The very thought of Frima's death gave him a moment's discomfort; he shook it off and began planning what he could do to eliminate the cult of Aghad from Skelleth.
In the square, Garth knelt and studied Kyrith's body. It was not immediately obvious what had killed her; the wounds on her forehead and bound wrists were quite minor, really. He felt her throat, and although it was bruised and lacerated, she did not appear to have been strangled.
He moved a hand to her chest and felt broken ribs.
He stopped, withdrew his fingers, and stepped back. He had decided that he didn't really want to know the extent of what the Aghadites had done to her; it was enough to know that she was dead and that they were responsible.
The marks on her forehead would have to be covered, he thought, while she lay on display in the Baron's house. The blood would need to be cleaned off her face. If he was going to subject his wife's remains to human ritual, he would do everything he could to ensure that the ceremony remained as dignified as possible.
Koros growled, and a shadow encroached at the edge of Garth's vision. He looked up to see a human, covered by a loose, heavy, red robe, face hidden by an overhanging hood, standing nearby. The overman could not tell if the figure was man or woman.
The people of Skelleth did not ordinarily wear robes or cloaks; the people of Dыsarra did, and this robe was the color of dried blood. Garth's hand fell to the hilt of his sword.
"What do you want here, human?" he demanded.
"Greetings, Garth," the creature said. Its taunting voice was male, Garth decided, and the man spoke in the guttural manner of the Dыsarrans. "I came to bring you a message."
"What message? From whom?" The overman wrapped his hand around the sword's hilt.
"We heard your oath just now, and your offer to come and visit us in Dыsarra."
Garth drew his sword, but did not attack; he was wary of unseen menaces.
"You will be welcome, of course. We would be delighted to have you stay with us; on your last trip you rushed off so quickly! This time you really must stay to dinner."
Garth saw no sign of any hidden threat, yet the Aghadite messenger simply stood, speaking calmly, ignoring the overman's bare steel.
He was probably armored, Garth reflected. He thought that padding and metal would protect him. The heavy robe was to conceal the helmet and gauntlets that would have been exposed by the sort of tunic normally worn in Skelleth.
"We have a request, though," the Aghadite said as he extended a long, bare finger and pointed it at Kyrith's body. "You bring the meat."
With a wordless bellow, Garth swung the sword.
The blade struck the man's robe and instantly exploded in a burst of red flame and splintered steel, leaving the overman clutching the useless hilt. The Aghadite laughed, but even in his state of unreasoning fury, Garth could detect the nervousness in that laugh, its forced quality. The man was not as sure of himself as he wished to appear.
Garth tossed the broken sword aside and reached for the Aghadite with his bare hands.
A wisp of red smoke swirled up from empty air between them; Garth ignored it as the man backed away hurriedly. The Aghadite was not yet running, merely stepping back, away from Garth's outstretched hands. Garth knew that he could catch the man; no human could outrun an overman. He grinned and advanced; the Aghadite continued to retreat.
The red smoke thickened and grew, gathering about the human, and Garth belatedly remembered seeing a similar mist once before. With a growl, he lunged forward, wasting no more time. His fingers closed on the edge of the red cloak, then passed through, holding nothing but air. The Aghadite had vanished.
Furious, Garth whirled, looking for other enemies, and with a cry of anguish saw Kyrith's body disappear in a red cloud.
He ran, but in the second or so that it took to reach it the corpse had vanished as completely as the Aghadite or the image that had spoken in the King's Inn.
He staggered to a halt in the center of the market, staring about wildly. Several of the people of Skelleth stood watching him, clustered in small groups in the streets that led out of the square. They muttered among themselves. Garth realized that they had seen the entire affair, had seen him humiliated, had seen Kyrith's body stolen. They had done nothing; no one had moved to aid him.
But then, he thought, why should they? He was not their kind, and the Aghadites were. At least none had joined in taunting him.
"Leave me!" he bellowed. "Get away from here!"
A few of the villagers obeyed, retreating out of sight; more did not. Garth glared at them, and a few more backed away; others met his gaze without flinching.
Seeing no practical alternative, he resolved to ignore them. He turned and stooped to pick up the stump of his sword. As he did, Saram came running from the door of his house. The entire altercation had lasted only moments, and he had not at first realized-that the noises outside were of any real-concern.
"What happened?" he called.
"Shut up," Garth replied.
Frima's head appeared in the doorway, but she said nothing. Saram came to a stop, looking about the market, his eyes returning regularly to the spot where Kyrith's body had lain. He glanced at Garth, but did not care to venture a question.
Garth stood, glaring at the hilt and the jagged shard that projected from it. Somehow the Aghadites had acquired a powerful magic. They had apparently possessed some sorcerous devices or methods at the time of his previous encounter, in Dыsarra, but it had been his clear impression that they had relied primarily on trickery and simple machinery. Now, though, they seemed to be using real wizardry. The red mist that caused people to vanish had been used by the council of wizards he had fought, but never before by the priests of Aghad. The protective spell that had shattered his sword was nothing he had ever seen them demonstrate before, and the floating image that had spoken to him in the tavern was also new.
