Kubal nodded agreement. “We didn’t know what we were doing; I didn’t know he could be so powerful. I didn’t believe Kala when she said that he could summon storms.”
“The three of you were all acting stupidly,” Shandiph said. “The essence of magic is not power, but subtlety and deception, and poor Alagar paid for your rashness in not thinking of that. As additional folly, you alerted the overman.”
“He is no wizard, though,” the Baron of Therin said. “He won’t know how to defend himself against us. Karag made a natural mistake in thinking that three wizards could handle him, magic sword or no.”
“I do not say that they underestimated the overman, but that they underestimated the sword,” Shandiph replied. “We need to use subtler methods, methods that the sword cannot counter directly.”
“What did you have in mind?” Chalkara asked.
Shandiph replied by crossing to the guidebook, opening it, and asking, “Are there magicks in this chamber that can kill a foe from afar?”
The book turned to a page very near the front, which said, in large, ornate runes, simply, “YES”
“What are the dozen most effective that can be used without great preparation, how do they work, and where can they be found?”
Pages turned, revealing a list.
“Kala, ready your scrying glass, so that we can see what happens.”
“I don’t have my glass; it was left in Kholis.”
Disconcerted, Shandiph admitted, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“There must be a scrying glass here somewhere,” Chalkara said. “Ask the book.”
A glass was found and given to Kala; she wandered several yards down the room and found a suitable spot to work in.
The magical light Shandiph had conjured was beginning to fade, which suited her well; it was easier to use a glass in dim light. She attempted to summon up Garth’s image, and found it impossible. The sword’s power still blocked her.
She said as much to the others, who had gathered together most of the devices and spell books the guidebook had listed as necessary for the dozen death-spells.
“I forgot about that entirely,” Shandiph said. “I suppose we’ll just have to try these, and then go there and see.”
“If he resists other magic as well as he resists a scrying spell, I think we had best go prepared for battle.”
“I fear you’re right,” Shandiph agreed. “Let me ask the book what other weapons we might take.”
“I already asked that,” Karag said. He was beginning to regain his composure. “We took three of the four most powerful—the Great Staff of Power, the Sword of Koros, and something the book called the Blood-Sword of Hishan of Darbul. The book said it was the third most powerful weapon here, after the Staff and the Ring of P’hul, but the Sword of Bheleu shattered it instantly.”
There was a glum silence in response to this news.
After a pause, Shandiph asked, “Book, what would you recommend we use against the Sword of Bheleu?”
The page revealed bore a single sentence, which Chalkara read aloud over Shandiph’s shoulder. “There is no power in the Council’s possession that can withstand the Sword of Bheleu.”
“You say there is nothing we can do?”
With a thump, pages turned back to reveal the single ornate word.
“Is there no power that can defeat the wielder of the sword?” Chalkara asked.
“There are two; the Book of Silence and the King in Yellow,” Shandiph read.
“Who is the King in Yellow?” Thetheru asked.
A single page turned, and Shandiph said, “I knew this already. It says, ‘the immortal high priest of Death’.”
“Where can we find him?” Chalkara asked.
No pages turned, but Shandiph replied, “We don’t want to find him; he would be worse than the overman. He is the agent of Death as Garth is the agent of Bheleu.”
“Then what of the Book of Silence?” called someone from the back of the little crowd.
“Do you know why it’s called the Book of Silence?” Miloshir replied. “To speak aloud a single word written therein will kill anyone but its rightful owner.”
There was a somber silence. Herina spoke up at last. “We could draw lots, and the loser would use the Book...”
“No, it won’t work. The loser would die before completing the spell. It would take one of us for each word of the spell, and I have no idea how long the incantation we want might be.”
“Can we find the rightful owner and ask his aid?”
“The Book belongs to the King in Yellow.”
“It would seem we are defeated before we have begun,” Derelind said.
“We must try, at the very least,” Veyel replied.
“We must and we will. We will try each of these twelve spells the book led us to. It may be that the book is not infallible and has overestimated the power of the sword; it may be that Garth is not yet fully attuned to the sword’s power. We still have a chance.”
“Attuned?” Karag snorted. “The overman can summon storms from a clear sky and steer the lightning! How much more control over the sword’s magic can he possess?”
“Much more, Karag. The sword’s power is virtually limitless.”
Kubal shuddered at that.
The discussion broke down after that into several groups of two or three, each working on one or two of the long-range spells. One by one, the death-spells were worked, amid strange chants, evil-smelling smoke, eerie lights, and other by-products of magic. The golden light vanished completely, and lanterns were found to replace it. Several of the councilors had become hungry, and Deriam used the book to locate a bottomless purse that could be made to produce an unlimited supply of biscuits and cakes and a wine flask that never ran dry.
“This is a very useful thing,” he remarked as he gulped down the red wine, “though it’s hardly a great vintage. I wonder why it was sealed away here?”
