Whatever had knocked down the wall, the blocks of stone were well suited to his purpose. He laid the sword across a large slab, its quillons and hilt extending to one side, the last foot or so of its blade on the other. He placed another stone atop it, so that it was held firmly between the two smooth, solid surfaces. That done, he located another large, heavy block—one that he could lift, though it strained his inhuman strength near to its limit. He was not in the best of condition, after waking up in an alley after a messy battle, but he could still haul about three hundred pounds of stone up to chest level.
He then climbed atop the other two stones, so that his own weight was added to that on the sword, holding it motionless. Taking careful aim, he then dropped the stone he carried onto the sword’s hilt, planning to snap it off the blade at the edge of the bottom stone.
He had gone to this amount of trouble because he was quite sure that this sword could not be broken simply by slamming it against a rock or bending it over his knee. Even a magic sword, though, could hardly survive his arrangement of stone, he thought. The finest sword ever forged could not withstand the shearing force of a three hundred-pound stone block dropped on its hilt while it was held motionless.
The block fell, struck the hilt and shattered. Garth could not see in detail what had happened, because he was too busy trying to keep his balance; the stone on which he stood had cracked, its two halves sliding to either side. He found himself falling, and dove off the stone, landing on his hands and knees. Slightly dazed, he got to his feet and turned to look at the blocks.
The sword lay gleaming, unharmed, on the stone he had used as a base; the block he had used as a cover lay in two jagged fragments on either side. The stone he had dropped had been reduced to scattered pebbles.
That approach obviously wouldn’t work.
He thought he heard mocking laughter. He whirled, trying to locate it, but saw nothing. He turned back and saw that the gem was now glowing brightly.
He resolved not to touch the thing. If he did, he was sure he would be possessed once more by whatever malign force the sword served.
It shone, red and beautiful, before him.
He would not touch it.
It seemed to beckon; the blade gleamed red, as if washed in blood, and the stone beneath was lighted as well. His hands suddenly itched. He knew that the itching would stop if he held the sword, which seemed to be drawing him. He wanted to pick it up, to hold it before him, to wield it in berserk fury.
He fought down the urge and stepped back.
The movement seemed to lessen the pull slightly, and he remembered that the spell of the basilisk and of Tema’s gem was broken if the victim could look away in time. He forced himself to turn his head and look away.
The pull was still there, but not as strong. He heard laughter again. Anger surged through him. Who dared laugh at him? He would skewer whoever it was! He took a step toward the sword, then stopped.
The anger was not his; it was the sword’s influence. The laughter was familiar, and he remembered that he had heard it before. He had heard it when he slew the Baron; he had heard it in Dûsarra, when the sword had used him there. He listened closely, then shuddered.
It was his own voice, his own laughter, the same maniacal sound he had made when possessed by the sword’s power. Now, however, it came from somewhere outside him.
This was beyond him; he knew he was dealing here with forces he could not comprehend. The lure of the sword still drew him, but a stronger, more basic urge was also at work. He was afraid.
With a final brief glance at the glowing gem, he turned and ran.
A hundred yards from the fallen stones, he slowed; fifty yards further along the street, he stopped. His sudden fear had subsided, and the compulsion drawing him to the sword had faded with each step, until it was now no harder to handle than a mild hunger in the presence of poisoned food.
He had to consider all this rationally, he told himself. He had to think it all through logically and follow the logical course of action.
The sword had some unholy power to it. It could steal control of his mind and body and turn him into a berserk monster. It could burn without taking harm, and set fire to anything in sight—or almost anything; he remembered the King’s Inn. That had probably been protected by the Forgotten King’s spells.
The sword could shatter stone and cut its way through solid metal as well. It resisted his attempt to destroy it and tried to draw him to it, as if it wanted him to carry and use it—but when Herrenmer tried to touch it, it had burned him. Was there some mystic link between the sword and himself?
He remembered how he had pulled it from the burning altar of Bheleu. Had that created a connection somehow? But even then, he had been drawn to it as if hypnotized, though he had not yet touched it. None of the worshippers of Bheleu had been affected by any such compulsion, so far as he could recall. Perhaps it had an affinity for overmen; he knew that the idols of Bheleu always took the form of an overman, though the god’s worshippers had all been human.
That connection could explain a great deal. It made clear how the sword had existed before his arrival without having captured anyone until he came to rob the ruined temple. He had no idea when the blade had been forged, but he was sure it was not new.
But then, could he be sure? The blade had no nicks or scratches and bore no sign of ever having been used. The hilt was not worn. On the other hand, the blade showed no smithing marks, and the hilt did not have the rough feel of new work not yet smoothed by use.
The age of the sword was a mystery, he admitted.
Still, it seemed unlikely that it had been newly forged just in time to be placed in the altar the night he arrived to steal it. It had almost certainly been in the cult’s possession for some time previous to his acquisition of it, and there was no evidence that it had ever before usurped anyone’s will or caused widespread destruction.
