sun had been a
long one, but the young man who was its quarry
foresaw that it was not going to go on much longer.
        Since the ambush some twenty kilometers back
had killed his three companions and all their riding
beasts, he had been scrambling on foot across the
rough, barren country, pausing only at intervals to
set an ambush of his own, or when necessary to
gasp for breath.
        The young man wore a light pack on his back,
along with his longbow and quiver. At his belt he
carried a small water bottle-it was nearly empty
now, one of the reasons why he thought that the
chase must soon end in one way or another. His age


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would have been hard to judge because of his
weathered look, but it was actually much closer to
twenty than to thirty. His clothes were those of a
hunter, or perhaps a guerrilla soldier, and he wore
his present trouble as well and fittingly as he wore
his clothes. He was a tall and broad-shouldered
young man, with blue-gray eyes, and a light, short
beard that until a few days ago had been neatly
trimmed. The longbow slung across his back looked
eminently functional, but at the moment there
were only three arrows left in the quiver that rode
beside it.
        The young man had fallen into a kind of pattern
in his movement. This took the form of a trot, a
pause to look back over one shoulder, another
scramble, a quick walk, and then a look back over
the other shoulder without pausing.
        According to the best calculation he could make,
which he knew might very easily be wrong, he still
had one more active enemy behind him than he had
arrows. Of course the only way to make absolutely
sure of the enemy's numbers would be to let them
catch him. They might very well do that anyway.
They were still mounted, and would easily have
overtaken him long ago, except that his own
ambushes set over the past twenty kilometers had
instilled some degree of caution in the survivors.
These high plains made a good place for ambush,
deceptively open-looking but cut by ravines and
studded with windcarved hills and giant boulders
that looked as if some god had scattered them play-
fully about.
        By this time, having had twenty kilometers in
which to think it over, the young man had no real
doubt as to who his pursuers were. They had to be
agents of the Blue Temple. Any merely military
skirmish, he thought, would have been broken off
long before this. Any ordinary patrol from the Dark
King's army would have been content to return to
camp and report a victory, or else proceed with
whatever other business they were supposed to be

about. They would not have continued to risk their
skins in the pursuit of one survivor, not one as
demonstrably dangerous as himself, and not
through this dangerous terrain.
        No, they knew who they were after. They knew
what he had done, four years ago. And undoubtedly
they were under contract to the Blue Temple to
bring back his head.
        The young man was finding time in his spare
moments, such as they were, to wonder if they were
also closing in on Ben, his friend and his companion
of four years ago. Or if perhaps they had already
found him. But he was not in a position right now to
do anything for Ben.
        The youth's flight had brought him to the edge of
yet another ravine, this one cutting directly across
his path. To the left of where the young man halted
on the brink, the groove in the earth deepened rap-
idly, turning into a real canyon that wound its way


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off to the east, there presumably to join at some
point a larger canyon that he had already caught
sight of from time to time. In the other direction, to
the young man's right, the ravine grew progres-
sively shallower; if he intended to cross it, he
should head that way.
        From where he was standing now, the country on
the other side of the ravine looked if anything flat-
ter than the plain he had been crossing, which of
course ought to give a greater advantage to the
mounted men. If he did not cross, he would go down
into the ravine and follow it along. He could see
that as it deepened some shelter appeared along its
bottom, provided by rough free-standing rock for-
mations and by the winding walls themselves. If he
went that way he would be going downhill, and for
that reason might be able to go faster.
        It was the need for water that made his choice a
certainty. The big canyon ought to be no more than
a few kilometers away at most, and very probably it
had water at its bottom.
        He was down in the bottom of the ravine, making
good time along its deepening trench, before one of
his over-the-shoulder looks afforded him another
glimpse of the men who were coming after him.
Three heads were gazing down over the rocky rim,
some distance to his rear. It looked as if they had
been expecting him to cross the ravine, not follow
it, and had therefore angled their own course a little
toward its shallower end. He had therefore gained a
little distance on them. The question now was, how
would they pursue from here? They might all fol-
low him down into the ravine. Or one of them might
follow him along the rim, ready to roll down rocks
on him when a good chance came. Or, one man
might cross completely, so they could follow him
along both walls and down the middle too.
        He had doubts that they were going to divide
their small remaining force.
        Time would tell. He was now committed, any-
way, to following the ravine. Much depended on
what sort of concealment he could find.
        So far, things were looking as good as could be
expected. What had been a fairly simple trench at
the point where he entered it was rapidly widening
and deepening into a complex, steep-sided canyon.
Presently, coming to a place where the canyon bent
sharply, the young man decided to set up another
ambush, behind a convenient outcropping of rock,
Lying motionless on stovelike rock, watching small

lizards watch him through the vibrating air, he had
to fight down the all-too-rational fear that this time
his enemies had outguessed him, and a couple of
them were really following him along on the high
rims. At any moment now, the head of one of them
ought to appear in his field of vision, just about
there. From which vantage point it would of course
be no trick at all to roll down a deadly barrage of
rocks. If they were lucky his head would still be rec-
ognizable when they came down to collect it.


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Enough of that.
        It was a definite relief when the three men came
into sight again, all trailing him directly along the
bottom of the canyon. They were walking their
mounts now, having to watch their footing care-
fully on the uneven rock. As their quarry had hoped,
at this spot they had no more than half their visual
attention to spare in looking out for ambush.
        The young man waiting for them already had an
arrow nocked. And now he started to draw it,
slowly taking up the bowstring's tension. He real-
ized that at the last instant, he'd have to raise him-
self up into full view to get the shot off properly.
        The moment came and he lifted his upper body.
The bow twanged in his hands, as if the arrow had
made its own decision. The shot was good, but the
man who was its target, as if warned by some subtle
magic, begun to turn his body away just as the shot
was made. The arrow missed. The enemy, alarmed,
were all ducking for cover.
        The marksman did not delay to see what they
might be going to do next. Already he was on his
feet and running, scrambling, on down the canyon.
Only two arrows left in his quiver now, and still he
was not absolutely sure that there were no more
than three men in pursuit.
        He hurdled a small boulder, and kept on running.
At least he'd slowed his pursuers down again, made
them move more cautiously. And that ought to let
him gain a little distance.
        And now, suddenly, unexpectedly, he had good
luck in sight. As he rounded a new curve of the can-
yon there sprang into view ahead of him a view into
the bigger cross-canyon that this one joined. Ahead
he saw a narrow slice of swift gray water, with a
luxuriant border of foliage, startlingly green, all
framed in stark gray rock.
        A little farther, and he would have not only water
and concealment, but a choice of ways to turn,
upstream or down. The young man urged his tired
body into a faster run.
        In his imagination he was already tasting the
cold water. Then the tree-tall dragon emerged from
the fringe of house-high ferns and other growth that
marked the entrance to the bigger canyon. As the
young man stumbled to a halt the beast was looking
directly at him. Its massive jaw was working, but
only lightly, tentatively, as if in this heat it might be
reluctant to summon up the energy for a hard bite
or even a full roar.
        The young man was already so close to the
dragon when he saw it that he could do nothing but
freeze in his tracks. He knew that any attempt at a
quick retreat would be virtually certain to bring on
a full charge, and he would have no hope of
outrunning that.
        Nor did he move to unsling his bow. Even his best
shot, placed perfectly into the eye, the only even
semi-vulnerable target, might do no more than

madden a dragon of the size of this one before him.


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His best hope of survival lay in standing still. If he
could manage to do that, there was a bare chance
that his earlier rapid movement would be forgotten
and he would be ignored.
        Then something happened that surprised the
young men profoundly, so that now it was astonish-
ment more than either terror or conscious effort
that kept him standing like a statue.
        The dragon's vast mouth, scarred round the lips
with its own quondam flames, opened almost deli-
cately, revealing yellowed and blackened teeth the
size of human forearms. From that mouth emerged
a voice, a kind of cavernous whisper. It was per-
fectly intelligible,. though so soft that the motion-
less man could scarcely be sure that he was really
hearing it.
        "Put down your little knife," the dragon said to
him. "I will not hurt you."
        The man, who had thought he was remaining
perfectly motionless, looked down at his right
hand. Without realizing it he had drawn the dagger
from his belt. Mechanically he put the useless
weapon back into its sheath.
        Even as the man did this, the dragon, perhaps
three times his height as it stood tall on its hind
legs, moved closer to him by one great stride. It
reached out for him with one enormous forelimb,
armed at the fingertips with what looked like pitch-
fork tines. But that frightening grip picked up the
man so gently that he felt no harm. In a moment he
had been lifted, tossed spinning in the air, and
softly, safely, caught again. At this moment, that
seemed to him certain to be the moment of his
death, he felt curiously free from fear.
        Death did not come, nor even pain. He was being
tossed and mauled quite tenderly. Here we went up
again, propelled with a grim playfulness that
tended to jolt the breath out of his chest, but did
him no real damage. In one of these revolving
airborne jaunts, momentarily facing back up the
side canyon, he got his clearest look yet at the whole
small gang of his surviving human pursuers. They
had been even closer behind him than he had
thought, but now with every instant they were
meters farther away. The three of them, two look-
ing forward and away, one looking back in terror,
were astride their riding beasts again, and never
mind the chance that a mount might stumble here.
All three in panic were galloping at full stretch back
up the barren floor of the side canyon.
        The dragon roared. The tossed man's own whirl-
ing motion whirled the riders away, out of his field
of vision. He felt his flying body brush through a
fringe of greenery. His landing was almost gentle,
on shaded ground soft as a bed with moss and mois-
ture. He lay there on his back, beneath great danc-
ing fronds. This position afforded him a fine view of
the dragon's scaly green back just as, roaring like
an avalanche, it launched a charge after the three
riders.
        In another moment the riders were completely


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out of sight around the first curve of the side can-
yon. The dragon at once aborted its charge and
ceased its noise. It turned, and with an undragonly
air of calm purpose came striding back to where the
man lay. He just lay there, watching its approach.
The creature hadn't killed him yet, and anyway he
could never have outrun it even had his lungs been
full of breath.

        Once more the huge dragon gently picked him
up. It carried him carefully for a little distance,
deeper into the heavy riverside growth of vegeta-
tion. Through the last layer of branches ahead the
man could plainly see the swift narrow stream that
threaded the canyon's floor.
        The dragon spoke above the endless frantic mur-
mur of the water. "They will never," it told the
man in its sepulchral voice, "come back and follow
a dragon into this thicket. Instead they will return
to their masters and report that you are dead, that
with their own eyes they saw you crushed and
eaten." Saying this, the dragon again deposited the
man on soft ground, this time very gently.
        Then the dragon took a long step back. Its image
in the man's eyes flickered, and for one moment he
had the definite impression that the huge creature
was wearing a broad leather belt around its scaly,
bulging midsection. And there was a second,
momentary impression, that from this belt there
hung a scabbard, and that the scabbard held a
sword.
        The belt and Sword were no longer visible. Then
they reappeared. The man blinked, he shook his
head and rubbed his eyes and looked again. Some
kind of enchantment was in operation. It had to be
that. If it-
        The Swordbelt, now unquestionably real, was
now hanging looped from a great furry hand-it
was undeniably a hand, and not a dragon's forefoot.
The fur covering the hand, and covering the arm
and body attached, was basically a silver gray, but
it glowed remarkably with its own inner light. As
the man watched, the glow shifted, flirting with all
the colors of the rainbow.
The enormous hand let the belt drop.
        Standing before the youth now was a furred beast
on two legs, as tall and large as the dragon had been,
but otherwise much transformed. Claws had been
replaced by fingers, on hands of human shape. There
were still great fangs, but they were bonewhite now,
and the head in which they were set no longer had
anything in the least reptilian about it. Although the
figure was standing like a man, the face was not
human. It was-unique.
        The great dark eyes observed with intelligence the
man's reaction to the transformation.
        The young man's first outward response was to get
back to his feet, slowly and shakily. Then he walked
slowly to where the belt and Sword were lying, on
shaded moss. Bending over, he observed that the jet-
black hilt of the Sword was marked with one small


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white symbol; but, though the man dropped to his
knees to look more closely, he was unable to make out
what that symbol was. His eyes for some reason had
trouble getting it into clear focus. Then he reached out
and put his fingers on that hilt, and with that touch he
felt the power he had expected enter into him. Now he
was able to see the symbol plainly. It was the simple
outline of an observant human eye.
        Turning his head to look up at the waiting giant, the
young man said: "I am Mark, son of Jord." As he
spoke he got to his feet, and as he stood up he drew
the Sword. His right hand held up that bright
magnificence of steel in a salute.
        The giant's answer came in an inhumanly deep
bass, quite different from the dragon's voice: "You are
Mark of Arin-on-Aldan."
The youth regarded him steadily for a moment.

Then he nodded. "That also," he agreed. Then,
lowering the Sword, he added, "I have held
Sightblinder here once before."
        "You have held others of the Swords as well. I
know something of you, Mark, though we have not
met. I am Draffut, as you must have realized by now.
The man called Nestor, who was your friend, was
also mine."
        Mark did not answer immediately. Now that he was
holding the Sword of Stealth, some inward things
about the being he was looking at had become
apparent to him. Just how they were apparent was
something he could not have explained had his life
depended on it; but across Draffut's image in Mark's
eyes some part of Draffut's history was now written,
in symbols that Mark would not be able to see, much
less interpret, once he put down the Sword again.
        Mark said, "You are the same Draffut who is
prayed to as the God of Healing. Who knew Ardneh
the Blessed, as your living friend two thousand years
ago . . . but still I will not call you a god. Lord of
Beasts, as others name you, yes. For certainly you
are that, and more." And Mark bowed low. "I thank
you for my life."
        "You are welcome . . . and Beastlord is a title that I
can at least tolerate." Actually the huge being seemed
to enjoy it to some extent. "With Sightblinder in your
hand I am sure you can see I am no god. But I have
just come from an assembly of them."
        Mark was startled. "What?"
        "I say that I have just come from an assembly of
the gods," Draffut repeated patiently. "And I had
Sightblinder in my own hand as I stood among
them so each of them saw me as one of their own
number . . . and I saw that in them which surprised
me, as I stood there and listened to them argue."
"Argue... about what?"
        "In part, about the Swords. As usual they were able
to agree on nothing, which I count as good news for
humanity. But I heard other news also, that was not
good at all. The Dark King, Vilkata, has the
Mindsword now. How and when he got it, I do not
know."


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        For a long moment Mark stood silent. Then he
muttered softly, "Ardneh's bones! The gods were
saying that? Do you believe it?"
        "I am glad," said Draffut, "that you understand that
what the gods tell us is not always true. But in this
case I fear it is the truth. Remember that I held the
Sword of Stealth in my own hands then, and I looked
at the speakers carefully as they were speaking. They
were not telling deliberate lies; nor do I think they
were mistaken."
        "Then the human race is . . ." Mark made a gesture
of futility. ". . . in trouble." Looking down at the blade he
was still holding, he swung it lightly, testing how it felt
in his grip. "If the question is not too impertinent, how
did you come to have this? The last time I saw it, it
was embedded in the body of a flying dragon."
        "It may have fallen from the creature in flight. I
found it in the Great Swamp."
        "And-again if you do not mind my asking-how did
you come to be spying on the gods?"
        Draffut rested one of his enormous hands on a
treetrunk that stood beside him. Mark thought he saw
the bark change color around that grip. It even moved
a little, he thought, achieving a different

tempo in its life. Many were the marvelous tales told
of Draffut. Now the Beastlord was speaking.
        "Once I had this Sword in my hand, I decided that I
would never have a better chance to do something
that I had long thought about-to find the Emperor, and
talk to him face to face."
        "You did not go first to find the gods?"
        "I had met gods before;" Draffut ruminated. In a
moment he went on. "The Emperor is not an easy
man to locate. But I have some skill in discovering
that which is hidden, and I found him. I had been for a
long time curious."
        Mark had sometimes been curious on the same
subject, but only vaguely so. He had grown up
accepting the commonly held ideas about the
Emperor: a legendary trickster, perhaps invented and
unreal. A practical joker, a propounder of riddles, a
wearer of masks. A sometime seducer of brides and
maidens, and the proverbial father of the poor and the
unlucky. Only in recent years, as Mark began to meet
people who knew more about the world than the
name of the next village, had he come to understand
that the Emperor might have a real importance.
        Not that his curiosity on the subject had ever
occupied much of his time or thought. Still, he now
asked Draffut, "What is he like?"
        "He is a man," said Draffut firmly, as if there had
been some doubt of that. But, having made that point,
the Beastlord paused, as if he were at a loss as to
what else to say.
        At last he went on. "John Ominor, the enemy of
Ardneh, was called Emperor too." At this offhand
recollection of the events of two thousand years past,
Mark could feel his scalp creep faintly. Draffut
continued. "And then, a little later, some called Prince
Duncan, a good man, by that title."


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        Draffut fell silent. Mark waited briefly, then
pursued the subject. "Has this man now called the
Emperor some connection with the Swords? Can he
be of any help to us against Vilkata?"
        Draffut made a curious two-handed gesture, that in
a lesser being would have suggested helplessness.
When he let go of the treetrunk its surface at once
reverted to ordinary bark. "I think that the Emperor
could be an enormous help to us. But how to obtain
his help . . . and as for the Swords, I can tell you this:
I think that Sightblinder did not deceive him for a
moment, though I had it in my hand as I approached."
        "It did not deceive him?"
        "I think he never saw me as anything but what I
am." The Beastlord thought for a moment, then
concluded: "Of course it was not my intention to
deceive him, unless he should mean me harm-and I do
not believe he did."
        The speaker's intense, inhuman gaze held Mark's
eyes. "It was the Emperor's suggestion that I take this
Sword and use it to observe the councils of the gods.
And he told me something else: that after I had heard
the gods, I should bring Sightblinder on to you."
        Mark experienced an inward chill, a feeling like that
of sudden fear, but with a spark of exhilaration at the
core of it. To him both emotions were equally
inexplicable. "To me?" he echoed stupidly.
        "To you. Even the Sword of Stealth cannot disguise
me well enough to let me pass for human, or for any
type of creature of merely human size. At a distance,
perhaps. But I cannot enter the dwellings

of humans secretly, to listen to their secret councils."
        "You say you're able to spy on the gods, though.
Isn't that even more important?"
        The Beastlord was shaking his head. "The war that
is coming is going to jar the world, as it has not been
jarred since the time of Ardneh. And the war is
going to be won or lost by human beings, though the
gods will have a role to play."
        "How do you know these things?"
        Draffut said nothing.
        "What can we do?" Mark asked simply.
        "I am going, in my own shape, to try to influence the
actions of the gods. As you may know, I am
incapable of hurting humans, whatever happens. But
against them I can fight when necessary. I have done
as much before, and won."
        Again Mark could feel his scalp creep. He
swallowed and nodded. Apparently there was some
basis of truth for those legends that told of Draffut's
successful combat against the wargod Mars himself.
        Draffut added: "I am going to leave the Sword with
you."
        Again to hear that brought Mark a swift surge of
elation, an emotion in this case swiftly dampened by a
few memories and a little calculation.
        "Sir Andrew, whom I serve, has sent me on a
mission to Princess Rimac-or to her General Rostov,
if he proves easier to find. I am to tell them certain
things . . . of course, I can take the Sword of Stealth


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along with me. And I suppose I could give it to them
when I get there . . . but what did the Emperor have
in mind for me to do with it? Do you trust him?"
Questions were piling up in his mind faster than he
could ask them.
        "I have known and dealt with human beings for
more than fifty thousand years," said Draffut, "and
I trust him. Though he would not explain. He said
only that he trusts you with the Sword."
        Mark frowned. To be told of such mysterious
trust by an apparently powerful figure was some-
how more irritating than pleasing. "But why me?
What does he know about me?"
        "He knows of you," said Draffut immediately, in
a tone of unhelpful certainty. "And now, I must be
on my way." The giant turned away, then back
again to say, "The Princess's land of Tasavalta lies
to the east of here, along the coast, as I suppose you
know. As to where Rostov and his army might be at
the moment, you can probably guess as well as L"
        "I'll take the Sword on with me, then, to the Prin-
cess." Mark raised his voice, calling after the
Beastlord; Draffut, moving at a giant's walk consid-
erably faster than a human run, was already
growing distant. Mark sighed, swallowing more
questions that were obviously not going to be
answered now.
        Splashing through the shallow river, Draffut
turned once more, for just long enough to wave
farewell. Then he began to climb the far wall of the
great canyon. He climbed like a mountain goat,
going right up the steep rocks. Mark thought he
could see the rock itself undergoing temporary
change, wherever Draffut touched it, starting to
flow with the impulses of life.
        Then Draffut was gone, up and over the canyon
rim.
        Left alone, Mark was suddenly exhausted. He

stared for a long moment at the Sword left in his
hands. Then he bent to enjoy, at last, the drink he
needed from the river„ whose name he did not
know. He cooled himself with splashing. Then he
stretched himself out on a shady moss, with
Sightblinder tucked under his head, and slept
securely. Any enemy coming upon him now would
not see him, but instead some person or thing that
they loved or feared, or at any rate would not harm.
Of course there might come a sudden thunderstorm
upstream, a canyon flood, and he'd be drowned;
but he had lived much of his life with greater risks
than that.
        Mark did not awake until the sun had dropped
behind the high stone western wall and it was
nearly dark. Before the light had faded entirely, he
managed to get a rabbit with one of his two
remaining arrows. He even managed to retrieve the
arrow undamaged, which convinced him that his
luck was definitely improving. After cooking his
rabbit on a small fire, he devoured most of it and
slept again.


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        It was deep night when he awoke the second time,
and he lay looking up at the stars and wondering
about Draffut. The Beastlord was a magnificent
and unique being, and it was small wonder that
most folk thought he was a god. His life had begun
so long ago that even Ardneh's struggle with the
demon Orcus was recent by comparison. Mark,
holding the Sword of Stealth while he looked at
Draffut, had seen that that was true.
        The Sword had allowed Mark to see something
more wonderful still.
        He had seen, very plainly, though only for a
moment, and in a mode of seeing impossible to
explain, that the Beastlord had begun his long life as a
dog. A plain, four-footed dog, and nothing more.
        That was a mystery beyond wondering about. Mark
slept yet again, and awoke beneath turned stars. Just
after his eyes opened he saw a brilliant meteor, as if
some power had awakened him to witness it.
        He lay awake for some time, pondering.
        Who, after all, was the Emperor? And why, and
how did the Emperor come to be aware of Mark, son
of Jord? Of course Mark's late father was himself a
minor figure in legends, through his unwilling
conscription by Vulcan to help in the forging of the
Swords. And Mark had taken part in the celebrated
raid of four years ago on the Blue Temple treasury.
But why should either of those dubious claims to fame
have caused the Emperor to send him a Sword?
        All the stories agreed that the Emperor liked jokes.
        Mark was no closer to an answer when he once
more fell asleep.

        In the morning he was up and moving early. Soon
he found a side canyon that appeared passable, and
led off to the east. He refilled his water bottle before
leaving the river, then followed the side canyon's
gradually ascending way. When, after some
kilometers, the smaller canyon had shallowed enough
to let him climb out of it easily, he did so. Now eastern
mountains, blue as if with forests, were visible in the
distance. Tasavalta, he thought. Or somewhere near
to it.
        He was a day closer to those mountains when he

saw the mounted patrol. He was sure even at a
considerable distance that these riders were the
Dark King's soldiers. He had fought against such
often enough to be able to distinguish them, he
thought, by no more than the fold of a distant cloak,
the shape of a spearhead carried high. The patrol was
between him and his goal, and was heading almost
directly toward him, but he did not think that they had
seen him yet.
        Mark had automatically taken concealment behind
a bush at his first sight of the riders, and he continued
watching them from hiding. He was planning, almost
unthinkingly, how best to remain out of their sight as
they passed, when he recalled what Sword it was that
now swung at his side. He had used Sightblinder once
before, and he trusted its powers fully.


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        Boldly he stood up. hand on the hilt of the Sword,
feeling a stirring of, its power as he approached his
enemies, he marched straight toward the oncoming
riders. But before the patrol saw him they altered
course slightly, perversely turned aside. Mark
muttered oaths. If he had been helpless and
endeavoring to hide, he thought, they would have
stumbled over him without trying.
        They were completely out of sight when he
reached their trail, but he followed it into the setting
sun, blue mountains now at his back. His messages
for Princess Rimac were really routine. His soldier's
instincts told him that here he might have an excellent
target of opportunity.
        An hour or so later he found the patrol, a dozen
tough-looking men, gathered by their evening fire,
which was large enough to show that they had no
particular fear of night attack. The hilt of Sight
blinder was vibrating smoothly in Mark's hand as
he strode into the firelight to stand before them.
        They looked up at him, and they all sat still. Hard
warriors though they were, he could see that they
were instantly afraid. Of what, he did not know,
except that it was some image that they saw of him.
Looking down at his own body, he saw, as he had
known he would, himself unchanged.
        Mark left it to them to break the silence. At last
one who was probably their sergeant stood up,
bowed, and asked him: "Lord, what will you have
of us?"
        "In what direction do your orders take you?"
Mark's voice, to his own ears, sounded no different
than before.
        "Great Lord, we are bound for the encampment
of the Dark King himself. There we are to report to
our captain the results of our patrol."
        Mark drew in a deep breath. "Then you will take
me with you."

CHAPTER 4

        Jord scratched delicately at his itching arm-
stump, then grimaced at the unaccustomed sore-
ness there. He rubbed at the place, more delicately
still, with a rough fingertip. There was some kind of
minor swelling, too.
        Not that he was complaining. On the contrary.
He was lying on a soft couch covered with fine fab-
ric, in morning sunshine. Birds sang pleasantly
nearby. Otherwise he was alone on the elegant
rooftop terrace, largely a garden of plants and
birds, fresh from last night's rain. The terrace cov-
ered most of the flat roof of the House of Courtenay.
A plate of food, second helpings that Jord had been
unable to finish, rested on a small table at his side.
He was wearing a fine white nightshirt, of a mate-
rial strange to him, that felt as what he supposed
silk must feel. Well, he'd obviously and very fortu-
nately reached wealthy and powerful friends, so
none of these details were really all that surprising.
        What did surprise him-what left him in fact


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almost numb with astonishment-was what had
happened to his wounds.
        The husky men, obviously some kind of servants,
who had carried Jord up here to the terrace this
morning had told him that he'd arrived here at the
House of Courtenay only last night. Jord hadn't
questioned the servants beyond that, because he
wasn't sure how much they knew about their mas-
ter's secret affairs, and about who he, Jord, really
was, in terms of his business here.
        Jord's last memories from last night were of
being afraid of bleeding to death, and of trying to
pound on the back door of his house, knowing that
if he fainted before he got help he'd likely never to
wake up. Well, he must have fainted. And he had
certainly awakened, feeling almost healthy, raven-
ously hungry-and with his wounds well on the
way to being completely healed.
        The sun, rising higher now, would have begun to
grow uncomfortably hot, but at just. the proper
angle a leafy bower now began to shade the couch.
The noise of the city's streets was increasing, but it
was comfortably far below. Jord had learned
enough about cities to live in them when he had to,
but he felt really at home only in a village or small
town.
        The trellises that shaded him, he noticed now,
also screened him well from observation from any
of the city's other tall buildings nearby. Meanwhile
the interstices of latticework and leaves afforded
him a pretty good outward view. Slate rooftops,
like trees in a forest, stretched away to the uneven
horizon formed by the city's formidable walls.
Tashigang was built upon a series of hills, with the
Corgo, here divided into several branches, flowing

between some of them. The House of Courtenay,
practically at riverside, was naturally in one of the
lowest areas. The effect was that some of the sec-
tions of wall, and the hilltop buildings in the dis-
tance, loomed to what seemed magical height,
becoming towers out of some story of the Old
World.
        "Good morning." The words breaking in upon
Jord's thoughts came in a female voice that he did
not recognize. He quickly turned back from peering
through the trellis. She was young and small, really
tiny, and black-haired; dressed in white, she was
obviously a lady. A young nursemaid and a small
child were visible in the background, out of easy
earshot along a graveled path that helped make the
rooftop look like a country garden.
        "Good morning, Lady." In the past ten years or
so Jord had been often enough in cosmopolitan
society that now he could feel more or less at ease
with practically anyone. "The men who brought
me up here told me that I was in the house of Mis-
tress and Master Courtenay."
        "So you are; I am the mistress of this house. Gods
and demons, don't try to get up. And you are Jord."
        Jord abandoned his token effort to rise. "I am


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Jord, as you say. And I thank you for your help."
         "Is the food not to your taste?"
         "It's very good. Only they gave me more than
enough."
         The lady was looking at him thoughtfully. There
were chairs nearby but just now she evidently
preferred standing. "So, the Princess Rimac sent
you to us. As courier, to carry two Swords back to
her."
         Jord tried to flex his wounded knee a little, and
grimaced at the sensation. "I seem to have failed in
that task before it was fairly started." It was said
matter-of-factly. "Well, I'll do as best I can with
whatever comes next. It seems I'll need to heal
before I can do much at all."
         The lady continued to regard him. It appeared that
for some reason she was strongly interested.
Presently she said "The servants-all except Denis,
who's really more than that-think that you are simply a
fellow merchant, who's had an encounter with thieves
and is in need of help. Such things are all too common
in our business."
         "And in mine, unhappily. Again I thank you for
saving my life." Jord paused. "But tell me something.
Those who carried me up here said that I arrived only
last night. But . . ." He gestured in perplexity toward
his wounds.
         "One of the blades that you were going to take to
Princess Rimac is the Sword of Mercy."
         "Ah." Jord, who had been supporting himself on his
elbow, lay back flat again. "That explains it."
         The lady had turned her head away. The little child
was babbling somewhere on the other side of the
roof. But someone else, a huge man of about the
lady's own age, was approaching around a corner of
trellis. Birds flew out of his way. "My husband," she
explained.
         Again Jord raised himself on his elbow. "Master
Courtenay. Again my thanks."
         The big man smiled, an expression that made his
face much more pleasant in appearance. "And you
are welcome here, as I expect my wife has already
told you."
         Jord's hosts seated themselves together on a bench
nearby, and asked to hear from him about

last night's attack that had left him wounded. Both
appeared relieved when he told them he had
dispatched his lone assailant before he had collapsed
himself.
         The master of the house informed him, "A few
more of those who were following you arrived a little
later. But we managed to dispose of them."
         "Following me? More of them?" Jord swore
earthily, calling upon various anatomical features of
several gods and demons. "I feared as much, but I
saw nothing of 'em." He groaned his worry.
         Master Courtenay's thick hand made a gesture of
dismissal; there was nothing to be done about that
now. Then Coutenay glanced at his wife, a look
transmitting some kind of signal, and she faced their


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guest with the air of someone opening a new subject.
        "Jord," she asked him, "what village do you come
from?"
        It had been years since that question had surprised
him. "Why, you're quite right, Ma'am, I'm a village
man, not of the cities. And I've lived in a good many
villages."
        "But twenty years ago you were living in Arin-on-
Aldan, weren't you? And still there, up to about-ten
years ago?"
        Jord nodded, and sighed faintly. "Like a lot of other
villages, Lady, it's not there any longer. Or so I've
heard. Your pardon, gentlefolk, but most who start
asking me about my village have an earlier one than
that in mind. Treefall, the place that Vulcan took me
from to help him forge the Swords. Yes, I'm that Jord.
Not too many Jords in the world with the right arm
missing. Often I use another name, and I put most
people off when they start
asking where I'm from. But you of course I'll answer
gladly. Whatever you'd like to know."
        "We," said the huge, broad man, "are no more
gentlefolk than you. The name I was born with is
nothing like Courtenay, but simply Ben. That was in a
poor village too, where one name was enough. Ben of
Purkinje, some call me now. You've heard that
somewhere, most .likely, within the past four years.
I'm the Ben who robbed the Blue Temple, and they're
out to hunt me down. I'm pretty sure it was their
people who followed you here last night."
        "And my name is really Barbara," the lady said
simply. She moved one small pale hand in a gesture
that took in the luxury of the terrace, her whole house.
"This is all Blue Temple wealth, or was. A single
handful of their chests and baskets full of jewels."
        "Ah." Jord nodded. "I've heard of the man called
Ben who robbed those robbers. That story has gone
far and wide-"
        The lady interrupted him, eagerly. "Since you've
heard the stories, you must have heard that a man
named Mark was in on the raid with Ben, here." Here
Barbara really smiled at Jord for the first time. "And
you have a grown son named Mark, don't you?"
        "Yes," said the man on the couch. "It's a common
enough name. Why?"
        "Because it is the same Mark," the lady said. "And
we are his good friends, though we have not seen him
for a long time. He took no wealth for himself from
the Blue Temple. He's still out there soldiering, in Sir
Andrew's army. And I'm afraid he thinks that you are
dead."
        "Ah," said their visitor again. He lay back flat,

and closed his eyes, and clenched his fist. His lips
moved, as if he might be praying. Then he opened his
eyes and once more raised himself a little on his
elbow.
        He spoke to his hosts now almost as if he were
their prisoner and they his judges. "Mark had to run
away from the village, that day . . . is it ten years
now? Almost. He had to take Townsaver and get


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away with it. Yes, he saw me struck down. He must
have been thinking ever since that I'd been killed. He
wasn't able to come back, nor we to find out where
he was. So much happened, we had to leave the
village. We never had any news . . ."
        Jord's voice changed again, happily this time. "Tell
me about him. Still soldiering, you say? What-?" He
obviously had so many questions that he didn't know
where to start.
        Again someone was arriving on the rooftop. Jord
heard a door close, and footsteps came crunching
lightly along the graveled path. A pause, and a few
words in what sounded like the nursemaid's voice.
Then the footsteps resumed. This time there appeared
a slender, dark-haired youth who was introduced to
Jord as Denis, nicknamed the Quick. He greeted the
older man courteously, and stood there rubbing his
forearm through its long sleeve as if it might be sore.
        Jord rubbed his arm-stump again. Already it
seemed that the swelling, where the Sword had
touched him, was a little greater.
        Ben asked the new arrival, "What news from the
streets?"
        "None of the local people on our payroll noticed
anything out of the way around midnight. It was a
good night to be staying in."
        "Denis," said Ben, "sit down." And he indicated an
unoccpuied chair nearby. Then he turned his head and
called: "Kuan-yin? Take the baby downstairs, would
you?"
        Presently a door closed again. Four people looked
solemnly at one another. Ben said to his young
employee, "There's one thing we've not told you about
Jord yet. His reason for coming here." And at that
point Ben paused, seemingly not knowing quite what
to say next.
        His wife put in, "You must know by now, Denis,
where our political sympathies lie."
        "The same as mine, Mistress," the young man
murmured. "Or, indeed, I wouldn't be here now." But
he knew that was not- true; he would have stayed
anyway, to be near her. Might he have stayed to be
near Kuan-yin? That was more problematical.
        Ben said to him, "You also know that our guest here
is a secret courier, if not the details. And, as you can
see, someone else is now going to have to do the job.
It can't wait, and Jord can't walk."
        Jord was listening silently, frowning but not
interfering.
        "I can't leave town right now, nor can Barbara. It'll
be a well-paid job, Denis, if you'll do it."
        "Please do it," the lady of the house urged softly.
        Denis could feel his cheeks changing color a little.
He indicated agreement, almost violently. "I'll need no
special pay, sir, mistress."
        Jord was still frowning at Denis intently.
        Barbara, correctly interpreting this look, hasted to
reassure the older man. "Denis came to us a year and
a half ago, on the recommendation of the White
Temple. We had gone to them and told them we



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were looking for a likely, honest prospect to be trained
to help us in our business. A lot of people recruit
workers there, you know."
        Jord asked Denis: "How long were you there, at the
White Temple?"
        "Three years, a little more."
        "And why were you ready to leave?"
        Denis shrugged. "They were good people, they
saved my life. And it was good to serve Ardneh for a
time. But then . . ." He made a gesture, of something
fading, falling away.
        "You must have been only half grown when you
went to them."
        "And half dead also. They picked me up out of the
street after a gang fight, and brought me back to life. I
owed them .much, but I think I repaid their help in the
time that I was there. We parted on good terms."
        "Ah," said Jord. He appeared to have relaxed a
little. He looked at Ben, and said, "Well sir, the
matter's in your hands, not mine. Maybe sending this
lad is the best choice now."
        Ben cast a cautious look around, though he must
have been already certain that they were secure
against being overheard. Then he said quietly to
Denis, "You'll be carrying two Swords."
' "Two," said Denis, almost inaudibly, and he
swallowed.
        "Yes. They're both here in the house now, and I
think we must get them away as quickly as we can,
since we must assume now that the enemy are
watching the house. The city authorities are disposed
to be friendly to me; but of course the Lord Mayor is
ultimately responsible to the Silver Queen as his
overlord. And she, as we all know, is at least
sometimes an ally of Vilkata, and of the Blue Temple
too. So we cannot depend with any certainty on the
Lord Mayor's friendship, or even on his looking the
other way as we do certain things."
        "I'll do my best. I'll get them there safely," said
Denis suddenly. He looked at Barbara as he said it.
And she, smiling her approval, could see a pulse
beating suddenly in his lean throat.
        "Good," said Ben. "You're not going to take them to
the Princess, though. You'll take them in the other
direction, to Sir Andrew. I fear someone's already
waiting to waylay you on the road to Princess Rimac.
After what happened here last night I can almost feel
it."
        Jord nodded agreement, slowly and reluctantly. "We
must get the Swords into action somewhere. And Sir
Andrew's a good man, by all I've heard about him."
        "And your son serves him," Barbara reminded her
guest.
        "Aye, Lady. Still . . . I know that Rostov was
counting on the Swords. Well, the responsibility's
yours now. I failed early on."

        A little later, Denis and Jord were both watching
while Ben dug out from its hiding place the second of
the two Blades that Denis was to carry. The three
men were down on the ground floor of the house now,


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in a little-traveled area behind the main shop, inside a
storeroom that was usually kept closed with a cheap
lock. None of the miscellaneous junk readily visible
inside the shed appeared to be worth anyone's effort
to steal.
        Ben was bent over, rummaging in a pile of what
looked like scrap metal, consisting mainly of

swordblades and knifeblades, bent or broken or
rusted, in all cases long disused. Denis could not
remember when he had seen any of the metalworkers
actually using this stuff.
        From near the bottom of this pile of the
treacherously sharp edges, Ben carefully brought out,
one at a time, two weapons-the blades of both were
long, blackened, but unbent. And these two also had
hilts, which a majority of the others did not.
        Before wiping the two blades clean, Ben held them
out to Jord. The older man put out his hand, hesitated,
and then touched a hilt, all of its details invisible under
carefully applied oil and grime.
        "Doomgiver," said the only human who had ever
handled all the Twelve. "There's not one of them I'd
fail to recognize."

        The remainder of the day and much of the night had
passed before Denis was ready to depart. He was not
allowed one thing he asked for: a private good-bye
with young Kuan-yin, the nursemaidBen said they
would tell her that Denis had had to leave suddenly on
a business trip of an indefinite duration. That had
happened before, and Kuan-yin should not be too
surprised.
        Denis got in some sleep also. There were
instructions to be memorized, which took a little time:
He dressed in white, in imitation of a lone Ardneh-
pilgrim, for his departure. Ben gave him some money
and some equipment. And Denis also had a private
conference with Jord.
        When it was time to go, in the hour before dawn,
Denis was surprised not to be conducted to the back
door, where Jord had come in. Instead the master,
Old World light in hand, led Denis down a flight of
stairs into a place that Denis knew as nothing more
than a cramped basement storeroom. The place
smelled thickly of damp. There were the scurrying
sounds of rats, evidence that the creatures somehow
defied the anti-rodent spells and poisons that were
both periodically renewed.
        The master used his strength to shift a heavy bale
out of position. Then it turned out that one of the
massive stones that made up this chamber's floor
could be tilted up. Looking down into the cavity thus
created, Denis was surprised when the light showed
him a steady current of water of unknown depth,
scarcely a meter below his feet. Even though he
knew how close the house was to the river, he had
never suspected.
        The man who Denis was now beginning to know as
Ben bent down and caught hold of a thin chain within
the opening. Then he tugged until the white prow of a


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well-kept canoe appeared, bobbing with the water's
motion.
        "I loaded her up this afternoon," Ben grunted, "while
you were sleeping. Your cargo's under this floorboard
here. The two Swords, wrapped in a blanket so they
won't rattle. And sheathed, of course. They may get
wet but they won't rust." Ben spoke with the calm
authority of experience. "There's a paddle, and I think
everything else that you're going to need."
        Denis had used canoes a time or two before, on
trading missions for the House of Courtenay. He
could manage the craft well enough. But it wasn't
obvious yet how he was going to get this one back to
the river.
        Ben gave him directions. You had to crouch down
low in the boat at first, to keep from banging your

head on the low ceiling of the secret waterway. Then
you moved the craft forward through the narrow
channel by pushing and tugging on the stonework of
the sides. There was not far to go, obviously, to reach
the river.
        There were no markings on the white canoe, Denis
observed as he lowered himself carefully aboard.
There was nothing in it, or on Denis, to connect the
canoe or him to the House of Courtenay. Once Denis
was on his way, the plan called for him to play the role
of a simple Ardneh-pilgrim; his White Temple
experience would fit him well for that. As a pilgrim, it
was relatively unlikely that he'd be bothered by
robbers. Everyone had some interest in the availability
of medical care, and therefore in the wellbeing of
those who could provide it. A second point was that
Ardneh's people were less likely than most to be
carrying much of value. In the .third place, Ardneh
was still a respected god, even if the better-educated
insisted that he was dead, and a good many people still
feared what might happen to them if they offended
him.
        Last farewells were brief. Only the mistress of the
house, to Denis's surprise, appeared at the last
moment, to press his hand at parting. The warmth of
her fingers stayed with his, like something sealed by
magic. He could not savor it now, nor get much of a
last look at her, because it was time to crouch down in
his canoe, to give his head the necessary clearance.
Somebody released the chain for him, and he began to
pull the light craft forward, working hand over hand
against the rough wall of the narrow subterranean
passage. He was propelling himself against the
current, and away from the
light. Darkness deepened to totality as the floor-
stone was lowered crunching back into place.
        Denis pulled on. Presently a ghost of watery light
reached his eyes from somewhere ahead. He man-
aged to see a low stone lintel athwart his course,
and to bend his head and body almost completely
down under the gunwales to get himself beneath
the barrier.
        His craft had now emerged into a larger cham-
ber, and one not quite as completely dark. There


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was room enough for Denis to sit up straight. In a
moment he realized that there were timbers about
him, rising out of the water in a broad framework,
and supporting a flat wooden surface a meter of so
above his head. Denis realized that he was now
directly underneath a riverside dock.
        There were gaps between pilings large enough for
the canoe to pass, and leading to the lesser darkness
of the open, foggy night. Emerging cautiously from
underneath the dock, using his paddle freely now,
Denis found himself afloat upon a familiar channel
of the river. Right there was the house he had just
left, all windows darkened as if everyone inside
were fast asleep. If there was other traffic on the
river tonight, he could not see or hear it in the fog.
At this hour, he doubted that there was.
        Denis turned the prow of his canoe upstream, and
paddled steadily. The first gleams of daylight were
already becoming visible in the eastern sky, and he
wanted to reach the gate in the city walls at dawn,
when it routinely opened for the day. There would
probably be a little incoming traffic, produce
barges and such, waiting outside; the watch ought
to pass him out promptly, and most likely without
paying much attention to him.

