The Sword of Bheleu

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And if he didn’t, if the whole thing turned bad, that was all right, too; she would use the failure to ruin Haggat and enhance her own position in the cult. She could advance with equal ease, she knew, either by allowing herself to be pulled along in Haggat’s wake or by stabbing him in the back.

  And if the time came, she would enjoy stabbing the lecherous high priest in the back—either figuratively or literally.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was mid-afternoon of the fourth day after the battle when Galt finally found himself with time to spare for Garth’s obsession with the magic sword. As he had expected, he found the older overman in the King’s Inn, sulking in a corner with a mug of ale.

  “Greetings, Garth,” he said, standing beside the table.

  “Greetings, Galt. I don’t suppose you have time to sit down.”

  “No, but I do have time to tend to the sword, if you like.”

  “Good!” Garth rose, a trifle unsteadily; Galt realized, with considerable misgiving, that the overman had been doing nothing but drinking since early morning. He knew that Garth would be offended if he suggested putting off the matter of the sword, and he was not sure how long he would be free of other concerns, so he said nothing, but followed as Garth led the way out of the tavern.

  The fresh air seemed to help, Galt saw; Garth’s step steadied quickly.

  “Have I mentioned,” Garth asked, “that I’ve been having strange dreams lately?”

  The question caught Galt by surprise. It was not customary to speak openly of dreams; it was widely believed among overmen that, if properly interpreted, they revealed the inner truths of the dreamer’s personality, so that learning the nature of another’s dreams was a serious breach of privacy.

  Besides, overmen only rarely remembered their dreams, unlike humans, who seemed to think that dreams showed the future and who therefore cultivated the art of remembering and interpreting them. They seemed undeterred by the usual failure of reality to fulfill the prophecies that resulted.

  Startled, Galt said nothing.

  “I have,” Garth continued. “I have dreamed of blood and death every night since I abandoned the sword and I often awaken to find that I have arisen and moved toward it in my sleep. I think it’s trying to draw me back.”

  Galt glanced at his companion, but said nothing. Such talk worried him. Surely Garth knew that dreams were wholly internal, he told himself. Was the prince really going mad?

  “Had you not found time today, I had thought I might leave Skelleth for a time, and go further from the sword, to see if the dreams were lessened by distance. At the very least, I would then be assured that I could not reach it before waking.”

  “Garth, are you certain that the power that has influenced you is entirely in the sword? Perhaps some spell has affected you, some enchantment encountered in, your travels, and this obsession with the sword is a mere after-effect.”

  Garth considered this, then replied, “It could be, I suppose; I have had spells put upon me in the past, and they can be very subtle. I honestly doubt it, though; I think you’re overcomplicating a simple situation. Wait and see what you think when you’ve handled the sword yourself.”

  “Speaking of the sword, would it not be useful for your demonstration to have other subjects besides ourselves? In particular, you claim that the sword behaves differently when handled by humans than when handled by overmen. Should we not take a human or two along to test this theory?”

  “You have a good point. You run things here, Galt; where can we find a subject for such an experiment?”

  The two had now reached the market. The square was still cluttered with tents, but the surrounding ruins had been cleared away, and low barriers erected to keep passersby from falling into the open cellars. Work crews were busy sorting out stones and fallen beams, dividing those that might be re-used from those that were nothing more than ballast or firewood.

  “Humans are Saram’s responsibility,” Galt replied.

  “Then let us ask Saram.” Garth pointed.

  Saram and Frima were leaning over the barrier that had replaced the threshold of the Baron’s mansion, speaking quietly between themselves; Galt had not noticed them until Garth drew his attention to them.

  Galt shrugged. “As you please,” he replied.

  The two overmen turned from their course and approached the two humans. Saram heard them coming and looked up as they drew near.

  “Greetings, my lords,” he said.

  They returned his salutation.

  “What can I do for you?” Saram asked.

  “We are going to deal with Garth’s magic sword,” Galt replied, “and it would be useful to have a human along to test Garth’s theory that only overmen can use his weapon. Who can you spare for such a task?”

  Saram glanced around the square, then shrugged. “I’ll come.”

  “No, you have to stay here and supervise,” Galt protested.

  “Do you see me supervising anything?” He waved to indicate the cellars he had been staring into. Garth smiled, amused by Galt’s discomfiture.

  “But...”

  “Besides, I want to see this.”

  Galt gave in. “Very well, but do put someone in charge here.”

  “Certainly. Frima?”

  “No, I’m coming, too. I don’t trust that sword”

  “All right. Ho, Findalan!”

  A middle-aged man Garth recognized as one of the village’s few carpenters looked up from assembling something.

  “I’m going away for a little while; you’re in charge until I get back!”

  Findalan nodded.

  “There. Let’s go.”

  Reluctantly, Galt followed as Garth and Saram led the way. Frima brought up the rear at first, then ran forward to be nearer Saram.

  As they made their way through the village and into the encircling ruins, Saram said, “We had an idea, Galt, that I wanted to discuss with you.”

  Galt made a noncommittal noise.

  “Did you know there’s a statue in the dungeons under the Baron’s mansion?”