Shandiph was watching the last death-spell being worked, which involved an elaborate dance with a very sharp knife. Chalkara was the dancer. He answered absentmindedly, “Someone must have thought it was dangerous.”
“How could a wine flask be dangerous?”
“Oh, easily enough, I think.”
“How?”
“You could drown someone, I suppose,” Amarda the Blood-Drinker suggested, “or flood out a place.” She was nursing cuts on her palms from the spell she had helped with and licking off the blood with disconcerting relish. Deriam glanced at her, then quickly looked away again.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted.
At that moment the Baron of Therin distracted Shandiph from the dance. “I have news from Kholis,” he said.
The Chairman turned and asked, “What is it?”
“An embassy from Skelleth has arrived and is at this moment speaking with the High King; my other self has just entered the audience chamber to hear what they have to say.”
“What are they saying?”
Dor paused for a moment, as if listening, then answered, “They say that Skelleth has been burned and many of its people slain as a result of the dead Baron’s madness. They say that a peaceful trade mission of overmen was attacked by the Baron’s guards without cause, and the ensuing battle ended with the guardsmen and the Baron all dead, and many others as well.”
“That is not what the Seer of Weideth said had happened.”
Dor shrugged. “The ambassador is undoubtedly lying. Now he is explaining that the overmen stayed to aid in the rebuilding, and that a man named Saram, once a lieutenant in the Baron’s guard, organized the survivors.”
Shandiph glanced at where Chalkara was whirling, her knife glinting in the lantern light, and then looked about “Where is the Seer?”
The man from Weideth made his presence known from
somewhere behind the Chairman.
“Ah, there you are. Can you say anything of the truth or falsehood of what Lord Dor is telling us?”
“Lord Dor speaks the truth as he knows it, my lord, but of course, that is to be expected, and says nothing about the truthfulness of the ambassador from Skelleth. I cannot know what is true at secondhand, like this.”
“You said that the Baron of Skelleth was murdered.”
“Oh, yes, he was! I tested that by three separate divinations; he was stabbed from behind without warning, by the Sword of Bheleu, while unarmed”
“Then this ambassador is lying.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“What is he saying now, Dor?”
“He is explaining that Skelleth hasn’t enough wood or food to last the winter and asking that the High King send aid and name a new baron, so that the town will flourish as before, despite this unfortunate incident.”
“Skelleth hasn’t flourished in two hundred years!” Deriam said.
“True enough,” Dor agreed. “I merely repeat what I hear.”
“Now what’s happening?”
“Barach of Sland has interrupted the ambassador’s speech; he says that the man is obviously a lying blackguard, and asks that the High King send him to Skelleth to learn the truth of the matter.”
“The Baron of Sland wants to go to Skelleth?” Thetheru was plainly astonished. He could not imagine anyone wanting to go to such a place.
“That’s no surprise,” Karag replied. “He has always liked the idea of acquiring a second barony, and was rather annoyed when Skelleth went to someone else—when was it?—twenty-three, twenty-four years ago.”
“Even if we do dispose of the overman, it appears that we may have to settle other matters regarding Skelleth,” Shandiph observed.
“I would say so,” Dor agreed. “The High King has just said that he sees no reason to disbelieve the ambassador and will send what aid he can. He is naming this man Saram as the new Baron of Skelleth, pending his formal presentation at Kholis for confirmation. Barach is raging mad. He’s storming out now, calling for his men.”
“We will have to patch up this quarrel when time allows,” Shandiph said.
“Shouldn’t we see to it immediately, before anyone does anything foolish?” Deriam asked.
“No,” Shandiph answered, “I think we should tend to what we’ve begun first and deal with the overman. He’s the more dangerous problem.” He gestured at Chalkara, who was nearing the end of her ritual. “If these spells have worked, any of them, we should be in plenty of time. If they haven’t, then it’s all the more important that we handle Garth immediately.”
Chalkara completed her dance with a final flourish and flung the dagger to the floor between her feet. According to the book that contained the spell, the blade was supposed to penetrate any floor, even stone, easily and draw blood. The blood would be that of the intended victim.
The knife struck, ringing, and stuck into the stone floor as intended, but only the tip had penetrated; no blood flowed.
“I don’t think it worked,” Kubal said.
“It may be that the overman was already dead,” Derelind said. “After all, we have tried to kill him a dozen times over. We have burned him, choked him, stabbed him, flayed him, smothered him, poisoned him, and sent birds to tear him to pieces.”
“I hope that’s it,” Shandiph said. He leaned on the reading stand and asked the guidebook, “Is Garth of Ordunin dead?”
Pages turned, and he read aloud. “This book is not a true oracle, and answers only questions about magic and arcane information known to the Council of the Most High at the close of the Twelfth Age.”
“Try your scrying glass, Kala,” someone said.
There was a general chorus of agreement, and Kala withdrew into the darkness with a single candle she had found. The candle came from a chest of similar candles, each of which the book said held a minor fire-elemental; this was supposed to allow it to burn for several days before being consumed.
