The Sword Of Bheleu tlod-3

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  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 Dыsarra."

  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?"

  "No."

  "I don't think we need it," Saram said. "She's outnumbered four to one and outweighed at least six to one."

  There was general agreement, and Frima approached the weapon unencumbered. She used only one finger for her experiment, and thereby escaped with the least injury, of any.

  She came running back into Saram's arms and held up her scorched finger for him to kiss.

  "Perhaps," Galt suggested, "the sword has changed somehow-the time of year may have affected it, or some occurrence in the battle. Perhaps no one can now handle it.

  Garth nodded. "I hope you're right; let us see if it will singe my fingers as it did yours." He picked up the rope and threw a loop around his neck, handed the ends to Galt and Fyrsh, and then marched toward the sword.

  Almost immediately he felt the familiar urge to grab it up, to
use it on his enemies. The red glow of the jewel seemed to fill his vision and flood everything with crimson.

  As he drew near, any caution he might have felt faded away. He reached down and picked up the sword, easily and naturally, as if it were an ordinary weapon. The flames that had glimmered about the hilt vanished as his hand approached; the grip was warm to his touch, as if. it had been left in bright sunlight for a few moments.

  He lifted the sword, and the red haze vanished from his sight. The glow of the jewel faded. He felt none of the berserk fury that the sword had brought upon him in the past; instead he was strangely calm. He turned to face his companions. "You see?" he called. "It has a will of its own, and it has chosen me as its wielder."

  "I see," Galt called back. "Now put it down again."

  Garth nodded and tried to turn back.

  The sword would not move; it hung in the air before him as if embedded in stone.

  Garth tried to release his hold and drop it where it was; his fingers would not move.

  "I think we have a problem," he called.

  Instantly, Galt jerked the rope tight; with equal speed, the sword twisted, feeling as if it were moving Garth's hands rather than the reverse, and cut the rope through. Before Fyrsh could take any action with his end it flashed back and severed that, as well. The two overmen found themselves holding useless fragments, while the loop around Garth's throat remained slack.

  There was a moment of horrified silence; then Galt called, "Now what?"

  "I don't know!" Garth replied. "I can't let go!" He struggled, trying to pry his fingers from the grip, but could not move them.

  He attempted to move his arm and discovered that he could now move it freely. He lowered the sword from the upright display he had held it in; there was no reason to be unnecessarily uncomfortable.

  He tried placing his other hand on the grip and then removing it; there was no resistance. He then placed his left hand on the grip and tried removing his right.

  It came away easily and naturally.

  Now, however, his left hand was locked to the sword.

  He switched back and forth a few times, and established to his own satisfaction that whatever power held him to the sword would be content with either hand or both, so long as he retained a hold suitable for wielding the thing. He could hold it with two fingers and one thumb, if he chose; that seemed to be the absolute minimum. Any one finger and both thumbs on the same hand would also work. A single finger and thumb, however, or just two thumbs, would not suffice; when he attempted to use such a grip, his other hand would not come free.

  He was about to point this out to Galt as clear proof that there was a conscious power involved-after all, how could any spell, however complex, manage anything so subtle? Galt chose that moment to call, "Garth, stay there; I will return shortly."

  For the first time Garth realized that while he had been playing with his fingers, the other four had been discussing his situation and had, apparently arrived at some sort of a decision. Galt and Saram were leaving. Fyrsh and, oddly, Frima were staying. He called after the departing pair, "See if you can find a sheath that would fit this thing! I have an idea!"

  It had occurred to him that, if it were sheathed, the sword might behave differently; it was certainly worth trying.

  He was frankly puzzled by this new difficulty. He had never before had any trouble in releasing the sword.

  But then, he told himself, he had never tried to destroy it before, or tried to abandon it.

  Perhaps he could still destroy it, he thought. His previous failure might have been because the sword held some special relationship to stone; after all, he knew almost nothing about it. The standard method for breaking a sword had always been to snap it across one's knee; he could try that.

  He turned back toward the stone blocks-the sword seemed to have no objection now that the rope was cut. He placed one foot on a block, raising his knee to a convenient height.

  Ordinarily he wouldn't have done something like this without armor. Metal splinters might fly, and the broken ends could snap back and gash his knee badly. He thought such injuries would be worthwhile, though, if he could be rid of this particular sword. He placed it across his knee, his right hand holding the hilt and his left gripping the blade, and pushed down.

  Nothing happened. The sword bent not an inch.

  He pressed harder. It still did not give.

  He put his full strength into it, so that the pressure bruised his knee and the palms of his hands; had it snapped; he knew he would have been thrown forward on the fragments and probably seriously cut.

