The Sword of Bheleu (14 page)

Chapter Twelve

The village of Weideth lay in a small valley in the foothills below Dûsarra and consisted of perhaps two dozen homes and a single combined tavern, inn, and meetinghouse, all arranged around a crossroads. The West Road led up the slope to Dûsarra; the North Road led through the mountains to the Yprian Coast; the South Road led to the rich farming villages along the upper branch of the Great River; and the East Road led through the heart of Nekutta to the civilized lands of Eramma, Orûn, Tadumuri, Amag, Mara, and Orgûl.

Of late there had been a great deal of traffic coming down the West Road and leaving by either the East or the South. Those who had bothered to stop at all reported that they were fleeing from an outbreak of the White Death. There were also stories of great fires, riots, and a heightening in the city's perpetual internal conflict among the seven cults.

There had also been more overmen leaving Dûsarra than usual; the Yprian traders had cut short their visits and were turning back their fellows from approaching Dûsarra. No more caravans came down the North Road, and all those that had come before had already returned. It seemed likely that there was not a single overman left in the city.

The people of Weideth had watched the refugees go through, had offered what aid and comfort they could, and had accepted whatever payment was offered in exchange. They were practical people and saw no reason to refuse good money. The village was wealthy with Dûsarran silver.

It was three weeks since the plague's outbreak, and the number of people coming down the West Road had dropped from more than a hundred a day to a mere handful, when the girl in the black robe arrived in the nameless village inn.

She was young and walked with a limp, the Seer of Weideth noticed when she entered the public room. Her face was hidden by her cowl—that was typical of the secretive Dûsarrans. She carried no personal belongings that he could see; that was unusual for a refugee at this late date. There had been plenty of time now for anyone planning to flee to have gathered a few things together. Perhaps, he guessed, she had converted everything to cash and had the money hidden somewhere beneath her robe.

She paused just inside the door and looked about. He knew that she was looking for someone specific—he did have the true talent of a seer, though only weakly. That was very odd; how would a Dûsarran know anyone in Weideth? There were no other city-folk in the tavern just then—only him and a dozen of his fellow villagers.

He was interested. Could it be that she was not a refugee after all?

The innkeeper had noticed her now and was coming over to speak to her. The Seer watched and had one of his erratic flashes of insight. She was looking for
him
, the Seer of Weideth. Before he could do anything about this sudden knowledge, she was asking the innkeeper, who pointed him out.

He put down his wine cup and considered her as she approached the table.

“I am looking for the Seer of Weideth,” she said.

“I am he,” he answered. “Have a seat.”

Made awkward by her injured foot, she took a moment to arrange herself on the offered chair. The Seer looked her over.

She was olive-skinned, like most Dûsarrans, with thick, curling, black hair which she wore long; a few strands spilled out of her cowl, reaching down past her breast. She seemed pretty, but he could not see clearly the outline of her face. There was something out of the ordinary about her that he sensed rather than saw, an aura of perversity and twisted emotion.

“I am Aralûrê; I'm a wizard's apprentice. I was sent here with a message for you.”

She was lying about her identity, but had indeed been sent to him. He nodded. If it was important, he could worry later about who she really was and why she was lying.

She hesitated. “How can I be certain you're really a seer?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Ask anyone in Weideth.” He knew her uncertainty was due partly to the ease with which he had accepted her lie. When she still seemed unsure, he added, “Your name is not Aralûrê, and you are not a wizard's apprentice, but you do have a message for me. What is it?”

“How do you know who I am?”

“I don't, but I would be a very poor seer if I could not tell truth from falsehood.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “I have been sent here to warn you and any other magicians I may find, of whatever discipline, of the actions of a certain overman.”

“You refer, I suppose, to Garth of Ordunin, who caused so much havoc in Dûsarra.”

“You know his name?”

The Seer was gratified by her surprise. “Oh, yes,” he answered. “Am I not the Seer of Weideth?”

The girl eyed him dubiously. “How much do you know about him?”

“Tell me what you came to tell me.”

