With much hesitation and awkwardness, the Seer explained about the visit from the Dûsarran girl and reported what his divinations had told him.

When he had finished, he waited for a response. Shandiph sat silently for a long moment, then said, "All right. You've delivered your message; you can go now."

The Seer's image vanished immediately.

In Weideth, the Seer relaxed. The matter was out of his hands. He thanked the elders for their assistance, then ordered a final mug of ale before retiring.

In Kholis, Chalkara looked at Shandiph, who was staring at the floor.

"This could be serious," she said. "It could start the Racial Wars all over again."

"We'll have to make sure it doesn't," Shandiph replied. "Listen, I'm having trouble thinking clearly; have you got something that counteracts wine?

I left all my potions in my own rooms."

"I think so." She rose gracefully, crossed to a cabinet against the far wall, and began rummaging through it.

"Do you think he's right about how dangerous this overman is?" The elder wizard scratched his balding head.

"I don't know anything about it, Shandi. I have never even heard of Weideth or its Seer, nor Garth of Ordunin, nor of the Sword of Bheleu. The only name I know from the whole affair is Skelleth; and even if Skelleth is a pesthole-it is, too-the High King won't be pleased to hear it's been destroyed. It's a bad precedent. Besides, the Baron of Sland is bound to make trouble about it." She pulled out a small brass bottle. "I think this will do; it's a cure for drunkenness and senility."

"I am neither drunk nor senile, woman, merely tipsy. Still, it should serve; pass it here."

Chalkara complied and told him, "The normal dose is three drops."

"One should do, then, but I'll make it two to be safe." He suited actions to words, then shut his eyes and mouth for a moment.

"It tastes awful," he said a moment later.

"Potions usually do," she replied.

"I know. You'd think something could be done about it."

"Right now, I think there are other things more important to do."

"You're right. I don't know anything about Garth of Ordunin or about Skelleth, and the Sword of Bheleu is legendary, which means the available information can't be trusted. I do, however, know the Seer of Weideth, albeit only slightly. It's a hereditary post, one of these odd little oracular talents that turn up here and there. Weideth is a village in the hills in the northwest of Nekutta, and its seers have certain undeniable gifts as long as they remain within the immediate area. The current Seer is no great prophet, but he can do a simple divination; I'm afraid there's no disputing his facts."

"Then this sword really is too powerful to defeat by mundane methods?"

"Oh, we can't be sure of that; a clever assassin might manage something.

There could be flaws in the Seer's detail work in that particular conclusion.

I would certainly agree that an army won't work; he couldn't have missed the mark by that much."

"Do you want to try an assassin, then?"

"Chala, my dear, I'm not going to try anything. I don't know enough about it. I'm going to get some expert advice first."

"What sort of advice?"

"Oh, I think I had best consult an astrologer and a theurgist, since there may be a god involved, and experts on swords and overmen and perhaps an archivist or two. I'll find a really good diviner to study the entire affair; I'm no good at that sort of work myself."

"Shandi, if you're going to do all that, wouldn't it be simpler just to convene the entire Council and turn the whole thing over to them at once? You know that you need approval from a quorum before you start commissioning assassinations or fooling with major arcana."

Shandiph considered this silently for a moment. The pleasant glow he had felt earlier was almost wholly dissipated now, and he found himself slightly irritable in consequence.

"You're right, Chala. Aghad take this overman, you're right. I hate convening the Council; there's always argument, and I always have to break it up. There's no getting around it, though; this is important enough for the whole Council. A border has been violated and the invaders are using magic.

That's exactly the sort of thing that the Council is supposed to prevent."

"Well, at least if you, turn it over to the Council, you won't have the entire responsibility."

"Oh, I don't mind the responsibility. It's better than having to listen to that fool Deriam and his idiot theories about the natural supremacy of Ur-Dormulk or trying to keep peace between Karag of Sland and Thetheru of Amag. You know, I came down here early just to get away from Deriam and now I'm going to have to invite him here."

"I thought you came to see me!"

"I did, I did; after all, I could have gone anywhere from Ur-Dormulk, couldn't I?"

"I know, Shandi. I guess we won't be finishing the game, will we?"

Shandiph looked at the scattered caravanserai pieces. "I suppose not.

And just when my luck was changing!"

"Ha! You would have been lucky not to lose a hundred coins!"

"Would I? We'll see next time, then!" He smiled, then frowned. "Right now, though, I had best go find the Charm of Convocation." He clambered awkwardly to his feet.

Chalkara began gathering up the carved tokens. "Shall I come with..

you?"

"You tempt me, but no. Only the Chairman is to see the Charm-another silly rule."

"In that case, shall I go and tell the King to expect company?"

"Yes, I think so; it is his castle, after all. He might get upset if three dozen magicians were to turn up on his doorstep without warning."

Chalkara nodded, and began placing the ivory pieces neatly into their places in the rosewood box.

Shandiph watched her for a moment, then said, "Gan and Pria bless you, Chala." He left, closing the door gently behind him.

That night each and every member of the Council of the Most High had the same dream, and each awoke knowing that he or she was to leave immediately for Kholis.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Saram was not called away immediately, but eventually, as Garth was beginning to feel rather soggy from the vast amount of ale he had consumed; someone came looking for the interim baron. A jurisdictional dispute had developed between two of his ad hoc ministers.

Garth watched him go, taking Frima with him, and marveled that he could walk straight. The human had consumed ale mug for mug with him, and if Garth was feeling the effects, then surely, he thought, the much smaller human should be staggering drunk. It did not occur to him that he had been drinking earlier as well, before picking up the sword, while Saram had not.

It was the middle of the evening and the tavern was crowded; nonetheless, as usual, the Forgotten King was alone at his table in the corner beneath the stairs. Garth seated himself opposite the old man.

For a long moment neither spoke; Garth was unsure how to begin, and the Forgotten King preferred to let the other speak first.

"I have questions I would ask you," Garth said at last.

The old man said nothing, but the yellow cowl dipped in a faint nod.

"You say that you cannot die by ordinary means. How can this be? What would happen if you were struck with a good blade? If your neck were to be severed, would you not die like any other mortal?"

"My neck cannot be severed by any ordinary blade," the King replied.

The hideous dry voice caught Garth off-guard; he had forgotten how unpleasant it was to hear. He hesitated before asking, "How can that be?"

The yellow-draped shoulders rose, then sank.

Garth felt a flicker of annoyance and immediately looked at the hilt of the Sword of Bheleu. The gem was glowing very faintly.

That was not necessarily bad, he thought. Perhaps if he were to allow himself to become angry, the old wizard would douse the sword's power as he had done before, and Garth would be able to escape from the weapon's hold without making any sort of deal at all.

He turned back to the Forgotten King and asked, "You say no ordinary blade can kill you; what of the sword I carry?"

"You are welcome to make the attempt," the old man replied.

Garth considered that.

If the result were the destruction of the sword, then all would be well, and his problems would be at an end for the moment. If the result were the death of the King, then he would have performed an act of mercy, but he might be stuck with the sword indefinitely. If both were destroyed, that would be best all around.

There was surely some other way of getting free of the sword. Perhaps, even if it were not destroyed, it would be sufficiently weakened by the effort to loose its hold.

One way or another, the odds appeared to be in his favor. He decided to risk it. He stood, reached up, and pulled the sword from its sheath, awkward in the confined space of the tavern. The tip of the up-ended scabbard scraped the ceiling as the blade came free. It was obvious that he would be unable to swing the blade up over his head; he would have to use a sweeping horizontal stroke instead.

There was a hush, and he looked about, realizing that the other patrons of the tavern had abruptly fallen silent. They were staring at him and at the great broadsword, wearing expressions that ranged from vague curiosity to abject terror.

"Have no fear," he called, "I mean none of you any harm. The old man here has challenged me to strike off his head. Haven't you, old man?"

The yellow-garbed figure nodded, and Garth thought he caught a glint of light in one shadowed eye.

The overman looked along the path he planned for the sword and saw that it would pass uncomfortably close to the humans at a neighboring table.

"Excuse me, friends," he said, "but I would greatly appreciate it if you could step back for a moment, to give me room to swing."

The humans quickly rose and backed away.

Satisfied that he would endanger no one but the King, Garth took a good two-handed grip on sword and tried to swing it.

At first it moved normally, but as it approached the old man's neck it slowed, as if moving through water rather than air. From the corner of-his eye Garth could see the red gem glowing fiercely, but he felt none of the roaring anger and exultant bloodlust that usually accompanied the glow.

Then the sword stopped, inches from the ragged yellow cloth, frozen in mid-air as it had been just before it severed the rope earlier that afternoon.

He could force it no closer.

He strained, putting all the strength of his arms into driving the sword toward the old man's throat.

The blade did not move; instead it rang, like steel striking stone, and flashed silver. The hilt grew warm in his grasp.

That inspired him to push harder; perhaps he could force the sword to reject him.

The ringing sounded again, louder, like the sound made by running a moist finger along the rim of a fine crystal goblet, and this time it did not fade, but grew. The red glow of the jewel was brighter now than the lamps that lit the tavern, and the blade was unmistakably glowing as well. The hilt was hot, but there was no pain, no burning, and he knew that he could not release his hold any more than before he had swung.

The sword did not move, but remained stalled in midair, as if wedged in stone, a few short inches from the old man's neck.

Then, abruptly, it forced itself back, against his will.

Startled, he released his pressure and found the sword hanging loosely in his grasp, apparently quite normal. The ringing had stopped. The glow had vanished, and the hilt was cooling rapidly.

He was determined not to give in that easily. He swung the sword back and attempted another blow.

This time, as the blade approached its target, it veered upward, twisting in his hands, and cut through nothing but the air above the Forgotten King's head.

He stopped his useless swing and brought the weapon back for a third try. This time he found himself unable even to begin his swing; the sword was suddenly heavy in his grasp, impossibly heavy, and he could not lift it to the height of the old man's neck.

Annoyed, he applied his full strength and hauled the blade upward. It seemed to struggle, and he felt a pull, as if a great lodestone were tugging it away from the King.

He fought it, but could not bring the weapon to bear on the old man.

After several minutes of struggling, the Forgotten King's dead, dry voice called to him.

"Garth. Stop wasting time."

Reluctantly, he gave up and let the tip of the sword fall to the floor.

It lost its unnatural weight, and he picked it up as if to sheathe it.

Then, abruptly, trying to take it by surprise, he yanked it around into a thrust toward the King.

It stopped short a foot from the tattered yellow cloak.

He gave up in disgust and sheathed the sword. It did not resist.

He seated himself again and asked, "Was any of that your doing?"

There was a pause before the King replied, "Not willingly. None of it was of my choosing, but it was as much my curse as the sword's power at work."

"Then an ordinary blade would behave similarly?"

"Not quite. It would break if forced, rather than fighting back."

Garth sat back, thinking.

He was unsure whether or not to believe that an ordinary blade would break. He was not even certain that he should believe the old man's claim not to have willingly interfered. Perhaps he had lied, lied throughout; perhaps he did not want to die. His claims might be camouflage for some deeper, more subtle scheme.

He could not be trusted.

