The Sword of Bheleu (26 page)

The sword turned and pointed at Kubal's prostrate form, but before it could spit forth its flame, a bony hand reached up and grabbed the overman's wrist.

“Swear, Garth,” the familiar hideous voice said, plainly audible in a sudden silence that descended upon the battlefield.

Garth stared at the hand and the tattered yellow cowl that flapped in the dying wind. He swallowed and realized he could detect no trace of Bheleu's influence upon him. The fire in the sword was dying away, the red gem's glow dimming.

The gem went black.

Garth remembered that the old man had always seemed to know more than he should. He must have known what was happening here. It was nevertheless a mystery how he had appeared, unscathed, in the midst of the battle, at exactly the right moment. Garth realized that there were still attackers on all sides and said, “The wizards...”

“They will not harm us,” the Forgotten King replied. “Swear that you will fetch me the Book of Silence.”

Garth looked down at Kubal. He knew nothing about the man, save that he was a wizard who had come to halt the Age of Bheleu. He would die if Garth did not swear the oath asked of him.

All the wizards would die and hundreds more in time. Bheleu had said that his age would last for thirty years. Garth had not thought of it in those terms; he had thought of the duration of the sword's control as indefinite and vague. Thirty years was definite, and far longer than anything he had thought about.

Thirty years with no control of his own actions; thirty years of killing anyone who opposed him, rightly or wrongly—thirty years of aimless, wanton destruction and death! Garth could not face that. Anything was better than that. He had killed too often already, ended too many lives that were not his to end.

He would not give in to either destruction or death; he would not betray himself and others in that way.

“I swear,” he said, “that if you tell me where it can be found, I will bring you the Book of Silence.”

“After you bring it, you will aid me in the magic for which I require it. Swear!”

“I will aid in your magic.”

The old man's other hand reached up and plucked the great sword casually from Garth's numbed fingers. “I will keep this,” he said, “as a token of your good faith.”

The words stung, but Garth nodded. He looked around at the wizards.

They stood, motionless, about him.

The Forgotten King held up the Sword of Bheleu and said, “I send you to your homes.”

Blue mist gathered around each of the living wizards, thickened, and then vanished, taking them with it and leaving several corpses strewn across the valley, sprawled on the blasted earth. The snow had been melted away for well over a hundred yards in every direction.

“Won't they just return?” Garth asked.

“No. They have the war between Sland and Kholis to keep them busy, and they have been sealed away from the old magicks.”

Garth had no idea what the old man was referring to. He gazed about regretfully at the dead. They had brought matters to a head sooner than he had wished; he had never had the chance to ask the Wise Women whether he had another course of action available. He was free of the sword now, but at a price to himself that seemed terrible indeed.

He had sworn an oath he had no intention of fulfilling; his honor was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Haggat put down his new scrying glass and stared at it thoughtfully. He was not entirely pleased with the course events had followed, but it would do. The Council of the Most High had suffered badly, though it was not destroyed. The overman Garth yet lived, but he no longer possessed the Sword of Bheleu and could therefore be dealt with by the cult's ordinary methods. That was all satisfactory.

The yellow-garbed figure might be a problem, however. Haggat did not know who or what he was, but he obviously controlled considerable power, judging by the ease with which he had taken the sword from Garth and apparently rendered it harmless. The scrying glass would not show him directly, any more than it had been able to show Garth while the sword's power shielded him, but Haggat caught glimpses while watching Garth's slow journey back to Skelleth. The man in yellow tatters had walked at his side the entire distance and occasionally come partially into view. His face had never been visible at all, not even for the briefest of glimpses. He carried the sword as if it weighed nothing and seemed unbothered by cold or fatigue from the long walk—though it was hard to be sure from such fleeting images.

He probably wasn't anybody important, Haggat decided finally. He was some obscure wizard who had chanced upon a spell that could control the sword, at a guess. He was nothing to worry about.

Anyway, it was Garth who concerned the cult. The death of the former high priest had yet to be avenged. Something would have to be done about that.

Shandiph was a wanderer and had no true home of his own; he materialized in Chalkara's chambers in Kholis, side by side with the court wizard, and then collapsed onto the rug. He had survived the great blast, but his injuries were serious. He had remained upright, casting spells, only through force of will.

Chalkara was unhurt; she bent over him and tended to his injuries as best she could, while shouting for the servants.

“Where are the others?” he managed to ask.

“I don't know,” she replied. “That ... that whatever-it-was said it was sending us home; perhaps the others are in their own homes now.”

“They aren't all dead?”

“No, no. They're not. I saw that many still lived.”

“That's good.” His head fell back on the cushion she had slid beneath it.

“Shandi ... who
was
that? How could he do all that?”

“I think it was the King in Yellow,” Shandiph answered.

