The Sword of Bheleu (4 page)

The old man nodded very slightly.

“Then is it that you mean to force the gods to acknowledge your resignation, so that you may die? Do you intend to invoke the gods themselves?”

The Forgotten King did not answer.

“That must be it; you will bring The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken into our own world, so that you may end your pact with him. Such a conjuring would indeed be a feat worthy of eternal fame, a thing unequalled in history.”

The yellow-robed figure shifted slightly. “Not ‘unequalled in history,' Garth. I did it once, when I first made my pact.”

“I can see, too, how you could offer me immortality; I could be presented to the god as your replacement. Such an eternal life does not appeal to me.”

The King shrugged.

“This conjuring—how is it to be done?”

“I have not said that I plan any such thing,” the old man answered.

“You keep up your air of mystery, but what else can you intend? You do not deny it, do you?”

Again, the sagging shoulders rose and dropped.

Garth sat back and considered. His chair creaked beneath his weight. The Forgotten King would not confirm it, but his theory made sense; it hung together neatly and fit all the known facts, as well as the old man's previous statements. Why, then, did the King not admit it? There must be possible consequences that he thought would displease Garth and discourage any further aid. Such consequences must be fairly easy to discover, too; if they were in the least esoteric, it would be simple enough to keep Garth from learning of them.

He thought the matter over. Bringing The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken into the mortal realm—what would that entail? The god sometimes demanded human sacrifices; could that be it? It could, indeed. Further, the invocation itself surely would involve the speaking aloud of the unspeakable name, whatever it was—that was supposed to mean certain death. Obviously, it would not kill the Forgotten King, but what of those around him? What of Garth himself? What would the presence of personified Death do to the surrounding area?

He had no way of knowing what would be involved. Probably no one knew except the Forgotten King.

“What will happen to those around you, if you are successful in whatever magic you intend to perform in order that you may die?”

The old man shrugged once again.

“Do you mean that you do not know, or is it merely a matter of indifference to you?”

“I do not know exactly.”

Garth paused, phrasing his next question carefully.

“Have you reason to believe that the magic which will permit you to die will also bring about other deaths?”

After a moment of silence, the King replied, “Yes.”

“How many other deaths?”

“I don't know.”

“One? A few? Many?”

“Many.”

That was it, then; that was why the old man had been so reluctant to say what he was after. Furthermore, it was the reason Garth would not serve him any longer and would not turn over the booty he had brought from Dûsarra.

At least, that was what Garth told himself. Then he reconsidered and asked, “Is it possible that there might be some other way in which you could die, some way that would harm no one else?”

The old man answered, “I do not know of any such possibility; I have sought one for centuries without success. The basilisk was very nearly my last hope for such a death.”

Very nearly his last hope, Garth thought—not absolutely. There was a chance, then. He would not aid in the Forgotten King's scheme to loose The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, but he might be willing to help out in other ways. He might not win eternal glory by helping the old man to die, but it would be something worth doing. He would not assist in bringing the gods down from the heavens, but he would put an end to an immortal and kill the high priest of Death. That was something that would be noteworthy and significant. He did not feel that he owed the King anything, but there was no reason he shouldn't take pity on him.

That being the case, he did not wish to antagonize the ancient wizard-priest. However, he also was hesitant to turn over the Dûsarran loot. He sat, debating with himself what he should do next.

“You said you had brought me things; let me see them.” The dry, deathly voice cut through his meditating.

“Forgive me, O King, but I am reluctant to give you what I brought, lest you perform your magic and cause these many deaths we spoke of.”

“I asked only to see them.”

He could hardly refuse such a request, under the circumstances. Perhaps the old wizard could tell him what some of the items were, what magic they possessed.

“First,” he said, “there is the sword. I pulled it from a burning altar in a ruined temple, apparently dedicated to Bheleu, god of destruction. It appears to have great power—or at least, some power.” He remembered the seeming ease with which the King had turned the blood-red gem black and decided to forego guesses as to relative magical might.

“It is the Sword of Bheleu, true token of the god,” the Forgotten King said.

Garth was startled; the old man rarely volunteered information. He looked at the shadowed eyes and thought he might have seen a glint. Was the ancient actually showing signs of excitement?