He did, however, have the power to control the sword.

A vague, uneasy thought occurred to Garth; he considered it, let it grow and take form.

Perhaps it was in truth the Forgotten King who controlled the sword's actions entirely, and not the mythical god of destruction. Perhaps Garth's entire mission to Dûsarra had been an elaborate charade the old man had contrived for reasons that remained unclear.

Such a theory seemed unlikely, but could not be completely discounted.

Carrying his imagining a step further, Garth arrived at another possibility. What if the sword and the Forgotten King were both being controlled by some other unseen power? It might be Bheleu, The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, or just some mighty wizard.

What if everything that had befallen him was part of some vast plot?

Could his depression and resulting quest for eternal fame have been the result of some spell? Could the entire sequence of events that followed have been planned, his every action guided?

Had he ever had any choice at all in his actions?

He shook his head. This was all getting too complicated and farfetched; he doubted that there was any such conspiracy at work. If there were, it was obviously far beyond his own capabilities to do anything about it.

"O King," he said, returning to the subject at hand, "I would like to make you a gift of this sword. It was at your request that I brought it from Dûsarra, and I feel it right that you should have it."

The Forgotten King said nothing.

"You will not refuse it?"

"I will not accept it," the King replied, "until you swear to serve me by bringing me the Book of Silence and aiding in my final magic."

"You have said that this magic will kill many people; I cannot in good conscience aid you in it."

"Then I will not accept the sword." He did not say anything more, but it was plain to both what was implied; while Garth kept the sword, he would be in constant danger of having further death and destruction on his conscience. He faced a choice of two evils, neither clearly the lesser, and both, in fact, quite large.

Garth reached up to his breast and picked at the knot that held the scabbard on his back. As he had expected, he was unable to work the strands at all.

"Will you not reconsider?" he asked.

"Will you?"

Defeated for the moment, Garth sat back and thought.

It seemed clear that the Forgotten King would not help him; the overman had feared as much. The sword had not obliged him by driving him into a frenzy that the King would have been forced to quell; a glance over his left shoulder showed that the gem was glowing moderately, yet he felt no particular anger, no great compulsions. The thing was biding its time. Perhaps it knew something of the future and was waiting for something specific; perhaps it was aware of the Forgotten King and had learned that he was able to control it, and so was restraining itself.

Perhaps, should it attempt to wreak havoc in the future, he could contrive to bring it here and threaten the King, so that the old man would be forced to dampen its power in self-defense.

No, that would not work; what need did the King have to defend himself?

He was immortal and wanted to die-at least, so he claimed.

That might be a bluff, Garth thought, to convince him that there was no point in threatening the old man. Next time the killing fury came, Garth decided, he would make an attempt to find the King and test out his invulnerability again.

For the present, though, there seemed nothing more to be gained here. He rose and left the tavern.

The streets were dark, but torches lit the marketplace directly in front of him on the far side of the cellars of the Baron's destroyed mansion. He paused and looked again at the knot that held the scabbard in place.

It was a very simple, rough knot; he had tied it himself and knew that to be the case. Ordinarily it would have been hardly adequate to hold the sword; normal jarring would have worked it loose in an hour or two. The sword's power, however, could apparently be spread beyond the weapon itself; the knot was tight and solid.

He picked at it again, but could not work the strands loose.

There was an ancient legend about a knot that could not be untied. The story was that after many wise men had tried to undo it, a simple warrior had cut it apart with his knife. If Garth could not untie the scabbard strap while the sword was sheathed, perhaps he could cut it.

He made his way around the cellars and approached the nearest overman he saw. It was Fyrsh, relaxing by a campfire after his supper. He had no objection to loaning Garth his dagger. "After all," he said, "you've already got that sword if you want to start trouble."

Garth agreed, smiling, and thanked him. Then he found a quiet spot to sit and tried to cut the strap.

It was difficult slipping the blade under the strap at all; where a moment before it had seemed comfortably loose, it was now drawn tight across his chest. Finally, though, he managed to force it in and turned the blade, working it against the leather.

The blade was notched almost immediately, as if meeting steel.

Garth shifted it and tried again, sawing at the leather.

The blade snapped off completely, gashing his chest with the broken edge and cutting a long slit in his tunic before falling to the hard ground with a rattle.

The broken stump was of no use. He returned the pieces to Fyrsh with his sincere apologies and promised to pay for a new one.

It was growing late, and he had no further ideas that could be readily tried. Disgruntled, he set out to find somewhere to sleep. He did not care to be near other people; he was afraid that the sword might make him murder them while they slept.

After much walking, he settled down for the night in the shelter of a relatively intact stretch of the town's wall, midway between the North and East Gates. His sleep was calm and dreamless.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The first to arrive at the High King's castle was Karag of Sland, which was somewhat surprising; Stand lay almost two days' ride to the west of Kholis, and Shandiph knew there were other councilors closer at hand.

Furthermore, Karag did not come alone. The Baron of Sland had accompanied him, with a party of half a dozen black-clad soldiers.

The presence of the Baron made the arrival a matter of state; the High King was roused and formal presentation arranged. While this went on, Chalkara reported to the Chairman that a ragged stranger dressed in brown and carrying a staff had arrived at the scullery gate, refusing to give his name but insisting that Shandiph had sent for him.

"That's all right," Shandiph told her as he watched the High King accepting Karag's obeisance. "That would be Derelind the Hermit; he lives just south of here."

"Why wouldn't he tell me that?"

"Oh, he's a secretive young fool. Don't mind him."

Karag was rising now, and the six soldiers were being presented, together with a list of names and the honors they had received. Shandiph wondered how warriors could acquire so many marks of distinction on their records when the kingdom had been at peace for almost three hundred years.

"Should I find Derelind a guest chamber?"

"I don't know; ask him. He would probably prefer to sleep on the kitchen floor with the lower servants, and we may not have enough rooms for everybody, if we get a good response to the call."

Chalkara nodded and slipped away.

She was back by the time the soldiers had finished their ritual presentation. Now, by custom, the High King and the Baron would retire to the King's private council chamber for a report on the state of the Barony of Sland, and Shandiph would be able to speak to Karag without the Baron's presence.

"Now, my lord Baron; I would hear how your lands have fared since last we spoke." The King recited the traditional request slowly and precisely; it was plain to all present that he really didn't care how Sland fared, but was merely fulfilling his obligations. That was no surprise; the current King was perhaps the most worthless-to reign in Eramma to date.

Still, the ritual would proceed; to make it look good, the King and the Baron would have to stay in seclusion for at least a quarter of an hour.

Shandiph suspected they would do little in that time other than drink a few toasts, but it gave him his chance to speak with Karag.

When the nobles had left the room, Shandiph started across the floor of the throne room. Karag met him halfway. Before Shandiph could begin a polite greeting, Karag snarled at him, "Have you gone mad, you old fool?"

Shandiph was taken aback. "What?"

"What in the name of all the gods did you think you were doing, summoning the Council to this castle?"

"This is a matter for the Council to discuss," Shandiph replied stiffly.

Chalkara came up behind him as he spoke.

"So you blithely called us all here, to the castle of the High King at Kholis?"

"Yes, of course. Why not? I was here; as chairman, it is my prerogative to choose the meeting site. Further, Kholis is centrally located and has good roads."

"Does it mean nothing to you that our little group is supposed to be a secret organization, one whose existence is unknown to the world at large? For three centuries we have guarded that secret, and now you have virtually announced to the High King that there is an organization of wizards meeting here."

"I have done nothing of the sort. Is that why you came so promptly? To tell me this?"

"Yes, it is; I thought that, if I got here soon enough, I could talk sense to you and convince you to warn the others away. We have ridden night and day since half an hour after I received the summons."

"And you've brought the Baron of Sland with you."

"I had to; had I left without telling him, he would have had my head. I told him that I needed to speak with you immediately, and he insisted on accompanying me."

"And you call me a fool? Do you think he won't suspect that something out of the ordinary required such urgency?"

Chalkara interrupted Karag's sputtered reply. "Why did he come with you?

Did you not tell him this was a matter involving only wizards and their affairs?"

"Yes, I told him; I think that's why he chose to come. He's been taking a great interest in magic lately, even asking if I could teach him a few simple spells."

"You haven't, have you?" Chalkara asked.

"Of course not! But as you have probably heard, it's unhealthy to deny Barach of Stand anything, however slight. I dared not argue with him about this trip as well."

"If there is anything that will reveal the nature of this meeting, Karag, it is his presence. The King pays no attention to what happens around him; he cares for nothing but wine, women, and old books. The servants and courtiers can be frightened or bribed into silence. The Baron of Sland, however, is not so easily handled." Shandiph tried his best to sound stern.

Karag paused for a moment, then said, with no trace of contrition,

"Well, it's done now, and if we're to keep it secret you'll have to turn back all the others. I'm sure that the three of us can handle whatever this problem is by ourselves."

"The four of us; Derelind the Hermit is downstairs somewhere."

"Very well, then, the four of us. What is this worldshaking problem? Has someone stolen a love potion somewhere or caught a councilor kissing a baron's daughter?"

"The problem requires a quorum of the Council. An overman has gotten hold of a magic sword, a very powerful one, and has destroyed large parts of two cities. The Seer of Weideth has divined that he is beyond the power of ordinary measures. At the very least he'll require assassination, and we may need to be even more drastic. Now, Karag of Sland, do you feel I was unjustified in calling the Council together?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Are you sure of the facts?"

"The Seer of Weideth swore to them."

"Are you sure it was the true Seer?"

"No, but if it were not, Karag, then we have an even worse problem, do we not? The message was an imagesending; if it was not the Seer, then we have an enemy or traitor of unknown purpose and power to deal with."

"True. What cities were destroyed?"

"Shall we go somewhere more private?"

"Yes, of course. Chalkara?"

"There is my chamber; it has the customary wards upon it."

"Good." They retired to her quarters, pausing only to order a servant to send up Derelind, and any other enchanters who might arrive.

When Shandiph and Karag had settled on the velvet cushions in her sitting room, Chalkara found the remains of the golden wine that she and Shandiph had been drinking when the message first arrived and served it out to the three of them. They sipped it, waiting for Derelind.

When the hermit had arrived and refused cushions and wine, preferring to squat on the bare stone between rugs, Karag again asked, "What two cities were destroyed?"

"Permit me to explain, Derelind. The matter that I have summoned the Council to discuss involves an overman who has obtained a very powerful magic sword. He has already destroyed much of the city of Dûsarra, in western Nekutta, defiling most of its temples, burning the market and much of the surrounding area, and spreading the White Death, a particularly vile sort of plague. Dûsarra being what it is, I think we might forgive him that, but he has continued by laying waste to the bordertown of Skelleth and murdering its Baron."

"Murdering?" Derelind inquired.

"He was stabbed in the back, I am told."

"That would seem to be murder," Karag agreed. "What else?"

"He and a force of overmen have occupied Skelleth and are rebuilding it to suit themselves. It appears that they may intend to renew the Racial Wars.

I need not remind you that it was those wars that created this Council in the first place; we were sworn to maintain peace by whatever means necessary."

"Is the High King aware of this invasion?" Derelind asked.