The Dûsarran considered for a moment, then said, “As you will. It was Garth who loosed the White Death upon the city, you know. He killed a great many people in other ways as well, including several priests. He was responsible for the burning of the market place.”

“I know all that, and I am sure you know that it is common knowledge. The refugees who have passed through Weideth have kept us well-informed, quite aside from my own abilities. We have an ancient prophecy here that when an overman comes out of the east to Dûsarra he will unleash chaos and disaster upon the world. It would appear that Garth is the overman described, and the White Death the prophesied disaster. What of it? Why have you come here to tell me what I already know?”

“You did not allow me to finish, my lord. Did you know that the overman is still spreading destruction? Three days ago he destroyed the fortress town of Skelleth, on the northern border of Eramma.”

The Seer studied the girl. “How do you know that?” He could perceive beyond any doubt that she spoke the truth as she knew it. “Skelleth is a fortnight's ride from here.”

“My master has methods of learning what goes on in the world.”

“Your master is the one who sent you to me?”

“Yes.”

“Who is he?”

“A wizard; he prefers not to give his name.”

“He's no wizard. Is he a priest, perhaps?” He read in her face that he had guessed correctly. “A priest who seeks vengeance upon Garth?”

She nodded reluctantly.

He sat back. It seemed plain enough. One of the Dûsarran cults, unable to avenge itself directly, hoped to recruit his aid in pursuing the overman. He had little love for any of the vile cults of the black city, but if this Garth were in truth disturbing the peace of the world and causing further destruction, then the overman had to be stopped.

He wondered why the priest had chosen him to contact. Were there no wizards left in Dûsarra?

Perhaps there weren't; the plague might well have depopulated much of the city. Reports were vague and inconsistent, since even those still healthy remained in isolation in their homes for the most part.

Or perhaps this priest had an inflated idea of the Seer's own power; perhaps the priest did not realize that the Seer's predecessor, a truly remarkable prophet of great vision, had died and been replaced by a much lesser seer.

Perhaps ... but there was no need to wonder, when he could ask the girl. “Why were you sent to me?” he asked. “What can I do?”

“I don't know,” she admitted truthfully. “My master did not say. He told me to seek you out, and to speak also to any and all other seers, or wizards or magicians I might encounter.”

Perhaps this priest thought that the Seer would spread the word until eventually the news reached someone in a position to act upon it. That made sense, though he found himself resenting slightly the implication that he was a gossip. As a matter of fact, though there was no way the priest could know it, he would see that the news, once verified, did indeed reach those who could respond appropriately; he would send a message to the Council of the Most High, of which he was a very junior and peripheral member. No priest would know that the Council existed, though; it had been a lucky chance, he was sure, that brought this young woman—whoever she was—to one of the councilors.

Surely it could be nothing more than that.

“I see,” he said. “Very well, then. You have done your duty.” He wondered if he should pursue the question of her identity, but decided against it. Every sect in the city was dedicated to darkness, in one way or another, and every sect apparently had been affronted by Garth. It mattered little, he thought, which one had chosen to take action.

There was the question, though, of how word had been received from Skelleth in a fourth the time it took a man with a good horse to cover the intervening distance. Perhaps one of the priests had a hireling wizard with a scrying glass. That might be dangerous.

It wasn't his concern, however. He would contact the Council, tell them everything he knew on the subject, and let them worry about it. His place was here in Weideth, tending to the needs of the villagers, guarding and interpreting the prophecies of his forebears.

He downed the rest of his wine and rose. The girl rose as well. He nodded politely to her and turned to go.

The Aghadite watched the gray-robed man leave with her contempt scarcely hidden. The fool had hardly questioned her at all! He had asked for no proof, no details of Skelleth's destruction. He had not questioned her motives nor divined her identity. He had not even taken the trouble to ask her to show her face!

He was probably a worthless drunkard, she decided, whatever talent he might possess.

It didn't matter; all that mattered was that she had done what Haggat had ordered and delivered the message. Her part was finished. She could not imagine what good it could do to inform this third-rate oracle of Garth's actions—but she was still a novice in the ways of intrigue. Haggat knew what he was doing, she was sure.

