Garth could not allow that. He knew how dangerous the great sword could be. He could not let a human, particularly one already almost berserk, get hold of it. He dove after Herrenmer.

The guardsman was much closer; before Garth had covered half the intervening distance, the man's hands closed on the hilt. He screamed and immediately released it again, his palms smoking; the stench of burning flesh reached Garth's nostrils. It was too late to halt his own lunge, however, and he, too, grabbed the hilt.

He felt no pain, though the hilt was hot in his grasp. Instead, a wave of strength surged through him, filling him with fiery exultation. The red gem glowed more brightly than the dying flames of the Baron's garments, more vividly red than the blood that was pooled on the mansion's threshold.

Garth stood, the sword clutched in both hands; around him were the five remaining guardsmen, while Herrenmer lay crying at Garth's feet, the man's scorched hands held out before him. A foot or two away lay the smoking remains of the Baron. The sight of the dead enemy seemed a very good thing to Garth at that moment. He laughed in triumph. He had conquered! He was master of the village and could do with it whatever he pleased. He could destroy it all if he chose-and that was exactly what he chose!

Still laughing, he whirled, sword held out before him, and cut down the remaining humans. The blade sheared through armor and flesh and bone as easily as through air, leaving a trail of sparks behind. When he had completed the circuit, slicing open all five bellies before anyone could react, he plunged the point through Herrenmer's chest.

The captain gasped and twitched, then lay still; the other five took a few seconds longer to die. Garth pulled the sword free and looked about him.

The overmen-his overmen-were staring at him openmouthed with surprise.

They did not understand who led them, he realized. He cried out to them, "I am Bheleu, god of destruction! Death and desolation are my companions, woe and hatred my tools! Follow me now to glory such as you have never imagined!"

Some of the overmen still seemed uncertain; he lifted the sword above his head, blood dripping from the blade, so that the light of the jewel could shine on them. "Skelleth is ours," he cried. "Ours to destroy! These humans have fought us, defied us; let us teach them the consequences of their defiance!"

The uncertainties were fading; enthusiasm flickered in the circle of the overmen's red eyes.

"Burn the village!" Bheleu called through Garth's mouth.

"Burn the village!" a few of the warriors answered.

"Slaughter the humans!"

"Kill the humans!"

They were with him now; the overman-god laughed, and the sword flamed over his head. He plunged it down, slamming the point into the threshold of the Baron's mansion; the stone step exploded into red-hot splinters, spraying up around him, but leaving him unscathed. The shards that landed inside the building set a dozen small fires on the wooden floor.

"Go, then! Kill and burn!"

The answering shout was wordless; the overmen turned away and ran with drawn weapons at the dwindling crowds in the surrounding streets. Garth laughed again, raised the sword, and swept it in an arc through the air; wherever it pointed, flame erupted. In seconds every building around the marketplace was ablaze. He strode forward into the square; behind him, the mansion flared up suddenly. He turned and gestured with the sword; the Baron's home was lost in a roaring curtain of flame. In moments it collapsed inward, falling into its own cellars; behind it, through the flames, Garth could see the King's Inn, where the so-called Forgotten King dwelt. He flung the fiery might of the sword outward toward it, as he had toward the other structures, but nothing happened. Again he tried, calling aloud, "I am Bheleu!"

The inn remained unharmed. He made a third and final attempt, willing all the god's available power to flow along the blade and strike at this resistance.

The tavern still remained untouched. Reluctantly, Garth gave up. He turned back to the buildings around the square; those, at least, behaved properly, flaring up like lit torches at his slightest whim. He laughed, and marched out into the village, spreading fire and destruction, but his dark joy was marred by his strange failure with the King's Inn.

The villagers scattered and hid before the onslaught of the overmen.

Most took refuge in their homes or in the ruins that ringed the village.. A few fled into the wilderness beyond the walls. None managed to put up an organized defense. Some found weapons; many barricaded their doors and windows. None had the foresight and ability to gather the townsmen so that their greater numbers could be of use against the overmen.

The overmen marched in small parties from door to door, smashing in barricades and butchering those who resisted. Where the resistance was too strong to be dealt with easily, warbeasts were called in. In all of Skelleth the only weapons that might have been effective against the great hybrids were buried in the burning ruins of the Baron's mansion. The animals served the overmen as battering rams, as armor, and as instruments of terror.

The humans who surrendered were spared, in most cases, and taken prisoner; the prisoners were gathered in the market square, guarded by four overmen and four warbeasts. A few overmen were too full of bloodlust and fury to restrain themselves, and some villagers were slain whether they surrendered or not, but generally even those individuals calmed down after a single such incident apiece.

Garth was the exception. As darkness descended, he strode laughing and screaming through Skelleth, killing every human he saw, burning every building he passed with the unnatural flames from the sword. Even the other overmen kept well away from him. He needed no warbeast to batter down barricades; a single blow from the sword shattered any defense set up against him. He seemed to take delight in killing those who could not fight back; he left the burning, dismembered corpses of women and children behind him.

It was full night when he came to one house where the door and shutters had been reinforced with steel. He was unable to carry through his first intention of burning his way in; when the wood had crumbled to ash, the metal still held. With a cry of "I'a bheluye!" he struck at the steel with the sword. Sparks showered, but the blade did not penetrate. He struck again, and this time the door exploded inward in a shower of twisted fragments.

There was no one in the room beyond; he stepped in and looked about.

Even to his hazy, berserk mind, it was obvious that someone had locked and barred the door he had just destroyed. That meant that there was a prospective victim somewhere in the house. He decided to find this person.

The kitchen was empty; the back door and rear windows were locked and bolted. That left the upper floors. Garth found no stairs, but a ladder led through a trap in the ceiling.

The second floor was a single large chamber, furnished in a style that was luxurious by the standards of Skelleth, if ordinary enough in more fortunate places. A single bed stood against one wall; furs covered part of the floor, and hangings were on each wall. Tables and chairs were scattered about. Like the rooms below, it was unoccupied. Another ladder led upward.

With a snort, Garth climbed the second ladder, awkward with the great sword in his hand, and found himself in an unfurnished garret. There was a window at each end. The window at the back stood wide open; on either side of the window were stacked cages that held cooing birds. In front of the window stood a dour old man garbed in dark red.

With an exclamation of delight, Garth recognized him. This was Darsen, the rabble rouser, the troublemaker. This was the old man who had blamed Garth for the death of Arner the guardsman months ago and almost incited a riot; this was the man who had begun the battle by shouting, "Kill the overmen!"

This would be fun, the overman thought; this man would die slowly. Garth advanced upon him, the sword held ready in his hands.

Darsen had been facing the window, clutching something in his hands; now, as he turned to face the approaching overman, he flung the object out the window. Garth saw the bird flapping wildly, catching itself in midair. He paid it no attention; pigeons had nothing to do with him. If the old man chose to spend his last pain-free moments playing with birds, that was his privilege.

The human tried to duck under the sword and slip past Garth, but did not make it; the overman's left hand released the hilt and grabbed the collar of the red robe. The last thing Darsen saw before pain forced his eyes shut was Garth's face, grinning broadly, teeth gleaming red in the light of the glowing jewel.

Outside the window, the bird was flying westward, toward Dûsarra.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The nightly sacrifice was done; this had been a sunset ritual, simpler and quicker than the midnight ceremonies used on special days. The victim's death had been relatively easy, and there had been no elaboration.

Haggat wondered whether such sacrifices were actually worth doing; did Aghad take pleasure in every murder? There was little real hatred in such slayings, little of the pure, dark emotion the god fed upon. Some stranger dragged from his bed had been killed; how did that help the cause of fear, of hatred, and of loathing? It did not truly increase the worshippers' hatred of their fellow Dûsarrans; if anything, he suspected it helped assuage their anger. It probably did little to increase the city's fear; the people had long since become accustomed to such random deaths and were much more frightened at present by the White Death, the plague that was loose in the city.