“He has the sword now.”

Shandiph shook his head slightly. “He can't use it. Only the god's chosen one can use it.”

“Then it's all over?”

He nodded, weakly.

A servant appeared in the doorway, staring in astonishment.

“Don't just stand there,” Chalkara snapped, “Go find a physician!”

The girl nodded and vanished, her running footsteps echoing in the stone corridor.

Chalkara remained, kneeling over Shandiph's body, praying to the Lords of Eir that he wouldn't die.

There was shouting outside his door; Karag dropped the last splintered fragment of the Great Staff and worked the latch.

Servants and guardsmen were hurrying past; he reached out a soot-blackened hand and stopped a rushing housemaid.

“What's happening?” he croaked.

“Oh, my lord wizard, you're back!”

“Yes, I'm back. What's going on?”

“The Baron has just returned from Kholis, my lord, and they say he's angrier than anyone has ever seen him! The High King has again denied him the Barony of Skelleth, he says, and kidnapped his wizard—he means you! Oh, you had better go and see him at once!”

Karag nodded. “I will go immediately.” He released the woman's arm, and she ran off.

He looked down at himself. He was filthy, his cloak was in tatters, but he was unhurt; the staff had protected him. Then that great burst of light had shattered the staff, and he had been certain he was about to die. He remembered that.

Kubal had crept up behind the overman, as his plan called for, while Chalkara drew the pentagram, and he had used the transporting spell, but it hadn't worked; the sword had absorbed it somehow. The overman had laughed; Karag remembered that with painful clarity. The overman had laughed at his scheme.

Then there had been a stranger in a ragged yellow cloak at the overman's side, taking the sword from him—and then he was here, in his own room.

It didn't seem to make much sense.

There was more shouting somewhere, and he decided against taking time to clean himself up. The Baron would be mad enough with him as it was. He joined the hurrying crowd in the passageway and made his way down to the great hall.

As he walked in the door, the Baron, standing on the dais, immediately caught sight of him.

“There you are, traitor! Have you returned to beg my forgiveness?”

“What have I done, my lord? How did I come here?” He had decided instantly upon his approach; he would claim to remember nothing of the last few days. Let the Baron think he had been kidnapped.

The Baron glared at him for a long moment, then said, “All right, I will accept you back, and you will tell me later what became of you. Right now I have more important matters to attend to. I have abrogated the covenant and declared war upon the Baron of Kholis, who calls himself King. My men are preparing to march even now, and the messengers I sent back from the false king's castle have had siege engines built. You, wizard, will aid me in this war with your spells.”

Karag stared up at his master in dismay.

Garth sat quietly at the Forgotten King's table in the King's Inn, staring at his mug of ale. He and the old man had travelled all night and half the following morning to return to Skelleth, and Garth had then slept away the rest of the day. When he awoke, the King was back in his corner as if nothing had happened. There was no sign of the sword.

Garth had gotten his ale and seated himself, but neither had spoken.

Finally, the overman said, “It would seem that the Age of Destruction is averted; what does that do to the reckoning of time?”

“Lessened, not averted,” the old man replied

“Only lessened?”

“Yes. Already the Kingdom of Eramma is destroyed by civil war.”

“It is?”

The old man nodded.

Garth wondered at that. He saw no sign of any war, and no news of one had reached him since his return to Skelleth. Still, he knew that the Forgotten King had knowledge beyond the ordinary.

“That's unfortunate. Wars are wasteful and unnecessary.”

The King did not reply.

There was a moment of silence, and then Garth asked, “Who were those wizards? Why did they attack me?”

“The Council of the Most High, as they call themselves, is sworn to preserve peace,” the old man answered.

“Will they stop the war, then?”

“They will try and fail.”

“Might they not attack me again—or you?”

“No. They have no magic powerful enough, and are scattered and weakened.”

“They seemed powerful to me”

“They drew upon the vault where their ancestors stored away much of their power. I have sealed the vault against them.”

“Might they be able to stop the war, if they had this old magic?”

The Forgotten King shrugged.

Garth sipped his ale, then asked, “When will you send me after the Book of Silence?”

“When I remember where it is.”

“When you remember? Then you knew once?”

The King nodded.

Garth sipped ale again, and asked, “Have you any idea how long it will take you to remember?”

The King replied, “I know that it was I who moved the book from its place in Dûsarra, because no one save you and I can carry it and live. That is all I know. I may recall where I left it tomorrow, or not for thirty years. Until I do, do not bother me. You are free to do as you please, so long as you do not leave Skelleth for any extended period of time, until I remember. Now go away.”

Garth kept his face impassive as he picked up his mug and moved to another table. When he was sure that the old man could not see him, he allowed himself a bitter smile.