        This channel of the river took him past familiar
sights of the great city. Most people Denis had met
said that it was the greatest in the world, but who
knew the truth of that? Here on the right bank were
the cloth-dyers, as usual starting their work early,
already staining the water as they rinsed out the
long banners of their product. And on the other
bank, one of the fish-markets was opening.
        Now through thinning fog there came into
Denis's sight the city walls themselves, taller than
all but a very few of the buildings they protected,
and thick as houses for most of their height. They
were build of almost indestructible stone, hard-
ened, the stories had it, by the Old World magic
called technology. They were supported at close
intervals by formidable towers of the same mate-
rial. Tested over five hundred years by scores of
sieges (so it was said), threatened again and again
by ingenious engines of attack, and various
attempts at undermining, they still stood guard
over a city that since they were built had never
fallen to military attack. Kings and Queens and
mighty generals had raged impotently outside
those walls, and would-be conquerors had died
there at the hands of their own rebellious troops.
Siege, starvation, massacre, all had been threat-
ened against Tashigang, but all in vain. The Corgo
flowed year-round, and was always bountiful with
fish. The prudent burghers and Lords Mayor of the
city had a tradition of keeping good supplies of
other food on hand, and-perhaps most important
of all-of choosing their outside enemies and allies
with the greatest care.
        Now the gate that closed the waterway was going
up, opening this channel of the river for passage.


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The river-gate was a portcullis built on a titanic
scale, wrought by the same engineering genius as
the city walls. Its movement was assisted by great
counterweights that rode on iron chains, supported
by pulleys built into the guard-towers of the wall.
The raising made a familiar city-morning noise,
and took some little time.
        There was another huge iron chain spanning the
channel underwater, as extra proof against the
passage of any sizeable hostile vessel. But Denis did
not have to wait for that to be lowered into the bot-
tom mud. With a wave of his hand that was casu-
ally answered by the watch, he headed out, plying
his paddle energetically.
        He went on up the river, now and again looking
back. With the morning mist still mounting, the
very towers of Tashigang seemed to be melting into
it, like some fabric of enchantment.

CHAPTER 5

        In Mark's ears was the endless sound of hard,
hooflike footpads beating the earth, of moving ani-
mals and men. Day after day in the sun and dust,
night after night by firelight, there was not much in
the way of human speech. He and the patrol of the
Dark King's troops escorting him entered and trav-
ersed lands heavily scarred by war and occupation,
a region of burned-out villages and wasted fields.
With each succeeding day the devastation appeared
more recent, and Mark decided that the army that
had caused it could no longer be far away. The only
human inhabitants of this region clearly visible
were the dead, those who had been impaled or
hanged for acts of resistance perhaps, or perhaps
only on a whim, for a conqueror's sport.
        At first Mark had known faint doubts about
where he was being taken. These now disappeared.
It was his experience that all armies on the march
caused destruction, but only the Dark King's forces
moved with this kind of relentless savagery. A few
of the human victims on display wore clothing that
had once been white; evidently not even Ardneh's
people were being spared by Vilkata now.
        Even animal life was scarce, except for the omni-
present scavenger birds and reptiles. As the patrol
passed, these sometimes rose, hooting or cawing,
from some hideous feast near roadside. Once a live
and healthy-looking goat inspected the men
through a gap in a hedge as they went cantering by.
        Mark's escort had never questioned his right to
give them orders, and they got on briskly with the
business of obeying the one real order he had so far
issued. Familiar as he was with armies and with
war, he considered these to be well-disciplined and
incredibly tough-looking troops. They spoke the
common language with an accent that Mark found
unfamiliar, and they wore Vilkata's black and gold
only in the form of small tokens pinned to their hats
or vests of curly fur.
        One more thing about these men was soon just as


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apparent as their discipline and toughness: they
were for some reason mightily afraid of Mark. In
what form they perceived him he could only guess,
but whatever it was induced in them quiet terror
and scrupulous obedience.
        In Mark's immediate presence the men rarely
spoke at all, even to each other, but when they were
at some distance he saw them talking and gesturing
freely among themselves. Occasionally when they
thought he was not watching one of them would
make a sign in his direction, that Mark interpreted
as some kind of charm to ward off danger. Gradu-
ally he decided that they must see him as some
powerful and dangerous wizard they knew to be in
Vilkata's service.

         Upon recovering from their first surprise at his
approach, they had been quick to offer him food
and drink, and his pick of their riding beasts for his
own use-they had been traveling with a couple of
spare mounts. Each night when they halted, Mark
built his own small fire, a little apart from theirs,.
He had soon decided that they would feel some-
what easier that way, and in truth he felt easier
himself.
         The country grew higher, and the nights, under a
Moon waxing toward full, grew chill. Using the
blanket that had been rolled up behind the saddle
of his borrowed mount, Mark slept in reasonable
comfort. He slept with one hand always on the hilt
of Sightblinder, though he felt confident that the
mere presence of the Sword in his possession would
be enough to maintain his magical disguise. He was
vaguely reassured to see that the patrol always
posted sentries at night, in a professional manner.
         The journey proceeded swiftly. On the afternoon
of the fourth day after Mark had joined them, the
patrol rode into sight of Vilkata's main encamp-
ment.
         As the riders topped a small, barren rise of land,
the huge bivouac came into view a kilometer ahead,
on slightly lower ground. The sprawling camp was
constructed around what looked to Mark like a
large parade ground of scraped and flattened earth.
The camp appeared to be laid out in good order, but
it was not surrounded by a palisade or any other
defensive works. Rather it sprawled arrogantly
exposed, as if on the assumption that no power on
earth was going to dare attack it. Mark considered
gloomily that the assumption was probably cor-
rect.
         As he and his escort rode nearer to the camp, he
realized that it probably contained not only more
human troops than he had ever seen in one place
before, but a greater variety of them as well, housed
in a wild assortment of tents and other temporary
shelters. The outer pickets of the camp, men and
women patrolling with leashed warbeasts, made no
attempt to challenge Mark and his escort as they
approached. And Mark observed that when the
human sentries were close enough to get a good


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look at him, they, like his escort originally, shrank
back perceptibly.
        He had to wonder again: Who, or what, did they
see? And who or what would Vilkata see when Mark
entered his presence, if Mark succeeded in pushing
matters that far? It was hard for Mark to imagine
that there could be anyone the Dark King either
feared or loved.
        Only now, at last, did Mark clearly consider that
he might be headed for a personal encounter with
the Dark King. He had first approached the patrol
with no more than a vague idea of eavesdropping
on the enemy's secret councils, just as Draffut said
he had moved unrecognized among the gods. Now
for the first time Mark saw that it might be his duty
to accomplish something more than that. The
thought was vastly intriguing and at the same time
deeply frightening, and he did not try now to think
it through to any definite conclusion.
        He rode on, still surrounded by his escort, until
they were somewhere deep inside the vast encamp-
ment. There the patrol halted, and its members
began an animated discussion among themselves,
in some dialect that Mark could not really follow.
Judging that the debate might be on how to sepa-

rate themselves from him as safely and properly as
possible, he took the matter into his own hands by
dismounting, and then dismissing both his steed
and his escort with what he hoped looked like an
arrogantly confident wave of his hand.
        Turning his back on the patrol then, Mark stalked
away on foot, heading for a tall flagpole that was
visible above the nearby tents. The pole supported
a long banner of black and gold, hanging limp now
in the windless air. Mark hoped and expected that
this flag marked the location of some central head-
quarters. As he walked toward it he saw the heads
of soldiers and camp-followers turn, their attention
following him as he passed; and he saw too that
some people either speeded up or slowed their own
progress, in order not to cross his path too closely.
        Now he had to detour around some warbeasts'
pens, the smell and the mewing of the great catlike
creatures coming out of them in waves. Now he was
in sight of one corner of the vast parade ground.
From the farther reaches of its expanse, somewhere
out of Mark's sight, there sounded the chant and
drumbeat of some hapless infantry unit condemned
to drilling in the heat. Looking across the nearest
corner of the field, he could now see the tall flagpole
at full length. There was a wooden reviewing stand
beside the flagpole, and behind the stand a magnifi-
cent pavilion. This was a tent larger than most
houses, of black and gold cloth.
        Mark stalked directly toward the great pavilion,
considering that it had to be the Dark King's head-
quarters. His right hand, riding on the hilt of
sheathed Sightblinder, could feel a new hum of
power in the Sword; perhaps there were guardian
spells here that had to be overcome.


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        The front of the reviewing stand displayed
another copy of Vilkata's flag, this one stretched
out to reveal the design, a skull of gold upon a
field of black. The eyesockets of the skull stared
forth sightlessly, twin windows into night.
        Again Mark had to make a small detour, round
more low cages that he at first thought held more
warbeasts. But the wood-slatted cages looked too
small for that. All but one of them were empty, and
that one held . . . the naked body confined inside
was human.
        Abruptly something shimmered in the air above
Mark's head, broadcasting torment. As Mark
moved instinctively to step aside, this presence
moved with him. Only at this moment did he real-
ize that it was sentient.
        And only a moment after that did he realize that
he was being confronted by a demon.
        And the demon was addressing him, demanding
something of him, though not in human speech.
Whether its communication was meant for his ears
or to enter his mind directly he could not tell. Nor
could he grasp more than fragments of the mean-
ing. It was basically a challenge: Why was he here?
Why was he here now, when he ought to be some-
where else? Why was he as he was?
        He realized with a shock that he was going to
have to answer it, to offer something analogous to a
password before it would allow him to pass this
point, or even release him. What image it saw when
it looked at him evidently did not matter. Here,
approaching the pavilion, everyone must be
stopped. And he doubted there was anything, or
anyone, that this demon feared or loved.
        Mark could no more answer the demonic voice

intelligently, in its own terms, than he could have
held converse with a bee. He knew fear, exploding
into terror. He ought to have foreseen that here
there might be such formidable guardians, here at
the heart of Vilkata's power and control; the Dark
King himself was most likely in that huge tent
ahead. Here, perhaps, they had even been able to
plan defenses against the Sword of Stealth. Here its
powers were not going to be enough-
        Only moments had passed since the demon had
first challenged him, but already Mark could sense
the creature's growing suspicion. Now it sent an
even more urgent interrogation crashing against
Mark's mind. Now it was probing him, searching
for evidence of the signs and keys of magic that he
did not possess. In a moment it would be certain
that he was some imposter, not a wizard after all.
        In his desperation Mark grasped at a certain
memory, four years old but still vivid. It was the
recollection of his only previous close encounter
with a demon, in the depths of the buried treasure-
vaults of the Blue Temple. Now, in desperate imita-
tion of what another had done then, Mark gasped
out a command into the shimmering air:
        "In the Emperor's name, depart and let me


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pass!"
        There was a momentary howling in the air.
Simultaneously there came a tornado-blast of
wind, lasting only for an instant. Mark caught a last
shred of communication from the thing that chal-
lenged him-it was outraged, it had definitely
identified him as an imposter. But that did not mat-
ter. The demon could do nothing about it, for in the
next instant it was gone, gone instantaneously, as if
yanked away on invisible steel cables that extended
to infinity.
        Now the air above Mark was quiet and clear, but
moments passed before his senses, jarred by the
encounter, returned to normal. He realized that he
had stumbled and almost fallen, and that his body
was bent over, hands halfway outstretched in front
of him, as if to avoid searing heat or ward off dread-
ful danger. It had been a very near thing indeed.
        Hastily he drew himself erect, looking around
carefully. Wherever the demon had gone, there was
no sign it was coming back. A few people were
standing, idly or in conversation, near the front of
the pavilion, and he supposed that at least some of
them must have noticed something of the challenge
and his response. But all of them, as far as Mark
could tell, were going on about their business as if
nothing at all out of the ordinary had taken place.
Maybe, he thought, that was the necessary attitude
here, in what must be a constant center of intrigue.
        Mark walked on. Having now passed the prison
cages and the reviewing stand, he was within a few
paces of the huge pavilion, by all indications the
tent of Vilkata himself. Having come this far, Mark
swore that he was going forward. Two human sen-
tries flanked the central doorway of the huge tent,
but to his relief these only offered him deep bows as
he approached. Without responding he passed
between them, and into a shaded entry.
        Cool perfumed lair, doubtless provided by some
means of magic, wafted about him. Mark paused,
letting his eyes adjust to the relative gloom, and he
had a moment in which to wonder: How could any
spell as simple as the one he had just used, recited
by a mundane non-magician like himself, repel

even the weakest demon? And what a repulsion!
Repulsion was the wrong word. It had been instant
banishment, as if by catapult.
         His puzzlement was not new; essentially the
same question had been nagging at him off and on
for the past four years, ever since a similar experi-
ence in the Blue Temple treasure vaults. Mark had
recounted that event to several trusted magicians
in the meantime, and none had given him a satis-
factory explanation, though they had all found the
occurrence extremely interesting.
         He was not going to have time to ponder the mat-
ter now.
         From just inside the inner doorway of the tent he
could hear voices, five or six of them perhaps, men's
and women's mixed, chanting softly what Mark


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took to be words of magic. The voices came wafting
out with the cool air and the perfume, some kind of
incense burning. There was another odor mingled
with it now, one not intrinsically unpleasant; but
when Mark thought that he recognized it, the
strength seemed to drain from his arms and legs,
making it momentarily impossible to go on. He
thought that he could recognize the smell of burn-
ing human flesh.
        Ardneh be with me, Mark prayed mechanically,
and wished even more ardently that living, solid
Draffut could be with him also. Then he put back a
heavy curtain with his hand, and made himself
walk forward into the next chamber of the tent. A
moment later he wished that he had not.
        The human body fastened to the stone altar-table
was not dead, for it still moved within the limits of
its bonds, but it had somehow been deprived of the
power to cry out. Yesterday it had probably been
young; whether it had then been male or female
was no longer easy to determine, in the dim light of
the smoking lamp that hung above the altar.
Around the altar half a dozen magicians of both
sexes were gathered, various implements of torture
in their hands. There was a lot of blood, most of it
neatly confined to the altar itself, where carved
troughs and channels drained it away. Near the
altar stood a small brazier, with the insulated
handles of more torture-tools protruding from the
glow of coals.
        Mark had seen bad things before, in dungeons
and in war; still he had to wait for a moment after
entering. He closed his eyes, gripping tightly the
hilt of Sightblinder, cursing the Sword for what it
had let him see when he looked at the victim. He
knew a powerful urge to draw the Sword, and
slaughter these villains where they stood. But a sec-
ond thought assured him that it would not be easy
to accomplish that. The air in here was thick with
familiars and other powers, so thick that even a
mundane could hardly fail to be aware of them.
Those powers might now be deceived about Mark,
but let him draw a sword and they would take note,
and he thought they would not permit their human
masters to be slaughtered.
        And there was something more important, he
was beginning to realize, that he must accomplish
here before he died.
        The half dozen who were gathered around the
altar-table, garbed and hooded in various combina-
tions of gold and black, paid little attention to Mark
when he entered. One of their number did glance in
the newcomer's direction, taking a moment from

the chant between the great slow pulse-beats of its
hideous magic in the air.
        "Thought you were off somewhere else," a man's
voice casually remarked.
        "Not just now," said Mark. He exerted a great
effort trying to make his own voice equally casual.
Whatever the other heard from him was evidently


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acceptable, for the man with a brief smile under his
hood turned back to his foul task.
        Mark stood waiting, praying mechanically for a
sign from somewhere as to what he ought to do
next. He did not want to retreat, and he hesitated to
move on into the interior doorway he saw at the
other side of the torture chamber. And he continued
to wish devoutly that he could somehow get out of
sight of what was on this table.
        Presently one of the women in the group turned
her face toward him. She asked, in a sharp, busi-
nesslike voice: "This area is secure?"
        Not knowing what else to do, Mark answered
affirmatively, with a grave inclination of his head.
        The woman frowned at him lightly. "I thought I
had detected some possible intrusion, very well
masked . . . but you are the expert there. And I
thought also that our next subject, the one still in
the cage outside, possesses some peculiar protec-
tion. But we shall see when we have her in here."
Briskly the woman turned back to her work.
        Mark, with only a general idea of what she must
be talking about, nodded again. And again his
answer appeared to be acceptable. Whoever they
took him for, none of these people seemed to think it
especially odd that he should continue to stand
there, watching them or looking away. He contin-
ued standing, waiting for he knew not what.
        Quite soon another one of the men turned away
from the altar, as if his portion of the bloody ritual
were now complete. This man left the group and
approached a table near Mark, there to deposit his
small bloodstained knife in a black bowl of some
liquid that splashed musically when the small
implement went in.
        Then, standing very near Mark and speaking in a
low voice, this man asked him, "Come, tell me-
why did he really summon you back here?" When
there was no immediate reply, the man added, in a
voice suddenly filled with injured pride, "All right
then, be silent, as befits your office. Only don't
expect those you keep in the dark now to be eager to
help you later, when-"
        The man broke off abruptly at that point. It was
as if he had been warned of something, by some sig-
nal that Mark totally failed to perceive. The man
turned his face away from Mark, and toward the
doorway that Mark had supposed must lead into
the inner chambers of the pavilion.
        Meanwhile one of those still at the altar warned,
in a low voice: "The Master comes." All present-
except of course the sacrificial victim-fell to their
knees, Mark moving a beat behind the rest.
        It was Vilkata himself who emerged a moment
later through the curtains of sable black. Mark had
never laid eyes on the Dark King before, but still he
could not doubt for an instant who this was.
        The first impression was of angular height, of a
man taller than Mark himself, robed in a simple
cloth of black and gold. The hood of the garment
was pulled back, leaving the wearer's head bare


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except for a simple golden circlet, binding back
long ringlets of white hair. The exposed face and

hands of the Dark King were very pale, suggesting
that the whiteness of the hair and of the curled
beard resulted from some type of albinism rather
than from age.
        The second impression Mark received was that
some of the more horrible tales might be true, for
the Dark King was actually, physically blind.
Under the golden circlet, the long-lashed lids
sagged over what must be empty sockets, spots of
softness in a face dtherwise all harsh masculine
angles. According to the worst of the stories, this
man in his youth had put out his own eyes, as part
of some dreadful ritual necessary to overpower his
enemies' magic and gain some horrible revenge.
        Looped around Vilkata's lean waist was a sword-
belt of black and gold, and in the dependent sheath
there rode a Sword. Even in the dim light Mark
could not fail to recognize that plain black hilt, so
like the one he was now clasping hard in his own
sweaty fist. And Mark, his own vision augmented in
some ways by Sightblinder, could not miss the
small stylized white symbol of a banner that
marked Vilkata's Sword.
        It was of course the Mindsword, just as Draffut
had warned. Mark was struck with the instant con-
viction that what he had to do now was to get the
Mindsword out of Vilkata's possession, prevent his
using it to seize the world. The decision needed no
pondering, no consideration of consequences.
        Vilkata's blind face turned from left to right and
back again, as if he might be somehow scrutinizing
his assembled magicians carefully. Mark could
read no particular expression on the harsh counte-
nance of the Dark King. Then one large, pale hand
extended itself from inside Vilkata's robe, making a
lifting gesture, a signal to his counselors that they
might stand. Would the King have known, Mark
wondered, if they had all been standing instead of
kneeling as he entered? But then there would not
have been this faint robe-rustle sound of rising.
        Mark held his breath as the blind face turned once
more toward him, and this time stayed turned in his
direction. Behind those eyelashes, white and
grotesquely long, the pale collapsed lids were as
magnetic as any stare. Something about them was
perversely beautiful.
        There was a tiny almost inaudible humming, a
miniature disturbance in the air near the Dark King's
head. Some demonic or familiar power was
communicating with him-so Mark perceived, watching
with Sightblinder's handle in the grip of his hand.
        The Dark King seemed about to speak, but
hesitated, as if he were magically aware that
something was wrong, that matters here in this
innermost seat of his power were not as they should
be. Still the blind face confronted Mark, and Vilkata
whispered a soft question into the air. A humming
answer came. Mark could feel the power of the


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sheathed Sword at his own side suddenly thrum more
strongly.
        When Vilkata did speak aloud, Mark was surprised
at the sound of his voice, smooth, deep, and pleasant.
        "Burslem, I am surprised to see you here. I take it
that the task I sent you on has been completed?"
        Burslem. To Mark the name meant nothing. "It is
indeed, my lord. My head on it."
        "Indeed, as you say . . . now all of you, finish
quickly what you are about in here. I want you all

at the conference table as quickly as possible. The
generals are waiting." And Vilkata and his halfvisible
familiar vanished, behind a sable swirl of draperies.
        One wizard, a junior member of the group perhaps,
stayed behind briefly to settle whatever still remained
to be settled upon their ghastly altar. The others,
Mark among them, filed through the doorway where
Vilkata had disappeared. They passed through the
next chamber, which was filled with what looked like
draped furniture, and entered the next beyond that.
        The room was larger, and somewhat better lighted.
It contained a conference table large enough to
accommodate in its surrounding chairs all of the
magicians and an approximately equal number of
military-looking men and women, who as Vilkata had
said were already seated and waiting. The military
people wore symbolic scraps of armor, though as
Mark noted none of them were visibly armed there in
the presence of their King. Vilkata himself,
predictably, was seated in a larger chair than the
others, at one end of the table. Behind him a map on a
large scale, supported on wooden poles, bore many
symbols, indicating among other things what appeared
to be the positions of several armies. There was
Tashigang, near the center of the map, there the
winding Corgo making its way northward to the sea.
There was the Great Swamp ....
        Mark was making a hasty effort to memorize the
types and positions of the symbols on the map, but the
distractions at the moment were overpowering. The
magicians were taking their places at the table, and
fortunately there seemed to be little ceremony
about it. But again Mark had to delay marginally, to
be able to make a guess as to what place Burslem
ought to take. He was not sure whether to be relieved
or not, when he found himself pulling out the last
vacant chair, some distance down the table from the
King.
        As the faint noise of people seated themselves died
out, a silence hold upon the room, and stretched. As
Vilkata sat on his raised chair, the hilt of the
Mindsword at his side was plainly visible to the rest of
the assembly. And the humming presence above the
King's head came and went, all but imperceptibly to
the others in the room.
        "I see," the Dark King said at last-and if there was
irony in those two words, Mark thought that it was
subtly measured-"that none of you are able to tear
your eyes away from my new toy here at my side.
Doubtless you are wondering where I got it, and how


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I managed to so without your help. Well, I'll give you
all a close look at it presently. But first there's a
report or two I want to hear."
        Again the blind face turned back and forth, as if
Vilkata were seeking to make sure of something. A
faint frown creased the white brow, otherwise
youthfully unlined. "Burslem," the Dark King added in
his pleasant voice, "I want to hear your report in
private, a little later. After you have seen my Sword."
        "As you will, Lord," Mark said clearly. In his own
ears, his voice still sounded like his own. The others
all heard it without noticing anything amiss. But
whatever Vilkata heard did not erase his faint
suspicious frown.
        Now some of the magicians and generals, following
an order of precedence that Mark could not

identify, began to make reports to the King and his
council, each speaker in turn standing up at his or her
own place at the table. The unsuspected spy was able
to listen, half-comprehending, to lists of military units,
to descriptions of problems in levying troops and
gathering supplies, to unexpected difficulties with the
constructions of a road that would be needed later to
facilitate the unexplained movement of some army. It
seemed to Mark that invaluable facts, information vital
for Sir Andrew and his allies, were marching at a fast
pace into his ears and out again. Listen! he demanded
of himself in silent anguish. Absorb this, retain it! Yet
it seemed that he could not. Then there came a
relieving thought. When he saw Dame Yoldi again,
she would be able to help him recapture anything that,
he heard now; he had seen her do as much for others
in the past.
        If he ever got to see Dame Yoldi's beautiful face
again. If he ever managed to leave this camp alive.
        There was the monstrous Sword at Vilkata's side,
and here was Vilkata himself, seated within what
looked like easy striking distance of Mark's own
Sword, or of -his bow-Mark still had his two arrows
left. More important by far, thought Mark, than any
mere information that could be collected, would be to
deprive the Dark King of the Mindsword, and, if
possible, of his own evil life as well.
        Mark knew of no way by which the Mindsword, or
any of its eleven peers, could be destroyed. The only
way he could deprive the enemy of its use would be
by capturing it himself, and getting away with it.
There was a chance, he told himself, maybe even a
good chance, that Sightblinder could disguise and
preserve him against demonic and
human fury while he did so. Against demons he had a
new hope now, hope in the inexplicable power of a
few simple words.
        It seemed likely that he would have to kill Vilkata to
get the Mindsword from him. And that would be a
good deed in itself. Yes, he would kill Vilkata . . . if he
could. If the evil magicians in the outer chamber had
had magical defenses, how much stronger, if less
obvious, would be those of the Dark King himself?
        To strike at Vilkata successfully, he would have to


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choose his moment with great care. Bound into his
own thoughts by calculation and fear, Mark lost touch
with the discussion that was going on around the
table. Presently, with a small shock, he realized that
the Dark King was now addressing his assembled
aides, and had been speaking for some time. All of
them-including Mark himself, half consciously-were
answering from time to time with nods and murmurs
of agreement. Probably Mark had been roused to full
attention by the fact that the voice of the Dark King
was now rising to an oratorical conclusion:
        "-our plan is war, and our plan goes forward
rapidly!"
        There was general applause, immediate and loud.
The first to respond in a more particular way was a
bluff, hearty-looking military man, who wore a scrap
or two of armor to indicate his status. This man
leaped to his feet with apparently spontaneous
enthusiasm, and with a kind of innocence in his face.
        There was a tone of hearty virtue in his voice as
well. "Who are we going to hit first, sir?"
        Vilkata paused before he turned his blind face

toward the questioner, as if perhaps the Dark King
had found, the question none too intelligent. "We are
going to hit Yambu. She is the strongest-next to me-
and therefore the most dangerous. Besides, I have
just received disturbing news about her . . . but of that
I will speak a little later."
        Here Vilkata paused again. The almost inaudible
humming, almost invisible vibration, continued to
perturb the air above his head. "I see that most of you
are still unable to keep from staring at my plaything
here," he said, and put his pale right hand on his
Sword's hilt. "Very well. Because I want you, later, to
be able to concentrate upon our planning-I will
demonstrate it now!"
        The last word burst in a great shout from the Dark
King's throat, and in the same moment he sprang to
his feet. And Mark thought that the Mindsword itself,
as the King drew and brandished it aloft, made a faint
roaring noise, like that of many human voices cheering
at a distance.
        Even here, in the dim smoky interior of this tent, the
flourished steel flashed gloriously, seeming to stab at
the eyes with light. Mark had never seen, nor ever
imagined that he would see, anything so beautiful.
Like all the others round the table he found himself on
his feet, and he was only dimly aware of his chair
toppling over behind him.
        At that moment, Sightblinder, with Mark's hand on
its hilt, came leaping by itself halfway out of its own
sheath, as if it were springing to accept the challenge
of its peer.
        But Mark could not tear his eyes free of the
Mindsword. The terrible force of it was tugging at
him. Wordlessly it demanded that he throw his own
Sword down at Vilkata's feet, and himself after it,
pledging eternal loyalty to the Dark King. And
already, only half realizing what he did, Mark had
gone down on his knees again, amid a small crowd of


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wizards who were doing the same thing.
        The cheering roar of the Mindsword drowned all
other sound, the glitter of its blade filled every eye.
        Mark wondered why he had come here to this
camp, why he had entered this tent . . . but what-
ever the reason, it hardly mattered now. All that
mattered now was that instantly, instantly, he
should begin a new lifetime of service to Vilkata.
That flashing steel thing told him that he must, that
glorious Blade that was the most beautiful thing
under the heavens or in them. Nothing that it told
him could possibly be wrong.
        He stood somehow in danger, danger of being left
behind, left out, if he did not swear his fealty at
once, as the other kneeling shapes around him were
doing now. Voices that in the outer chamber had
sounded cynical were now hoarse with fervor, gab-
bling the most extravagant oaths. What was it that
made him, Mark, delay? Something must be wrong
with him, something about him must be unfor-
givably different.
        He was groveling on the floor with the others,
mouthing words along with them, but he knew his
oaths meant nothing, they were not sincere. Why
was he hesitating? How could he? He must, at once,
consecrate himself body and soul to the Dark King.
How glorious it would be to fight and conquer in
that name! And how perfect would be a death, any
form of death, attained in such a cause! There was
nothing that a man need fear, as long as that glit-
tering Sword led him. Or, there was but one thing
fearful only-the chance that such a glorious oppor-

tunity might somehow be missed-that death
might come in some merely ordinary way, and so
be wasted.
So why, then, did he delay?
        Mark's mind swayed under the Mindsword's
power, but did not yield to it entirely. A stubborn
core of resistance remained in place. He was not
tarried into action, beyond the meaningless imita-
tive oaths and grovelings. Part of his mind contin-
ued to understand that he must resist. His right
hand still clutched Sightblinder's hilt, and he
thought that he still drew power from it. Inside the
core of his mind that was still sane, he could only
hope and trust in the existence of some power that
might save him-even though he could no longer
remember clearly just why he needed saving.
        Cowering on his knees like those around him,
Mark watched the Mindsword flash on high. From
that beautiful arc emanated a droning roar, as of
many voices raised in praise, voices that never
stopped to breathe. Against the background of that
sound, the voice of the Dark King was rising and
falling theatrically, like that of some spellcaster in
a play. Vilkata was reciting and detailing now all of
the malignant and detestable qualities that marked
the Queen of Yambu as a creature of special evil.
One accusation in particular, that the voice empha-
sized, caught at and inflamed Mark's imagination,


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stinging him with the unimaginable foulness that it
represented. Even among her other shameless
deeds this one stood out: Not only did she possess
the Sword called Soulcutter, but she intended to
begin to use it soon. And to use it against the
blessed Dark King, the savior of the world!
        In spite of himself, Mark groaned in rage. He
found himself imagining his hands locked on the throat
of the Silver Queen, and strangling her. Other
groaning, outraged voices joined around him, until the
pavilion sounded like the torture chamber that it truly
was.
        And when the Dark King paused, the voices rose
up even louder, crying aloud their heartfelt protest
against Yambu. That she should so plot to warp their
minds with Soulcutter's foul magic, that she should
even for a moment contemplate such a thing, was a
sin crying to the gods for her to be wiped out,
expunged from the Earth's face, at once and without
mercy!
        Vilkata had lowered the blade a little now, holding
the hilt no higher than his shoulders. But still the steel
kept twinkling above them like a star. As far as Mark
could tell, there was no resistance at all in any of the
audience except himself. And how much was left in
him, he did not know.
        One of the wizards, he who had whispered
conspiratorially to Mark in the outer chamber, now
abandoned himself entirely. With a great frenzied
howl he sprang up on the conference table, his arms
outstretched to gather that glorious Blade to his own
bosom. But the Dark King withdrew the weapon out
of the wizard's reach, and with a lunge the magician
fell on his face among the tipped and scattered chairs.
        It seemed a signal for general pandemonium. Men
and women rolled back and forth on the tent floor.
They scrambled to stand on furniture, they danced
and sang in maddened cacophony. Cries and grunts
came jolting out of them, until the council chamber
looked and sounded like a small battlefield.

        The sounds of a more familiar danger helped Mark
regain some small additional measure of control. He
huddled almost motionless on the floor, trying to
remember where he was, and who he had been
before that Sword appeared.
        Now the Dark King flourished his Sword above his
head in a new gesture, like a field commander's signal
to advance. And now Vilkata, guided by the humming
presence that hovered always near him, was moving
in long, sure strides around the conference table,
passing through the litter of chairs and humanity that
almost filled the room. He was heading for the front
entrance of the pavilion.
        Mark, caught up in the rush of people following the
King, was jostled against the torture-altar when
passing through the outer chamber. He felt something
sticky on his hand, gazed at it dumbly and saw blood.
It was frightening, but he could not understand ....
        Exiting from the pavilion's front door, Vilkata strode
forth into the sun, whose light exploded from the


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Sword he carried into a thousand piercing lances. His
little mob of followers, including Mark, accompanied
him out into the glare, leaping and chanting with a look
of ecstasy. At once their numbers were augmented
by those who happened to be near when the Dark
King emerged with glory in his hands. The air above
the swelling crowd was wavering, as if with the heat
of a great fire; familiar powers and small demons
were moving in concert with their magician masters,
and sharing their excitement, whether in joy or fear
Mark could not tell.
        The Mindsword swung in Vilkata's grip. It shattered
the bright sun into lightning, whose bolts
struck left and right. The hundreds who were near,
and then the thousands only a little farther off,
gaped in surprise, and then were caught up in the
savage enthusiasm.
        Vilkata,marched on without hesitation, heading
for the reviewing stand. The crowd surging around
him was growing explosively, and already seemed
to number in the thousands. Men and women,
caught by curiosity, by the attraction of the grow-
ing crowd itself, came running through the camp
from all directions, to be captured at close range by
the sight of the blinding Blade. Again and again,
through the waves of merely human cheering, Mark
thought that he could hear the surf like oar of the
Sword itself, grown louder in proportion to the
crowd it led.
        Now, somewhere out on the parade ground,
beyond the cages for prisoners and beasts, an enor-
mous drum began to bang. The growling and snarl-
ing of the caged warbeasts went up, to challenge in
its volume the whole mass of human voices.
        Now, across the whole vast reach of the parade
ground, humans and trained beasts alike were
demonstrating spontaneously at the sight of the
Blade that waved above Vilkata's head. The cry of
his name went up again and again, each time
louder than the last. A thousand weapons were
being brandished in salute.
        Now the Dark King had reached the reviewing
stand, and now he mounted quickly. His closer fol-
lowers, Mark still with them, swarmed up onto the
platform too. Immediately the stand was over-
crowded, and people near the edges were jostled
off. A small clear space-more magic?-remained
around the person of the King. All around the base

of the platform and across its surface where they
had room, grand military potentates and dreaded
wizards were prancing and gesturing like
demented children. The aged and dignified abased
themselves like dogs at one moment, and in the
next leaped howling for the sky. And the very sky
was streaked by demons, speeding, whirling in a
pyrotechnic ecstasy of worship.
        Grimly Mark held on to the small margin of self-
awareness and self-control that he had regained in
the pavilion. He thought that he would not be able
to hold onto it for very long-but perhaps for long


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enough. He remembered now who he was, and
what goal he had determined to accomplish. He
still held Sightblinder's hilt in his right hand. But
. . . to strike at Vilkata, possessor of the Mindsword
. . . how could anyone do that? Or even plan to do
it?
         To strike at one who held the Mindsword might
well be more than any mere human will could man-
age. If once Mark summoned up the will to try, and
failed, he was sure that he could never try again.
         Even to work his way through the press of fren-
zied bodies on the platform, to get himself close
enough to the Dark King to strike at him, was going
to be difficult. Get close to the Dark King, he
ordered himself, forget for the moment why you are
trying to get close. He almost forgotten his bow,
still slung in its accustomed place across his back.
And there were two arrows left . . . he groped with a
trembling hand, and found that there were none.
Spilled somehow in the jostling? Or had some
enthusiast's hand snatched them away?
         He was going to have to strike with Sightblinder,
then. Even had his mind been clear, entirely his
own, it would not have been easy. Most of the people
on the platform were also struggling to get closer to
the Dark King, to touch him if possible; the ring of
those who were closest, constrained to do all they
could to protect the Mindsword's master, were
striving to hold the others back. Their task was
perhaps made easier by the fact that Vilkata was
swinging the Sword more wildly now, inspiring fear as
well as ecstasy in those near enough to stand in some
danger from the Blade. There was still a cleared
space of several meters directly around the king.
         Mark elbowed room enough to let him draw
Sightblinder-no one, he thought, was able to see that
he was holding it, no magical guardians struck at him
yet.
         The small crowd atop the reviewing stand surged
again, chatocially, as more people kept trying to climb
on. Inevitably at one edge, more people were pushed
off.
         Mark forced himself a little closer to Vilkata, but
then was stopped, pushed back again. This is impossible,
he thought. l cannot fail simply because 1 can't get through a
crowd. Still he dared not use the Sword to hack bodies
out of his path; surely if he did that the magical
defenses of the King would be triggered, and he
would have no chance to strike the blow that really
counted.
         He had to get closer without killing. He gritted his
teeth and closed his eyes, and blindly bulled his way
ahead. His Sword, invisible to the people in his way,
he held raised awkwardly above the jostling bodies
that would otherwise have carved themselves on it.
         But even as Mark scraped up new determination

and tried again, the crowd surged against him, and its
hundred legs effortlessly bore him even a little farther
away. The cause of this last surge was one of
Vilkata's sweeps with the Mindsword. Mark exerted


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one more great effort, and forced his way through, or
almost through, but was deflected in the process to a
place precariously near the platform's edge.
        Now, one more effort . . . but the Blade in the Dark
King's hand came swinging heedlessly past, and
grazed Mark's forehead. The Dark King was laughing
thunderously now, to see his courtiers duck and dodge
in terror, and at the same time come pressing
helplessly forward all the same.
        Those next to Mark in the crush violently shoved
back. Tangled with others, he fell over the edge of the
platform, others falling with him. The distance to the
ground was no more than a man's height, and the
ground below was soft. Mark landed with a shock, but
without further injury. By some miracle none of those
falling with him had impaled themselves on
Sightblinder, which lay on the soft earth under his
hand.
        He had failed, not heroically, but as by some
demonic joke. He grabbed up his Sword and got to his
feet again. Then he understood that he was hurt more
than he had thought at first by Vikata's accidental
stroke. He could see blood, feel it and taste it, his own
blood running down from his gashed forehead into his
left eye. A centimeter or two closer to the
Mindsword's swing and it would have killed him.
        The fall had taken him out of reach of the Dark
King; but at least it had also broken his direct eye
contact with that flashing, hypnotic Blade. Now,
with freedom roaring louder than the Mindsword in his
mind, Mark looked up to catch a glimpse of Vilkata's
back on the high platform. The monarch was turned
away from Mark at the moment, facing out over the
excited masses of the crowd at its front edge.
        He must be struck down, Mark repeated grimly to
himself, And I must do it, do it now, no matter what, and
get his Sword.
        He tore himself free of a fresh tangle of frenzied
bodies on the ground. Shoving people out of his way
with one hand, holding Sightblinder uplifted in the
other, he ran along his side of the reviewing stand and
then along its front. The pain in his wounded forehead
savaged him, made him yearn to strike out at those
villainous legs of officers and sorcerers that danced
and pushed for advantage on the platform before him
at eye level. But he held back his blow, grimly certain
that he would be able to strike no more than once.
        Blood bothering his eyes, pain nailing his head,
Mark looked up trying to locate Vilkata again. It
seemed hopeless. The sun was dazzling. The
Mindsword flashed in it, and flashed again. Only in
surrender to it was there hope. Mark had to look
away, bend down his neck to get away from it. He
could not let his eyes and soul be caught by it again
        As he turned his gaze away from the platform,
there came into his vision the vast expanse of the
parade ground and its howling mob of people.
Sightblinder made two details stand out in rapid
succession, each so strongly that they were able to
distract him even now.



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        The first, astonishingly for Mark, was the prison
cage with its lone occupant, even though he could

glimpse it only intermittently now through the swirl of
ecstatic bodies. He had encountered the sentry demon
beside that cage, and he remembered, or almost
remembered, something else, something that one of
the magicians had said inside about the prisoner
        And then the second distracting detail captured
Mark's attention even from the first. He saw a small
gray cloud, rolling in a very uncloudlike way down the
steep flank of a distant mountain. Inside that cloud
Mark's sharpened perception could pick out half a
dozen living beings, all apparently of human shape.
        Already, as he watched, the cloud reached the
comparatively level land at the mountain's foot. Now
it rolled closer rapidly, directly approaching the
encampment, moving independently of any wind. It
was traveling with deceptive speed, outracing wind,
traversing kilometers in mere moments.
        Some of the people on the platform above Mark had
now become aware of the cloud as well. The uproar
immediately surrounding the Dark King had abated
somewhat. Mark cast a quick look toward Vilkata,
and saw that the King was lowering his own Sword,
giving the approaching cloud his full attention.
        A shrieking in the air passed rapidly overhead. A
flight of the airborne demons, acting either on their
own or at some direct command from their human
masters, had melded themselves into a tight formation
and were flying directly at the approaching cloud,
intent on investigation and perhaps attack. But just
before they reached the cloud their formation recoiled
and burst, its members scattering. Mark
had the impression that they had been brushed
aside like so many insects, by some invisible power.
        In a flash understanding came. The gods were
coming to take charge. Through his pain and blood
and fear Mark gasped out a sob of deep relief.
Humanity had hope of being saved, by the beings
who had made the Swords, from powers that were
too much for it to manage. He had seen gods handle
savage and rebellious men before. Vilkata,
shrunken to the stature of a noxious insect in their
presence, might be crushed before his horror could
reach over the whole human world. Mark's own
Sword might be taken from him too, but on the
scale of these events that would make little differ-
ence.
        The cloud, no longer serving any purpose of con-
cealment, was being allowed to dissipate, and it
vanished quickly. The handful of beings who had
ridden it were walking now, already entering the
parade ground at its far side, and approaching
quickly. The sea of humans occupying the open
space parted at the deities' approach. Four gods
and one goddess, each tall as Draffut, came striding
forward without pause, and Mark got the impres-
sion that they would have stepped on people with-
out noticing had any remained in their way.
        Towering taller and taller as they drew near, the


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five advanced, marching straight for the reviewing
stand. Mark thought that now he could recognize
some of them individually. Four were attired with
divine elegance, wearing crowns, tunics, robes
ablaze with color, gold, and gems. But one, who
limped as he strode forward, was clad in simple
furs.
Again Mark glanced back quickly at the platform.

