“It tastes awful,” he said a moment later.
“Potions usually do,” she replied.
“I know. You’d think something could be done about it.”
“Right now, I think there are other things more important to do.”
“You’re right. I don’t know anything about Garth of Ordunin or about Skelleth, and the Sword of Bheleu is legendary, which means the available information can’t be trusted. I do, however, know the Seer of Weideth, albeit only slightly. It’s a hereditary post, one of these odd little oracular talents that turn up here and there. Weideth is a village in the hills in the northwest of Nekutta, and its seers have certain undeniable gifts as long as they remain within the immediate area. The current Seer is no great prophet, but he can do a simple divination; I’m afraid there’s no disputing his facts.”
“Then this sword really is too powerful to defeat by mundane methods?”
“Oh, we can’t be sure of that; a clever assassin might manage something. There could be flaws in the Seer’s detail work in that particular conclusion. I would certainly agree that an army won’t work; he couldn’t have missed the mark by that much.”
“Do you want to try an assassin, then?”
“Chala, my dear, I’m not going to try anything. I don’t know enough about it. I’m going to get some expert advice first.”
“What sort of advice?”
“Oh, I think I had best consult an astrologer and a theurgist, since there may be a god involved, and experts on swords and overmen and perhaps an archivist or two. I’ll find a really good diviner to study the entire affair; I’m no good at that sort of work myself.”
“Shandi, if you’re going to do all that, wouldn’t it be simpler just to convene the entire Council and turn the whole thing over to them at once? You know that you need approval from a quorum before you start commissioning assassinations or fooling with major arcana.”
Shandiph considered this silently for a moment. The pleasant glow he had felt earlier was almost wholly dissipated now, and he found himself slightly irritable in consequence.
“You’re right, Chala. Aghad take this overman, you’re right. I hate convening the Council; there’s always argument, and I always have to break it up. There’s no getting around it, though; this is important enough for the whole Council. A border has been violated and the invaders are using magic. That’s exactly the sort of thing that the Council is supposed to prevent.”
“Well, at least if you turn it over to the Council, you won’t have the entire responsibility.”
“Oh, I don’t mind the responsibility. It’s better than having to listen to that fool Deriam and his idiot theories about the natural supremacy of Ur-Dormulk, or trying to keep peace between Karag of Sland and Thetheru of Amag. You know, I came down here early just to get away from Deriam and now I’m going to have to invite him here.”
“I thought you came to see me!”
“I did, I did; after all, I could have gone anywhere from Ur-Dormulk, couldn’t I?”
“I know, Shandi. I guess we won’t be finishing the game, will we?”
Shandiph looked at the scattered caravanserai pieces. “I suppose not. And just when my luck was changing!”
“Ha! You would have been lucky not to lose a hundred coins!”
“Would I? We’ll see next time, then!” He smiled, then frowned. “Right now, though, I had best go find the Charm of Convocation.” He clambered awkwardly to his feet.
Chalkara began gathering up the carved tokens. “Shall I come with you?”
“You tempt me, but no. Only the Chairman is to see the Charm—another silly rule.”
“In that case, shall I go and tell the King to expect company?”
“Yes, I think so; it is his castle, after all. He might get upset if three dozen magicians were to turn up on his doorstep without warning.”
Chalkara nodded, and began placing the ivory pieces neatly into their places in the rosewood box.
Shandiph watched her for a moment, then said, “Gau and Pria bless you, Chala.” He left, closing the door gently behind him.
That night each and every member of the Council of the Most High had the same dream, and each awoke knowing that he or she was to leave immediately for Kholis.
Chapter Fifteen
Saram was not called away immediately, but eventually, as Garth was beginning to feel rather soggy from the vast amount of ale he had consumed, someone came looking for the interim baron. A jurisdictional dispute had developed between two of his ad hoc ministers.
Garth watched him go, taking Frima with him, and marveled that he could walk straight. The human had consumed ale mug for mug with him, and if Garth was feeling the effects, then surely, he thought, the much smaller human should be staggering drunk. It did not occur to him that he had been drinking earlier as well, before picking up the sword, while Saram had not.
It was the middle of the evening and the tavern was crowded; nonetheless, as usual, the Forgotten King was alone at his table in the corner beneath the stairs. Garth seated himself opposite the old man.
For a long moment neither spoke; Garth was unsure how to begin, and the Forgotten King preferred to let the other speak first.
“I have questions I would ask you,” Garth said at last.
The old man said nothing, but the yellow cowl dipped in a faint nod.
“You say that you cannot die by ordinary means. How can this be? What would happen if you were struck with a good blade? If your neck were to be severed, would you not die like any other mortal?”
“My neck cannot be severed by any ordinary blade,” the King replied.
The hideous dry voice caught Garth off-guard; he had forgotten how unpleasant it was to hear. He hesitated before asking, “How can that be?”
The yellow-draped shoulders rose, then sank.