The sacrifices were traditional, though, and there was no real reason to stop them. They were no great drain upon the cult's resources, and the worshippers did enjoy them. His personal acolyte certainly did; she had been quite enthusiastic tonight, he thought. It was amusing to see the change that had taken place in her over the recent weeks. She had been a timid little thing at first, awed by her close contact with the then high priest, frightened at being given to Haggat, the temple's seer.

She had had reason to be frightened, since tales of Haggat's idea of pleasure were common among the cultists. But she had discovered that she could survive his amusements and even enjoy some of them. With the death of his former master and Haggat's elevation to high priest, she suddenly found herself second in the cult's hierarchy. That position she enjoyed completely.

Now, as he had expected, she had prepared his special chamber; the scrying glass was gleaming, freshly polished, and the candle was lighted. She knelt by the doorway, awaiting his appraisal of what she had done.

He saw nothing wrong and made a sign of dismissal; she prostrated herself, then backed stiffly out of the room, closing the door behind her. He knew she would be waiting in his bedchamber when he was done with the glass.

There was no hurry, however; he enjoyed using the glass as much as he enjoyed his less savory pursuits. He picked up the crystal globe and held it so that the image of the candle flame distorted within it.

When last he had used the glass, he had seen the overman Garth entering a tavern in Skelleth. It would be interesting to see what had become of him in the hours since. He concentrated on the globe.

The image of the flame grew and twisted, and then reddened.

That was unexpected; Haggat knew of no reason the image should be red.

He wondered if the interference he had become familiar with was taking some new form. He tried to clear and strengthen the contact.

The crystal sphere was flooded with blood-red light. Two faces appeared, both etched in black and crimson. One was inhuman, eyes gleaming brightly; the other was a man, his face twisted in pain and terror. Haggat recognized them both, Garth and Darsen.

The high priest was surprised and confused. What was going on in Skelleth? Why was Darsen frightened? Why were the two of them anywhere near each other? Darsen was one of the more competent agents of the cult of Aghad and he certainly knew better than to confront so dangerous an opponent directly. He had been instructed to observe the overman and to do what he could to annoy and inconvenience him, to stir up fear, anger, and hatred. Had he gotten careless and provoked the overman openly?

A moment later it was plain that Darsen's terror had been justified; Haggat could still see nothing but the two faces, but he knew death when he saw it. Darsen was dead. The cult had lost its only agent in Skelleth.

Garth dropped the corpse, and Darsen's dead face vanished from the image in the globe. Haggat could not make out the overman's surroundings, even now, but only his face, hellishly red.

Garth looked up, and it seemed as if those baleful eyes, almost glowing in the red light, met Haggat's. The Aghadite knew that was impossible; only the greatest of sorcerers could detect a scrying spell. Still, those crimson eyes seemed to be watching him. Disconcerted, he let his concentration slip and lost the image of the rest of Garth's hideous face. He saw only the eyes.

Then a third red glow joined them, and Haggat drew back in shock and horror. What was that? He seemed to sense something dark and brooding in it, something beyond his comprehension. The new glow grew, and Garth's eyes faded.

The crystal was suddenly hot in Haggat's hands, intensely hot; he dropped it.

It did not merely shatter when it hit the floor; it exploded, showering sparks and red-hot gobbets of glass in every direction. Miraculously, nothing caught fire, but Haggat would not have noticed if it had; he was staring at the burns on his palms.

This was powerful magic indeed! Could the so-called Sword of Bheleu truly be linked to the god of destruction himself? He had not seriously considered that possibility before. He knew of no device linking its user to Aghad, and had seen no reason to think other gods would provide what his own did not. He had dismissed such claims as superstition, or boasting, or an intimidating bluff.

This overman, however, seemed to have power of an order only divine intervention could explain. In that case, it would not be safe to use ordinary measures against him. Garth had defied the cult of Aghad and slain its high priest. For that he must die horribly; that could not be altered. Methods could be changed, however, and where Haggat had previously planned to use the cult's own elaborate system of spies and assassins to torment and eventually kill Garth, he now thought that might be unwise. It would be better to turn another enemy against the overman and let the two destroy each other, allowing the Aghadites to assess their power, and leaving the survivor weakened so that the cult might then handle him directly.

Furthermore, he knew exactly the right enemy to use for this purpose; an enemy of his own, an enemy he had long sought vengeance upon.

The priesthood had not been his first choice for a career; as a youth he had set out to become a sorcerer and had served several years as a wizard's apprentice. His master, a very great magician, had mistreated him, insulted him, abused him, and withheld secrets from him. His frustration and anger had fed upon each other and grown in him until finally, one night, he had demonstrated decisively how well he had learned his lessons and how much his master had underestimated him. The demons he conjured took more than an hour to finish pulling the old wizard to pieces.

It was only after the demons had done their work and been sent away that he learned one of the facts his master had concealed from him-the existence of the Council of the Most High, a secret society of magicians of every kind that sought to limit and control the knowledge and use of the arcane arts. His late master had been a member and had carried a spell that alerted his fellow councilors the instant he died.

The killing of one of their number was something the Council did not condone under any circumstances. They destroyed or confiscated all Haggat's belongings, placed a geas upon him that severely limited his magical abilities, cut out his tongue to prevent him from revealing any of his forbidden knowledge or reciting incantations, and then dumped him before a temple of Aghad, the god of treachery and ingratitude, among other things.

Aghad was also, as Haggat had known even then, a vengeful god, and he had willingly entered the priesthood in the hope of eventually gaining the revenge he had sworn. Though he rose steadily in the cult's hierarchy, due largely to the little magic he still retained, vengeance had eluded him; he had been unable to convince the cult to take action against the Council. Even now, when he had become absolute ruler of the Aghadites, he had not yet attempted anything. He knew that the Council was too powerful and too well-informed to be attacked without much careful planning and preparation.

Its members included virtually all the most powerful wizards of the northern lands, and to defeat such a confederation would require great stealth and skill-or equal power.

He had assumed that no equal power existed in the world, but now, he thought, this enchanted sword that the overman called Garth carried might be just such a power. It angered him to think that the weapon had lain unused in Dûsarra, a few hundred yards from his own temple, without his knowledge. It could well have been there, offering countless opportunities for theft, since he first came to the city. He had been unaware of it until this overman came along and blithely stole it, wiping out Bheleu's cult in the process, defiling Aghad's temple, and spreading the White Death in the marketplace.

Now, though, Garth and the Council of the Most High would both pay for their temerity in defying him. He needed merely to turn one against the other.

Certainly one or the other would be destroyed, and he could then deal with the survivor.

How, then, could this be accomplished? How could he convince the Council that Garth was a menace, or convince Garth to attack the Council?

There was a hesitant knock on the chamber's door; the voice of his chief acolyte called, "Is all well, master?"

He turned, his chain of thought broken by this distraction, and noticed for the first time the damage done by the exploding glass. Glittering chips were strewn everywhere, and the draperies that lined the walls were spattered with smoking scorched spots where bits of hot debris had struck them. His own robe was similarly damaged, with several smoldering patches and half a dozen holes where the flying shards had penetrated. None had struck his flesh, though; the protective charms he carried, feeble as they were, had at least done that much.

His hands were another matter; when he snapped his fingers to summon the acolyte into the room he discovered that his fingertips were burned, as well as his palms. He winced with pain; when the acolyte limped into the chamber, he had his fingers in his mouth, a pose most unbecoming the dignity of his position as high priest.

The acolyte was not stupid enough to remark on it or to acknowledge in any way that anything was out of the ordinary. She said, "Forgive me, master, but I heard a strange noise, and feared for you. How may I serve you?"

Haggat considered for a moment. He would want her back in his bed shortly, but wished to have a few minutes to think first, and he knew he might as well put her to use. He made a sweeping gesture, indicating the broken glass on the floor.

"Your scrying glass?" The girl tried to keep her voice emotionless, but it was clear that she was puzzled.

He did not deign to nod; the fact that he did not hit her was acknowledgment enough that she was correct.

"I'll have it cleaned up immediately." She noticed the damaged hangings and added, "I'll have the draperies replaced as well, and inquiries will be made toward acquiring a new crystal. Is there anything else, master?"