Vilkata was out of striking range, and still closely
surrounded by his people and his magical attend-
ants.
        The Dark King had sheathed the Mindsword
now, and was issuing terse orders to certain of his
wizards. In the next instant one of these magicians
gave a convulsive leap that carried him clear off the
platform. He fell more heavily than Mark had
fallen, and lay writhing helplessly on the ground.
Mark could guess that some protective spell of this
man's had somehow impeded the divine progress;
and that when the spell was snapped, like some
ship's hawser in the docks, he who had been hold-
ing it was flattened by the recoil.
        Whatever magic had been in their path, spells
perhaps triggered automatically by their intrusion,
the gods had broken their way through it; they were
irritated, Mark thought, looking at them, like
adults bothered by some maze of string set up by
children.
        At last the four gods and one goddess halted their
advance. They stood on the parade ground only a
score of meters from the platform, their heads still
easily overtopping that of the Dark King who faced
them from his elevation. Everyone else on the plat-
form was kneeling, Mark realized, or had thrown
themselves face down in abject panic, and everyone
near him on the ground also. He and the Dark King
were the only two humans within a hundred meters
still on their feet. How curious, Mark wondered dis-
tantly. The only other time in his life when he had
seen deities as close as this, why that time too he
had been able to remain standing, while around
him other humans knelt or huddled in collapse ....
        The limping god was moving forward. In the
silence that lay over the whole camp, his ornaments
of dragon-scale could be heard clinking as he
lurched to within one great stride of the platform.
That is Vulcan the Smith, thought Mark, staring up
at the fur-garbed titan-he who took off my father's
arm. Vulcan paid no attention to Mark, but was
looking at Vilkata. As far as Mark could tell, Vilkata
did not flinch, though when the god halted he was
close enough to the platform to have reached forth
one of his long arms and plucked Vilkata from it.
        Wind came keening across the camp, blowing out
of the bare, devastated lands surrounding it. Other-
wise there was silence.
        A silence abruptly broken, by the voice of Vulcan
that boomed forth at a volume appropriate for a
god. "What madness is this that you fools of
humans are about? Do you. not realize that the


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Swordgame is over?"
        Vilkata summoned up his best royal voice to
answer. "I am the Dark King-" It was no surprise
at all to Mark that the King's voice should quaver
and falter and quit on him before the sentence
ended. The only wonder was that the man could
stand and speak at all in such a confrontation.
        Vulcan was neither impressed nor pleased.
"King, Queen, or whatever, what do I care for all
that? You are a human and no more. Hand over
that tool of power that you are wearing at your
side."
        Vilkata did not obey at once; instead he dared to
answer once more in words. Mark did not hear the
words exactly, for his attention had once more been
distracted by something in the distance. This was
another cloud, and it looked as unusual as the first.
        This cloud was not rolling down a mountainside,

only drifting through the air, but its path was at a
right angle to those of other clouds and the wind.
Now the strange cloud was hovering, hesitating in
its slow passage. It appeared to be maintaining a
certain cautious distance from the scene on the
parade ground. With Sightblinder still in hand,
Mark could perceive in this second cloud also the
presence of figures of human shape but divine
dimensions. There was one, a perfect essence of the
female, that he thought could be only Aphrodite. He
could see none of the others so clearly as individu-
als, though all of their faces seemed to be turned his
way.
        The distraction had been only momentary. Now
Vulcan, made impatient by even a moment's
temporizing on the part of this mere human king,
thundered out some oath, and stretched forth his
arm toward Vilkata. With a swift motion the Dark
King drew the Mindsword from its sheath-but not
to hand it over in surrender. Instead he brandished
it aloft.
        Vulcan cried out once, a strange, hoarse tone, like
masses of metal and rock colliding. The lame god
threw up a forearm across his eyes. He reeled back-
ward, and fell to one knee. Mark could feel in the
ground under his own feet the impact of that fall.
        Just behind the Smith, the four other deities who
had come out of the cloud with him were kneeling
also.
        Once again a long moment of silence held
throughout the camp. The distant airborne cloud
was moving faster now, departing at accelerated
speed. Mark gazed after it numbly for a moment.
The gods had failed. The thousands of human
beings massed around him were cheering once again.
        Now Vilkata was speaking again. After Vulcan's
thunder the King's voice sounded puny, but it was
triumphant and confident once again as he shouted an
order to the kneeling gods, their heads still higher than
his own. "Follow me! Obey!"
        "We hear." The ragged chorus rolled forth. The
wooden stand, the earth, vibrated with it. "We follow,


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and obey."
        The huge wardrum boomed to life again, and from
the crowd went up the loudest roar yet. The mad
celebration resumed, twice madder than before.
        The gods on the parade ground were climbing
ponderously back to their feet. "Surely this is Father
Zeus!" Vulcan cried out, pointing with a tree-sized
arm at the Dark King. "He who has been playing that
role among us must be an impostor!"
        The Smith's divine companions roared approval of
this statement, and launched themselves
spontaneously into a dance, that looked at once
ponderous and uncontrolled. The ground shook; Mark
could see the tall flagpole swaying in front of the
King's pavilion. The crowd of humans in the vicinity
of the reviewing stand began to thin, with everyone
who was anywhere near the dancing gods being
eager to move back. Yet they remained under the
Mindsword's spell, and many joined the dance.
        Mark stood drained, exhausted, leaning on his own
Sword. With pain stabbing at his forehead, and blood
still trickling into his eye, he watched the maddened
gods and had the feeling that he was going mad
himself. But surely he ought to have expected
something like this. If one of the Swords

could kill a god-and with his own eyes Mark had seen
Hermes lying dead, the wound made by Farslayer
gaping in the middle of the Messenger's back-then
why should not another Sword have power to make
slaves of other gods?
        What power had Vulcan called upon to forge them,
that was greater than the gods themselves?
        And was he, Mark, the only being here still capable
of resistance?
        With his pain, with the drip of his own blood that
seemed now to burn like poison, he could no longer
think. But maybe he could still act.
        He gripped Sightblinder in his two hands, and
moved for the third time to try to kill Vilkata.
        If the crowd on the ground was moving more wildly
now, it was thinner, and that helped. But when Mark
raised his eyes to the Dark King, who still stood on
the platform, the Mindsword dazzled him again, sent
splintering shafts of poisoned light into his brain. He
was stumbling toward the sun in glory, and it was
unthinkable for anyone to try to strike the sun.
        Vilkata, the god! Holder of the Mindsword, he who
must be adored!
        Mark lifted his own Sword in both arms. Then he
realized that he was not going to strike, he was going
to cast down Sightblinder as an offering. It was all he
could do to tear himself free. Still desperately holding
onto his own Sword, lurching and stumbling, he fled
the platform, his back to the glory that he dared no
longer face. It tugged him and tore at him and urged
him to turn back. He knew that if he turned for an
instant he was lost.
        The prisoner's cage loomed up ahead of him.
Someone in the crowd jostled Mark, turning him
slightly sideways so that he saw the cage and its


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inmate quite clearly.
        With no consciousness of making any plan, acting
on impulse, Mark raised the Sword of Stealth high in a
two-handed grip, and brought it smashing down
against the wooden door and its small lock. The
Sword's magic did nothing to aid the blow, but its long
weight and keen edge were quite enough. The cage
had not been built to sustain any real assault. Mark
struck again and the door fell open. Amid the
pandemonium of jumping, screaming bodies and
brandished weapons, no one paid the least heed to
what he was doing. The earth still shook under the
tread of the bellowing, dancing gods.
        He sheathed his weapon and reached in with both
hands to grasp the helpless prisoner. The body he
drew forth was that of a young woman, naked, bound
with both cords and magic. The cords fell free quickly,
at a touch of Sightblinder's perfect edge. But the
magic was more durable.
        One arm about the prisoner, half carrying and half
pulling her through the frenzied crowd, Mark headed
straight away from the reviewing stand, still not daring
to look back. Whatever the people around saw when
they looked at him now, it made them draw back even
in their frenzy, leaving his way clear.
        There seemed no end to the parade ground, or to
Vilkata's maddened army. With each retreating step
the pressure of the Mindsword eased, but only
infinitesimally. Steps added up, though. Now Mark
could begin to think again, enough to begin to plan.
There, ahead, a little distance in the crowd, were two
mounted men who looked like minor magi

cians of some kind. Mark set his course for them,
dragging the still stupefied young woman along.
        The magicians, looking half stupefied themselves
with their participation in the Mindsword's glamor,
paid no attention as Mark approached. These two,
Mark hoped, did not rate guardian demons. He
desperately needed transportation.
        Sightblinder obtained it for him, quickly and bloodily,
working with no more magic than a meataxe. Again,
in the general surrounding madness, no one appeared
to notice what was happening.
        Mark wrapped the girl in a cloak of black and gold
that one of the magicians had been wearing, and got
her aboard one of the riding beasts, and got himself
aboard the other. Once in the saddle, he could only sit
swaying for a moment, afraid that he was going to
faint, watching his own blood drip on his hands that
held the reins.
        Somehow he got moving, leading the girl's mount.
No one tried to interfere with them as they fled the
camp. No one, as far as Mark could tell, even took
notice.
        The booming of the wardrum and the roaring of the
gods followed them for a long time, pursuing them for
kilometers of their flight across high barren lands.
CHAPTER 6
        A kilometer or two upstream from Tashigang,
before the Corgo split itself around the several islands


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that made parts of the city, the current was slow
enough that Denis the Quick could make fairly good
time paddling his light canoe against it. Here it was
possible to seek out places in the broader stream
where the surface current was slower still, with local
eddies to make the paddler's task less difficult. This
made it easy for Denis to stay clear of the other river
traffic, which in early morning was mostly barges of
foodstuffs and other commerce coming downstream.
There were also some small fishing craft out on the
river, and one or two light sailboats that appeared to
be out purely for pleasure. Here above the city there
were no ships of ocean-going size, such as plied the
reaches downstream from Tashigang to the sea.
        Two kilometers upstream from the walls, Denis
reached the first sharp upstream bend of the Corgo
and looked back again, ceasing to paddle as he

sought a last glimpse of the high towers. Visible above
the morning mist that still rose from the river, the lofty
walls and battlements caught rays of the early
morning sun. Here and there upon the venerable
masses of brown or gray stone, glass or bright metal
sparkled, in windows, ornaments, or the weapons of
the Watch. On several high places the green and gray
of the city's own colors were displayed. Upon the
highest pole, over the Lord Mayor's palace, a single
pennant of black and silver acknowledged the ultimate
sovereignty of Yambu.
        As he paddled farther upstream, Denis's canoe
passed between shores lined with the villas of those
wealthy citizens who felt secure enough about the
prospects of long-term peace to choose to live outside
the city walls. These were impressive houses, each
fortified behind its own minor defenses, capable of
holding off an occasional brigands' raid.
        Independent villas soon gave way to suburbs of
somewhat less impressive houses, built together
behind modest walls; and these in turn to farms and
vineyards. These lands like Tashigang itself were
tributary to the Silver Queen, though enjoying a great
measure of independence. Yambu in her years of
domination had maintained general peace and order
here, and had wisely been content to levy no more
than moderate tribute and to allow the people to
manage their own affairs for the most part. Tribute
flowed in regularly under such a regime, and the
Queen built a fund of goodwill for herself. Meanwhile
she had been busy venting her aggressive energies
elsewhere.
        Pausing once to eat and reat, Denis made an
uneventful first day's journey up the river. By evening
he was far enough from the city's center of
population to have no trouble in locating a small island
that offered him a good spot to camp. He even
succeeded in catching a suitable fish for his dinner,
and was rather pleased with this success in outdoor
skills.
        On the second day he got an early start again. He
had a worker's calloused hands and did not mind
the constant paddling overmuch; the healed wound in


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his forearm did not trouble him at all. This day he kept
a careful eye out for certain landmarks, as Ben had
instructed him. Around noon he was able to identify
without any trouble the tributary stream he wanted, a
small river that entered the Corgo on a winding course
from the northeast. This smaller river,. here called the
Spode, drained a portion of the Great Swamp-it did
not, unfortunately, lead directly to the part where Sir
Andrew and his army were likely to be found. To
reach that, Denis would have to make a portage later.
        The voyager passed three or four more days in
similarly pleasant journeying. Each day he saw fewer
people; and those he did see usually greeted the
acolyte of Ardneh with friendly waves. Some offered
him food, some of which he graciously accepted.
        Denis spent much of his mental time in wondering
about his hidden cargo. He knew something now at
first hand about the Sword of Mercy. But what
exactly did the Sword of Justice do? Denis had not
wanted to ask, lest they believe he was pondering
some scheme of running off with it. (The treacherous
thought had crossed his mind, in the guise of yet
another delicious daydream. So far-so far-his other,
fiercer feelings had kept him from being really
tempted by it.)

        And Ben had not thought it necessary to discuss the
qualities of the Sword of Justice with Denis at any
length. The master of the House of Courtenay had
said only one thing on the subject.
        "Denis, if it does come down to your having to fight
someone on the way, I'd recommend you get
Doomgiver out and use it, if you have the chance.
Don't try to fight with Woundhealer, though. Not if
your idea is to carve up someone instead of making
him feel good."
        But so far there had not been the remotest danger
of a fight. So far the journey's only physical
excitement had been provided by occasional
thunderstorms, threatening the traveler with lightning
and drenching white robes that had not been
waterproofed.
        On Denis's fifth day out he passed through calm
farm country, in lovely weather. That night he again
made camp on a small island.
        And dreamed, as he often did, of women. Kuanyin,
the governess he had embraced in real life, and
thought of marrying, beckoned to him. And tonight he
dreamed also of the mistress of the House of
Courtenay, who in real life had never touched him
except to bind his wounded arm. Denis dreamed that
she who he had known as the Lady Sophie had come
to visit him in his room beside the workshop. She sat
on his cot there and smiled, and held his hand, and
thanked him for something he had done, or was
perhaps about to do. Her white robe was in disarray,
hanging open, but incredibly she seemed not to notice.
        The dream was just approaching its moment of
greatest tension, when Denis awoke. He lay in warm
moonlight, with the sense that the world to
which he had awakened was only a perfected dream.


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There was a scent in the air--0f riverside flowers?-
incredibly sweet and beautiful, too subtle to be called
perfume.
         And there was in the air also-something else. A
fearless excitement. Denis's blood throbbed with
oneiric anticipation, of he knew not what. Yet he
knew that he was wide awake.
         He looked along the river, his gaze caught by the
path of reflected moonlight. He saw a shadow, as of
some drifting boat, enter upon that path. It was some
kind of craft-a barge, he thought-speckled with its
own small lights, and moving in perfect silence.
Almost perfect. A moment more, and Denis could
hear the gentle splash and drip of oars.
         As the barge drew closer, he could see that it was
larger than he had thought at first, so large that he
wondered how it managed to navigate the narrower
places in this small river. The lights along its low sides
were softly glowing amber lamps, as steady as the
Old World light that Denis was familiar with, but
vastly subtler.
         Denis was on his feet now. He still had no doubts
that he was awake, and he was conscious of
beingmore or less-his ordinary self. Whatever was
happening to him now was real, but he had no sense
of danger, only of thrilling promise. He moved a step
closer to the bank, the water murmuring like lovers'
laughter at his feet. He stood there leaning on the
upended bottom of the canoe that he had prudently
pulled out of the river before retiring.
         As the barge drew closer still, Denis could see that
it bore amidships a small house or pavilion, covered by
an awning of some fine cloth. Just forward of this
there was a throne-like chair or lounge,

all centered between two rows of strangely silent and
briefly costumed young women rowers.
        A woman was reclining upon the lounge, in the
middle of. a mass of pillows. With only the Moon
behind her, and the dim lamps on her boat, Denis
could see her at first only by hints and outlines. At
first his heated imagination assured him that she was
wearing nothing at all. But presently his eyes were
forced to admit the fact of a garment, more
shimmering mist and starlight, it seemed, than any kind
of cloth. Most of the woman's body was enclosed by
this veil, though scarcely any of it was concealed.
        Denis's heart lurched within him, and he
understood. A name sprang into his mind, and he
might have spoken it aloud, but just at that moment he
lacked the breath to say anything at all. He had never
seen a god or goddess in his life before, and had
never really expected to see one before he died.
        In response to some command unseen and unheard
by Denis, the inhumanly silent rowers stopped, in
unison. He was vaguely aware, even without looking
directly at them for a moment, of how comely they all
were, and how provocatively dressed. With the
Goddess of Love herself before his eyes, he could not
have looked at any of them if he had tried.
        The barge, under a control that had to be more than


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natural, came drifting very slowly and precisely
toward Denis on the island. From inside the cabin-he
thought-there came a strain of music, lovely as the
perfume, to waft across the small width of water that
remained. Every note was framed in perfect silence
now that the silvery trickle from the oars had stopped.
        With an undulating movement Aphrodite rose
from her couch, to stand in a pose of unstrained
grace.
        "Young man?" she called to Denis softly. The
voice of the goddess was everything that her
appearance had suggested it might be. "I must
speak with you."
        Denis started toward her and stumbled. He dis-
covered that it was necessary to make his way
around some large and unfamiliar object-oh yes,
it was his canoe-that somehow happened to be
right in his path.
        "Lady," he choked out, "I am yours to com-
mand. What would you have of me?" At this point
he became aware that he had just fallen on his
knees with a loud squelching sound, right in the riv-
erside mud. This would not have mattered in the
least, except that it might tend to make the goddess
think that he was clumsy; and when he got up, she
was sure to see how muddy his white robes had got,
and he feared that she might laugh.
        So far, thank all the gods and goddesses, she was
not laughing at him.
        "Young man," said Aphrodite, "I know that you
are carrying two Swords with you. I understand
that one of them is the one that heals. And the other
. . . well, I forget at the moment what they told me
about the other. But that doesn't matter just now. I
want you to hand both of them over to me at once. If
you are quick enough about it I will perhaps allow
you to kiss me." The goddess paused for just a
moment, and gave Denis a tiny smile. "Who knows
what I might allow, on such a romantic night as
this?"
        "Kiss me," Denis echoed vacantly. Then, giving a

mad bound, he was up out of the mud and on his
feet, stumbling and splashing about. He had to find
the two Swords she was talking about-where were
they, anyway?-and give them to her. What else
was he going to do with them, anyway?
They were in the canoe . . . where was the canoe?
        He tripped over it and almost tumbled himself
back into the mud before he really saw it. Then he
broke a fingernail getting the craft turned rightside
up.
        Aphrodite encouraged him in a friendly way.
"That's it. They're hidden right in the bottom of
your little boat or whatever it is there-but then I
suppose you know that." The goddess sounded
mildly impatient with his clumsiness-how could
she not be? But she did not yet sound angry; Denis
silently offered thanks.
        He thought he was going to lose another finger-
nail getting the trick board pried up. Then he real-


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ized that he would do a lot better prying with a
knife instead.
        Aphrodite slowly approached the near side rail of
her luxurious barge. Gracefully she knelt there
upon a small mound of silken cushions, between
two of her inhumanly beautiful rowers. They paid
her no attention.
        "Be quick, young man! I need what you are going
to give me." The goddess beckoned with one hand,
and her voice, melded with her laughter, stretched
out in silken double meaning. Her laughter, Denis
desperately assured himself, was not really meant
to be unkind. Yet still it somehow wounded him.
        He pried with his knife, and the small nails hold-
ing the board came squeaking out. The hidden com-
partment lay open, its contents exposed to moonlight.
        Aphrodite, to get a better look, gave a pert little
kneeling jump, a movement of impossible grace that
made the softer portions of her body bounce. What
color was her hair? Denis asked himself desperately.
And what about her skin? In the moonlight he could
not tell, and anyway it did not matter in the least. And
was she really tall or short, voluptuous or thin? From
moment to moment all those things seemed to change,
with only the essence of her sex remaining constant.
        Now she was standing at the rail of her craft. The
barge continued to drift minutely in toward shore,
ignoring the current even though the oars were raised
and idle.
        "Be quick, young man, be quick." There was a hint
of impatience in her voice.
        Denis, groping almost sightlessly for his treasure to
hand it over, felt his hand fall first upon Woundhealer.
Somehow he could identify the Sword from its first
touch. Humbly he brought it out, sheathed as it was,
and with a kind of genuflection handed it over, hilt-
first, to the goddess. She accepted it, with a sprightly
one-handed gesture that showed how strong her
smooth young-looking arm could be.
        She held the Sword of Mercy sheathed, and said:
"The other one now. And then I believe thatperhaps-
you will have earned a kiss."
        He fumbled in the bottom of the canoe again, and
brought out Doomgiver.
        This Sword he held with one hand supporting its
sheathed blade, and the other holding the hilt, and
through the hilt he felt a flow of strange and unfa

miliar power. It gave him a sense of steady certitude.
The sheath seemed to fall free of itself, the Sword
was drawn.
        Denis straightened up, intending to present this
Sword as well to the goddess. But when his eyes fell
on her he was shocked to see that she was changed.
        Or was the change in him-and not in her?
        Aphrodite let fall her arm that had been extended to
receive the second Sword. She stepped back, her
other hand still holding the sheathed Sword of Mercy.
        Again Denis pondered: What does she really look
like? But still the moonlight (he thought it was the
moonlight) made it quite impossible to tell.


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        Certainly more lovely than any mortal woman could
ever be. Yet now, since he had drawn the second
Sword, he thought she was in some way inferior to
even the least of human mortals. In some way she
was-unreal.
        He realized that he did not want her now.
        Power was still flowing from the Swordhilt into his
hand. In sudden curiosity he looked at what his
fingers gripped. He saw in moonlight, without
understanding, the simple hollow white circle that
marked the black.
        Wonder of wonders, the goddess appeared to be
fighting some inner struggle with herself.
        "Give me-"she began to say, in a voice that still
fought to be commanding. But after those first two
words her voice faltered and her speech broke off.
        She sagged back from the railing of her barge
(Denis was shocked to see how graceless the
movement was), and stopped half-kneeling on her
silken pillows once more. The cloud of her moonlit
hair concealed her face.
        "No," she contradicted herself, speaking now in
yet another voice, much softer. "No, do not give it
to me now. I am a goddess, and I could take it from
you. But I will not."
        Denis's arm that held the Sword of Justice fal-
tered, and the blade sank down slowly at his side. It
hung in his hand like a dead weight, though still its
power flowed. He felt an overwhelming-pity-for
the goddess, mixed with a slight disgust.
        "Do not give it to me," repeated Aphrodite, in her
soft and newly thoughtful voice. "That would cause
harm to you." After a pause she went on, marveling
to herself. "So, this is love. I have always wondered,
and never known what it was like. I see it can be ter-
rible."
        She raised her head until her wide-spaced eyes
were visible under the cloud of moonlit hair. "I see
. . . that your name is Denis, my beloved. And you
have known a score of women before now, and
dreamed of a thousand more. Yet you have never
really known any of them. Nor will you, can you,
ever really know a goddess, I suppose." And Aphro-
dite gave a sigh, her bosom heaving.
        Denis could only stand there uncomfortably. He
felt more pity for this lovely woman than he could
bear, and he wished that she would go away. At the
same time he wanted to let go of the Sword in his
right hand; he wanted to throw it in the river. It
seemed to him that his life had been much more
intense and glorious just a few moments ago, before
he had drawn Doomgiver. But the Sword would not
let him throw it away just now, any more than it
would allow the goddess to take it from him.
        "I love you, Denis," the goddess Aphrodite said.
        He made an incoherent noise of embarrassment,
low down in his throat. As speech, he thought, it

was inadequate, clumsy, mundane, and mean, like
everything else he did. He did not love her, or even
want her. He could not, and he wished that she


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would leave.
        She said to him softly, "And the blade that you
hold there, my love, is truly called Doomgiver, for I
see now that it truly giveth me my doom."
        "No!" Denis protested, feeling so sorry for her
already, not knowing just what it was he feared.
        "Ah yes. I, who have for ages amused myself with
the love of men, must now feel what they have felt.
And, as I love you now, I cannot take Doomgiver
from you. To rob you of the Sword of Justice now,
my little mortal darling, would do you much harm.
As a goddess I can foresee that. But Wound-
healer-it will be better if I take that with me
now."
        Denis wanted to tell her that he was sorry. The
words stuck in his throat.
        "How sweet it would be if you could tell me
that you loved me too. But do not lie." And here
the goddess extended her arm that still held the
Sword of Love, across the narrow strip of water
that still separated her from the island, and with
the sheathed tip of Woundhealer touched Denis
over his heart. "I could . . . but I will not. My full
embrace would not be good for you-not now, not
yet. Someday, perhaps. I love you, Denis, and for
your sake I must now say farewell."
        And the goddess leaned forward suddenly, and
kissed him on the cheek.
        "No . . . no." He stumbled forward, into mud.
Was it only pity that he felt now?
        But the marvelous barge was already shimmer-
ing away into the moonlight.
CHAPTER 7

        The two riding beasts must have been well rested
when Mark seized them, for they bore their riders
willingly and swiftly on the first long stage of the
flight from Vilkata's encampment. The young
woman stayed in her saddle firmly, like an experi-
enced rider, but instinctively, passively, and with
no apparent understanding of what was happening
to her now. Her blue-green eyes stared steadily out
at horror, some horror that was no longer visible to
Mark. Her body was thin, almost emaciated. Her
face was pale under its mask of grime; her hair, col-
orless with filth, hung long and matted over the
captured cloak that she clutched about her with
one hand. Since Mark had pulled her from the cage
she had not spoken a single word.
        The two of them rode for a long time, side by side,
over roadless and gradually rising ground, before
Mark stopped the animals for a rest. He had at last
been able to convince himself that there was no
pursuit. Phantom echoes of Vilkata's demonic cele-

bration had persisted in his exhausted mind and
senses long after the real sounds had faded.
        He was living now with ceaseless pain, and with
the taste and sight and smell of his own blood, for
the oozing from his forehead wound would not
diminish. And Mark could not shake the feeling that


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there was something wrong now with his own
blood, with the way it smelled and tasted, as if the
Mindsword had left a shard of poisoned sunlight
embedded in his brain.
        Mark dismounted the first time he stopped the
animals. He spoke gently to the young woman, but
she only continued to sit her mount in silence, star-
ing straight ahead, not responding to him at all. He
decided not to press the matter of communication,
as long as she remained docile. The all-important
thing was to get farther from Vilkata.
        Presently they were under way again. Now their
course, aimed directly away from Vilkata's- camp,
took them into a range of low hills. Now the
encampment, which had still been intermittently
visible in the distance, dropped permanently from
sight. Here in the hills the land still showed devas-
tation wrought by the. Dark King's foragers. Soon
the fugitives came to a stream, and a thicket that
offered shelter of a kind. Mark stopped again.
        This time he employed gentle force to pry the
young woman's hands from the reins, and to get her
down from the saddle. Still half-supported by
Mark's arm, she stood beside the animal waiting
for whatever might happen to her next. Her lips
were cracked, hideously dry. Mark had to lead her
to the stream, and get her to kneel beside it. Still
she did not appear to realize what was in front of
her. Only after he had given her the first drink from
his own cupped hands did she rouse from her trance
enough to bend to the water for herself.
        "I can stand," she announced suddenly, in a dis-
used croak of a voice. And stand she did, unaided, a
little taller than before. A moment later, her eyes
for the first time fastened on Mark with full atten-
tion.
        In the next instant he was startled to see joyous
recognition surge up in her face. In a much clearer
voice, she murmured, "Rostov . . . how did you ever
manage . . . ?"
        The instant after that, she fell unconscious in
Mark's arms.
        He caught her as well as he could, and stretched
her out on the grass. Then he sat down, and, holding
his own head, tried to think through his pain.
Rostov was a Tasavaltan name, borne by the famed
general, and, Mark supposed, by many others as
well. He was still wearing Sightblinder, and the
young woman had seen him as someone she knew
and trusted.
        Mark lay down and tried to rest, but his wound
made that practically impossible. Presently he
decided that they might as well go on, if he could
get his companion back into the saddle. She roused
herself when he tugged at her, and with his help she
got mounted again. Though she appeared now to be
asleep, with closed eyes, she sat steadily astride the
riding beast, wrapped in the cloak of gold and
black. That hateful cloak might be a help, thought
Mark, if any of the enemy should see her from a dis-
tance. He himself was still protected by Sight-


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blinder, but his companion would not be.
        Still his wound throbbed mercilessly. He was
sure now that the Mindsword must have had some

poisonous effect, but unless he could find help
somewhere there was nothing he could do about it.
He rode on, side by side with his companion, Mark
now and then rousing himself enough to realize
that neither of them was more than half conscious.
Grimly he concentrated-whenever he was able to
concentrate-on maintaining a generally uphill
direction; that ought to at least prevent them from
riding in a circle right back to Vilkata and his cap-
tive gods.
        They stopped again only when full night came,
and Mark could no longer see where they were
going. There was no food. Mark had lost his bow
somewhere, after his last arrows were lost, and any-
way he was in no condition to try to hunt. His limbs
felt weak and he was shaking with chill. When the
young woman had dismounted again and stood
beside him, he took the cloak off her and clothed her
in his own long hunter's shirt; he could feel her
body shivering too, with the night's approaching
cold. Then he lay down with her and huddled
against her, wrapping the cloak around them both.
He was too sick to think of wanting anything more
from her than warmth. Feverishly he kept thinking
that he ought to get up and do something to tend
the animals, but he could not.
        In pain and blood, Mark did not so much fall
asleep as lapse into unconsciousness. He woke up,
half delirious, in the middle of the night. Someone's
hand had shaken him awake.
        The young woman, still wearing his shirt, was sit-
ting upright beside him. There was firelight, some-
how, on her face, and under the dirt he could see a
new look of alert intelligence.
        "You are not Rostov. Where did he go?"
        She had to repeat the question several times
before Mark was able to grasp the sense of it. Yes, of
course, she had seen him as someone else, when he
had been wearing the Sword. When he had been-
        His hand groped at his side, to find that she had
disarmed him. Weakly he managed to raise his
head a little. There was Sightblinder, lying just out
of his reach. He could see it by the light of the small
fire that his companion had somehow managed to
start.
        "I took it away from you, you were raving and
thrashing about. Where is Rostov? Who are you?"
        Mark had great difficulty in trying to talk. It
crossed his mind that he was probably dying. He
could only gesture toward the Sword.
        She said, puzzled, "You killed him with-? But
no, you can't mean that."
        "No. No." He had to rest a little, to gather his
strength before he spoke again. Even so the words
wouldn't come out clearly. ". . . was never here."
        The young woman stared at him. Her face was
still haggard and worn and filthy, but inner ener-


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gies were making a powerful effort to revive it.
Now, as if struck by a sudden idea, she turned away
to where the Sword lay, and crouched looking at it
carefully. Then she extended one hand, with the
practiced gesture of a sorceress, to touch the hilt.
        She froze there in that position, one finger touch-
ing black.
        The grimy girl was gone, and in her place Mark
saw his mother, Mala, aged a decade since he had
seen her last, her dark lustrous hair now broadly
streaked with gray. It was Mala who knelt near the
little campfire holding one finger against Sight-
blinder's hilt, wearing not Mark's hunting shirt but

her own peasant's trousers and a patterned blouse
that her son could still recognize.
        Then the figure of Mark's mother blurred and
shifted, became that of his sister Marian. Marian
was a woman of nearly thirty now, also altered by
the years that had passed since Mark had seen her
last, on the day that he fled their village.
        Marian turned her face to look directly at him,
and now in her place Mark beheld a plump girl of
the Red Temple, a girl he had encountered once,
casually embraced, and then, somehow, never
afterward forgotten. The Red Temple girl turned
her body more fully toward Mark, letting go the
Sword.
        It was the young woman he had rescued from
Vilkata's camp, her hair matted, her lean body clad
in his dirty, tattered hunting shirt, who approached
Mark and bent over him again. Above her head,
above the firelight, massed clouds of stars made a
great arc.
        She drew a deep breath. "I should have realized
which Sword that was. Though I have never seen
one of them before . . . but now I am fully awake, I
hope. I begin to understand. My name is Kristin.
Who are you?"
        "Mark."
        "Well, Mark." She touched his wounded head, so
gently that it barely added to the pain. When he
winced she quickly withdrew her hand again. "Was
it you who came into-that place-with Sight-
blinder, and got me out?"
        He managed a nod.
        "And did you come alone? Yes, you nod again.
Why? But never mind that now. I will never forget
what you have done for me. You saved my life, and
more . . . have we any water?"
        Then she was quick to answer her own question,
looking and finding Mark's water bottle. She gave
him a drink, first, then took a mouthful for herself.
"Ah," she said, and relaxed.
        But only for a moment. "Are you expecting to
meet help, here, anywhere nearby? . . . No." Again
she stretched forth a gentle hand, that this time
touched him painlessly and soothed his face.
"Whom do you serve?"
        "Sir Andrew."
        "Ah. A good man, from all I've ever heard about


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him. We in Tasavalta honor him, though we don't
know . . . but never mind. I must try to do some-
thing for that cut on your forehead."
        Kristin closed her eyes, and muttered spells, and
Mark could feel a shivery tugging at the wound, a
quasimaterial endeavor to pull out the knife of
pain. But then the knife came back, twisting more
fiercely than before, and he cried out.
        "At least the bleeding has stopped," Kristin mut-
tered, with heartlessly reassuring calm. "But
there's more wrong. I can do little for you here."
She glanced up for a moment at the stars, evidently
trying to judge her position or the time or both.
"Have we any food?"
No.
        She began to move around, looking for some-
thing. She was inspecting some of the nearby plants
when Mark lost consciousness again.
        When he awoke again it was still night. He was
shivering violently, though he alone was now
wrapped twice round in the cloak of black and gold.
His head was supported gently in the warmth of

Kristin's lap, and. her warm magical fingers were
trying to soothe his head.
        But he hardly noticed any of that. Something
that seemed more momentous was happening also.
The tall circle of the gods had formed around them
both. Once before, when he was a boy in danger of
freezing to death in the high Ludus Mountains, he
had seen the gods, or dreamt them, surrounding
him in such a way. He tried now to call Kristin's
attention to the ring of observing deities, but she
was busy with her own efforts, her own spells. She
raised her head once to look, and murmured some
agreement, and then went back to trying to soothe
and,heal him.
        He could tell she was not really aware of the sur-
rounding presences. But he knew that they were
there. And, just as on that other night when he had
seen them in a ring about his lonely fire, they were
arguing about him. Tonight what they were saying
was even less clear than it had been then, nor were
the faces of the gods as clearly visible tonight.
        Eventually the vision passed.
        Kristin's voice had a different tone now, mur-
muring real words, not incantations. It sounded as
if she were angry with him. "I am not going to let
you die, do you hear me? I will not let you die." She
raised her head. "This much I can do against you,
Dark One, for what you did to me. Damn you, I will
not let you have this man!"
        And back to Mark: "You saved my life . . . saved
more than that . . . and I am not going to surrender
yours to them. Poisoned wound or not, you'll live. I
promise you.
        The night passed for him in periods of uncon-
sciousness, in visions and intervals of lucidity, in a
struggle to breathe that at last he seemed to have
won.
        In the morning they moved on. There was no


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water where they had spent the night, and they
were still uncomfortably close to Vilkata's army.
Mow it was Mark who needed help to get aboard his
riding beast, and Kristin who led his animal as they
traveled, and she who chose the route, and some-
times kept him from falling out of the saddle in his
weakness. He endured the day. He chewed on roots
and berries when she put them into his mouth.
Again he experienced difficulty in breathing. But he
stayed alive, supported by his own grim will and
Kristin's magic.
        Another night passed, much like the one before,
and another day of traveling much like the last.
After that day Mark lost count. His whole life had
vanished into this hideous trek, it seemed, and
often now he no longer cared whether he lived or
not.
        At night, every night, his fever rose, and some-
times the gods regathered round Kristin's magical
little fire to taunt him and to argue among them-
selves. Each dawn Mark awoke to see them gone,
and Kristin slumped beside him in an exhausted
sleep.
        A night came when his chills were more violent
than ever. Kristin bundled herself with him inside
the cloak. She slept, he thought, while the usual
parade of deities walked through his fevered mind.
He awoke again at dawn, his mind feeling clearer,
and told himself he had survived another night.
        And then he got a sharp shock, jolting his mind
into greater clarity. This morning not all the deities
were gone. A woman, statuesque, magnificent, as

real as any woman he had ever seen, stood across
the ashes of the fire, holding in her strong right arm
a Sword.
         The goddess was looking down at Kristin, who
was asleep sitting beside Mark, the hunting shirt
half open at her breast.
         "I am Aphrodite," the goddess said to Mark. "I
was called; I had to come to you, and now I see I
must do something. How sweet, the mortal child, to
give you everything. She is restoring your life to
you, and giving you her entire life as well in the
process, and I hope you appreciate it. But men
never do, I suppose."
         Mark said, "I understand."
.

        "Do you? No, you don't. You really don't. But
perhaps one day you will."
        And the goddess approached the two of them
with long unhurried steps, meanwhile raising the
Sword in her right hand. Mark, alarmed, sat bolt
upright. Before he could do more, the Sword in
Aphrodite's hand was thrusting straight for Kris-
tin's sleeping back.
        The Sword in its swift passage made a sound like
a gasp of human breath. Mark saw the wide, bright
steel vanish into Kristin's back and emerge quite
bloodlessly between her breasts, to plunge straight


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on into his own heart as he sat beside her. He cried
out once, with a pang more intense than that of any
wound that he had ever felt, and then he fell back
dead.
        But then he realized that he was only dreaming
he was dead.
        Actually, he thought now, he was waking up.
        He was lying on his back, that much was real and
certain. And the endless pain in his head was gone
at last. It was too much trouble, his eyelids were
much too heavy, to try to open his eyes to discover if
he was asleep or dead.
        With a sigh of contentment, knowing the inex-
pressible comfort of pain's cessation, he shifted his
position slightly, and quickly fell into a natural
sleep.
        When Mark awoke again, he thought that day-
light was fading. Had it really been dawn before,
when the goddess and her Sword appeared? That
might have been a dream. But this, Kristin and
himself, was real. The hunting shirt was cast aside
now, but she was here, inside the cloak that
enfolded both of them.
        It was as if her blood flowed now in his veins, giv-
ing healing, and his blood crossed into her body too,
giving and receiving life.
        Into her body. His own life flowing ....

        It was morning again when he awoke, gently but
at last completely, at first accepting without won-
der the pressure of the warm smooth body beside
his own. Then he began to remember things, and
wonder rapidly unfolded.
        In an instant he was sitting upright, raising both
hands to his head. He was still caked with old, dried
blood and dirtier even than he remembered, and he
felt thirsty and ravenously hungry, but the pain and
fever were entirely gone. Kristin, as grimy and
worn-looking as he felt, but alive and safe and
warm, was snuggled naked beside him in an
exhausted sleep.
        The sun was about an hour high. Nearby were the
ashes of a long-dead fire. They were camped in a
grove, with running water murmuring somewhere

just out of sight. Mark could not recognize the place
at all or remember their arriving at it.
        A little distance away stood the two riding beasts,
looking lean and hard-used, but at the moment con-
tentedly munching grass. Someone had taken off
their saddles and tethered them for grazing.
        Mark stood up, the cape of black and gold that
had been his only cover falling back. Again he
raised a hand to his forehead. He dared to probe
more firmly with a finger. There was no longer any
trace of a wound, except for the dried blood.
        Kristin stirred at his feet, and he looked down
and saw that his movement had awakened her; her
eyes were open, marveling at him.
        "You have been healed," she said. It was as if she
had been half-expecting such an outcome, but still


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it surprised and almost frightened her.
         "Yes." He was almost frightened himself, at his
own suddenly restored well-being. He was almost
reluctant to move, afraid to break the healing spell.
"You did it for me."
         "Mark." It was as if she were trying out the
name, speaking it for the first time. Then she asked
a question that to Mark, at the moment, did not
seem in the least incongruous: "Do you love me?"
         "Yes." He gave his reply at once, gravely certain
without having to think about it. But then he seri-
ously considered the question and his answer. He
knelt beside Kristin, and looked at her and touched
her with awe, as if she herself were the great, true
question that required his best reply.
         "Yes," he repeated. "I love you more, I think,
than my own life-if this that has happened to us
comes from some enchantment, still it is so."
         "I love you more than life," she said, and took his
hand and kissed it, then held it to her breast. "I
thought..."
,.What?•'
         She shook her head, as if dismissing something, and
then sat up beside him. "I feared that my enchantment
would not save you-though it was the best that I could
do. I thought we were both lost."
         They stared at each other. Mark broke the short
silence. "I dreamed that Aphrodite was here with us.
         Kristin for some reason thought it necessary to
consider this statement very solemnly. It struck Mark
that they were gazing at each other like two children,
just beginning to discover things about the world, and
both gravely shocked at what they learned. He had
thought he knew something of the world before now,
but evidently there was still much he did not know.
         Then what Kristin was saying seized his full
attention. "I dreamed, too, that she was here. And
that she was about to kill both of us, with one of the
Swords."
         Mark stared at her. Then he jumped up out of the
nest again, naked in the morning's chill, and went
scrambling about to find Sightblinder. The Sword lay
nearby, in plain view. In a moment he had it in his
hands.
         And froze, staring at the hilt. The little white symbol
was not an eye. It was an open human hand.
         Kristin was beside him, leaning on his shoulder-in a
certain way it was as trusting and intimate a contact
as any that had gone before. She whispered: "That's
Woundhealer, isn't it?"
         "Yes."

"She's left it with us."
        "And taken Sightblinder in exchange." They stared
at each other in wonder, in something like panic. He
began a frantic search of the nearby area, but the
Sword of Stealth was gone. It was an alarming
thought that Woundhealer was going to be useless if
Vilkata's troops encountered them.
        Kristin was already pulling Mark's deteriorated shirt
on over her head. The garment was dirtier than she


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was, and beginning to show holes. "We've got to get
moving. All thanks to Aphrodite, but she's taken our
protection with her."
         All the dressing and packing they could do took only
moments. And moments after that they had got the
animals ready and were on their way.
         Kristin indicated a course. "Tasavalta lies in this
direction. We'll keep our eyes open as we go, and find
some fruit. I've been able to gather enough food here
and there to keep us going so far."
         The country around them and its vegetation were
changing as they progressed. The season was
advancing too, more wild fruits coming into ripeness.
Kristin appeared expert on the subject of what parts
of what plants could be eaten; she had more lore in
that subject than Mark did, particularly here close to
her homeland. He commented on the fact, while
marveling silently to himself that it had taken him so
long to realize how beautiful she was.
         "I have been trained in the white magic. Sorcery
and enchantment were to have been my life."
         "Were to have been?"
         "I have made a different disposition of my life now."
And suddenly she rode close beside him, very
close, and leaned sideways in her saddle to kiss him
fiercely.
         He said, "You were a virgin, before last night-
yes, you were to have been consecrated to the white
magic, weren't you? Or to Ardneh."
         Her expression told him that was so.
         "I begin to understand. You have given me what
was to have gone to Ardneh." Comprehension grew
in him slowly. "That was why, how, Aphrodite
came to heal me. You summoned her."
         "Goddesses go where they will. I could only try.
What else could I do? I discovered that I loved
you."
         Mark put his arm around her as they rode side by
side. The embrace at first was only tender. But soon
tenderness grew violent in its own way. They
stopped the animals beside a thicket and dis-
mounted.
         When, after some little time, they were riding on
again, solemnity had given way to silliness; again
and again they had to reprove themselves for not
watching what they were about, warn themselves
to stay alert. Love had granted a feeling of invulner-
ability.
         At about midday they came to a decent stream.
By now they had got pretty well beyond the worst
damage done by Vilkata's foragers, though the
countryside was still deserted, the visible houses
abandoned as far as could be seen in passing.
         The stream, of clean, swift water, was a marvel,
and washing at this stage almost as great a relief as
being able to drink their fill. Kristin's hair emerged
from the worst of its covering of grime to reveal
itself as naturally fair. Whatever color had

appeared would have been, in Mark's eyes, the only
perfect one.


