The Sword of Bheleu (21 page)

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 low—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 Saram 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.”

“Yet now you say that events don't appear to be shaped by chance. That would seem to leave fate, if your oracle's words were complete.”

“They probably weren't.”

“You don't trust these women?”

“They're overwomen, actually, despite their name, and I am not sure whether I trust them or not.”

“Perhaps you should go and speak with them again, and settle the matter once and for all. They might know how you can be freed of the sword.”

“They might, at that. They are, however, in Ordunin, where I am now an outlaw.”

“Do you know of any other oracles?”

“I'm not sure; I once met a seer, of sorts and of course there is the Forgotten King, who knows more than he should. There was also a priest in Dûsarra who was said to have special knowledge. None of these are even as trustworthy as the Wise Women.”

“I would say, then, that you would be well-advised to return to Ordunin, outlaw or not, and speak with your oracle. If you travel by night and stay clear of the city, can you not manage it?”

“Probably. I will think about it.”

He did think about it and by morning he had resolved to make the attempt.

Unfortunately, by morning the winter snows had begun, blowing down from the northern hills. This storm was wholly natural, but fierce enough that he decided travel would be foolhardy. He would wait it out, he told himself.

It was only after two days of tedium, sitting in the King's Inn worrying about the warbeasts' food supply—five of eleven, including Koros, had stayed in Skelleth when the others had returned to Ordunin—that it occurred to him that, if the sword could create storms, it might be able to control natural ones as well.

It could. He ripped the storm into tattered shreds of cloud and sputtering gusts of wind in ten minutes of concentration.

A foot of wet snow lay on the ground, but he thought Koros could handle that without undue difficulty. He set about gathering supplies.

With the ground under snow, game would be scarce along the way, and foraging difficult; furthermore, he did not dare to visit his home, which meant that he needed supplies for a round trip. Saram was reluctant to part with so much of the village's meager provisions.

Garth also wanted another sword, a more ordinary blade that he could use without worrying about whether he was controlling it or it was controlling him, a knife for skinning and dressing whatever game he might find, an axe to cut firewood, and various other tools that were in short supply in Skelleth. His friendship with Saram did not provide unlimited credit, and he found himself spending part of the Aghadite gold to purchase what he needed.

It took another two days before he felt himself properly equipped, but at last, one morning, he mounted his warbeast and rode out the North Gate toward the hills that marked the border of the Northern Waste.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The party sent to Ur-Dormulk consisted of Deriam, since he knew his own city better than anyone else; Shandiph, since he alone could use the spell that would show them the way to the crypt that held what they sought; Karag, who insisted upon accompanying them; and Thetheru of Amag, who refused to remain behind if Karag went. The four rode the finest horses in the High King's stable; Chalkara, with the aid of a subtle spell, acquired retroactive approval for this from the King an hour or so after the quartet had slipped quietly out.

The stealth was considered necessary because of the presence of the Baron of Sland. He had already protested the existence of secret meetings of wizards in the High King's castle and tried to force Karag to tell him what was under discussion. Only the presence of the other wizards had kept him from resorting to violence.

Two of his six soldiers had vanished since their arrival, and Karag suspected that the Baron was keeping his own secrets. His men did not desert; they did not dare.

Therefore, the four wizards had begun their journey an hour before dawn, while the Baron and his men slept. A simple spell of drowsiness kept the gatekeeper from noticing their departure.

Once out of the castle, they rode night and day, using invigorating spells to keep their horses alive and moving. Such travel was hard on the older two, Shandiph and Deriam, but did not seem to bother Karag at all, and Thetheru concealed his own fatigue rather than admit that Karag was more fit. Ordinarily, each would have avoided the use of so much magic so quickly, but with such a threat hanging over them and such a promise of greater power before them, it seemed foolish to worry about conserving relatively trivial resources.

They were slowed by the necessity of crossing the Great River, which they reached early in the second day, but they nevertheless managed to arrive at the gates of Ur-Dormulk by the sunset following their ferry ride.

It then became necessary to conceal their haste, and they struggled to appear as if nothing unusual were taking place—as if the four of them had decided on a casual visit to Deriam's home. They received curious glances from pedestrians as they made their way through the streets, while Karag and Thetheru displayed their own curiosity in studying the city around them. Shandiph and Deriam were both natives of Ur-Dormulk, though Shandiph had left it as a child to become a wanderer, and they were accustomed to its peculiarities, but the other two had never before seen it.

The entire city was built of stone and was so ancient that the stone had been worn and weathered on even the newest buildings. The older structures did not have a single sharp corner remaining, and some resembled mounds or natural rock formations as much as they resembled anything man-made. The streets were all paved with great slabs of stone, yet there were grooves worn in them where countless cart wheels had passed, and wider, shallower depressions where the majority of the foot traffic had gone.

