The Sword of Bheleu

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Saram interjected, “I could look after her for a while, I suppose.”

  The overman was startled. “It is not necessary; she’s not your concern.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Garth looked from Saram to Frima and back. Was he missing something here? Had the former guardsman taken some sort of interest in the girl? He had noticed them speaking to each other, though he had not heard what had been said.

  What sort of an interest could it be, though? He knew that he didn’t understand humans very well, but what sort of attachment could have been formed so quickly? No, more likely the man was just curious about the Dûsarran, or wanted to do Garth a favor, doubtless expecting the debt to be repaid later. There was nothing wrong with that; Garth already felt he owed Saram something, as the man had been of assistance in the past.

  “Very well, then. Perhaps you can find her some more suitable clothing; she’s been complaining about what I gave her, and I would like to have my tunic back.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll take good care of her.” There was something odd about the man’s smile, Garth thought, but he dismissed it.

  The sword and other items were still strewn across the table; though he was eager to be on his way to straighten out the mess Kyrith and Galt seemed to have gotten themselves into, Garth paused to gather them up. It would not do to leave magical objects lying around where any casual tavern patron might pick them up. He knew from personal experience that the white stone and the sword were dangerous, and the black stone might be as well. The rest the King had dismissed as junk, but gold was gold, and not to be thrown away, while the whip and dagger were decent enough weapons. The pouch of dust he almost left, but an instinct for tidyness overcame him, and he threw it into the sack with the rest.

  The sword, of course, didn’t fit in the sack; he kept it clutched in his right hand while his left hefted the bag up onto his shoulder. The gem flickered dimly.

  A final glance assured him that he had left nothing behind except Frima. The Baron’s guards could appear at any moment, he knew. He turned and strode out the door.

  Saram and Frima watched him go. When he was out of sight, the former guardsman turned and looked his new companion over carefully, then said, “Sit down, girl, and tell me about yourself.”

  Frima saw the obvious appreciation in Saram’s eyes and noticed that the man’s hair and beard were as dark as any Dûsarran’s, and they neatly framed a strong, attractive face. With a shy smile she sat and said, “My name is Frima. What would you like to know?”

  Outside the King’s Inn, Garth slid the Sword of Bheleu back into his warbeast’s harness, then climbed onto the creature’s back. Koros stood placidly, apparently paying no attention, until the command came to go; then, instantly, it surged forward in its customary smooth, steady glide.

  If guardsmen were coming, they had not yet arrived; there was no opposition as overman and warbeast made their way northward through the twisting streets. The ground had finally dried somewhat, though it was still soft underfoot, and the warbeast’s great padded paws were able to move with catlike silence, no longer hampered by clinging mud.

  As he rode, Garth found himself wondering at the Forgotten King’s behavior. What had the old man expected him to bring back? He had spoken of a book; what book did he mean? There had been no book in the temple of Death. The temple had been a cave in the side of the volcano that towered above the black walls of Dûsarra, a cave that had been enlarged artificially, with elaborately carved walls. The altar had looked as if it were carved from a stalagmite; it was tall and narrow, he recalled, with a sloping top, rather like a lectern or reading stand, with the eerie horned skull where a candle or lamp would go on a reading stand. Other than the skull, it had been completely empty. There had been no book. There had been nowhere in the cave that a book could have been hidden where it would not have risked being consumed by the monstrous thing that lived in the depths below and behind the temple.

  The altar was, he had to agree, the right shape to hold a book. Could the doddering old priest who tended the temple have taken the book and hidden it somewhere outside?

  Why would the caretaker do such a thing? To protect it from the thing within, perhaps? That might be it. He would suggest such a possibility to the Forgotten King should he ever care to return to the old man’s service.

  What made this book so precious?

  That, actually, was fairly easy to guess from what the King had said. The book must be necessary for the magic he intended to perform. Perhaps it was a book of spells, containing the needed instructions and incantations, or perhaps the book itself had some magic to it.

  Whatever the exact situation, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he had performed the errand he said he would perform for the King, keeping his word, and that the King was not able to perform his death-causing magic. That put his dealings with the old man at an end. Now he was free to do as he pleased with the loot from Dûsarra, to deal with the upstart Baron of Skelleth as he saw fit, and to straighten out the actions of Galt and Kyrith. When the Baron and his wife’s war party had been taken care of, his time would be his own once again, and he could relax and figure out what to do with the magical sword and gem at his leisure.

  He was approaching the North Gate now; as he had expected, there was a guard posted in the ruined watchtower beside the road. He expected no difficulty there; the man was supposed to keep enemies out, not to prevent them from leaving.

  Beyond the gate lay open plain, and perhaps two hundred yards along the Wasteland Road stood the encampment he was headed for. He could see warbeasts standing calmly in a group at one side and overmen milling about amid the tents. They appeared to be moving in an aimless muddle; he hoped they weren’t as disorganized as they looked. How could the City Council have been so stupid as to send them out without a competent warrior in command?