Interested now himself, the overman reached down and lifted the sack onto the table, then thrust a hand into it.

The first item he brought out was wrapped in cloth. “This is the gem from the altar of Tema, the goddess of the night,” he explained. “I keep it concealed because it has hypnotic properties that can snare the unwary.” He placed the head-sized bundle on the table beside the sword.

At the other table, Frima sucked in her breath.

“What is it?” Saram whispered.

“He robbed Tema! That's sacrilege!”

“It is?”

“Of course it is!”

Saram would have said something further, but Garth was bringing a second stone out of the bag. This one was unwrapped and gleaming black, apparently a faceted and polished chunk of obsidian.

“This,” the overman said, “came from the altar of the god of darkness and of the blind; I don't recall his names offhand.” He plunged his hand in again and pulled out a small pouch.

“The altar of P'hul was empty, save for dust; I brought you some of the dust.” He tossed the pouch beside the two stones, and dragged out a larger and obviously much heavier pouch. He opened it and poured coins out on the table top. They were all gold, but encrusted with something dark brown and powdery.

“This is what I found on the altar of Aghad; the stains are dried blood.” A bitter note crept into his voice as he added, “At least two people died while I visited that temple, for no reason but to amuse the Aghadites.”

Firma interjected, “You slew their high priest, though.”

He turned, reminded of her presence. “I would prefer that I had slain the entire cult, as I did Bheleu's. Come here, girl.” He beckoned.

Hesitantly, Frima got to her feet and stepped up beside the Forgotten King's table. Garth placed a hand on her shoulder. “This,” he said, “is what I found on the altar of Sai, goddess of pain. However, lest she not be what you had in mind, I also took what I was told the pain-worshippers customarily kept on their altar.” He dumped the almost-empty sack out, revealing a coiled whip and a narrow-bladed dagger.

“Was there nothing else?” the King asked.

“I am afraid I didn't think to bring the ropes they used to bind their sacrifice.”

“That is not what I meant. This is junk for the most part, Garth. The stones are the true pieces, but their power was largely spent long ago. The sword—that is worthwhile. The rest is nothing, mere trash. This whip is a false imitation; the true token of Sai is shod with silver. The token of Aghad is a golden dagger. P'hul's tool is a ring, now in the possession of a council of wizards.”

“This is what I found on the altars,” Garth replied. He was amazed at the King's loquaciousness.

“What of the seventh altar?”

Garth hesitated. “I took nothing from the altar of Death,” he replied.

“Why?”

“I did not trust you; I feared what you might do should it prove as powerful a force for death as the sword is a force for destruction.”

“The book was there, though?”

Startled, Garth stared at the King. “What book?” he asked.

“There was no book?”

“No.”

“Then what was on the altar?”

He could see no harm in telling the truth. “There was a horned skull, from no species I have ever heard of.”

There was a moment of silence. Then the King said, “Did you move it?”

“No, I left it there. It was attached to the altar, and I thought better of separating it.”

“Of course it was attached, you idiot! It's part of the altar! Was there nothing else?”

It was the first time Garth had ever heard the old man raise his voice; it was not a pleasant experience. Though still not loud, the sound seemed to bite through him.

“No, nothing else. The top of the altar was empty. Oh, there was slime all over it, from the monster...”

“I care nothing about slime! I need that book!”

“There was no book there, I am quite certain.”

“Begone with you, then! Keep your trinkets and leave me in peace; I must consider this.” With that, the old man rose, wrapped his cloak more tightly about him, and moved around the table and up the stairs.

Garth watched him go in open-mouthed astonishment; then a glimmer of light caught his eye, and he turned to see that the stone in the pommel of the Sword of Bheleu was red once more and flickering with a fitful, uneven glow. He felt a moment of horror as the familiar suffocating blur of anger and confusion closed on him; the horror faded with the death of the mental clarity sufficient to recall what he had lost.

Chapter Four

Saram was the first to speak after the Forgotten King's abrupt departure. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Garth replied. His thoughts seemed muddy and vague and laced with a lingering annoyance.

“What happens now?” Frima asked.