It was not worth explaining by sign or note what he was considering; he would think it out himself first, before consulting with the other priests. He dismissed her with a wave, then caught himself. He did not want her to think that her duties would be done for the night after the clean-up. He pointed in the direction of his bedchamber.

"Of course, master; I am yours to do with as you will." She bowed low and backed out, favoring the leg and foot he had injured a few nights earlier.

He looked about at the scattered chips of glass. How could he turn the Council and the overman against each other?

When Darsen's carrier pigeon arrived three days later with the old man's report describing the destruction of Skelleth and the murder of the Baron, Haggat had his answer.

CHAPTER NINE

Garth awoke to find himself lying in the middle of a narrow alleyway; to one side was an old ruin, to the other side a burning building. Directly before him the Sword of Bheleu lay in the dirt, the gem in its pommel dark.

It was night; his only light came from the fire. Stiff and sore, he clambered to his feet and looked about.

He recognized the burning building; it was the house where he had found and killed that old man. He vaguely remembered the actual killing; he had spent a long time at it. There was blood on his hands, he noticed, but he could not be sure that it came from the old man; he had killed several people.

It might even have come from a wound of his own, though he hadn't noticed any.

He tried to remember what he had done after the man in red had finally died, to explain why he had found himself unconscious in an alleyway, but it was all very hazy. There had been something watching him, and he had done something with the sword-not cut, nor set afire, but something very difficult, something that had tired him. He couldn't recall exactly what. After that he had staggered out, setting the house ablaze behind him, and that was all he could remember. He must have collapsed immediately afterward.

Whatever he had done, it might have drained the sword of its power temporarily, he thought. He could detect not the tiniest spark of light in the jewel; it hardly even had the glitter of a normal gemstone. That was well; it meant that, at least for the moment, he was in control of himself.

That being the case, he knew he should get rid of the sword while he could. He had offered it to the Forgotten King, and it had been refused-or at least, it had not been accepted. That certainly discharged any obligation he might have had to the old man, so he was free to dispose of the weapon as he saw fit. He did not want to keep it. He wanted nothing further to do with it; it had made him do insane things, incredible things. It was the sword that had been responsible for the Baron's death and the burning of the village, and if he kept it, he knew he could not control the sword indefinitely; sooner or later the gem would glow anew, and he would again spread destruction and death.

What, then, was he to do with it? The simplest solution would be to let it lie where it was and leave, but that would not do; some passing human would doubtlessly find it and pick it up, and there was no telling what would happen then. It was true that Herrenmer had been unable to handle it, but he could not rely on such a thing happening again. He did not understand the nature of its magic, and it seemed wholly untrustworthy, one moment burning with supernatural power, the next seeming nothing but an ordinary blade.

He could not give it to anybody else; anyone but the Forgotten King would probably be overcome by it as he had been. The King seemed able to control it, but he did not trust the old man; besides, the King had rejected it.

He would have to find a safe place for it, someplace where no one could get at it-either that, or destroy it.

Could he destroy it? That would put an end to the problem once and for all.

It would be a shame to destroy such a beautiful weapon, but it was probably the only final solution. There was no hiding place in the world where it could not eventually be recovered. He would make the attempt.

He coughed; smoke from the burning building was beginning to reach him, though so far flames were only visible through the windows. He realized he was warm, almost hot, though the night was cool. It was time he moved away from the fire.

He reached down and reluctantly picked up the sword, keeping a wary eye on the gem. It remained dark.

He found his, way out of the alley and debated briefly which way to turn. He wanted privacy for his attempt to destroy the sword. He turned left, which he was fairly certain would take him out of the inhabited portion of Skelleth and into the surrounding ruins.

Though it was a moonless night, he had no trouble at all seeing his way; burning buildings lighted the sky behind him a smoky, lurid orange. The breeze was following him, carrying smoke and ash with it; his eyes stung, and he had to blink often.

He wondered what was happening around the marketplace. Had the overmen suffered many casualties? Had they butchered the villagers? How many survived on each side? Had any of the humans fled south, to gain the aid of their kin and bring the wrath of the High King at Kholis down upon the invaders?

Had he started the Racial Wars all over again?

Whatever happened, it would take time before any human reinforcements could arrive. He wanted to use that time to destroy the sword, so that he could deal with any new threats rationally.

He came to a place where a wall of heavy blocks of cut stone had been tumbled into the street, to lie in scattered chunks. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder what could have brought down such a wall; was Skelleth prone to earthquakes?

There were too many questions, far too many questions.

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 had 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 overconfidence in believing that he could resist the weapon's magic. He was a reasonable being, with only good intentions; he would not willingly lave 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 something 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..."

Garth interrupted, saying, "The battle was not disastrous; we won easily. It's the consequences of the victory that may be disastrous."

"I stand corrected. Let me finish, though. You started, then, a battle that could have disastrous consequences. You have acquired a sword with which you are able to perform destructive magic and you claim it has a mind and will of its own; after the battle the sword has mysteriously vanished. You have brought back with you a human female of no particular value, and then abandoned her. You have behaved oddly, perhaps even insanely, screaming a lot of nonsense about gods and death, while setting fires on all sides. I am told by this human, Saram, that you have made some sort of pact with a local wizard who has promised you immortality.

"Garth, surely you see that to all appearances you have become completely irrational, madder than the Baron you slew. We have all deferred to you, and let you go your way, so far as was practical, because you are a respected overman, an honored member of the City Council, an experienced military commander, the hereditary Prince of Ordunin, and generally as highly placed and well-considered as it is possible to be among our people. A great deal of eccentricity can be tolerated under such circumstances. There are limits, however, and until Kyrith and I, the legally appointed co-commanders of this force, have received some acceptable explanation of your behavior, we cannot allow you to go on as you have. The consequences could be too severe.

If you refuse to explain yourself, we will be forced to consider you deranged-dangerously so, but perhaps only temporarily-and to exclude you from all authority. If you cause any further difficulty, we may have to disarm you and confiscate your goods and weapons, perhaps even place you under provisional arrest. Do you see our position?"

Garth listened to this speech with shifting emotions. At first he was annoyed, then astonished that Galt and Kyrith could think him to be mad. He was silent for a moment, considering.

He had behaved irrationally, he knew that. He had been under the sword's influence. He might even now be less than fully under his own control; he knew that the spell could be subtle and that he need not be touching the weapon to be affected, though he thought it must weaken with distance. He could not be trusted, either by himself or by others. Unpleasant as that conclusion was, he knew he had to accept it.

Hesitantly, he said, "You are correct, Galt and Kyrith. You are entitled to an explanation. I am not mad; I have reasons, reasons I think good and sufficient, for everything f have done. I can see, though, that from your viewpoint my behavior has been strange indeed. I will be glad to explain myself and let you decide for yourselves how to deal with me."

Saram broke into the conversation. "If I might make a suggestion," he said, "there is no need to stand about out here while explaining. The King's Inn, over there beyond the ruins of the mansion, was not damaged by the fighting. Frima and I were inside it the whole time, which is why we're unharmed. I suggest that we go there, where we can sit and speak more comfortably, and get some ale to keep tempers from fraying."

Garth realized that he was, in fact, quite thirsty, his throat full of smoke. He nodded consent.

"An excellent idea," Galt agreed.

Though the Baron's mansion was gone, the cellars remained, half-filled with rubble and not readily passable in the darkness, forcing the party to take a roundabout route to reach the street where the King's Inn stood. As they passed the ruins, Garth glanced down and noticed something pale in the wreckage. He looked more closely and saw that it was a statue. It had once been a human being, Garth knew; the Baron had used him as a test subject for the basilisk's legendary power. The overman suddenly no longer regretted killing the Baron, whatever the repercussions might be.

The street that ran behind the destroyed manor had been the town's filthiest alleyway, dark and forbidding; now, though, the destruction of the surrounding buildings had let in fresh air and firelight, so that it was no longer much worse than any other debris-strewn byway. Its most outstanding feature was the presence of an unburnt building, the King's Inn.

The three overpeople and two humans picked their way through the gloom, past broken stones and fallen timbers that littered their path, while Koros padded silently along a few paces behind, following its master.

