The Sword of Bheleu

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Contents

  Copyright Information

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Appendix A

  Appendix B

  Appendix C

  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 1982, 2002 by Lawrence Watt Evans.

  All rights reserved.

  A publication ofWildside Press

  www.wildsidepress.com

  Dedication

  This one’s dedicated to my wife,

  Julie Frances McKenna Evans

  ...but they all are, really.

  Chapter One

  Galt, the overman trader, shifted uncomfortably, sending a rivulet of cold rain down the back of his neck and under his mail; it soaked into his quilted gambeson and trickled slowly down his furry back, chilly and damp and thoroughly unpleasant. He suppressed a growl. The itching of the armor was quite bad enough without this added discomfort. He wondered how warriors could stand to wear the stuff day after day. Despite the padded undergarment, he was quite sure that he had acquired several scrapes and scratches from the metal links, and nothing he had tried had alleviated the itching. He suspected that he was allergic to the quilting.

  Wearing the mail was bad enough; the added annoyance of drenching rain during his watch had him ready to give up the whole venture. And what was he, the co-commander, doing standing watch in the first place?

  Packing up and going home would undoubtedly be the sensible thing to do, he told himself; Kyrith, however, didn’t see it that way. She had insisted on this ridiculous siege, and that meant he was stuck here. The City Council would never forgive him if he left her here unsupervised, in sole command.

  In truth, though, he knew he didn’t provide much supervision; there was no doubt that, whatever their nominal status, Kyrith was in charge and he was not. She was all fire and drive and fury, despite her handicap, while he had been restrained and reasonable. It was no wonder at all that anyone fool enough to have volunteered for this all-volunteer force would prefer to follow an aggressive idiot, a warrior and the wife of a warrior prince, rather than a quiet, calm trader.

  He blinked rainwater out of his great golden eyes and pulled his cloak more closely about him; with his free hand he removed his broad-brimmed hat, shook off what he could of the accumulated rain, then jammed it back on his head. He glanced behind him at the dark shapes of the camp tents, black humps against the gray-black sky. The rain had put out the last trace of the campfires, and the last lantern had been extinguished hours ago. The old Wasteland Road was invisible in the darkness and the northern hills too distant to see through the falling rain. A gust of wind swept water into his face, and he snorted, blowing the moisture out of his slit nostrils. Those ugly noses the humans had apparently had some use after all; they kept out the rain. There were plenty of advantages to being an overman, though, and on balance he felt his species came out ahead. The very word for his kind implied as much, of course. He looked about, peering through the rain and the darkness.

  Immediately to his right waited the warbeast he had been assigned, its flank less than a yard away; its eyes were closed, either in sleep or to keep out the rain, he was unsure which. Its glossy black fur blended with the night sky and the darkened plain, so that it seemed almost a phantom, its edges indistinct, as if it were only a vague outline of an animal. Its triangular ears were laid back against its skull, smoothing its already sleek shape still further; its pantherlike tail lashed silently from side to side. Galt knew that most cats disliked water—very few overmen kept pets, but he had seen them aboard the trading vessels out of Lagur—and he wondered if the creature was as miserable as its feline forebears would have been if forced to stand in pouring rain for hours on end. He was not familiar with warbeasts, and could not tell from its face or its actions; to him it seemed as calm and impassive as ever, save for the motion of its tail.

  To his left was empty plain; several yards away a dark shape rose up against the night sky where some human farmer had built his home. Somewhere beyond that, lost in the gloom, he knew there was another overman standing watch with a warbeast ready at his side.

  Ahead of him, perhaps a hundred yards away, stood the ruined wall of the town of Skelleth, and the fallen towers that marked its North Gate. A pale flicker of light reminded him that some unfortunate human was also stuck with watch duty, but that man, whoever he was, at least had the comfort of a fire and whatever shelter was provided by the one tower wall that still stood.

  Galt envied the man his fire. Even if he had had enough dry fuel to keep a fire going, he would not have dared to light one; it went against policy and good sense in so underequipped a siege as this one. The enemy forces could use such fires to locate the sentries, making it that much easier to send spies out between them, and to smuggle supplies in.

  The firelight flickered oddly, and Galt’s attention was drawn to it briefly, but he dismissed it as unimportant. The guard had probably walked in front of it, stretching his legs, no doubt.

  The light flickered again, and then seemed to brighten. Galt blinked rain away and peered at it more closely.

  It was brighter; in fact, there were now two lights, and one was moving. The watch fire remained where it was; the increase in brightness had been the addition of this new light, whatever it was. He watched and listened carefully.