"No."

"You have not told him?"

"We would prefer to settle the whole matter ourselves. The Seer of Weideth tells us that armies would be of no use against this overman, and what other option would the King have, save to send an army?"

"What, then, do you propose instead?"

"I wish to send either one or more very good assassins, or to use magic of a level this sword cannot counter," Shandiph said.

"What magic did you have in mind?" Karag asked.

"You know what our great weapon is, Karag," Derelind said.

"Yes, and I also know that many people think it a panacea and wish to use it every time the least little difficulty arises."

"You exaggerate, Karag. It has been used only once in the last three centuries," Derelind said.

"That once was more than enough; were it not for the sorry state of trade in these decadent times, the news of that use would have been a world-wide legend by now."

"Would that be so harmful?" Chalkara asked.

"Our organization's existence is a secret," Karag stated slowly and precisely. "We want to keep it a secret. Only in secret can we continue to maintain peace and to manipulate the governments of the world so that there is no aggressive action taken. Only by acting in secret can we limit the knowledge of the arcane arts and prevent the magical battle that caused such catastrophes in the earlier ages."

"It seems to me," Chalkara said, "that we are getting ahead of ourselves. It is not our place to decide this; it is a matter for a quorum of the Council. I think we can all agree on that."

"There is no harm," Derelind said, "in planning ahead. I suspect that the Council as a whole will, in fact, agree that this situation may require drastic remedies-and quickly. Might I suggest that, as soon as someone with the requisite talents arrives, we should send a magical message to the keeper of the weapon? I know little about the spells involved in controlling it; do they require any preparation time?"

"I'm afraid I don't know either," Shandiph admitted. "That has always been left entirely to the keeper."

"I still think it's a mistake," Karag said. "Turning people to stone can't help but attract attention."

"We are only suggesting sending a message, to have it ready if needed.

You know that Shang has orders to stay where he is and to ignore the summons I sent; we can't leave the thing unguarded."

"All right, then, send a message to Mormoreth. I still think, though, that using the basilisk is a mistake, and I'll vote against it in the Council."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Over the course of the next several days Garth attempted repeatedly to get rid of the sword. In doing so he broke two dozen assorted blades; hurt his jaw in trying to chew through the scabbard strap; burned his hand badly in a candle flame in the hope that sufficient heat or pain might cause the sword to lose its hold; cut the same hand and lost considerable blood in trying to pry his fingers open with a knife-which eventually broke; and acquired several scrapes and bruises in using various blunt instruments to try and pry his fingers from the hilt.

He antagonized several people, both human and overman, by breaking their tools, wasting their time, avoiding their questions, and sometimes by accidentally inflicting minor injuries of the sort that had battered his own hands and chest. He also talked three individuals into burning their hands in varying degrees by trying to handle the sword, which continued to allow no one other than himself to touch it.

His own injuries were of no consequence, however, and in fact scarcely even rated as a nuisance, since every cut, bruise, burn, or scrape healed miraculously overnight. There could be no denying that the sword had its beneficial aspects.

Unfortunately, the injuries received by others were not so obliging, though the burns caused by touching the sword invariably turned out to be less severe than they first appeared and always healed quickly and cleanly.

His attempts to remove the sword were further complicated by the necessity of keeping them secret from Galt; Garth was quite sure that Galt would interfere if he realized that the sword did have a hold on Garth, and that any such interference would do far more harm than good.

Saram was more astute than Galt and quickly figured out the truth of the matter. Garth was able to convince him to say and do nothing about it.

Galt, fortunately, was too busy trying to organize and govern Skelleth and the warrior overmen to pay much attention to Garth-particularly since Garth was specifically excluded from any say in the new government.

Garth was amused by his observation of Skelleth's resurrection. He had plenty of time to play the disinterested observer, since he was the only person of either species not actively involved in it. He had nothing to do with his time except to eat, drink; sleep, think, try to dispose of the sword, and watch the events going on around him.

His amusement derived from the differing styles and results of Galt and Saram. Galt had thrown himself completely into a frenzy of planning and organizing, spending every waking moment hard at work on governing. Any dispute that came before him was given careful and detailed attention and settled logically after much thought and analysis.

Saram, on the other hand, spent as little time as possible in work of any sort; he often joined Garth in doing nothing but watching. He settled disputes by fiat, without discussion, or by vote of whoever happened to be present-assuming disputes ever reached him in the first place, as he had given his horde of ministers to understand that it was their responsibility to keep their people in hand and out of his hair. Only when an argument crossed jurisdictional lines or involved jurisdictional lines did it reach Saram's ear.

Galt's efforts had resulted in very little in the way of concrete accomplishments; he had not managed to set up any permanent housing for his overmen, despite the approach of winter, nor to establish any lower levels of governance that could function without constant supervision.

Saram, on the other hand, had been building houses out of rubble at the rate of almost three a day and had had the town's wells cleaned out and a rudimentary distribution system set up. His ministers had sifted themselves out into levels of importance; some had resigned, either because their jobs were done or because they felt that they weren't needed. Two had been fired for incompetence and replaced. In short, Saram was the head of a working government.

That was the situation that existed when the messenger from Ordunin arrived.

Garth was sitting on a block of stone in front of the hole where the Baron's cellars had been, the stone walls having been excavated for use in new buildings; he wore his quilted gambeson beneath his tunic to keep out the growing chill in the air. Changing his clothing while the sword retained its grip had proved difficult, but possible. He had exhausted every method he could think of for getting free of the sword's hold that did not involve either travel or giving in to the Forgotten King and was now trying to decide where he should go first-the nearest ocean, to see if salt water might have an effect, or Ordunin, where the Wise Women might be able to suggest a solution.

He was no longer particularly concerned about his oath, though he had never been released from it, because it hardly applied to the current situation.

He was beginning to think that, after all, he no longer had much reason for staying in Skelleth. He had declined to accompany Kyrith because he had wanted to deal with the sword, which was then in Skelleth; now, though, the sword was wherever he was, and be could easily carry it to Ordunin and deal with it there. Ordunin was on the ocean, as well, though hardly the closest coast. Furthermore, if he were to travel, he would prefer to do so before winter closed in.

The only thing still keeping him in Skelleth-other than his interest in the rebuilding-was the presence of the Forgotten King, the one person known to be capable of controlling the sword.

There was a possibility that by taking the sword elsewhere it would stop being so complacent and again drive him into a destructive fury; that would be very unfortunate if it happened in Ordunin. But then, it might happen in Skelleth, which would also be unfortunate now that the rebuilding was well under way. His best course might be to head due east to the coast of the Sea of Mori; there were no towns along that route, nothing that he might destroy.

He reached up and pulled the hilt of the sword down so that he could look at the gem. Its glow was faintly visible even in the midday sun, yet he felt no anger nor bloodlust building up. The thing was being subtle, he was sure, planning something, waiting for something, or perhaps affecting him in some new way he hadn't yet detected.

As he stared at the red gem, he heard the rattle of armor and looked up.

It came from somewhere behind him, to his right; he turned and saw three overmen approaching, with two men trailing along behind them. One of the overmen was riding a good-sized warbeast.

Garth recognized the humans and the two overmen on foot, but he could not place the mounted figure for a long moment.

As the party drew up near him, he finally realized who it was: Selk, one of the City Council's messengers. He had not been among the sixty volunteers.

This, then, he knew, must be the response to Kyrith's mission to acquaint the Council with the situation.

"Where is the master trader Galt?" the messenger demanded.

"He's in the King's Inn," Garth replied politely, ignoring the other's imperious tone.

"You, fetch him," Selk ordered one of the two overmen who had accompanied him. Garth realized that they and the humans must be those who had been posted to guard the North Gate.

The warrior hurried to obey, taking the direct route through the pit; earthen ramps had been built on both sides to aid in removing the stones.

"Have you come alone?" Garth inquired

"You're Garth, Prince of Ordunin?"

"You know who I am."

"I wish to be sure."

"Yes, I am Garth, and you are Selk, son of Zhenk and Valik. Did you come alone?"

"I am here alone."

"Kyrith did not come with you?"

"I have said I am alone."

Garth was dismayed by the messenger's surliness; it did not bode well for the message the overman carried. He rose to get a better look at Selk's face. The warbeast growled.

Surprised, Garth looked at it, rather than at its rider.

Like almost every warbeast, it was black; its eyes were green, and its belly-fur white. Its fangs were gleaming white, a sign that it was young and healthy, since the teeth tended to yellow with age. Perhaps, he thought, it still had some of the excitability of cubhood.

Its tail was lashing, and Garth realized that it was looking, not at him, but at the hilt of the sword that protruded up above his left shoulder.

This was something new; none of the warbeasts remaining in Skelleth had reacted to the sword before. He wondered if this beast might have some special sensitivity to magic, or if maybe the sword was doing something new that was perceptible to a warbeast but not to an overman.

Selk also looked at the sword, startled, and said, "It really does glow!"

It was the first thing he had said that had not been spoken as harshly as possible, Garth hoped that it was a sign that Selk was relaxing somewhat.

"Yes, it glows," he replied. "It also burns and does other unpleasant things. Did Kyrith tell you about it?"

"Kyrith said nothing-I mean, she wrote nothing of it in her statement.

The others with her, however, did mention it."

"Did you doubt them?"

Selk did not answer immediately; when he did reply, it was only indirectly. "I have never encountered magic before."

"You have now. Be glad that you have not seen much, though; in my experience, most magic is very unpleasant."

Selk made no reply.

Before Garth had decided on his next remark, Galt and his escort arrived. In addition to the warrior sent after him, he was accompanied by three. humans, including Frima, and another overman, a young fellow named Palkh. Garth had seen both the male humans before, but did not know their names.

"Greetings, Selk!" Galt called as he climbed up the ramp from the cellars.

Selk did not reply. Garth thought he glimpsed a trace of worry in Galt's expression at that. For his own part, Garth now suspected that either Selk's news was very bad indeed, or that the fellow was simply rude by nature.

When Galt had reached the top of the slope, Selk suddenly spoke, declaiming in a loud voice while he held up a golden rod that represented his authority to speak for the Council.

"Know all present that this is the decision of the City Council of Ordunin! I have been sent here to present this decision, and bear no responsibility for its content. I bear no malice toward any present, nor do I favor them. I speak as I have been commanded."

Several women and children who were gathered in the marketplace, trading salvaged household goods among themselves, stopped and turned to listen.

"Whereas it has come to the attention of the Council that the party of overmen of Ordunin under the joint command of the master trader Galt, son of Kant and Filit, and Kyrith, daughter of Dynth and Dharith, and commissioned to negotiate trade agreements with Doran, Baron of Skelleth, has exceeded its authority and committed acts of war against the Barony of Skelleth; and whereas these acts were committed under the direction of the aforementioned Galt and also Garth, Prince of Ordunin, son of Karth and Tarith, and a Lord of the Overmen of the Northern Waste, and resulted in unnecessary bloodshed and destruction; therefore, the City Council of Ordunin hereby disavows all responsibility for these actions."

Selk paused to catch his breath, and Galt started to protest. Garth silenced him with a gesture.