Perhaps it was indeed attuned to overmen, and could not be used by humans. There were overmen in Dûsarra on occasion, he knew, traders from the Yprian Coast, but none of them would have any reason to visit the Street of the Temples. It was possible that none before himself had ever come within range of the sword’s spell.
Its call did seem to be limited by distance.
Was there, perhaps, another explanation? Was he constructing his theory on insufficient evidence?
He felt that he could be sure that no one before him had wielded the sword to any great effect in Dûsarra, at least not within the past several years. If any such event had occurred, it would almost certainly have been mentioned to him by Frima or by Mernalla, the tavern wench he spoke with—or perhaps by the high priest of Aghad or the caretaker of the temple of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken. None of them had made any significant comment about the temple or cult of Bheleu.
The god of destruction had been mentioned, however. Tiris, the ancient priest of P’hul, had told him that he, Garth, was either Bheleu himself or his representative. Garth had dismissed that as the babblings of a senile old man, but perhaps it had not been entirely that. Tiris might have known something of the magic sword and somehow recognized Garth as the one who would wield it. There was nothing particularly distinctive about Garth, except the fact that he was an overman.
That was evidence, then.
No other theory seemed to fit very well. Therefore, he would act on the assumption that the sword’s magic was somehow geared so that only overmen could use it—or more accurately, it could use only overmen.
If that was in fact correct, then he need not worry about leaving it where it was. Wandering humans might come across it, but they would not be able to handle it. He would order the overmen to stay away from it, or perhaps even post guards around it.
Whatever became of it, he did not want to touch it again. He wanted to retain his own mind and will. The sword was insidious and unpredictable; he ha
d managed to restrain it on the journey back from Dûsarra, when violence would have been nothing but an unfortunate incident, but had completely lost control here in Skelleth, where the resulting battle might have been the opening engagement of a new Racial War. Its magic had seemed to fluctuate randomly in strength, but Garth was beginning to suspect that it was not random at all.
Perhaps he could wall off this part of the village to keep out the curious. Some way to destroy or control the sword might eventually be found, or perhaps he could persuade the Forgotten King to do something with it, since the old wizard was plainly able to handle it.
That could all wait. He was rid of it for the moment and could turn his attention to other matters.
He and his troops had sacked and burned Skelleth with little or no justification. He had personally murdered the Baron, stabbing him dishonorably from behind. The people of Eramma would have to find out eventually; so major an event could not be kept secret. There would be much careful negotiating to be done if full-scale war was to be prevented, and only a near-miracle could restore the possibility of the peaceful trade he had hoped to establish.
Other trade routes were possible, though. There were overmen on the Yprian Coast, and a route might be found to Dûsarra or other cities in Nekutta. So far, the overmen of the Northern Waste had acted only against the people of Eramma; the other human nations would have no grievance. If overland routes could not be found, the sea trade need no longer be limited to Lagur; there were other seaports in Orûn, he was sure, though he knew no names. There might well be other lands of which his people knew nothing, lying beyond Orûn to the east and south, or beyond the Gulf of Ypri to the west. Expeditions would have to be sent out.
There was so very much to do!
The first thing to do was to gather together the survivors of both sides of the battle and set up some sort of organization. That could best be done from the marketplace; it was the one gathering place in town, the place where anyone seeking aid or leadership would go.
Garth knew he should return there immediately. He headed in that general direction, following the glow of the fires that were centered on the square. There was enough light for him to find his way, and within a few moments he found himself on a street he recognized. He followed it in the direction of the market.
He had been certain of the street’s identity; but as he approached the market, he thought for a moment that he had made a wrong turn and become lost. The square and its surrounding buildings were unrecognizable; not a single one of the surrounding structures still stood. The smoldering ruins were more thoroughly destroyed than those on Skelleth’s fringe. Only the fact that he knew there was no other large clear space in the center of town reassured him that it was indeed the familiar square.
The market was thronged with people and animals, sitting, standing, or lying, clumped together at random. There were several overmen in sight, and a few warbeasts, but most of the crowd was made up of ragged humans and their pets and livestock. The majority were bunched tightly together in a mass that occupied most of the square, avoiding the hot and sooty rubble that surrounded it.
The overmen seemed to be distributed around the perimeter, Garth realized, acting as guards. It was obvious, though, that they were too few to have halted any concerted effort by the humans to leave. The warbeasts were posted in various streets, but the buildings had been so completely leveled that anyone with footwear adequate to protect him from heat and sharp edges could easily have walked out over the rubble between the streets. The humans stayed where they were because they had nowhere else to go.
He looked at the mob of sooty, filthy, ragged humans, at the sooty and bloodstained overmen, and at the smoldering ruins. This desolation was his own doing. He was appalled. How could he have done this?
No, he told himself, he hadn’t done this. The Sword of Bheleu, or whatever power controlled it, was responsible. Garth’s only fault had been over-confidence in believing that he could resist the weapon’s magic. He was a reasonable being, with only good intentions; he would not willingly have contributed to such devastation. The sword’s power had warped his thoughts and clouded his mind, subtly feeding the honest anger he had felt toward the Baron of Skelleth and using it to overcome his resistance.