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        Bathing together soon led to other activities, self-
limiting in duration; there was presently a pause
for more varied conversation.
        Mark asked her, "How did you come to be a pris-
oner there?"
        Kristin's blue-green eyes looked off into the dis-
tance. "A group of us were traveling, through
country we thought was reasonably safe." She
shrugged. "We were attacked by a patrol of the
Dark King's army. What happened to the others in
our party I do not know; I suppose they were all
killed. The enemy had a magician with them. We
had a contest, naturally, and he proved too strong
for me. Except that I was able to-to hide myself, in
a fashion. I knew little of what was happening to
me, and my captors were able to tell little about
me. They brought me back to their main encamp-
ment. What would have happened to me next-"
        Mark put out a hand. "It won't happen now.
You're safe."
        "Thanks to you. But how did you come to be
there?"
        He explained his mission in broad terms, first as
a diplomatic messenger for Sir Andrew, then on his
own after his strange encounter with Draffut. That
was a well-nigh incredible tale, he realized, but
Kristin watched him closely as he spoke and he
thought that she believed him. If she had ever heard
of Mark, the despoiler of the Blue Temple, she did
not appear to connect that person with the man
before her. He sometimes thought, hearing his own
name in. the song of some passing stranger, that he
was famous. But actually the name was common
enough. And fortunately for his chances of avoiding
the Blue Temple assassins, his face was not famous
at all.
        Before they left the stream, he tried to study his
own face in the quietest available pool. "How do I
look?" His fingers searched his forehead.
        "There's a scar. No more than that. A simple
scar, you'll still be handsome." She kissed it for
him.
        He sat back. "So, as you see, I was on my way to
Tasavalta anyway. As a courier."
        "How convenient." She kissed him again.
        "Yes. What is the Princess like?"
        "A few years, older than I am." Kristin paused. "I
can hardly claim to know her."
        "I suppose not. We'd better get moving."
        They were dressed, in washed garments, and
packed and back on their animals heading east,
before Mark resumed the conversation. "I don't
know Tasavaltan customs at all well. Should I be
asking you who your parents are? I mean, what is
the customary way of taking a wife in your land?
Who else must I talk to about it, if anyone?"
        "My parents are both dead."
        "Sorry."
        "It was long ago. Yes, there will be people we
have to see. Old Karel first, I suppose. He's my
uncle, and also my teacher in magic. A rather well-


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known wizard. You may have heard of him?"
        "No. But I've known other magicians, they don't
frighten me especially. We'll see your Uncle Karel
. . . by the way, will you marry me?"
        Kristin appeared vaguely disappointed. "You
know I will. But I am glad you thought to ask."
        "Ah yes." And again there was an interval in

which no thoughtful planning could be accom-
plished.
         The interval over, Mark said, "I gather you're not
exactly looking forward to seeing your old uncle.
He was intent on consecrating you as a sorceress, is
that it?"
         "Partly."
         He felt somewhat relieved; he could have imag-
ined worse. "Well, not all the women who are good
at magic are virgins, I can assure you of that." He
paused. "I mean..."
         They cautiously approached and entered a
deserted house, and then another, and helped them-
selves to a few items of clothing the inhabitants had
not bothered to take with them when they fled.
Mark wondered whether to leave payment, and
decided not-the arrival of Vilkata's looters seemed
likely to occur before the return of the proper own-
ers. Feeling a shade more civilized, they rode on.
         It struck Mark that Kristin was resisting making
plans for their own future. She loved him, they were
going to marry, that much was certain between
them. But she was reluctant to go into details at all.
A sense of mystery, of something withheld, per-
sisted. Mark put it down to exhaustion. Though
Woundhealer had restored them marvelously, still
the journey was hard and their food meagre.
         Yet it was happy, despite continued difficulties
and periods of fear. And as they left the last fringes
of the area already devastated by Vilkata's army,
their own foraging became correspondingly easier.
Farms and houses were even fewer now; this was a
region sparsely inhabited in the best of times.
         Mark tried to count up the days of their journey.
Watching the phases of the Moon, he decided it was
now almost a month since he-had approached and
entered Vilkata's camp.
         At last there came the day when they rode into
sight of a banner of blue and green, raised on a tall
rustic pole. The Tasavaltan flagpole stood atop a
crag that overlooked the road, just where the road
entered the first pass of mountain foothills. Kristin
shed tears at sight of the flag; Mark had to look at
her closely to be sure that they were tears of joy.
         She assured Mark that what he had been told of
Tasavalta was correct, that although it was not a
huge land it was certainly spectacular. In any event
he could now begin to see that for himself. Kristin
explained the topography in a general way: there
were two main mountain ranges, one right along
the coastline to the east, the other a few kilometers
inland, just inside the first long line of sheltered
valleys. Both these ranges were really southern


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extensions of the Ludus Mountains, now many
kilometers to the north.
        "I grew up in sight of the Ludus," Mark said.
"We could see them on a clear day, anyway, from
home."
        Despite the southern latitude they had now
reached, here in late summer there were still traces
of ice and snow visible upon the highest Tasavaltan
peaks ahead. The coast was deeply cut with fjords
here, and cold ocean currents kept this almost
tropic land in a state of perpetual spring.
        Mark and Kristin pushed on, urging their tired
riding beasts past that first frontier marking. Mark
kept glancing at his companion. She was more
often silent now, and looked more worried the far-
ther they went.
        He asked Kristin suddenly, "Still worried about

what your teacher in the white arts is going to
say?"
"That's not it. Or not altogether."
        Still the secrecy, and it annoyed him. "What,
then?"
        But she would not give him what he considered a
straight answer, and his annoyance grew. Some-
thing about her family, he supposed. What they
were going to say when she brought home an
almost penniless foreign soldier as a prospective
husband. Mark was sure by now that Kristin's fam-
ily were no peasants. Well, the two of them had
been traveling alone together for a month. If her
people were like most of the well-to-do families that
Mark had known, that would be a powerful induce-
ment for them to give their consent. In any case he
was going to marry her, he would entertain no
doubt of that, and he kept reassuring himself that
she showed no hesitation on that point either.
        She might, he sometimes thought, be with-
holding information about some complication or
obstacle. If she feared he might be influenced by
anything like that-well, she didn't yet know him
as well as she was going to.

        Once they had passed that first flagpole marking
the frontier, the road immediately improved. It also
began a steeper climb, sometimes requiring long
winding switchbacks. For the first time on this
journey Mark could glimpse the sea, chewing at the
feet of the coastal mountains. It was deep blue in
the distance, then the color of Kristin's eyes, then as
it met land frothed into white. Now, on either side
of the road, there were meadows, presently being
harvested of hay by industrious-looking peasants
who were not shy about exchanging waves at a dis-
tance with shabbily dressed wayfaring strangers.
The lifesaving cloak of Vilkata's colors had long
since been rolled up into a tight black bundle and
lodged behind Mark's saddle.
        Now Kristin pointed ahead, to where the sun-
spark of a heliograph could be seen winking inter-
mittently from the top of a small mountain. "That


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may be some message about us. In times like these,
the lookouts tend to take notice of every traveler."
        "Do you know the code?"
        "Yes-but that's not aimed in our direction. I
can't see enough of it to read."
        Now-oddly as it appeared to Mark-Kristin's
worry had been replaced by a kind of gaiety. As if
whatever had been worrying her had happened
now, and all that mattered after that was to make
the best of life, moment by moment. Now she was
able to relax and enjoy her homecoming, like any
other rescued prisoner.
        He took what he saw as an opportunity to try to
talk seriously to her again. "You're going to marry
me, and right away, no matter what you family or
anyone else says about it." He stated it as firmly as
he could.
        "Yes, oh darling, yes. I certainly am." And
Kristin was every bit as positive as he was about it.
But he could see now that her sadness, though it
had been conquered, was not entirely gone.
        Things of very great importance to her-what-
ever all the implications might be exactly-had
been set aside, because it was more important to
Kristin that she marry him. Mark made, not for the

first time on this journey, a silent vow to see that
she never regretted that decision.
        He was cheered to see that happiness increas-
ingly dominated her mood as they went on. She was
coming home, she was going to see a family and
friends who must at the very least be badly worried
about her now, who might very possibly have given
her up for dead.
        The road, now well paved, rounded a shoulder of
the same small mountain upon whose peak they
had seen the heliograph. Then it promptly turned
into a cobblestone street, as the travelers found
themselves entering the first village of Tasavalta. It
was, Mark decided, really a small town. He won-
dered what it was called. Not far ahead on the right
was a small, clean-looking inn, and he suggested
that they stop. He had a little money with him still,
carried in an inner pocket. "If they will let us in; we
do look somewhat ragged." Their scavenging
through deserted houses had added to their ward-
robe, but only doubtfully improved its quality.
        "All right. We can stop anywhere. It makes little
difference now." Kristin looked him squarely in the
eye, and added warmly: "I love you."
        It was something they said to each other, in end-
less variations, a hundred times a day. Why should
the effect, this time, be almost chilling, as if she
were telling him goodbye
        "And I love you,',' he answered softly.
        She turned her head away from him, to look
toward the inn, and something in her aspect froze.
Mark followed her gaze. Now they were close
enough to the inn for him to see the white ribbon of
mourning that was stretched above the door. And
there was another white ribbon, now that he looked


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for it, wrapped round the arch of the gate leading
into the inn's courtyard from the street.
        He said to Kristin: "Someone in the innkeeper's
family. . ."
        She had turned in her saddle again, and was look-
ing wordlessly up and down the street. Now that
they were closer to the other doors and gateways
they could see the white bands plainly, everywhere.
In this town the badge of mourning appeared to be
universal.
        "What is it, then?" The words burst from
Kristin in a scream, a sound that Mark had never
heard from her before. He stared at her. They had
stopped, just outside the open gateway of the
courtyard of the inn.
        In response to the outcry an old woman in an
apron, the innkeeper's wife by the look of her,
appeared just inside the yard. In a cracked voice she
admonished, "Where've you been, young woman,
that you don't know-"
        At that point the old woman halted suddenly. Her
face paled as she stared at Kristin, and she seemed
to stumble, almost going down on one knee. But
Kristin, who had already dismounted, caught her
by the arms and held her up.
        And shook her, fiercely. "Tell me, old one, tell me,
who is the mourning for?"
        The eyes of the innkeeper's wife were pale and
hopeless. "My lady, it's for the Princess. . . Princess
Rimac . . . has been killed."
        Again Kristin let out a scream, this one short and
wordless. Mark had heard another woman scream
just that way as she fell in battle. Kristin swayed
but she did not fall.

        He jumped off his own mount and went to her
and held her. "What is it?"
        She clung to him as if an ocean wave were tug-
ging at her, sweeping her away: For just a moment
her eyes, flashing with mystery and fright, looked
directly into his. "My sister. . ."
        She tried to add more words to those two. But
Mark heard hardly any of them. He retreated, one
backward step after another in the direction of the
inn, until directly behind him there was an old
bench, that stood close by the white-ribboned door-
way. He sat down on the bench, in the partial shade
of an old tree, leaning his back against the inn's
whitewashed wall. Already half a dozen more
townspeople had appeared from somewhere, to
make a little knot around Kristin and the old
woman in the courtyard, and even as Mark watched
another half dozen came running. They were
kneeling to Kristin, seizing her hands and kissing
them, calling her Princess. Someone leaped on the
back of a fresh riding beast in the courtyard and
went pounding away down the street, hooves
echoing for what seemed like a long time on distant
cobblestones.
        Mark remained sitting where he was, on the
shaded bench near the worn doorway, while people


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rushed in and out ignoring him. Now and again
through the press of bodies his eyes met Kristin's
for a moment. The Sword of Love in its sheath
weighed heavily at his side.
        Among the other things that people were shout-
ing at her were explanations: how Princess Rimac
had ridden out carelessly as was her habit; how
there had been a sudden, unexpected attack by one
of the Dark King's raiding parties; how now there
was going to be war ....
        The crowd grew rapidly, and Mark's glimpses of
Kristin became less frequent. At one point dozens of
eyes suddenly turned his way, and there was a sud-
den, comparatively minor fuss that centered about
him-she must have said something that identified
him as her rescuer. People thronged about him.
Men with an attitude between timidity and bra-
vado beat him on the back in congratulation, and
tried to press filled beer mugs into his hand.
Women asked him if he were hungry, and would not
hear anything he answered them, and brought him
cake. Girls threw their tender arms about his neck
and kissed him, more girls and young women
kissing him now in a few moments than had even
looked at him for a long time. One girl, pressed
against him by the crowd, took his hand and
crushed it against her breast. By now he had lost
sight of Kristin entirely, and if it were not for the
continuing crowd he would have thought that she
had left the courtyard.
        There was the sound of many riding beasts out in
the street. Now the crowd, filling the gateway,
blocking Mark's view of the street, had a growing
new component. Soldiers, uniformed in green and
blue. Mark supposed that the heliograph had been
busy.
        Someone near him said: "General." Mark recog-
nized Rostov at once, having heard him described
so often, though he had never seen the man before.
        Round one thick arm in its blue-green sleeve,
Rostov like the other soldiers was wearing a band of
mourning white. There was one decoration on his
barrel chest-Mark had no idea of what it repre-

sented. The General was as tall as Mark, and gave
Mark the impression of being stronger, though he
was twice Mark's age. Rostov's -curly black hair
was heavily seasoned with gray, and his black face
marked on the right cheek by an old sword-slash. A
gray beard that looked like steel fiber raggedly
trimmed sprouted from cheeks and chin. His facial
expression, thought Mark, would have been quite
hard enough even without a steel beard.
        Kristin was now coming through the crowd, and
Mark from only two yards away saw how the Gen-
eral greeted her. He did not kneel-that appeared
to be quite optional for anyone-but his eyes lit up
with relief and joy, and he bowed and kissed her
hand fervently.
        She clung to his hand with both of hers. "Rostov,
they tell me that Parliament has been divided over


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the succession? That they have nearly come to
blows?"
        "They have come very nearly to civil war, High-
ness." The General's voice was suitably gravelly
and deep. "But, thank the gods, all that is over now.
All factions can agree on you. It was only the
thought that you were missing, too . . . thank all the
gods you're here."
        "I am here. And well." And at last her eyes
turned in Mark's direction.
        Now Mark and Rostov were being introduced.
The General glowered at him, Mark thought; that
was the way of generals everywhere, he had
observed, when looking at someone of insignifi-
cance who had got in the way. Still Rostov was
quick to express his own and his army's formal
thanks.
        A hundred people were speaking now, but one
soft voice at Mark's elbow caught his full attention.
It was a woman's, and it said: "They told me that
your name was Mark. And so I hurried here to see."
        Mark recognized his mother's voice, before he
turned to see her face.

CHAPTER 8

        The scar on Denis's arm, the last trace of the
wound that had been healed by the Sword of Mercy,
looked faint and old already. He thought that the
second touch of Woundhealer in the hand of Aphro-
dite had reached his heart, for there were times
when he had the feeling of scar tissue forming there
as well. The vision of the goddess as she had;
appeared to him at night on the river-island was
with him still. He still felt pity for her whenever he
thought of what had happened; and then, each
time, fear at what might happen to a man who
dared feel pity for divinity.
        His emotions whipsawn by his encounter with
Aphrodite, Denis sometimes felt as if years had
passed in the few days since his departure from
Tashigang. In the days that followed, he went on
paddling his canoe into the north and east. He
toyed no more with the idea of absconding with the
remaining Sword; he was still in awe and shock
from that demonstration of its powers, and he
wanted nothing but to be honorably and safely rid
of it.
        With that objective in mind, he tried his best to
keep his attention concentrated upon practical
affairs. It was necessary now to watch for a second
set of landmarks, these to tell him where to leave
this river and make the small necessary portage.
The markers were specially blazed trees, in the
midst of a considerable forest through which the
little river now ran. Denis paddled upstream
through the forest for a full day, looking for them.
The stream he was now following grew ever
younger and smaller and more lively as he got fur-
ther from the Corgo, and was here overhung from
both banks by great branches.


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        On the night that Denis left Tashigang, Ben had
told him that if he saw any wild-looking people
after he had come this far, they were probably Sir
Andrew's. The Kind Knight's folk would escort a
courier the rest of the way, or at least put him on
the right track, once he had convinced them he was
bona fide .
        . . . and the Goddess of Love had told him, Denis,
that she loved him. Even in the midst of trying to
make plans he kept coming back to that, coming
back to it in a glow of secret and guilty pride, guilty
because he knew that it was undeserved. Was ever
mortal man so blessed?
        Much good had such a blessing done him. Pride
came only fitfully. In general he felt scarred and
numb.
        He did manage to keep his mind on the job, and
spot his required landmarks. The blazed trees were
not very conspicuous, and it was a good thing that
he had been keeping an alert eye open. Once he had

found the proper place, he had to beach his canoe
on the right bank, then drag it through a trackless
thicket-this route was apparently not much
used-and next up a clear slope, over ground fortu-
nately too soft to damage the canoe. This brought
him into a low pass leading through a line of hills
that the stream had now been paralleling for some
time.
        After dragging his canoe for half a kilometer,
lifting and carrying it when absolutely necessary,
Denis reached the maximum slight elevation
afforded by the pass. From this vantage point he
could look ahead, over the treetops of another for-
est, and see in the distance the beginnings of the
Great Swamp, different kinds of trees rearing up
out of an ominous flatness. During the last four
years that largely uncharted morass had swallowed
up the larger portions of a couple of small armies,
to the great discomfiture of the Dark King and the
Silver Queen respectively. And neither monarch
was any closer now than four years ago to their goal
of slaughtering Sir Andrew and the impertinent
fugitives of his own small military force.
        The stream that Denis had to find now was not
hard to locate. It was running in the only place
nearby that it very well could run, just beyond the
line of hills in the bottom of the adjoining gentle
valley. After resting a little while on its bank, he
launched his canoe again, and resumed paddling,
once more going upstream. In this waterway the
current was slower, and Denis made correspond-
ingly better time. But this was a more winding
stream, taking him back and forth on wide curves
through the forest; he was going to have to paddle
farther just to get from here to there.
        Denis spent an entire day paddling up this
stream before he was challenged. This happened at
just about the point where he could see that he was
entering some portion of the Great Swamp itself.
        His challengers were three in number, a man and


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two women, one of them standing on each bank of
the narrow stream and one on an overhanging
bough. All three looked quite tough and capable.
Their weapons did not menace but they were cer-
tainly held ready. Against this display Denis lifted
his own hands, empty, in a sign of peace.
        He said, "I need to see Sir Andrew, as quickly as I
can. I come from a man named Ben, and I have here
a cargo that Sir Andrew needs."
        The three who had stopped him spoke quickly
among themselves, and two of them promptly
became Denis's escort. They made no comment on
the fact of his empty-looking boat, as contrasted
with his claim of valuable cargo.. They did take
from him his only visible weapon, a short knife.
Then the man got into the rear seat of Denis's
canoe, and took over the paddling, while one of the
women oared another small craft along behind. As
they glided deeper into the swamp, under the
twisted limbs of giant trees festooned with exotic
parasite-plants, Denis saw a small arboreal crea-
ture, of a type strange to him, headed in the same
direction. It was brachiating itself along through
the upper branches at a pace that soon overtook
and passed the boats. He surmised it was some spe-
cies of half-intelligent messenger.
        Presently, after about a kilometer of paddling,
Denis was delivered to a camouflaged command
post, a half-walled structure made of logs and shirt-
sized tree fronds, where he repeated his terse

message to an officer. Again he was sent on, deeper
into the swamp, this time with a different and
larger escort.
        This leg of the escorted journey took longer. It
occupied a fair portion of the remaining daylight
hours, and ended with Denis's canoe grounding on
the shore of what appeared to be a sizable island of
firm land that reared up out of the swamp. There
were people on this island already. He estimated a
score of them or more, many of them conspicuously
wearing Sir Andrew's orange and black. A few tents
had been set up, but the place did not have the worn
look of a permanent encampment.
        The people who were already gathered here
appeared to be waiting for something. They were
not, as it turned out, anticipating Denis's arrival,
which in itself did not cause much of a stir. His
canoe was beached for him, and he was at once con-
ducted a short distance inland, toward one particu-
lar knot of people who were engaged in some
serious discussion. Taking the chance to look about
him from the slightly higher vantage point of this
firm ground, Denis realized that this was no true
island at all, or else it was a much larger island
than he had first assumed. From here he could see a
double track, what looked like a regular road,
though a poor one, approaching through the trees
to end in the small clearing where the knot of peo-
ple were conversing.
        The focus of that group's attention was one man,


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heavily built, gray-haired, and wearing clothing
that might once have been fine. This man was
standing with his back to Denis, but the black hilt
of a Sword visible at his side convinced Denis that
this must be Sir Andrew himself, who was known to
hold Shieldbreaker.
         Sir Andrew turned. The face of the man known as
the Kind Knight showed more age than his strong
body did. He was holding a book in his left hand,
and had been gesturing with it to make some point,
when Denis's arrival interrupted the discussion.
         Standing at Sir Andrew's right hand was a
woman, not young but certainly still attractive.
There was much gray now in the lady's black hair,
but Denis thought that in youth her face must have
been extremely beautiful. He had no idea what her
name might be, but at first glance he was certain
she was a sorceress. Certain details of her dress
gave that indication, but the impression was cre-
ated chiefly by an impalpable sense of magic that
hung about her. Denis could feel that magical aura,
and he did not consider himself a sensitive.
         Two pairs of brown eyes, the lady's younger and
quicker than Sir Andrew's, studied the new arrival.
Names were formally exchanged.
         "And where," asked the Knight then, in his slow,
strong voice, "is this cargo that you say you have
for me?"
         "In the canoe, sir. There's a false bottom."
         "And what is the cargo? Speak freely, I have no
secrets from any here."
         Denis glanced around. "A Sword, sir. One of the
famous Twelve, I mean. Sent from the man called
Ben, in Tashigang. There were two Swords, but-
something happened to me on the way."
         "I can see that," the enchantress murmured. Her
eyes were narrowed as she studied Denis. "Show
me this remaining Sword."
         They moved quickly to the waiting beached

canoe. At Denis's direction the concealing board
was pried up once more. Dame Yoldi, the graying
sorceress, supervised this operation carefully, and
gave the exposed cargo a close inspection before she
would allow Sir Andrew to approach it.
        She also questioned Denis first. "You say that
two Swords were sent, and one lost on the way?"
        "Yes Ma'am." Denis related in barest outline,
and not dwelling on his own feelings, what had hap-
pened between him and the goddess. He heard a
snicker or two, and scoffing noises, in the back-
ground. But he thought the lady perhaps believed
him. At least she stepped back to let Sir Andrew
approach the canoe.
        The Knight's right hand plucked Doomgiver
from the secret compartment, and held it, still
sheathed, aloft. There was a general murmur, of
appreciation this time, not scoffing.
        "Do you feel anything from the two Swords,
Andrew?" the sorceress asked gently. "You are
holding two at one time-you still wear Shield-


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breaker."
        He huffed and gave her a look. "I've not forgotten
what I wear. No, I feel nothing in particular-you
once told me that even three Swords at once would
not be too many for some folk to handle."
        "And I tell you again that two, in certain combi-
nations, might do strange things to other folk. And
you are sensitive."
        "Sensitive! Me!" He huffed again.
        Dame Yoldi smiled, and Denis could see how
much she loved him. Denis wondered suddenly if he
himself had actually handled the two Swords at the
same time at any point. If he had, he couldn't
remember feeling anything strange.
        Now Sir Andrew turned back to Denis. "We must
soon hear your story about the goddess, and
Woundhealer, in more detail. Meanwhile we are all
grateful to you for what you have brought to us. But
at the moment even such a gift as the Sword of Jus-
tice must wait to have my full attention, and you
must wait to get your proper thanks."
        "You're quite welcome, sir."
        Already Dame Yoldi had Denis by the arm and
was turning him away. "At the moment you are in
need of food and rest." She gestured, and a woman
came to take Denis in charge.
        He resisted momentarily. "Thank you, Ma'am.
But there is one bit of news, bad news, that I must
tell you first." That certainly got their full attention
back. Denis swallowed, then blurted out the words.
"The Dark King has the Mindsword in his hands.
So we were told in Tashigang, by some of Ardneh's
people." The source put a strong flavor of reliabil-
ity upon the news.
        His hearers received his announcement with all
the shock that Denis had anticipated. He braced
himself for the inevitable burst of questions, which
he answered in the only way he could, pleading his
own lack of further knowledge.
        At last he was dismissed. Led away, he was given
bread and wine, then shown to a tent where he
stretched out gratefully upon the single cot. His
eyes closed, their lids suddenly heavy, and with a
swiftness that might have been genuinely magical,
he plunged into a deep sleep.
        Denis awoke suddenly, and feeling greatly
refreshed. He was surprised to see that the pattern
of tree shadows on the tent had shifted very little,

and no great length of time could have passed.
What had awakened him he did not know.
        Listening to the silence outside the tent, he
thought that there was some unusual tension in it.
        He got up and left the tent. Seeing that some peo-
ple were still gathered at the place where he had
left Sir Andrew and Dame Yoldi, he hurried in that
direction. Now, as he walked, Denis could see a few
more people in orange and black approaching
quickly on foot along the landward road. These
were turning and gesturing, as if to indicate that
someone or something of importance was coming


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after them. Everyone nearby was looking in that
direction.
        Denis halted in surprise at sight of the next two
figures that appeared down the road. Both were
wearing black and silver, the colors of Yambu. Both
were mounted, riding freely, not at all like prison-
ers. Still, neither was visibly armed. One was a
burly man, and the other-
        With a silent gasp, Denis recognized the Silver
Queen herself. He had seen her twice before, both
times years ago, both times in the city of Tashigang.
She, as the city's formal overlord, had been
appearing then in ceremonial processions. He, then
no more than a street urchin, had been clinging to
precarious perches above the crowds, eager to
watch.
        In those processions the Queen had ridden her
virtually unique mount, a superbly trained and
deadly warbeast. Her steed today was less remarka-
ble, though still magnificent, a huge riding beast
matching that ridden by her companion. This burly
man, her escort, as they approached Sir Andrew
and the others waiting, dropped a deferential half-
length behind.
        The two riders halted, calmly, at a little distance
from where the folk in orange and black were wait-
ing to receive them. They dismounted there and
approached Sir Andrew's group on foot, the tall
Queen a pace ahead in her light silvery ceremonial
armor, taking long strides like a man. Denis calcu-
lated that she must be now well into her middle
thirties, though her tanned face looked younger.
Her whole body was strong and lithe, and despite
her stride the generously female shape of her body
left no doubt at all about her sex. The Queen's nose,
Denis noted now in private impertinence, was too
big for her ever to be called pretty, by any reason-
able usage of the word. And yet, all in all-well, if
he were to meet some woman of attainable station
who looked just like her, he'd not refuse a chance to
know her better.
        And have you forgotten me already? The voice of
Aphrodite came to Denis only in his imagination. It
shook him, though, in a resonance of conflicting
feelings.
        Sir Andrew was standing with folded arms, wait-
ing for his visitors, as if the last thing in the world
he might do would be to make any gesture acknow-
ledging his old enemy's greater rank. But she,
approaching, as if she thought he might do so and
wished to forestall him, was quick to make the first
gesture of greeting, flinging up her right hand in the
universal gesture of peace.
        "We meet again!" The Silver Queen's. voice,
hearty and open, neither assumed a royal superior-
ity nor pretended a friendship that did not exist.
"My honored enemy! Would that my friends and

allies were half as dependable as you. So, will you
take my hand? And never mind the fripperies of
rank."


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        And when Dame Yoldi moved between them,
Queen Yambu added: "Aye, lady, you may look at
my hand first. I bring no poisoning, no tricks; which
is not to say that none such were suggested by my
magicians.
        Dame Yoldi did indeed make a brief inspection of
the Queen's hand. Meanwhile Denis was having to
use his elbows to keep himself from being crowded
back by the small but growing throng of Sir
Andrew's people who wanted to observe the meet-
ing closely. There had evidently been more than
twenty on the island after all. He managed to
remain close enough to see that the Queen's hand
looked like a soldier's, being short-nailed, spotted
with callouses-the sort that came from gripping
weapons-and strong. But, for all that, it was
shapely, and not very large.
        The Queen's offered hand was briefly engulfed in
Sir Andrew's massive paw. And then the Knight
stood back again, grim-faced, arms folded, waiting
to hear more.
        The Queen cast a look around her. Sir Andrew's
friends and bodyguard, heavily armed, most of
them impressive warriors, were hovering suspi-
ciously close to her and her companion, and looking
as grim as Sir Andrew did himself.
        She said to the Knight: "I do trust you, you see,
and your safe-conduct guarantee. In nine years of
fighting you, off and on, I've learned to know you
well enough for that."
        The Knight' spoke to her for the first time. "And
we have learned something of your character as
well, Madam. And of yours, Baron Amintor. Now,
what will you have of me? Why this urgent call for a
meeting?"
        The Baron was as big and solid as Sir Andrew, and
with much the same hearty and honest look, though
the Silver Queen's companion was probably the
younger of the two men by some fifteen years. Both
were battle-scarred, Denis observed, evidently real
fighters. Amintor's eyes were intelligent, and Denis
had heard that he was gifted with a diplomatic tongue
when he chose to use it.
        And the Queen . . . this Queen had been no more
than a half-grown girl when she ascended to the
throne of Yambu. Her first act afterward, it was said,
had been to put to death the plotters who had
murdered both her parents in an abortive coup
attempt. Nor had the throne been easy for her to hold,
through the twenty years that followed. Many plotters
and intriguers during that time had gone the way of
that first set. Ever since its shaky beginning, her reign-
except in a few lucky places like Tashigang-had not
been gentle. It was said that she grew ever more
obsessed with the idea that there were plots against
her, and that about four years ago she had sold her
bastard adolescent daughter into slavery, because of
the girl's supposed involvement in one. The girl,
Ariane, had been her only child; everyone knew that
the Silver Queen had never married formally.
        Now the Queen said to Sir Andrew, "I like a man


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who can come straight to the point. But just one
question first: are you aware that the Dark King now
has the Mindsword in his possession?"
        The Knight answered calmly. "We have been so
informed."

         Both the Queen and Baron Amintor appeared
somewhat taken aback by this calm response. Yambu
said, "And I thought that you were existing in a
backwater here! My compliments to your intelligence
service."
         And Amintor chimed in: "You'll agree, I'm sure, Sir
Andrew, that the fact does change the strategic
situation for us all."
         Sir Andrew took just a moment to consider him in
silence, before facing back to the Queen. "And just
what, Madam, do you expect this change to mean?"
         The Silver Queen laughed. It was a pleasant, rueful
sound. There was a fallen tree nearby, a twisted log
that rested at a convenient height on the stubs of its
own .branches, and she moved a couple of steps to it
and sat down.
         "I foresee myself as Vilkata's first victim, unless I
do something about it, quickly. I'll speak plainly-if
you've begun to know me, as you say, you know that's
how I prefer to speak. If Vilkata with the Mindsword
in his hand falls on my army now, then unless they can
withstand it somehow-and I've no reason to hope they
can-then my army will at best melt away. At worst it'll
join Vilkata and augment his strength, which is already
greater than yours and mine combined.
         "You, of course, will applaud my fall and my
destruction-but not for very long."
         The Knight, his aspect one of unaltered grimness,
nodded. "So, Queen of Yambu, what do you
propose?"
         "No more than what you must have already
guessed, Sir Andrew. An alliance, of course, between
us two." Yambu turned her head slightly;
her noble bearing at the moment could almost turn the
fallen log into a throne. "Tell him, good Dame, if you
love him-an alliance with me now represents his only
chance."
         Neither Sir Andrew nor his enchantress gave an
immediate answer. But the Knight looked so black
that, had he spoken, Denis thought the conference
would have ended on the instant.
         Dame Voldi asked the Queen, "Suppose we should
join forces against Vilkata-what then? How do you
propose to fight the Mindsword, with our help or
without it?"
         It was the Baron who replied. "To begin with, we
mean to avoid battle with Vilkata's troops unless
we're sure he's not on the scene himself-he'll never
turn the Mindsword over to a subordinate, you may be
sure of that. Your people and ours will exchange
intelligence regarding the Dark King's movements.
Yes, it'll still be damned difficult even if we're allied-
but if we're still fighting each other at the same time,
it's going to be impossible."
         Yoldi had another question. "Supposing for a


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moment that such an alliance could be made to work,
even temporarily-what do you intend doing with the
Mindsword, after the Dark King has somehow been
defeated?"
         Yambu smiled with what looked like genuine
amusement. It made her face more attractive than
before. "Why, I would leave that up to you."
         "You'd turn the Mindsword over to us?" Yoldi
asked the question blankly.
         The Queen paused very briefly. "Why not? I can
agree to that, because I think that your good Knight
there is one of the few men in the world who'd never
use it."

        "And what of my people who are now your slaves,
my lands that you have seized?" This was from Sir
Andrew. He had now mastered his obvious anger,
and was almost calm, as if he were only discussing
some theoretical possibility.
        "Why, those are yours again, of course, as soon as
you and I can reach agreement. As soon after that as
I rejoin my own people, I'll send word by flying beasts
to all my garrison commanders there, to begin an
evacuation at once."
        "And in return for that, what do you want of me?"
        "First, of course, immediate cessation of hostilities
against my forces, everywhere. And then your full
support against the Dark King, until he is brought
down. Or until he crushes both of us." The Queen
paused, giving an almost friendly look to Sir Andrew
and his surrounding bodyguard. She added: "You
really have no choice, you know."
        There was a long pause, during which Sir Andrew
studied the Queen even more carefully than before.
At last he said, "Tell me something."
        "If I can."
        "Did you in fact sell your own daughter into Red
Temple slavery?"
        Denis saw a shadow, he thought of something more
complex than simple anger, cross the Queen's face.
Her voice when she replied was much less hearty.
"Ah," she said. "Ah, and if I tell you the truth of that,
will you believe me?"
        "Why not? Apparently you expect us to believe
your proposal to give us the Mindsword-perhaps at
this moment you even believe that yourself. Still, I
would like to hear whatever you wish to say about
your daughter."
        This time the pause was short. Then, with a sudden
movement, the Silver Queen got up from her seat on
the dead tree.
        "Amintor and I will walk apart a little now, while
you discuss my offer. Naturally you will want to talk
to your close advisers before giving me an answer. I
trust they are all here. Unfortunately-or perhaps
fortunately-there isn't time for diplomacy as usually
conducted. But I'll wait, while you have your
discussion."
        And the two visitors from Yambu did indeed walk
apart, Baron Amintor apparently pointing out some
curiosities of the swamp flora to the Queen, as if


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neither of them had anything more important than wild
plants on mind.
        Sir Andrew and several others were huddled
together, and Denis could imagine what they were
saying: About Vilkata and the Mindsword, it must be
true, for now we've heard it twice. But, an alliance?
With Yambu?
        But, thought Denis, the Queen was right. He has no
real choice but to accept.

CHAPTER 9
        Kristin, crowned only hours ago in hurried but joyful
ceremony as Princess Regnant of the Lands of
Tasavalta, was alone in one of the royal palace's
smaller semipublic rooms, sitting on one of her smaller
thrones. She had chosen to sit on this throne at this
moment because she was tiredexhausted might have
been putting it mildly-and the throne was the most
convenient place in the room to sit. There were no
other chairs. She could willingly have opted for the
floor, but the fit of her coronation gown, which had
been her sister's, and today had been pressed into
service. hurriedly, argued against that.
        She was waiting for her lover Mark to be brought
to her. There were certain things that had to be said
to him, and only she could say them, and only when
the two of them were alone. And her impending
collapse into exhaustion had to be postponed until
after they had been said.
        The room was quiet now, except for the
distant
continuing sounds of celebration from outside. But
if Kristin thought about it, she could remember
other days in this room. Bright days of loud voices
and free laughter, in the time when her older sister
had been alive and ruling Tasavalta. And days from
an earlier time still, when Kristin had been only a
small girl, and there were two girls in this room
with their father, a living King, who joked with
them about this throne ....
        Across the room in present time a small door was
opening, quietly and discreetly. Her Uncle Karel,
master of magic and teacher of magicians, looked
in, saw she was alone, and gave her an almost
imperceptible nod of approval. Karel was enor-
mously fat and somewhat jolly in appearance, red
cheeks glowing as usual above gray whiskers, as if
he had just come in from an invigorating winter
walk. As far as Kristin could tell he had not changed
in the slightest from those bright days of her own
girlhood. Today of course he was decked out, like
herself, in full ceremonial garb, including a blue-
green garland on his brow.
        He reached behind him now to pull someone for-
ward. It was Mark, dressed now in strange bor-
rowed finery, that he thrust gently into the room
where Kristin waited.
        Karel said to her, in a voice that somewhat belied
his jolly face; "Highness, it will look bad for you to
be alone for very long with this-"
        She stood up, snapped to her feet as if brought


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there by a spring, weary muscles           energized by out-
rage, by the tension of all that           had happened to her
today. "Uncle Karel, I have been           alone with him for
a month already. Thank the gods!           For before that I

was alone with Vilkata's torturers, and you were
not there to bring me out."
        That was unfair and Kristin knew it; her voice
softened a little. "There are important matters that
I must-convey to this man. Before I dispatch him
on a mission that will take him out of Tasavalta."
        Her uncle had winced at the jab about Vilkata's
torturers, but his relief at her last words was evi-
dent. He bowed himself out silently, closing the
door behind him.

        Mark heard the same words from Kristin with
muted shock, but no real surprise. It was hours now
since he had opened his mouth to say a word of his
own to anyone. Many had spoken to him, but for the
most part only to give him directions: Bathe here,
wait there, put this on and see if it fits. Here is food,
here is drink, here is a razor. Stand here, wait. Now
come this way. He had been fed, cleaned up, draped
with robes and what he supposed were honors, then
shunted aside and left to watch from an inconspicu-
ous place during the coronation ceremony.
        Now he marveled to himself: it was less than a
day ago-hardly more than half a day-that this
girl and I were riding alone as lovers, on the edge of
the wilderness, both of us still in rags. I could have
stopped my mount then, and stopped hers-yes,
even in sight of that first flagpole bearing blue and
green-and got down from my saddle, and pulled
her down from hers, and lain with her on the
ground in our rags, or out of them, and she would
have loved it, welcomed it. And now....
        This audience chamber, in which Mark now
found himself alone with Kristin, was, like the rest
of the palace-like the whole domain of Tasavalta,
perhaps-a larger and somehow more important place
than it had appeared at first impression. It was a
sunlit, cheerful room, beautiful in a high vertical way.
The air moving in through the open windows smelled
of flowers, of perpetual spring; drifting in with the
scents of spring came the music of the dance that
was still going on far below the windows, part of the
coronation celebration. The dance and the music, like
the rest of the day, had become to Mark something
like a show to which he need only listen, and watch.
As if none of it had anything, really, to do with him.
        The windows of this room were equipped with
heavy shutters, as was fitting in a castle constructed
to withstand assault. But on this upper level of the
castle, high above any possible assault by climbing
troops, the windows were large, and today all the
shutters had been thrown open. Framed in their
casement openings, the sea and the rocky hills and the
town below all appeared like fine tapestries of
afternoon sunlight, thrown by some Old World magic
on the walls.