The overman had been staring at the steps the old man had just ascended; at the sound of the girl's voice he turned to face her.

“It would seem,” he said, “that you're free now. As I told you, I have no use for you; I brought you here only because the old man told me to bring whatever I found on the altars, and you were on Sai's altar. I thought that my taking him literally might convince him to be less cryptic in the future. It appears it hasn't quite worked—but that's not your concern. I delivered you to him, and he rejected you, so I have no further need for you. You're free to do as you please.”

“Will you take me back to Dûsarra, then?”

“I hadn't planned to.”

“Oh, but you have to! I can't go back myself; it's not safe, and I don't know the way!”

“Do you really want to go back? When we left, there was a plague loose in the city.”

“Oh.” She was immediately less enthusiastic. “That's right, the White Death was in the marketplace, and the city was on fire. Maybe I don't want to go back. What should I do, then?”

“That's up to you.” Garth rose. “I have affairs of my own to attend to, and I want to get out of here before the Baron sends his soldiers after me—if he hasn't done so already.”

“You can't leave me all alone in a strange town!”

Garth hesitated. “I can't very well take you to a military camp, either. How would I explain a human's presence? Besides, I can't keep looking after you forever. At least here in Skelleth you're among your own species.”

Saram interjected, “I could look after her for a while, I suppose.”

The overman was startled. “It is not necessary; she's not your concern.”

“I don't mind.”

Garth looked from Saram to Frima and back. Was he missing something here? Had the former guardsman taken some sort of interest in the girl? He had noticed them speaking to each other, though he had not heard what had been said.

What sort of an interest could it be, though? He knew that he didn't understand humans very well, but what sort of attachment could have been formed so quickly? No, more likely the man was just curious about the Dûsarran, or wanted to do Garth a favor, doubtless expecting the debt to be repaid later. There was nothing wrong with that; Garth already felt he owed Saram something, as the man had been of assistance in the past.

“Very well, then. Perhaps you can find her some more suitable clothing; she's been complaining about what I gave her, and I would like to have my tunic back.”

“Don't worry; I'll take good care of her.” There was something odd about the man's smile, Garth thought, but he dismissed it.

The sword and other items were still strewn across the table; though he was eager to be on his way to straighten out the mess Kyrith and Galt seemed to have gotten themselves into, Garth paused to gather them up. It would not do to leave magical objects lying around where any casual tavern patron might pick them up. He knew from personal experience that the white stone and the sword were dangerous, and the black stone might be as well. The rest the King had dismissed as junk, but gold was gold, and not to be thrown away, while the whip and dagger were decent enough weapons. The pouch of dust he almost left, but an instinct for tidyness overcame him, and he threw it into the sack with the rest.

The sword, of course, didn't fit in the sack; he kept it clutched in his right hand while his left hefted the bag up onto his shoulder. The gem flickered dimly.

A final glance assured him that he had left nothing behind except Frima. The Baron's guards could appear at any moment, he knew. He turned and strode out the door.

Saram and Frima watched him go. When he was out of sight, the former guardsman turned and looked his new companion over carefully, then said, “Sit down, girl, and tell me about yourself.”

Frima saw the obvious appreciation in Saram's eyes and noticed that the man's hair and beard were as dark as any Dûsarran's, and they neatly framed a strong, attractive face. With a shy smile she sat and said, “My name is Frima. What would you like to know?”

Outside the King's Inn, Garth slid the Sword of Bheleu back into his warbeast's harness, then climbed onto the creature's back. Koros stood placidly, apparently paying no attention, until the command came to go; then, instantly, it surged forward in its customary smooth, steady glide.

If guardsmen were coming, they had not yet arrived; there was no opposition as overman and warbeast made their way northward through the twisting streets. The ground had finally dried somewhat, though it was still soft underfoot, and the warbeast's great padded paws were able to move with catlike silence, no longer hampered by clinging mud.

