He was about to point this out to Galt as clear proof that there was a conscious power involved—after all, how could any spell, however complex, manage anything so subtle? Galt chose that moment to call, “Garth, stay there; I will return shortly.”
For the first time Garth realized that while he had been playing with his fingers, the other four had been discussing his situation and had, apparently arrived at some sort of a decision. Galt and Saram were leaving. Fyrsh and, oddly, Frima were staying. He called after the departing pair, “See if you can find a sheath that would fit this thing! I have an idea!”
It had occurred to him that, if it were sheathed, the sword might behave differently; it was certainly worth trying.
He was frankly puzzled by this new difficulty. He had never before had any trouble in releasing the sword.
But then, he told himself, he had never tried to destroy it before, or tried to abandon it.
Perhaps he could still destroy it, he thought. His previous failure might have been because the sword held some special relationship to stone; after all, he knew almost nothing about it. The standard method for breaking a sword had always been to snap it across one’s knee; he could try that.
He turned back toward the stone blocks—the sword seemed to have no objection now that the rope was cut. He placed one foot on a block, raising his knee to a convenient height.
Ordinarily he wouldn’t have done something like this without armor. Metal splinters might fly, and the broken ends could snap back and gash his knee badly. He thought such injuries would be worthwhile, though, if he could be rid of this particular sword. He placed it across his knee, his right hand holding the hilt and his left gripping the blade, and pushed down.
Nothing happened. The sword bent not an inch.
He pressed harder. It still did not give.
He put his full strength into it, so that the pressure bruised his knee and the palms of his hands; had it snapped, he knew he would have been thrown forward on the fragments and probably seriously cut.
It did not snap. It did not yield at all.
He gave up in disgust and looked speculatively at the stone block.
Raising the sword above his head in a two-handed grip such as he would have used on an axe in chopping firewood, he swung the blade down at the stone with all the might he could muster.
The stone block shattered in a spectacular shower of sparks, dust, and gravel.
He studied the blade and ran a thumb along it carefully. It was as sharp as ever, with no sign of nick or waver.
Destroying this thing would be a real challenge, he realized. It might take days or even months to contrive an effective method.
It was very curious, though, that it was allowing him so much freedom to try. He knew that it could cloud his thoughts and turn him into a mindless engine of destruction or move in his hands without his cooperation, yet it was doing nothing of the kind. Instead it had displayed this new talent, this refusal to come free of his hold. Why had it not done so before?
Perhaps it had felt no need. He had cooperated with it readily at first. Only after he realized how disastrous the consequences of the destruction of Skelleth might be had he seriously resisted. When he had actually managed to abandon it perhaps it had become frightened, aware that it might lose its control of him.
Could a sword be frightened? Or, if the sword were only a tool, could a god be frightened?
Frightened might be too strong a word; “cautious” would be better. If he could reassure the entity, whatever it was, perhaps he could contrive to slip away and abandon the sword for good. Once he was free of its hold, he would be certain never to touch it again.
If he could pick it up without touching it, with tongs perhaps, and transport it, he could find some way to get rid of it even if he couldn’t destroy it. He could throw it in the ocean; no one would retrieve it from the bottom of the sea.
That assumed, however, that he would be able to get it out of his hands.
The Forgotten King would probably be able to make it let go. Judging by the ease with which the old man had darkened the gem and suppressed the sword’s power before, he should have no trouble in doing so again. The only problem with that solution was that the King would almost certainly demand something in exchange, and Garth did not care to deal with him further.
Still, if he could not manage something else, sooner or later he might be forced to give in to the Forgotten King. Even that would be preferable to unleashing the sword again, he was sure. He had felt the sword’s personality, if it could be called that, and he knew that it sought nothing but death and destruction. It was being canny now, biding its time, allowing him to think, but he was certain that soon its bloodlust would grow and more innocents would die, as they had died in Dûsarra and Skelleth.
Thinking of death, the sword, and the Forgotten King, he began to wonder at the exact nature of the King’s immortality. What would happen if the old man were to have a blade thrust through him? Would he live on regardless? Could he bleed or feel pain? What if his head were to be severed? Surely, death-priest or no, he could not survive decapitation.
It might be, then, that he could not be decapitated, that any blade would break in the attempt. In that case, what would happen if he were to be struck by the unbreakable blade of the Sword of Bheleu?
This seemed a very interesting question. What would happen when the irresistible destructive power of the sword met the immortal body of the Forgotten King? One or the other would have to yield and perish.
If the sword were to break, then Garth would be rid of it.
If the King were to die—as seemed far more likely, more in keeping with the natural order of the world—then Garth would have performed an act of mercy, and would no longer need to worry about the old man’s schemes. Unfortunately, he would also no longer have a means of last resort for disposing of the sword.
Perhaps both would be destroyed. That would really be the ideal solution.
He would have to consider this further, and perhaps attempt a few experiments. He might want to obtain some advice on the matter. He wondered if he could trust the old man to tell the truth; perhaps he would do better to go home and consult the Wise Women of Ordunin.