  “No,” Galt replied.

  “It isn’t a true statue,” Garth said.

  “No, but it will serve as one. That was our idea. Might we not hoist it out and set it up somewhere as a monument?”

  “What sort of a monument?” Galt asked.

  “That statue is a petrified thief, Saram, a half-starved boy. What sort of a monument would that make?” Garth asked.

  “It would serve as a reminder of the cruelty of the Baron you slew, Garth.”

  “It would serve as a reminder of my stupidity in allowing a madman to gain possession of a basilisk, as well.”

  “I think it would make a good monument,” Frima said. “He has such a brave expression on his face! You can see that he was scared but trying not to let it show.”

  Remembering what he had seen of the face in question, Garth could not deny the truth of her words. “Where would you put it?” he asked.

  “We haven’t decided yet,” Frima answered.

  “I’ll consider it,” Galt said, in a flat, conversation-killing tone.

  A moment later they reached the nearer of the two guards. Garth stopped.

  “It’s all right,” Galt said. “Let them through.”

  The guard nodded, but Garth still didn’t move. “I think we should take one of the guards with us,” he said.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because if the sword does take control of you or me, it will almost certainly require two overmen to restrain whichever of us it might chance to be. Saram may be strong for a human, but he would be of little help in handling a berserk overman.”

  “Oh.” Galt considered that. “Very well.” He motioned for the guard, a warrior named Fyrsh whom he knew only vaguely, to accompany them.

>   The five proceeded on. Galt found himself growing nervous. He felt as if he were being watched and criticized by someone.

  Garth, for his part, felt an urge to run forward, to find the sword and snatch it up. The afternoon sunlight seemed to redden, and he found himself conjuring up mental images of blood and severed flesh, similar to those that had haunted his dreams.

  “There it is!” Frima pointed.

  The sword lay where he had left it, Garth saw, across the block of stone. The two halves of the broken stone that he had placed atop it lay to either side, and gravel was strewn about where the third stone had shattered. The hilt was toward him, and the gem was glowing vividly red.

  “It’s glowing,” Frima said unnecessarily.

  Her words penetrated the gathering fog in Garth’s mind. He stopped. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t go any closer.”

  Galt stopped. He felt no attraction to the sword, but only the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. He wanted to get the whole affair over with, to convince Garth that he was ill and should go home and rest and not concern himself with Skelleth or the High King at Kholis or the Yprian overmen. “Why?” he asked.

  “This is close enough for now; from here, only the person who is going to try and use it should approach any nearer.”

  “And if someone goes berserk, how are we to restrain him at this distance?” Galt demanded.

  “I thought of that.” Garth reached under his tunic—Frima had finally returned it when Saram had found her a tunic and skirt such as the local women wore—and brought out a coil of rope. “We’ll put a loop of this around the neck of whoever goes to touch the sword, with one of us overmen holding each end. If there’s any danger, we can jerk it tight before whoever it is can reach us with the sword.”

  “The person might choke to death.”

  “We’ll be careful. When the person drops the sword, we release the rope.”

  Galt was still doubtful of the scheme’s safety, but he was outvoted. Even Fyrsh sided with Garth. “I’ve been nervous ever since you posted me here, Galt,” he said. “There’s something unhealthy about that sword. We shouldn’t take chances.”

  “Very well, then. Who is to make the first trial?” Galt asked.

  “I will,” Saram said.

  “All right. Now, as I understand it, Garth, it’s your contention that Saram will be unable to pick up the sword?”

  “Yes. It will feel hot, too hot to handle, to any human.” He hesitated, and added, “At least, I think it will.”

  Saram was already on his way toward the sword as Garth spoke. He slowed his pace as he drew near and then stopped. “We forgot the rope,” he called back.

  “I don’t think we’ll need it,” Garth answered.

  “It would be better to be cautious,” Galt replied.

  Garth shrugged, found one end of the rope, and held it while tossing the main coil to Saram. The man caught it, unwound several yards, and threw a loose loop around his neck. Making sure that it did not pull tight, he then tossed the free end back. It fell short; Galt stepped forward and picked it up. He and Garth each held one end now, while the central portion was wrapped once around Saram’s throat.

  Saram stooped and reached out for the hilt. His fingers touched it. Immediately there was a loud hissing, plainly audible to the four observers; smoke curled upward as he snatched back his hand, thrust his fingers into his mouth, and began sucking on them.

  “It’s hot!” he managed to say around his mouthful of singed fingertips.

  “It is?” Galt was genuinely surprised. “Try it again.”

  Reluctantly, Saram obeyed, reaching out toward the sword.

  The hiss was briefer this time; Saram had been better prepared and was able to pull his hand back more quickly. With his fingers in his mouth, he shook his head. “I can’t touch it,” he called.

  “All right, then. Come back here and I’ll try,” Galt said.

  Saram returned, looking slightly embarrassed. Galt handed his end of the rope to Fyrsh, then lifted the loop from around the human’s neck and lowered it down past his own head onto his shoulders. That done, Saram stepped aside into Frima’s considerate attentions, while Galt walked forward toward the sword.