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        Kristin had risen quickly from the throne when the
door opened, and when her uncle had closed it again
behind him she had moved a few paces forward,
toward Mark. But now the two of them, she and
Mark, were still standing a little apart, looking at each
other as if they had nothing to say-or perhaps as if
neither of them could manage to say anything.
        But their eyes drew them together. Suddenly they
were embracing, still without a word of speech. Then
Kristin tore herself away.
        "What is this they've given you to wear?" she
asked, as if the sight of the costume they had put on

him, some antique ceremonial thing, made her want to
laugh and cry at once.
But still he said nothing.
        She tried again, not with laughter, but now with an
almost distant courtesy. How fine that he had already
been reunited with his family. She'd had no idea, of
course, that they'd been living here. In recent years a
lot of refugees, good people, had come in. Did Mark's
mother and sister know him after so long a time?
How long had they been living here in Tasavalta? Did
he have any trouble recognizing them? It was too bad
his father was away.
        "Kristin." As he called her by her name, he
wondered if it was the last time he would ever be able
to do so. "Stop it. Have you nothing real to say to me?
Why didn't you tell me?"
        There was a pause, in which Kristin drew a deep
breath, like a woman who wondered if it might be her
last.
        "Yes," she said then. "I must say something very
real to you, Mark. For the sister of a Princess
Regnant to have married a-commoner, and a foreigner
as well-that would have been very hard. Very nearly
impossible. But I would have done it. I wanted to
marry you. I wanted it so much I was afraid to. tell
you who I was. And I was going to marry you,
wherever that path led. I hope you will believe that."
        "Kristin, Princess . . ."
        "Wait! Let me finish, please." She needed another
pause to get herself together. "But my sister Rimac is
dead. She died childless and unmarried, and I am ruler
now. For a Princess Regnant to marry a commoner,
let alone a foreign soldier, is impossible. Impossible,
except-again I hope you
will believe me-I would have done it anyway. It
would have meant resigning the throne, probably
leaving the country; I would have done that for you.
But..."
"But."
        "But you must have heard them! There isn't anyone
else to rule! You heard Rostov. If I hadn't come back
to take the throne, there would have been a civil war
over the succession. Even with attackers threatening
us from outside. I know my people. We probably
seem to you a happy, peaceful country, but you don't
know . . ."
        Again Mark was silent. ,
        "I . . . Mark, our land and people . . . we owe you


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more than we can ever repay. We can give you
almost anything. Except the one thing that you want.
And that I want . . . oh, darling."
        This time the embrace lasted longer. But as before,
the Princess broke it off.
        Mark was conscious that he still had a duty to
perform, and drew himself up. "I am the bearer of
certain messages, that Sir Andrew, whom I serve, has
charged me to deliver to the ruler of the Lands of
Tasavalta."
        Kristin, as never before conscious of duty, drew
herself up, too, and heard the messages. They were
more or less routine, diplomatic preliminaries looking
to the establishment of more regular contacts. Sir
Andrew had long resisted adopting the diplomatic
pretense that he was still actually governing the lands
and people that had been stolen from him; but he had
recently been persuaded of the value of taking such a
pose, even if the facts were otherwise.
        Mark concluded the memorized messages. "And

now, I am ordered to place myself at Your Majesty's
disposal." Again, in the fog of his exhaustion, the
feeling came over him that none of this really had
anything to do with him; he had stumbled into the
middle of a play, there were certain lines that he was
required to read, and soon it would all be over.
        Kristin said, "I am glad to hear it. You will need a
few days in which to rest, and recover from . . ." She
had to let that trail away. With a toss of her head she
made a new start. "You will be assignedmodest
quarters here in the palace." Quarters far from my
own rooms. So Mark understood the phrase. "Then-
you heard what I told Karel. I mean to send you on a
special mission. This should not pose any conflict with
your orders from Sir Andrew, if they are to place
yourself at my disposal. I hope that you will accept the
assignment willingly."
        He could feel only numbness now. "I am at Your
Majesty's disposal, as I said before."
        "Good." Kristin heaved an unroyal sigh: part of an
ordeal had been passed. "The mission you are to
perform for Tasavalta is a result of some magical
business of Karel's. In divination . . . you will be given
more details later. But according to him, the
indications are so urgent that he dared not wait even
until tomorrow to confront me with the results.
        "You are to go and find the Emperor, and seek an
alliance with him for Tasavalta-and an alliance with
him for Sir Andrew too, if you feel you are
empowered by Sir Andrew to do that. I leave that to
your judgement."
        "The Emperor. An alliance with him?" Even in
Mark's present state of embittered numbness, he
had to react somehow to the strangeness of that
proposal. An alliance, as if the Emperor were a
nation, or had an army? Of course the indications
were, Mark thought, that the Emperor was, or at
least could be when he chose, a wizard of immense
power.
        Curious in spite of everything, he asked, "Me,


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negotiate for you in such a matter? I'm not even one
of your subjects. Or a diplomat. Why me?"
        "Karel says it should be done that way. Though I
don't think that he himself knows why. But I've
learned over the years that my uncle usually gives
his monarch good advice."
        "Karel wants to make sure I'm out of the way."
        "There is that. But sending you back to Sir
Andrew would do that just as well. No. There's
something about the Emperor-and about you. I
don't know what."
        The Emperor, thought Mark. The man that Draffut,
after fifty thousand years of knowing human beings,
trusted at first meeting. The man who had said that
he, Mark, should be given Sightblinder.
        The man in whose name a simple incantation had
twice, in Mark's experience, repelled demons ....
        The sorcerer Karel-it was, Mark supposed, fool-
ish to think he had not been listening-was back in
the room now, as if on cue.
        After all that had already happened today, Mark
had no real capacity left for surprise, so he felt no
more than dull curiosity when he observed that the
magician was carrying a sheathed Sword.
        Karel in his soft, rich voice said to him: "It is
Coinspinner, and it has come to us in a mysterious
way. And you are going to take it with you to help
you find the Emperor."

        Mark's dinner that evening was eaten not in the
palace, but in the vastly humbler home of his sister
Marian. It had turned out that she was now living
in the town, really a small city, not far below.
        Mark had by now had a little time in which to
savor the great news that his father Jord, who he
had thought for ten years was dead, was alive after
all. And not only was Jord still alive but well and
active at last report, off now on some secret mission
for the Tasavaltan intelligence service. Neither
Mala nor Marian appeared to know where Jord had
been sent or when he might be back, and Mark,
with some experience in these matters himself, did
not press to find out. For now it was enough to
know that he at least had a good chance of someday
seeing his living father once again.
        At dinner-a good dinner, evoking marvelous
memories-Mark heard from his mother and sister
how his surviving family had come to Tasavalta
years ago, after more years spent in homeless wan-
dering, following the destruction of their old vil-
lage.
        In the nine years or so since then, much had hap-
pened to them all, and they had much to talk about.
Marian was married now, her husband off some-
where with Rostov's army. Her two small children
gaped through dinner at this newly discovered
uncle, and warmed up to him gradually.
        It was almost midnight, and Mark was having to
struggle at every moment to stay awake, before he
said goodnight. His "modest quarters" in the pal-
ace had no attraction, and he was about to go to


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sleep on cushions on the floor in the room where
they had dined and talked.
        Marian had already said goodnight, and had
taken the children upstairs to bed.
        But Mark's mother lingered. There was a sup-
pressed urgency in her manner. "Walk me home. I
stay nearby, here in town, while Jord is gone. It's
only a little way."
        "Of course."
        Once they were outside, Mala clung to her son's
arm as if she needed his support to walk, though she
was not yet forty and all evening had seemed full of
energy, rejoicing in their reunion. But now her
mood became suddenly tinged with sadness.
        "You've just come back to us," she said. "And
before we can begin to know you, you must go off
again."
        "I must, Mother."
        "I know, I know." Mark had yet to encounter
anyone at all, in either town or castle, who did not
know of his relationship with Kristin, and the
potential problems that it raised.
        Mother and son walked, slowly. He was very
tired. He thought that his mother seemed now to be
on the brink of telling him something. She kept ask-
ing him, "You'll come back to Tasavalta, though?"
        "I'll be here a couple of days yet. I'll see you
again, and Marian, before I go."
        "Yes, of course. Unless the plan for your depar-
ture is changed. In these matters of secrecy, plans
can change very quickly, I've learned that. But after
this mission, you'll come back?"
        "To report on my mission, I suppose, yes, I'll
have to. And be sent off again. I can't stay here. The
Princess's commoner lover, and a foreigner to boot.
If my father had been the Grand Duke Basil, or

Prince Something-or-other, things would probably
be different."
        They were at her door now. It was a modest place,
but looked comfortable; probably the government
here provided quarters for its secret agents' fami-
lies.
        Mala, her voice quivering as if she were doing
something difficult, said: "Mark, come in, there's
something I must tell you, while I have the chance.
The gods know if I'll ever have the chance again."
        It was about an hour later when he emerged from
the humble apartment where his parents lived. He
stood in the narrow street for a little while, looking
up at the stars. They looked the same as always.
Beyond tiredness now, Mark remained standing
there in the street for what felt to him like a long
time. And then he went to his modest quarters in
the palace, knowing that he had to get some rest.

        Two mornings later, well fed, well dressed, and
reasonably rested, armed with the Sword Coin-
spinner at his side . . . and Woundhealer left safely
in Karel's care . . . Mark left the Palace. His depar-
ture was quiet, without fanfare official or other-


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wise. Mounted on a fine riding beast and at the
head of a small escort similarly well equipped, he
was on his way to seek the Emperor.
        Mark looked back only once. He saw a figure that
he was sure was Kristin, watching his departure
from a distant upper window. But he made no sign
that he had seen her.
CHAPTER 10

        Over the long decades since his human eyes had
gone in sacrifice, and demonic senses had been
engrafted magically upon his own, the Dark King
had come to be unsure sometimes whether he was
awake or dreaming. He saw the Mindsword the
same way in either case, as a pillar of billowing
flame long as a spear, with his own face glowing
amid the perfect whiteness of the flame. He could
tell that the eyes on his own face of flame were open
and seeing. Whether he was dreaming or awake,
that fiery stare for some reason always reminded
him that he had never seen with his own natural
eyes any of those who were now his closest associ-
ates and chief subordinates. The demon showed
him his human wizards and warlocks as strange,
hunched, wizened figures, and his generals as little
more than animated suits of armor; but all of them
appeared with exaggerated caricature-faces, that
amplified all of their subtleties of expression, so
that the Dark King might better try to read them.

Whereas demons, in the demonic vision, appeared
with noble, lusty, youthful bodies, usually naked
and always intensely human, except in their very
perfection, their large size, and in the bird-like
wings they often sprouted. The Dark King knew of
course that they had no real bodies, or wings either,
and he did not believe at all in their faces as they
were presented to him, shining with kindliness and
honor.
        Now that the King was in the field with his army,
on the march almost daily, the demons sometimes
appeared to him on a smaller scale, fluttering in the
air inside his tent like monkbirds. Vilkata dwelt
now in a tent much smaller than his grand pavilion,
because speed was of importance. And he thought
that speed was vital now, because of the reports
that had recently come in, first announcing and
then confirming that Sir Andrew's troops were at
last out of the swamp. The army in orange and
black was moving in the direction of Sir Andrew's
old lands, as if the Kind Knight for some reason
thought the time might be ripe to reclaim them.
        This news of course made Vilkata wonder what
his erstwhile ally, the Silver Queen, might now be
planning. As far as he knew she still controlled
those lands.
        The report of Sir Andrew's movement had also
confirmed Vilkata's recent decision that his own
strategy had best be altered. Now, he determined to
destroy Sir Andrew first, before turning his atten-
tion to his other surviving enemies and rivals.


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Vilkata had arrived at this decision to change his
plans largely out of the feeling that his enemies
must now know too much about them as they stood.
        First of all, the Dark King was now convinced
that he had entertained a spurious Burslem, some
damned spy, at that memorable council meeting at the
main camp, the one where the King had first displayed
his Mindsword, and which the gods had so gratifyingly
attended later. The real wizard Burslem, Vilkata's
head of Security and Defensive Intelligence, had at
last returned, and had been positively identified, this
time, by careful questioning. How- the spy had
managed to resist the Mindsword's influence, as he or
she evidently had, was something else for the King to
worry and wonder about. The Sword Sightblinder was
so far the only really convincing explanation to be
suggested, and the presence of that in one of his
enemies' hands was far from reassuring.
        Today, as Vilkata moved about his small field tent in
his routine of morning preparations, the small demon
that served him as sensory aid presented him as usual
with a vision of the tent's interior. Certain things, in
accordance with his own long-standing orders, were
edited out of the scene as he perceived it. For
example, the body of last night's concubine, curled
now at the foot of the.bed in sleep or a good imitation
thereof, was most clearly visible by its shapely torso,
the breasts and buttocks particularly emphasized. The
irrelevances of hands and feet, and especially the face-
who would care about trying to read the innermost
thoughts of such a woman?-blurred away into a semi-
transparent obscurity. In the case of a bedpartner,
better a blur than a face, no matter how well-formed
and schooled in smiling. Even such smiles could
sometimes be disquieting.
        And the Dark King had recently ordered that,
when the next battle came, the dead should be

edited away too, out of his perception. He had
observed frequently, on other battlefields and in other
areas where much killing was required, that the dead
were a notable distraction. Obstacles when removed
ought to disappear, resources once used «p were only
waste materials. The dead tended to stink, and were
in general esthetically unpleasing. He had finally
decided to order them filtered out. Someone else
could count them up when necessary.
        He had decided, too, that many of the wounded,
most of them in fact, should also be expunged from
his vision. Those remaining should be only the ones
still able to play an active part in the day's events,
enough to present some possible danger to the Dark
King's person, or his cause. This might not always be
easy for a busy demon to judge; in doubtful cases the
filtering familiar was to let the wounded person
remain visible, even if esthetically offensive.
        This morning, when Vilkata left his small tent and
mounted his war-steed, amid the usual thunderous
applause of his troops and officers, his army appeared
before him in his demon-sight as neat ranks of
polished weapons, the human form attached to each


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blade or bow not much more than a mere uniformed
outline.
         A look at the best maps he had available had
persuaded him that it ought to be possible to intercept
Sir Andrew's force if he moved swiftly, staring at first
daylight. The morning's march was hard and long.
Scouts, some of them human beings mounted or afoot,
some of them winged beasts, kept coming in with
reports of what appeared to be the rear guard of Sir
Andrew's force not far ahead. They estimated that
the enemy army was even a little
smaller than earlier intelligence estimates had made it
out to be.
         But Vilkata, still prudent despite the overwhelming
advantage that he thought he held, ordered his infantry
forward as against a foe possibly almost their equal in
numbers. He also ordered a swift cavalry movement,
a reconnaissance in force, to move around Sir
Andrew's army, to try to engage the enemy front and
if possible prevent successful flight.- Meanwhile he
maneuvered the main body of his own troops into
battle array. Stationing himself just behind the front of
this force, near the center, he awaited more reports,
and remained ready to draw the Mindsword for what
he calculated would be maximum effect upon foe and
friend alike.
         The first skirmishes broke out ahead. The Dark
King drew his weapon of great magic and advanced,
mounted, holding overhead what he himself perceived
as a spear of fiery glory. He saw the enemy
rearguard, in a view tailored by his familiar to his
wishes, as mobile though inanimate man-sized
obstacles. Still he could see their shapes and their
numbers perfectly well, and even note the fact that
many of them wore orange and black.
         Vilkata saw also, and felt with joy, the terror that he
inspired in those men and women ahead when they
first saw him, and how swiftly that terror was altered
by his Sword's magic into a mad devotion.
         He saw with delight how Sir Andrew's soldiers,
who at first glance would have formed a rank and
fought him, at sight of the Mindsword fell down and
worshipped him instead. And how, when he
presently roared orders at them, they rose and
turned, and went running like berserkers against their

former comrades, who must now be just out of sight
and trying to get away.
        One of the last to bend to the Mindsword's power
was a woman, a proud sorceress by the look of her,
no longer young and evidently of some considerable
rank. One counterspell after another this arrogant
female hurled back at the Dark King and his Sword;
but they had all failed her, as he knew they must, and
as she too must have known; and she too turned at
last,.snarling with mad joy, like the others, at being
able to serve the future ruler of all the Earth.

        Denis the Quick had been offered the chance to
remain in the swamp, along with a handful of
wounded and others who could not travel quickly,


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when Sir Andrew led his army out. Reports had come
in indicating that it would not be wise for Denis to
attempt to make his way home alone to Tashigang,
and Sir Andrew could afford no escort for him. The
situation around the city had deteriorated rapidly since
Denis's departure. Strong patrols of the Dark King's
forces were in the very suburbs now, challenging the
few troops that the Silver Queen had in the region.
The wealthy owners of suburban villas had fled, into
the city or far away from it. This news offered hope
of a kind to Sir Andrew and his people, as it was
evidence that the situation between King and Queen
was now moving rapidly toward open conflict.
        But Denis had declined to stay in the swamp. There
was no telling how long he'd be stuck there if he did
so, or when a better chance of getting out would
come, if ever. He preferred to be out in the great
world, to know what great events were hap
pening. He was willing to take his chances on getting
back eventually to the city he loved, and to the two
women there whose images still stirred his dreams.
        On the afternoon of the third day since the army
had left the swamp, Denis was walking with some
members of Sir Andrew's staff. Sir Andrew himself
was on hand at the moment; the Knight had been
riding up and down the column of his army, trying to
preserve its organization-years of guerrilla tactics in a
swamp were not the best practice for a long overland
march-and had stopped to talk with Denis about
conditions among the people in Tashigang.
        They talked of the White Temple, and its hospitals,
in some of which Denis had worked during his
apprenticeship as Ardneh's acolyte. They began a
discussion on how to put Woundhealer to the best
possible use; this was of course purely theoretical, as
Denis had been unable to deliver it as charged. Sir
Andrew still did not appear to blame him, however.
Doomgiver was with the column, being carried by an
officer of the advance guard, who, as it had seemed
to Sir Andrew, had the greater likelihood of
encountering the enemy today.
        Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of
a small flying scout, with a message from the rear
guard.
        The true bird, intelligent enough to manage
elementary speech, cackled at them: "Black and gold,
black and gold. Many many."
        "Then Ardneh be with my Dame," Sir Andrew
muttered, reining in his mount, and looking behind him
fiercely. Dame Yoldi was in the rear. "And with us
all."

        He cried out then for swift messengers to go ahead,
to summon back with all speed the trusted friends
who were carrying Doomgiver in the van. Then the
Knight tried the movement of his helmet's visor, and
with more shouted orders set about turning what few
units of his army were in direct range of his voice,
and heading them back to the relief of the rear guard.
These did not amount to much more than a handful of
his own bodyguard and friends.


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        And Denis heard, even as he saw, Shieldbreaker
come out of its sheath now. He heard the legendary
pounding sound, not fast or loud as yet but dull and
brutal: The matchless magic of the Sword of Force
beat out from it into the surrounding air, not with the
tone of a drum whose voice might stir the blood, but
rather with the sound of some relentless hammer,
nailing up an executioner's scaffold.
        Now the Knight himself and his close bodyguard, all
mounted, set out for the rear of their army, or what
had been its rear, at a pace that Denis on foot could
not hope to match.
        But, as he would be otherwise left virtually alone, he
tried to keep up. He might have run in the other
direction instead, but he thought the rest of the army
would soon be pouring back from there, and he would
have to face round again and join them, or appear as a
deserter.
        Denis was about a hundred meters behind Sir
Andrew and his mounted companions, and losing
more ground rapidly, when to his surprise he saw at a.
little distance to his right what looked like the deserted
remnants of a carnival, set down for some reason
right out here in the middle of nowhere. The booths
and counters, the apparatus for the games of
skill and chance, were all broken and standing idle.
No one was in sight at the deserted amusement
place, as Denis halted nearby, panting. The people
belonging to the show-and who could blame
them?-appeared to have run off even before the
tramp of marching armies had drawn near.
        Sir Andrew and his bodyguard had not yet got
out of Denis's sight, when a cry went up from the
same direction and only a short distance ahead of
them. Denis, turning his head away from aban-
doned tents and wagons, saw what had to be Sir
Andrew's rear guard, running toward Sir Andrew
and his immediate companions, who had just
halted on a little knoll. It appeared to be a desper-
ate retreat, though as far as Denis could see the
rearguard was not yet panicked totally. They had
not thrown their weapons away as yet . . . and then
he saw that what he had first taken for a retreat was
in fact a charge. The rearguard, running from
downhill, and already swinging their weapons like
madmen, collided full tilt with Sir Andrew and his
little group who had been riding to their rescue.
The cry and noise of battle went up at once, and the
would-be rescuers, taken by surprise, were many of
them already down in their own blood.
        "A trick! An enchantment!" Despairing cries
went up from those riding with Sir Andrew.
        It was no trick as simple as switched uniforms.
Denis, dazedly continuing to move nearer, was now
close enough to recognize Dame Yoldi's face among
those who charged uphill, swinging their weapons,
and shrieking mad battlecries. She was headed
directly toward the little knoll where Sir Andrew
and the surviving handful of his bodyguard and

officers were now surrounded and under heavy


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attack.
        Sir Andrew might have tried to turn his mount,
break free of his assailants who were on foot, and
get away. But he could not or would not try to flee.
Instead he kept shouting to his traitorous assail-
ants, calling them by name, trying to command
them. He stood his ground, and his bodyguard
would not make an effort to break away if he did
not.
        The hammering sound of Shieldbreaker went up
and up, louder and faster now, syncopated into an
irregular rhythm. Already it had drawn around its
master an arc of gleaming steel and fresh blood. Sir
Andrew's mount stumbled and went down, hacked
and stabbed by half a dozen weapons, but no
attacking point or blade could come far enough
within the arc of the Sword of Force to reach his
skin.
        The Knight, tumbled from the saddle of his dying
mount, rolled over on the ground, never losing his
two-handed grip on the great Sword. Even when
Sir Andrew lay on his back it never faltered in its
action. And when he stood upright again, it was as
if the Sword itself had pulled him up to fight.
Shieldbreaker seemed to drag him after it, spinning
his heavy body with its violence, right to left and
back again, pulling him forward to the attack when
one of his attackers would have faltered and pulled
away.
        Still, those who an hour ago had been his loyal
friends came on against him by the score, shrieking
their new hatred, calling on their new god, the Dark
King, to strengthen them. Shieldbreaker fought
them all. It smashed their weapons and their bones
impartially, carved up their armor and their flesh
alike.
        Denis, hypnotized by what he saw, no longer fully
in control of his own actions, crept a little closer
still. He had a long knife at his own belt but he did
not draw it. It was as if the thought never occured
to him that he might possibly make any difference
in the fight that he was watching.
        Sir Andrew's bodyguard, greatly outnumbered
by berserk fanatics, were all down now, their' dead
or dying bodies being hacked to pieces by their mad
attackers. But Shieldbreaker protected the man
who held it. It continued to make its sound, yet
faster now and louder. It worked on, its voice still
dull despite its blinding speed, its dazzling arc. It
worked efficiently, indifferent as to whom or what
it struck, indifferent to whatever screams or words
went up from those it disarmed or cut apart, indif-
ferent equally to whatever weapons might be plied
against it. Denis saw axeheads, knives, sword-
blades, shafts of spears and arrows, flying every-
where, whole and in a hail of fragments. Human
limbs and armor danced bloodily within the hail,
and surely that bouncing, rolling object had once
been a head.
        The mouth of the Kind Knight opened and he
screamed, surely a louder and more terrible roar


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than any coming from the folk he struck. Denis,
creeping closer still as if he were unable to help
himself, saw that Sir Andrew was now covered with
blood from head to foot. It was impossible to tell if
any of it might be his own. But if he were wounded,
still the mad vigor of his movements, energized by
magic, continued unabated.
        The Knight roared again, in greater agony than

before. Denis saw that Dame Yoldi, possessed, a
creature of evil hatred, her face hideously trans-
formed, was closing in on Sir Andrew. Her hands
were outspread like claws, as if to rend, and she
cried out desperate spells of magic. Even Denis the
unmagical could feel the backwash of their deadly,
immaterial power.
        To the Sword of Force the tools of magic were no
more than any other weapons. They were dissolved
and broken against that gleaming curve almost
invisible with speed, that brutal thudding in the
air. Dame Yoldi's hatred propelled her closer,
closer, to the man she would destroy, and closer
still, until the edge of the bright arc of force touched
her, hands first, body an eyeblink later, and wiped
her away.
        Denis saw no more fox the next few seconds.
When he looked up again, there was a pause. Sir
Andrew stood alone now, knee-deep in a small
mound of corpses, all in his own colors of orange
and black. The Sword in his hands still thudded
dully; for those of his former friends who still sur-
vived as maddened enemies were not through with
him yet. A small knot of them, the wounded, those
who had been slow to charge, the calculating, were
gathering at a little distance, scheming some strat-
egy, hatred forced into patient planning.
        Denis hurried to Sir Andrew's side. The young
man thought, as he approached, that Sir Andrew
was trying to hurl Shieldbreaker from him; the
Sword was quieter now in the Knight's hands, its
sound reduced to a muted tapping. But if he was
trying to be rid of it, it would not let him go. Both of
his hands still gripped it, fingers interlocked
around the hilt, white-knuckled where the knuckles
could be seen through blood.
        Sir Andrew turned a hideous face to Denis. The
Knight's voice was a ghastly whisper, almost inau-
dible. "Go, catch up with the advance guard. Find
the man who is carrying Doomgiver, and order him
in my name, and for the love of Ardneh, to return
here as fast as he can."

        Denis had hardly got out of sight in one direction
before Sir Andrew, looking the opposite way, was
able to see the main body of Vilkata's troops in the
distance, a black-gold wave advancing toward him.
A trumpet sounded from that line. On hearing it,
such remnants of Sir Andrew's corrupted troops as
were still on the field abandoned their hopeless
attack, turning in obedient retreat to join the forces
of their new master.


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        There, in the distance, that man, whitehaired and
mounted under a gold-black banner, must be
Vilkata himself. In those distant hands a weapon
that Sir Andrew knew must be the Mindsword
flamed, the sun awakening in it all the fires of glory.
To Sir Andrew's eyes, it was not much more than a
glass mirror; Shieldbreaker in his own hands pro-
tected him from that weapon too. It negated all
weapons except itself.
        And it was quite enough, he thought; it had quite
destroyed him already.
        Again a horn sounded, somewhere over there in
the army of the Dark King. Next, to the Knight's
numbed surprise, Vilkata's hosts that had only just
appeared began a measured withdrawal, going
back over the rise of land whence they had come.
Sir Andrew tried to think that over, his mind work-

ing in a newly confused way. He supposed that to
Vilkata's calculation the withdrawal was only
sense: why order an army to chew itself to tatters,
to no purpose, upon Shieldbreaker's unbreakable
defense?
         Sir Andrew might have pursued that army, he
might have run screaming at that central banner
bearing the black skull until everyone beneath it
had been turned to chopped meat at his hands. But
they would not wait for him. Vilkata was mounted
and would get away. And anyway he, Sir Andrew,
was too weak to run, to pursue and catch up with
anyone.
         Now that the immediate threat to Sir Andrew
himself was over, the strength of magic that had
been given him through the Sword was draining
rapidly away. The dread sound of Shieldbreaker's
hammer thumped more softly, tapping slower, tap-
ping itself down into silence.
         He saw himself as if from outside, an old man
standing alone on a hill, knee-deep in corpses of
those he once had loved. His arms ached, as if they
had been pounded by quarterstaffs, from the drill
that Shieldbreaker had dragged them through.
Careless of the blood, he put the Sword into its
sheath.
         It was all Sir Andrew could do now to remain on
his feet.
         It was almost more than he could do, to go and
look at what was left of Yoldi.
         After that, trying to see his way through tears, he
made his legs carry him away. He was not sure
where he was going, nor even of where he ought to
go. He got no farther than the next small hillock of
the field, coming again within sight of the flimsy
ruins of the carnival, when the great pain struck him
inside his chest. It felt like a spearthrust to the heart.
         He collapsed on his back. A fighter's instincts made
him draw the great Sword again before he fell. But he
faced no weapons now, and the Sword of Force was
lifeless.
         As Sir Andrew lay in the grass the sky above him
looked so peaceful that it surprised him. He


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considered his pain. It feels, he thought, as if my heart
were bursting. As perhaps it is.
        He took a look back, quickly and critically, at what
he could see at this moment of his own long life. He
found the prospect of death, at this moment, not
unwelcome.
        The pain came again, worse than before.
        "Yoldi . . ."
        But she did not answer. She was not going to
answer him ever again.
        When it seemed that the pain was going to let him
live yet a little longer, Sir Andrew flung Shieldbreaker
away from him, using two hands and all of his
remaining strength. He had tried to throw the great
Sword away before, tried again and again when he
saw Yoldi running at him and realized what must have
happened to her, and what was going to happen. But
the Sword's magic would not leave him then. This
time, now that it was too late, it left his hands as
obediently as any stick thrown for a dog. The blade
whined faintly, mournfully, turning through the air.
        The Knight did not want to die alone. If only there
could be a friend nearby-someone.
        He closed his eyes, and wondered if he would ever
open them on this world's skies again. Would it be

Ardneh that he saw when he opened his eyes again,
as some folk thought? Or nothingness?
        He opened them and saw that he was still in the
same world, under the same sky. Something
compelled him to make the effort to turn his head. A
single figure, that of a man in gray, was walking
toward him from the direction of the carnival, the
abandoned showplace that Sir Andrew had been
perfectly sure was quite deserted. A man, not armed
or armored, but . . . wearing a mask?
        The gray-clad figure came close, and knelt down
beside him like a concerned comrade.
        Sir Andrew asked: "Who're you?"
        The man raised a hand promptly and pulled off his
mask.
        "Oh." Sir Andrew's voice was almost disappointed
in its reassurance. "You," he said, relieved and calm.
"Yes . . . I know who you are."

        Denis, returning mounted and at full speed, leading
a small flying wedge of armed and armored folk who
were desperate to relieve their beloved lord, found the
battlefield deserted by the living. Sir Andrew lay dead,
at a little distance from the other dead. His body,
though covered with others' gore, was unmarked by
any serious wound. The expression on the Kind
Knight's face was peaceful.
        Presently Denis and the others began to look for
Shieldbreaker. They looked everywhere among the
dead, and then in widening circles outward. But the
Sword of Force was gone..
CHAPTER 11
        The field cot was wide enough for two-for two, at
least, who were on terms of intimate friendship-but
tonight, as for many nights past, only one person had


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slept in it.
        Or tried to sleep.
        The Silver Queen's field tent was not large, not for
a shelter that had to serve sometimes as royal
conference room as well as dwelling. According to
certain stories she had heard, it would not have made
a room in the great pavilion that usually accompanied
the Dark King when he traveled with his army.
        She felt great scorn for many of the Dark King's
ways. But there were other things about him that
enforced respect, and-to herself, alone at night, she
could admit it-tended to induce fear as well.
        The Queen of Yambu was sitting in near-midnight
darkness on the edge of her lonely field cot, wearing
the light drawers and shirt she usually slept in when in
the field with her troops. She could

hear rain dripping desultorily upon the tent, and an
occasional word or movement of one of the sentries
not far outside.
        Her gaze was fixed on a dim, inanimate shape,
resting only an arm's length away beside the cot. In
midnight darkness it was all but impossible to see the
thing that she was looking at, but that did not really
matter, for she knew the object as well as her own
hand. It rested there on a trestle as it always did,
beside her when she slept-or tried to sleep. It was a
Swordcase of carven wood, its huge wooden hilt
formed by chiseled dragons with their long necks
recurved, as if they meant to sink their fangs into each
other. Just where the case had originated, or when,
the queen of Yambu was not sure, but she thought it
beautiful; and after the best specialist magicians in her
pay had pronounced it innocent of any harm for her,
she had used it to encase her treasure, which she kept
near her almost alwaysher visit to Sir Andrew in the
swamp had been one notable exception-as her last
dark hope for victory.
        A thousand times she had opened the wooden case,
but she had never yet drawn Soulcutter from its
sheath inside. Never yet had she seen the bare steel
of that Blade in what she was sure must be its
splendor. She was afraid to do so. But without it in
her possession she would not have dared to take her
army into the field now, risking combat with the
Mindsword and its mighty owner the Dark King.
        Some hours ago, near sunset, a winged
halfintelligent messenger had brought her word of
Vilkata's latest triumph. He had apparently crushed
what might have been Sir Andrew's entire, army.
Then, instead of coming to attack her as she
kept expecting he would do, Vilkata had turned his
own vast forces in a move in the direction of
Tashigang.
        Maybe the Dark King's scouts had lost track of
where her forces were. But for whatever reason, her
own certainty that she would be the first one attacked
by Vilkata was proven wrong, and that gave
cowardice a chance to whisper in her ear that it might
not be too late for her to patch up an alliance with the
King. Of course cowardice, as usual, was an idiot.


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Her intelligence told her that her only real hope lay in
attacking the Dark King now, while she might still
hope for some real help. Sir Andrew was already
gone. When Tashigang too had fallen, then it would
certainly be too late.
        When the news of Vilkata's most recent triumph
had come in, Yambu had first conferred briefly with
her commanders, then dismissed them, telling them to
let the troops get some rest tonight. But she herself
had not been able to sleep since. Nor, though her own
necessary course of action was becoming plainer and
plainer, had she been able to muster the will to be
decisive, to give the orders to break camp and march.
        Who, or what, could stand against the Mindsword?
Evidently only something that was just as terrible.
        And Sir Andrew had been wearing Shieldbreaker,
ready at his side. With her own eyes, on her visit to
the swamp, she had seen the small white hammer on
the black hilt. Vilkata with his Mindsword had
evidently won, somehow, even against that weapon.
Did Vilkata now have possession of both those
Blades? But even if he did, each terrible aug

mentation of his power only made it all the more
essential to march against him without delay.
        The Silver Queen stood up and moved forward one
short pace in midnight blackness, trusting that the tent
floor was there as usual, and no assassin's knife. She
put out her hand and touched the wooden case, then
opened it.
        She stroked .with one finger the black hilt of her
own Sword. This Sword alone among the Twelve
bore no white symbol on its hilt. No sense of power
came to her when she touched it. There was no sense
of anything, beyond the dull material hilt itself. Of all
the Twelve, this one alone had nothing to say to the
world about itself.
        She glanced back at her solitary cot, barely visible
in the dulled sky-glow that fell in through the tent's
screened window. She visualized Amintor's scarred
shoulders as they sometimes appeared there, bulking
above the plain rumpled blanket. Amintor was wise,
sometimes. Or clever at least. She doubted now that
she herself knew what wisdom was, doubted she
would recognize wisdom if it came flying at her in the
night like some winged attacking reptile.
        Quite possibly she had never been able to recognize
it, and only of late was she aware of this.
        The one adviser whose word she would really have
valued now had been gone from her side for years,
and he was not coming back. She was never going to
see him again, except, possibly, one day across some
battlefield. But perhaps when they met in battle he
would be wearing a mask again (she had never
understood why he did that so often) and he would go
unrecognized.
        And now, at this point in what had become a
familiar cycle of thought, it was time for her to
think about Ariane. Ariane her daughter, her only
child, and of course his daughter too.
        The Silver Queen's intelligence sources had con-


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firmed for her the stories, now four years old, that
Ariane was four years dead, had perished with
some band of robbers in an attempt to plunder the
main hoard of the Blue Temple. Well, the girl was
better off that way, most likely, than in Red Temple
slavery.
         Had that plot, to put Ariane on the throne of
Yambu, been a real one? Or had the real plot been
to force her, the Silver Queen, to get rid of her
daughter, her one potentially trustworthy ally?
Even when convinced of the danger, Queen Yambu
had been unable to give the orders for her daugh-
ter's death. And besides, the auguries had threat-
ened the most horrible consequences for her royal
self if she should do so. In the end, as certain of the
auguries appeared to advise, she had sold Ariane
into Red Temple slavery.
         Her own daughter, her only child. She, Queen
Yambu, had been lost in her own hate and fear ....
         Would Amintor, she wondered, if he had been
with her then, have had the courage to advise her
firmly against destroying her own daughter? Not,
she thought, once he knew that she was determined
on it .
         . . . and now, of course, in this pointless cycle of
thought, remembrance, and self-recrimination, it
was time for her to recall those days of her love
affair with the Emperor, before her triumphant
ascension to the throne. Only rarely since that tri-
umph had she felt as fully alive as she did then, in
that time of continuous, desperate effort and dan-

ger. Then her life had been in peril constantly. She
had been in flight day after day, never sleeping
twice in the same place, alert always to escape the
usurpers' search parties that were frantically
scouring the country for her.
        That was when she had met him, when the love
affair had started, and when it had run its course.
She had been an ignorant girl then, only guessing at
the Emperor's real power; then, as now, he had had
no army of his own to send into the field. But he had
saved her more than once, fighting like a demon at
her side, inspiring her with predictions of victory,
outguessing the enemy on which direction their
search parties would take next.
        There had been hints, she supposed, in those
early days of love, as to what he expected as his ulti-
mate reward. More than hints, if she had been will-
ing to see and hear them. Still she had begun, naive
girl as she then was, to think him selfless and
unselfish. And then-landless, armyless, brazen,
bold-faced opportunist after all!-he had proposed
marriage to her. On the very day of her stunning vic-
tory, when enough of the powerful folk of Yambu
had rallied to her cause to turn the tide. The very
day she had been able to ascend the throne, and to
order the chief plotters and their families put to a
horrible death.
        The man who called himself the Emperor must
have read her instant refusal in her face. For when


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she had turned back from giving some urgent order,
to deliver her answer to him plainly, he was already
gone. Perhaps he had put. on one of his damned
masks again; anyway he had vanished in that day's
great confusion of unfamiliar figures, new body-
guard and new courtiers and foreign dignitaries
already on hand to congratulate the winner.
        She had refused to order a search, or even to
allow one. Let him go. She was well rid of him.
From that day forward she would be Queen, and
her marriage, when she got around to thinking of
marriage, would have to be something planned as
carefully and coldly as an army's march.
        There had been, naturally enough, other lovers,
from that day almost twenty years ago till this.'
Amintor was, she supposed, the most durable of the
bunch. Lovers was not really the right word for
them though; useful bodies, sometimes entertain-
ing or even useful minds.
        But the Emperor yes, he had been her lover.
That fact in some ways seemed to loom larger as it
became more distant down the lengthening avenue
of years.
        But, she thought now (as she usually did when
the thought-cycle had reached this point), how
could any woman, let alone a Queen, have been
expected to live with, to seriously plan a life and a
career, with a man like that . . . ?
        The Silver Queen's thoughts and feelings, as
usual, became jumbled at this point. It was all done
with now. It had all been over and done with, a long
time ago. The Emperor might have made her
immortal, or at least virtually ageless, like himself.
Well, as a strong Queen she could hire or persuade
other powerful magicians to do the same for her, as
they did for themselves, when it began to seem
important.
        Only after she had refused the Emperor's offer of
marriage, and after she had banned that impossible
pretender, that joker and seducer, from her

thoughts (the banning had been quite successful for
a time)-it was only then, of course, that she had
realized that she was pregnant.
        Her first thought had been to rid herself of the
child before it was born. But her second thought-
already she was beginning to pick up more hints of
the Emperor's latent power-was that the child
might possibly represent an asset later. As usual in
her new life as Queen, far-sighted caution had pre-
vailed. She had endured the pregnancy and birth.
        There was no doubt of who the father was,
despite the baby's fair skin and reddish hair, unlike
those of either parent. The Emperor had been her
only lover at the time. Besides, the Queen could find
redheads recorded on both sides of her own ances-
try. As for the Emperor's family . . . who knew? Not
any of the wizards she had been able to consult.
        One thing certain about him; he had been, still
was, a consummate magician. The Silver Queen
appreciated that more fully now. At the time, as a


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girl, she had only begun to recognize the fact.
        And even now-actually more often now than in
those early years of her reign-the idea kept coming
tantalizingly back: what if she actually had mar-
ried him?
        That would have been impossible, of course.
Quite socially, politically impossible for a Queen to
.marry one that the world knew as a demented
clown. No matter that the wise and well-educated
at least suspected there was more to the Emperor
than that. But what if she had done it, used her new
royal power to make it work? There would of course
have had to have been a strong concurrent effort to
revive her husband's title in its ancient sense, one of
well-nigh supreme power, of puissance beyond that of
mere Kings and Queens.
        Would she have been acclaimed as a genius of
statecraft for marrying him and trying to do that?
Only, of course, if it had worked. More likely she
would have become a laughingstock.
        In any case it was nonsense to think about it now.
She had been only a girl then, unwise in the ways of
ruling, and how could she ever have made such an
attempt succeed?
        But he might have been able to make it work. What
if she had let him rule beside her, had let him try ..
        Maybe, she thought, it was the memory of the
Emperor's fierce masculinity that was really bothering
her tonight. On top of everything else. There had
been something stronger about him in that way than
any other man she had ever invited to her cot, though
physically he was not particularly big.
        Enough. There in the dark privacy of her tent, not
giving herself time to think about it, she clasped her
right hand firmly on Soulcutter's hilt and drew it
halfway from its sheath. Still there was no glow, and
still no power flowed from it. Rather the reverse. It
was as she had feared and expected it would be, but
worse; worse than she had thought or feared. Still she
could bear it if she must.
        Queen Yambu slammed this most terrible of all
Swords back into its sheath, and sighed with relief as
the midnight around her appeared to brighten instantly.
Then she closed the ornate case around Soulcutter,
and got up and went to the tent door to cry orders to
break camp and march.

CHAPTER 12
        Of course the Dark King knew better, when he
stopped to think about it. But through the visualization
provided him by the demon he had been able to see
Shieldbreaker in Sir Andrew's distant hands only as a
kind of war-hammer rather than a Sword, a picture
matching the sound that reached Vilkata's ears from
that distant combat. Soulcutter Vilkata had not yet
seen at all, but he knew that it was there now,
somewhere behind him, in the hands of the Silver
Queen. He knew it by his magically assisted
perception of an emptiness, a presence there to which
he was truly blind. Any Sword that he did not own
could frighten him, and he owned only one out of the


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Twelve. And now he found himself between two
enemies armed with two Swords that seemed to him
particularly powerful.
        Between the Mindsword in the Dark King's hands
behind them and the Dark King's cavalry in front of
them, Sir Andrew's little army had cer-
tainly been destroyed. That much had been accom-
plished. Under ordinary conditions a victory of
such magnitude would have been enough to make
the King feel truly optimistic. But conditions were
not ordinary, if they ever were. There were the two
Swords Shieldbreaker and Soulcutter, and himself
between them.
        When the report came in that the Silver Queen
was advancing on his rear, Vilkata sent a flying
messenger to recall most of his advanced cavalry,
and set about turning his entire army to confront
her. It was a decision made with some reluctance,
because he longed to go instead to search person-
ally on the battlefield for Shieldbreaker. A flying
scout had reported seeing from a distance that Sir
Andrew hurled the Sword away from him, when
the fight at last was over. And what subordinate did
the Dark King dare to trust with succeeding in that
search?-but at the same time he dared not fail to
meet the Silver Queen's advance with the Mind-
sword in his own hands. He could not be in two
places at once.
        Anyway Vilkata did not really believe the report
about Sir Andrew throwing Shieldbreaker away.
Whether the Sword of Force would be dropped and
abandoned by any living person on any battlefield
was, in his mind, very doubtful to say the least. In
the end he ordered certain patrols to the place
where Sir Andrew was last seen, to search for the
Sword, or to make what other valuable discoveries
they could, while he himself turned back to meet
the advancing columns of Yambu.
        As it turned out, Yambu's main army was not
nearly as close as had been reported. The flying,
half-intelligent scouts often had trouble estimating

horizontal distances; but the King could not take
chances. He had not much more than got his army
into motion in that direction, when additional dis-
quieting reports came in. These told of gods and
goddesses seen in the vicinity of Tashigang, doing
extravagant things in the Dark King's name, and
proclaiming him their lord and master, the new
ruler of the world. That in itself would have been
well enough, but the reports also told of the deities
offering him human sacrifice, and holocausts of
grain and cattle. Besides the waste of valuable
resources, it made Vilkata uneasy to realize that the
divinities who had pledged loyalty to him were not
really under his control. Should he send word to
them of his displeasure? But he did not even know
where they were right now. Or where they were
going to be next, or what they might be intending to
do.
        The trouble is, he thought, they worship me but I


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am not a god. Having arrived at that thought„ he
felt as if he had made some great, vaguely alarming
discovery.