And if he didn't, if the whole thing turned bad, that was all right, too; she would use the failure to ruin Haggat and enhance her own position in the cult. She could advance with equal ease, she knew, either by allowing herself to be pulled along in Haggat's wake or by stabbing him in the back.

And if the time came, she would enjoy stabbing the lecherous high priest in the back—either figuratively or literally.

Chapter Thirteen

It was mid-afternoon of the fourth day after the battle when Galt finally found himself with time to spare for Garth's obsession with the magic sword. As he had expected, he found the older overman in the King's Inn, sulking in a corner with a mug of ale.

“Greetings, Garth,” he said, standing beside the table.

“Greetings, Galt. I don't suppose you have time to sit down.”

“No, but I do have time to tend to the sword, if you like.”

“Good!” Garth rose, a trifle unsteadily; Galt realized, with considerable misgiving, that the overman had been doing nothing but drinking since early morning. He knew that Garth would be offended if he suggested putting off the matter of the sword, and he was not sure how long he would be free of other concerns, so he said nothing, but followed as Garth led the way out of the tavern.

The fresh air seemed to help, Galt saw; Garth's step steadied quickly.

“Have I mentioned,” Garth asked, “that I've been having strange dreams lately?”

The question caught Galt by surprise. It was not customary to speak openly of dreams; it was widely believed among overmen that, if properly interpreted, they revealed the inner truths of the dreamer's personality, so that learning the nature of another's dreams was a serious breach of privacy.

Besides, overmen only rarely remembered their dreams, unlike humans, who seemed to think that dreams showed the future and who therefore cultivated the art of remembering and interpreting them. They seemed undeterred by the usual failure of reality to fulfill the prophecies that resulted.

Startled, Galt said nothing.

“I have,” Garth continued. “I have dreamed of blood and death every night since I abandoned the sword and I often awaken to find that I have arisen and moved toward it in my sleep. I think it's trying to draw me back.”

Galt glanced at his companion, but said nothing. Such talk worried him. Surely Garth knew that dreams were wholly internal, he told himself. Was the prince really going mad?

“Had you not found time today, I had thought I might leave Skelleth for a time, and go further from the sword, to see if the dreams were lessened by distance. At the very least, I would then be assured that I could not reach it before waking.”

“Garth, are you certain that the power that has influenced you is entirely in the sword? Perhaps some spell has affected you, some enchantment encountered in, your travels, and this obsession with the sword is a mere after-effect.”

Garth considered this, then replied, “It could be, I suppose; I have had spells put upon me in the past, and they can be very subtle. I honestly doubt it, though; I think you're overcomplicating a simple situation. Wait and see what you think when you've handled the sword yourself.”

“Speaking of the sword, would it not be useful for your demonstration to have other subjects besides ourselves? In particular, you claim that the sword behaves differently when handled by humans than when handled by overmen. Should we not take a human or two along to test this theory?”

“You have a good point. You run things here, Galt; where can we find a subject for such an experiment?”

The two had now reached the market. The square was still cluttered with tents, but the surrounding ruins had been cleared away, and low barriers erected to keep passersby from falling into the open cellars. Work crews were busy sorting out stones and fallen beams, dividing those that might be re-used from those that were nothing more than ballast or firewood.

“Humans are Saram's responsibility,” Galt replied.

“Then let us ask Saram.” Garth pointed.

Saram and Frima were leaning over the barrier that had replaced the threshold of the Baron's mansion, speaking quietly between themselves; Galt had not noticed them until Garth drew his attention to them.

Galt shrugged. “As you please,” he replied.

The two overmen turned from their course and approached the two humans. Saram heard them coming and looked up as they drew near.

“Greetings, my lords,” he said.

They returned his salutation.

“What can I do for you?” Saram asked.

“We are going to deal with Garth's magic sword,” Galt replied, “and it would be useful to have a human along to test Garth's theory that only overmen can use his weapon. Who can you spare for such a task?”