"Furthermore, inasmuch as the members of the party in question may have been unaware of the limits of the authority granted to their commanders, no blame shall be assigned to any person other than the aforementioned Galt, Kyrith, and Garth, if those other persons immediately remove themselves from the area of Skelleth and return to the Northern Waste. No charges shall be drawn up against these persons.

"Furthermore, the aforementioned Kyrith, by virtue of her avowed reluctance to participate in acts of war, and by virtue of her presence before the Council and arguments presented, is hereby pardoned, conditional upon her continued presence in Ordunin."

"Finally, the Council disavows all claim to any portion of the Kingdom of Eramma, or to any profits that may accrue from acts of war committed against the Kingdom of Eramma, and declares the aforementioned Galt and Garth to be outlaws, this information to be delivered to them as soon as circumstances shall allow."

Selk stopped speaking, returned the rod to its place beneath his tunic, and sat astride his warbeast, looking down at Galt and Garth. There was a moment of silence.

"They can't do that," Galt said at last.

Garth was unsure what to say. Palkh said, "It appears that they have done it, though."

The women who had heard the announcement suddenly began talking among themselves, discussing this unexpected news.

Garth felt anger growing somewhere within him; he did not bother to look at the red jewel. Whether this anger was wholly his own or not did not seem important.

"Selk," he said, "is that your entire message?"

"Yes, that's it, at least so far as you are concerned."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I am to carry the same message to the High King at Kholis, together with a formal apology."

Garth had reached the conclusion three days earlier that, through some great good fortune, the High King and the other lords of Eramma were as yet unaware of the sacking of Skelleth. Had they known about it, there would surely have been some sort of reaction by now, such as a formal demand for surrender.

This ignorance was very useful. It gave them time. The King would have to learn eventually, but Garth hoped that the news would be delivered at the right time and under the right circumstances for the maximum advantage of overmankind. Therefore, he did not want this messenger spreading the word prematurely.

"I can't allow that," he said.

"What?" Selk was plainly astonished.

"Garth, what are you doing?" Galt asked.

"I cannot allow any such message to reach the High King at Kholis at this time," he said.

"You have no authority to stop me," Selk answered.

"I need no authority. I am an outlaw, am I not? Dismount, Selk, slowly and carefully, and make no move toward your weapons."

Selk hesitated.

In a single fluid motion Garth unsheathed the Sword of Bheleu; the red gem was gleaming brightly, and the blade shone silver.

"Dismount, Selk."

The bystanders, including Galt, were drawing back, unsure what to do.

Frima called, "Garth, is it the sword?"

Without turning his gaze from Selk's face, Garth answered, "I don't think so. This is really what I think best."

Selk looked about uncertainly and saw that no one was making any move to aid him. Garth stood ahead of him and to his left, five feet away, the immense broadsword clutched before him in both hands. Selk was not a warrior, but a messenger and a peaceful person, yet he dared not surrender; the Council would hear, and he would lose his position.

He could not fight and he could not surrender. That left flight. Trying to give as little warning as possible, he suddenly shouted the command to run to his mount.

Obediently, the warbeast surged forward; the Sword of Bheleu lashed out with preternatural speed and caught Selk across the chest. Garth had managed at the last instant to turn the blade so that the flat struck the overman, not the edge; the sword had fought the turn, but given in. Therefore Selk was not killed, but he was knocked backward off the beast's back, to lie stunned on the hard ground, his chestplate dented in more than an inch, his chest crossed by a great bruise, and two ribs cracked.

Garth started to lower the sword but found it resisting him; almost immediately he saw why.

The warbeast had been trained to protect its rider. As soon as it realized he was no longer in the saddle, it whirled to face Garth.

Everyone in the marketplace-the women, Frima, Galt, the three men, and the other overmen-immediately fled, amid a chorus of shrieks and shouting, leaving Selk lying on the ground and Garth facing the monstrous creature.

The warbeast roared deafeningly, baring fangs more than three inches in length; and charged toward Garth.

For an instant Garth was certain that he was about to die; he had seen warbeasts in action and knew that an overman was no match for one, regardless of what weapons he might hold. Spears and arrows could not penetrate the natural armor created by thick fur, loose, leathery hide, and layer upon layer of muscle that protected a warbeast's vital organs. A well-wielded sword might manage it; but only by luck; no other creature could move as fast as a fighting warbeast, or dodge with so much skill. A single blow from one of the great padded paws could tear an overman in half.

He forgot all that though, as the warbeast neared him. He forgot everything except that he held the Sword of Bheleu. It came up in his hands, hissing with flame and moving with blurring speed to meet the warbeast's charge.

The monster leaped upon him, and the blade met it in mid-air, at the base of its throat.

There was a sudden roar of flame, and Garth was smashed backward and down.

He came to a second or so later and found himself lying on his back. on the ground, pinned beneath the immense bulk of a dead warbeast, both his hands still clutching the hilt of the sword. The blade had gone cleanly through the beast, its tip emerging between the shoulders, red with blood.

The air was full of the stench of scorched fur and burned flesh.

Garth found it hard to believe that he was still alive. How could the warbeast have died so quickly? Even had he struck it through the heart, which he had not, it should have lived long enough to tear him apart.

"Garth?" It was Galt's voice that called uncertainly. "Are you alive?"

"Yes," he answered. The effort was painful; the wind had been knocked out of him by the creature's impact, and one fang had gashed his cheek in passing.

"Can you move?"

Garth was not sure whether he could or not; he tried, shifting slightly, and discovered that he could not.

"No," he called, "I'm pinned here."

There were sounds, but no further words reached him.

Something occurred to him, and he called, "Don't let Selk escape!"

"He's not going anywhere," someone said grimly; Garth thought the voice was human, rather than overman. It was definitely not Galt.

Something else occurred to him, and he looked down at the hilt of the sword. He was unable to raise his head enough to see anything other than black fur; there was no way he could see whether the stone pressing into his belly was glowing.

Cautiously, he removed his left hand from the hilt; it came away easily, as he had expected. Then he tried to open his right hand.

One thumb and one finger came free, but the other thumb and fingers remained in place. The sword had not released its hold.

He lay back, disappointed.

A few minutes later, with much straining, Galt and a party of overmen managed to push the warbeast's carcass off him. He pulled the sword free, wishing he didn't have to, then staggered to his feet, the weapon hanging loose in one hand. The gemstone flickered dimly.

"Thank you," he said.

"Garth," Galt demanded, "why did you do that?"

Garth looked at him. The brief battle had tired him, and his entire body ached from the strain of supporting the warbeast's weight and from being slammed against the ground. A stray pebble had cut open the back of his head when he fell, and he felt blood dripping down his back, across immense bruises, as well as running down his cheek.

"Do what?"

"Why did you stop Selk from leaving?"

He stared at Galt in astonishment. Could the trader really be that stupid? "Galt," he said, "what would the High King do upon receiving such a message?"

"I don't know," Galt answered. "Send a polite reply, I suppose."

"Don't you think that he might send an army to recapture Skelleth, once he was aware that we had taken it and that Ordunin would not send any reinforcements to our aid or back us in any way?"

"But he wouldn't have to recapture Skelleth!"

"Why not? We happen to be running it right now."

"But we're leaving, aren't we? The Council has disowned our occupation; our troops will be going home to take advantage of the amnesty, and we'll either have to go back and plead for pardon or seek refuge somewhere."

"Galt, I am not leaving. The Council has declared us to be outlaws and renounced all claim to Skelleth. The rightful baron is dead, without heir. We are in control of the barony. It seems to me that we can do quite well for ourselves by staying here in control. If the High King believes us to be here with the approval of the Council and the Lords of the Overmen of the Northern Waste, he will negotiate with us to save bloodshed-I hope-and we can have Saram declared the new Baron, thereby ensuring us of a place here. The Council will not interfere; they have disclaimed the whole affair."

"I don't understand. What good will it do to stay here and have Saram made Baron? We will still be outlaws in both lands."

"No, we will not; we will be Erammans, able to establish trade between the two realms. Benefits aside, though, have you considered what will happen to Saram and his ministers if we leave? He will be tried for treason and beheaded for cooperating with us. Would you willingly allow that to happen?"

"I had not considered that. I find myself confused."

"And are you so certain that all our warriors will take advantage of the amnesty? Might some not prefer to remain here, outlawed or not? There are things to be done here and very little to be done in Ordunin. Here they are a powerful elite; in Ordunin they are nothing out of the ordinary."

"I don't know."

"Galt, if you wish, you can go home and plead for clemency, but I am staying here and intend to call for volunteers to stay with me. And so long as I stay here, I dare not let Selk deliver his message to the High King. Is that clear?"

"Clear enough. I will have to think this through carefully."

"In the meanwhile, what will be done with Selk?"

"He's under arrest, more or less; I'll keep him there until I decide."

Garth nodded; that would do for the present.

Things had changed suddenly, he realized; less than an hour earlier, he had been thinking that he might return to Ordunin. Now he was absolutely refusing to do so.

The difference was in Selk's message. It had not occurred to him that the Council could be stupid enough to throw away its claim to Skelleth. The Council might be sufficiently timid to let Skelleth go for nothing, but Garth was not. He intended to hold it. If he was not to hold it on behalf of Ordunin, then he would hold it on his own behalf. He was sure that he could run it better than the Council could in any case. He found himself almost hoping that Galt would give up, go home, and leave him in charge. He would show the trader how a village should be run.

That was still to be decided, though. He stood and watched as Galt walked off, lost in thought, toward the King's Inn.

Saram appeared from somewhere; he had finally gotten word of the fight.

He looked at the dead warbeast and called, "Find me someone who knows how to skin animals! We shouldn't let so fine a hide go to waste. Garth, will warbeasts eat their own kind? We've been running short of meat for them."

Garth's chain of thought was broken as he tried to recall whether he knew anything about cannibalism among warbeasts.

Resorting to experimentation after the fur had been stripped from the carcass, he and Saram learned that warbeasts had no objection to cannibalism.

When the warbeasts had stripped much of the flesh away, it also became clear how the Sword of Bheleu had killed the monster quickly enough to save Garth's life; the internal organs had all been burned to a fine ash.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The first arrival capable of sending a message to Shang was the sorceress Zhinza, an ancient, tiny woman who maintained a small farm a few leagues to the east. Despite her age, she was still cheerful and energetic. She gladly consented to make the attempt when Shandiph explained the situation.

Chalkara obtained the High King's permission to use the castle's highest tower, which Zhinza said would make her sending easier. The topmost chamber, which had been used for storage of old weaponry, was cleared out and furnished with a clean, new mattress and an assortment of cushions and hangings; that done, Zhinza was moved in and left in the privacy she demanded.

The dozen councilors present by this time had expected her to emerge with an answer within the hour; as the minutes crawled by, they became first impatient, then concerned, and finally worried. The minutes became hours, and finally a full day passed, during which Zhinza had had no food or drink.

The more impatient wizards finally convinced Shandiph that something must have gone wrong, that the strain had been too much for the poor old creature; a rescue party was on its way up the stairs of the tower when Zhinza finally emerged.