        Mark and his escort had not been many days out
from Tasavalta when they were forced into a skir-
mish with a strong patrol of the Dark King's troops.
This fight had cost them some casualties. But
Coinspinner in Mark's hands, altering the odds of
chance in his favor at every turn, saw him and most
of his small force through the fighting safely. He
had experienced the workings of the Sword of
Chance before, and he trusted it-to a degree; it was
really the least trustworthy of the Twelve-and felt
almost familiar with it. The soldiers of his escort
had done neither until now.
        When the skirmish was over, the enemy
survivors driven into flight, Mark and his troops rested
briefly and moved on. He was confident, and the
soldiers, who earlier had only grimly obeyed orders,
now picked up that attitude from him. Since what he
truly wanted now was to locate the Emperor, then to
the Emperor Coinspinner's luck would lead him, in
one way or another.
        As they rode Mark paused periodically to sweep
the horizon with the naked tip of the Sword of
Chance. When he aimed it in a certain direction, and
in that direction only, a quivering seized the blade, and
Mark could feel a faint surge of power pass into his
hand through the hilt. In that direction was the
Emperor. Or, at least, that was the way to go to
ultimately reach him.
        For several days Mark and his surviving Tasavaltan
escort journeyed in safety. Then they began to
observe the unmistakable signs of armies near. And
then at last there was the noise of a battle close
ahead.
        From a distance Mark watched an enemy force of
overwhelming strength, what he thought had to be the
main body of the Dark King's troops, first advance in
one direction, then reverse themselvesthough not as in
defeat, he thought-and trudge in mass formation the
other way. The actual fighting had been somewhere
beyond them, where he could not see it.
        When the enemy had moved out of the way, and
almost out of sight, Coinspinner still pointed him
toward the place where the battle had been.
        When Mark with his small escort reached the
battlefield, they found it almost devoid of living things,
except for a few scavengers, gathering on wing and

afoot. There were a hundred human dead or more,
concentrated mostly in one place. Among the fallen
Mark could not see a single one in Vilkata's colors.
The only livery visible was Sir Andrew's orange and
black.
        On the field one human figure was still standing.
Slightly built, it was garbed in a robe that had once
been white, and looked like one of Ardneh's servants
who had been through some arduous journey and
perhaps a battle or two as well. When Mark first saw


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it, this figure was bending over one of the dead men
who lay a little apart from the others. Then, even as
Mark watched, the figure in white began to labor
awkwardly at digging-a grave, Mark supposed-using
the blade of a long knife.
        As Mark and his troops, in the colors of Tasavalta,
rode nearer, the figure in white took note of them and
stopped what it was doing to await their approach.
But it did not try to run.
        When Mark got closer, he recognized the isolated
dead man as Sir Andrew. In war it was no great
surprise, particularly on a field of slaughter like this
one, to find a comrade and a leader dead. But still the
discovery was no less a shock.
        Mark jumped down from his mount and put his
hand on the gore-spattered head of the Kind Knight,
and remarked his peaceful face. "Ardneh greet you,"
he muttered, and for a moment at least could feel real
hope that it might be so.
        Then Mark stood up. Taking Denis for a genuine
Ardneh-pilgrim who had probably just wandered onto
the scene, Mark asked, "But where are his own
people, all slaughtered?" He looked round him at the
few score dead. "This can't be his entire army!"
        Denis answered. "Many were slaurrhtered_ I Fear _
The Dark King's cavalry attacked also, ahead, beyond
those hills. The officers remaining are trying to rally
whatever troops are left. Sir Andrew's close friends
wanted to bury him-what I am trying to do-but they
decided Sir Andrew would have wanted them to see
to the living first. As I am sure he would."
"You knew him, then?"
        The youth in ragged white nodded assent. "I had
been with him for some days. I think I came to know
him, in a way. I am called Denis the Quick, of
Tashigang." And Denis's quick eyes flicked around
Mark's escort. "I did not know that there were
Tasavaltan troops nearby."
        "There are not many. My name is Mark."
        Nor had Denis failed to notice the large black hilt at
Mark's side. "There was a man of that name who had-
and still has, for all I know-much to do with the
Twelve Swords. Or so all the stories say. But I didn't
know that he was Tasavaltan."
        "I am not Tasavaltan, really . . . and yes, I have had
much to do with them. Much more than I could wish."
Mark sighed.
        But even as he spoke, Mark was tiredly, dutifully
drawing Coinspinner again. While Denis and the
Tasavaltan soldiers watched in alert silence, he swept
it once more round the horizon. "That way," Mark
muttered, as he resheathed the Blade. "And nearby,
now, I think. The feeling in the hilt is strong."
        The Sword has pointed in the direction of the
abandoned carnival, which was just visible over the
nearest gentle rise of ground.
        Mark began to walk in the direction of the carnival,
leading his mount. His escort followed silently,

professionally alert for trouble. Denis hesitated for a
moment, then abandoned his gravedigging temporarily


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and came with them too. The ruined show was only
about a hundred meters distant.
        Standing on the edge of the area of dilapidated tents
and flimsy shelters, Mark looked about him with a
frown. "This is very much like..."
        "What?"
        "Nothing." But then Mark hesitated. His voice
when he replied again was strained. "Like one
carnival in particular that I remember seeing once . . .
long ago."
        It was of course impossible for him to be certain,
but he had a feeling that it was really the same one.
Something about the tents, or maybe the names of the
performers-though he could not remember any of
them consciously-on the few worn, faded signs that
were visible.
        Yes. Nine years ago, or thereabouts, this very
carnival-he thought-had been encamped far from
here, in front of what had then been Sir Andrew's
castle. That had been the night of Mark's second
encounter with a Sword, the night on which someone
had thrust Sightblinder into his hands ....
        One of the mounted Tasavaltan troopers sounded a
low whistle, a signal meaning that an enemy had been
sighted nearby. Mark forgot the past and sprang
alertly into his saddle.
        There was barely time to grab for weapons before
a patrol of the Dark King's cavalry was upon them.
Vilkata's troops abandoned stealth when they saw
that they were seen, to come shouting and charging
between the tents and flimsy shacks.
        Mark, with Coinspinner raised, met one mounted
attacker, a grizzled veteran who fell back wide-eyed
when he saw his opponent brandishing a Sword;
the magnificent blade made the god-forged weap-
ons unmistakable even when the black hilt with its
identifying symbol was hidden in a fist. Other fight-
ing swirled around them. Mark's riding beast was
slightly wounded. He had to struggle to control it,
as it carried him some little distance where he
found himself almost alone. The Sword of Good
Luck could create certain difficulties for a leader,
even when it perhaps simultaneously saved his life.
He waved a signal to such of his Tasavaltan people
as he could see, then rode to lead them in a counter-
attack around a wooden structure a little larger
than the rest of the carnival's components.
        In a moment he discovered that his troops had
evidently missed or misread his hand signal, and he
was for the moment completely alone. Swearing by
the anatomies of several gods and goddesses, he
was wheeling his mount again, to get back to his
troops, when his eye fell on the faded legend over
the flimsy building's doorway.
        It read:

THE HOUSE OF MIRTH

        And just outside the House of Mirth, a man was
sitting, waiting for Mark. The man, garbed in dull
colors, sat there so quietly on a little bench that


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Mark had ridden past him once without even
noticing his presence. Mark was sure at once that
the man was waiting for him, because he was look-
ing at Mark as if he had been expecting him and no
one else.
        The man on the bench was compactly built, of

indeterminate age, and wrapped in a gray cloak of
quiet but now somewhat dusty elegance. His face,
Mark thought, was quite calm and also quite ordi-
nary, and he sat there almost meekly, unarmed but
with a long empty scabbard at his belt.
        Coinspinner pointed straight at the man. Then
the Sword seemed to leap and twist in Mark's hand,
and he could not retain his hold upon it. The man
on the bench had done nothing at all that Mark
could see, but the Sword of Chance was no longer in
Mark's grip, and the scabbard at the Emperor's
side was no longer empty.
        Even apart from Coinspinner's evidence, Mark
had not the least doubt of who he was facing. He
had heard descriptions. He had heard enough to
make him wonder if, in spite of himself, he might be
awed when this moment came. But in fact the first
emotion that Mark felt was anger, and his first
words expressed it. They came in 'a voice that trem-
bled a little with his resentment, and it was not
even the taking of the Sword that made him angry.
        "You are my father. So my mother has told me."
        The Emperor gave no sign of feeling any anger in
response to Mark's. He only looked Mark up and
down and smiled a little, as if he were basically
pleased with what he saw. Then he said: "She told
you truly, Mark. You are my son."
        "Return my Sword. I need it, and my troops need
me.
        "Presently. They are managing without you at
the moment."
        Mark started to get down from his riding beast,
meaning to confront the other even more closely.
But at the last moment he decided to hold on to
whatever advantage remaining mounted might
afford him-even though he suspected that would
be none at all.
        He accused the seated man again. "It was a long
time afterward, my mother said, before she realized
who you really were. Not until after I was born. You
were masked, when you took her. For a while she
thought you were Duke Fraktin, that bastard.
Playing tricks, like a . . . why did you do that to her?
And to my father?"
        Mark heard his own voice quiver on the last
word. Somehow the accusation had ended more
weakly than it had begun.
        The Emperor answered him steadily. "I did it, I
took her as you say, because I wanted to bring you
into being."
        "I . . ." It was difficult to find the right words,
properly angry and forceful, to answer that.
        The man on the bench added: "You are one of my
many children, Mark. The Imperial blood flows in


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your veins."
        Again Mark's injured riding beast began to give
him trouble, turning restively this way and that. He
worked to control it, and told himself that if only he
had his Sword he would have turned his back on
this man and ridden away, gone back to join the
fight. But his Sword was gone. And now as soon as
the animal looked directly at the Emperor it qui-
eted. It stood still, facing the man on the bench and
trembling faintly.
        And is it going to be the same with me? Will I be
pacified so easily? Mark wondered. Already his
intended fury at this man was weakening.
        Mark said; "I have been thinking about that, too.
The Imperial blood. If I have it, what does that
mean?"

        The Emperor stood up slowly. There was still
nothing physically impressive or even distinctive
about him. He was neither remarkably tall nor
short, and, to Mark's dull senses at least, he radi-
ated no aura of magic. As he walked the few paces
to stand beside Mark's trembling mount, he drew
Coinspinner and casually handed it up to Mark, hilt
first. "You will need this, as you say," he remarked,
as if in an aside.
        And then, as Mark almost dazedly accepted the
Sword, the Emperor answered his question. "It
means, for one thing, that you have the ordering of
demons. More precisely, the ability to order them
away, to cast them out. What words, what particu-
lar incantation you employ to do so matters little."
        Mark slid Coinspinner back into the sheath at his
own side. Now he was free to turn and ride away.
But he did not. "The demons, yes . . . tell me. There
was a girl named Ariane, who was with me once in
the Blue Temple dungeon. Who saved me from a
demon there. Was she . . . ?"
        "Another of my children. Yes. Did she not once
think that she recognized you as a brother?"
        "She did. Yes." Now even weak anger was
ebbing swiftly, could not be called anger any
longer. Now it had departed. Leaving . . . what?
        Again the Emperor was smiling at him faintly,
proudly. "You are a fit husband, Mark, for any
Queen on Earth--or any Princess either. I think you
are too good for most of them-but then I may be
prejudiced. Fathers tend to be." The man in gray
stood holding on to Mark's stirrup now, and squint-
ing up at him. "There's something else, isn't there?
What else are you trying to ask me?"
        Mark blurted out a jumble of words, more or less
connected with the memorized version of Princess
Kristin's formal request for an alliance.
        "Yes, that's what she sent you after me to do,
isn't it? Well, I have a reputation as a prankster, but
I can be serious. Tell the Princess, when you see her,
that she has an alliance with me as long as she
wants it."
        There had been another alliance that Mark had
meant to ask for. But it was too late now. "Sir


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Andrew has just been killed."
        "I know that."
        The calmness in the Emperor's voice seemed
inhuman. Suddenly Mark's anger was not dead
after all. "He died not half a kilometer from here. If
you would be our ally, why aren't you fighting
harder on our side? Doing more?"
        His father-it was suddenly possible now to think
of this man also in those terms-was not surprised
by the reproach, or perturbed either. He let go the
stirrup, and stroked the riding beast's injured neck.
Mark thought he saw, though afterward he was not
sure, one of the small wounds there wiped away as
if it had been no more than a dead leaf fallen on the
skin. Mark's newly acceptable father said, "When
you are as old as I am, my son, and able to under-
stand as much, then you can intelligently criticize
the way I am behaving now."
        The Emperor stretched himself, a weary move-
ment, then moved back a step and looked around.
"I think this present skirmish at least is yours. One
day you and I will have a long time to talk. But not
just now. Now that you have completed your mis-
sion for the Princess, I would advise you to get your
remaining people to Tashigang, and quickly inside

the walls. And warn the people in the city, if they do
not already realize it, that an attack is imminent."
        "I will." Mark heard himself accepting orders
from this man, the same man he had sought for
days, meaning to confront in accusation. But this
change was riot like that brought about by the
Mindsword's hideous warping pressure. This
inward change, this decision, was his own, for all
that it surprised him.
        His revitalized mount was already carrying him
away. His father waved after him and called: "And
you can give them this encouraging news as well-
Rostov is bringing the Tasavaltan army to their
aid!"
CHAPTER 13 .
        The little column of refugees was composed for the
most part of cumbersome carts and loadbeasts, and
for several days it had been moving with a nightmarish
slowness over the appalling roads. Now and again it
left the roads, where a bridge had been destroyed or
the only roads ran in the wrong directions, to go
trundling off across someone's neglected fields. In this
manner the train of carts and wagons had made its
way toward Tashigang. The people in the train, all of
them villagers or peasants who had been poor even
before the war started, were fearful of the Dark
King's cavalry, and with good reason. Behind them
the land was death and ruin, under a leaden sky hazed
at the horizon with the smoke of burning villages. The
wooden-wheeled carts groaned with their increasing
burden of people who could walk no more, and of the
poor belongings that the people were still stubbornly
trying to keep. The loadbeasts, in need

of food and most of all of rest, uttered their own


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sounds of-protest.
        Riding in the second wagon were four people, a
man named Birch and his wife Micheline, along with
their two small children. The man was driving at the
moment, urging on their one loadbeast that pulled the
wagon. In general he kept up a running stream of
encouraging comments, directed at the animal and at
his family indiscriminately. He was not getting too
much in the way of answers. His wife had said very
little for several days now, and the children were too
tired to speak.
        Just now the train of wagons was coming to a place
where the poor road dipped between hills that had
once been wooded, to ford a small, muddy stream.
Most of the trees on the hills looked as if they might
have been individually hacked at by a hundred axes,
then pulled apart by a thousand arms, of people
needing firewood or wood for other uses; quite likely
someone's army had camped near here not long ago.
        The little train of half a dozen wagons and carts
now stopped at the ford. All of the travelers wanted
to let their animals drink, and the people who were not
carrying fresher water with them in their vehicles
drank from the stream too. Birch and his family did
not get out of their cart. At this point they were not so
much thirsty as simply dazed and exhausted.
        While the company of refugees was halted thus, a
patrol of the Dark King's cavalry did indeed come into
sight. Those who were sitting in their wagons or
standing beside them held their breath, watching
fatalistically. But the patrol was some distance
off, and showed little interest in their poor company.
        They were greatly relieved. But hardly had the
cavalry ridden out of the way when one of the
women stood up in her wagon screaming, and pointed
in a different direction.
        Over one of the nearby hills, studded with its
broken trees like stubble on a tough chin, the head and
shoulders of a god had just appeared. There was
more nearby smoke in the air in that direction, from
some farm building on the other side of the hill burning
perhaps, or it might have been a haystack or a
woodpile smoldering; ,and the effect of seeing the
god's figure through this haziness was somehow to
suggest a truly gigantic figure kilometers away,
moving about, at the distance of an ordinary horizon.
        Birch, the man in the second cart, froze in his
position on the driver's seat. His wife, Micheline, who
was sitting beside him had clamped a painful grip
upon his arm, but he could not have moved in any
case. Behind them, peering out from where they had
been tucked away amid furniture in the large two-
wheeled cart, their two small children were frozen
too.
        Birch could tell at first glance that the mountainous-
looking god coming over the hill was Mars. He could
make the identification at once by the great spear and
helm and shield of the approaching being's equippage,
even though the man had never before seen any deity
and had not expected to see one now.
        Mars was almost directly ahead of the people in


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their wagons, advancing toward them from almost the
same direction that the train was headed. And

the Wargod had certainly taken notice of them
already; Birch thought for a moment that those
distant eyes were looking directly into his own. Now
Mars, marching forward out of the smoke, appeared
as no more than three times taller than a man. Now
he was lowering his armored helm as if in preparation
for battle; and still he tramped thunderously nearer, a
moving mountain of a being, kicking stumps and
boulders out of his way.
        He was descending the near side of the nearest hill
now, taller than the treetops of the ruined grove as he
moved among them. Before Birch could think of any
way he might possibly react, Mars had reached the
muddy little ford.
        Once there, he raised his arms. Looking
preoccupied, as if his divine thoughts were elsewhere,
and without preamble or warning, he spitted the man
who had been driving the first wagon neatly on his
spear, which was as long as a tall tree itself, and only
a little thinner. That man's wife and children came
spilling around him from their cart, and rolling on the
ground as if they could feel the same spear in their
own guts.
        Mars moved quickly, and came so close that he was
hard to see, like a mountain when you were standing
on it. Birch felt his own wagon go over next. If that
great spear had thrust for him too, it had somehow
missed. All Birch could feel was a fall that left him
half stunned, and then a growing pain in his leg and
hip, and a numbness that threatened to grow into a
greater pain still, and the awareness that he could not
move. Near him Micheline and the children lay
huddled. and jumbled in the midst of their spilled
belongings. Except for Birch himself they all appeared
to be unhurt, but Micheline was
gasping and the children whimpering softly in new
terror. Still connected to the wagon by the leather
straps of the harness, their only loadbeast lay
twitching, its whole body crumpled into an impos-
sible position. It had been slaughtered, butchered
by a mere gesture from the passing God of War.
        Mars' windstorm of a voice roared forth, above
the cowering humans' heads: "What's all this talk I
hear, these last few years, about twelve special
Swords? I've never seen them and I don't want to.
What's so great about them, really? Can anyone
here answer me that? My war-spear here does the
job as neatly as it ever did."
        If the god was really talking to the humans he had
just trampled, and whether he expected any of his
surviving victims to actually enter into a dialogue,
Birch never knew. The voice that did rumble an
answer back at Mars was deeper and louder by far
than any human tones could be. It came rolling
down at them from the hillside on the other side of
the ford, and it said: "Your spear has failed you
before, Wargod. It will again be insufficient."
        Birch did not recognize that voice. But Mars did,


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for Birch saw him turn, with an expression sud-
denly and almost madly joyful, to face its owner.
The God of War cried out: "It is the dog! The great
son of a bitch that they call the Lord of Beasts. At
last! I have been looking for you for a long time."
        Birch was still lying on his back, aware that
Micheline and the children were still at his side,
and evidently still unhurt; but beyond that he could
not. think for the moment about himself or his fam-
ily, nor speak, though his dry lips formed words.
Even his own pain and injury were momentarily
forgotten. He could only watch. He had never seen a

single god in his whole life before, and now here
were two at one time.
        Lord Draffut came walking downhill, toward the
ford and the few crouching, surviving humans, and
the poor wreckage that was all that was left of the
train of carts. Draffut's towering man-shaped form
splashed knee-deep through the small river, now
partially dammed by the jumble of wrecked vehi-
cles, murdered loadbeasts and human bodies, all
intermingled with the poor useless things that the
humans had been trying to carry with them to
safety inside the walls of Tashigang. The bloodied
water splashed up around those knees of glowing
fur, and Birch saw marveling that the elements of
water and mud were touched with temporary life
wherever the body of Draffut came in contact with
them.
        "Down on four legs, beast!" the Wargod roared,
brandishing his spear at the other god who was as
tall as he.
        Lord Draffut had nothing more to say to Mars
just now. The Beastlord only bared his fangs as he
crossed the stream and halted, slightly crouching,
almost within reach of the God of War.
        The first thrust of the great spear came, too swift
and powerful for watching Birch to see it plainly, or
for Draffut to ward it in just the way he sought to
do. It pierced Draffut's right forearm, but only
lightly, in and out near the surface, so that he was
still able to catch the spear's shaft in both his
hands. A moment later he had wrenched the
weapon out of the grasp of Mars completely, and
reversed it in his own grip.
        Mars had another spear, already magically in
hand. The two weapons clashed. Then Draffut
thrust again, with such violence that the shield of
Mars was transfixed by the blow, and knocked out of
the Wargod's grasp, to go rolling away with the spear
like some great cartwheel on the end of a broken
axle.
        Mars cried out, a bellow of rage and fear, thought
Birch, not of injury. Even to witness the fear of a god
was terrible. In the next moment Mars demonstrated
the ability to produce still more spears at will, and had
now armed himself with one in each hand.
        Draffut lunged at him and closed with him, and
locked his massive arms around his great opponent,
clamping the arms of Mars against the cuirass


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protecting the Wargod's body. At the same time
Draffut sank his enormous fangs into god-flesh at the
base of the thick armored neck. At the touch of the
Lord of Beasts, even the magical armor of Mars
melted and flowed with life, treacherously exposing
the divine flesh that it was meant to guard.
        The giants stamped and swayed, the earth quivering
beneath their feet; even though his upper arms were
pinioned, Mars tried stabbing at his attacker with the
spears he held in both his hands. Birch, beyond
marveling now, saw how one spearhead was
converted by Draffut's life-powers to the giant head
of a living serpent, and how the serpent's head struck
back at the arm and wrist of the god who held it.
Mars shrieked in deafening pain and rage.
        Micheline, seeing the fight in her own terms, as an
opportunity for human action, demanded of her
husband whether he was hurt, whether he could
move. Birch, taking his eyes off the contending giants
only for a moment, told her that yes, he was

hurt, and no, he could not move, and that she should
take the children and get on away from here, and
come back later when it was safe.
        She protested briefly; but when she saw that he
really could not move, she did as he had said. The
fighting gods were much too busy to notice their
departure, or that of any of the other people who
could still move.
        The spearhead in the right hand of Mars had not
been changed by Draffut's touch; it stubbornly
refused to flow with life. "You will not melt this
weapon down!" Mars cried, and with its bright point
and edge he tore open a wound along the shaggy ribs
of the Lord of Beasts. And meanwhile Mars had
managed to cast the treacherous biting serpent from
him.
        Now the God of Healing could no longer entirely
heal himself. He bled red sparkling blood, from his
side and from his wounded arm as well.
        Yet he closed with Mars and disarmed him again of
his remaining spear. He seized Mars -in a wrestler's
grip, and lifted him and threw him down on rocks, so
that the earth shook with the shock of impact, and the
water in the nearby stream leapt up in little spouts.
        But as soon as he was free of Draffut's grip, Mars
bounced up, a spear once more in each hand, just as
before. He was bleeding too, with blood as red as
Draffut's, but thicker, and so hot it steamed, rushing
out from the place where Draffut's fangs had torn his
neck.
        Mars said: "You cannot kill a true god, dogbeing.
We are immortal."
        Draffut was approaching him again, closing in
slowly and methodically, looking for the best
chance to attack. "Hermes died. If I cannot kill you . .
. it is not because you are a god. It will be because..."
        And now again-Birch did not understand, or hope
to understand, everything that he was seeing and
hearing-it seemed that Mars was capable of fear.
"Why?" the Wargod asked.


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        Draffut answered: "Because there is too much of
humanity in you. Human beings are not the gods'
creation. You are theirs. You and all your peers who
meet in the Ludus Mountains."
        This brought on a bluster of roaring, and insults
from Mars, to which Draffut did not bother to reply.
Meanwhile the two giants continued their steady,
stealthy circling and stalking of each other.
        But, finally, it was as if Draffut's calm statement
about humanity had struck deeper than any planned
insult. It must have struck so deep as to provoke even
the God of War to that ultimate reaction, thought.
        Mars rumbled at the other, "What did you mean by
that foolishness? That we are their creation?"
        "I mean to tell you what I saw, on that day when I
stood among you, on the cold mountaintop, with the
Sword of Stealth in my hand . . . Sightblinder let me
see into the inward nature of the gods, you and the
others there. And since then I have known . . . if I
could not kill you the last time we fought, and I cannot
kill you now, it is because there is in you too much of
humanity."
        "Bah. That I cannot believe." Mars waved his
spears.
        Stalking his enemy, bleeding, Draffut said it again.
"You did not create them."

        "Hah. That I can believe. What sort of god would
be bothered to do that?"
        "They created you."
        Mars snorted with divine contempt. "How could
such vermin ever create anything?"
        "Through their dreams. Their dreams are very
powerful."
        The two titans closed with each other again, and
fought, and again both of them were wounded. And
again they both were weakened.
        The only human observer left to watch them now
was the man named Birch. He would certainly have
crept away by now, too, with his wife and children, if
he had been able to move. But he could not move.
And by now he was no longer even thinking
particularly of his own fate. He watched the fight until
he fainted, and when he recovered his senses he
watched again, for the fight was still in progress.
When his thirst became overpowering, he made a
great effort and managed to turn and twist himself
enough to get a drink from the muddied, bloodied
water of the small stream. Then he lay back and kept
his mind off his own pain and injury by watching the
fight some more.
        The sun set on the struggle. It went on, with pauses-
Birch supposed that even gods in this kind of agony
must rest-through the night. The dark was filled with
titanic thrashings and groanings, and splashing in the
river where it gurgled gorily and patiently over and
around the new dam that had been made out of
human disaster.
        At least, Birch told himself in his more lucid
moments, he was not going to have to worry about
predatory animals coming and trying to make a


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meal of him as he lay wounded. What ordinary beast
would dare approach this scene?
         When dawn came, Birch found himself still alive,
somewhat to his own surprise. In the new daylight he
beheld the ground, over the entire area around the
ford, littered with broken spearshafts and spearheads,
and with monstrous dead or lethargic serpents that
had once been spears, all relics of the fight that still
went on.
         Or did it? This latest interval of silence seemed to
be lasting for a longer time than usual
         There was a great, startling, earth-quivering crash,
somewhere nearby, just out of Birch's sight, behind
some overturned and smashed-up wagons that
screened a large part of his field of vision. The ground
shook with the renewed fight, which once more
seemed to terminate in a final splash. In a moment the
watching human was able to see and feel the waves
indicating that the two combatants, still locked
together, had plunged into the partially dammed pool
of the river.
         Now for a time Birch could no longer hear them
fighting, except for occasional splashes that gradually
decreased in violence. But now he could hear the two
gods breathing. Ought gods to have to breathe? Birch
wondered groggily. Maybe they only did it when they
chose, like eating and drinking. Maybe they only did it
when they needed extra strength.
         Time passed in near silence. Then as the newly
risen sun crept higher in the sky, a shadow fell across
Birch where he lay. The man opened his eyes, to
behold the figure of yet another god. Thank Ardneh,
this one had not yet noticed the surviving human
either.

        Birch knew at once, by the leather-like smith's
apron worn by the newcomer, and by the twisted leg,
that this was Vulcan. The lame god was wearing at
his side two great, blackhilted Swords, looking like
mere daggers against the gray bulk of his body. He
squatted on his haunches, looking down into the pool
where the two fighters had gone out of Birch's field of
vision. Now there was a renewed stirring in the pool,
at last. A muttering, a splash. A great grin spread
across the face of the Smith as he stood up and
leisurely approached the combat a little more closely.
Before he sat down again, on a rock, he kicked a
broken cart out of his way. This incidentally cleared
the field of view for the injured man, of whose
existence none of the three giants had yet taken the
least notice.
        "Hail, oh mighty Wargod!" The salutation came
from Vulcan in tones of gigantic mockery. "The world
awaits your conquering presence. Have you not
dallied here long enough? What are you doing down
there, exactly-bathing your pet dog in the mud?"
        Birch could see now how red the mud and water
were around them both. Of the two combatants,
Draffut could no longer fight, could hardly move. The
God of War was little better off than his bedraggled
foe. But now, slowly, terribly, with great gasping


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efforts, Mars dragged himself free of his opponent's
biting, crushing grip, and stood erect, ankle-deep in
mud.
        When the Wargod tried to speak his voice was half-
inaudible, failing altogether on some words. It seemed
that he could barely lift the arm that he stretched out
to Vulcan. "A spear-a weapon-I have no more
spears. Lend me your Sword, Smith.
One of them, I see that you have two. This business
must be finished."
        Vulcan sighed, producing a sound like that of
wind rushing through a smoldering forge. He
remained where he was, still some twenty meters
or so distant from the other two. "Give you a
weapon, hey? Well, I suppose I must, since you
appear to be the victor in this shabby business after
all. How tiresome."
        Mars, though tottering on his feet, managed to
draw himself a little more fully erect.
        "How mannered you suddenly grow, Black-
smith. How fond you suddenly are of trying to
appear clever. Why should that be? But never
mind. Put steel here in my hand, and I'll finish this
dirty job."
        "I grant you," said Vulcan, "there is a need that
certain things be finished." And the Smith stood up
from where he had been sitting, and his ornaments
of dragons' scales tinkled as he -chose and drew one
of his Swords.
        " 'For thy heart'," he quoted softly, clasping and
hiding the black hilt delicately in his great, gray,
hardened blaksmith's hand. He held the Sword up
straight, looking at it almost lovingly. ''For thy
heart, who hast wronged me.'"
        "Wait," said Mars, staring at him with a sud-
denly new expression. "What Sword is-?"
        His answer did not come in words. Vulcan was
moving into a strange revolving dance, his whole
body turning ponderously, great sandaled feet
stamping rock and mud along the wagon trail, flat-
tening earth that was already trodden and beaten
and bloody from the fight, squashing the already
dying serpents that had once been spears. The

Sword in the Smith's extended arm was glowing
now, and it was howling like the bull-roarer of some
primitive magician.
        Mars, half-dead or not, was suddenly galvanized.
He sprang into motion, fleeing, running away. Run-
ning as only a god can run, Mars went ducking and
twisting his way through the remnants of the hill-
side grove. He dodged among great splintered
treetrunks, and splintering further those trees that
got in his way.
        Birch saw Vulcan throw the Sword, or rather let
it go. After the Smith released it, the power that
propelled it came only from within itself. The speed
of Mars' flight was great, but the Sword was only a
white streak through the air. Virtually instanta-
neously it followed the curving track of the War-
god's flight.


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        At the last moment, Mars turned to face doom
bravely, and somehow he was able to summon yet
one more spear into his hand. But even his magic
spear of war availed him nothing against the Sword
of Vengeance. The white streak ended abruptly,
with the sound of a sharp impact.
        Even with Farslayer embedded in his heart, Mars
raised his spear, and took one stumbling step
toward the god who had destroyed him. But then he
could only cry a curse, and fall. He was dead before
he struck the earth, and he demolished one more
live tree in his falling. That last tree deflected the
Wargod's toppling body, so that he turned before
his landing shook the earth, and ended sprawling
on his back. Only the black hilt and a handsbreadth
of Farslayer's bright blade protruded from the
armored breastplate on his chest.
CHAPTER 14

        At the largest land gate in the walls of Tashigang,
which was the Hermes Gate giving onto the great
highway called the High Road, one thin stream of
worried citizens was trying to get out of the city when
Mark and Denis arrived, while another group, this one
of country refugees, worked and pleaded to get in.
There was obviously no general agreement on the
safest place to be during the war that everyone
thought was coming. The Watch on duty at the
Hermes Gate were implacably forbidding the removal
of foodstuffs, or anything that could be construed as
military or medical supplies, while at the same time
denying entrance to many of the outsiders. To gain
entrance to the city it was necessary to show pressing
business-other than that of one's own survival, which
did not necessarily concern the Watch-or to bring in
some substantial material contribution to the city's
ability to withstand a siege. Denis, on identifying
himself as an agent of the House of Courtenay, was
admitted with no fur

ther argument. And Mark, along with his escort, was
passed as a representative of Tasavalta, as his and his
soldiers' blue-green clothing testified.
        Mark thought that some of the Watch on duty at the
gate recognized Coinspinner at his side-it was not
mentioned, but he suspected that the fact of the
Sword's presence was quickly communicated to the
Lord Mayor. Mark informed the officer who spoke to
him that he too could be reached at the House of
Courtenay, and alerted the guardians of the gate to
expect the survivors of Sir Andrew's army. That
group, two or three hundred strong, was traveling a
few hours behind Mark and Denis; it would, they
agreed, make a welcome addition to the city's
garrison, that Denis said was chronically
undermanned.
        It was the first time Mark had ever entered a city as
large as this one-he had heard some say that there
were none larger-and he saw much to wonder at as
Denis conducted him and his handful of Tasavaltan
troopers through the broad avenues and streets. This


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was also, of course, the first time that Mark had seen
the House of Courtenay, and he was duly impressed
by the wealth and luxury in which his old friends
Barbara and Ben were living. But he was given little
time today in which to be impressed by that. The
household, like the rest of the great city around it, was
in a state of turmoil and tension. Soon after entering
Mark got the impression that none of its members
knew as yet whether they were preparing for war and
siege, or for evacuation. Packing of certain valuables
as if for possible evacuation was being undertaken, by
a force of what Mark estimated as at least a dozen
servants and other workers, while simultaneously
another group barricaded all but a few of the doors
and windows as if in expectation that the House
must undergo a siege.
        Almost immediately on entering the building's
ground floor, coming into the clamorous confusion
of what must be a workshop, Denis immediately
became engaged in conversation with a man he
introduced to Mark as the steward of the house-
hold, named Tarim.
        Denis was already aghast at some of the things
Tarim was telling him.
        "Evacuation? Tashigang? Don't tell me they're
seriously considering such a thing."
        "We have heard something of the Mindsword's
power," said Tarim worriedly. He turned his aging,
troubled eyes toward Mark. "Perhaps you gentle-
men who travel out in the great world have heard
something of it too."
        Denis was impatient. "I think we've some idea
about it, yes. But we're not helpless, there are other
weapons, other Swords. We've even brought one
with us . . . and if they evacuate this city, half a mil-
lion people or however many there are, where will
they all go?"
        Tarim shrugged fatalistically. "Flee to the upper
hills, I suppose, or the Great Swamp. I didn't say
that it made sense to evacuate."
        Someone else had just entered the ground floor
room. Turning, Mark saw the man who all his life
he had thought of as his father. Who was his father,
he told himself, in every sense that truly mattered.
        And so Mark called him at first sight. For the time
being, the Emperor was forgotten.
        Mark had been only twelve the last time he saw
Jord, then lying apparently dead in their village

street. But there was no mistaking Jord, for the
older man had changed very little. Except for being
dressed now in finer garments than Mark had ever
seen him wear before. And except for . . .
        The really exceptional transformation was so
enormous, and at the same time appeared so right
and ordinary, that Mark at first glance came near
accepting it as natural, and not a change at all.
Then, after their first embrace, he wonderingly held
his father at arms' length.
        Jord now had two arms.
        Mark's father said to him, "What the Swords


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took from me, they have given back. I'm told that
Woundhealer was used to heal me as I lay here
injured and unconscious. It did a better job even
than those who used it had hoped."
        "The Sword of Mercy has touched me too," Mark
whispered. And then for a little time he could only
stand there marveling at his father's new right arm.
Jord explained to Mark how the arm had begun as a
mere fleshy swelling, then a bud, and then in a mat-
ter of a few months had passed through the normal
stages of human growth, being first a limb of baby
size, then one to fit a child. It was as large and
strong as the left arm now, but the skin of the new
limb was still pink and almost unweathered even
on the hand, not scarred or worn by age like that on
Jord's left fist, visible below the sleeve of his fine
new shirt.
        Suddenly Mark said, "I've just come from seeing
Mother, and Marian. When they hear you have a
new arm... "
        The two of them, father and son, had many things
to talk about. Some things that were perhaps of
even greater importance than a new arm-and
Mark still had one problem to think about that he was
never going to mention to this man. But they were
allowed little time just now for talk. Ben and Barbara
were arriving from somewhere in the upper interior of
the house to give Mark a joyful welcome.
        Barbara jumped at him, so that he had to catch and
swing her. She threw wiry arms around his neck and
kissed him powerfully, so that he held her, as he had
Jord, at arms' length for a moment, wondering if in
her case too there had taken place some change so
great as to be invisible at first glance. But then he had
to drop her, for Ben, less demonstrative as a rule,
came to almost crush Mark in a great hug.
        They were followed by a plump nursemaid,
introduced to Mark as Kuan-yin who was carrying
their small child Beth. The toddler was obviously
already a great friend of Jord's, for she went to him at
once and asked him how his new arm was.
        Kuan-yin, released from immediate duty, at once
went a little apart with Denis. Mark could see that the
two of them, standing face to face amid the confusion
of workers packing and barricading, had their own
private greetings to exchange.
        "We'd like to get a welcoming party for you started
right away," Ben was saying to Mark, "but we can't.
It'll have to wait at least until tomorrow. The Lord
Mayor has called a council of leading citizens, and
Barbara and I are invited. Substantial people now, you
know. Master and Lady Courtenay. And the Mayor
knows we have some kind of a hoard of weapons, to
help defend . . . what's that at your side?"
        Ben grabbed the sheath, and looked at the Sword's
hilt. "Thank Ardneh, Coinspinner! We've

got to go to that meeting, and you've got to come too,
and bring this tool along, to see that they don't decide
on some damned foolishness like surrendering. You'll
be welcome, bringing word from outside as you do.


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And also as a representative of Tasavalta. And
bringing another Sword . . . that'll stiffen up their
spines. Townsaver is in town already."
        Mark grinned at him. "Doomgiver is on the way."
        "Thank all the gods!" Holding Mark by the arm, Ben
lowered his voice for a moment. "We can't surrender,
and we certainly can't evacuate. Imagine trying to
take a three-year-old on that . . . you and I know
what it would be like. But if the rest of the city goes,
we'll have to try."

         The Lord Mayor's palace, like every other part of
the city that Mark had seen so far, was a scene of
energetic, confused, and doubtfully productive activity.
Here as elsewhere the inhabitants appeared to be
striving to make ready for some allout effort, whose
nature they had not yet been able to decide upon.
         Mark, Ben, and Barbara were admitted readily
enough at the main doorway of the Palace. This was
a building somewhat similar to the House of
Courtenay, though even larger and more sumptuous,
and with reception rooms and offices on the ground
floor instead of workshop space. Soon they were
conducted up a broad curving stair of marble, past
workmen descending with newly crated works of art.
         On the way, Mark's friends were trying to bring
him up to date on the situation that they were about to
encounter.
         "We're likely," Ben warned, "to run into our old
friend Hyrcanus at this meeting."
         Mark almost missed his footing on the stair.
"Hyrcanus? Is he still Chief Priest at the Blue
Temple? But he-"
         "He still is," Barbara assured him. "And the Blue
Temple is an important faction here in Tashigang."
         "I suppose they must be. But I never thought about
it until now," Mark murmured. "Hyrcanus. I
remember hearing somewhere that he was certain to
be deposed. I thought he was gone by now, it's four
years since we robbed him. Plundered his deepest
rathole, as nobody else has ever done before or
since."
         "Thank all the gods for that rathole," Barbara
murmured. "And send us another like it. A handful of
its contents has done well for Ben and me. I hear that
the Temple are now considering moving their main
hoard of treasure into Tashigang. We just wanted to
warn you, Hyrcanus will probably be here, and he
won't be happy to see us."
         "He thinks I'm dead," Mark murmured. But it was
too late now to try to preserve that happy state of
affairs.
         They had now reached the door of the conference
room, a large, well-appointed chamber on an upper
floor, and were ushered in without delay. Even after
being warned it was a shock for Mark to behold
Hyrcanus with his own eyes; it was the first time that
he had ever actually seen the man, but there was no
doubt in Mark's mind who he was. The Blue
Temple's Chairman and High Priest, having



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survived the efforts that must certainly have been
made to depose him after the sacrilegious robbery of
the Temple .'s main hoard four years ago, was still in
charge, and had indeed come here today for the Lord
Mayor's conference.
        Hyrcanus, the High Priest, small, bald, and
rubicund, his face as usual jovial, looked up as the
three of them entered. His cheerful smile did not
exactly disappear, but froze. He must have
recognized Ben, at least, by description, at first sight.
        The Chairman studied Mark too, and could hardly
fail to identify him also, especially as their escort
announced his name along with the others in a loud
voice. The others who were gathered round the table,
a dozen or so men and women, mostly the solid
citizens of Tashigang, rose to return greetings and
extend a welcome to the new arrivals. Their faces
were cheered, Mark thought, at the sight of the
Tasavaltan green and blue that he still wore. And their
expressions altered still more, with new hope and
calculation, at the sight of the black hilt at his side.
Mark let his left hand rest upon it, loosely, casually; he
did not want Hyrcanus, at least, to be able to read
which white symbol marked that hilt.
        Mark supposed the fact that he was appearing in
Tasavaltan colors might at least give the
cheerylooking old bastard pause, and perhaps cause
him to at least delay the next assassination attempt.
        The Lord Mayor, named Okada, was a clerkish-
looking man on whom the robes of his high office
looked faintly preposterous. Yet he presided firmly.
The arrival of Mark, Ben, and Barbara had
interrupted Hyrcanus in the midst of a speech, which
he now resumed, at the Mayor's suggestion.
        It was soon apparent as Hyrcanus spoke that the
Blue Temple Chairman's thoughts were not now on
revenge and punishment of past transgressors, but, as
usual, were concentrated on how best he could
contrive to save the bulk of the Blue Temple's
treasure. A siege of the city, a storming of the walls,
were to be avoided at all costs-at least at all costs to
others outside the Blue Temple. Mark, listening,
assumed that Hyrcanus had already made some
arrangement, or thought he had, with the Dark King,
by which the Blue Temple holdings in Tashigang
would be secure, in exchange for co-operation with
the conqueror.
        Mark could recognize one other face at the council
table, though no reminiscences were exchanged in
this case either. Baron Amintor was here as the
personal representative of the Silver Queen. He
recognized Mark also, and gazed at him in a newly
friendly way, while Mark looked stonily at this old
enemy of Sir Andrew. The Baron, Mark was sure,
recognized Ben and Barbara as well.
        Hyrcanus continued the speech he had begun,
urging that one of two courses be adopted: either
outright surrender to the Dark King, or else the
declaration of Tashigang as an open city. That last,
Mark thought, must amount, in practical terms, to the
same thing as surrender.