  The human guard had noticed him now, alerted by the jingling of armor and harness; Koros’ soft footfalls were inaudible. The man rose to his feet, short sword drawn; even Garth, inhuman as he was, could read the confusion and nervousness on the young human’s face.

  “Halt!” the guardsman cried.

  It was too soon for trouble; Garth spoke a word to his mount, and Koros halted a few feet from the soldier.

  The man was obviously unsure what to do next, so Garth took the initiative. “I think you are making a mistake in stopping me, man,” he said. “I am leaving peacefully. You are here to warn of approaching enemies; I am not approaching, but departing.”

  The soldier was still plainly uncertain.

  When no response seemed forthcoming, Garth continued, “Besides, you cannot very well stop me. You are a lone man on foot, while I am an overman with a warbeast and with many more of my kind within earshot.” He motioned toward the camp. “I suggest you tell me I can go, before I become impatient.”

  The logic of this was irrefutable. The guard sheathed his sword and waved Garth on. “You ... you can go.”

  “Thank you,” Garth replied politely. He tapped a signal to Koros, and the warbeast moved onward. He didn’t bother to look back.

  Behind him, the guard considered for a long moment. He faced a difficult decision; should he leave his post to inform his superiors of this occurrence, or should he wait until his relief arrived?

  His relief was due at sunrise the following morning, and it was now scarcely past midday. Anything could happen in so long a time. If he stayed where he was, the overman might have time to work some dreadful plan. He would be of little use where he was; his only purpose, really, was to run ahead of any attack that might come and give a warning, since a single man couldn’t be expected to delay even a lone overman for more than a few minutes. For that purpose the two scouts Captain Herrenmer had posted in hiding on either side of the gate should be plenty; the gate had remained openly guarded only so that the overmen would not be certai
n that the men of Skelleth had taken any action at all.

  Of course, if he left his post, the overmen would see that and know that action had been taken.

  A third solution occurred to him, finally, one that was wholly satisfactory. He left his post for a few moments, as if answering a call of nature somewhere in the rubble of the crumbling walls, and found one of the hidden scouts. After informing the other man of what had happened, he returned to the gate and resumed his watch.

  Meanwhile, the scout was on his way back into the center of town, staying always out of sight amid the ruins.

  Chapter Five

  The encampment was fully as disorganized as Garth had feared. He was halfway from the wall to the camp before anyone even noticed his presence, and no effort was made to stop or slow him before he reached the cleared area in front of the tents, though he was obviously out of place in his battered mail and drooping trader’s hat, his warbeast laden with bundles, so unlike the clean, sleek, new appearance of the other overmen.

  There was no sign of Galt or Thord, but there were various overmen standing, sitting, or walking about, and Kyrith stood in front of one tent, listening to a young warrior Garth did not recognize. The two turned when someone called out a warning of Garth’s approach.

  The young overman started to demand an explanation, but Kyrith’s hand on his arm stopped him. She scribbled something on the wax-coated tablet she carried. He glanced at it, then looked back at the new arrival.

  “You’re Garth?” he asked.

  “I am Garth, Prince of Ordunin. Who are you?”

  The warrior blinked his red eyes and replied, “I am Thant, son of Sart and Shenit”

  “I never heard of you. Are you helping to run things here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have the sentries been called back, as I told Thord to do?”

  “Well, no. You see, we could not be certain...”

  “I don’t care why. If you want to make yourself useful, Thant, son of Sart and Shenit, then you can go run around the village and fetch back all the sentries that you fools have posted. I’m putting an end to this absurd siege before it brings the wrath of all humanity down on us.

  Thant blinked again, then looked at Kyrith. She nodded. He hesitated a moment longer, until Garth bellowed, “Move!”

  He moved. Garth called after him, “And when you get back here with the sentries, we’ll break camp! I want us out of here before sunset!”

  When the warrior was well on his way, Garth dismounted, swinging himself easily to the ground, and strode toward Kyrith. She met him halfway, and they embraced briefly. There was no passion in their embrace, and they did not kiss; for overmen and overwomen, marriage was a matter of convenience and companionship; sex was an involuntary function that occurred when an overwoman was in heat. Their mouths were virtually lipless and hardly suited to kissing. Had Kyrith been in heat, Garth’s attentions would not have been so perfunctory.

  When they released each other Garth asked, “Where are Myrith and Lurith and the children?”

  Kyrith pointed northward. Garth asked, to be sure he was not misinterpreting her gesture, “You left them to take care of the house?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s all right, then. Why did you come here, though? What did you want to stir up trouble for? Didn’t Galt tell you that I’d be back by the end of the year?”

  She reached for her tablet. Garth stopped her. “Never mind. We’ll discuss it later.” Communicating with Kyrith was annoyingly slow and inconvenient ever since the accident that had put shards of ice through her throat and destroyed her voice. He knew that she found it as frustrating as he did, and she resented it when he let his irritation interfere with their conversations; ordinarily he would have been more tactful about declining to let her write out her answer, but he did not want any unnecessary delays now. The people of Skelleth might well have been stirred up by the siege or his own ride through town. He said, as a partial explanation, “We have to straighten out the situation in Skelleth. Thord told me that Galt is your co-commander. Where is he?”