It was apparent, that the sorceress had not slept or rested any more than she had eaten, and Shandiph arranged for her to have a good meal and a few hours rest before reporting her results to the members present.

By the time Zhinza felt sufficiently recovered to tell the gathering Council what had happened, the members in attendance numbered fifteen besides herself, and Shandiph had finally found time to speak with the two astrologers present as well as the one theurgist. He had also, by compiling information brought him regarding the deaths of members, by accepting proxies granted, and by consulting the Council's by-laws, determined that the quorum necessary to conduct business was twenty-one members. A quorum required two-thirds of the total votes, but not all members were equal; he, as chairman, had five votes of his own and several by proxy, while the most junior members had only one.

It was also required that a quorum be one of the numbers with mystical properties; twenty-one, being the product of the mystical numbers three and seven, as well as the recognized age of adulthood, met that prerequisite neatly.

No formal action could be taken until five more members arrived; nevertheless, to ease the impatience of many present, Shandiph officially convened the Council of the Most High. With the High King's permission, he had converted an unused gallery into a meeting chamber, complete with warding spells on each door and a row of three long trestle tables in the center.

The meeting was to have begun at noon; but as Shandiph had anticipated, it proved impossible to gather the entire group together on schedule. It was a good hour past midday when he finally rose at the end of the first table and called the meeting to order.

The gallery had a southern exposure and high, narrow windows; the sunlight from one of them lit Shandiph from head to foot, from the sweat glistening on his balding scalp to the sterling silver buckles on his black leather sandals. His remaining hair was thin and gray, his face broad and flat. He wore a tunic of black silk worked with silver that was cut to disguise his growing paunch, and soft gray breeches hid his thighs.

"Fellow magicians, seers, and scholars, I welcome you here and hereby convoke the session of the Council of the Most High," he said. "We are met to consider a matter that threatens to disrupt the peace of the world, which we are sworn to safeguard. A border has been violated, and magic of great power has been used"

"We all know that," Karag of Sland called. "Get on with it! What has Zhinza got to say?"

"Karag, I want to deal with the necessary formalities, if you don't mind, and get them out of the way. Now, is there anyone present who questions my authority to convene this Council or questions that I had sufficient reason to do so in this instance?"

There was a moment of silence; Karag was visibly restraining himself from interrupting again.

"In that case, is there anyone present who does not have a clear understanding of the situation we're here to discuss?"

This time there were muttered words and a few uncertain questioning noises. Shandiph gestured for silence, then began an account of what was known of Garth and the Sword of Bheleu.

"Reliable divinations have determined that this sword is in fact powerful enough that it could be used to defeat any army that Eramma might send against this Garth," he concluded. "Therefore, it falls to the Council to deal with this. trouble maker and prevent a long and bloody war. We are considering both assassination by ordinary methods and the possibility of using the basilisk to turn this Garth to stone. Other suggestions will be welcome. For the present, though, we asked the sorceress Zhinza to contact Shang in Mormoreth, the keeper of the basilisk, and inquire as to the monster's readiness for use. I now ask Zhinza to report what she has learned."

He gestured toward the old woman, then sat down, glad to be off his feet.

Zhinza rose, looked around at the gathering, and cleared her throat. She was at least two inches short of five feet in height, thin, and frail; her face was narrow and wrinkled, her hair long and shining white. She wore a simple unbelted gown of white linen.

"Shang isn't there," she said.

There was a moment of silent surprise; before anyone could speak, she went on, "I mean, I can't find him. As a lot of you know, my specialty is the knowledge of other planes of reality and the conveying of messages through them or drawing knowledge and power from them. I think I know as much as anybody about communicating over long distances or through other realms and probably more than any of you here. I used every bit of that knowledge in searching for any trace of Shang. I knew him when he was young and I know the shape of his thoughts and the image of his face. I couldn't find him-not in Mormoreth, not anywhere in Orûn or Derbarok, and not in any of the known planes that he might have been translated into. I think he must be dead. If he's not dead, then he's behind a warding spell the like of which I've never seen or else has gone someplace completely beyond my knowledge. I think he's dead and I wish he had carried a warning spell so we could be sure, but he didn't."

She paused, and then rushed on before anyone could interrupt, "And I can't find the basilisk either. After I couldn't find Shang, I looked for the basilisk, and it's not there. I don't know its thoughts, but it has an aura of evil and death that's unmistakable, and there was nothing but the memory of it in the crypts of Mormoreth."

She looked around defiantly and then abruptly sat down.

There was a moment of babble; then Shandiph rose and silenced the meeting. "Let us behave calmly and rationally," he said. "Now, who wishes to speak? You, Karag, what do you want to say?"

Karag rose, impressive in his red velvet and black leather, his black beard bristling. He was not particularly tall or especially heavy, but he gave the impression of great strength nonetheless, for his every muscle was hard and tense.

"I would like to know," he announced, "how reliable this old woman's findings are. I do not deny that she was, in her time, a sorceress of great repute, but she must have lived three-fourths of a century by now, and even the mightiest of us is not immune to the effects of time."

"I'm eighty-six, but I still know more than you ever will, you strutting idiot!" Zhinza retorted.

Karag looked at her with manifest disdain, and Shandiph rose again. "Sit down, Karag," he said. A hand gestured for his attention, and he added, "Yes, Chalkara, what is it?"

;The court wizard to the High King got to her feet; like Shandiph, she stood in the direct light of a window, so that her long red hair and cloth-of-gold gown were as vivid as flame. Karag glared at her, then seated himself, though not before Shandiph had noticed for the first time that she stood slightly taller than Sland's wizard.

"I do not impugn Zhinza's knowledge or power, but the fact remains that we do not know what has become of Shang; as she says, he may be concealed by some warding spell of which we know nothing or hiding in a place of which we know nothing. Or it may be that something has deceived Zhinza, by means we do not know, and Shang and the basilisk remain in Mormoreth, as always. This is a matter that must be investigated immediately, and I suggest that we send someone in person to Mormoreth to inquire there what has become of our great weapon and honored colleague."

Karag objected. "If Shang is dead, then there won't be anyone in Mormoreth to ask!"

Without rising, Thetheru of Amag said, "If Shang is dead, then his killer will be in Mormoreth."

Karag whirled to face the Amagite and retorted, "Nonsense! The killer would have fled long ago!"

"We don't even know that there is a killer," Deriam of Ur-Dormulk interjected. "Shang may have gotten careless with the basilisk's venom."

"Shang was never careless," replied Lord Dor, Baron of Therin-or at least the avatar he had sent to the meeting, since Dor had developed the ability to reproduce himself in identical copies that shared his consciousness.

"Anyone can be careless once," Deriam insisted.

"Please, councilors!" Shandiph called as argument became general. He was answered, after some shuffling, by silence; Karag seated himself, having risen so as to be able to yell in Thetheru's face more easily. The old sorceress shifted in her chair, and Shandiph asked, "Is there something you wished to add, Zhinza?"

"There is someone in Mormoreth; I could see that when I looked for Shang and for the basilisk. There are several people, none of whom I could identify in any way, and none of whom were magicians, so that I couldn't communicate with them."

"There, you see?" Thetheru said; Karag turned toward him, his hand falling to the hilt of the dagger he carried on his belt.

"Silence!" Shandiph bellowed.

When he was satisfied that he had the full attention of those present, he went on, "It would appear that there are people in Mormoreth, whether or not they are connected with Shang's death. These people may know what became of Shang and of the basilisk. I think that it would, indeed, be a very good idea to send someone to investigate, particularly since we are still five votes short of a quorum to decide matters of importance and can therefore spare the time. I suggest we vote on that, here and now; no quorum is necessary for sending a messenger. All those in favor of sending an investigator to Mormoreth will signify their position by standing."

With much scraping of chairs, most of the members rose; Shandiph tallied up the votes, to make it official. Zhinza did not stand, nor did Deriam, nor did a blueclad young woman Shandiph could not immediately place; all others had voted in favor. Karag and Thetheru were glaring at each other, obviously annoyed that they had voted the same way.

"Good," Shandiph said. "The next question is who should be sent?"

"With the Chairman's permission," Derelind the Hermit said, "I volunteer."

"Are there any other volunteers?"

There were several, and a disorganized debate ensued. It was finally settled in favor of Derelind when he explained his proposed mode of transportation, which none of the others could equal; he claimed to have learned the languages of winds and birds, and to be able therefore to fly to Mormoreth, carried on the backs of eagles, his weight borne up by the west wind. He estimated the round trip at three days' travel.

Once that was settled, Chalkara suggested that no round trip was necessary to deliver information, since Zhinza should be able to communicate with him while he was still in Mormoreth. Derelind agreed, but asked that no votes for death be taken until he had returned.

When that, too, was settled, Derelind said, "By your leave, then, I will depart immediately."

Shandiph replied, "You may if you choose, but the meeting is not done; we have yet to hear the advice of the astrologers and our theurgist on the nature of the danger that Garth and the Sword of Bheleu present."

"I will forego that pleasure." He bowed his head politely and headed for the door. Deriam released the wards he had placed upon it, and Derelind stepped through, closing the door behind him.

When he had gone, Shandiph announced, "I will now call on Herina the Stargazer, one of our most learned astrologers and scholars, to tell us what she feels may be relevant in the motions of the stars."

Herina rose; she wore light blue that contrasted well with her butter-yellow hair. She was plump, but not distressingly so, and age had not yet done any serious damage to her figure or face-certainly no more than had her diet.

"Ah...it appears we have the misfortune to be living in evil times. The beginning of a new age is upon us; the familiar Thirteenth Age, which has lasted for three hundred years and is all any of us has known, is over. The Fourteenth Age began approximately a month ago, and I believe that all these events that we are here to discuss relate somehow to its advent. The Fourteenth Age is, according to the priests and scholars as well as to the more orthodox astrologers, to be ruled by the god Bheleu, Lord of Destruction, as signified by the presence of the three wandering stars in the constellation of the Broken Sword. It is therefore believed that this age, which is to last for only thirty years, will be an age of fire and blood, in which the wars that ended with the coming of the Thirteenth Age will return threefold.

"The ancient texts and prophecies include several descriptions of signs, omens, and warnings that will signal the onset of this great destruction. An overman will come out of the east to the city of the dark gods, according to one; this is obviously fulfilled by Garth's visit to Dûsarra. The worshippers of P'hul will honor the servant of Bheleu, says another; this is not confirmed, but it could be interpreted to mean Garth's alleged spreading of the White Death. The others I am familiar with do not appear to have been fulfilled as yet, though. There is mention of a slayer of monsters who shall come out of the north, and of storms of fire, and of various other portents.

Since none of these has occurred, as far as I know, I don't believe that too much weight should be given to the seeming fulfillment of one or two of the prophecies. They're quite vague, after all.

"Regarding the Sword of Bheleu, that's not really within my area of expertise, but it seems to fit in with the start of the new age. I have no idea where it came from or what it is capable of."

She sat down.

Shandiph rose and said, "We have a second astrologer on hand; Veyel of Nekutta, have you anything to add?"

The old man robed in black shook his head. "No. She covered the general topic well, and I cannot deal with specifics without casting a proper horoscope of this overman, something I do not have sufficient information to attempt."