He knew that ordinary weapons were not enough against magicians. He had defeated the wizards only by wielding the Sword of Bheleu, and it had been the sword that he used to slay the high priest of Aghad.
He had given the Sword of Bheleu to the Forgotten King to free himself of its power, but now, he decided, the time had come to take it back. He would use it to destroy the cult, and then, he told himself, he would return it to the King's keeping. He knew that Bheleu would try to reassert his authority, try to take over Garth's body and possess him utterly, but he believed that he would be able to resist, to direct Bheleu's destructiveness, long enough to do what he had to do. The Aghadites had angered the chosen of the god of destruction, and they would be destroyed in consequence. Garth would use any means needful to make sure of that.
He obviously no longer needed to waste time on Kyrith's funeral arrangements, with her body stolen; he marched north across the market and into the King's Inn.
Behind him, Saram, Frima, and several other people watched him go. When he had vanished through the tavern door most of them went on about their business, but Saram and Frima followed him.
At his table in the rear, the Forgotten King sat exactly as he had sat when Garth left the inn. The overman made his way across the deserted taproom and seated himself, as if he, too, had never departed the place. Saram and Frima found seats at a nearby table, but did not intrude or do anything to draw Garth's attention.
The room was silent for a moment. Garth was aware of the two humans behind him, but did not care to acknowledge their presence. The King acknowledged nothing, merely stared at the table, as he usually did, his eyes fixed on the little spot of mismatched wood near the center. The Baron and Baroness watched, making no attempt to hide their concern for Garth; they watched, but said nothing.
Finally, Garth spoke, addressing the yellow-robed old man.
"Greetings, O King," he said.
The King said nothing.
"I have come," Garth continued, "to ask that you free me from my oath, given three winters back. Return to me the Sword of Bheleu and release me fr
om my commitment to aid you; and all will be as it was."
The old man gave no sign of replying, but Saram burst out, "Garth, have you gone mad?"
"Silence, human," Garth said without turning. "This is not your affair."
"Garth, that thing will possess you again and drive you mad! You might destroy Skelleth again, and that means it is my affair. I cannot allow you to take back the sword!"
"Silence!" Garth bellowed. "Saram, I need that sword to take my vengeance upon Kyrith's murderers; their magic protects them from ordinary weapons, and I have no other magic available."
"I cannot allow it," Saram insisted. "Not in my village, not while I am Baron."
Garth turned to face him and said, "I have no intention of staying in Skelleth with the sword. Once I have slain whatever Aghadites I may find here, I will go to Dыsarra to destroy their temple, as I have sworn to do. I may not return. If I do return, I will try my best not to bring the sword back with me. If I do bring it, rest assured, I will be doing everything I can to keep myself free of its control. I do not like the sword, but I need its power. Now, be quiet!"
Saram had half-risen as he protested, and would have stood and argued, but Frima was pulling at his embroidered sleeve, urging him to sit down again and listen. Reluctantly he yielded and sank back into his chair.
Garth glared at him for a second, to be sure he was done arguing for the present, and then turned back to the Forgotten King.
"Your pardon, O King. I ask again, let us abandon our agreement, and return to me the Sword of Bheleu."
The old man spoke, without looking at the overman. "No. You must being me the Book of Silence."
Garth hesitated. He could no longer agree and simply hope that he would not be asked to deliver; the King had remembered, just minutes earlier, where he had left the book, where it might be found and recovered. Garth had hoped that by taking back the sword, he might avoid the problem and retain his pretense of honor; it now appeared that he was not going to be allowed that luxury.
Now that he took the time to think about it, even through the haze of his righteous rage, he realized that he had been ridiculously optimistic. The King had no reason to free him of his vow. He cared nothing about whether he had the Sword of Bheleu or not; he wanted only to have the Book of Silence.
No, Garth corrected himself, that was not quite right. The old man's greater magic required both the book and the sword, if the overman had understood him correctly. That made him even less likely to agree to give up both.
"Let us forget my oath for the present, then," Garth said. "I will not ask you to renounce it, but rather will ask simply that you return to me, only temporarily if you would prefer it so, the Sword of Bheleu."
"If you do not renounce your oath, then when will you fulfill it? I have told you that I know now where the Book of Silence is."
Garth struggled to keep his anger under control, not to lash out uselessly against the old man. His face was so slack and expressionless with rage that he appeared almost half-wilted, like a drunkard or one under the influence of narcotic potions. He still held the fragment of his sword; to dispel some of the tension in his body, he rammed it down against the table. The jagged, broken edge bit into the oaken tabletop, scarring it, but did not embed itself as a real blade would. Instead, it turned and skidded across the surface, gouging up curls of wood. Garth's wrist was twisted painfully, and his sore knuckles scraped as well.
The pain added to his fury, and he lost control, blurting out the truth. "I have no intention of fulfilling my oath, foul deceiver. You extorted my agreement, knowing I had no choice. I would rather die in disgrace than aid you."
Behind him, he heard Frima gasp, and Saram draw breath.
