The Sword of Bheleu (10 page)

Chapter Nine

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

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

He recognized the burning building; it was the house where he had found and killed that old man. He vaguely remembered the actual killing; he had spent a long time at it. There was blood on his hands, he noticed, but he could not be sure that it came from the old man; he had killed several people. It might even have come from a wound of his own, though he hadn't noticed any.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had he started the Racial Wars all over again?

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

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

There were too many questions, far too many questions.

Whatever had knocked down the wall, the blocks of stone were well suited to his purpose. He laid the sword across a large slab, its quillons and hilt extending to one side, the last foot or so of its blade on the other. He placed another stone atop it, so that it was held firmly between the two smooth, solid surfaces. That done, he located another large, heavy block—one that he could lift, though it strained his inhuman strength near to its limit. He was not in the best of condition, after waking up in an alley after a messy battle, but he could still haul about three hundred pounds of stone up to chest level.

He then climbed atop the other two stones, so that his own weight was added to that on the sword, holding it motionless. Taking careful aim, he then dropped the stone he carried onto the sword's hilt, planning to snap it off the blade at the edge of the bottom stone.

He had gone to this amount of trouble because he was quite sure that this sword could not be broken simply by slamming it against a rock or bending it over his knee. Even a magic sword, though, could hardly survive his arrangement of stone, he thought. The finest sword ever forged could not withstand the shearing force of a three hundred-pound stone block dropped on its hilt while it was held motionless.

The block fell, struck the hilt and shattered. Garth could not see in detail what had happened, because he was too busy trying to keep his balance; the stone on which he stood had cracked, its two halves sliding to either side. He found himself falling, and dove off the stone, landing on his hands and knees. Slightly dazed, he got to his feet and turned to look at the blocks.

The sword lay gleaming, unharmed, on the stone he had used as a base; the block he had used as a cover lay in two jagged fragments on either side. The stone he had dropped had been reduced to scattered pebbles.

That approach obviously wouldn't work.

He thought he heard mocking laughter. He whirled, trying to locate it, but saw nothing. He turned back and saw that the gem was now glowing brightly.

He resolved not to touch the thing. If he did, he was sure he would be possessed once more by whatever malign force the sword served.

It shone, red and beautiful, before him.

He would not touch it.

It seemed to beckon; the blade gleamed red, as if washed in blood, and the stone beneath was lighted as well. His hands suddenly itched. He knew that the itching would stop if he held the sword, which seemed to be drawing him. He wanted to pick it up, to hold it before him, to wield it in berserk fury.

He fought down the urge and stepped back.

The movement seemed to lessen the pull slightly, and he remembered that the spell of the basilisk and of Tema's gem was broken if the victim could look away in time. He forced himself to turn his head and look away.

The pull was still there, but not as strong. He heard laughter again. Anger surged through him. Who dared laugh at him? He would skewer whoever it was! He took a step toward the sword, then stopped.

The anger was not his; it was the sword's influence. The laughter was familiar, and he remembered that he had heard it before. He had heard it when he slew the Baron; he had heard it in Dûsarra, when the sword had used him there. He listened closely, then shuddered.

It was his own voice, his own laughter, the same maniacal sound he had made when possessed by the sword's power. Now, however, it came from somewhere outside him.

This was beyond him; he knew he was dealing here with forces he could not comprehend. The lure of the sword still drew him, but a stronger, more basic urge was also at work. He was afraid.

With a final brief glance at the glowing gem, he turned and ran.

A hundred yards from the fallen stones, he slowed; fifty yards further along the street, he stopped. His sudden fear had subsided, and the compulsion drawing him to the sword had faded with each step, until it was now no harder to handle than a mild hunger in the presence of poisoned food.

He had to consider all this rationally, he told himself. He had to think it all through logically and follow the logical course of action.

The sword had some unholy power to it. It could steal control of his mind and body and turn him into a berserk monster. It could burn without taking harm, and set fire to anything in sight—or almost anything; he remembered the King's Inn. That had probably been protected by the Forgotten King's spells.