"In that case, I call on Miloshir the Theurgist to inform us regarding the nature of the Sword of Bheleu."

The theurgist was a middle-aged man wearing white and gold, of nondescript appearance except for his flowing brown hair. He got slowly to his feet, and spoke.

"I am afraid that we may be in serious trouble very soon. As Herina has told us, this is now the Fourteenth Age of the world, ruled by Bheleu, the god of destruction. Bheleu is the second most powerful of the Lords of Dûs, the evil gods, second only to The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken. Among all the gods, only the ineffable Dagha and the gods of life and death are reckoned his superiors, and Bel Vala, god of strength and courage, is his only near-equal.

Furthermore, Bheleu is not a god who can be accommodated and lived with, as we have lived with the goddess P'hul for these past three centuries; he demands constant destruction, unlimited death and chaos. Herina said that this age would last for thirty years; my own studies indicate that it will last for only three, since it will take no longer than that for the world to destroy itself utterly under the influence of Bheleu.

"As for the Sword, every god, in his time, uses tools to work his will in our mortal world. Each deity has some token, some powerful magical object, through which his power is channeled and by which he dominates the age given to him. Each such token has existed, it is said, since the very beginning of time, when the First Age began, but each remains hidden and powerless until it is found at the proper time and used by the mortal being or beings chosen by the god to wield it.

"I am very much afraid that this overman, Garth, is Bheleu's chosen agent and has already found and begun using the sword that is the god's token.

This means that he has at his command, should he learn to use it, the full might of the god and all the supernatural powers and abilities attributed to the god. While I might ordinarily suspect that this overman is a fraud and the sword a fake given a prestigious name-such hoaxes have occurred-I fear that is not the case here. You will recall, some of you, that idols of Bheleu always depict him as an overman, and that, as the astrologer mentioned, this Garth has already fulfilled at least one, and probably two or more of the relevant prophecies.

"As the agent of destruction, this Garth-or, if you prefer, the god Bheleu-will be most eager to destroy the forces that help preserve order. The foremost force for order in this decadent world of ours is this very Council.

Therefore, we will be one of his prime targets."

He stopped speaking. Karag asked, "Then do you say there is nothing that can be done?"

"Oh, no! I never said that. It is entirely possible that Garth can be defeated and much of the havoc he would cause averted. Only three of the gods are so mighty that they cannot be thwarted, and though Bheleu, in this age, is fourth among the gods, he is not one of the three. He can be defeated, his agent destroyed, and his token suppressed. However, any such action must be taken immediately, since the god's power will grow steadily for some time as the new age asserts itself."

"You are saying, then, that if we do not immediately destroy this overman, he will destroy us?"

"Yes, and the world with us. Exactly."

Chalkara said, "You spoke of tokens of all the gods. Could we find these other tokens and use them against this overman?"

"I suppose so, yes. Of course, the tokens of the Arkhein are of very little power and would be of no use at all against the Sword of Bheleu. I believe the tokens of the Lords of Eir may have been destroyed in the Eighth Age, when the balance first shifted in favor of the Lords of Dûs; I certainly know of nothing that would indicate that they still exist. That leaves us only the tokens of the other six dark gods. We already possess one of the six, and I know what the others are, but not where they might be found."

"We already possess one?"

Miloshir was suddenly hesitant and uncertain. He glanced at Shandiph. "I have spoken out of turn."

Shandiph rose again; his knees were growing tired. "That's all right.

Yes, we already possess one; it was the Ring of P'hul that first permitted the Council of the Most High to gain what power we now hold, at the end of the Twelfth Age. It has been kept carefully hidden ever since, because it is far too dangerous to use; it was the Ring which caused the Great Plague that wiped out the Royal Eramman Army and thereby put an end to the Racial Wars before the overmen could be wiped out. It was the Ring that laid waste the Plain of Derbarok. It always did what was asked of it, but never in the way desired; it ended the Racial Wars only by killing the army and ended the war with Orûn only by ruining what both sides fought for."

"What are the others?"

Miloshir replied, "The White Stone of Tema, the Black Stone of Andhur Regvos, the Whip of Sai, the Dagger of Aghad, and the Book of Silence are the remaining five."

"And each of these is as mighty as the Sword of Bheleu, yet we know where none of these potential menaces are?" Karag demanded.

"Oh, no, they are not equally powerful; none of these is the equal of the Sword of Bheleu except the Book of Silence, which holds the fate of the world in its pages."

"But we know where none of them are?"

"That's right."

"Where does the basilisk fit into this?" Deriam asked. "Surely it's the equal of one of these mysterious objects!"

"Ah, there's debate about that. Some say that the basilisk is the true token of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, and that the Book of Silence is a lesser item, or a myth, or perhaps the token of Dagha himself."

"I can readily believe that that thing is the symbol of the death-god.

If it is, then we possess two of the tokens, including one mightier than this sword; Garth stands no chance."

Miloshir looked at Deriam, and then up and down the tables at the thirteen other councilors present. "I hope you're right," he said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was plain that there would be no shortage of fuel in Skelleth that winter; partially burned beams and rafters were plentiful, and charcoal abounded. Nor was building stone lacking, since the ring of ruins provided all that might be needed. It was sound wood, for roofing, flooring, and furniture, that was most sorely missed. Ceilings could be constructed of arched stone and roofs made of thatch, but such work took vast amounts of time, as well as consuming great quantities of stone and requiring elaborate scaffolding.

There were no forests or even groves anywhere in the vicinity; firewood had traditionally been gathered from bushes by those fortunate enough to use wood at all, rather than dried dung. No building had been done in Skelleth since the completion of the Baron's mansion some two hundred years earlier.

Prior to that, wood had been shipped in by caravan in great wagons, as had much of the stone and other material.

What wood could be salvaged was used, but the supply ran out when some twenty-odd houses had been erected and before any had been furnished.

There was talk of using the wood, chairs, and tables from the King's Inn, but that was quickly abandoned when it became clear that neither Garth nor the Forgotten King thought much of the idea.

Therefore, Saram decided that it was time to re-establish communication with the south, so that wood could be bought. He said as much to Garth.

Garth had been doing very little since Selk's arrival and the killing of the warbeast. He had made a halfhearted attempt to cut off his left hand while it held the sword; but as he had expected, the knife-blade broke before it had cut deeply, and the wound healed overnight. After that failure, he had spent much of his time sitting and staring at the sword, trying to devise some way to get free of it without giving in to the Forgotten King.

Galt, after due consideration, had decided to stay; he realized that the City Council would almost certainly be willing to put him to death to appease the Erammans. They were unlikely to pardon him, since such an action would look very suspicious once the High King heard of it. Someone had to be the scapegoat, and he and Garth had been chosen.

Of the forty-one other overmen in Skelleth, fourteen had remained; twenty-seven, including all the wounded, had gone home when offered the choice.

Selk was being kept under guard in one of the upstairs rooms of the King's Inn; he remained fairly quiet, but complained at every opportunity that there was something unsettling about the room, something in the air that made his skin crawl. Garth and the others could detect nothing but an extraordinary amount of dust.

The overman guards at the five gates were withdrawn, due to the loss of so many warriors, leaving only humans.

Galt lost interest in governing his remaining party, leaving Saram in virtually complete control of the village. It was under these circumstances that Saram came to ask Garth's opinion about sending an embassy to Kholis.

Garth considered. "I think," he said, "that you may be right. It has been more than a fortnight since the battle, and we have heard nothing from anywhere south of here. I think that we can therefore tell them whatever we choose, and they will accept it. Furthermore, winter will be here soon-already the winds have turned northerly and cold-and the High King will be unable to send an army here without extreme difficulty once the snows begin."

"I hope he'll have no reason to send an army. I don't intend to tell him that you're an occupying force."

"That's good; what do you propose to tell him?"

"I've been thinking it over some, and I think this will hold up. I will send a message saying that the Baron, whom everyone knew to be mad, finally went berserk while speaking with a peaceful trading mission and set fire to the village. In the ensuing confusion many died, and much of the town was destroyed. The survivors joined together to rebuild, with the aid of your overmen, when it became clear that it was the Baron's insanity that began the fighting and fires, rather than any legitimate dispute or action of your party. We need not mention that your trade mission consisted of sixty warriors; we need not mention anyone but the sixteen of you still here. I exclude Selk, the seventeenth; he can be another little secret. We will ask for supplies to be sent so that we may survive the winter and for a new Baron of Skelleth to be named; and we will express our continued loyalty to the Kingdom of Eramma. How does that sound?"

"Good, very good; it puts all the responsibility for wrongdoing on the dead Baron."

"I thought you'd like it."

"If the King accepts it, then we can present the City Council with a whole new situation and ask them to reconsider."

"If you want to, yes."

"Why do you say, Ìf you want to?' Why should I not want to?"

"It seems to me that your Council isn't very helpful; why not just forget about them?"

"I came here to establish trade between the Northern Waste and Eramma. I intend to establish that trade, whether the others involved want it or not; it will benefit both, whether the rulers have the wit to realize it or not."

"Oh. I see. Garth-whatever happens, whether you convince your City Council or not-you're welcome to stay here in Skelleth as long as I'm running it."

"With luck, though, that won't be long; the High King will be sending a new Baron."

"Ah, that's true. I'd forgotten." He smiled. "I'll be able to relax, then, and pay some attention to my wife."

"Your wife?" Garth was startled.

"Certainly."

"What wife?"

"Frima, of course"

"Oh." Garth considered that. "Are you two married?"

"More or less. The law says that a marriage is valid if approved by the lord of the region. As acting baron, I'm the local lord, and I say we're married. When we get a new Baron I may ask him to confirm it."

"I see. Congratulations, then."

Saram studied the overman's face. "Are you missing your own wives?

Perhaps you could send for them."

"No. My kind is not as prone to loneliness as you humans are."

"You seem depressed, though."

"I am depressed, not by the absence of my wives, but by the presence of this sword, and by the stupidity of the Council. "

"Oh. There isn't anything I can do about the Council, other than send my message to Kholis; is there any way I can help you with the sword?"

"I know of none."

"Let me see if I can pull your fingers free"

Garth cooperated, and a moment later Saram was stuffing burned fingers in his mouth.

"How can you hold that thing?" he muttered.

"I don't have much choice; I have even tried severing my hand, with no success."

"Shall I try?"

"If you wish, but I warn you, your blade will probably break"

"I won't try it, then; I like my sword"

Garth snorted.

"Listen, maybe you can burn the thing out."

"I don't understand."

"Maybe you can use up all its power. Then it would be too weak to hold you."

"I had considered that, but I could think of no way to do so without killing innocent people and destroying property."

"Why don't you go out on the plain somewhere, where there's no one to kill and nothing to destroy?"

"And what would I do then?"

"Can you direct the sword's power, as you did when it possessed you?"

"I don't know."

"Can you make it possess you?"

"I have tried without success."

"Well, I suggest that you go out on the plain, find a nice barren spot, and then try to make the sword burn, as it did when you slew the Baron. Try to burn the earth itself. See what happens."