  The new, smaller light was slowly approaching. Galt stirred uneasily, sending another trickle down his back, and his right hand closed on his sword hilt. The light was definitely coming closer. Although it was hard to be sure through the hissing rain, he thought he heard boots sloshing through mud. He patted the warbeast’s side, then returned his hand to his sword and loosened the blade in its scabbard. The warbeast’s eyes opened, gleaming a ghostly pale green in the dimness as they caught the faint light; its tail stopped lashing. Galt took a step forward.

  He had forgotten the added weight of his armor and that he had been standing in mud for several long minutes without moving his feet; there was a soft sucking sound as his boot came free, though the motion required little more effort than it would have ordinarily.

  The light suddenly stopped moving, still at least a dozen yards away; there was an instant of silence, save for the pattering of the rain, and then a voice called softly, “Overman?”

  Galt made no reply, but slapped the warbeast’s neck in the signal meaning “separate and surround”; the monster obediently slipped silently away in the darkness. Galt spared a second to wonder how anything that large could move so quietly in the rain and mud.

  “Overman? Please, if you’re there, I come in peace. I want to talk to your leader.” The voice was speaking in little more than a loud whisper, but Galt had no trouble in making out the words. Aware that the warbeast was circling around and
that a shouted command would bring it leaping upon the intruder, Galt decided he could risk replying.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  There was a pause; the light swung, and slogging footsteps approached a few paces. Galt could see that the glow came from a lantern held by a human, but could make out no details.

  “My name is Saram. I used to be a lieutenant in the Baron’s guard. I want to speak with your leader.”

  “Saram?” Galt was startled; he knew the man very slightly, having met him in the course of the trading expedition that had started this whole silly mess. Garth, the leader of that expedition, had spoken with Saram at length. Since Garth’s disappearance was more or less the cause of the siege, conversation with the man might prove worthwhile.

  “Where are you?” the human asked.

  “Never mind where I am. Hold the lantern up so I can see your face.”

  The man obeyed; although he was still too far away for Galt to be certain, his face could well have been Saram’s.

  “What do you want?” Galt asked.

  “I want to talk to the leader of your expedition.”

  “About what?”

  “About Garth.”

  “Speak to me, then. I will decide whether what you say is worth bringing to the attention of our commanders.”

  “But ... who are you? I can’t even be sure you’re an overman. Come where I can see you.”

  Galt considered. The man was merely human, and it was plain that he was alone; unskilled as he was in fighting, Galt was sure he could handle a lone human-particularly with the warbeast lurking somewhere close by.

  “As you wish.” He walked carefully forward until he stood at the outer edge of the lantern’s circle of light. His left hand dropped from holding his cloak closed and fell instead upon the hilt of his dagger; his sword was drawn and ready in his right. “Speak,” he commanded.

  Saram hesitated. “Who are you? You look familiar.”

  “I was unaware that humans could tell one overman from another.”

  “I may be mistaken”

  There was no harm in admitting his identity. “No; we’ve met before. I am Galt.”

  “Oh, of course; the trader.”

  “The master trader, yes.” There was a moment of silence as each considered the other; then Galt demanded, “Speak. What have you to say regarding Garth?”

  “I know where he is.”

  “Do you know when he will return?”

  “No. But what difference does that make? He is not in Skelleth. I will swear to that.”

  Galt smiled humorlessly. “I am afraid it will take more than the word of a single human to convince our leaders of that. If he is not in Skelleth, then where is he? As a matter of fact, Saram, I know as well as you that the Baron of Skelleth banished Garth; I was there, after all. Unfortunately, there are those who prefer to view that entire scene as a fraud, a drama to convince me that Garth was not in Skelleth while the Baron laid subtle plans for his capture.”

  Saram snorted, a sound barely audible above the drumming rain. “That’s absurd.”

  “To you, it may seem so. To overmen and overwomen who know nothing of humankind, it seems perfectly plausible. The treachery of mankind is legendary among my people.”

  “But if I say where Garth has gone?”

  “Merely another lie. However, I admit to a certain curiosity; where has he gone? He told me only that he would be back before the start of the new year.”

  “I had hoped to have some assurance of peace before revealing what I know.”

  “I’m afraid that we’ll just have to forget about it, then. A pity. I would very much like to know.”

  Saram considered for a moment, looking up at Galt’s inhuman face, and then said, “He has gone to Dûsarra on an errand for the Forgotten King.”

  Galt did not reply immediately; this brief answer raised so many further questions that he preferred to tally them up in his head before asking any.

  When he had thought it over, he asked, “Who is the Forgotten King?”

  “An old man who lives in a tavern in Skelleth; more than that is hard to say. He claims that his kingdom is also forgotten and that he has lived here in Skelleth for centuries. There is good reason to believe him a wizard of some sort.”

  “Why would Garth be running errands for him?”