Saram glanced around the square, then shrugged. “I'll come.”

“No, you have to stay here and supervise,” Galt protested.

“Do you see me supervising anything?” He waved to indicate the cellars he had been staring into. Garth smiled, amused by Galt's discomfiture.

“But...”

“Besides, I want to see this.”

Galt gave in. “Very well, but do put someone in charge here.”

“Certainly. Frima?”

“No, I'm coming, too. I don't trust that sword”

“All right. Ho, Findalan!”

A middle-aged man Garth recognized as one of the village's few carpenters looked up from assembling something.

“I'm going away for a little while; you're in charge until I get back!”

Findalan nodded.

“There. Let's go.”

Reluctantly, Galt followed as Garth and Saram led the way. Frima brought up the rear at first, then ran forward to be nearer Saram.

As they made their way through the village and into the encircling ruins, Saram said, “We had an idea, Galt, that I wanted to discuss with you.”

Galt made a noncommittal noise.

“Did you know there's a statue in the dungeons under the Baron's mansion?”

“No,” Galt replied.

“It isn't a true statue,” Garth said.

“No, but it will serve as one. That was our idea. Might we not hoist it out and set it up somewhere as a monument?”

“What sort of a monument?” Galt asked.

“That statue is a petrified thief, Saram, a half-starved boy. What sort of a monument would that make?” Garth asked.

“It would serve as a reminder of the cruelty of the Baron you slew, Garth.”

“It would serve as a reminder of my stupidity in allowing a madman to gain possession of a basilisk, as well.”

“I think it would make a good monument,” Frima said. “He has such a brave expression on his face! You can see that he was scared but trying not to let it show.”

Remembering what he had seen of the face in question, Garth could not deny the truth of her words. “Where would you put it?” he asked.

“We haven't decided yet,” Frima answered.

“I'll consider it,” Galt said, in a flat, conversation-killing tone.

A moment later they reached the nearer of the two guards. Garth stopped.

“It's all right,” Galt said. “Let them through.”

The guard nodded, but Garth still didn't move. “I think we should take one of the guards with us,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“Because if the sword does take control of you or me, it will almost certainly require two overmen to restrain whichever of us it might chance to be. Saram may be strong for a human, but he would be of little help in handling a berserk overman.”

“Oh.” Galt considered that. “Very well.” He motioned for the guard, a warrior named Fyrsh whom he knew only vaguely, to accompany them.

The five proceeded on. Galt found himself growing nervous. He felt as if he were being watched and criticized by someone.

Garth, for his part, felt an urge to run forward, to find the sword and snatch it up. The afternoon sunlight seemed to redden, and he found himself conjuring up mental images of blood and severed flesh, similar to those that had haunted his dreams.

“There it is!” Frima pointed.

The sword lay where he had left it, Garth saw, across the block of stone. The two halves of the broken stone that he had placed atop it lay to either side, and gravel was strewn about where the third stone had shattered. The hilt was toward him, and the gem was glowing vividly red.

“It's glowing,” Frima said unnecessarily.

Her words penetrated the gathering fog in Garth's mind. He stopped. “Wait,” he said. “Don't go any closer.”

Galt stopped. He felt no attraction to the sword, but only the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. He wanted to get the whole affair over with, to convince Garth that he was ill and should go home and rest and not concern himself with Skelleth or the High King at Kholis or the Yprian overmen. “Why?” he asked.

“This is close enough for now; from here, only the person who is going to try and use it should approach any nearer.”

“And if someone goes berserk, how are we to restrain him at this distance?” Galt demanded.

“I thought of that.” Garth reached under his tunic—Frima had finally returned it when Saram had found her a tunic and skirt such as the local women wore—and brought out a coil of rope. “We'll put a loop of this around the neck of whoever goes to touch the sword, with one of us overmen holding each end. If there's any danger, we can jerk it tight before whoever it is can reach us with the sword.”

“The person might choke to death.”

“We'll be careful. When the person drops the sword, we release the rope.”