Garth felt a flicker of annoyance and immediately looked at the hilt of the Sword of Bheleu. The gem was glowing very faintly.
That was not necessarily bad, he thought. Perhaps if he were to allow himself to become angry, the old wizard would douse the sword’s power as he had done before, and Garth would be able to escape from the weapon’s hold without making any sort of deal at all.
He turned back to the Forgotten King and asked, “You say no ordinary blade can kill you; what of the sword I carry?”
“You are welcome to make the attempt,” the old man replied.
Garth considered that.
If the result were the destruction of the sword, then all would be well, and his problems would be at an end for the moment. If the result were the death of the King, then he would have performed an act of mercy, but he might be stuck with the sword indefinitely. If both were destroyed, that would be best all around.
There was surely some other way of getting free of the sword. Perhaps, even if it were not destroyed, it would be sufficiently weakened by the effort to loose its hold.
One way or another, the odds appeared to be in his favor. He decided to risk it. He stood, reached up, and pulled the sword from its sheath, awkward in the confined space of the tavern. The tip of the up-ended scabbard scraped the ceiling as the blade came free. It was obvious that he would be unable to swing the blade up over his head; he would have to use a sweeping horizontal stroke instead.
There was a hush, and he looked about, realizing that the other patrons of the tavern had abruptly fallen silent. They were staring at him and at the great broadsword, wearing expressions that ranged from vague curiosity to abject terror.
“Have no fear,” he called. “I mean none of you any harm. The old man here has challenged me to strike off his head. Haven’t you, old man?”
The yellow-garbed figure nodded, and Garth thought he caught a glint of light in one shadowed eye.
The overman looked along the path he planned for the sword and saw t
hat it would pass uncomfortably close to the humans at a neighboring table. “Excuse me, friends,” he said, “but I would greatly appreciate it if you could step back for a moment, to give me room to swing.”
The humans quickly rose and backed away.
Satisfied that he would endanger no one but the King, Garth took a good two-handed grip on the sword and tried to swing it.
At first it moved normally, but as it approached the old man’s neck it slowed, as if moving through water rather than air. From the corner of his eye Garth could see the red gem glowing fiercely, but he felt none of the roaring anger and exultant bloodlust that usually accompanied the glow.
Then the sword stopped, inches from the ragged yellow cloth, frozen in mid-air as it had been just before it severed the rope earlier that afternoon. He could force it no closer.
He strained, putting all the strength of his arms into driving the sword toward the old man’s throat.
The blade did not move; instead it rang, like steel striking stone, and flashed silver. The hilt grew warm in his grasp.
That inspired him to push harder; perhaps he could force the sword to reject him.
The ringing sounded again, louder, like the sound made by running a moist finger along the rim of a fine crystal goblet, and this time it did not fade, but grew. The red glow of the jewel was brighter now than the lamps that lit the tavern, and the blade was unmistakably glowing as well. The hilt was hot, but there was no pain, no burning, and he knew that he could not release his hold any more than before he had swung.
The sword did not move, but remained stalled in midair, as if wedged in stone, a few short inches from the old man’s neck.
Then, abruptly, it forced itself back, against his will.
Startled, he released his pressure and found the sword hanging loosely in his grasp, apparently quite normal. The ringing had stopped. The glow had vanished, and the hilt was cooling rapidly.
He was determined not to give in that easily. He swung the sword back and attempted another blow.
This time, as the blade approached its target, it veered upward, twisting in his hands, and cut through nothing but the air above the Forgotten King’s head.
He stopped his useless swing and brought the weapon back for a third try. This time he found himself unable even to begin his swing; the sword was suddenly heavy in his grasp, impossibly heavy, and he could not lift it to the height of the old man’s neck.
Annoyed, he applied his full strength and hauled the blade upward. It seemed to struggle, and he felt a pull, as if a great lodestone were tugging it away from the King.
He fought it, but could not bring the weapon to bear on the old man.
After several minutes of struggling, the Forgotten King’s dead, dry voice called to him.
“Garth. Stop wasting time.”
Reluctantly, he gave up and let the tip of the sword fall to the floor. It lost its unnatural weight, and he picked it up as if to sheathe it.
Then, abruptly, trying to take it by surprise, he yanked it around into a thrust toward the King.
It stopped short a foot from the tattered yellow cloak.
He gave up in disgust and sheathed the sword. It did not resist.
He seated himself again and asked, “Was any of that your doing?”
There was a pause before the King replied, “Not willingly. None of it was of my choosing, but it was as much my curse as the sword’s power at work.”
“Then an ordinary blade would behave similarly?”
“Not quite. It would break if forced, rather than fighting back.”
Garth sat back, thinking.
He was unsure whether or not to believe that an ordinary blade would break. He was not even certain that he should believe the old man’s claim not to have willingly interfered. Perhaps he had lied, lied throughout; perhaps he did not want to die. His claims might be camouflage for some deeper, more subtle scheme.