  It did not snap. It did not yield at all.

  He gave up in disgust and looked speculatively at the stone block.

  Raising the sword above his head in a two-handed grip such as he would have used on an axe in chopping firewood, he swung the blade down at the stone with all the might he could muster.

  The stone block shattered in a spectacular shower of sparks, dust, and gravel.

  He studied the blade and ran a thumb along it carefully. It was as sharp as ever, with no sign of nick or waver.

  Destroying this thing would be a real challenge, he realized. It might take days or even months to contrive an effective method.

  It was very curious, though, that it was allowing him so much freedom to try. He knew that it could cloud his thoughts and turn him into a mindless engine of destruction or move in his hands without his cooperation, yet it was doing nothing of the kind. Instead it had displayed this new talent, this refusal to come free of his hold. Why had it not done so before?

  Perhaps it had felt no need. He had cooperated with it readily, at first. Only after he realized how disastrous the consequences of the destruction of Skelleth might be had he seriously resisted. When he had actually managed to abandon it, perhaps it had become frightened, aware that it might lose its control of him.

  Could a sword be frightened? Or, if the sword were only a tool, could a god be frightened?

  Frightened might be too strong a word; "cautious" would be better. If he could reassure the entity, whatever it was, perhaps he could contrive to slip away and abandon the sword for good. Once he was free of its hold, he would be certain never to touch it again.

  If he could pick it up without touching it, with tongs perhaps, and transport it, he could find some way to get rid of it even if he couldn't destroy it. He could throw it in the ocean; no one would retrieve it from the bottom of the sea.

  That assumed, however, that he would be able to get it out of his hands.

  The Forgotten King would probably be able to make it let go. Judging by the ease with which the old man had darkened the gem and suppressed the sword's power before, he should have no trouble in doing so again. The only problem with that solution was that the King would almost certainly demand something in exchange, and Garth did not care to deal with him further.

  Still, if he could not manage something else, sooner or later he might be forced to give in to the Forgotten King. Even that would be preferable to unleashing the sword again, he was sure. He had felt the sword's personality, if it could be called that, and he knew that it sought nothing but death and destruction. It was being canny now, biding its time, allowing him to think, but he was certain that soon its bloodlust would grow and more innocents would die, as they had died in Dыsarra and Skelleth.

  Thinking of death, the sword, and the Forgotten King, he began to wonder at the exact nature of the King's immortality. What would happen if the old man were to have a blade thrust through him? Would he live on regardless? Could he bleed or feel pain? What if his head were to be severed? Surely, death-priest or no, he could not survive decapitation.

  It might be, then, that he could not be decapitated, that any blade would break in the attempt. In that case, what would happen if he were to be struck by the unbreakable blade of the Sword of Bheleu?

  This seemed a very interesting question. What would happen when the irresistible destructive power of the
sword met the immortal body of the Forgotten King? One or the other would have to yield and perish.

  If the sword were to break, then Garth would be rid of it.

  If the King were to die-as seemed far more likely, more in keeping with the natural order of the world-then Garth would have performed an act of mercy, and would no longer need to worry about the old man's schemes. Unfortunately, he would also no longer have a means of last resort for disposing of the sword.

  Perhaps both would be destroyed. That would really be the ideal solution.

  He would have to consider this further, and perhaps attempt a few experiments. He might want to obtain some advice on the matter. He wondered if he could trust the old man to tell the truth; perhaps he would do better to go home and consult the Wise Women of Ordunin.

  As he considered this, he saw Galt and Saram returning, leading a squad of half a dozen overmen and an equal number of humans. Someone was even leading a warbeast.

  He wondered, out of a warrior's professional curiosity, whether the sword would be able to kill so many opponents before they could rip him apart. Without the warbeast, he suspected it would have no trouble. Warbeasts, however, were notoriously hard to kill and moved with a speed and ferocity that no overman could even approach, just as no human could equal an overman.

  He hoped that he wouldn't have to put the matter to the test.

  Several of the overmen, he saw, were carrying various ropes and restraints. Saram was carrying the same oversized, over-the-shoulder scabbard that had held the sword before.

  That was encouraging, because it implied that they hoped to restrain him-and the sword-without harming him. Less pleasant was the fact that four of the humans carried crossbows. Galt apparently did not care to take too many chances. Garth hoped that those would be strictly a last resort and that the archers would not aim to kill.

  The newcomers stopped where Fyrsh and Frima waited and spoke with them; Garth did not try to listen, but it was plain that Frima was protesting such extreme measures.

  While the argument continued, Garth called, "Ho, Saram! Toss me that scabbard!"

  The acting baron looked up and thought for a moment before obeying.