Read Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story for Free Online Page A

potentate who had somehow learned that he, Murat, now possessed the Mindsword, meant to have it from him, and felt confident of being able to achieve that end. The Crown Prince had been aware all along that his finding might well have shaken the threads of several complicated wizard-webs.
           “Father?” Carlo awaited orders. The young man was pale, but bearing himself well; he had already drawn his own sword and looked ready to fight to the death if his father should command it.
           Murat had as yet unsheathed no weapon. The pledge he had made to himself, in his own mind, never to draw the Sword for his own benefit, was indeed a solemn one. But now circumstances were gravely altered. Now not only was his own life at stake but his son’s as well, and not only their lives but possession of the Princess Kristin’s treasure.
           While Murat hesitated, the band of ruffians were closing in calmly and efficiently to their front and rear, little by little improving their already overwhelming position, edging their riding-beasts momentarily closer and closer still—except for three who remained well out of sword-range, holding bows and arrows ready.
           Until now the highwaymen had gone about their business without wasting breath on words. But now at last the bandit leader, one of the four who waited ahead, called out to his victims, demanding that the pair dismount and hand over all their worldly possessions. As he pronounced this ultimatum, the robber’s voice and attitude were rather cheery. If, he said, the surrounded pair surrendered their material possessions without fuss, he would graciously allow them to keep their lives.
           Murat, his right hand resting lightly on the black hilt, replied in a firm princely voice. “I think that we will hand over nothing.”
           “Oh, no?” The bandit leader sounded neither angered nor surprised by Murat’s defiance, but suddenly tired and rather sad. He was a squat man, with a long graying mustache, who occupied his saddle as if he might have been born there. “Well, then, your fate be on your own heads.” But still the brigand delayed, giving his men no command to attack, squinting at Murat now as if trying to settle some new doubt in his own mind. Presently he added: “Your clothing will be worth more to us if we can get it without holes or bloodstains. I grant you one last chance to reconsider.”
           “Instead,” said the Crown Prince, raising his royal voice once more, “I propose a rather different arrangement. If you and your men will let us pass, and go promptly and peacefully on your way, I will refrain from drawing my Sword.”
           There was no immediate reply from the mustached man. A great many people knew about the gods’ Twelve Swords, and quite a few had seen at least one of them at some time. For a moment the bandit leader did not appear to react at all. Then he said in the same tired voice: “Anyone can craft a sword with such a dull black hilt.”
           Murat did not respond.
           With a gesture the weary-looking robber ordered his archers to nock their arrows.
           And Murat, feeling a profound reluctance mixed with an unexpected fiery anticipation, drew the Mindsword from its plain sheath.
           His own first sensation was one of surprise. The naked Sword now in his grip and control had much less effect on him than it had had when he approached the unclaimed weapon. Now the vast power of the gods’ magic went flowing outward, away from the Sword’s holder in all directions.
           The bandits’ riding-beasts, as well as Carlo’s, exploded in rearing and plunging excitement. This was caused, Murat supposed, by the sudden turmoil gripping their masters’ minds and bodies. One or two men in the enemy ranks were thrown, but no one save Murat, not even the victims themselves, paid much attention to this fact. Each of the men caught in