  He stopped when he reached the blade’s side and called back, “As I understand it, Garth, you believe that I will be able to pick up the sword, but it will attempt to dominate me.”

  “I think so,” Garth called back. “It can be subtle, though; it may just make you more irritable at first, more prone to react with irrational anger.” He pulled in some of the slack in the rope he held.

  Garth and the others watched intently; Saram, in particular, was curious as to whether Galt would be able to touch the sword without injury.

  “I suspect that humans are merely over-sensitive to heat,” Galt said, hesitating.

  “It did not burn me at all,” Garth replied, “save for the first time, when I pulled it from a fire.”

  Galt bent down and reached his hand slowly toward the hilt. As it neared, the black covering on the grip abruptly flared up in a burst of flame; as Saram had, Galt snatched back his hand. Unlike Saram, he immediately reached forward again. “It caught me by surprise,” he called, “but I think it must be an illusion of some sort.”

  As the overman’s hand neared it again, the flames died away to a yellow flickering. Galt ignored them and grasped the hilt firmly.

  The smell of burning flesh filled the air and smoke poured from his hand; with a faint cry of pain he released his grip and looked at his scorched palm.

  “I don’t think it’s an illusion,” Garth said, “but I don’t understand why it rejected you.”

  For a moment the five stood silently considering. Then Saram asked, “Guard, would you care to try?”

  “I am called Fyrsh, human. Yes, I’ll try it.”

  Galt returned and exchanged portions of rope with Fyrsh. The warrior had no better luck than his predecessors; like Saram, he touched the sword only lightly, with his fingertips, and received only slight burns. There was no flaring of flame, but the faint flickering remained.

  “May I try?” Frima asked, when Fyrsh had rejoined the group.

  There was a moment of surprised silence at this unexpected request. “Why?” Galt asked at last.

  “Perhaps it only burns males—or perhaps only those who have not been in Dûsarra.”

  Galt looked at Garth, who shrugged. “I don’t know,” Garth said. “She could be right. My theory that it was attuned to overmen obviously wasn’t. Let her try.”

  “Are you sure you want to?” Saram asked her.

  She nodded.

  “All right,” Galt said. “Do you want the rope?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think we need it,” Saram said. “She’s outnumbered four to one and outweighed at least six to one.”

  There was general agreement, and Frima approached the weapon unencumbered. She used only one finger for her experiment, and thereby escaped with the least injury of any.

  She came running back into Saram’s arms and held up her scorched finger for him to kiss.

  “Perhaps,” Galt suggested, “the sword has changed somehow—the time of year may have affected it, or some occurrence in the battle. Perhaps no one can now handle it.

  Garth nodded. “I hope you’re right; let us see if it will singe my fingers as it did yours.” He picked up the rope and threw a loop around his neck, handed the ends to Galt and Fyrsh, and then marched toward the sword.

  Almost immediately he felt the familiar urge to grab it up, to use it on his enemies. The red glow of the jewel seemed to fill his vision and flood everything with crimson.

  As he drew near, any caution he might have felt faded away. He reached down and picked up the sword, easily and naturally, as if it were an ordinary weapon. The flames that had glim
mered about the hilt vanished as his hand approached; the grip was warm to his touch, as if it had been left in bright sunlight for a few moments.

  He lifted the sword, and the red haze vanished from his sight. The glow of the jewel faded. He felt none of the berserk fury that the sword had brought upon him in the past; instead he was strangely calm. He turned to face his companions. “You see?” he called. “It has a will of its own, and it has chosen me as its wielder.”

  “I see,” Galt called back. “Now put it down again.”

  Garth nodded and tried to turn back.

  The sword would not move; it hung in the air before him as if embedded in stone.

  Garth tried to release his hold and drop it where it was; his fingers would not move.

  “I think we have a problem,” he called.

  Instantly, Galt jerked the rope tight; with equal speed, the sword twisted, feeling as if it were moving Garth’s hands rather than the reverse, and cut the rope through. Before Fyrsh could take any action with his end it flashed back and severed that, as well. The two overmen found themselves holding useless fragments, while the loop around Garth’s throat remained slack.

  There was a moment of horrified silence; then Galt called, “Now what?”

  “I don’t know!” Garth replied. “I can’t let go!” He struggled, trying to pry his fingers from the grip, but could not move them.

  He attempted to move his arm and discovered that he could now move it freely. He lowered the sword from the upright display he had held it in; there was no reason to be unnecessarily uncomfortable.

  He tried placing his other hand on the grip and then removing it; there was no resistance. He then placed his left hand on the grip and tried removing his right.

  It came away easily and naturally.

  Now, however, his left hand was locked to the sword.

  He switched back and forth a few times, and established to his own satisfaction that whatever power held him to the sword would be content with either hand or both, so long as he retained a hold suitable for wielding the thing. He could hold it with two fingers and one thumb, if he chose; that seemed to be the absolute minimum. Any one finger and both thumbs on the same hand would also work. A single finger and thumb, however, or just two thumbs, would not suffice; when he attempted to use such a grip, his other hand would not come free.