The King had made an unusually long speech and an unusually careless one. He had failed to say what an extended period of time was, and Garth found no problem in thinking a year or two would not be excessive. The old man himself had freed Garth from much of the restraint his oath would have placed upon him; no one need know he was forsworn for some time yet.

Anything might happen before the Forgotten King remembered; he might die, Garth might die, or the oath might be renounced. Garth's false semblance of honor might be retained for years, perhaps even for the rest of his life.

He knew it to be a false semblance, for he had given his oath in bad faith. He gulped down the rest of his ale and signed to the innkeeper for another.

He wondered whether there might not be a higher honor in sacrificing his name and good word for the lives of others.

No, he told himself, he would not delude himself with such false excuses.

The innkeeper approached with a fresh mug, but before he could place it on the table a sudden loud noise drew the attention of both overman and servitor. There was a burst of shouting and much rattling and thumping somewhere outside the King's Inn.

After a moment of ongoing racket, the unmistakable roar of a warbeast sounded, and the taverner dropped the mug in surprise, denting the pewter vessel and spattering cold ale across the floor and Garth's legs. The overman paid no attention; he shoved back his chair, rose, and strode to the door to see what was happening, while behind him the innkeeper wiped at the floor with his apron.

Garth had a moment of fear that a new battle had begun and that Skelleth was perhaps to be destroyed all over again. Could the King have been wrong about the wizards? Were they attacking anew?

He dismissed such pessimistic thoughts almost immediately; the sounds were not those of battle, nor of any destructive magic he had yet encountered. There was a cheerful note to the shouting.

He paused in the doorway and looked out. Directly before him was the dark hole where the Baron's mansion had stood, but beyond it the marketplace was bright with torches and crowded with people and animals. The sun had been down for the better part of an hour, so this gathering was no ordinary trading.

There were men, women, and overmen in the market, as well as several warbeasts and oxen. Most of the people, of whatever species, appeared to be clustered about a pair of warbeasts and a small group of overmen.

Curious, and with nothing to prevent him from doing as he pleased, he marched down the ramp into the cellar pits, across the floor, and up the opposite slope toward the square. As he emerged he spotted Saram in the midst of the mob, looking about wildly; Frima was near him, and Galt was approaching from the opposite direction.

Garth looked over the central grouping; with a start, he recognized the warbeasts and one of the overmen. Tand and his party had returned.

The apprentice trader looked exhausted, and at least one of his companions wore a bloody bandage. Behind him, Garth realized for the first time, were several overmen he had never seen before, wearing strange and outlandish attire—bright cloaks, enameled armor, flaring helmets. Most of them stood quite tall, taller than Garth or most other overmen of the Northern Waste. There were men as well, dressed similarly, and the oxen he had noticed before he now realized formed a line, drawing carts and wagons.

Tand's mission to the Yprian Coast had obviously been successful; he had brought back a full caravan. Garth's bitter gloom dissipated in pleased surprise; he had held little real hope for Tand's errand after his own plans had been shattered by the Sword of Bheleu, the City Council's disavowal of his actions, and the disastrous battles with the wizards. He had somehow assumed, after all that, that nothing could ever go right again.

Saram had spotted him and was calling and waving; Garth could not make out any words over the general hubbub, but it was plain that Saram wanted to speak with him. Accordingly, he shoved his way into the crowd, bellowing, “Make way! Make way!”

Boots alternately sticking and sliding in the snow and mud underfoot, Garth finally managed to come within earshot of the acting Baron of Skelleth.

“Garth!” Saram called. “Do you have any money?”

“What?”

It was Tand who replied. “These people have brought stocks of food, furs, and other goods, but they demand to see payment before they will allow any to be unloaded. There is nothing in Skelleth they wish to trade for; I promised them gold, told them that Ordunin was rich in gold.”

“Aye!” a new voice said in a harsh and alien accent. “The lad said there was gold to be had!”

“There is!” Garth called back. He turned back toward the King's Inn and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Ho! Koros!”

He had left the warbeast in an alley at one side of the Inn; there were still too few buildings under roof in Skelleth to permit the stables to be used for mere beasts rather than homeless humans. Koros answered with an audible growl and emerged into the light of the market's torches.

Garth called again, and the monstrous beast trotted forward. Disdaining the earthen ramps, it leaped down into the cellar pits and then out again on the market side and made its way across the square toward its master.

The crowd parted before it, and it walked in silent majesty down a broad aisle to Garth's side.

He took a sack from behind the saddle and pulled out a handful of Aghadite coins that glittered rich yellow in the firelight.

Somewhere someone in the crowd applauded loudly, and the faces of the Yprians, half-hidden beneath their curious helmets, broke into smiles.

“You see?” Tand said with perceptible relief. “I did not lie.”

“You did not lie, little one,” agreed the Yprian spokesman. “Let the bargaining begin!”