As he considered this, he saw Galt and Saram returning, leading a squad of half a dozen overmen and an equal number of humans. Someone was even leading a warbeast.
He wondered, out of a warrior’s professional curiosity, whether the sword would be able to kill so many opponents before they could rip him apart. Without the warbeast, he suspected it would have no trouble. Warbeasts, however, were notoriously hard to kill and moved with a speed and ferocity that no overman could even approach, just as no human could equal an overman.
He hoped that he wouldn’t have to put the matter to the test.
Several of the overmen, he saw, were carrying various ropes and restraints. Saram was carrying the same oversized, over-the-shoulder scabbard that had held the sword before.
That was encouraging, because it implied that they hoped to restrain him—and the sword—without harming him. Less pleasant was the fact that four of the humans carried crossbows. Galt apparently did not care to take too many chances. Garth hoped that those would be strictly a last resort and that the archers would not aim to kill.
The newcomers stopped where Fyrsh and Frima waited and spoke with them; Garth did not try to listen, but it was plain that Frima was protesting such extreme measures.
While the argument continued, Garth called, “Ho, Saram! Toss me that scabbard!”
The acting baron looked up and thought for a moment before obeying.
Garth picked up the sheath with his free hand and flung it back across his left shoulder. He managed to catch the lower strap with the fingers of his right hand, despite the sword’s encumbrance, and to bring it up to meet the shoulderpiece.
It
took several minutes and much fumbling, but he contrived to tie a reasonably secure knot. He wished that the thing had a buckle; he was sure he could have managed that much more readily.
When he had the scabbard in place, he tipped it forward and slid the blade into it. Then, slowly, he removed his fingers, one by one, from the sword’s hilt.
They came away easily, and the sword fell back into place, slapping his back. It felt peculiar to be wearing the scabbard without armor; a two-handed broadsword was strictly a weapon of war, not something to be carried casually about the streets.
“There, you see?” he called to the watching crowd. He held up his hands, showing that they were free and empty. “All I needed was the scabbard.”
Galt called in reply, “We see that you have released the sword, but has it released you? Can you remove the scabbard?”
“Of course I can, Galt, but I think I had best keep it with me for the moment. It’s too dangerous to leave lying around.” He lifted the sheath’s strap up from his shoulder, to show that it was not adhering unnaturally. He had no problem in doing so. “See?” he said. “And the gem is dark. It’s quiescent right now.”
In truth, he did not believe that he could remove the sword and scabbard; he was sure that the knot would prove impossible to untie as long as the sword was sheathed. It was his own problem, though, and he did not want Galt and a bunch of ignorant helpers making matters worse. He was reasonably certain that the only way the sword would voluntarily let him go was if he were to be killed and that Galt’s motley group would be unable to remove the sword against its will. He had no wish to die when they attempted to do so, nor to kill any of them.
He had some idea of how powerful the sword was, and they did not, as yet. He would be unable to convince them that the sword was more than they could handle without bloody experimentation. He therefore intended to convince them of the opposite, that the problem was already under control.
“Are you sure?” Galt asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve handled this sword for weeks, Galt. It’s harmless right now.” He reached up and grasped and released the hilt a few times to show that it was not spitting flame or grabbing hold. It remained cooperatively inanimate.
He had it partly figured out now; it was determined to remain in his possession, but it was intelligent enough not to waste energy in holding him any more tightly than necessary. As long as he kept it on his person, it didn’t care how it was carried.
He pulled it out, then sheathed it again, demonstrating that it was behaving like any ordinary sword. “You see, Galt? I think it’s worn itself out, at least temporarily.”
“Very well, Garth. Carry it, if you please. I warn you, though...”
“I know, I know. You cannot trust me while I bear it with me.”
“Exactly. I would ask, Garth, that henceforth you sleep well away from the center of town, lest it rouse in the night and drive you mad.”
Garth shrugged. “As you please.”
Reluctantly, Galt dismissed his dozen supporters; they trailed off toward the market, returning to whatever they had been doing previously. After a final uneasy glance in Garth’s direction, Galt followed them.
Garth, in turn, followed; Saram and Frima joined him. Fyrsh turned, as if to accompany them, then stopped and said, “We forgot Pandh.”
“Who?” Saram asked.
“Pandh. The other guard Galt posted here. If you’re taking the sword, there’s no need for him to stay here. He’s still up the road; he probably hasn’t noticed any of this.”
“You’re right,” Garth agreed. “Go relieve him, then.”
Fyrsh nodded and turned back down the street.
When he had gone, Garth remarked to the two humans, “I’m bound for the King’s Inn; all this shouting back and forth has made me thirsty.”
“We’ll join you, if we’re not needed elsewhere,” Saram said.
“I’d be glad of your company.” At least, Garth thought, they would be welcome while he quenched his thirst, which was quite genuine. His primary reason for visiting the King’s Inn, however, was to speak with the Forgotten King, and he would prefer privacy for that. He hoped that Saram would be needed somewhere.