He was rid of the thing now, and it was time to start making amends.
“Ho, there!” he called to the nearest overman. “Who’s in charge?”
The warrior had been facing away from him, watching the milling humans; now he turned, and Garth recognized him as Tand, Galt’s apprentice. His face was black with soot, but that did not quite conceal a line of blood on one sunken cheek. His breastplate was dented near the left shoulder, and a sword was ready in his hand.
When Tand saw who had spoken he lowered the sword. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Galt and Kyrith are over there, talking to some of the humans.”
“Thank you.” Garth’s gaze followed the younger overman’s pointing finger, but he could not make out the two named with any certainty. He started to walk in the direction indicated.
“Garth?” Tand’s voice was uncertain.
He stopped and turned back toward the apprentice. “Yes?”
“What happened? I thought this was to be a peaceful expedition, but you slew that human, the Baron, and then everyone was fighting. How did it start? Why did you kill him?”
Garth did not reply immediately. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “It was as one of the guardsmen said; it was black magic. I was not myself. There was a spell upon me. I am sorry that it happened and I assure you I won’t let it happen again.”
“Can you prevent it? How can you stop magic? If it could control you once, why not again?”
“I know what caused it and I have removed the cause.”
“Are you sure?”
Garth felt a moment of anger that the youth doubted him, and began a harsh reply. He stopped abruptly. The sword used and magnified anger, until his will was swallowed by his rage; could he be sure it was not still affecting him? He had left the sword in an empty street half a mile away, but he did not know how far its influence might extend. He could not give it any chance to gain control and lure him back. He suppressed his annoyance, fighting it down inside him. He did not answer the trader’s apprentice, but turned and marched away.
Galt and Kyrith were in the northwestern corner of the square; Frima and Saram stood facing them. Koros stood, unattended, a few paces to one side. Garth noticed that Saram’s arm was around Frima’s waist, and hers was on his shoulder; the two of them, alone of all in sight, were clean, not smeared with dirt and soot.
Galt looked up as Garth approached and called, “Ah, Garth! We missed you!”
“Greetings, Galt. Greetings to you all.”
“We were just discussing matters with these two humans. We’re told you brought the female here from the city of Dûsarra.”
“I did.” Garth was not interested in talking about Frima.
“She tells us that you rescued her from a sacrificial altar in order to deliver her to the old man who lives in the tavern here.”
Garth did not want to discuss the Forgotten King either. “Galt, you ask questions that do not concern you.”
“I ask on behalf of your wife, since she cannot speak for herself; she wishes to understand her husband’s actions. I, too, am curious.”
“It seems foolish to me to waste time on such trivia when there are far more important concerns to be dealt with. We may have just started the Racial Wars again; surely you realize that.”
Galt’s voice lost its normal lilt and turned flat as he replied, “Of course I realize that. You and your temper may have consigned our entire species to extinction, and we must do everything we can to prevent this war from spreading. I saw no need to discuss that immediately, however, since there appears to be little we ourselves can do at present. Your behavior is somet
hing else entirely. You must guess, Garth, that all those who know you are curious about how you have acted these past few months. I had hoped that we might come to understand your motives and perhaps learn what has brought about our present catastrophe, the better to prevent its recurrence. You are now inextricably involved in affairs of consequence, and your actions are therefore a matter of importance. Thus, we were attempting to understand them.”
“It was not my temper that did this,” Garth replied, gesturing to indicate the smoking ruins and ragged crowd. “It was that enchanted sword I brought back from Dûsarra.”
Kyrith made a sign to Galt, who said, “That was another subject that concerned us. Where did you get that sword? Why did the gem seem to glow? What sort of an enchantment does it bear? And where is it now? You were very vague about it before. And how did you make it burst into flame and spread fire about the way it did?”
“I didn’t make it do anything. The sword has a will of its own, a very ferocious and destructive one, and it got out of control. It acted on its own.”
Galt was silent for a moment before replying, “Are you serious?”
Garth suppressed his annoyance. “Yes, I am serious. The sword is very powerfully enchanted and is either itself an independent entity or is magically linked to a spirit or wizard of some sort.”
“You said before that you found it in a temple someplace?”
“I pulled it from the altar in the temple of Bheleu, the god of destruction, in the city of Dûsarra.”
“The god of destruction? Is that what you were shouting about?”
“That was more of the sword’s doing. The entity that controls it claims to be or represent Bheleu. It might be telling the truth. Enough of this, though; we have to straighten out the mess here and make peace with Eramma before the High King at Kholis sends an army to destroy us.”
“A few moments will make no difference. Garth, you have been acting strangely for these past few months. You have gone off on mysterious expeditions with little or no notice, vanishing completely for weeks with no explanation, leaving your wives and family to worry. You have undertaken single-handedly to establish trade with the humans of Eramma. You have now returned unexpectedly from your latest venture and immediately started a disastrous battle...”
The Sword of Bheleu Page 10