As he rode, Garth found himself wondering at the Forgotten King's behavior. What had the old man expected him to bring back? He had spoken of a book; what book did he mean? There had been no book in the temple of Death. The temple had been a cave in the side of the volcano that towered above the black walls of Dûsarra, a cave that had been enlarged artificially, with elaborately carved walls. The altar had looked as if it were carved from a stalagmite; it was tall and narrow, he recalled, with a sloping top, rather like a lectern or reading stand, with the eerie horned skull where a candle or lamp would go on a reading stand. Other than the skull, it had been completely empty. There had been no book. There had been nowhere in the cave that a book could have been hidden where it would not have risked being consumed by the monstrous thing that lived in the depths below and behind the temple.

The altar was, he had to agree, the right shape to hold a book. Could the doddering old priest who tended the temple have taken the book and hidden it somewhere outside?

Why would the caretaker do such a thing? To protect it from the thing within, perhaps? That might be it. He would suggest such a possibility to the Forgotten King should he ever care to return to the old man's service.

What made this book so precious?

That, actually, was fairly easy to guess from what the King had said. The book must be necessary for the magic he intended to perform. Perhaps it was a book of spells, containing the needed instructions and incantations, or perhaps the book itself had some magic to it.

Whatever the exact situation, it didn't really matter. What mattered was that he had performed the errand he said he would perform for the King, keeping his word, and that the King was not able to perform his death-causing magic. That put his dealings with the old man at an end. Now he was free to do as he pleased with the loot from Dûsarra, to deal with the upstart Baron of Skelleth as he saw fit, and to straighten out the actions of Galt and Kyrith. When the Baron and his wife's war party had been taken care of, his time would be his own once again, and he could relax and figure out what to do with the magical sword and gem at his leisure.

He was approaching the North Gate now; as he had expected, there was a guard posted in the ruined watchtower beside the road. He expected no difficulty there; the man was supposed to keep enemies out, not to prevent them from leaving.

Beyond the gate lay open plain, and perhaps two hundred yards along the Wasteland Road stood the encampment he was headed for. He could see warbeasts standing calmly in a group at one side and overmen milling about amid the tents. They appeared to be moving in an aimless muddle; he hoped they weren't as disorganized as they looked. How could the City Council have been so stupid as to send them out without a competent warrior in command?

The human guard had noticed him now, alerted by the jingling of armor and harness; Koros' soft footfalls were inaudible. The man rose to his feet, short sword drawn; even Garth, inhuman as he was, could read the confusion and nervousness on the young human's face.

“Halt!” the guardsman cried.

It was too soon for trouble; Garth spoke a word to his mount, and Koros halted a few feet from the soldier.

The man was obviously unsure what to do next, so Garth took the initiative. “I think you are making a mistake in stopping me, man,” he said. “I am leaving peacefully. You are here to warn of approaching enemies; I am not approaching, but departing.”

The soldier was still plainly uncertain.

When no response seemed forthcoming, Garth continued, “Besides, you cannot very well stop me. You are a lone man on foot, while I am an overman with a warbeast and with many more of my kind within earshot.” He motioned toward the camp. “I suggest you tell me I can go, before I become impatient.”

The logic of this was irrefutable. The guard sheathed his sword and waved Garth on. “You ... you can go.”

“Thank you,” Garth replied politely. He tapped a signal to Koros, and the warbeast moved onward. He didn't bother to look back.

Behind him, the guard considered for a long moment. He faced a difficult decision; should he leave his post to inform his superiors of this occurrence, or should he wait until his relief arrived?

His relief was due at sunrise the following morning, and it was now scarcely past midday. Anything could happen in so long a time. If he stayed where he was, the overman might have time to work some dreadful plan. He would be of little use where he was; his only purpose, really, was to run ahead of any attack that might come and give a warning, since a single man couldn't be expected to delay even a lone overman for more than a few minutes. For that purpose the two scouts Captain Herrenmer had posted in hiding on either side of the gate should be plenty; the gate had remained openly guarded only so that the overmen would not be certain that the men of Skelleth had taken any action at all.

Of course, if he left his post, the overmen would see that and know that action
had
been taken.

A third solution occurred to him, finally, one that was wholly satisfactory. He left his post for a few moments, as if answering a call of nature somewhere in the rubble of the crumbling walls, and found one of the hidden scouts. After informing the other man of what had happened, he returned to the gate and resumed his watch.

Meanwhile, the scout was on his way back into the center of town, staying always out of sight amid the ruins.