Galt remarked, "It's curious that this tavern should have survived unscathed, so close to the square."

"It is more curious than you know," Garth said. "It alone, of all the buildings in Skelleth, withstood the power of the sword when I tried to set it ablaze."

"I think that you and I, Garth, both suspect why this is," Saram remarked.

"Tell me, then," Galt said. "Or is this some great secret that you two share?"

"No, hardly that," Garth replied. "This inn is the home of the Forgotten King, the wizard I first came to Skelleth to find. He seems to be capable of many amazing things; saving his home from the flames is simply the latest example of his power."

"From what I know of the old man," Saram added, "he could probably have saved the entire village, but preferred not to take the trouble."

Galt snorted in derision. "If this man is such a mighty wizard, what is he doing in a pesthole like Skelleth?"

"That's one of the mysteries about him," Saram answered.

They had reached the door of the tavern; it was closed, despite the relatively warm weather, the only sign that there was anything out of the ordinary. The broad front window was clean and unbroken, the half-timbered walls clean and smooth, with no sign of smoke or soot anywhere.

Saram opened the door and led the party inside; Koros, at a word from Garth, waited in the alleyway.

CHAPTER TEN

The interior of the tavern was crowded with people, all human. As the three overpeople entered a sudden quiet spread before them. Three dozen pairs of eyes watched them intently. In the silence earth could hear the sound of a knife sliding from its sheath.

Saram muttered, "I think you had better say something."

"People of Skelleth!" earth said, "We have come in peace. The battle is over. We mean you no harm; we have come here to drink and to talk, nothing more."

The silence and tension remained; the crowd still watched.

"Innkeeper," Galt called, "five mugs of your best ale!" He sauntered into the room, found an empty chair, and seated himself. The table he had chosen was occupied by two grubby, middle-aged men in stained tunics. "I hope you don't mind if we join you," he said casually, "but there don't appear to be any vacant tables."

One of the men muttered a vague reply; the other sat and stared.

Galt waved to earth and the others. "Come and sit downy"

Hesitantly earth obeyed, taking the remaining empty chair at the table.

Kyrith followed, and stood awkwardly for a moment until Saram brought her a chair from a neighboring table.

"Uh...we were just going," one of the villagers said. He rose and backed cautiously away. His companion sat and stared.

Saram escorted Frima into the vacated place, then tapped the lingering human on the shoulder. "Excuse me, friend, but would you mind moving to another table?"

The man looked up, startled. "Hah? Oh...no, no, of course not." He got awkwardly to his feet and followed his companion, backing away from the table and finding an empty chair elsewhere.

Saram seated himself and remarked, "That's better." He raised an arm and called, "Innkeeper, where's that ale?"

Galt remarked, "Garth, you really don't know much about dealing with humans. You don't want to make speeches to a crowd like this; just convince them that you belong. Actions are far more convincing than words."

"A truth I had forgotten momentarily," Saram agreed.

The other patrons were beginning to lose interest and turn away. The innkeeper was approaching with a tray bearing ale. Garth glanced around the room, realized the crisis was over, and allowed himself to relax. He also noted in passing that the Forgotten King was at his customary table, as if nothing had happened.

"Now, Garth," Galt said, "we would like to hear your explanation for your behavior."

"One moment." The ale had arrived, and Garth downed his in a few quick gulps. He handed back the empty mug and said, "Keep refilling this until I tell you to stop."

The innkeeper nodded. "Yes, my lord."

The other four were not hasty in their drinking; the man departed with earth's mug while they sipped their ale.

"Where shall I begin?" earth asked.

"Wherever you please," Galt replied.

"At the beginning," Saram said.

Kyrith nodded in agreement.

"What beginning?" earth asked.

"We thought your behavior odd when you first ventured south from the Northern Waste," Galt replied. "Why not begin by explaining how that came to pass?"

"I am not certain where the beginning of that was," Garth said. "Last winter, I suppose, though I cannot name a date; it seemed to grow gradually."

"Start with that," Galt told him.

"Very well. You all know how the winters in our lands can wear on one-save perhaps Frima, who is not from these northern realms. The shortness of the days, the paleness of the light, the cold, the snow, the ice-all oppress the mind and the senses. This past winter seemed to affect me more than usual, though it was not an especially harsh one. I found myself depressed and bored; each day I told myself that it would pass, but each day I seemed to sink further into gloom. I could think of nothing but death and despair, and the futility of our lives, struggling to live in the Waste, able to do little more than survive. Every event seemed to contribute to my melancholy; when the hundred and forty-fourth anniversary of my birth arrived, all I could think of was that I must now be more than halfway to my death. It seemed that I had done nothing of any importance in that half of my life. I had won a few inconsequential battles with pirates and raiders, I had fathered a few children, and I had spoken in the City Council on such matters as rebuilding wharves and buying arms. The pirates and raiders survived and will doubtlessly return; my children will grow old and die; my speeches will be forgotten. What was worse, I saw no prospect of anything better in the future.

I would grow old and die without ever having done anything to make a mark upon the world. In a century or two, no one would remember that I had ever existed.

I did not want that to come about, but I could think of no way to avoid it."

"No one looks forward to death," Galt said.

Garth glanced in the direction of the Forgotten King, but did not deny Galt's statement. Instead, he said, "I know, I know, it is the way of things.

I was not satisfied with that, however, and resolved to change it, if it could be changed. I went to the Wise Women of Ordunin and asked, first, whether there was anything I could do that would alter this way of things, some act of cosmic significance I could perform that would change the nature of life. They told me that was beyond the power of mortals. I had expected that. I then asked if there was any way that I could be remembered forever, so that, if I had to die, at least my memory might survive."

The innkeeper arrived with Garth's second ale; he drank it and handed back the mug. Before he could resume his narrative, Saram asked, "Who are the Wise Women of Ordunin? You have mentioned an oracle of some sort, but you never told me much about them."

"Ao and Ta are sisters who live in a cave near Ordunin; both are ancient and deformed overwomen," Galt told him. "They have been there at least since the city was built during the Racial Wars. They will speak with certain people, but avoid all others by hiding in the depths of their cave. They answer questions. Although no one has ever known them to lie or to be wrong, they are fond of evasive and confusing answers."

"You trust them?"

"They have never been wrong and have never lied," Garth said. "I trusted them last winter. I am not certain I will trust them in the future."

"Go on, then, with your story," Galt said.

"When I asked the Wise Women how I might be remembered until the end of time, Ao told me that I must go to Skelleth, find the Forgotten King, and serve him without fail. She told me the name of this inn, and that he could be found here wearing yellow rags. I was sufficiently caught up in my search for eternal fame that I immediately gathered together supplies, armed myself, and came south on Koros-though I had not yet named it then; it was simply my warbeast. I told no one what I planned because I considered it wholly my own affair and did not want it known that I was coming to Skelleth. I feared that the City Council might consider such a venture potentially dangerous, since at that time we all still believed Skelleth to be a mighty fortress, from whence the humans might attack us at any time. I could not then truly explain why I was suddenly so concerned with being remembered, why I was obsessed with death, or what had brought on my depression; I still cannot. Whatever the reason, knowing I would be remembered seemed the most important thing imaginable.

"I knew nothing about Skelleth, of course, save for the old tales from the wars, and not much more about humans. When I saw that the walls were in ruins, I thought that the fortress must be deserted; therefore, I rode directly in, making no attempt at stealth. When I came upon people, it was too late to change my approach, so I continued on openly and asked directions to the King's Inn.

"Here I found the Forgotten King, exactly matching the description I had been given; he told me he could, indeed, guarantee that my name would be known until the end of time if I were to serve him, and if he were successful in some great feat of magic he had planned. I agreed to undertake an errand for him as a trial of sorts; I was to go to the city of Mormoreth, southeast of here, and bring back the first living thing I found in the crypts beneath the city. I did as he asked, but I was not pleased with the outcome. The only living thing in the crypts was a basilisk, a magical and incredibly poisonous creature, so venomous that its slightest touch or even its gaze was fatal. To capture it, I had to kill several bandits and a wizard, which I had no wish to do."