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        The speech of the High Priest did not evoke any
particular enthusiasm among the citizens of Tashigang
who made up the majority of his listeners. But neither
were they vocal in immediate objection; rather the
burghers seemed to be waiting to hear more. Now
and again their eyes strayed toward the black hilt at
Mark's side.
        Hyrcanus might have gone on and on indefi

nitely, but Mayor Okada at length firmly reclaimed
the floor. Who, he asked, wanted to speak next?
        Baron Amintor had been impatiently waiting for his
chance. Now he arose, and as representative of the
Silver Queen, argued eloquently that the city must be
defended to the last fighter. Though he was careful,
Mark observed, not to put it in exactly those terms.
Rather the Baron was strongly reassuring about the
walls, the city's history and tradition of successful
resistance to outside attack, and about the
commitment of the Silver Queen to their defense.
        Hyrcanus interrupted him at one point to object.
"What about the Mindsword, though? What are any
walls against that?"
        Amintor took the objection in stride, and assured the
others that Yambu was not without her own
supremely powerful weapon. "In her wisdom and
reluctance to do harm, she has not employed it as yet.
But, faced with the Mindsword . . . I am sure she will
do whatever she must do to assure the safety of
Tashigang."
        One of the burghers rose. "When you mention this
weapon that the Queen has, you are speaking of the
Sword called Soulcutter, or sometimes the Tyrant's
Blade, are you not?"
        "I am." If Amintor was offended by the plain use of
that second name, he did not show it.
        "I know little about it." The questioner looked
around the table. "Nor, I suppose, do many of us here.
What can it do to protect Tashigang?"
        Amintor glanced only for a moment at Hyrcanus. "I
would prefer not to go into tactical details regarding
any of the Swords just now," the Baron answered
smoothly. He almost winked at Mark,
who carried Coinspinner, as if they had been old
comrades instead of enemies. "Later, under
conditions of greater security, if you like. I will say
now only that the Queen is wise and
compassionate"for some reason, no one in the room
laughed-"and that she will not use such a weapon as
Soulcutter carelessly. But neither will she allow this
city that she so loves to be taken by its enemies."
        Mark had to admit to himself that he had little or no
idea what Soulcutter might do. It was the one Sword
of the Twelve that he had never seen, let alone had in
his possession. Almost all he knew of it was
contained in the verse that everyone had heard:

The Tyrant's Blade no blood hath spilled
But doth the spirit carve
Soulcutter hath no body killed
But many left to starve.


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Glancing at Ben and Barbara, he read an equal lack
of knowledge in their faces.
        The Lord Mayor now looked at Mark expectantly.
It was time that the meeting heard from the emissary
from Tasavalta.
        Mark stood up from his chair and leaned his hands
on the table in front of him. With faith in what the
Emperor had told him, he was able to announce that
the Tasavaltan army was on the march, under the
direct command of General Rostov, coming to the
city's relief. Rostov's was an impressive name, one fit
to go with the reputation of the walls of Tashigang
itself, and once again most of the faces around the
table appeared somewhat cheered. That the
Tasavaltan army also was small

by comparison with the Dark King's host was not
mentioned at the moment, though everybody knew
it. Even should the Silver Queen arrive with her
army at the same time, Vilkata would still have the
advantage of numbers.    -
         "Does anyone else have anything to say?" the Lord
Mayor asked. "Anyone else, who has not spoken
yet?"
         Ben spoke briefly, and Barbara after him. They
added nothing really new to the discussion, but
reminded everyone again of the city's tradition and
promised to help arm the defense from their store of
weapons. Before she spoke, Barbara faced Mark
momentarily, and her lips formed the one word:
Doomgiver?
         Mark shook hishead very slightly. He wanted to
keep that news in reserve, to stiffen the council's
resolve if they should be swayed toward surrender
after all. Right now he judged that was unlikely.
         Shortly after Barbara spoke, the Mayor called for a
show of hands. "How many are ready to fight for our
city?"
         Only one hand was not raised. Hyrcanus sent black
looks at Ben, and Mark, and Amintor.
         Before the Chairman of the Blue Temple could
make a final statement and a dramatic exit, an aide to
the Mayor entered to announce the arrival of a flying
courier with a message for the Lord Mayor. The
courier and message container were both marked
with the black and silver insignia of Queen Yambu
herself.
         The beast-courier-Mark recognized it as one of a
hybrid species prevented, in the interests of secrecy,
from ever acquiring speech-was brought
into the room. The message capsule of light metal
was opened and the paper inside unfolded.
         Okada read through the single sheet alone, in
anxious silence; then he raised his head.
         "It is indeed from her most puissant Majesty, the
Silver Queen herself, and, as the marking on the
capsule indicated, addressed personally to me. I will
not read the entire message aloud just now; it contains
certain matters I do not need to proclaim in council."
There followed a look at Hyrcanus, to say wordlessly


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that important military secrets were not going to be
announced in front of him, not in view of the attitude
he had just taken. The Mayor continued: "But, there
are other parts that I think we all should hear at
once."
        The Silver Queen's words that the Mayor read
were very firm, and could be called inspiring in terms
of fear if not otherwise: there was to be no talk of
surrendering the city, under penalty of incurring her
severe displeasure.
        Her message also confirmed that she was already
on the march with her army, coming to the relief of
this her greatest city-as she put it, indeed the greatest
and proudest city in the world. And that she intended
to achieve victory by whatever means were
necessary.
        Hyrcanus walked out. He did it. unhurriedly, almost
courteously, with considerable dignity, Mark had to
admit. The High Priest did not waste time on threats,
now that it would have been obviously useless and
even dangerous to do so; a behavior somehow, at this
stage, thought Mark, more ominous than any threats
would be.
        The Lord Mayor, looking thoughtfully after the
High Priest, was evidently of the same opinion.

Okada immediately called in an officer of the Watch
from just outside the conference room, and calmly
gave. the order to arrest the High Priest before he
could get out of the Palace; once out, he would easily
be able to give some signal to his troops. The Blue
Temple Guards in the city, Ben had said, were one of
the largest trained fighting forces within the wails.
        Now it became at least possible for the council to
discuss the city's means of defense in more detail,
without the virtual certainty that a potential enemy
was listening and taking part in the debate.
        Amintor immediately put forward a plan to
neutralize the Blue Temple troops by meeting any
attempt on their part to rescue Hyrcanus with a
countermove against the local Temple and its vaults,
whipping up a street mob for the purpose if no regular
forces could be spared. Barbara whispered to Mark
that Denis would probably be a good man to see to
the organization of such an effort.
        In succeeding discussion, it quickly became plain
that the key to the regular defense of the city's walls
against attack from outside would be the Watch, a
small but well-trained body of regular troops loyal to
the Lord Mayor. They were only a few hundred
strong against Vilkata's thousands, but their numbers
could be augmented by calling up the city's militia.
Ben whispered to Mark that the quality of the militia
was, regrettably, not so high as it might be. But
certainly the city's long tradition of defending itself
ought to help.
        Then there were the fragments of Sir Andrew's
army to be considered, the survivors who had
followed Denis and Mark to Tashigang, along with the
ten or a dozen at most of Mark's surviving Tasaval-
tan escort. Mark could assure the Lord Mayor that


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Sir Andrew's people were all good, experienced
fighters, though at present somewhat demoralized
by the sad death of their noble leader. Given the
chance, they would be eager to exact revenge.
        Mark revealed now that the Sword he wore at his
side was Coinspinner, and he proposed that they
consult the Sword of Chance at once to try to deter-
mine the best means of obtaining a successful
defense of the city. All were agreeable; and all, par-
ticularly those who had never seen a Sword before,
were impressed by the sight when Mark drew his.
        "It points . . . that way. What's there?"
        They soon determined that something outside the
room was being indicated. They had to leave the
council room, and then go up on the roof of the Pal-
ace to make sure.
        The Sword of Chance was pointing at someone or
something outside the city walls, in fact at the very
center of Vilkata's advancing army. The Dark
King's force had just now come barely into sight,
through distant summer haze. It was still, Mark
thought, well out of Mindsword range.
        And Coinspinner pointed as if to Vilkata himself.
Mark looked at Ben, and got back a look of awe and
calculation mingled.

CHAPTER 15

        The delegation from the palace, two women and
one man, arrived at Mala's door very quietly and
unexpectedly. It was the afternoon after she heard
of Mark's departure from Tasavalta on a mission
for the Princess. Her first thought on seeing the
strangers at her door was that something terrible
had happened to her son or her husband, or to both;
but before she could even form the question, one of
the women was assuring her that as far as was
known, both were well. The three of them had come
to conduct Mala to the palace, because the Princess
herself wanted to see her.
        The Palace was not far above the town, and less
than an hour later Mala was there, walking in an
elaborate flower garden, open within high walls.
The garden had tall flowering trees in it, and
strange animals to gape at, hybrid creatures such
as the highborn liked to amuse themselves with,
climbing and flying amid high branches.
        Mala was left alone in the garden, but only for a
few moments. Then a certain fat man appeared, well
dressed and with an aura of magic about him. He
introduced himself as Karel, which name meant
nothing to Mala; and he, though obviously a person of
some importance, appeared quite content that it
should be so. He walked along the garden path with
Mala, and asked her about her family, and tried to put
her at her ease. That he succeeded as well as he did
was a tribute to his skill.
        And then he asked her, in his rich, soft voice: "Do
you know the Sword of Mercy? Or Sword of Love,
as it is sometimes called?"
        "I know of it, sir, of course; you must know who


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my husband is. But if you mean have I ever seen it,
no.
        "Then have you any idea where it is, at this
moment? Hey?" Karel's gaze at her was suddenly
much more intense, though he was still trying to
appear kind.
        "When my son was here, there was a story going
about that he-and the Princess-had brought it with
them to Tasavalta. But he himself said nothing to me
of that, and I did not ask him. I knew better than to be
curious about state secrets. Nor could I guess where
it is now."
        Karel continued to gaze at her with a steady
intensity. "He did bring it, and it was here yesterday
after he left. That's no state secret." The magician
suddenly ceased to stare at her. Shaking his head, he
looked away. "And now it's gone, and I don't know
where it is either. And whether that ought to be a
secret or not . . ." He sighed, letting the words trail
off.
        Mala felt vaguely frightened. "I don't know either,
sir."

        "No, of course you don't. I believe you, dear lady,
now that I have looked at you closely . . . and there is
one other matter that I want to ask you about."
        Her frightened look said that she could hardly stop
him.
        He sighed again. "Here, sit down." And he led her
to a nearby marble bench, and sat on it beside her,
puffing with relief when his weight came off his feet.
"No harm will come to you or Mark for a truthful
answer, whatever it may be. I think I know already,
but I must be sure . . . who is Mark's real father?"
        Under the circumstances the story of more than
twenty years ago came out. Mala had thought at the
time that the man might be Duke Fraktin. Later she
had been convinced that it was not. And later still,
slowly and gradually, the truth had dawned.
        "But sir, I beg you, my husband . . . Jord . . . he
mustn't know. He's never guessed. Mark is his only
living son. He. . ."
        "Hmmm," said Karel. And then he said: "Jord has
served us well. We will do all we can for him. The
Princess is waiting to see you. I told her that I wished
to speak to you first."
        The magician heaved himself up ponderously from
the bench, and guided Mala through an ornamental
gate, and into another, smaller garden, where there
were benches that looked like crystal instead of
marble, and paths of what looked like gravel but was
too soft for stone; and here the Princess was standing
waiting for her.
        She looks like a nice girl, was one idea that stood out
clearly in the confusion of Mala's thoughts.

        Kristin had been hopelessly curious as to what
the mother of the man she loved was like; this was
largely because she was still curious as to what
Mark himself was like, having had little time in
which to get to know him. It was all very well to


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order herself, with royal commands, to forget about
him. To insist that Mark was her lover no longer,
that if she ever saw him again it would only be in
passing, in some remote and official contact; but
somehow all these royal commands meant nothing,
when the chance arose to talk to Mark's mother in
line of duty, in this matter of the Swords.
        When the minimum necessary formalities had
been got through, the two women were left sitting
alone on one of the crystal benches, and Karel had
gracefully retired; not, Kristin was sure, that he
was not listening. She knew Karel of old, and the fat
wizard had more on his mind just now than
Swords, or a missing Sword, important though
those matters were.
        Mala was saying to her: "I had hoped that one
day I would get the chance to talk to you, Highness.
But I did not want to seem to be a scheming
mother, trying to get advantage for her son."
        "You are not that, I am sure . . . unless you are
scheming for Mark's safety only. Any mother would
do that."
        Kristin had questions to ask, about Mala, Jord,
their family; when she asked about Mark's father,
she thought that his mother looked at her
strangely; but then how else would the woman
look, being brought here suddenly like this, to talk
'to royalty?
        And the questions kept coming back to Mark him-
self.
        More time had passed than Kristin had realized,

but sill not very much time, when there was an
interruption, a twittering from an observant small
beast high in a branch above them.
        Kristin swore, softly and wearily. "There is now
a general who insists on seeing me, if I have learned
to interpret these jabbering signals correctly. I have
so much to do, and all at once." She seized Mala by
the hands. "I want to talk to you again, and soon."

A minute later, Mala was gone, and Kristin was
receiving General Rostov.
         The General began by reporting, in his gravelly
voice, that the man Jord had a good reputation in
the Intelligence branch. There was no actual
Tasavaltan dossier on the son as yet-rather, one
had just been started-but he seemed to have a
good reputation with Sir Andrew's people. And a
long and strange and intimate connection with the
Swords, as Jord did too, of course.
         "Nothing to connect either of them, though,
Highness, with the disappearance of Wound-
healer."
         "No, I should think not, General . . . now what
are your military plans?"
         Rostov drew himself up. "It's like this, Highness.
The best place to defend your house is not in your
front yard, but down the road as far as you can
manage it. If you can manage it that way."
         "If that is a final . . . what is it, Karel?"


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        The wizard had reappeared at the ornamental
gate. "A matter of state, Highness. You had better
hear it before completing any other plans, military
or otherwise."
        "One moment," said the Princess, and faced back
to Rostov. "I believe you, General. And I have
decided to go with you. If you are saying that the
army must march to Tashigang, because that is where
the fate of our people is being decided, then that is the
place for me to be also."
        Choking in an effort to keep from swearing,
General Rostov disputed this idea as firmly as he was
able.
        "Both of you," said Karel, "had better hear me first.
What I have to say is connected with the woman who
was just here."

CHAPTER 16
        They were kilometers in length, and tall as palaces.
They wound uphill and down, in a great tailswallowing
circle, in curves like the back of the legendary Great
Worm Yilgarn. They were the walls of Tashigang,
and at long last they stood before him.
        The taking of the city, even the planning of its
capture, were turning out to present considerably
greater problems than the Dark King had earlier
envisioned. He had once pictured himself simply riding
up to the main gate on the Hermes Road, and
brandishing the Mindsword in the faces of the
garrison, who had been conveniently assembled for
him on the battlements. Then, after a delay no longer
than the time required for his new slaves in the city to
open up the gate, he would enter in triumph, to see to
the disposal of his new treasure and the elimination of
some of his old enemies.
        That last part of the vision had been the first part to
turn unreal and unconvincing, which it did
almost as soon as Vilkata began to think about it. The
Mindsword would seem to rob revenge almost entirely
of its satisfaction. If one's old enemies had now
become one's loyal slaves, about as faithful as human
beings could be, then what was the point of destroying
or damaging them?
        In any case, Vilkata could see now that Tashigang
was not going to fall into his hands as neatly as all
that. On the last night of his march toward the city,
the night before he first faced the ancient serpentine
walls directly, the Dark King had received a warning
from his demonic counselors. They had determined,
they said, that the Sword Doomgiver had just been
carried inside the city's walls, where it was now in the
possession of some of the most fanatical defenders.
Therefore he, the Dark King, stood in danger of
having his most powerful magic-aye, even the power
of the Mindsword-turned against him when he tried to
use it in an attack.
        After receiving this grim caution, Vilkata sat in blind
silence for a time, dispensing with the demon's vision
the better to concentrate on his own thoughts.
Meanwhile those of his human counselors who were
attending him waited in their own tremulous silence


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around him, fearing his wrath, as they imagined that
he still listened to the demonic voices that only he
could hear.
        The Dark King tried to imagine the direst warnings
of his inhuman magical counselors coming true. It
would mean the devotion of all his own troops would
turn to hatred. And also, perhaps, it would mean all of
the evil that he had ever worked on anyone now
within the walls of Tashigang coming back on himself,
suddenly, to strike him down.

         And he was warned, too; that the Sword
Townsaver might also be within the city. The Sword
of Fury in itself ought not to blunt the Mindsword's
power: But what Townsaver might do, to any portion
of an attacking army that came within a bladelength of
its wielder, was enough in itself to give a field
commander pause.
         The Dark King shuddered, the fear that was never
far below the surface of his thoughts suddenly coming
near the surface. As he shuddered, the humans
watching him thought that he was still listening to the
demons' speech.
         And then, there was the matter of Farslayer, too.
Until he had that particular weapon safely in his
hands, he had to be concerned about it. Any monarch,
any man, who dealt consistently in such great affairs
as King Vilkata did, was bound to make enemies and
would have to be concerned. There were always
plenty of short-sighted, vengeful little folk about . . .
and neither the Dark King's wizards nor his immaterial
demons could give him any idea of who possessed the
Sword of Vengeance now.
         If only he had been able to pick up Shieldbreaker
from the field of battle! But no, another distraction,
another threat, had intervened to prevent that. And
now no one could tell him where that trump of
weapons was located either.
         Coinspinner was another potential problem. It, too,
was now thought by the Dark King's magical advisers
to be present inside the walls of Tashigang. And he
was sure that the Sword of Chance would bring those
damned impertinent rascals good luck, good fortune of
some kind, even in the face of the Mindsword's
influence. Vilkata kept trying to
imagine what kind of good luck that would be.
Whatever it was, it would not be good for him.
         But despite all of the obstacles and objections, he
could be royally stubborn, and he was going forward.
None of his fears were great enough to prevent that.
In the end he decided to keep his own supernal
weapons under wraps for the time being, and to try
what he might to induce the city to surrender under
threats.
         The afternoon he arrived before the walls, he had
his great pavilion erected within easy sight of them-
though not, of corse, within missile range. At the same
time Vilkata ordered a complete envelopment of the
city, and entrenchment by his troops, as if for a
lengthy siege, all along their encircling lines.
         Even his great host was thinly spread by such a


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maneuver, which necessitated occupying a line
several kilometers long; but Vilkata intended to
concentrate most of his troops in a few places later, if
and when it actually became necessary to assault the
walls. Meanwhile he wanted to give an impression not
only of overwhelming force but of unhurried
determination. And still he was not satisfied that things
were going well; he kept urging both his scouts and his
wizards to provide him with more information.
        At dusk on the second day of the siege, the Dark
King's vaguely growing sense of some impending
doom was suddenly relieved. The last flying
messenger to arrive during daylight hours brought in a
report saying that the troublesome Beastlord Draffut
was finally dead, and the god Mars-who was also
troublesome, because he had managed to remain free
of the Mindsword's control-was dead

with him. And that Vulcan, triumphant over both of
them, was headed toward the city of Tashigang,
waving the Sword Shieldbreaker and crying his own
eternal loyalty to the Dark King.
        When the half-intelligent courier was asked to
predict the time of the god's arrival, it gave answers
interpreted to mean that the progress of the Smith
across the countryside was slow and erratic, because
he was stopping frequently to offer sacrifice to his god
Vilkata, and also because he walked a zig-zag course;
but Vulcan continually cried out that he was coming on
to Tashigang, where his other Swords were gathering,
and where he meant to do honor in person to the King.
        His other Swords? Vilkata pondered to himself. Of
course the Smith had forged them all, and perhaps that
was all that he meant by the use of such an
expression. In any case, there was nothing Vilkata
could do about the Smith, or any other god, until they
came within the Mindsword's range. And the Dark
King did not want to appear to be worried by what
sounded, on the surface, like very good news indeed.
Therefore he gave permission for a celebration of
Vulcan's triumph to begin, and sent out trumpeters and
criers to make certain that the death of Draffut and
the advance of the victorious Vulcan were made
known within the walls of Tashigang as well.
        Vilkata even took part in the revel himself, at least
as far as its middle stages. He retired comparatively
early, thinking that in any case he was giving himself
time to sleep and recover before Vulcan could
possibly arrive. He wearied himself with women, and
came near besotting himself with
wine, and then tumbled into his private bed to
sleep.
        His awakening was hours earlier than he had
expected, and it came not at the gentle call of his
valet, or some officer of his bodyguard. The sound
that tore Vilkata out of dreams of victory was the
ripping of his pavilion's fabric, not far from his
head, by some enemy weapon's edge.

        No matter how mad the odds seemed against suc-
cess, when merely human calculation was applied,


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Coinspinner had insisted that the defenders of the
city organize a sally against Vilkata's camp; a mili-
tary maneuver involving the sending of what could
be at most a few hundred troops, to fight against
the Dark King's many thousands. At least this was
the only interpretation that could finally be placed
on the way that the Sword of Chance, whenever it
was consulted, pointed insistently into the heart of
the enemy camp.
        Mark, Ben, and Barbara, along with the other
members of the Lord Mayor's council, discussed
the possibility of sending one or two agents or spies,
armed with Coinspinner, out into the camp, to try
to achieve whatever the Sword was telling them to
do there. But Mark had experience of the Dark
King's security systems, and without Sightblinder
to help he could imagine no way of accomplishing
that.
        On the other hand, the more carefully the idea of
a surprise sally was considered, the less completely
mad it seemed. It could, of course, be launched by
night, and it certainly ought to take the enemy by
surprise. The Mayor drew out secret maps. It was
noted that one of the secret tunnels leading out of

the city-like most places so elaborately fortified,
Tashigang was equipped with several-emerged
from a concealed opening under the bank of the
Corgo, behind the enemy front line and only about a
hundred meters from where Vilkata's pavilion had
been set up.
         A plan was hastily worked out. Both Ben and
Mark would accompany the attack.ing force, Mark
with Coinspinner in his hands. Ben, after speaking
strongly against surrender of the city, could not
very well avoid the effort now; nor did he want his
old friend to go without him. The handful of
Tasavaltan troops who had escorted Mark to
Tashigang now volunteered, to a man, to go with
him again. He was somewhat surprised and grati-
fied by this; either his leadership or his Sword had
inspired more confidence than he knew.
         The bulk of the raiding force, which was two hun-
dred strong in all, was made up from the survivors
of Sir Andrew's slaughtered army. They proved to
be as eager for revenge as Mark had expected them
to be.
         The deployment of the force into the secret,
stone-walled tunnel took place in the late hours of
the night. The city end of the tunnel was concealed
in the basement of an outbuilding of the Mayor's
palace.
         Waiting in the cramped, dark, and dripping tun-
nel for some final magical preparations to be made,
Mark had some time to talk with his old friend Ben.
He told Ben something of his meeting with the
Emperor.
         When Mark first mentioned the name of Ariane,
Ben shook his head, not wanting to hear more; but
when he heard that the Emperor had claimed the
red-haired girl as his daughter, the huge man turned


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hopeless eyes to Mark. "But what does it mean?
What does that matter now? She's dead."
        "I don't know what it means. I know you loved her.
I wanted you to hear what he told me."
        Ben nodded, slowly. "It's strange . . . that he said
that."
        "What do you mean?"
        "When we were leaving the treasure-dungeon--right
after she was killed-I looked up onto that headland,
the Emperor's land they said it was, right across the
fjord. I thought for a moment I saw-red hair. It
doesn't mean anything, I don't suppose."
        And now, suddenly, there was no more time for
talk.
        The Mayor's most expert sorceress was squeezing
her way through the narrow tunnel, marking with a
sign each man and woman of the raiding party, as she
passed them. When he hand touched his own eyes
briefly, Mark found that now he could see a dim,
ghostly halo behind the head of everyone else in the
attacking force. When fighting started in the darkness,
they ought to be able to identify each other. At least
until the enemy magicians solved the spell, and were
able to turn it to their own advantage. Most likely they
were more skillful than this woman of the Mayor's.
But it was necessary to take what seemed desperate
chances. That was what Coinspinner was for.
        The party moved out. The tunnel extended for more
than a kilometer, and its lower sections were knee-
deep in water. An occasional loud splash or oath, the
shuffle of feet, the chink of weapons, were for some
time the only sounds.

        The outer end of the tunnel, in which an advance
party had been waiting for some time, was quietly
opened. Two by two, moving now as quickly and
silently as possible, the raiders launched themselves
out of the tunnel into shallow water, and up and out
into the open night.
        Mark, with Coinspinner in his hands, was the
second or third fighter to emerge. Now there could be
no mistake about it. The Sword of Chance was
directing him, ordering the whole attack, straight to
Vilkata's pavilion. The huge tent stood plain in the
light of several watchfires near it, its black-gold fabric
wrinkling in a chiaroscuro wrought by the night
breeze.
        The first few of the Dark King's soldiers to blunder
innocently into the way of the advancing column were
cut down in savage silence. For those few endless-
seeming moments, the advantage of surprise held.
Then the alarm went up, in a dozen voices at once.
The thin column of raiders broke into a charge; still,
half or more of their total number had not yet come
out of the tunnel.
        Now resistance began, weapon against weapon,
fierce and growing stronger. But it was still too
disorganized to stop the charge. Mark, near the front
of the attack, used Coinspinner as a physical weapon.
Troops were gathering to oppose the raiders; the
alarm was spreading. But now for a moment the


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pavilion was within reach, the Sword of Chance could
touch its fabric. Fine cloth parted with a shriek before
its edge.
        Men who had been inside burst out with weapons in
their hands to bar the way. Already a counterattack
was taking form, against both sides of the column and
its front. The formation shattered, with
its front forced back by opposing swords and shields;
the fight became a great melee, a free-for-all.
        A different and even deadlier resistance was
gathering too. Above the watchfires, over the huge
tent itself, the air roiled now with more than rising
heat. The demonic guardians of the Dark King and of
his chief magicians were readying themselves to
pounce upon intruders.
        The Lord Mayor's best sorceress, stumbling near
Mark's side in the darkness, :stopped suddenly and
seized Mark by the arm. He could feel the woman's
whole body quivering.
        "Do what you can," she demanded of him. "And
quickly! Else we are all lost. I had hoped they would
not be this strong . . ."
        Mark himself with his experience had been grimly
certain that they would. Still the Sword had brought
him here. And he had another power of his own,
already tested once.
        His faith in it was tested now. Suddenly the
Emperor was only one more man, and far away,
while the ravening airborne presences that lowered
themselves now toward Mark were the most
overwhelmingly real things in all the universe.
        Mark had rehearsed no incantations beforehand. If
he meant to trust the Emperor, he would trust him in
that as well, that no special words were needed. The
words that came to him now were those of Ariane,
uttered in the Blue Temple cave four years ago:
        "In the Emperor's name, forsake this game, and let
us pass!"

          Vilkata, awakened by the sounds of the attack,

had just rolled groggily out of bed. The demon that
served as his eyes, recalled abruptly to duty, had just
begun to send sight-images to the Dark King's brain.
Then in a moment the demon was catapulted into a
blank distance, and those images were blanked away
again.
        For a moment the Dark King did not grasp the full
import of his full and sudden blindness. Certainly some
emergency had arisen, and his first thought was for
the Mindsword. He groped for it, but his hands found
only a tangled fall of cloth; part of his pavilion was
collapsing around him. And the weapon was not
where he thought it ought to be. Could he possibly, in
last night's drunkenness, have failed to keep the
Sword with him, beside his bed as always? He could
remember, at some time in the party, using it in sport,
trying to drive one of his women mad with devotion to
him. But after that...
        Surrounded by the sounds of fighting, groans, oaths,
and the clash of arms, he groped frantically about him


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on the floor, amid soft pillows and spilled wine.
Between the confusion of his awakening and his
sudden blindness he was disoriented. No, he had
brought the Mindsword with him to his bedchamber,
he remembered and was sure. But now he could not
find it. Where was it?
        The clamor of the fighting continued very near him.
The fabric and the supports of the tent must have
been assaulted; the bodies of people running and
fighting had jostled into it, and more great sheets of
loosened cloth were falling, crumpling. They settled
and collapsed right on the groping blind man:
        The Sword had to be right here, he knew that it
was here. But still he could not lay his hands on it.
Frantically, sightlessly, he burrowed into the heaps
of soft, fine fabric that were coming down and pil-
ing up like snow. But his searching fingers were baf-
fled by the cloth, as the eyes of a normally sighted
man would be in fog.
        And Vilkata was aware by now that not only his
vision-demon but all the other demons as well were
gone, a great part of his defense dissolved. It was
unbelievable, but true. Somehow they had all been
hurled away. In-the middle distance he could hear
the voice of Burslem, screaming incantations, try-
ing to call other, non-demonic, forces of magic into
play. What success the magician might be having,
Vilkata could not tell. His ears assured him that the
physical fight still raged nearby, but the enemy
weapons had not yet found his skin. Perhaps, under
this baffling cloth, he was invisible as well as blind.
        And still, in his confusion, he could not find the
Sword. He'd grope his way back to his bed, and
start over again from there. If only he knew which
way to crawl to find his bed.

        Mark was wielding Coinspinner constantly now,
as a physical weapon in his own defense. The
demons had been satisfactorily expelled, at least for
the time being, but minute by minute the Dark
King's other defenses were becoming better orga-
nized. Confusion still dominated, and because of
that fact the bulk of the attacking force still sur-
vived. Mark thought that, to the enemy, his
attacking force must have seemed to number in the
thousands; it would seem inconceivable to the Dark
King that any force much smaller than that would
dare to attack him in this fashion.

        In the outer darkness around the periphery of the
struggle, the Dark King's people must often have
been fighting one another. Closer to the pavilion, in
the light of the watchfires, they prospered better,
and began to assert some of the real advantage of
their numbers. Mark was wounded lightly in his
left arm, when even superb luck ran thin, by a blow
that doubtless would have killed him outright but
for his possession of the Sword of Chance.
        He had lost sight of Ben, and of the sorceress. His
Tasavaltan guard were fighting near him. Coin-
spinner still pointed at the half-collapsed pavilion,


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but Mark no longer saw how he could get there. The
whole invading party was being forced back now,
farther away from it.
        Only Doomgiver, in the hands of one of Sir
Andrew's officers, saved the attacking party from
complete annihilation at this point. It repelled
blows, missiles, and magic spells, making its holder
a center of invulnerable strength, turning each
weapon used against him back upon its user. Alone
it worked considerable destruction in the ranks of
the Dark King's guardians. And, along with the
Sword of Chance that Mark still had in his grasp, it
allowed a tenacious survival for the attackers even
after their hopes of being able to seize the Mind-
sword had dwindled almost to the vanishing point.
        "Back!" Whether Mark was the one who actually
voiced the word or not, it was in his throat. "We
must retreat. We can't let our two Swords be cap-
tured here."
        So what had been a forced withdrawal became a
calculated one. Now Coinspinner, faithful as
always to its users' wishes, also pointed the way
back. Mark fought, and moved, and fought again,
hampered by his wounded arm, swinging the
Sword of Chance as best he could. His Tasavaltan
bodyguard was trying to keep close around him,
and mbre than once they saved his life.
"By all the gods, what's that?"
        It was not all the gods, but only some of them. No
more than three or four, perhaps. They were out
near the horizon, kilometers from the walls of
Tashigang and the field of human combat. Several
large sparks, like burning brands, could be seen out
there in the distance, moving back and forth over
the earth erratically. Those sparks must be whole
burning treetrunks at the least.
        Momentarily a near-hush spread across the bat-
tlefield, as most of the people on it became aware of
that sight in the distance; and in that moment of
half-silence, the singing voices of the distant gods
were audible. What words they sang were hard to
catch, discordant as those far voices were, and
whipped about by wind; but enough could be heard
to be sure that they sang praise to Vilkata.
        And the earth below the moving firebrands, and
the sky above them, were no longer fully dark; the
greater fire of dawn was on its way.
        It was enough, it was more than enough, to turn
the retreat into a mere scramble for survival. Even
if the gods did not come soon to the Dark King's
aid, daylight would; daylight would end the confu-
sion in Vilkata's camp, let his people see how few
they really fought against. Whether the scramble
for escape was ordered or not, it was already under
way.
        Many of the city's defenders were able to get back
into the tunnel before the tunnel was discovered by
Vilkata's people, and a concerted effort made by

them to block its entrance. Ben was just a bit too
late to be able to use the tunnel, and Mark was later


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still.

        By chance, perhaps, the two things on which the
Dark King's hopes depended came back to him
almost simultaneously, even as they had been
taken: the Mindsword, and his demonic powers of
sight. As the first shouts were going up from some of
his people near his tent proclaiming victory over
the raiders, his hand fell at last on the black hilt.
The Sword was still lying where he had left it,
undisturbed and unseen, while fighting raged
around it. And at the same time the demon, able
now to return to duty, brought back Vilkata's sight.
His first view was of the Sword in front of him, the
column of fire that was his usual vision of the blade
now muffled and enfolded within the leather
sheath.
        The Sword once more in his hand, the Dark King
ordered his vision expanded. He got a good look at
the partial ruin and still widespread confusion that
prevailed around him in his camp. His chief human
subordinates were just discovering that he was
missing. They were unsure whether he was still
alive, and many of them, Vilkata was convinced,
were hoping that he was not.
        That would change drastically, as soon as he
showed them the Blade again. He got to his feet.
Now that he could see, it was easy to disentangle
himself from fallen fabric. If he had believed in
thanking gods, he would have thanked them now.

        The Dark King's sense of triumphant survival, of
being indestructible, was short lived. Haggard in
the early daylight, knowing that he must look
weakened and distraught, afraid of trying to seek
sleep again, afraid as well of appearing tired or
uncertain in front of his subordinates, Vilkata used
his private powers of magic to chastise his return-
ing demons. Where they had been, they could not or
would not say.
        It was different when he demanded to know from
them what power had been able to drive them so
completely and easily away. Then they responded
sullenly that it was the name of the Emperor that
had been used against them.
        "The Emperor! Are you joking?" But even as he
said the words, Vilkata realized that they were not.
In his own long study of magic and the world, he
had from time to time encountered hints of genuine
Imperial power; hints and suggestions and too, of a
connection between the present Emperor and the
being called Ardneh, the Dead God of two thousand
years ago, still worshipped by the ignorant masses.
Those hints and suggestions Vilkata had long cho-
sen to ignore.
        The Dark King punished his demons, and con-
strained them as best he could to serve him faith-
fully from now on. Then he went, exhausted as he
was, to confer again with his human wizards, who
after the night just passed were quite exhausted
too.


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        The magicians pulled long faces when their lord
mentioned the Emperor's name to them. But they
had to admit that there might be some truth to the
claim of driving demons away by such a means.
        Vilkata demanded, "Then why cannot we use it
too?"

          "We are none of us the Emperor's children,
Sire."
        "His children? I should hope not. Are you mad?"
The term "Emperor's child" was commonly used
in a proverbial way, to describe the poor, the
orphaned, the unfortunate.
        Before the subject could be pursued any farther,
there arrived a distraction. It was welcomed heart-
ily, at least at first, by the magicians; and it came in
the form of the morning's first flying messenger,
bearing news that the Master of the Beasts thought
too important to be delayed. It told Vilkata that the
Silver Queen's host had now actually been sighted,
marching against his rear. This time, Vilkata was
assured, the report was genuine.
        The observed strength of the army of the Silver
Queen was not enough in itself to give the Dark
King much real concern. But there was the dread
Sword that he knew she carried; and, perhaps
equally disquieting, the thought that her timely
presence here might well mean that his enemies
had worked out some effective plan of co-operation
against him.
        This last suspicion was strengthened when the
Tasavaltan army was also reported to be now on
the march, and also approaching Tashigang.
Rostov would make a formidable opponent. But it
would be a day or two yet, according to report,
before his army would be on the scene.
        And there was Vulcan-Vulcan was now almost
at hand. It struck Vilkata more forcefully now than
ever before, that the gods were often stupid, or at
least behaved as if they were, which in practice of
course came to the same thing.
        Holding the Mindsword drawn and ready in his
hand, the Dark King rode out to confront this deity
who said that he had come to do him honor.
        Riding a little ahead of a little group of trembling
human aides, his vision provided by a demon now
equally tremulous with fear, Vilkata flashed the
Mindsword over his head. At the same time he cried
out in a loud voice, demanding the Smith's obedience.
        Vulcan's first answer was a knowing grin,
shattering in its implications. Then the god laughed at
the human he had once been forced to worship.
        With a wicked gleam in his huge eyes, Vulcan
brandished the smoldering tree-trunk that once had
been a torch, and announced that he meant to have
revenge for that earlier humiliation.
        "Did your scouts and spies, little man, take seriously
what I shouted to them about my coming here to do
you honor? Good! For as soon as I have time, I mean
to do you honor in an unprecedented way. Ah, yes.
        "I am a god, little man. Remember? And


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Shieldbreaker is now in my hand! Can you understand
what that means? I, who forged it, know. It means I
am immune to all other weapons, including your
Mindsword. There is no power on earth that can
oppose me now."
        The Dark King, as usual at his bravest when things
seemed most desperate, glared right back at the god,
and nursed a silent hope that Doomgiver in some
human hand might still bring this proud being down. Or
Farslayer . . . then he saw another' sheath at Vulcan's
belt, another black hilt, and he knew a sinking moment
of despair.
        Vulcan, taking his time, had yet a little more to say.
He was going to have his revenge on Vilkata, but not
just yet. "First of all, little man, there are

more Swords that I must gather. Just to be sure . . .
therefore I claim this city and all its contents for my
own. And all. its people. They will wish that Mars still
lived, when my rule begins among them."
        And the god turned his back on the King, and
marched off to claim his city. However many
companions the Smith had had when he came over
the horizon, he was now down to just one, a four-
armed male god that Vilkata was unable to identify
offhand. Not, he supposed, that it much mattered.
        As long as Vilkata was actually in Vulcan's
presence, he had been able to confront the Smith
bravely enough. But when the confrontation was over,
the man was left physically shaking. Still, in a way he
was almost glad that Vulcan was now openly his
enemy. Always, in the past, it had taken a supreme
challenge of some kind to rouse Vilkata to his greatest
efforts and achievements. When he knew a crisis was
approaching, fear gnawed at him maddeningly, and
sometimes came near to disabling him. But when the
crisis arrived, then he was at his best.
        As was the case now. Rejoining the main body of
his army, he called his staff together and issued orders
firmly. In a new, bold voice, the Dark King
commanded them to abandon the siege that they had
scarcely yet begun. Once more he set his whole vast
host in motion, turning it to meet the Silver Queen and
Soulcutter.
        Vulcan's turn would come, and soon. There were
still certain weapons to which even a god armed with
the Sword of Force would not be immune, the tools of
boldness and intelligence. Meanwhile, for the time
being, Vilkata would abandon the city of Tashigang to
the gods.
CHAPTER 17

        In the hour before dawn, at a time when two
hundred of the loyal defenders of Tashigang were
fighting outside the walls, there was treachery in the
Lord Mayor's palace. Money changed hands, and
weapons flashed, in a corridor on an upper floor,
where one room had been made into a cell for holding
an important prisoner. Chairman and High Priest
Hyrcanus of the Blue Temple was freed, in steps of
bribery and violence.


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        The move to rescue Hyrcanus was planned and
executed by his immediate subordinates in the Blue
Temple, as part of a general insurrection, in
accordance with the High Priest's own previous
orders. The intention was to seize control of the city,
and welcome in the Dark King and his army.
        Attempts by the Blue Temple Guard to seize the
walls and gates from inside were unsuccessful. The
concurrent try to assassinate the Lord Mayor failed
also, nor were the Blue Temple raiders able to
capture the palace-not all of the Watch there were

easily subverted or taken by surprise. And Hyrcanus
was wounded in his escape, so that he had to be half
carried, gasping and ashen-faced, back to the Blue
Temple's local headquarters on a street not far away.
        Once there, propped up on a couch while a sur-
geon worked on him, the Chairman demanded to be
brought up to date on how the situation stood,
inside the city and out. When his aides had
informed him as best they could, one of his first
orders was to dispatch a company of thirty Blue
Temple Guardsmen against the House of Court-
enay.Their orders were to take or destroy the build-
ing, and seize whatever Swords and other useful
items they could discover-along with any availa-
ble gold and other valuables, of course. They were
also to take the important inhabitants of the house
prisoner if possible, or kill them as second choice;
and in general to crush that place as a possible cen-
ter of resistance.      -
        Then Hyrcanus began to lay his plans to attack the
walls and gates once more.

        When the first Blue Temple raid struck the palace,
in the hour before dawn, Baron Amintor was waiting
in a ground floor room for a good chance to see the
Mayor privately. When the Baron saw the Guard in
its capes of blue and gold come swirling in to the
attack, he immediately decided that he could best
serve his Queen's interests and his own by remaining
alive and active in the city, whatever the outcome of
this particular skirmish might prove to be. The fate of
the palace and the Mayor still hung in the balance
when Amintor prudently retired, and set out through
the streets to carry warning to the
House of Courtenay. He of course remembered that
that was where the young man named Denis lived,
who was supposed to be able to set a counterattack
of looters in motion against the Blue Temple.
        When the Baron reached his destination-not without
a minor adventure or two along the way-he found the
House already on the alert, its doors and windows
sealed. It took him some time and effort, arguing and
cajoling, to get himself admitted to speak with
someone in authority.
        Once inside, he found himself face to face with the
tiny woman who had been introduced to him at the
palace as the Lady Sophie. Now, surrounded by her
own determined-looking retainers, she received his
warning with evident suspicion, which he in turn


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accepted philosophically.
        "I can only suggest, Madam, that you wait and see
if I am right. Wait not in idleness, of course; order
your affairs as if the Blue Temple were indeed
leading a revolt. I will await the result with
confidence."
        "You will await the result in a room by yourself.
Jord, Tamir, disarm him and lock him in that closet."
        The Baron's capacity for philosophical acceptance
became somewhat strained; but at the moment he had
no real choice.

