The Sword of Bheleu (18 page)

“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 blue-clad 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.