He could not be trusted.
He did, however, have the power to control the sword.
A vague, uneasy thought occurred to Garth; he considered it, let it grow and take form.
Perhaps it was in truth the Forgotten King who controlled the sword’s actions entirely, and not the mythical god of destruction. Perhaps Garth’s entire mission to Dûsarra had been an elaborate charade the old man had contrived for reasons that remained unclear.
Such a theory seemed unlikely, but could not be completely discounted.
Carrying his imagining a step further, Garth arrived at another possibility. What if the sword and the Forgotten King were both being controlled by some other unseen power? It might be Bheleu, The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, or just some mighty wizard.
What if everything that had befallen him was part of some vast plot? Could his depression and resulting quest for eternal fame have been the result of some spell? Could the entire sequence of events that followed have been planned, his every action guided?
Had he ever had any choice at all in his actions?
He shook his head. This was all getting too complicated and far-fetched; he doubted that there was any such conspiracy at work. If there were, it was obviously far beyond his own capabilities to do anything about it.
“O King,” he said, returning to the subject at hand, “I would like to make you a gift of this sword. It was at your request that I brought it from Dûsarra, and I feel it right that you should have it.”
The Forgotten King said nothing.
“You will not refuse it?”
“I will not accept it,” the King replied, “until you swear to serve me by bringing me the Book of Silence and aiding in my final magic.”
“You have said that this magic will kill many people; I cannot in good conscience aid you in it.”
“Then I will not accept the sword.” He did not say anything more, but it was plain to both what was implied; while Garth kept the sword, he would be in constant danger of having further death and destruction on his conscience. He faced a choice of two evils, neither clearly the lesser, and both, in fact, quite large.
Garth reached up to his breast and picked at the knot that held the scabbard on his back. As he had expected, he was unable to work the strands at all.
“Will you not reconsider?” he asked.
“Will you?”
Defeated for the moment, Garth sat back and thought.
It seemed clear that the Forgotten King would not help him; the overman had feared as much. The sword had not obliged him by driving him into a frenzy that the King would have been forced to quell; a glance over his left shoulder showed that the gem was glowing moderately, yet he felt no particular anger, no great compulsions. The thing was biding its time. Perhaps it knew something of the future and was waiting for something specific; perhaps it was aware of the Forgotten King and had learned that he was able to control it, and so was restraining itself.
Perhaps, should it attempt to wreak havoc in the future, he could contrive to bring it here and threaten the King, so that the old man would be forced to dampen its power in self-defense.
No, that would not work; what need did the King have to defend himself? He was immortal and wanted to die—at least, so he claimed.
That might be a bluff, Garth thought, to convince him that there was no point in threatening the old man. Next time the killing fury came, Garth decided, he would make an attempt to find the King and test out his invulnerability again.
For the present, though, there seemed nothing more to be gained here. He rose and left the tavern.
The streets were dark, but torches lit the marketplace directly in front of him on the far side of the cellars of the Baron’s destroyed mansion. He paused and looked again at the knot that held the scabbard in place.
It was a very simple, rough knot; he had tied it himself and knew that to be the case. Ordinarily i
t would have been hardly adequate to hold the sword; normal jarring would have worked it loose in an hour or two. The sword’s power, however, could apparently be spread beyond the weapon itself; the knot was tight and solid.
He picked at it again, but could not work the strands loose.
There was an ancient legend about a knot that could not be untied. The story was that after many wise men had tried to undo it, a simple warrior had cut it apart with his knife. If Garth could not untie the scabbard strap while the sword was sheathed, perhaps he could cut it.
He made his way around the cellars and approached the nearest overman he saw. It was Fyrsh, relaxing by a campfire after his supper. He had no objection to loaning Garth his dagger. “After all,” he said, “you’ve already got that sword if you want to start trouble.”
Garth agreed, smiling, and thanked him. Then he found a quiet spot to sit and tried to cut the strap.
It was difficult slipping the blade under the strap at all; where a moment before it had seemed comfortably loose, it was now drawn tight across his chest. Finally, though, he managed to force it in and turned the blade, working it against the leather.
The blade was notched almost immediately, as if meeting steel.
Garth shifted it and tried again, sawing at the leather.
The blade snapped off completely, gashing his chest with the broken edge and cutting a long slit in his tunic before falling to the hard ground with a rattle.
The broken stump was of no use. He returned the pieces to Fyrsh with his sincere apologies and promised to pay for a new one.
It was growing late, and he had no further ideas that could be readily tried. Disgruntled, he set out to find somewhere to sleep. He did not care to be near other people; he was afraid that the sword might make him murder them while they slept.
After much walking, he settled down for the night in the shelter of a relatively intact stretch of the town’s wall, midway between the North and East Gates. His sleep was calm and dreamless.
The Sword of Bheleu Page 16