Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story by Fred Saberhagen
Authors: Fred Saberhagen
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apologetic as he had earlier imagined it would be.
But he thought that Kristin relaxed slightly. He did not know that she had caught a momentary glimpse of blue and green and armor, not far to her right, just behind the screen of rocks and stunted trees. More bewitched defectors? She was going to gamble that they were not.
A moment later, with an abrupt effort that took Murat and his escort by surprise, she was reining her mount sharply, spurring away from them. From the screen of rocks and bushes twenty meters away erupted a rush of cavalry in blue and green, Captain Marsaci and his force, howling in a charge upon Murat and his men. The Princess had not, after all, been caught completely unprotected.
Chapter Eight
Even as Princess Kristin, crouching low over the animal’s neck, spurred her mount away from Murat, she was shouting orders to her attacking troops. Carlo thought he heard her cry out a command to take the Crown Prince alive. But whatever her order might have been, it came too late to have any immediate effect upon the line of charging mounted men who had now burst out of cover.
Carlo had drawn his own sword and was shouting also, knowing that his words too were useless even as he cried out a superfluous warning to his father. In the next instant he saw his father struck by a slung stone. But the Prince managed to remain in his saddle, and a moment later he had drawn the Sword of Glory again.
A moment after that, the attack by the blue-green guardsmen was aborted. Their charge ended in plunging, rearing confusion, men and animals swallowed in the dust cloud raised by twenty riders simultaneously reining in their mounts.
But the defensive reaction that charge had provoked among Murat’s guardians went on for a few seconds longer; it did not stop until the Crown Prince had shouted orders to his men, and in that brief period more than one of the attackers were struck down.
Carlo rode quickly to his father’s side. Murat, his face pale, was managing to control his riding-beast with one hand.
“Father—where were you hit?”
“Right thigh. I’m all right. A glancing blow, no more.”
Carlo sheathed his own sword and watched the immediate effects of the enemy’s conversion. He thrilled with triumphant pride as once more the Mindsword’s intervention produced its inevitable result; soon the largest harvest yet of new followers, their weapons discarded, were arrayed around Murat in attitudes of prayer and submission, begging forgiveness from their new master for not having seen him clearly a few minutes ago, for having committed the unthinkable crime of daring to attack him.
Murat, despite his repeated insistence that he was not much hurt, needed help in dismounting. Carefully slitting his right trouser leg with the point of his dagger, he disclosed a great bruise swelling on the outside of the thigh. He could stand on the leg, though at the cost of some pain; it seemed that no bone had been broken.
Obviously the Crown Prince was angrier this time than on the two earlier occasions when he’d drawn the Sword.
A murmur spread swiftly among the men gathering around him. The slinger who had inflicted the injury had just used his dagger on himself, his last breath leaving his throat in a scream of remorse.
Carlo felt a sense of loss; he’d been looking forward to seeing the unfortunate cavalryman cut up into little bits.
But Murat paid little attention to his attacker’s fate; even before the attack on him had come to an end in confused, abject, and horrified surrender, he was already looking around for Kristin.
The sight of her mount, running riderless, gave the Crown Prince a sickening moment. But then he beheld his beloved Princess, physically quite safe, kneeling in front of
But he thought that Kristin relaxed slightly. He did not know that she had caught a momentary glimpse of blue and green and armor, not far to her right, just behind the screen of rocks and stunted trees. More bewitched defectors? She was going to gamble that they were not.
A moment later, with an abrupt effort that took Murat and his escort by surprise, she was reining her mount sharply, spurring away from them. From the screen of rocks and bushes twenty meters away erupted a rush of cavalry in blue and green, Captain Marsaci and his force, howling in a charge upon Murat and his men. The Princess had not, after all, been caught completely unprotected.
Chapter Eight
Even as Princess Kristin, crouching low over the animal’s neck, spurred her mount away from Murat, she was shouting orders to her attacking troops. Carlo thought he heard her cry out a command to take the Crown Prince alive. But whatever her order might have been, it came too late to have any immediate effect upon the line of charging mounted men who had now burst out of cover.
Carlo had drawn his own sword and was shouting also, knowing that his words too were useless even as he cried out a superfluous warning to his father. In the next instant he saw his father struck by a slung stone. But the Prince managed to remain in his saddle, and a moment later he had drawn the Sword of Glory again.
A moment after that, the attack by the blue-green guardsmen was aborted. Their charge ended in plunging, rearing confusion, men and animals swallowed in the dust cloud raised by twenty riders simultaneously reining in their mounts.
But the defensive reaction that charge had provoked among Murat’s guardians went on for a few seconds longer; it did not stop until the Crown Prince had shouted orders to his men, and in that brief period more than one of the attackers were struck down.
Carlo rode quickly to his father’s side. Murat, his face pale, was managing to control his riding-beast with one hand.
“Father—where were you hit?”
“Right thigh. I’m all right. A glancing blow, no more.”
Carlo sheathed his own sword and watched the immediate effects of the enemy’s conversion. He thrilled with triumphant pride as once more the Mindsword’s intervention produced its inevitable result; soon the largest harvest yet of new followers, their weapons discarded, were arrayed around Murat in attitudes of prayer and submission, begging forgiveness from their new master for not having seen him clearly a few minutes ago, for having committed the unthinkable crime of daring to attack him.
Murat, despite his repeated insistence that he was not much hurt, needed help in dismounting. Carefully slitting his right trouser leg with the point of his dagger, he disclosed a great bruise swelling on the outside of the thigh. He could stand on the leg, though at the cost of some pain; it seemed that no bone had been broken.
Obviously the Crown Prince was angrier this time than on the two earlier occasions when he’d drawn the Sword.
A murmur spread swiftly among the men gathering around him. The slinger who had inflicted the injury had just used his dagger on himself, his last breath leaving his throat in a scream of remorse.
Carlo felt a sense of loss; he’d been looking forward to seeing the unfortunate cavalryman cut up into little bits.
But Murat paid little attention to his attacker’s fate; even before the attack on him had come to an end in confused, abject, and horrified surrender, he was already looking around for Kristin.
The sight of her mount, running riderless, gave the Crown Prince a sickening moment. But then he beheld his beloved Princess, physically quite safe, kneeling in front of
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