“I want to know why you want these things. I want to know why you have refused to tell me what you plan to do. I want you to explain who and what you are and what you are doing in this run-down tavern in a stinking, half-deserted border town.”
“Why?”
Garth made an inarticulate noise of surprise and frustration. “Why?” he said, “You ask why? I have reasons, old man. If you want these things you sent me after, you will have to answer me.”
The yellow-draped shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped.
“Don’t shrug it off! I want to know what you think you’re doing.” Garth lifted the sword, and Frima saw that the red stone was glowing brightly, a fiery blood-hued light.
The old man lifted his hand from the table and made a gesture with one long, bony finger; abruptly; the glow was gone. The red stone had turned black and now resembled obsidian more than ruby.
Garth and Frima both stared at it in silent amazement. The overman had half-risen; now he sank slowly back into his chair. There was a moment of silence.
It seemed to Garth that a fog had lifted from his mind. He felt curiously empty, as if a moment before his skull had been packed with cotton that had just now vanished, leaving it darkly hollow. His vision seemed preternaturally clear and pure, as if it had somehow been washed clean of an obscuring haze of blood and red light. The anger he had felt was gone, wiped away in an instant, taking with it the irritability and confusion that had seemed to color his every thought for the last two weeks.
Perhaps oddest of all was that, though he was still among the same people as he had been among before, he felt alone for the first time since he had seen the sword glowing red-hot in the ruined temple.
He knew with crystalline clarity and utter certainty that he was himself again—and only himself—where he had been something else minutes earlier. He felt clean, and it was a very good feeling indeed.
He wondered how long it could last. The sword was supposed to be a link to the god Bheleu; whatever the Forgotten King might be, could he defy a god? Was it truly the god of destruction who had influenced Garth? If so, how long would it be before he reasserted his authority? Garth looked apprehensively at the sword’s pommel.
The stone remained dead black. At last, somewhat reassured, Garth said, “I want to know how you are able to do such things. I apologize for the anger; as you obviously are aware, the sword has—had—a hold on me, and has caused me to behave irrationally at times. However, it is not the sword, but my own will that forces me to insist upon an explanation before I give you these things I stole. What are you? What is it you hope to achieve?”
“You are troubled,” the old man said, “because you have been told that I am the high priest of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken and you do not want to aid one who serves Death.”
“You do not deny it, then?”
The Forgotten King did not answer.
“You understand, then, why I am reluctant. I know that at least one of these objects has magical power—I would have said very great power, had I not seen you deal with it just now. I suspect that some of the others are also magical, though subtler. I know that you sent me on this errand in the hope of acquiring items necessary for some great feat you hope to perform, but you have consistently refused to tell me anything of the nature of this feat. Is it any surprise that, when I learned your identity, I feared that this purpose must be dire indeed? The tasks you have set me are hardly comforting; you asked me to bring you the basilisk from Mormoreth, the deadliest creature I have ever encountered in fact or legend, and to rob for you the altars of the dark gods. Everything would seem to indicate that you plan some truly ghastly act of mass death in the service of your god.”
The old man sat silently for a moment, apparently considering this; as he did, Frima was distracted momentarily. Saram had crossed the room and now stood beside her.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked softly, indicating one of the other chairs at her table.
“No,” she replied without thinking; then she added, “Garth might object, though”
“Oh, I don’t think he will,” Saram whispered. “Those two are too involved with each other to pay any attention to us.” He seated himself across from the girl, and together they watched and listened as the Forgotten King answered.
“I care nothing for any god’s service. I seek only to die.”
After a brief pause, Garth answered, “I had suspected as much. I could see no use for a basilisk except to kill. When you swore you meant to harm no other, I guessed that you wanted it to slay yourself. Later, though, I doubted my conclusions, for you said that what you sought would have some great significance to the rest of the world, and the death of one old man did not seem to fit. I thought that you might perhaps be lying, that in fact you did want only to die, and that all your other claims were merely to entice me to aid you—but the Wise Women of Ordunin told me that if I served you, my name could live until the end of time, which did not fit such a hypothesis.
“Now, you say that you seek simply your own death; how can this have such mighty repercussions? How can my aiding you ensure my eternal fame? I do not understand. Further, you say that you care nothing for the gods, yet there was no mistaking the Dûsarran priest’s description; you are the one he described as the high priest of the Final God.”
“I was,” the Forgotten King answered.
“Were? Have you forsaken the service of the death-god?”
The old man did not answer.
Garth sat silently for a moment, then said slowly, “I think I begin to see. The Dûsarran said that it was in the nature of your service to the god of death that you, yourself, cannot die. You wish to die, though; you have lived more than four ages, he said, and now you grow weary. Yet you cannot die so long as you serve The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken. You have therefore forsaken your service—or sought to. You did not die when you met the gaze of the basilisk; your immortality is still strong. Death has not accepted you, the god has not accepted your renunciation of him.”
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.”
The Sword of Bheleu Page 4
