The Sword Of Bheleu tlod-3 Page 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Aghad was also, as Haggat had known even then, a vengeful god, and he had willingly entered the priesthood in the hope of eventually gaining the revenge he had sworn. Though he rose steadily in the cult's hierarchy, due largely to the little magic he still retained, vengeance had eluded him; he had been unable to convince the cult to take action against the Council. Even now, when he had become absolute ruler of the Aghadites, he had not yet attempted anything. He knew that the Council was too powerful and too well-informed to be attacked without much careful planning and preparation. Its members included virtually all the most powerful wizards of the northern lands, and to defeat such a confederation would require great stealth and skill-or equal power.

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

  Now, though, Garth and the Council of the Most High would both pay for their temerity in defying him. He needed merely to turn one against the other. Certainly one or the other would be destroyed, and he could then deal with the survivor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER NINE

  Garth awoke to find himself lying in t
he 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 Dыsarra, 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.