"In the course of attempting to deliver it, I encountered further difficulties; the Baron of Skelleth learned of the creature's existence, and desired it for use as a weapon of war. He took possession of it briefly, but I recaptured it and delivered it to the King. I didn't know what he wanted with it, or what he did with it, but it did not serve his purpose. When he had finished with it, I killed it, rather than let so dangerous a creature fall into the hands of the mad Baron."

"That enraged the Baron; he already disliked me because I had failed to cooperate with him, and being deprived of the basilisk seems to have caused him to hate me implacably."

"Meanwhile, I had reconsidered my bargain with the Forgotten King. I was dismayed at having accomplished nothing beyond several deaths in running his errand; when he pointed out that I would be remembered in Skelleth and Mormoreth for those deaths, I broke off our agreement. I was no longer so enamored of eternal fame as to wish to buy it through slaughter and servitude."

"The King, however, perhaps to soothe me, made a suggestion; he pointed out that, as I could see, Skelleth was no longer the unforgiving enemy of overmankind that it had once been, and that I might acquire some measure of fame and wealth by establishing trade between Skelleth and the Northern Waste.

As you all know, I set out to do that. I found you, Galt, to handle the details of trade, that being outside my own knowledge, and brought you, Tand, and Larth back here to open up trade, only to learn that the Baron would not cooperate with the one who had deprived him of the basilisk and his hopes of becoming a mighty warlord. He set intolerable conditions on our trading in order to humiliate me. You know that, Galt; you were there. You know that he asked me to swear fealty to him, to become his vassal.

"Caught by surprise, I foolishly agreed to present his proposal to the City Council and, in fact, swore an oath to that effect. That was a bad mistake on my part; I concede that."

A third mug of ale arrived; Garth paused to drink, but did not gulp it down as he had the first two. He waved the hovering innkeeper away.

"It is difficult for me to explain exactly why I acted as I did. I had it fixed in my mind that the establishment of trade was an absolute necessity, both for the good of our people and for my own aggrandizement. I wanted to accomplish something that would be an unmixed blessing, that would be beneficial to all concerned, and the opening of this trade route seemed to fit. No one would die; I would be serving no mysterious old man. Still, I would achieve renown which, if not eternal, would at least be of a positive nature. Convinced as I was of the value, to myself and to Ordunin, of trade, I was ready to agree unthinkingly to almost any terms. It took the shock of the Baron's insults and arrogance to jar me out of that. "By the time I realized what I had done in swearing that oath and accepting banishment, it was too late to retract. To have gone to the Baron and asked him to reconsider at that point would have been humiliating in itself. I wanted time to think, to see if there were any way to arrange matters more to my satisfaction. The oath I had sworn had a loophole-I had agreed to speak to the Council immediately upon my return to Ordunin, but I had not said when I would return. I decided, therefore, that I would leave Skelleth as ordered, but would not return home.

Galt told you this, Kyrith, or part of it, but you chose not to believe him. I have treated you badly in giving you no explanation before this and I apologize for my negligence."

"Having decided that I could be in neither Skelleth nor Ordunin, I had nowhere to go. I could have gone to Kirpa, I suppose, or Mormoreth, but I had no reason to. The Forgotten King had expressed an interest in renewing our bargain and had even offered to change the terms, promising me not merely eternal fame but actual immortality if I would return to his service. I was not eager to accept; I'm sure you know tales of how a long life can prove more a curse than a blessing, and I had begun to suspect that the old man was practicing deceit. I was wary. However, I had nothing better to do, and he promised me that running his new errand would provide me with the means of avenging the slights I had received from the Baron of Skelleth. Therefore, I agreed to attempt the task he set, though I made no promises that I would complete it. This task was to bring him whatever I found upon the altars of the seven temples of Dûsarra. I had no idea where Dûsarra was, or how long it would take me to rob the seven temples, or even whether I would truly go there; therefore I could not tell Galt when I would be back. I guessed that it would be by the end of the year and told him to tell you that, Kyrith. I should have told him more, explained the situation perhaps, but I was angry and slightly drunk at the time and in no mood to do so. I am sincerely sorry if I caused you worry."

He finished his ale and put the mug to one side. Kyrith nodded, as if accepting his apology.

"You still haven't explained the sword or the girl," Galt said.

"I'm coming to that. I did go to Dûsarra, you see; the task was an interesting challenge. I had a vague idea that if I found and brought back whatever it was the Forgotten King wanted, I could withhold it from him until he met whatever demands I might decide to make. He is a magician of some sort, there's no doubt of that."

"At any rate, I found Dûsarra and robbed six of the seven temples. Some were easy; others were not. I won't go into detail about what I found or what I did, but there are a few things worth mentioning."

"Dûsarra is the city of the dark gods, the seven gods of evil that humans believe in. Each of the seven has a temple and a cult-or had. One of the gods is Bheleu, the god of destruction; his temple was a ruin, his altar a pile of burning wood. The sword I brought back with me was on that altar. From the first moment I saw it, it seemed to have some sort of control over me; I felt a compulsion to take it from the altar, ignoring the flames, and to kill the worshippers of Bheleu with it. I did. It was involuntary on my part. As you have all seen at various times and in various ways, the sword is undeniably magical and powerful. It was also very useful; in the course of events in Dûsarra, I lost virtually all my other weapons, so that I needed it for my own protection. Therefore, dangerous as it was, I brought it back with me. That was obviously a mistake. I thought I had it under control, but I was completely wrong; it seized hold of me again and made me slay the Baron and start the battle. That did indeed gain me my vengeance upon the Baron, as the Forgotten King had promised, but the other results are less pleasant."

"After the battle, the sword had apparently exhausted its power temporarily; I awoke in an alleyway with it lying beside me, the red gem dark and no compulsion or anger working on me. I tried to break it, but could not.

My attempt only caused it to glow again. Rather than permit it to dominate me anew, I fled and came here, leaving it where it lay."

Having completed his tale, he sipped his ale.

"You claim, then, that your apparent insanity was the work of this magical sword?" Galt asked.

"Yes, exactly," Garth answered.

"That alone?"

"I believe so-that is, if you refer to my actions since acquiring the sword. I have no good explanation for the depression that first drove me into venturing south after eternal fame."

"No, I can accept that; I have heard of such emotions before. It's not uncommon for overmen of your age. It's the sword that worries me. If it is truly what you say, was it wise to leave it lying about unguarded?"

"Perhaps not, but I had little choice. I dared not touch it again; the brightness of the glow assured me that it would seize control immediately."

"Would it not be better for you to handle it, now that you know of its dangers, than to leave it where any stranger happening along might pick it up?"

"Ah, but such a stranger could not pick it up. You saw, did you not, what happened when Herrenmer attempted to touch it?"

"My view was not clear," Galt began.

"I was not there at all," Saram said, interrupting. "What happened?"

"The hilt grew hot to his touch and burned him so badly that he could not pick it up. Yet a second later, I used it without taking harm. I have thought this over, considering as well the circumstances under which I came into possession of the sword, and have concluded that it cannot be used by humans. Therefore, we need only keep our own troops away from it to ensure that it will not be used."

"I am not sure, Garth. Perhaps we should test this."

Garth shrugged. "Perhaps we should, but to test it may be dangerous. If it worries you, then post a guard around the sword. That would ease my own mind as well."

"I find it hard," Galt said, "to accept your claims about the sword's power. I admit that it has magic to it, but it is merely metal; how can it have a mind and will of its own?"

"I don't say that it does; it may merely be linked to some great power.

I am tempted to believe that it is in truth controlled by the actual god of destruction, whatever he may be. My experiences in Dûsarra have shaken my atheism; there are undoubtedly spirits and powers in the world beyond what we know."

"Could it not be, Garth, that something-perhaps the sword, which plainly is magical, or perhaps something else you encountered in your journeying-has driven you mad and caused you to imagine this controlling power?"

Garth considered this. "I suppose it could be," he admitted. "But I do not think it to be the case."

"We will have to investigate the sword further and test out what you have said."

"You are free to do so, but do not expect me to use it again. I ask only that you be very, very careful."