  Saram shrugged, and the lantern bobbed, its light dancing and spattering. “Garth is not, perhaps, the least gullible of beings. Apparently, some oracle told him that the old man could grant him wishes, and he believes it. I think that his current quest is supposed to be rewarded with immortality.”

  “An oracle, you say?”

  “I believe he mentioned one.”

  “The Wise Women of Ordunin, perhaps?”

  “I don’t know; it could be.”

  This began to make sense. Garth was one of the privileged few the Wise Women would speak to, and he had consulted them on several occasions. No one had ever yet known the Wise Women to be wrong, or actually to lie; however, they took a perverse delight in misleading their questioners. Undoubtedly Garth had misinterpreted some deliberately vague answer and betaken himself to this mysterious old man on the basis of that misinterpretation.

  “Why, then, did this so-called King send Garth to Dûsarra?’’

  “I’m not sure. He has some complicated magic he’s planning, but he lacks some of the necessary ingredients, it seems, and I think Garth was supposed to bring back something he needed.”

  “Where and what is Dûsarra?”

  “I believe it is a city far to the west, in Nekutta.”

  “How far?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Galt contemplated this. “Could it be so far that he has not yet had time to return? It was a month or more ago that he vanished.”

  “Certainly it could. The world is a very big place.”

  “We overmen wouldn’t know. These past three centuries we have had little opportunity to see it.”

  Saram ignored the sarcasm. “I haven’t seen much of it, either, but I’ve heard that the land extends for hundreds of leagues to the west and south.”

  “So it is your belief that Garth is off adventuring in this Dûsarra and will return in due time?”

  “Unless he gets himself killed, yes.”

  “Why have you told me this? Why come here, alone, in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain, to tell us that our missing comrade is running some fool’s errand for a crazy old man?”

  Saram was momentarily taken aback. “It’s the truth.”

  “Quite possibly it is, but why have you told me?”

  “To end the siege!”

  “You think this information will end the siege?”

  “Why not? You came to rescue Garth; Garth isn’t here.”

  “It would be more pleasant for all of us if things were that simple. Unfortunately, they are not. Garth is not the reason for our presence so much as the excuse. We are here at the behest of his wife Kyrith—who has come seeking her husband, true. But do you think sixty of Ordunin’s warriors and a dozen of the best and most valuable warbeasts would be out here solely to please a lone overwoman who prefers not to believe that Garth would rather go off adventuring than come home to her? I was there when the Baron sentenced Garth to exile and I do not think the man was dissembling. Further, I know Garth reasonably well, and I am well aware that in his resentment of his exile he would be disinclined to go meekly home to his wives and children. I know that he might well be impulsive enough to undertake this mission you mention, yet here I am, wearing armor in this miserable rain, watching the North Gate of your stinking village in the middle of the night.”

  “No, I will be frank. Garth’s disappearance was only an excuse. This expedition was intended as a show of force. Our intent was to ride into the market
square, confront the Baron, and renegotiate the terms of our existence. For three hundred years overmen have lived a lean and bitter life in a harsh wasteland because your ancestors defeated ours in the Racial Wars and drove us into the barren north. We believed that the defeat was final and irreversible. Our legends taught us that Skelleth stood at the border, a mighty fortress, ready to oppose any attempt on our part to renew our acquaintance with the rest of the world. Your people were reputed to be our implacable and deadly foes. Rather than confront you, we sailed the full width of the Sea of Mori and traded with the smugglers of Lagur for the necessities our land could not provide, paying whatever they asked because we had no choice and knew no better.

  “Then Garth came south on some quest of his own invention and discovered that Skelleth was a pitiful ruin, three-fourths abandoned and on the edge of starvation, worse off than we were ourselves. He returned with me and two others to establish trade and, in accordance with our long tradition of bowing to human demands, we allowed your Baron to set the terms of that trade, including Garth’s banishment and a dishonorable oath.

  “However, this is not just. We saw, we four, just how low Skelleth had sunk. There is no longer any reason for us to cower. It is not fitting for us to do so. Therefore, we shall not. The time has come when the overmen of the Northern Waste are going to assert themselves once again.”

  “Have you then decided to start the Racial Wars anew?” The harsh sarcasm in Saram’s tone was unmistakable.

  Galt chose to ignore it. “No. We have no wish to commit mass suicide, either slowly by starvation or quickly by a disastrous war. We had planned to ride into the market and confront your Baron; we would present our demands, and he would have no choice but to agree as completely as possible. He would, of course, be unable to produce Garth. His failure to do so would allow us to maintain a position of moral superiority in what would otherwise be a case of outright aggression, and from that position we would dictate terms—the revocation of Garth’s exile, the elimination of all tariffs and restrictions on trade, and free passage throughout his domain.”

  “It’s a lovely theory.”