        The attack by the Blue Temple against the house
began presently, just as the Baron had predicted, with
fire and sword and axe against the walls and doors
and windows. But the attackers met fierce resistance
from the start. Brickbats and scalding water were
dumped on them from the flat roof, and the first
window that they managed to break open

immediately sprouted weapons, like teeth in a
warbeast's mouth.
        Denis was not there to aid in the defense. Barbara
had taken the Baron's warning seriously, enough to
dispatch the young man with orders to put into
operation whatever looting counterattack he could.
The street connections made in his early life ought to
serve him well in the attempt.
        And even a feint, or the suggestion of an attack,
might serve as well as the real thing. In a city this big,
the Blue Temple vaults must hold vast treasure; and
Denis had already begun to spread among the city's
street people the rumor that the Blue Temple's main
hoard, an agglomeration of wealth well beyond the
capacity of most people to comprehend, had already
been moved into Tashigang for safekeeping. It was
unlikely that even a large mob could succeed in looting
the Temple here, but even the threat ought to make
the misers squirm and roar, and pull in their claws to
defend that which they valued more than their own
lives and limbs.
        As the direct attack on her own house began,
Barbara's first act was to see to it that her daughter,
with Kuan-yin as caretaker and Jord as personal
bodyguard, was put into the safest and strongest room
available.
        Then Barbara ran upstairs to get Townsaver. If this
warning and attack were only part of an elaborate
hoax to discover where it was hidden, the Baron was
safely locked up now, and would never see. A few
days ago the Lord Mayor, perhaps trusting the
security of this house as much or more than that of his
own palace, had asked Master and Lady Courtenay to
keep it here.
        She was still climbing stairs when a great crash
from below told her that a door had somehow
already been broken in. Smoke and the cries and
clash of battle rose from below, as Barbara knelt to
bring the great Sword out of its hiding place under
her bedroom floor.
        Fighting nearby, threatening innocent noncom-


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batants in their home, had wakened the Sword of
Fury already. The weighty steel arose with magical
ease and lightness in her grip, the Sword already
making its preliminary faint millsaw whine. For a
moment as she held it, there crossed Barbara's
mind the thought of Mark's hands, a small boy's
hands then, the first time he had held this Sword,
his grip no stronger then perhaps than hers was
now upon this very hilt . . . she was already hur-
rying back toward the stairs.
        From below there sounded a new crash, a shout of
triumph in the invaders' voices.
        Their joy would be short lived. In Barbara's
hands, Townsaver screamed exultantly, and pulled
her running down the stairs.

. CHAPTER 18

        Ben, caught in Vilkata's camp when the retreat
turned into a desperate scramble for survival,
bulled his way into the fighting at the mouth of the
no-longer-secret tunnel. But it was quickly obvious
that the tunnel was now hopelessly blocked as a
means of escape. Having no other real choice, he
promptly committed himself to the river instead.
Many other bodies, alive and dead, were afloat in
the Corgo already. All of them, swimming or
bobbing, would eventually reach one or another of
the great water-gates that pierced the city's walls
only a few hundred meters downstream.
        Ben splashed and waded and swam his way well
out into the current, trying to avoid the hail of mis-
siles, slung stones and arrows, now being launched
by enemy troops along the bank. The steadily
growing lightness of the eastern sky brightened the
water as well. The enemy certainly had the tunnel
now. Not that it was going to do them any good as
an invasion route; it had been designed for com-
plete and easy blockage at the point where it
approached the walls, and also at the inner end,
almost below the palace.
        The bottom fell off steeply under Ben as he moved
out from the shore. And now he had to slip out of his
partial armor, and drop his heavier weapons,
strong swimmer though he was, if he was going to
keep from drowning.
        He swam downstream, missiles still pattering
like heavy hail upon the water's surface round him.
He went under water for a while, still swimming,
and came up for air and swam again. The high
walls rose up before him swiftly; the river ran fast
here, and swept him down upon them. The gray-
brown of their hardened granite was brightening in
the new daylight. Now Ben could see that this
portion of the walls, along with the upstream
water-gates, was being manned in force by the
Watch in gray-green uniforms. More of the Watch
were down at water level, just inside the gate ahead
of him, admitting one at a time through a turnstile
arrangement the returning survivors of the sally.
There was already enough daylight to let them do


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this with security.
        Ben swam a few more strokes, and then could
pull himself up, first on rock and then on steel bars,
magically protected against rust. Around him a
steady trickle of other survivors were doing the
same thing; a bedraggled crew, he thought, but not
entirely defeated. He did not see Mark anywhere,
but that did not necessarily mean anything.
        Once he had been let in through the turnstile,
Ben's way led upward, into and behind the wall,
along a flight of narrow steps. His last glance at the
scene outside the city showed him that Vulcan and

some other god, a many-armed being Ben did not
recognize, were approaching, now no more than a
few hundred meters away.
        Others soldiers were stopping on the stairs to
watch. Ben, for his part, had had more than enough
of confrontations and fighting for a time; he was
anxious to get home and see what was happening
there.
        Among the Watch officers who were seeing to the
admission of returning fighters, confusion reigned.
It was the situation more often than not in any mili-
tary, Ben had observed. Someone was announcing
that the survivors were to stand by for debriefing
and then reassignment on the walls. But someone
else, not an officer, passed on a rumor that the Blue
Temple was in revolt, and the House of Courtenay
under attack within the city. Ben on hearing this
ducked out and hurried through the streets toward
his home. In the confusion no one appeared to
notice his departure.
        The streets of Tashigang were largely empty,
what stores and shops he passed were all of them
closed and shuttered. Once he observed, a few
streets away, a running group that looked like some
detached fragment of a mob. Ben stayed out of their
way, whatever they were about.
        Tired and generally battered, though essentially
unhurt, he stumbled at last into the familiar street.
There was his house, at least it was still standing,
and his heart leaped up in preliminary joy; this was
followed in a moment by new anxiety, when he saw
how the building was scorched and still smoking
above ground level, and how the windows and
doors to the street were battered. Now he could see
part of what looked like a bucket brigade of his
faithful workers, stretching between the house and the
nearby river.
        Ben ran panting through the broken front door, into -
the main room of the ground floor, and stopped.
Carnage was everywhere. Amid broken furniture and
weapons were piled hewed and mangled bodies, the
great majority of them wrapped in cloaks that had
once been blue and gold.
        Barbara, elated, looking unhurt, came bounding
from somewhere to greet him.
        "Townsaver," she explained, succinctly, indicating
the condition and contents of the room. "They started
a fire, and broke in . . . but then some of them were


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glad to get away."
        Then, in sudden new worry, she was looking behind
her husband, at the empty street. "Where's Mark?"
        "I don't know. We were separated. He may be all
right." And from the way the question had been
asked, Ben understood that she would have preferred
him to be the one still unaccounted for.

        Vulcan, standing waist-deep in the swift Corgo, was
unhurriedly rending open one of the huge water-gates
of steel and iron bars. He might of course have
climbed the city wall, or flown over it somehow, but
this mode of entry struck him as more appropriate. He
had made the city his now, and he was going to enter
his city through a door.
        Shiva, his recently acquired companion, was
squatting nearby on the riverbank and watching. The
rivets and other members of the gate were breaking
one at a time, parting with loud pops as Vulcan bent
his strength upon them, the fragments flying now and
then like crossbow bolts.

        Vulcan was speaking, but, as often, his words were
addressed mainly to himself. "If I were capable of
mistakes, that would have been one . . . letting my
twelve Blades go so meekly, after I had them forged.
Giving them away to Hermes like that, to be dealt out
to the human vermin for the Game . . . a mistake, yes.
But now I'll make no more."
        Now Shiva pitched into the river the smoldering
treetrunk that he had still been carrying. The huge
spar of wood went into the water with a steamy
splash.
        As if in reply, there was a swirling in the water, and
the nebulous figure of Hades appeared just above its
surface. On the high city wall there were a few
human screams. The few human watchers who had
remained in the immediate area were quickly gone,
getting themselves out of sight of that god's face, of
which it was said that no man or woman might look on
it, and live thereafter.
        Hades said, in his formless voice, that he had come
to bring a warning to his old comrade Vulcan. It was
that anyone who used Farslayer could never triumph
thereby in the end.
        Vulcan glared at him. "To a true god, there is no
end. Was that a warning, troglodyte, or a threat? If
you choose to deal in threats, Farslayer is here at my
side again, and as you say, I do not hesitate to use it."
        The almost shapeless words of Hades' answer
came back to him: Death and darkness are no more than
portions of my domain, Fire-worker; such threats do not concern
me.
        And again there was a stirring of the river and the
earth, and Hades was gone.
        Vulcan cast aside the remnants of the gate he had
now torn down, and waded through the stone arch it
had protected, and went on into the city. From the
inside, Tashigang looked about as he had expected; he
had heard that this was the largest city that the human
vermin had ever built. He noted with indifference that


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the four-armed god Shiva was still following him.
        There was a running human figure nearby, caped in
blue and gold, and Vulcan bent down and shot out a
hand and scooped the creature up, inflicting minimal
damage; he wanted some information from it.
        "You, tell me-where is the place you call the House
of Courtenay? I hear that they are hiding some of my
Swords in there."
        He got his directions in a piping voice; the man
pointed with the arm that had not been broken by
Vulcan's grab.
        The Smith let the creature fall, and limped away
briskly through the streets. But now Apollo's head
loomed over a nearby rooftop.
        "Beware, Smith. We must meet and think and try to
talk about all this. I am calling a council-"
        "Beware yourself. We've met and talked enough,
for ages, and got nowhere. And think? Who among us
can do that? Maybe you. Who else wants to? I don't.
I just want what is mine."
        He marched on, moving quickly in his uneven gait.
A street or two later, there was another interruption.
Atop an indented curve of the great city wall, which
was here only about as high as Vulcan's head, a
human in green and gray was brandishing some
unknown Sword, as if daring the gods to

attack him. It must be a Sword in which the man had
confidence.
        Vulcan detoured to confront this man. Shiva,
interested, was staying right with him.
        The tiny teeth of the man on the wall were
chattering. But he got out the words he was trying to
say: "This is Doomgiver! Stay back!"
        "Doomgiver, hey?" That particular Sword had been,
in the back of Vulcan's thoughts, a lingering concern.
Wishing to take no chances, lie aimed a hard swing
with the Sword of Force. Its thudding sound built in a
moment to explosive volume. There was a dazzling
flash, a thunderclap of sound, as the two Blades came
in contact, opposing each other directly.
        Vulcan stood there, blinking at ruin and destruction.
A chunk of stone as big as his fist had been blasted
out of the wall before his eyes. Of the human being
who had been standing on the wall, holding the
opposing Sword, there was almost nothing left.
Although Shieldbreaker appeared the same as ever,
there appeared to be no trace of Doomgiver.
        "Doomgiver, gone? Just like that? No, there must
be some pieces here; I'll find them, and carry them
back to my forge, and make it new!"
        But that proved to be impossible. Though Vulcan
diminished himself to half his previous height, the
better to search for tiny scattered objects, he could
not turn up even the smallest fragment of the
shattered blade. He found only the black hilt, bearing
the simple white circle, a line returning on itself. The
Sword of Justice was no more.
        He told himself that he might still try to recast it,
some day, beginning the job from the beginning
again; but he was not sure now that he remembered


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how he had accomplished it the first time. And
anyway, what need had he of a Sword of Justice
now? Just twenty years ago, things had been simpler;
all the gods knew what they were doing then, and
what they were supposed to do; and no human being
had yet thought of challenging their rule.
         Vulcan was angry, as he went limping on toward
the House of Courtenay.
         Over rooftops he saw the heads of Apollo, Zeus,
and Diana, come to chide and challenge him again.
         Diana demanded: "Why did you strike down
Mars?"
         He snarled at them all: "Because he insulted me,
and bothered me! Who needed Mars, anyway? What
was he good for? And as for the Great Dog, I'm not
even sure he's dead. I wasted no time on him, one
way or the other."
         As soon as Vulcan swelled himself back to his
usual height, and waved Shieldbreaker at them, the
protestors fell back out of his way, as he had known
they would.
         "By my forge, I think that this must be the house."
         The four-story building, standing close by one of the
branches of the river, had already been attacked by
someone else, and was still smoking. On the flat roof
of the house, amid vines and flowers and garden
paths, a human stood. The little creature was strong
and bulky for a mere man, and held another Sword in
hand.
         Shiva pounced forward, meaning to take that
weapon for his own. He ignored Vulcan's rumbled
warning.
         The Sword in the man's hand screamed with its

own power. By the shrill note Vulcan recognized it, at
once and with satisfaction. Townsaver!
        The god of the four arms screamed too, in pain, not
triumph, and pulled back a badly mangled hand. The
injured god ran reeling, devastating small buildings as
he crashed into them. His screams continued without
pause, as his bounding, bouncing flight took him away
to the city walls again, and over the walls and out of
sight.
        "Hah, the fool!" Vulcan grumbled to himself in
satisfaction. "Now I'll take that Sword too. Or else
see it destroyed, like the other."
        He stepped close to the man on the roof, and
slashed quickly with the Sword of Force; right to left
and back again. With the motion of his arm his right
fist struck a corner of the building, close to the part of
the roof where the man was standing. As the two
Swords came in contact, and the Sword of Fury
disappeared in another explosive flash, the building
opened up under the impact of Vulcan's fist, and the
man who had been holding Townsaver dropped down
inside the walls, disappearing in a cloud of dust and a
small landslide of debris.
        "That must have been Townsaver, by its voice . . .
but, by the Spear of Mars, it's gone now too!
Damnation to all human vermin who destroy my
property! But there may be other Swords in this nest.


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He who told me said more than one."
        Vulcan considered the battered structure, its roof
terrace gaping at the corner where his fist had struck,
its lower floors blackened on the outside and still
smoldering where someone had earlier tried an assault
by fire. It would be easy enough to pull the house
down, but it would be awkward to
sift the whole pile of wreckage for his Swords
afterward. No.
        After taking thought for a few more moments, the
Smith shrank himself once more, this time to little
more than human size. Now he ought to be able to
enter most of their rooms and passages. The
shrinkage of course left his strength undiminished, and
had the extra advantage of making it easier for him to
grip Shieldbreaker's merely man-sized hilt.
        He kept the Sword of Force in hand and ready, just
in case the building when entered might contain
surprises.
        There was no need to kick the front door in;
someone had already taken care of that. Inside, he
encountered first a pile of ugly human dead; nothing
that he wanted there. He could tell now that there
were some live ones also present in the building, but
so far they were all trying to hide from him. It didn't
matter what they did. He'd seek out what he wanted.
        This was some kind of human workshop here. It
was well stocked with weapons, but none of divine
manufacture.
        The Smith shouted: "You might as well bring them
out to me! I forged them, all of them, and they are
mine!"
        Next he kicked open a wall, behind which, his
senses told him, there was some kind of a hidden door-
but all he uncovered, all that had been hidden here for
safety, were a plump human girl and the small child
she was trying to shelter.
        "Hah! This is their treasure?" The ways and
thoughts of humankind were sometimes small beneath
all Vulcan's comprehension.
        Now a light weight of some kind fell from some

where to land on Vulcan's neck, and it took him a
moment to realize that it was in fact a living human
body. A man had just jumped deliberately upon him,
from above and behind. A lone man, whose
weaponless arms, looked around Vulcan's mighty
neck, were straining in an evident effort to strangle
him.
        The god laughed at this puny assault; laughed at it,
when he got around to noticing it for what it was. At
first it did not even distract him fully from his search.
The Swords, the Swords . . . there ought to be at least
one more of them around here somewhere . . . .
        He would have them all, or he would destroy them
all, to perfect and insure his ultimate power over the
other gods and goddesses. So, they thought the Game
had been abandoned, did they? Well, it was over now,
or very nearly over. But not abandoned. No. He, the
Smith, the cripple, was winning it, he had almost won .
. . . and, just to be sure of course, he needed the


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Swords to perfect his power over men and women
too. He wanted at some time to be able to put
Shieldbreaker down and rest; but he thought that time
would not come while even one of the other eleven
remained in other hands than his, or unaccounted for.
        He had turned away from the girl and the baby,
ignoring them even as he forgot the rag of living
human flesh that was a large, strong man still hanging
on his neck. He would brush that away the next time
that he thought of it.
        Now Vulcan's progress was blocked by a strong,
closed door, and he grabbed with his free hand at a
projecting corner of the doorframe, intending to tear
the whole framework loose.
        But he met startling resistance. Here was mere
wood and stone, and of no heroic dimensions, refusing
to yield to him.
        Still, such was the Smith's impatience that his first
concern was still getting through the door, and not
wondering why he could not. Instinctively he used
Shieldbreaker on the door, which now gave way quite
satisfactorily.
        Irritated by the delay, and more so by the fact that
the room uncovered this time was empty, Vulcan
became more fully aware of another irritation, the
man who was still hanging on his back. The god,
reaching back with his free hand to peel the
annoyance off, achieved a belated recognition.
        "What's this, human? Grown back your right arm,
have you, since last we met? Well, we can fix that . .
. ."
        But for some reason the puny human body would
not peel free. Applying the best grip that he could one-
handed, without setting Shieldbreaker down, Vulcan
again had the curious sensation of being almost
powerless. The link of those two human arms that
held him would not part.
        It was almost as if the chronic lameness in his leg
was growing worse, spreading to other parts of his
body. The Smith did not care in the least for the
sensation of being without strength. It was becoming
really alarming. Not only a stone wall, a wooden door,
but even flesh was able to resist him now.
        While all the time, in his right hand which felt
stronger than ever, the limitless power of
Shieldbreaker tapped out its readiness to be used.
        ". . . we can fix that like this. . ."
        And Vulcan, reaching behind himself somewhat

awkwardly with the Sword, moved it to cut loose the
clinging human flesh. Awkward, yes. His hands that
had worked with divine skill to forge this weapon and
its peers felt clumsy now when he tried to use it
behind his back.
        "Aaahrr!" All he had accomplished was to wound
himself slightly in the neck.
He aimed his next blind cut more cautiously
there.
        That time, Vulcan assured himself, the Sword had,
it must have, passed right through the body of the
clinging man. The trouble was that the man still clung


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on as tight as ever, giving no indication of being killed.
The muscles of those human arms even tightened a
little more. Their force should have been
inconsequential in terms of what was needed to choke
a god, but Vulcan imagined that his own breathing had
become a shade more difficult, enough to be annoying,
anyway.
        Why was he, a god, worrying about breathing? But
suddenly it seemed to matter.
        The human's mortal breath, gasping with exertion
but still full of life, sawed in Vulcan's ear. "I was
there with you when you forged this weapon, God of
Fire. My blood is in it, and part of my life. I know it-"
        Standing in the middle of a large room, beside a
fireless forge, Vulcan braced himself and strained
with his left hand again. But still he could not break
the other's grip.
        "-know it as well as you do, Firegod. Better, maybe.
I can feel the truth of Shieldbreaker, now that it has
touched me again. You cannot hurt me with it, as long
as I have no weapon of my own."
        By now Vulcan's search for other Swords had
been forgotten. This foolish business of letting a
human being attack him had gone too far, he had to
end it. He had to rid himself of this clinging thing, and
do it swiftly.
        But even as he strove to do so, another human,
approaching unnoticed by the god in his distraction,
leaped upon him. This one was a tiny female with
dark hair. Vulcan moved just as she jumped at him, so
that she almost missed. But still she had him by one
ankle now, and she was trying-who would have
believed such a thing?-to tip him over.
        Vulcan used the Sword on her. Or tried to use it
rather. He saw with his own eyes how the blade of
Shieldbreaker passed through her body, or gave the
illusion of dong so, again and again, without leaving the
.least trace of damage after it.
        With his Sword perversely useless now, against this
fragile flesh that grappled with him, the Smith let out a
great roar, of mental pain and choking rage. He would
have thrown the Sword away now, but it refused to
separate from his hand. His fingers would not release
their grip upon the hilt.
        All right then, he'd use it, in the only way it would
still work. He laid about him with the Sword, knocking
down furniture and walls, sending bricks and timber
and plaster flying. Dragging his two human tormentors
helplessly with him, he chewed a passage through the
ground floor of their house. He'd bring it all down on
their heads, these useless human vermin.
        A new idea came to him, and he tried to increase
his stature, to swell himself once more to true godsize.
Appallingly, he found that he could not. All the powers
that had once been his were shrinking, concentrating,
being driven minute by minute into

the one focus of his perfect Sword, the blade of
Shieldbreaker itself and his right arm and hand that
held it.
         Now, other humans, emboldened by the survival of


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the first two, were coming to join in the attack.
Human hands fastened on Vulcan's left arm, more
human hands on his other leg. Someone's hand
snatched Farslayer from its sheath at his belt; not that
he'd really dreamed of wasting it on any of these puny
...
        More people were coming at him, a grappling
swarm of them. Now they were strong and numerous
enough to drag him against his will. They were forcing
him a step at a time out of the house, going through
some of the very openings he'd just created. He
lashed out wildly with the Sword, and more wood and
dust and tile came crashing down, on Vulcan's head
and all around him, not bothering him much but laying
one or two of his assailants low. Through the
chokehold on his neck he gurgled minor triumph.
        Still more and more of the vermin came pouring out
of their holes, now daring to attack him. Jord cried a
warning to one of these, but too late. The man had
leaped at Vulcan, swinging an axe at the Smith's head.
Shieldbreaker tapped once and brushed the weapon
away, along with the arms of the man who had been
holding it.
        Another man tried to grab Vulcan by the
Swordarm. Still too much power there, too much by
far, perhaps more power than ever. The man was
flung off like mud from a wheel, to break his body on
the wall.
        But still the other people held on. Half a dozen of
them were gripping the god now, each of the ver-
min seeming to gain determination from the
others, each of them sapping some minute portion of
his strength.
        Vulcan roared out threats, though he knew that it
was now too late for threatening. Words and yells did
him no good. He fell, and. rolled upon the floor,
brushing off some of his assailants, crushing others,
damaging them all, savaging those who persisted in
clinging on. Yet persist they did, and still more came,
out of the wreckage of their house. As soon as he rid
himself of one, one or two more jumped on him,
coming at him endlessly out of the rooms and ruins.
        A crossbow bolt came streaking at him, launched
by some concealed and unwise hand. Shieldbreaker
tapped once again, unhurriedly, and shattered the
missile in midair. Fragments of the bolt drew blood
from the people who were wrestling with the god.
        Jord, in a weakening voice, cried warning once
again: "No weapons! No weapons, and we can win!"
        Concentrated now in the one Sword was all of
Vulcan's power, and all his hope. He knew that he
must win with it, or die. Once more, then, behind his
back, carefully and hard-there, that must have cut the
pestiferous human leader clean in two!
        But it had not. Or if it had, the man had been able
to survive such treatment handily. The human's legs
and feet still behaved as if they were connected to his
brain, and he rode the god as if Vulcan were no more
than a riding beast.
        And Vulcan could feel a new pain in his back, and
more of his own blood; once more he'd done himself


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some damage with the Sword.
        Still he fought on, straining to stab, slice up,

destroy, the desperately wrestling human horde. They
clung to him and submitted to being battered when he
rolled on the ground again. When he was back on his
feet, they dragged him about, and would not be
shaken off. He slipped and fell, in a patch of his own
blood.
And now they picked him up.
        Now in their score of hands they bore him, raving,
thrashing, screaming, outside the building, and he
could no longer try to bring it down upon them. The
arc of the Sword of Force flashed at them, passed
through their bodies as through phantoms, leaving
them unharmed.
        The original grip on Vulcan's neck was really
choking now. Every muscle of his body was growing
weaker and weaker-except those in his right arm.
That limb felt more and more powerful, but all that it
could do was wield the Sword, and in combat against
unarmed flesh the Sword was useless. Meanwhile,
Vulcan's blood drained from his self-inflicted wounds.
        He relaxed suddenly, playing dead.
        In a moment, stunned and battered themselves, the
people had all let go of him.
        He leaped up, raging, wise enough now to use his
first free effort to throw the Sword away from him.
But in the presence of his enemies it would not let him
go.
        A moment later, a huge man, who had just come
stumbling out of the half-ruined house, had hurled
himself alone at Vulcan, and brought the god down
with a tackle.
        And then they were all on him again.
        Now another group of people, these in white robes,
recognizable to the struggling Smith as ser-
vants of the Dead God, Ardneh, were running into
the street before the house. These, coming late to
the scene, were clamoring in protest. From their
words Vulcan could tell that they thought they
were witnessing a lynching, a mob attack upon
some poor helpless man..
        The people who were grappling the Smith down
tried to explain. "Completely mad, he thinks he's
Vulcan." And a kind of exhausted laugh went round
among them.
        An aged priestess of Ardneh, looking wise and
kind, came to take the useless Sword out of the
madman's grasp. It came to her easily out of his
cramped grip.
        "To keep you from hurting yourself, poor fellow,
or anyone else... my, what a weapon." The priest-
ess blinked at the Sword. "This must be put away,
in safety somewhere."
        "I'll take it," said Ben.
        The old woman looked into the huge man's eyes,
and sighed. "Yes, you take it. There is no one better
here, I think. Now we must bind this poor fellow for
a while, so he does no more harm. How strong he
is!-ah, such a waste. But these cords will hold him;


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carefully, for we must do it out of love."

CHAPTER 19

        In all of his fifty thousand and more years of life,
the creature named Draffut, the Lord of Beasts, had
never been closer to death than he was now. Yet
life, his almost inextinguishable life, remained in
him. He clung to it, if for no other reason than
because there was an injured human being nearby,
who cried out from time to time in his own pain.
Draffut, still true to his own nature, felt compelled
to find a way to help that man.
        But he was unable to do anything to help the
man, unable even to move enough to help himself.
The very stream that laved his wounds seemed to
be slowly drawing his life away instead of assisting
him to heal.
        It was daylight-whether of the last day of the
fight, or some day after that, he was not sure-when
he became aware that another presence, intelligent
but not human, was approaching him.
        The Beastlord opened his eyes slowly. A goddess,
recognizable to him as Aphrodite, was standing
above him at a little distance, looking down at him
where he still lay in the mud at the water's edge.
        Aphrodite was standing just where Vulcan had
stood, and there was a Sword in her hands too. But
Draffut knew at once that this was different than
Vulcan's approach, and he felt no fear as she drew
near him, and raised the Sword.
        It struck at him, and he cried out with a pang of
new life, as sharp as pain. "Woundhealer," he said,
suddenly strong enough to talk again. "And you are
Aphrodite."
        "And you are the Healer," she said. "Therefore I
think it right that you should have this Sword. Humans
quarrel and fight over this one, even as they do with
all the others. So I took it back from them. And I am
weary of trying to decide what to do with it next-so
much love allows but little time for pleasure."
        With a motion marked by a slight endearing
awkwardness, she dropped the Sword of Mercy on
the surface of the mud beside him.
        Draffut, able to move again, put out his huge hand,
weakly and slowly, and touched the blade. "I thank
you, goddess, for your gift of life."
        "There are many who have life because of me . . .
ah, already I feel better too, to be rid of it. But that
Sword suits you, I think. You are not much like me."
        "Except in one way. We are both of us creations of
humanity. But I only in part. And out of their science,
not their dreams. I will still exist, if-when--humanity
changes its collective mind about me."
        The goddess tossed her perfect hair-and was it
pure gold, or raven black? "You say that about us, but
I don't believe it. If humanity created us, the

gods and goddesses, then who could possibly
have created them? But never mind, I am tired of
all this philosophy and argument. There seems to be


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no end to it of late. I think the world is changing."
        "Again. It always does." And now Draffut was
dragging himself to his feet. The mud that had caked
upon his fur when he was dying was falling off now,
crumbling and twisting even as it fell, moving in the
glow of the renewed life within him.
        Painfully, a stopped, slow giant carrying the Sword
of Mercy, he began to make his way across the
muddy ground toward the injured man.

        Rostov listened long and intently to what his latest
and best source of information had to tell him about
what was going on inside the walls of Tashigang, and
what had happened last night during the outrageous,
heroic sally against the Dark King's camp.
        One of Rostov's patrols had luckily picked up the
young man, who was carrying Coinspinner in his right
hand, in the garden of one of the abandoned suburban
villas along the Corgo.
        "Trust a bad copper to turn up," the General had
growled at first sight of him; then he had allowed his
steel-bearded face to split in a tight grin. "The
Princess will be anxious to see you, Mark. No, I
shouldn't call you that, should I? What's the proper
term of address for an Emperor's son?"
        "For . . . who? The Princess, you say?" the
wounded youth had answered weakly. "Where is
she?"
        "Not far away. Not far:" Rostov still grinned. He
could begin to see now what the Princess had seen all
along in this tough young man. Who, as it now
turned out, not only had good stuff in him, but
Imperial blood. That was evidently, in the rarefied
realm of magic and politics where these things
were decided, something of acceptable importance.
Rostov was glad-it was time that Tasavalta had
some sturdy warrior monarchs on the throne again.

        On a field not many kilometers from Tashigang,
the armies of Yambu and Vilkata confronted each
other, in a dawn dimmed almost to midnight by an
impending thunderstorm. The Silver Queen was
preparing herself to draw Soulcutter. She knew
that she would have to do so before the Dark King
brought the Mindsword into range; if not, her army
would be lost to her, and she herself perhaps mad-
dened into becoming Vilkata's slave.
        She had recently received a strange report: first
the god Vulcan had been seen inside the city, bound
helplessly by the gentle hands of white-robed
priestesses and priests; and then he was gone again.
Some said that an angry unarmed mob had seized
the Smith, and the wooden frame he had been
bound to, and had thrown him in the river, and he
had floated out of the city through the lower gates.
        Queen Yambu thought: and is the world now to
belong to us humans, after all? If we can overthrow
the gods, and kill them-possibly. Not that they
had ever bothered to rule the world when it was
theirs. Perhaps it has been ours all along.
        Without really being startled, she became aware


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that a man    was standing in the doorway of her tent,
and gazing    in at her impertinently. She assumed he
was one of    her officers, and was about to speak
sharply to    him for staring at her thus, when she

realized that he was not one of her own men at all.
The words died on her lips.
         His face was in shadow, and not until she shifted
her own position did she see the mask. "You," she
said.
         He came in uninvited, pulled the mask off and
helped himself to a seat, grinning at her lightly. He
had not changed at all. Outside she could still hear
the sentries walking their rounds, unaware that
anyone had passed them.
         The Emperor said to her: "I still have not had my
answer."
         It took the Queen a moment to understand what
he was talking about. "You once asked me to marry
you. Can that be what you mean?"
         "It can. Didn't you realize that I was going to
insist on an answer, sooner or later?"
         "No, I really didn't. Not after . . . what happened
to our daughter. Have you forgotten about her? Or
is this visit just another of your insane jokes?"
         "I have not forgotten her. She has been living
with me." When Queen Yambu stared at him, he
went on calmly: "Ariane was badly hurt, about four
years ago, as you know. But she's much better now.
She and I have not talked about you much, but I
think that she might want to meet you again some
day."
         The Silver Queen continued to stare at her former
lover. At last she said, "My reports, and I have rea-
son to trust them, said that Ariane was killed, in the
treasure-dungeon of the Blue Temple."
         The Emperor scowled his distaste for that organi-
zation. "Many have died, in that . . . place. But
Ariane did not die there. Even though the young
men with her at the time were also sure that she
was dead. One of those young men is my son, did
you know that? I like to take care of my children,
whenever I can. She is not dead."
         And still Queen Yambu stared at him. She could
not shake off her suspicion that this was all one of
his jokes, perhaps the prelude to a hideous
revenge-she had never been sure, even when they
had been lovers, whether he was a vengeful man or
not.
         At last her royal poise abandoned her for the
moment, and she stammered out: "I-I sold her to
the Red Temple."
         The frown was turned at her now, and briefly she
understood what ancient Imperial power must
have been, that Kings and Queens had quaked
before it.
         "I might have killed you for that, if I had known
about it when it happened. But years have passed,
and you are sorry for that selling now. She has sur-
vived, and so have I. And so have you."
         In anger she regained her strength. "I have sur-


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vived without you, you impossible . . . and you say
you want to marry me, still? How do I know you
mean what you are saying now?"
        "How do you know when to trust anyone, my
dear? You'll have to make a choice."
        She wanted to cry out that she did not know
when to trust anyone; that was her whole problem.
"You madman, suppose I were to answer you and
tell you yes. Could you defeat the Mindsword for me
then?"
        "I'll do all I can to help you, if you will be my
bride. We'll see about the Mindsword when it
comes."
        "It's here now. Oh, you bastard. Impossible as

always. Leave now. Get out of here, or I'm going to
draw Soulcutter." And she put her hand on the
unrelieved blackness of that hilt, that rested as
always within reach. "And I suppose you'll go on
seducing brides, and fathering more bastards, after
we are married?"
        He said, softly and soberly, "I will be more faith-
ful to you than you can well imagine. I love you; I
always have. Why do you think I fought for you,
beside you, when you were a girl?"
        "I don't believe it, I tell you. I don't believe any of
it. Leave now, or I draw Soulcutter."
        "It's your Sword, to do with as you will. But I
will leave when you decide to draw it."
        She started to draw the Sword, and-at the same
moment called out in a clear voice for her guards.
When they came pushing into the tent a moment
later, they found their Queen quite alone, and
Soulcutter safely in its sheath, though her hand on
the hilt was poised as if for action.
        The soldiers found themselves staring half-
hypnotized at that hand, both of them hoping that
they would be out of the tent again before the
Sword was drawn; and already in the air around it,
around themselves, they thought they could feel the
backwash of a wave of emptiness.

         Queen Yambu wasted no more time, but gave the
orders necessary to get her troops into the state of
final readiness for battle. That done, she ordered an
advance.
         With Vilkata's ranks still no more than barely in
sight, she waited in the middle of her own line,
mounted on her famous gray warbeast, ready to
draw the Sword of-of what? As far as she knew, this
one had only one name.
         Now the enemy lines were creeping forward.
There, in their center, that would be Vilkata himself,
waiting for the perfect moment in which to draw the
weapon that he was gambling would be supreme.
         The hand of Queen Yambu was on her own
Sword's hilt. She urged her mount forward, a little.
Not yet.
         Now.
         The Mindsword and Soulcutter were drawn,
virtually simultaneously.


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        Her own first reaction, to the overwhelming psychic
impact of her own Sword, was that she wanted to
throw it away-but then she did not. Because she could
no longer see how throwing it away would make any
difference, would matter in the least.
        Nor did anything else matter.
        Nothing else in the whole universe.
        The Mindsword was a distant, irrelevant twinkle,
far across the field, beneath the gloom of
thunderclouds. While near at hand, around Queen
Yambu herself . . .
        Those of her own troops who were closest to her
had been looking at her when she drew. After that
they were indifferent as to where they looked.
Around her a wave of lethargy, of supreme
indifference, was spreading out, a slow splash in an
inkblack pool.
        In the distance, but drawing rapidly nearer, a charge
was coming. Vilkata's troops, with maddened yells,
the fresh inspiration of the Mindsword driving them.
        Some of the Queen's soldiers, more and more of

them with each passing second, were actually
slumping to the ground now, letting their weapons fall
from indifferent hands. It appeared that they would'be
able to put up no resistance, that the Dark King might
now be going to win easily.
But of course that did not matter either.
        With berserker cries, the first of the Dark King's
newly energized fanatics rushed upon them. The
defense put up by the soldiers in black and silver was
at best half-hearted, and it was weaker the closer they
were stationed to their Queen.
        But the attackers, Vilkata's men and women, were
now entering the region of Soulcutter's dominance. It
was their screams of triumph that faltered first, and
then the energy with which they plied their weapons.
Next their ranks came to a jostling, stumbling halt.
        The Queen of Yambu-not knowing, really, why she
bothered-slowly raised her eyes. The Sword she held
above her head was so dull that it almost hurt the eyes
to look at it.
        The Sword of Despair-she had thought of the other
name for it now. Not that that mattered, either. Not
that or anything else.
        Why was she bothering to hold the Sword so high?
She let her arms slump with its weight. When her
warbeast, puzzled and suffering, wanted to move, she
let it go, sliding from its back. She stood almost
leaning on the Sword now, its point cutting shallowly
into the earth.
        Nor did any of that really mean anything, as far as
she could tell.
        The fighting that had begun, sporadically, was dying
out. Soulcutter was winning, all across the
field. If neither victory nor survival mattered, to
anyone, there would be no battle.
        Yambu was aware, though only dimly and indif-
ferently, that so far the Dark King's weapon had
been able to shield him, and a small group of his fol-
lowers around him, from Soulcutter's dark, subtle


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assault.
        That group began to charge toward her now,
yelling warcries. But its numbers shrank, and
shrank more rapidly the closer it came to Queen
Yambu. One by one the people in it turned aside
from the charge, to sit or kneel or slump to the
ground, giving up the effort in despiar.
        King Vilkata's demons were the last to desert
him. And even before that had happened, he him-
self had given up the attack and was in full flight
from the field.

        Rostov, out having a personal look around,
turned his scouting squadron back when they came
to the edge of the field. Ahead of him the General
could see what looked to him like the worst slaugh-
ter he had ever beheld, in a lifetime spent largely
amid scenes of butchery. There were two armies on
the field, and as nearly as he could tell from this dis-
tance, both of them had been virtually wiped out.
But the General turned back, and ordered his sol-
diers back, not because of what he saw but because
of what he felt, what they had all felt when tres-
passing upon the fringes of that grim arena.
Another few steps in that direction, thought Rostov,
and he would have been ready to throw down his
weapons and his medals and abandon life.
        He was wondering what orders to give next,
when he saw a giant figure appear in the distance.

With swift, powerful, two-legged strides it drew
closer, also approaching the field of despair. It was
Draffut, called a god by some; although General
Rostov had never seen the Lord of Beasts before,
who else could this be?
         There was someone else; a man-shape, riding
familiarly on Draffut's shoulders.
         Draffut did not approach Rostov and his scouting
detachment, but instead halted at another point on
the rim of that terrible battlefield. There the giant
stopped, and set down the man who had been rid-
ing on his shoulders; and from that point the man
alone, a gray-caped figure bearing a bright Sword
in hand, walked on alone into the field of doom and
silence.
         Rostov, puzzled, tried to make out where the
man-was he wearing a mask?-was headed. Then
the General realized that there was still one other
human figure standing on the battlefield--way out
there, at its center.
         It was the Silver Queen, leaning on the blade that
she was too immobilized to cast down. When
Rostov and his soldiers saw the Emperor take it
from her hands, and sheath it, they could feel how a
change for the better, came instantly over the
nearby world.
         The General turned to his troops, shouting:
"They're not all dead out there! Some of the Dark
King's hellions are starting to wake up already!
What're you waiting for, get out there and disarm
them while you can!"


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EPILOGUE

        When the party of the surviving gods in their
retreat had climbed above the snow level of the
Ludus Mountains, the blind man they carried with
them began to curse and rail at them again. He
ranted as if they were still under his command; and
Vulcan, listening, began to be sorry that he had
picked the man up and brought him along.
        The Smith still had other company, present inter-
mittently. Gray-bearded Zeus, proud Apollo, Aph-
rodite, Hades. They and some others came and
went. Hades was, as always, never far from his true
domain, the Earth. Diana had walked with them for
a while, but had dropped out of the group early,
saying only that she heard another kind of call.
        Vilkata, the man they had brought with them,
was shivering and in rags. The golden circlet had
fallen from his head days ago, and his power to
command demons had gone with it. He kept
groaning, whining that he'd lost his Sword. He was

raving now, demanding that food and slaves and
wine be brought to him.
        Why did I bring him with me? Vulcan pondered
once again. The Smith himself had regained some
of his strength since the servants of Ardneh,
perceiving him as no longer violent and dangerous,
had loosed his bonds and let him go. But he was
still far from what he once had been, and some-
times he feared that he was dying.
        Apollo had told them all several times in the
course of the retreat that they were all dying now,
or would be soon, himself included. The world had
changed again, Apollo said.
        The man they carried with them at least gave
them all some connection to humanity. Though
Vulcan still did not want to admit they needed that.
        He said now to the man perched on his shoulder,
as if talking to some half-intelligent pet: "We might
find some food for you somewhere. But there is no
wine-none that you can drink-and certainly no
human slaves."
        "But I have you as my slaves," the man rasped
back. Today his proud voice was weakening rap-
idly. "And you are gods, and goddesses. Therefore
all the Earth is mine."
        From behind, Apollo asked: "You cannot feel it,
little man?"
        "Feel what?" He who had been the Dark King
turned his blind face back and forth. In a more lucid
voice he demanded: "Where are we?" Then, a
moment later, again: "Feel what?"
        Apollo said: "That the humans whose dreams
created us, and gave us power, are now dreaming
differently? That our power, and our lives as well,
have been draining from us, ever since we gave you
Swords to use?"
        Among the gods there were still some who could
persuade themselves to argue with this viewpoint.
"It's all part of the Game-"


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        "The Game is over now."
        "Over? But who won?"
        That one wasn't answered.
        "In the mountains, in the upper air, we'll start to
feel strong again."
        They trudged on, climbed on. The capability of
swift effortless flight had once been theirs. Vulcan
thought that none of them were starting to feel
stronger. In fact the thin air was beginning to hurt
his lungs.
        He would not have it, would not allow it to be so.
Bravely he cried out to Apollo: "You still say that
we are their creations? Bah! Then who created
them?"
        Apollo did not reply.
        Occasional volcanic rumbles now shook the
Earth beneath their feet; here and there subterra-
nean warmth created bare steaming spots of rock
amid the snow.
        Their flight, their climb, was becoming slower
and slower. But it went on. Now where was Aphro-
dite? Vulcan looked around for her. It was not as if
she had departed, in the old, easy way, for some-
where else, he thought; she was simply and truly
gone.
        He had not seen Hades for a long time, either.
        Vilkata sensed something. "Where are you all
going?" the man shouted, or tried to shout. "I com-
mand you not to disappear. Turn round instead,

take me back down to the world of humanity. I'm
going to freeze to death up here!"
        Vulcan had no wish to put up with the man's
noise any longer, or with his weight that seemed to
grow and grow; and the god cast the blind, mewing
man aside, down a cliff into frozen oblivion, and
moved on.
        The Smith summoned up his determination, try-
ing now to regain the purpose with which he had
begun this climb, long days ago. He mused aloud:
"It was near here-near here somewhere-that I
built my forge, to make the Swords. I piled up logs,
earth-wood, and lit them from the volcanic fires
below. If only I could find my forge again-"
        Presently he realized that he was now alone, the
man having gone down a cliff somewhere, the last
of his divine companions having vanished, as if
evaporated upon the wind. The last wrangling
voice of them had been chilled down to silence.
        But not quite the last.
        "Then who created THEM?" the Smith bellowed,
hurling forth the question like a challenge to the
universe, at the top of his aching, newly perishable
lungs.
        He looked ahead.
        There was something, or someone, lying in wait
for him, beyond that last convoluted corner of black
rock. Some new power, or ancient one, come to
claim the world? Or only the wind?
        He was afraid to look.
        The whole world was cold now. The Smith could


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feel the awful cold turning against him, feel it as
easily and painfully as the weakest human might.
        He wanted to look around the corner of the rock,
but he could not. He was afraid. Just in front of him,
volcanic heat and gas belched up, turning snow and
ice into black slush in a moment.
        Vulcan lurched forward, seeking warmth. He fell
on his hands and knees. Dying, in what seemed to
him the first cold morning of the world, he groped
for fire.

THE END




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