  She pointed to one of the tents and made a sign indicating sleep.

  “He’s asleep? It’s after noon!”

  She scribbled on her tablet and showed him the words: “Night watch.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  Kyrith signed for him to wait and headed for the tent.

  Garth waited and looked about. There was no organization to the camp at all, it seemed. The warbeasts were off to one side, in a rope enclosure that obviously wouldn’t stop them for more than five seconds should they decide to leave; there was no sign of any food supply for them, and a hungry warbeast was as dangerous to friend as to foe. Had the overmen been letting them hunt their own food? That was fine for one, two, or maybe even three, but there were half a dozen in the pen, and more still out on sentry duty. A dozen warbeasts hunting in the same territory could strip it clean in a matter of days and might well start fighting amongst themselves over the game they found. Furthermore, most warbeasts weren’t picky about what they ate so long as it was sufficiently large and fresh; they would hunt humans as readily as anything else, and that would hardly be good for interspecies relations.

  He couldn’t judge just how hungry the penned beasts were, but they did not look as if they had been fed in the last day or two; that was good, as it implied they had last hunted somewhere to the north, where humans were rare and uncivilized and wouldn’t be missed by the people of Skelleth. It was also bad, however, because it meant they would demand feeding soon.

  The tents were apparently placed at random, wherever their owners’ whims had chosen; most were clustered loosely about a large, square-framed one that Garth assumed must serve as a command post. Some were not set up properly; pegs were left hanging or lying on the ground.

  There was no sign of any central supply; it appeared that each tent held its own stocks of food and water and its owner’s own weapons and armor.

  In short, the camp displayed all that was worst in the behavior of overmen. Garth knew from his studies of the history of the Racial Wars that the humans had not won solely because they had never outnumbered his kind by less than five to one; they had had superior organization, as well. Humans were naturally social animals; though they tended to be careless, sloppy, and stupid, they were able to function well in groups. A single competent military commander could organize a thousand humans and get them to fight with some semblance of efficient cooperation.

  Overmen, unfortunately, were less gregarious. Each, when pressed, would invariably put his own well-being before that of anyone or anything else, including the very survival of the species. They resented taking orders, and, in fact, usually wouldn’t obey even direct commands without an explanation of why they should. An army of overmen didn’t function as a single unit, but as a collection of individual warriors, each ferocious enough in his own right, but with no sense of loyalty to his comrades, and prone to go off on solo adventures at the first opportunity.

  What little cooperation overmen did display had been forced upon them by events, and its forms had usually been learned from the humans they despised. Marriage was a human invention that overmen had adopted because it simplified family responsibilities and inheritances. Cities facilitated trade and government—but even so, the overmen had only one in all the Northern Waste, and it sprawled over several square miles of coastline and hill with a population of less than five thousand, the houses strewn randomly about the countryside rather than laid out along streets.

  For that matter, nobody actually knew what the population of Ordunin or of the Waste was, as there had never been sufficient cooperation to conduct a census.

  This camp, then, seemed typical of overmen when there was no strong organization and leader forcing them to behave. He knew, from his own military experiences in battling the pirates who occasionally raide
d Ordunin, that overmen could be made to form a coherent fighting unit—but it was extraordinarily difficult. Where one human officer might reasonably hope to manage a hundred soldiers in an emergency, each overman had commanded no more than ten, at the very most; three was better. Every two or three officers then needed a commander.

  And here, sixty overmen were under two co-commanders with no intermediate organization apparent.

  Had the expedition been set up properly, there would have been a supply train accompanying it, including a herd of goats to feed the warbeasts and a good stock of replacement armor and weaponry. There would be three captains, he thought, each with two lieutenants, each with two sergeants, each with three or four soldiers. The tents would have been set up in some pattern and the warbeasts tethered in a ring around the camp, to serve as the first line of defense.

  Kyrith and Galt emerged from the tent, and he put aside his thoughts. Galt blinked at the daylight; the sky was finally beginning to clear. “Greetings, Garth,” he said.

  “Greetings, Galt. What are you doing here? What is this so-called siege supposed to do?”

  “Don’t blame me for the siege; that was Kyrith’s idea, and I was overruled.”

  “What are you doing here in the first place?”

  “We came to speak with the Baron of Skelleth. Kyrith didn’t believe that you had gone off on your own willingly; she thought that the Baron had you prisoner somewhere in Skelleth or had killed you, and she gathered these volunteers to come find you. The City Council sent me along. We had intended to ride into the village, confront the Baron, present our demands, and settle the matter on the spot, preferably by gracefully accepting his capitulation.”

  “You needed sixty armed overmen for that?”

  “As we both know, Garth, the Baron of Skelleth takes a great interest in military matters. Your disappearance gave us sufficient excuse for a show of force, which, it was felt, might serve to convince him where simple negotiation would not.”