The others spoke quietly among themselves for several minutes while Kala struggled with her glass. Most consciously did not look at her, but Karag could not resist; he watched and saw the crystal globe glowing a vivid red.
Then Zhinza, who stood nearest Kala, remarked, “I smell cooking meat.” An instant later Kala cried out and dropped the sphere. It exploded, and gobbets of semi molten glass spattered in every direction.
Most of the councilors were unhurt, since Kala had stayed well away from the crowd, but Zhinza and Kala received several cuts and burns, and a glowing shard had cut open Sherek’s arm. Derelind used the guidebook to locate a healing spell, which Chalkara applied.
The spell stopped the cuts from bleeding and eased most of the burns, but did nothing for Kala’s scorched palms.
When that emergency had been dealt with, the twenty councilors looked at one another in the lantern light, each waiting for someone else to speak, until at last Chalkara said, “Now what? The overman is still alive, or else Kala’s glass would not have exploded. None of our spells touched him, apparently. What do we do now?”
Shandiph, for once, had no reply; it was Karag who finally answered slowly, “I think I have an idea.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Garth was considering his situation as he rode northeastward along the narrow valley.
He was beginning to doubt that he would find any way out of his dilemma. It looked very much as if the only way to free himself of the Sword of Bheleu was to swear to serve the Forgotten King. After all, he knew that the King was someone unique and uniquely powerful; it might well be that there was nothing and no one else who could control the sword. The three wizards had certainly not given it much of a fight.
If it did finally come down to a choice between the King and the sword, he was unsure which he preferred. Either choice would lead to several unwanted deaths; he knew that he could not hope to restrain the sword forever, and the old man admitted that his great magic would kill many people besides himself.
Of course, the Forgotten King’s spell would be a single event, while the sword was an ongoing problem. Furthermore, it was possible that Garth would not live long enough to fetch the mysterious book the King wanted. The book might have been destroyed or irrevocably lost long ago.
If it came down to a simple final choice, then, Garth would choose to serve the Forgotten King again, although he was not happy with that decision, since he did not like or trust the old man. He felt that the King was manipulating him, controlling him as if he were a mere beast of burden, to be ordered about or coerced into obedience when it proved reluctant.
Even that, though, was preferable to being possessed outright by the sword’s malevolent power, whatever it was.
He might never find the Book of Silence. His oath to the Forgotten King might lead to nothing. He could not believe, however, that possession of the sword would lead to nothing.
He might somehow contrive to avoid delivering the book, if he did find it. If he worded his oath carefully, he might manage that—or if he broke his oath. He stopped his chain of thought abruptly at that point, and looked at that idea.
No overman, it was said, had ever broken a sworn oath, in all the thousand years since the species first came to exist. Garth certainly had not, though he had taken advantage of poor wording on occasion and events beyond his control had sometimes betrayed him.
To break an oath was said to be an offense against the gods—not just whatever gods one might swear by, but any others that might be listening. Garth would once have dismissed this as superstitious human nonsense; now that he was no longer firm in his atheism he considered it, but dismissed it eventually anyway. Surely the gods had better things to do than to interfere in mortal affairs over mere words.
Furthermore, he had already defied and offended several gods—Tema, Aghad, And
hur Regvos, Sai, and even The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken. He had defiled their temples and slain their priests, yet no harm had befallen him as a result. He did not need to worry about offending gods, he was quite certain.
But to break an oath would be to destroy his own honor, his family’s honor, and the honor of his clan and of his entire species. Never again would anyone trust him, nor would he deserve trust. He would be outcast forever from Ordunin and all the Northern Waste, a disgraced exile. That is, this would be so if it became known that he had broken his word.
Even if it did not become common knowledge, though, he would know. His honor would be gone. He would be nothing; he would be no true overman. He would be no better than the lowest human in the alleys of Skelleth.
Ordinarily, he would never even have considered such an action. When the only other choices he faced involved nothing but widespread death, however, he had to consider the possibility. He owed it to the innocents that he might be consigning to death. Was his personal honor worth more than their lives?
Tradition said it was; the legends and tales he had heard in his youth said that nothing was more important than honor. There were stories of overmen and even humans who had died rather than be dishonored, who had allowed friends and family to die, who had slain friends and comrades, all in the name of honor.
It was still too early to be so pessimistic, he told himself. He would first ask the Wise Women what he could do to free himself of the sword. If they told him that only the Forgotten King could free him, then he would swear the oath—and most probably, he would keep it. He could not go against all he had been taught.
He hoped, though, that Ao would tell him of another way in which he could be free.
He studied the hills to his left; he was nearing the point at which the road turned northward again, leading over the next few ridges into a much wider valley, beyond which he would have to cross another, higher range of hills—a range that came much closer to being mountains.
The snow hid the details of the ground, but he was fairly certain he recognized an irregular peak ahead. His turn was just to the nearer side of that.
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