"Whether you are correct in your belief in its power, or merely deluded by madness, it seems to me that we cannot wholly trust you."

Garth shrugged. "I will not argue with that. I think you will see, in time, that I am again as rational and sane as you."

"That would seem to be settled, then."

Galt was interrupted by Kyrith; she touched his arm and then pointed at Frima. "Oh, yes," Galt said. "Who is this person, and why did you bring her here from Dûsarra?"

"Frima? That's simple. My task was to bring back whatever I found on the seven altars; at the time I arrived in the temple of Sai, the goddess of pain, her worshippers were in the process of sacrificing Frima. She was the only thing on the altar, so I took her and brought her back with me. Having done so, I had no further use for her and turned her free."

"It would seem you have, as you said, an explanation for everything-bizarre as those explanations may be."

"Yes. If you would like confirmation of some part of what I have said about the sword, Frima can attest to its effects upon my temper. She saw on the journey back here that, when the red jewel glowed, I became angry; when it dimmed, I remained calm."

Frima spoke for the first time. "That's right."

"Another question occurs to me," Galt said. "You were sent to fetch these things by the so-called Forgotten King; why, then, did you not deliver them to him?"

"He refused them. You will recall I said I robbed six of the seven altars. The seventh held nothing but a skull that was apparently part of the altar and which I did not trouble to pry loose. The old man, however, claims that the altar should have held a book, which was the only item he really needed. My failure to deliver this book angered him so that he marched off and left the other things in my possession. I regret that, since his magic seemed able to control the sword; had he kept it, today's battle might not have taken place."

"Curious."

"Perhaps not. The caretaker of the seventh temple, the shrine of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, told me that the god's true high priest was a mysterious ancient called the Forgotten King. The description was unmistakably of the same man. The King has not denied it. It is not so strange, then, that he would know what might be found in his own god's temple, and that he might wish to make use of it"

"I see. The underlying circumstances here remain unclear, but I begin to understand that they are in fact interrelated."

"My own thoughts are similar," Garth agreed, "and I want no further part of it. I have done with magic and gods and priests, I hope. For the moment, since you feel I cannot yet be trusted, it appears I am done with politics and diplomacy as well."

"Then we are agreed that Kyrith and I will retain command?"

"Yes. We cannot be sure that I am truly free of the sword's influence.

From your point of view, we cannot be sure I am sane. I do hope, though, that you will permit me to advise you. I know more about Skelleth and the lands to the south from first-hand experience than any other overman living."

"True. What, then, would you advise us to do in the current situation?"

"The most important consideration is to establish peace with Eramma, but it is not, perhaps, the most immediately pressing. The need to provide some organization here in Skelleth seems more urgent. A human should be appointed to take charge of the surviving human population, as a sort of interim baron, under your command; the humans would not take well to the direct rule of our people, and we in turn do not understand how humans think, so that direct rule would be inefficient and unnecessarily galling. I would recommend Saram here for the position, since, as a former guardsman-and perhaps the only one surviving-he has some experience at organization. He was a lieutenant and therefore knows how to give orders. Furthermore, he is a human we are comfortable in dealing with, and one who seems comfortable with us, yet who is not outcast by his own kind."

Saram protested, "I don't want the job."

"So much the better; you'll be less tempted to abuse it."

"We can settle that later," Galt said. "What else?"

"Well, once some semblance of order is established, the human population should be set to rebuilding the town to suit themselves, while our people serve as garrison and administration and lend whatever aid we can. We now control Skelleth, but it remains essentially a human town and we should deal with it on that basis, allowing the humans to arrange it as they please."

"You imply that we should retain possession of it, however."

"Oh, yes; why give up a good bargaining point before we're even asked?"

"As a trader, I know that's sound. What else?"

"Word of events here must be sent to the City Council of Ordunin immediately, and their advice asked-but we must remember we are south of the border and outside their jurisdiction; and we are here on the spot and more knowledgeable than they, so that we must be willing to reject their advice, should it seem foolish."

"Would you set Skelleth up as a new nation, then?"

"No, not necessarily, but I would keep every option open for as long as possible."

"Is there anything more?"

"When the effort can be spared, an exploratory mission should be sent to the Yprian Coast. As well as establishing trade, such a mission should investigate the possibility that the overmen there will be willing to support us militarily against Eramma, should it become necessary."

"Now there you have a very good point."

"I envision that Skelleth may become a mixed community of humans and overmen permanently, equally part of Eramma and the Waste, serving as a center of trade between them and with the Yprians. I think such an outcome would be highly desirable. There is no reason that the memory of the Racial Wars should continue to blight all our lives."

"You are ambitious, Garth."

"I think such a scheme wholly practical, Galt."

"It may be. We will try it and see. I will admit I have no better suggestions."

"Good." Garth downed the rest of his ale and signaled to the innkeeper.

He was pleased; even though he himself was now to be excluded from the mainstream of events-and thereby freed of aggravating details-things seemed to be working out well. The Baron was dead and gone, Garth's commitment to the Forgotten King was at an end, he was free of the Sword of Bheleu, and it seemed quite likely that everything could be worked out peacefully.

Oh, there were still loose ends-the Forgotten King yet lived, the sword still existed, and peace was not yet made-but it looked good. It looked very good.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dawn was breaking by the time Saram was convinced he should serve as acting baron until someone better could be found. Garth and the others decided that it was hardly worth trying to sleep before sunset. Garth had had his nap in the alleyway, but the others had not slept since before the battle. Galt had managed to sleep the previous morning, after standing the night watch, but his rest had been interrupted by Garth's return.

In short, all of them were exhausted, as were almost all the townspeople and overmen. As a result very little was accomplished beyond a good deal of bleary discussion.

At sunset nothing had been done about the Sword of Bheleu beyond posting two overmen to guard it-maintaining a safe distance at all times, since Garth insisted that, if they came close to the weapon, it might seize control of their actions. Nothing had been done toward the reconstruction of the village, except that the villagers had been divided into work parties of fifteen or twenty, each under the direction of a skilled craftsman. Ideally, each group would have been run by a master house builder, but the entire village had only a single journeyman in its surviving population; for decades there had been no need for new houses and few had bothered to repair the old ones.

The overmen had pitched their tents in the marketplace, as they had planned, but did not enjoy the privilege of occupying them; instead, preference was given to women and children, followed by the wounded-including the seven injured overmen-and finally by the feeble or elderly. That accounted for at least three people to a tent. The remainder of the population was left to take shelter in the ruins or do without.

The warbeasts were gathered together; after carrying out their attacks on the archers, some of them had been left undirected during the remainder of the battle and had strayed aimlessly through the town. They were fed with unidentified corpses or those with no surviving kin; the recognized bodies were spared to avoid offending their families. Some protests arose when it first became known how the overmen proposed to feed their animals, but were quieted when it was pointed out that if the warbeasts weren't fed they would seek their own meals, and that they preferred to take their prey alive. It was suggested that the town's livestock would serve, but the proposal was rejected on the grounds of unnecessary squandering of the available resources.

Garth refrained from taking any direct part in the day's activity, but watched carefully and offered occasional suggestions to Galt and Kyrith. Galt strove mightily to retain his civilized calm, but as the day wore on, it grew ever thinner, allowing flashes of temper to show. Kyrith, handicapped by her inability to speak, gave up trying to give orders by noon and instead sat sulking in the King's Inn, deigning only to answer questions brought to her and allowing Galt and Saram to run the entire affair.

Saram, for his part, despite his show of reluctance, took to command immediately. He appointed temporary officials to ad hoc jobs at the slightest excuse, ordering each to fulfill a particular function without ever once explaining how the job should be done. Whenever he thought of something that needed to be done or had some matter brought to his attention, he named the nearest willing human as the minister in charge of getting it done. By the time new tasks stopped appearing, around midafternoon, he had at least fifty ministers under him, making up a good part of the surviving population.

The new officials, unfortunately, were not coordinated and were as tired as anyone else, so that very little was actually done as well as it should have been. Food and water were found for all the survivors, and the tents were distributed, but rubble was not cleared, no construction was begun, and the remaining fires were left to die on their own.