Galt was still doubtful of the scheme's safety, but he was outvoted. Even Fyrsh sided with Garth. “I've been nervous ever since you posted me here, Galt,” he said. “There's something unhealthy about that sword. We shouldn't take chances.”

“Very well, then. Who is to make the first trial?” Galt asked.

“I will,” Saram said.

“All right. Now, as I understand it, Garth, it's your contention that Saram will be unable to pick up the sword?”

“Yes. It will feel hot, too hot to handle, to any human.” He hesitated, and added, “At least, I think it will.”

Saram was already on his way toward the sword as Garth spoke. He slowed his pace as he drew near and then stopped. “We forgot the rope,” he called back.

“I don't think we'll need it,” Garth answered.

“It would be better to be cautious,” Galt replied.

Garth shrugged, found one end of the rope, and held it while tossing the main coil to Saram. The man caught it, unwound several yards, and threw a loose loop around his neck. Making sure that it did not pull tight, he then tossed the free end back. It fell short; Galt stepped forward and picked it up. He and Garth each held one end now, while the central portion was wrapped once around Saram's throat.

Saram stooped and reached out for the hilt. His fingers touched it. Immediately there was a loud hissing, plainly audible to the four observers; smoke curled upward as he snatched back his hand, thrust his fingers into his mouth, and began sucking on them.

“It's hot!” he managed to say around his mouthful of singed fingertips.

“It is?” Galt was genuinely surprised. “Try it again.”

Reluctantly, Saram obeyed, reaching out toward the sword.

The hiss was briefer this time; Saram had been better prepared and was able to pull his hand back more quickly. With his fingers in his mouth, he shook his head. “I can't touch it,” he called.

“All right, then. Come back here and I'll try,” Galt said.

Saram returned, looking slightly embarrassed. Galt handed his end of the rope to Fyrsh, then lifted the loop from around the human's neck and lowered it down past his own head onto his shoulders. That done, Saram stepped aside into Frima's considerate attentions, while Galt walked forward toward the sword.

He stopped when he reached the blade's side and called back, “As I understand it, Garth, you believe that I will be able to pick up the sword, but it will attempt to dominate me.”

“I think so,” Garth called back. “It can be subtle, though; it may just make you more irritable at first, more prone to react with irrational anger.” He pulled in some of the slack in the rope he held.

Garth and the others watched intently; Saram, in particular, was curious as to whether Galt would be able to touch the sword without injury.

“I suspect that humans are merely over-sensitive to heat,” Galt said, hesitating.

“It did not burn me at all,” Garth replied, “save for the first time, when I pulled it from a fire.”

Galt bent down and reached his hand slowly toward the hilt. As it neared, the black covering on the grip abruptly flared up in a burst of flame; as Saram had, Galt snatched back his hand. Unlike Saram, he immediately reached forward again. “It caught me by surprise,” he called, “but I think it must be an illusion of some sort.”

As the overman's hand neared it again, the flames died away to a yellow flickering. Galt ignored them and grasped the hilt firmly.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air and smoke poured from his hand; with a faint cry of pain he released his grip and looked at his scorched palm.

“I don't think it's an illusion,” Garth said, “but I don't understand why it rejected you.”

For a moment the five stood silently considering. Then Saram asked, “Guard, would you care to try?”

“I am called Fyrsh, human. Yes, I'll try it.”

Galt returned and exchanged portions of rope with Fyrsh. The warrior had no better luck than his predecessors; like Saram, he touched the sword only lightly, with his fingertips, and received only slight burns. There was no flaring of flame, but the faint flickering remained.

“May I try?” Frima asked, when Fyrsh had rejoined the group.

There was a moment of surprised silence at this unexpected request. “Why?” Galt asked at last.

“Perhaps it only burns males—or perhaps only those who have not been in Dûsarra.”

Galt looked at Garth, who shrugged. “I don't know,” Garth said. “She could be right. My theory that it was attuned to overmen obviously wasn't. Let her try.”

“Are you sure you want to?” Saram asked her.

She nodded.

“All right,” Galt said. “Do you want the rope?”