Chapter Fourteen
The Seer of Weideth had never acquired the knack of using a scrying glass and made do instead with an assortment of divining spells. Every spell he tried gave the same answer; the Dûsarran girl had indeed told the truth.
Garth of Ordunin had destroyed Skelleth for no reason. Furthermore, he had murdered the rightful baron of the village on only the slightest provocation, and killed a score of innocents with no cause at all. The girl had not mentioned that.
The overman had done this with the Sword of Bheleu, which was obviously an artifact of great power. The apparent level of arcane energy was, in fact, so great that no material force could possibly stand against it. There would be no point, therefore, in sending an army to Skelleth; only magic or stealth could hope to deal with such a menace.
The Seer wondered how so dangerous a weapon had been left lying about where any passing overman could pick it up in the first place; one of the Council’s overseers must have been shirking his duties.
It was not, fortunately, his responsibility; he was only liable for the village and the surrounding hills. Since the matter had been brought to his attention, it was his duty to report it—and that was the entirety of his duty.
He gathered together the three village elders; his own powers were too feeble to reach more than a dozen leagues with a message-spell, and he judged that this matter was worthy of the immediate attention of the Chairman of the Council. That was old Shandiph, and a simple divination told the Seer that Shandiph was in Kholis, the capital city of Eramma, which lay more than a hundred leagues to the east. Communicating over such a distance would require three other minds working in concert with his own. He had worked with the elders before, and they had become reasonably adept at this sort of thing.
By the time he returned to the tavern’s common room after divining the Chairman’s location, ready to make the attempt at contact, the messenger from the city was long gone and the elders were waiting for him.
In Kholis, Shandiph was visiting with Chalkara, court wizard to the High King. The two were alone in Chalkara’s velvet-draped chambers, playing caravanserai with an ancient set of hand-carved jade and ivory which the court wizard had inherited from her predecessor, and sampling a golden wine of unknown but venerable vintage that Shandiph had brought with him from a stay in Ur-Dormulk. Shandiph had had more than his share of the wine and was consequently a good sixty coins behind in the game when the image of the Seer of Weideth suddenly appeared on the tapestry Chalkara was leaning her back against.
Startled, the old man dropped his wine glass, scattering the green pieces in all directions and spilling yellow wine across the whites. For a moment both wizards were too busy picking up pieces and sopping up the spill with Shandiph’s cloak to pay any heed to the message.
When some semblance of order had been restored, Shandiph demanded angrily, “What do you want?”
The Seer’s image mouthed something.
“Oh, Regvos, the damnable fool hasn’t got a voice; I have to do everything myself!”
Chalkara said soothingly, “I’ll do it, Shandi.” She reached up to an ornate silk and silver box on a nearby table and pulled out a gleaming amulet, then recited a brief incantation before slipping the golden trinket around her throat.
“Speak, image!” she commanded.
“I am the Seer of Weideth,” the image said, “and I have an urgent and private message for Shandiph the wandering sorcerer.”
“I am listening,” Shandiph replied.
“Ah ... it is not to be heard by any but Shandiph.”
“Never mind that, Seer, just give me the message. I have better things to do.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt something?”
“Give me the damn massage!”
With much hesitation and awkwardness, the Seer explained about the visit from the Dûsarran girl and reported what his divinations had told him.
When he had finished, he waited for a response. Shandiph sat silently for a long moment, then said, “All right. You’ve delivered your message; you can go now.”
The Seer’s image vanished immediately.
In Weideth, the Seer relaxed. The matter was out of his hands. He thanked the elders for their assistance, then ordered a final mug of ale before retiring.
In Kholis, Chalkara looked at Shandiph, who was staring at the floor. “This could be serious,” she said. “It could start the Racial Wars all over again.”
“We’ll have to make sure it doesn’t,” Shandiph replied. “Listen, I’m having trouble thinking clearly; have you got something that counteracts wine? I left all my potions in my own rooms.”
“I think so.” She rose gracefully, crossed to a cabinet against the far wall, and began rummaging through it.
“Do you think he’s right about how dangerous this overman is?” The elder wizard scratched his balding head.
“I don’t know anything about it, Shandi. I have never even heard of Weideth or its Seer, nor Garth of Ordunin, nor of the Sword of Bheleu. The only name I know from the whole affair is Skelleth; and even if Skelleth is a pesthole—it is, too—the High King won’t be pleased to hear it’s been destroyed. It’s a bad precedent. Besides, the Baron of Sland is bound to make trouble about it.” She pulled out a small brass bottle. “I think this will do; it’s a cure for drunkenness and senility.”
“I am neither drunk nor senile, woman, merely tipsy. Still, it should serve; pass it here.”
Chalkara complied and told him, “The normal dose is three drops.”
“One should do, then, but I’ll make it two to be safe.” He suited actions to words, then shut his eyes and mouth for a moment.
The Sword of Bheleu Page 15