Still, Galt saw quickly that Saram had the humans in hand; even though they were accomplishing little, they were being kept busy, and had no time to think about the fact that they were now virtually slaves to an alien species in their own village.

Once he was convinced that he need not worry about a rebellion, Galt turned his attention to making use of his own warriors. Of the sixty overmen who had accompanied Kyrith and himself from Ordunin, eleven had died in the fighting-almost all from arrow wounds-and seven had been wounded in varying degrees, not counting scrapes and bruises. That left him forty-two. Besides the two he had assigned to guard the Sword of Bheleu, he posted two at each of the five gates and assigned ten more as their relief. That left him twenty.

Saram assigned humans, mostly male teenagers who were eager to help but not otherwise much use, to guard the gates as well, so that each entrance to the town had four guards, two of each species, at any given time.

Galt had objected at first, on the grounds that the duplication was an unnecessary waste of manpower, but gave in when Saram pointed out that if men and overmen were to live together they had best learn to work with one another. Furthermore, he pointed out that humans approaching Skelleth might be alarmed at seeing only overmen and might flee, while they would be only confused and wary upon seeing men and overmen together.

From the twenty remaining overmen Galt chose his apprentice, Tand, and four others, and assigned them to journey to the Yprian Coast as an impromptu embassy and trade mission. They were to depart the following morning and they spent the rest of the day gathering supplies and resting. They were to have two warbeasts-enough to carry them all in an emergency and adequate to defend them against almost any peril of the road, but not enough to deplete the force in Skelleth seriously. Galt held the remaining overmen in reserve in case of an attack by humans angered by the overmen's capture of the town.

A mission was also to be sent to Ordunin. At first Galt considered going himself, but he quickly realized that the only person he could possibly leave in command in his absence was Garth, and he did not feel ready to do that.

Kyrith volunteered to go, but hesitated when Garth refused to accompany her; he insisted he still had business to attend to in Skelleth, primarily finding some permanent solution to the problem of the magic sword. At last, after some debate, she did agree to go, leaving immediately and taking three other overmen with her for escort.

That left twelve warriors, Galt, and Garth. The warriors were put to work pitching tents and carrying water. Galt was busy every minute overseeing the work. Garth watched as well, but without the, responsibility of command.

Frima, for her part, served as a messenger.

The King's Inn was used as a command post, but throughout the long, wearing day no one spoke with the old man in the back.

When at last the sun oozed down past the western horizon, the anger and fear of the battle were gone, replaced by fatigue and resolve. Garth, despite his weariness, felt peculiarly refreshed and clean as he settled down for the night on straw from the stable beside the King's Inn-which, like the tavern itself, had not burned. For more than a fortnight his dreams had been only of destruction, but he had spent this day obsessed with rebuilding-a welcome and healthy change. He was very pleased that he had managed to escape the spell of the Sword of Bheleu.

He was almost cheerful when he fell asleep.

Within an hour, though, his dreams began to trouble him. Images of blood and pain began to appear, and everything seemed washed in a red haze. He saw again the image of the high priest of Aghad whom he had fought in Dûsarra and again saw the Sword of Bheleu splatter the priest's brains and blood across the dirt of the Dûsarran marketplace. He saw himself slaughtering the entire cult of Bheleu with manic glee while thunder pounded overhead. He relived the battle just past and recalled in detail what he had done to Darsen. Finally, he found himself standing alone on a barren plain, holding the Sword of Bheleu before him. He tried to cast it away, but his fingers would not release the hilt; he tried again and became aware suddenly that there was someone behind him. He knew, not knowing how he knew, that behind him was the sword's rightful owner, the one to whom he could give the weapon and be rid of it once and for all.

He turned around and saw himself, clad in a loose red robe over black armor, hand held out to receive the sword; his other self's face was twisted into a malign grin that suddenly poured forth mocking laughter.

With a grunt of surprise, he awoke.

He was no longer on his pile of straw but on his feet, facing the part of town where he had left the sword.

He shook his head to clear it and looked about. He had not gone far; his pile of straw lay a yard away. He settled down upon it once again and considered.

The dream did not seem wholly natural. It might, he thought, be a lingering remnant of the sword's influence. Or perhaps he was more vulnerable while asleep, and the sword or its master had sent the dream to him for some reason. Or, of course, it might be an ordinary dream-perhaps a bit more vivid than most, but that could be attributed to exhaustion and the excitement of recent events.

The oddest feature was that he had started to sleepwalk; he did not recall ever having done that before. That, more than anything else, made him suspect a magical influence. Perhaps the sword was attempting to draw him back, and the dreams had been his own attempt to resist.

Whatever had caused the dream, it made him uneasy and ruined his earlier contentment. It appeared that he could not be really sure he was free of the sword until it was destroyed. He would have to see to its destruction as soon as possible. He decided not to go to sleep again, but to stay awake until he could discuss the situation with Galt. Fatigue overcame him, however, and he dozed off and slept uneasily.

He awoke again as the first light of dawn painted the eastern sky with faded pink and lay for a moment watching the stars go out. He had dreamt again, but only in vague and muddled images-all unpleasant. There had been none of the eerie clarity of the first series; perhaps whatever power was affecting him had tired itself.

He had to destroy the sword. He dared not undertake any of the other tasks that he hoped eventually to complete while its baleful influence lingered. He could not, however, do anything with the sword without Galt's cooperation, as the guards posted upon it had been told specifically to keep Garth away from it unless Galt was with him.

At the first opportunity, he would have to take Galt out to the sword, convince him of its power, and then find a way to dispose of it once and for all. Until then, he could do nothing.

He sat back, leaning against the wall of a burned-out house, and did nothing.

When Galt awoke, he was instantly besieged with decisions to be made, orders to be given, and work to be done; Garth waited patiently. The morning passed. Garth contrived to speak with the master trader turned commander as they ate their noon meal.

Galt agreed that the sword should be dealt with. He promised that at the first opportunity he would accompany Garth to deal with it. The organization and reconstruction of the village was of primary importance, however; he had to oversee that. When he could spare the time, he would.

Garth resigned himself to waiting. He waited through the afternoon and evening. That night he slept heavily and dreamed of death; he awoke to find himself standing amid the ruins a few dozen yards from the sword.

Galt was busy throughout the following day as well, as heavy rains came, flooding foundations, turning the streets to mire, and slowing down all work.

Villagers jammed themselves into the tents and the few structures that still had roofs.

The rain was not wholly unwelcome, though; for the first time, the smell of wood smoke subsided, and some of the soot and filth was washed from the ruins. Supplies of drinking water, which had grown scant, were replenished.

Garth spent the day in the King's Inn, speaking to no one, sitting in the front corner by the window, watching the people who crowded the room. He did not approach the Forgotten King. He did not see Galt at all. He noticed that Saram and Frima were together almost constantly and that the girl was now more of an aide than a messenger. On several occasions he noticed her staring at him; he guessed she was wondering at his inactivity or perhaps hoping he would return her to Dûsarra.

The third night after the battle, recalling his experiences of the first two nights, he moved his bedding further from the sword, up into the abandoned northeastern portion of Skelleth. He slept covered by a sheet of oilcloth someone had found in the rubble and felt the rain gathering in pools atop it.

He awoke several times, each time finding himself upright and moving south, the rain on his face. It was obvious that the rain had awakened him each time, and that only that had kept him from moving further. His dreams were jumbled images in red and black; he relived repeatedly all the bloodier incidents of his life. In stark contrast to the tedious hours he had spent doing nothing while he waited on Galt's convenience, his nights were full of fury and violence. He fought pirates and raiders on the coasts of the Northern Waste, killed bandits on the Plain of Derbarok,, and slaughtered priests and worshippers in Dûsarra. Throughout, whatever the actual circumstances had been, he found himself gleefully wielding the Sword of Bheleu, laughing as blood spattered about him, killing anything, friend or foe, that got in his path.

