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 Dыsarra 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 farfetched; 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 Dыsarra, 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 it 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 spo
t 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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The first to arrive at the High King's castle was Karag of Sland, which was somewhat surprising; Stand lay almost two days' ride to the west of Kholis, and Shandiph knew there were other councilors closer at hand.
Furthermore, Karag did not come alone. The Baron of Sland had accompanied him, with a party of half a dozen black-clad soldiers.
The presence of the Baron made the arrival a matter of state; the High King was roused and formal presentation arranged. While this went on, Chalkara reported to the Chairman that a ragged stranger dressed in brown and carrying a staff had arrived at the scullery gate, refusing to give his name but insisting that Shandiph had sent for him.
"That's all right," Shandiph told her as he watched the High King accepting Karag's obeisance. "That would be Derelind the Hermit; he lives just south of here."
"Why wouldn't he tell me that?"
"Oh, he's a secretive young fool. Don't mind him."
Karag was rising now, and the six soldiers were being presented, together with a list of names and the honors they had received. Shandiph wondered how warriors could acquire so many marks of distinction on their records when the kingdom had been at peace for almost three hundred years.
"Should I find Derelind a guest chamber?"
"I don't know; ask him. He would probably prefer to sleep on the kitchen floor with the lower servants, and we may not have enough rooms for everybody, if we get a good response to the call."
Chalkara nodded and slipped away.
She was back by the time the soldiers had finished their ritual presentation. Now, by custom, the High King and the Baron would retire to the King's private council chamber for a report on the state of the Barony of Sland, and Shandiph would be able to speak to Karag without the Baron's presence.
"Now, my lord Baron; I would hear how your lands have fared since last we spoke." The King recited the traditional request slowly and precisely; it was plain to all present that he really didn't care how Sland fared, but was merely fulfilling his obligations. That was no surprise; the current King was perhaps the most worthless-to reign in Eramma to date.
Still, the ritual would proceed; to make it look good, the King and the Baron would have to stay in seclusion for at least a quarter of an hour. Shandiph suspected they would do little in that time other than drink a few toasts, but it gave him his chance to speak with Karag.
When the nobles had left the room, Shandiph started across the floor of the throne room. Karag met him halfway. Before Shandiph could begin a polite greeting, Karag snarled at him, "Have you gone mad, you old fool?"
Shandiph was taken aback. "What?"
"What in the name of all the gods did you think you were doing, summoning the Council to this castle?"
"This is a matter for the Council to discuss," Shandiph replied stiffly. Chalkara came up behind him as he spoke.
"So you blithely called us all here, to the castle of the High King at Kholis?"
"Yes, of course. Why not? I was here; as chairman, it is my prerogative to choose the meeting site. Further, Kholis is centrally located and has good roads."
"Does it mean nothing to you that our little group is supposed to be a secret organization, one whose existence is unknown to the world at large? For three centuries we have guarded that secret, and now you have virtually announced to the High King that there is an organization of wizards meeting here."
"I have done nothing of the sort. Is that why you came so promptly? To tell me this?"
"Yes, it is; I thought that, if I got here soon enough, I could talk sense to you and convince you to warn the others away. We have ridden night and day since half an hour after I received the summons."
"And you've brought the Baron of Sland with you."
"I had to; had I left without telling him, he would have had my head. I told him that I needed to speak with you immediately, and he insisted on accompanying me."
"And you call me a fool? Do you think he won't suspect that something out of the ordinary required such urgency?"
Chalkara interrupted Karag's sputtered reply. "Why did he come with you? Did you not tell him this was a matter involving only wizards and their affairs?"
"Yes, I told him; I think that's why he chose to come. He's been taking a great interest in magic lately, even asking if I could teach him a few simple spells."
"You haven't, have you?" Chalkara asked.
"Of course not! But as you have probably heard, it's unhealthy to deny Barach of Stand anything, however slight. I dared not argue with him about this trip as well."
"If there is anything that will reveal the nature of this meeting, Karag, it is his presence. The King pays no attention to what happens around him; he cares for nothing but wine, women, and old books. The servants and courtiers can be frightened or bribed into silence. The Baron of Sland, however, is not so easily handled." Shandiph tried his best to sound stern.
Karag paused for a moment, then said, with no trace of contrition, "Well, it's done now, and if we're to keep it secret you'll have to turn back all the others. I'm sure that the three of us can handle whatever this problem is by ourselves."
"The four of us; Derelind the Hermit is downstairs somewhere."
"Very well, then, the four of us. What is this worldshaking problem? Has someone stolen a love potion somewhere or caught a councilor kissing a baron's daughter?"
"The problem requires a quorum of the Council. An overman has gotten hold of a magic sword, a very powerful one, and has destroyed large parts of two cities. The Seer of Weideth has divined that he is beyond the power of ordinary measures. At the very least he'll require assassination, and we may need to be even more drastic. Now, Karag of Sland, do you feel I was unjustified in calling the Council together?"
There was a moment of silence.
"Are you sure of the facts?"
"The Seer of Weideth swore to them."
"Are you sure it was the true Seer?"
"No, but if it were not, Karag, then we have an even worse problem, do we not? The message was an imagesending; if it was not the Seer, then we have an enemy or traitor of unknown purpose and power to deal with."
"True. What cities were destroyed?"
"Shall we go somewhere more private?"
"Yes, of course. Chalkara?"
"There is my chamber; it has the customary wards upon it."
"Good." They retired to her quarters, pausing only to order a servant to send up Derelind, and any other enchanters who might arrive.
When Shandiph and Karag had settled on the velvet cushions in her sitting room, Chalkara found the remains of the golden wine that she and Shandiph had been drinking when the message first arrived and served it out to the three of them. They sipped it, waiting for Derelind.
When the hermit had arrived and refused cushions and wine, preferring to squat on the bare stone
between rugs, Karag again asked, "What two cities were destroyed?"
"Permit me to explain, Derelind. The matter that I have summoned the Council to discuss involves an overman who has obtained a very powerful magic sword. He has already destroyed much of the city of Dыsarra, in western Nekutta, defiling most of its temples, burning the market and much of the surrounding area, and spreading the White Death, a particularly vile sort of plague. Dыsarra being what it is, I think we might forgive him that, but he has continued by laying waste to the bordertown of Skelleth and murdering its Baron."
"Murdering?" Derelind inquired.
"He was stabbed in the back, I am told."
"That would seem to be murder," Karag agreed. "What else?"
"He and a force of overmen have occupied Skelleth and are rebuilding it to suit themselves. It appears that they may intend to renew the Racial Wars. I need not remind you that it was those wars that created this Council in the first place; we were sworn to maintain peace by whatever means necessary."
"Is the High King aware of this invasion?" Derelind asked.
"No."
"You have not told him?"
"We would prefer to settle the whole matter ourselves. The Seer of Weideth tells us that armies would be of no use against this overman, and what other option would the King have, save to send an army?"
"What, then, do you propose instead?"
"I wish to send either one or more very good assassins, or to use magic of a level this sword cannot counter," Shandiph said.
"What magic did you have in mind?" Karag asked.
"You know what our great weapon is, Karag," Derelind said.
"Yes, and I also know that many people think it a panacea and wish to use it every time the least little difficulty arises."
"You exaggerate, Karag. It has been used only once in the last three centuries," Derelind said.
"That once was more than enough; were it not for the sorry state of trade in these decadent times, the news of that use would have been a world-wide legend by now."
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