The King lifted his head slightly and murmured, "Your word is not good? Your sworn vow means nothing?"
Feeling cornered, his fury subsiding as he realized his mistake, Garth replied, "No."
"The vow you swore in this place not an hour ago is meaningless?" The old man's voice was a low grating that tore at Garth's nerves.
Rage flowered anew, and Garth said, "I did not say that! I will destroy the cult of Aghad."
"Can one oath be binding and another meaningless, sworn by the same tongue?"
Garth, trapped, said nothing, and a moment of tense silence ensued. Saram and Frima dared not speak.
"Garth," the old man said at last, his voice more nearly normal, but with a trace of either sorrow or sarcasm in it, "I regret to hear this. If you are not bound by your oath, then I must propose a new bargain. You want the Sword of Bheleu so that you may destroy the followers of the god of hatred and those responsible for the death of your wife. I want the Book of Silence so that I may perform a certain magic that will cause many deaths, my own among them. I will not give you the Sword of Bheleu at present, but we both may yet have what we want. You want the Aghadites dead. I want to complete a spell that will kill them."
He paused, and Garth said, "What?"
The King lowered his head again and said nothing.
"Do you mean that your magic will destroy the cult?"
The old man nodded.
"Are you sure?"
The King shrugged.
Garth tried to think; it was difficult, for his mind was full of anger and confusion.
It had never occurred to him that the King's final magic might be guided, that the King might have some control over who died when it was performed. Garth had assumed that the spell would involve conjuring The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken into the mortal world and that, thus freed, the god would kill all those in the immediate area.
Perhaps this was not the case at all. Perhaps the god would demand a certain number of deaths, but this summoner could choose who would be sacrificed in order to banish him again. That seemed to be what the King was implying. There was no reason to assume that a god would be limited by distance or even by time; weren't gods supposed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once?
He did not trust the King, however.
Furthermore, there seemed to be something unsatisfying about the solution the King proposed. Garth wanted to kill the Aghadites himself, to see the color of their blood, to watch them die.
"I…" he began, then stopped. "I am not sure."
"Another bargain, then. Bring me the Book of Silence, and I will loan you the Sword of Bheleu. I must require it back from you eventually, but I am sure you will not object to being freed of the god's control."
Garth turned that proposal over in his mind and, awash in fury as he was, could see nothing wrong with it at first. He would have the Sword of Bheleu, and with it he could destroy the cult of Aghad. He dismissed without thought the fact that he would be giving himself over to the god of destruction rather than simply wielding a weapon; it did not occur to him that Bheleu might not be satisfied with killing only Aghadites.
He did, however, realize that he would be delivering the Book of Silence to the Forgotten King, and after planning for three years to avoid that, he was reluctant to give in so quickly simply because the King now claimed that the other victims of his magic would be Aghadites.
The old man might be telling the truth; it might be that delivering the Book of Silence to him would do no Harm to innocents. Although Garth had been fooled in the past by partial truths and things left unsaid, the King had never, so far as he knew, told an outright lie.
This was a matter that deserved more than a moment's thought, but there was no time to waste, he felt, in his pursuit of his wife's murderers.
That pursuit would go nowhere, however, without the Sword of Bheleu.
If he accepted the King's offer, he would be in possession, at least temporarily, of either the sword or the book, and it was his belief that both were required for the final magic. If he remained unconvinced of the King's intentions, he could always withhold whichever totem he had at the time; after all, he was already forsworn, in his heart, and had no more honor to lose by such treachery. It would, he thought, be a just repayment for t
he King's own deceptions and manipulations.
"Yes," he said at last, "I agree. Tell me where I may find the Book of Silence, and I will bring it to you."
"I left it in the royal chapel of my palace in Hastur. That palace is now a part of the crypts beneath Ur-Dormulk. Signs and portents will be sufficient to lead you to it." Something like glee was in the old man's tone.
"Will you provide me no further guidance?"
"You need none."
Garth found himself growing wary. He was beginning to realize that he was again trusting himself to the Forgotten King, again agreeing to perform an errand for the old man. Always before, such errands had had unwanted and unpleasant results. Even his journey to Orgul, just completed that day, had ended in Kyrith's death.
An idea occurred to him, a strange idea. Always before he had set out alone, while the King stayed in Skelleth and awaited his return. Garth had been a messenger, a servant. What if the King were to accompany him this time? The old man's magic could protect them both from whatever difficulties they might encounter; they would travel as equals, rather than Garth's assuming the inferior's role again.
"O King," he said, "will you come with me?"
Behind him, Saram and Frima stared. The King was silent for a moment before replying, "No."
"Why not?" Garth demanded. "Why must I act on your behalf?"
"I cannot venture far from Skelleth. My power is centered here."
The old man's tone was final, but Garth was in no mood to be put off. "Why?" he persisted. "Because you have lived here for so long? Is it possible that you do not wish to discomfit yourself?"
"No," the King said, with perhaps a trace of anger in his voice.
"Then why? Why did you come to Skelleth in the first place? How did you become trapped here? Explain yourself!"
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