By dawn, he was resolved that he could not wait much longer. If Galt could not spare the time before sunset, he would leave Skelleth and try to get far enough away to escape the dreams.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The village of Weideth lay in a small valley in the foothills below Dûsarra and consisted of perhaps two dozen homes and a single combined tavern, inn, and meetinghouse, all arranged around a crossroads. The West Road led up the slope to Dûsarra; the North Road led through the mountains to the Yprian Coast; the South Road led to the rich farming villages along the upper branch of the Great River; and the East Road led through the heart of Nekutta to the civilized lands of Eramma, Orûn, Tadumuri, Amag, Mara, and Orgûl.

Of late there had been a great deal of traffic coming down the West Road and leaving by either the East or the South. Those who had bothered to stop at all reported that they were fleeing from an outbreak of the White Death. There were also stories of great fires, riots, and a heightening in the city's perpetual internal conflict among the seven cults.

There had also been more overmen leaving Dûsarra than usual; the Yprian traders had cut short their visits and were turning back their fellows from approaching Dûsarra. No more caravans came down the North Road, and all those that had come before had already returned. It seemed likely that there was not a single overman left in the city.

The people of Weideth had watched the refugees go through, had offered what aid and comfort they could, and had accepted whatever payment was offered in exchange. They were practical people and saw no reason to refuse good money. The village was wealthy with Dûsarran silver.

It was three weeks since the plague's outbreak, and the number of people coming down the West Road had dropped from more than a hundred a day to a mere handful, when the girl in the black robe arrived in the nameless village inn.

She was young and walked with a limp, the Seer of Weideth noticed when she entered the public room. Her face was hidden by her cowl-that was typical of the secretive Dûsarrans. She carried no personal belongings that he could see; that was unusual for a refugee at this late date. There had been plenty of time now for anyone planning to flee to have gathered a few things together. Perhaps, he guessed, she had converted everything to cash and had the money hidden somewhere beneath her robe.

She paused just inside the door and looked about. He knew that she was looking for someone specific-he did have the true talent of a seer, though only weakly. That was very odd; how would a Dûsarran know anyone in Weideth?

There were no other city-folk in the tavern just then-only him and a dozen of his fellow villagers.

He was interested. Could it be that she was not a refugee after all?

The innkeeper had noticed her now and was coming over to speak to her.

The Seer watched and had one of his erratic flashes of insight. She was looking for him, the Seer of Weideth. Before he could do anything about this sudden knowledge, she was asking the innkeeper, who pointed him out.

He put down his wine cup and considered her as she approached the table.

"I am looking for the Seer of Weideth," she said.

"I am he," he answered. "Have a seat."

Made awkward by her injured foot, she took a moment to arrange herself on the offered chair. The Seer looked her over.

She was olive-skinned, like most Dûsarrans, with thick, curling, black hair which she wore long; a few strands spilled out of her cowl, reaching down past her breast. She seemed pretty, but he could not see clearly the outline of her face. There was something out of the ordinary about her that he sensed rather than saw, an aura of perversity and twisted emotion.

"I am Aralure; I'm a wizard's apprentice. I was sent here with a message for you."

She was lying about her identity, but had indeed been sent to him. He nodded. If it was important, he could worry later about who she really was and why she was lying.

She hesitated. "How can I be certain you're really a seer?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Ask anyone in Weideth." He knew her uncertainty was due partly to the ease with which he had accepted her lie. When she still seemed unsure, he added, "Your name is not Aralure, and you are not a wizard's apprentice, but you do have a message for me. What is it?"

"How do you know who I am?"

"I don't, but I would be a very poor seer if I could not tell truth from falsehood."

That seemed to satisfy her. "I have been sent here to warn you and any other magicians I may find, of whatever discipline, of the actions of a certain overman."

"You refer, I suppose, to Garth of Ordunin, who caused so much havoc in Dûsarra."

"You know his name?"

The Seer was gratified by her surprise. "Oh, yes," he answered. "Am I not the Seer of Weideth?"

The girl eyed him dubiously. "How much do you know about him?"

"Tell me what you came to tell me."

The Dûsarran considered for a moment, then said, "As you will. It was Garth who loosed the White Death upon the city, you know. He killed a great many people in other ways as well, including several priests. He was responsible for the burning of the market place."

"I know all that, and I am sure you know that it is common knowledge.

The refugees who have passed through Weideth have kept us well-informed, quite aside from my own abilities. We have an ancient prophecy here that when an overman comes out of the east to Dûsarra he will unleash chaos and disaster upon the world. It would appear that Garth is the overman described, and the White Death the prophesied disaster. What of it? Why have you come here to tell me what I already know?"

"You did not allow me to finish, my lord. Did you know that the overman is still spreading destruction? Three days ago he destroyed the fortress town of Skelleth, on the northern border of Eramma."

The Seer studied the girl. "How do you know that?" He could perceive beyond any doubt that she spoke the truth as she knew it. "Skelleth is a fortnight's ride from here."

"My master has methods of learning what goes on in the world."

"Your master is the one who sent you to me?"

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"A wizard; he prefers not to give his name."

"He's no wizard. Is he a priest, perhaps?" He read in her face that he had guessed correctly. "A priest who seeks vengeance upon Garth?"

She nodded reluctantly.

He sat back. It seemed plain enough. One of the Dûsarran cults, unable to avenge itself directly, hoped to recruit his aid in pursuing the overman.

He had little love for any of the vile cults of the black city, but if this Garth were in truth disturbing the peace of the world and causing further destruction, then the overman had to be stopped.

He wondered why the priest had chosen him to contact. Were there no wizards left in Dûsarra?

Perhaps there weren't; the plague might well have depopulated much of the city. Reports were vague and inconsistent, since even those still healthy remained in isolation in their homes for the most part.

Or perhaps this priest had an inflated idea of the Seer's own power; perhaps the, priest did not realize that the Seer's predecessor, a truly remarkable prophet of great vision, had died and been replaced by a much lesser seer.

Perhaps...but there was no need to wonder, when he could ask the girl.

"Why were you sent to me?" he asked. "What can I do?"

"I don't know," she admitted truthfully. "My master did not say. He told me to seek you out, and to speak also to any and all other seers, or wizards or magicians I might encounter."

Perhaps this priest thought that the Seer would spread the word, until eventually the news reached someone in a position to act upon it. That made sense, though he found himself resenting slightly the implication that he was a gossip. As a matter of fact, though there was no way the priest could know it, he would see that the news, once verified, did indeed reach those who could respond appropriately; he would send a message to the Council of the Most High, of which he was a very junior and peripheral member. No priest would know that the Council existed, though; it had been a lucky chance, he was sure, that brought this young woman-whoever she was-to one of the councilors.

Surely it could be nothing more than that.

"I see," he said. "Very well, then. You have done your duty." He wondered if he should pursue the question of her identity, but decided against it. Every sect in the city was dedicated to darkness, in one way or another, and every sect apparently had been affronted by Garth. It mattered little, he thought, which one had chosen to take action.

There was the question, though, of how word had been received from Skelleth in a fourth the time it took a man with, a good horse to cover the intervening distance. Perhaps one of the priests had a hireling wizard with a scrying glass. That might be dangerous.

It wasn't his concern, however. He would contact the Council, tell them everything he knew on the subject, and let them worry about it. His place was here in Weideth, tending to the needs of the villagers, guarding and interpreting the prophecies of his forebears.

He downed the rest of his wine and rose. The girl rose as well. He nodded politely to her and turned to go.

The Aghadite watched the gray-robed man leave with her contempt scarcely hidden. The fool had hardly questioned her at all! He had asked for no proof, no details of Skelleth's destruction. He had hot questioned her motives nor divined her identity. He had not even taken the trouble to ask her to show her face!

He was probably a worthless drunkard, she decided, whatever talent he might possess.

It didn't matter; all that mattered was that she had done what Haggat had ordered and delivered the message. Her part was finished. She could not imagine what good it could do to inform this third-rate oracle of Garth's actions-but she was still a novice in the ways of intrigue. Haggat knew what he was doing, she was sure.

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 midafternoon 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 aftereffect."

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 glimmered 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.

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."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I interrupt something?"

"Give me the damn massage!"