Deriam's home was a tall, narrow house on a busy avenue, of no special distinction save that there were gaps in its ancient granite walls where softer stones used as trim had been weathered away completely.

“We'll have to hide the horses,” Deriam said as he dismounted at his door.

“Why?” Karag asked.

“There are no horses in Ur-Dormulk,” Shandiph replied. “It was probably a mistake even riding them past the gate.”

“What will happen if we just leave them here?” Thetheru asked.

“I don't know,” Shandiph said.

“They'll probably be stolen,” Deriam said.

“Then put a warding spell on them,” Karag suggested. “Shandiph, you're good at that.”

“I'm tired, Karag.”

“It's a good thought,” Deriam said.

“Then you do it,” Shandiph replied.

Thetheru objected. “I think we should just hide them.”

“We're wasting time,” Deriam said. “Shandiph, put a ward on them and let's get on with it. You're outvoted, Thetheru.”

Wearily, Shandiph assented, and cast a simple ward on the horses. The four then left them tied to the door handle while they entered the house.

“If we're in such a hurry,” Thetheru asked, “why are we here instead of going directly to the crypts?”

“We
are
going directly to the crypts,” Deriam said. “They can be reached through my cellars. There are easily a hundred entrances, and this is the one I know best. The crypts of Ur-Dormulk are a true marvel, you see; they extend...”

“Shut up, Deriam, we haven't got time for that,” Shandiph said, made irritable by fatigue.

Offended, Deriam made no reply, but instead pulled a bell rope and called for his servants.

“You do well for yourself,” Karag remarked. “I have no servants to wait on me.”

“Ur-Dormulk is a rich city,” Deriam replied. “And besides, I was not so foolish as to become a servant myself. I do not work for the Overlord here, but on my own behalf.”

“I doubt that you suffer from your lack, Karag,” Shandiph remarked. “After all, you have the run of the Baron of Sland's castle and staff, don't you?”

“More or less,” Karag admitted. “I can command the household workers, but have no authority over the guards.”

The conversation was cut off by the arrival of Deriam's retainers. He sent one to fetch food and drink, another to bring the keys to the cellars, and the third and last to take a polite greeting to the Overlord and tell him that his faithful Deriam had returned but was resting from the journey and not to be disturbed.

The three vanished without comment on their various errands, and the four wizards settled down to await the promised meal. “We shouldn't take the time;” Shandiph said, “but I'm hungry.”

“Yes, and cold and thirsty as well,” Thetheru added.

While waiting, the newcomers looked over Deriam's parlor. It was lush to the point of ostentation, with thick patterned carpets overlapping to cover every inch of floor, rich tapestries covering every wall, and ornate carved frames around every door and window. The furnishings included a myriad of cushions of silk and velvet and an assortment of tables, chairs, pedestals, statuettes, display shelves, bric-a-brac, and general clutter, every item made of costly materials and showing elaborate workmanship. A few of the cushions had old stains on them, and one carving of a handsome young couple was chipped through the woman's arm.

When the servant he had sent for the keys delivered them, Deriam sent the youth after as many lanterns and torches as could be found in the house. “We'll need light in the crypts,” he explained, “and there's no sense in wasting magic.”

The food, when it arrived, consisted of a plate of fruit, nuts, and cakes; the drink was a decanter of yellow wine and a steaming pitcher of a brownish liquid Karag and Thetheru did not recognize.

“A discovery of my own,” Deriam explained with an air of patently false modesty. “It's an infusion of herbs and spices in boiling water and it's really quite invigorating. Try it.”

Karag refused the unfamiliar brew and confined himself to cakes and wine; Thetheru took a cup of the steaming concoction and an assortment of fruit and pronounced both to be good.

Both wine and herbal brew were warming and felt so good to the weary travelers that they made no effort to silence Deriam when he began a long description of the history of the crypts.

“They aren't exactly crypts in the usual sense of burial vaults or areas for underground storage,” he said. “They're actually another city that used to stand on this same site. Ur-Dormulk, you see, is the most ancient city in all the world and has stood here for longer than any records have existed. It was once called Stur-dar-Malik, which means ‘City of the Old Ones' in the language of the time. Even then it was old. The most learned scholars in the city, who are of course the wisest and most learned in the world, say that there must once have been a great catastrophe that destroyed much of the city, and the survivors built the new city upon the ruins without bothering to excavate them. The old cellars and passages were forgotten for centuries, until finally someone broke into them while digging a new wine cellar. That was, I have heard, in the Eleventh Age, about four thousand years ago. Since then they have been explored and extended and elaborated, until now they are so complex that no man living knows them all—and I personally doubt that anyone ever did. They reach under every corner of the city and extend out beyond the walls for miles in every direction, as well as continuing quite deeply down into the earth. There are said to be many strange and wondrous things in them, and there are tales of men and women who have become lost down there only to be preserved by the unnatural powers that lurk in the darkness, to wander about forever.”