Garth thought that over. His mind was not clear, and he could think only slowly and muddily; he knew, vaguely, that this was the sword's doing.

He could think of no objection to Saram's proposal. "I will try it," he said.

"Good. I have to go put together that embassy to Kholis," Saram said, rising, "but I wish you luck."

Garth watched him depart, then held up the sword and looked at it. The gem was glowing bright blood-red.

Nothing else he had tried had done any good, and he couldn't trust the sword to behave itself much longer. He rose, pulled the cloak he had borrowed from Galt more tightly around him with his free hand, and headed toward the West Gate; that direction led to the most desolate stretch of wilderness.

He could feel winter coming; the air felt thin and hard and chilled him, even through the cloak, tunic, gambeson, and his own fur beneath. Skelleth had no autumn in the usual sense, since there were no trees to drop leaves nor late crops to harvest-the hay was brought in late in summer-but it did have a brief period between the warmth of summer and the first snow, and that was what had arrived in the last few days. The only warmth Garth could detect anywhere in the world around him was the heat of the sword's hilt in his hand.

It was oddly comforting. He knew that he should be uneasy about feeling anything positive about the thing's power, but the warmth was welcome nonetheless.

None of the few people he passed on the way out of town paid much attention to him; they had become accustomed to seeing him wandering about the village, hoping to find some means of release from the sword's thrall. Even the guards at the West Gate did nothing more than nod polite greetings.

Out on the open plain, the north wind drove through him; his right flank became so cold that his left seemed warm by contrast. The sword's hilt in his right hand burned like a live coal, but it was a good, soothing heat and did not cause him any pain.

He strode on across the wasteland. Skelleth was not considered part of the Northern Waste, but it was still harsh, barren country, little better than his homeland. The few farms that he passed or crossed were empty and silent; the hay had been cut and gathered a month before, and the farmers had taken their crops and their goats and gone to the village to take shelter for the winter when first the north wind blew down from the hills. Only the ice-cutters ventured out on the plains once the snows came, and then only in large groups.

At the end of an hour he had traveled something over four miles, a distance he thought should be sufficient. He stopped and looked around.

The plain lay, bleak and empty, in all directions. To the north, it ended in low hills; to the east, Skelleth was still visible as a line on the horizon; to the south and west, there was nothing else for as far as he could see. He had left the old Yprian Road a hundred yards from the gate, and it was now lost in the distance.

He took the sword in two hands and stood for a moment feeling the warmth that now bathed them both; the left seemed to be thawing, though it had not actually frozen. He concentrated on the heat and let it flow up his arms.

He was not sure at first how to go about what he wanted to do. He recalled that, when he was possessed, he often lifted the sword above his head just prior to performing his magical feats; feeling slightly foolish, he raised the blade up.

Without any conscious volition, his hesitant gesture changed; he thrust the sword powerfully upward, pointing at the sky, until the red gem was directly before his red eyes, its glow as bright and warm as fresh blood.

Overhead, the steely gray sky was darkened by wisps of black cloud.

The glowing jewel held his gaze. He stared at it in fascination for a long moment, and the clouds gathered above him. Thunder rumbled in the northern hills.

The sound broke his trance, and he looked upward.

The sky had not been clear when he left the town, but it had shown no threat. Now it was filled with blossoming thunderclouds. There would be a storm long before he could reach the shelter of the village walls.

He still held the sword before him, its point toward the sky; now, involuntarily, he thrust it up above his head, crying out, "Melith!"

The name was unfamiliar to him; it was answered by a flash of lightning and a low rumble of thunder.

He remembered suddenly that, when he had entered the temple of Bheleu in Dûsarra and first taken the sword, the sky had been full of thunder, and lightning had blasted the broken roof of the temple. Lightning had struck the altar and scattered the bonfire that surrounded it.

Lightning had struck the sword while he held it.

He realized suddenly that he was standing on a deadfiat plain in a thunderstorm, holding up six feet of bare steel. Lightning had an affinity for metal, as everyone knew, and was drawn as well to the highest objects in reach. Standing thus would ordinarily have verged on suicide.

This was no ordinary sword, however, and he began to wonder if it was an ordinary storm. Was it natural or had the sword summoned it? Had the storm that shattered the temple of Bheleu been natural?

He did not think he cared to try so dangerous a test of the sword's nature as to invite being struck by lightning. Merely because he had survived it once did not mean he could do so again. He yanked the sword down.

It resisted, but obeyed.

Immediately the seething clouds overhead stilled; where it had seemed that the storm would break in seconds and pour a torrent upon him, now the clouds were calm, and it seemed as if there were no storm at all. No lightning flashed. No thunder roared. Even the north wind died away to a breeze.

He recalled Saram's proposed test; would the sword burn the earth? He thrust it out before him, pointing at the ground a dozen feet away.

The gem flared up brightly, and a rumble sounded. At first he thought that it was fresh thunder, but then the ground heaved up beneath him, rolling under his feet. Staggering to keep his balance, his left hand fell from the hilt, while his right, holding the sword, swung out to his side.

The tremor stopped, and the earth was again as still and solid as ever.

He no longer felt the cold; the warmth of the sword's touch had spread through his body. As he looked at the blade and realized what had just happened, sweat broke out on his forehead.

He could not believe that the sword had caused an earthquake. He took it in both hands, in a reversed grip, and placed the tip on the soil at his feet.

Nothing happened.

He held it in that position, waiting and thinking. He realized that he did not want anything to happen. Perhaps that was affecting his experiment. He forced himself to stop denying the sword's power, and instead recited to himself, "Move, earth, I command it!"

The ground shook, roaring; he saw dust swirl up on all sides.

"Stop!" he cried.

It stopped.

Earthquakes frightened him. The uneasy movement of that most immovable of things upset his view of the way the world should be. Such displays undoubtedly consumed vast amounts of the sword's energy, but he could not bear to continue.

Storms, however, were something he was accustomed to.

He looked at the gem. It was glowing brightly, vividly red.

It could not be limitless, he told himself. It must exhaust itself eventually.

With that thought in his mind, he raised the sword above his head and summoned the storm to him.

The light of the jewel bathed him in crimson, and the blade glowed brilliantly white as the storm broke about him with preternatural fury. A bolt of lightning burned through the air over his head and shattered against the sword, bathing him in a shower of immense blue-white sparks, but he felt nothing but a slight warmth and a mounting joy in the power he wielded.

Another bolt followed the first, though Garth knew that was not natural; and then a third came. He was washed in white fire, and the ground at his feet was burned black.

Lightning continued to pour down upon him while cold rain beat against the plain around him. He stayed dry in the heart of the storm, for the lightning and the heat of the sword boiled away the rain before it could touch him, encircling him in steam and mist.

He discovered that he could steer the lightning away from him and direct it where he chose by pointing with the sword, as he had spread flame in Skelleth. He drew the sword's heat into him and thrust it upward, and the rain turned warm around him; then he sucked it back down and away, and the rain became first sleet, and then hail-though the frozen drops were smaller than natural hailstones.

He called aloud another strange name, "Kewerro!" The wind howled down out of the north, and the storm became a snowstorm, then a raging blizzard.

He was drunk and staggering with the power of the sword, and still the gem glowed as brightly as ever, the blade as gleaming white as the moon.

He sent the snow away again, turning the north wind back, and allowed the south wind to bring rain in its place. The sky was black, the sun buried in thunderheads; only lightning and the light of the sword lessened the gloom.

He drew the storm around him, whipped it into a howling maelstrom, and forced its winds to whirl faster, until his cloak was flapping with a sound like the breaking of stone; still the gem remained undimmed. Maintaining the roaring hurricane, he moved the earth as well, rippling it around him like a lake in a breeze. He pulled the rain from the sky in sheets, in streams, and pounded lightning on the shifting ground, surrounding himself in a halo of crawling electric fire.

Finally, he could stand no more; he fell to his knees. The earth stilled. One hand fell from the sword's hilt; the lightning stopped, and the wind dropped. In the sudden silence after the final thunderclap, he closed his eyes and heard the beating of the rain soften to a gentle patter.

He opened his eyes and looked hopelessly at the sword. His fingers adhered to the hilt as firmly as ever.

The gem glowed fiery red, and he thought he heard mocking laughter, his own voice laughing at his despair.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The twenty-first councilor and Derelind's report from Mormoreth arrived almost simultaneously.

It was the Seer of Weideth, uncomfortable on a borrowed horse, who completed the Council's quorum; he arrived late in the evening while a light, chilling drizzle blew down out of the north, and his calls to the castle's gatekeeper went unheeded for fully fifteen minutes, unheard over the hiss of the rain and the mutter of the wind. There was only a single guard posted at the gate after dark and he was huddled well away from the window, drawing what warmth he could from his shuttered lantern and a skin of cheap red wine; finally, though, he heard something worth checking on and peered down to discover the Seer, shivering at the gate, wrapped in an immense gray cloak.

The gatekeeper was an honest man and not inconsiderate; he hurried to his winch and called down an apology as he cranked open the portcullis. That done, he rushed down the tower steps, stumbling in the dark and very nearly sending himself falling headfirst, and opened the Lesser Portal. In daylight there would have been two other guards to share the task.

"My lord, I am very sorry, truly I am! I had not thought any would be out in such dreary weather!"

The Seer nodded, but did not manage to say anything. His home village was kept perpetually warm and dry by the heat of the neighboring volcanoes, and he was not accustomed to the damp chill of autumn rains.

"I should have known better, though, with all of you folk arriving for these past several days; I don't suppose you're the last, either. I guess the rain caught you already on the road, and you didn't wish to waste money on an inn with the castle so close; I'd do the same myself. It's damnably strange weather for this early in the year, too, my lord-far colder than any year in my memory."

The Seer looked at the gatekeeper and realized that he was a very lonely man, spending his nights sitting alone at the gate. He was unmarried, with no children, and his most recent woman had left him a few days earlier.

That was not his business, the Seer told himself. His gift sometimes told him more than he wanted to know-and then other times it wouldn't tell him anything. He wished it were more reliable. He didn't particularly care if he were ever a great prophet, but it would be pleasant, he mused, at least to be a competent one, rather than having erratic flashes of insight and foreknowledge.

It was the guard's loneliness, combined with his genuine contrition, that had brought on his little speech. He would go on talking until he got an answer.

"Oh, I'm all right," the Seer managed. "You mustn't trouble yourself."

"That's kind of you, my lord. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Where can I put my horse?"

The gatekeeper replied with directions to the stable, instructions on whom to rouse and how, and warnings against trusting the worthless grooms.

"Thank you," the Seer replied. He rode on as directed, before the man could begin another speech.

At the stable, he obtained directions to a hall where he might find someone who would know where he was supposed to be; following them, he got lost briefly in the maze of stone corridors. Eventually, though, by asking whomever he chanced to meet, he found his way to the upper gallery where the Council was gathering.

Chalkara noticed him as he reached the top of the stairs and recognized him immediately from his sending. "Greetings, O Seer," she said. "I hadn't known you were here. When did you arrive?"

The Seer held out a flap of his cloak so that she could see that it was still wet and answered, "Just now. What's going on?"