The sword could shatter stone and cut its way through solid metal as well. It resisted his attempt to destroy it and tried to draw him to it, as if it wanted him to carry and use it—but when Herrenmer tried to touch it, it had burned him. Was there some mystic link between the sword and himself?

He remembered how he had pulled it from the burning altar of Bheleu. Had that created a connection somehow? But even then, he had been drawn to it as if hypnotized, though he had not yet touched it. None of the worshippers of Bheleu had been affected by any such compulsion, so far as he could recall. Perhaps it had an affinity for overmen; he knew that the idols of Bheleu always took the form of an overman, though the god's worshippers had all been human.

That connection could explain a great deal. It made clear how the sword had existed before his arrival without having captured anyone until he came to rob the ruined temple. He had no idea when the blade had been forged, but he was sure it was not new.

But then, could he be sure? The blade had no nicks or scratches and bore no sign of ever having been used. The hilt was not worn. On the other hand, the blade showed no smithing marks, and the hilt did not have the rough feel of new work not yet smoothed by use.

The age of the sword was a mystery, he admitted.

Still, it seemed unlikely that it had been newly forged just in time to be placed in the altar the night he arrived to steal it. It had almost certainly been in the cult's possession for some time previous to his acquisition of it, and there was no evidence that it had ever before usurped anyone's will or caused widespread destruction.

Perhaps it was indeed attuned to overmen, and could not be used by humans. There were overmen in Dûsarra on occasion, he knew, traders from the Yprian Coast, but none of them would have any reason to visit the Street of the Temples. It was possible that none before himself had ever come within range of the sword's spell.

Its call did seem to be limited by distance.

Was there, perhaps, another explanation? Was he constructing his theory on insufficient evidence?

He felt that he could be sure that no one before him had wielded the sword to any great effect in Dûsarra, at least not within the past several years. If any such event had occurred, it would almost certainly have been mentioned to him by Frima or by Mernalla, the tavern wench he spoke with—or perhaps by the high priest of Aghad or the caretaker of the temple of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken. None of them had made any significant comment about the temple or cult of Bheleu.

The god of destruction had been mentioned, however. Tiris, the ancient priest of P'hul, had told him that he, Garth, was either Bheleu himself or his representative. Garth had dismissed that as the babblings of a senile old man, but perhaps it had not been entirely that. Tiris might have known something of the magic sword and somehow recognized Garth as the one who would wield it. There was nothing particularly distinctive about Garth, except the fact that he was an overman.

That was evidence, then.

No other theory seemed to fit very well. Therefore, he would act on the assumption that the sword's magic was somehow geared so that only overmen could use it—or more accurately, it could use only overmen.

If that was in fact correct, then he need not worry about leaving it where it was. Wandering humans might come across it, but they would not be able to handle it. He would order the overmen to stay away from it, or perhaps even post guards around it.

Whatever became of it, he did not want to touch it again. He wanted to retain his own mind and will. The sword was insidious and unpredictable; he had managed to restrain it on the journey back from Dûsarra, when violence would have been nothing but an unfortunate incident, but had completely lost control here in Skelleth, where the resulting battle might have been the opening engagement of a new Racial War. Its magic had seemed to fluctuate randomly in strength, but Garth was beginning to suspect that it was not random at all.

Perhaps he could wall off this part of the village to keep out the curious. Some way to destroy or control the sword might eventually be found, or perhaps he could persuade the Forgotten King to do something with it, since the old wizard was plainly able to handle it.

That could all wait. He was rid of it for the moment and could turn his attention to other matters.

He and his troops had sacked and burned Skelleth with little or no justification. He had personally murdered the Baron, stabbing him dishonorably from behind. The people of Eramma would have to find out eventually; so major an event could not be kept secret. There would be much careful negotiating to be done if full-scale war was to be prevented, and only a near-miracle could restore the possibility of the peaceful trade he had hoped to establish.