“That's a cheering thought,” Thetheru said.

“Oh, it's just a legend,” Shandiph replied.

“We thought that the great old magicks were just a legend,” Thetheru returned.

“If the crypts are so extensive, how can we hope to find these magicks we seek?” Karag asked.

“There are signs,” Shandiph replied.

“Signs? You mean that these carefully hidden things, too dangerous to leave where they might be misused, can be found by following signposts?”

“Not exactly. The signs can only be read by means of an enchanted glass.”

“Where do we find this glass, then?”

Shandiph reached down to a pouch on his belt. “It's right here,” he answered.

“Let me see it,” Karag asked.

“Not yet,” Shandiph replied.

Karag started to protest, then caught sight of Thetheru's smile and thought better of it.

They finished their repast in silence. As Deriam drank the last of the wine, his servant reappeared with a double armful of prepared torches and with four lanterns.

The torches were distributed evenly among the four wizards. Karag suggested that Deriam's servants accompany them, but Deriam overruled the notion immediately. “That is beyond their duties,” he explained.

“Besides, we want to keep the whole thing secret,” Shandiph added.

Accordingly, the servants stayed where they were, while the wizards made their way through Deriam's kitchen and down the stairs into his wine cellars. From there they descended another flight into a fruit cellar, where a trap door opened to reveal a ladder leading down into utter darkness. The light of the lanterns did not reach the bottom.

With the torches bundled on their backs, the four descended, Karag first, followed by Deriam, Shandiph, and Thetheru. The ladder swayed beneath their weight but did not break or fall. After what seemed an incredibly long time, they finally came in sight of the bottom.

When they stepped from the ladder, they found themselves on a flagstone floor buried in a thick layer of dust. At Shandiph's suggestion they lit one torch apiece to provide additional light.

They were in an immense chamber of stone; their footsteps echoed from the bare walls, which even the light of torches and lanterns combined revealed only as vague and distant patches amid the all-encompassing darkness. Three of the four stared about in uneasy surprise at the room's extent; Deriam remarked casually, “I haven't been down here in a long, long time; I'd forgotten just how big it is.”

“Where's the door to the crypts?” Karag asked.

“We are
in
the crypts, Karag,” Deriam replied. “This chamber has a dozen doors opening on various rooms and passages.”

“Which way do we go?” Thetheru asked.

“I haven't any idea,” Deriam answered.

Shandiph carefully placed his torch and lantern on the stone floor and fumbled with the pouch on his belt. He brought out a small sphere of yellow glass and held it up to his eye.

After a long moment he said, “I see nothing.”

“What do we do now?” Thetheru asked.

“Pick a direction at random,” Karag suggested.

Deriam shrugged, and led the party to the wall of the room, choosing his route by walking forward in the direction he happened to be facing.

The wall was bare stone and faintly dusty.

“Now,” Deriam said, “I propose that we walk along the wall until we find one of the signs Shandiph mentioned.”

No one objected, and the foursome moved along the wall.

Almost immediately, they came to an open doorway; Deriam looked at Shandiph, who shook his head. They moved on.

A second doorway was passed, and a corner of the room. At the third doorway Shandiph asked, “Does the pentacle above the door mean anything?”

“What pentacle?” Thetheru asked, holding up his lantern. The stone lintel was blank.

“I think we've found it,” Karag replied.

Shandiph lowered the glass from his eye and stared at the lintel in puzzlement. “I still see the pentacle, though,” he said. “Don't you see it?”

“There is nothing there, Shandiph,” Karag replied.

“We see nothing but bare stone,” Deriam added.

Shandiph looked at the glass, then back at the stone. “I thought I had to look through it,” he said. “It appears I was wrong.” With a shrug, he led the way through the door and into the passage beyond.

The passage was more of the dull gray stone, huge blocks of it stacked together without mortar, forming a corridor ten feet wide and twelve feet high. It sloped downward for a hundred yards or so and then ended in a T-shaped intersection. Karag had moved into the lead and now stopped, unsure which way to turn.

“The pentagram is on the left,” Shandiph said as he came up. Karag immediately turned left, and the party advanced.

Following Shandiph's directions, the foursome made their way deeper and deeper into the crypts, through corridors and rooms that ranged from mere cubicles to vast caverns, up and down ramps and stairs, across bridges that spanned seemingly bottomless chasms, and past doors of wood, iron, and brass that stood ajar or were tightly sealed, with no discernable pattern. The first torches burned down to uselessness and were discarded, and the lanterns dimmed and died as they wound onward. There was no light save what they carried, and the only sounds were their own footsteps, their own breath, and occasionally the distant dripping of water. In one room they found a spot where drops of water fell and saw that it ran from the tip of a five-inch stalactite clinging to the low ceiling, to land with the smallest of splashes on a stubby projection from the floor. The chamber they were in was not a natural cave, but man-made; the water came through a crack between the stones of the ceiling.