A stranger in a gaudy robe of purple velvet pushed past him and entered the gallery as Chalkara answered, "It's rather complicated to explain, and the meeting is about to start. Why don't you just come in, sit down, and warm up?

If you have any questions, ask them as they come up."

Confused, the Seer let Chalkara shove him through the door. There were chairs inside, arranged around a row of three long tables; he was tired, and sank into one gratefully.

The room was lighted by several dozen candles in hanging chandeliers and standing candelabra, and a dozen or so men and women were already seated around the tables. Others were arriving as he took this in. Shandiph was seated at the head of the table he had chosen; none of the others were immediately recognizable. There was a tiny old woman seated at Shandiph's right.

A stout man not quite into middle age seated himself at the Seer's right and remarked without preamble, "You're wet."

"It's raining," he answered.

"Have you just arrived, then?"

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

"I am the Seer of Weideth."

"Ah, then it's you who started all this!"

"I suppose it is. Who are you, then?"

"You don't know me? I am Deriam of Ur-Dormulk, and probably the only wizard here who knows what he's doing." He gestured to take in the entire assembly.

The Seer decided that he didn't care for Deriam of Ur-Dormulk. He was trying to think of a polite way to break off the conversation when Shandiph rose and broke it off for him by calling the meeting to order.

"I see that we now have the necessary numbers," he said when the entire group was seated and silent, "counting Derelind. With this quorum, then, we are constituted an official gathering of the Council of the Most High, empowered to take action on behalf of the entire membership. I think that you will all agree shortly that some action must be taken, and quickly."

He paused dramatically, and someone in his audience snorted derisively.

Shandiph ignored it.

"We have just received word, through the offices of the sorceress Zhinza, from Derelind the Hermit, who was earlier sent to the city of Mormoreth, in Orfin to ascertain the status of our comrade Shang and the basilisk which had been placed in his keeping. I now yield to Zhinza, so that she may give Derelind's message herself." He gestured toward the ancient woman and then sank into his chair.

Zhinza rose and proclaimed, "Shang is dead. I was right."

Deriam muttered something into his beard.

"Tell them what Derelind said," Shandiph reminded her.

"Derelind said," she went on, "that he arrived safely and found that Mormoreth is now inhabited by the bandit tribe that formerly roamed the Plain of Derbarok. Being a wizard, he was easily able to convince the bandits to talk to him and tell him how this came about. They claim the city was given to them as a gift by the person who killed Shang, as a blood-price for several tribesmen he killed as well."

"All right, woman, who was it killed him?" Karag demanded.

"Shang was killed by an overman named Garth."

There was a moment of stunned silence as this news sank in.

"What about the basilisk?" someone called.

There was a hush as Zhinza looked about for the speaker and failed to locate her. Finally, addressing the group at large, she said, "Garth took it with him."

The ensuing silence was brief and followed by a babble of many voices.

Shandiph let it go on for several minutes before demanding order be restored.

"You mean," Karag of Sland said, when he was reasonably sure he could be heard, "that our greatest weapon has fallen into the hands of the enemy even before we have begun to fight him?"

"That would appear to be the case," Shandiph said. "Before we begin debate, however, I would like to have all the available information laid out.

We are fortunate in that Kala of Mara thought to bring with her a good scrying glass. At my request, she has been studying this overman. At this time, I would like to ask her what she has learned."

Kala was a young woman in a simple brown robe; she stood and said, "I haven't learned much, I'm afraid. It's very hard to use the glass on Garth of Ordunin; the sword resists the presence of all other magic, and he is never apart from the sword."

"Have you seen the basilisk?" asked Thetheru.

"No, I haven't. I haven't seen any trace of it anywhere in Skelleth. I don't know what happened to it, but I don't think it's there."

"That's good," Deriam said.

"What I have seen, though, is enough to frighten me badly. I cannot look at Garth directly; the sword will not allow it. When I attempt to force it, it retaliates by filling my crystal with its own hideous light, so that I can see nothing. I haven't the strength of will to fight it. However, I have watched the village of Skelleth and places around the overman. There have of late been several great storms in that area, as well as earthquakes; they have had snow and hail, as well as the rain and sleet that might be expected in this season, and winds sufficient to tear apart thatched roofs. I have glimpsed lightning storms that lighted the night sky as if it were day. I think that Garth is somehow using the sword to create or summon these storms."

"You say that you haven't been able to watch the overman himself?" Karag asked.

"No, I haven't. I have also been unable to see inside the local tavern he frequents, whether he is there or not; I have no idea what this might mean."

"These storms," Karag asked. "Are you sure he's causing them? I've never heard of any such magic."

"I am not certain, but they are like no natural storms I have ever seen."

There was a moment of silence; then Thetheru of Amag said quietly, "Do we have any chance of stopping such power?"

"He has already taken our greatest weapon," Herina the Stargazer observed.

"Well, no," Shandiph said, "he hasn't, really."

There was another moment of silence; then Miloshir the Theurgist asked,

"Are you referring to the Ring of P'hul?"

"Among other things, yes."

The Seer was confused. He had never heard of the Ring of P'hul. He looked about for Chalkara, but she was seated well down the table on the opposite side.

"What other things?" Karag demanded.

Shandiph sighed. "I was afraid this would happen sometime. A need was bound to arise."

"What in the name of the seven Lords of Eir are you talking about?"

someone asked. The Seer was surprised to see that it was Chalkara; he would have guessed that she was privy to all the Chairman's secrets.

"Have none of you ever wondered at how little power our magic has?

Haven't you all heard the tales of the great magicks used in the wars of the Twelfth Age and wondered what became of them?"

The other magicians were all staring at Shandiph now.

"They're just stories," someone said.

"No, I'm afraid they aren't."

"You mean that Llarimuir the Great really did move mountains? That he created the overmen on a whim? That Quellimour raised a city overnight and then sent it sailing in the clouds?" Karag's voice was openly sarcastic.

"Yes, they probably did just what you say," Shandiph replied mildly.

"Then what happened?" Miloshir asked.

"It was at the end of the Twelfth Age," Shandiph explained. "The world had been in a constant state of war for over a thousand years, probably more than two thousand-the wars destroyed all the records, so we can't be sure. The wizards of that age fought in those wars, using all the magic at their command; reading their descriptions, I find it miraculous that anyone survived at all. The seers and oracles helped by giving military counsel to the generals and warlords."

"But that's forbidden!" the Seer burst out.

"It is now, yes; it wasn't then. As I was saying, magicks mightier than any we can imagine were common and were employed without any compunction, not only in genuine wars, but in looting and pillaging at whim. The wizards themselves were among the most feared of the warlords. It was only the balance of power, the fact that each side could recruit and use equal amounts of magic, that kept the wars going-and it was probably that balance that kept most of the population alive. Each wizard, you see, defended his subjects, and there were protective spells as powerful as the destructive spells.

"At any rate, this continued throughout the Twelfth Age; but about three centuries ago, the surviving wizards grew tired of the constant conflict and gathered in council to arrange a peace. That was the beginning of the Council of the Most High. You've all probably heard that the wizards were advisors to the warlords, and some were, but most were the warlords themselves. It was agreed that all wars would stop at once, whether the other lords wanted them to or not; the Ring of P'hul was used to end the Orunian War and the Racial Wars, and lesser magicks dealt with the lesser conflicts. It was then decided, when it was seen what the Ring and the other spells had done, that such powers were too dangerous to keep in use, and they were sealed away in a spot known only to the first Chairman of the Council."

"And I suppose the secret has been passed on from chairman to chairman, down to you?" Karag said.

"No, not exactly; not the secret itself, but only the means of obtaining it. I didn't know until an hour ago where the great magicks were, only that a certain spell would inform me. I used it when I first heard Derelind's message, before calling this meeting. The old magicks, those that survived, are in the crypts beneath Ur-Dormulk."

"They are?" Deriam exclaimed.

"Yes, they are," Shandiph replied.

"What of it?" Karag asked.

"Comrades, I think we could debate on this for hours or even days, but Miloshir tells us that time is precious, that the overman draws greater power from the Sword of Bheleu with every passing moment. Therefore, I would like to put this proposal to an immediate vote: that we should without any further delay send a party to Ur-Dormulk to acquire these ancient powers, whatever they may include, and then use them to end the threat posed by Garth of Ordunin and the Sword of Bheleu, thereby averting the coming Age of Destruction. If the vote does not show a clear consensus, I will open debate, but I hope that it won't be necessary."

It wasn't. There were three dissenting voices, for a total of only four votes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

For three days Garth had tried to burn out the sword's power with storms and earthquakes, but had succeeded only in exhausting himself and disrupting the reconstruction of Skelleth. Finally, when the gem still glowed as brightly as ever at the end of the third day, he admitted defeat.

At least, he admitted temporary defeat; he had not yet abandoned hope, but only convinced himself that he could not exhaust the sword in such displays. He suspected that he might manage to free himself by allowing the sword a surfeit of killing, but that was not a method he cared to employ; it was to avoid unnecessary killing that he wanted to dispose of the thing.

He spent the following day sitting in the King's Inn, drinking and talking with Scram. The reconstruction was continuing, but only slowly; the cold had made work difficult, and materials were running love-stone excepted.

The embassy had been sent to Kholis, as planned. The petrified thief had been set up in the center of the marketplace on an elaborate pedestal of stone blocks from the Baron's dungeon. Galt, Garth, and the other overmen considered this to be a mistake, but Scram and Frima insisted that the pitiful figure was appropriate and admirable.

Another petrified villager had been found in a ruin nearby; apparently someone had had the misfortune to look out a window while the basilisk was being moved through the streets. This figure was not to become a public statue; even had it not broken in half when the house it was in collapsed in flames around it, it was much less attractive. The person in question had been a plump matron, bent over to peer around a shutter.

No one had known that this second petrification had occurred until the rubble had been cleared from the house. The victim had been a recluse, little liked by those who knew her at all. Garth still thought it odd that her absence could have gone unnoticed for the intervening months.

"I had hoped," he remarked to Saram, "that the death of the basilisk would remove the spell that it had cast upon its victims."

"It would seem that magic is not as transitory as some tales would have it," Saram replied.

"I suppose that if it were, then Shang's death would have ended the usefulness of his charms, and thereby freed the basilisk from my control."

"And if that had happened, you might be a statue now yourself."

"But on the other hand, these two, innocents would not."

"Oh, you can't be sure; what if the basilisk had begun roaming, once freed, and eventually reached Skelleth?"

"That seems extremely unlikely."

"Yes, it does. But then, the very existence of such a creature seems unlikely."

"It does, doesn't it? Everything that's happened to me since I first came south seems unlikely. One strange event has followed another, almost as if they were planned."

"Perhaps they were."

"Perhaps they were, but by whom and how? Is it all a scheme of the Forgotten King's contrivance? If so, how did he influence me to ask the Wise Women of Ordunin the questions that would send me to him in the first place?

If not he, then who? Have I become a pawn of the god of destruction? Is there some other power manipulating us all?"

"Perhaps it's fate; or destiny."

"The Wise Women mentioned fate when last I spoke with them, fate and chance; I have never believed in fate, but only in chance."