The Sword Of Bheleu

The blackness vanished and the world returned, but Garth could still see, in the back of his mind, the red eyes of the god.

They were his own eyes. As Bheleu had said, Garth was created in his image. The god had Garth's face, distorted somehow into an insane thing of terror.

The wizards were still attacking him, despite the carnage they had suffered. Eldritch flashes of light and color sparked up on every side, and a shimmering golden pentagram had formed in the air around him. The thing was of no consequence; pentacles could bind demons, but not gods.

One of the humans had crept up behind him, and he saw from the corner of his eye that it was the darkski

"Twenty leagues due north of Lagur!" someone called, his voice cracking.

The blue smoke expanded and began to wrap itself around Garth. He laughed and blasted the smoke away with a twitch of his blade.

"You sought to dump me in mid-ocean?" He laughed again; he was a mix of both selves, Garth's consciousness with Bheleu's power and knowledge-which he needed to carry on the fight. "Is that the best you can do?" he asked mockingly.

Kubal, still standing where he had crept to fling the teleporting crystal, stared up at the overman. Karag's scheme had not worked. The overman had resisted the spell. Half the councilors were dead already, and the overman was laughing.

Kubal fainted.

Bheleu laughed and brought the sword around, intending to incinerate the unconscious wizard.

Garth fought him. The man had battled to prevent destruction; Garth could do no less. There was no need to kill him.

The sword wavered.

"Perhaps I was too generous. I may not wait until dawn," a voice within Garth said. He alone heard and understood the words.

Bheleu was threatening him. The god did not care to be thwarted. He wanted to kill this feckless wizard here and now, regardless of Garth's reluctance and his avowed intention of allowing Garth freedom to choose his fate.

Garth realized that he could not give in to the god; his choice was no choice at all. He could fight and have his own personality destroyed, or he could acquiesce and cooperate-which would require him to act in a ma

He had to free himself of the god's domination, and he had to act immediately. Bheleu had given him until dawn, so that was the maximum he could hope for, but it was plain his time might be even shorter; the god did not seem to feel any obligation to live up to his offer, should Garth continue to resist in the interim.

He wished he had never left Skelleth; he might be able to call upon the Forgotten King and surrender to him before Bheleu could prevent it. Here, in the wilderness, he appeared to be doomed.

In despair, he chose to proclaim his defiance rather than yield willingly. There was always a chance that some miracle would save him. He called, in the same voice Bheleu had used, "I would rather serve the Forgotten King and Death himself!"

The sword turned and pointed at Kubal's prostrate form, but before it could spit forth its flame, a bony hand reached up and grabbed the overman's wrist.

"Swear, Garth," the familiar hideous voice said, plainly audible in a sudden silence that descended upon the battlefield.

Garth stared at the hand and the tattered yellow cowl that flapped in the dying wind. He swallowed and realized he could detect no trace of Bheleu's influence upon him. The fire in the sword was dying away, the red gem's glow dimming.

The gem went black.

Garth remembered that the old man had always seemed to know more than he should. He must have known what was happening here. It was nevertheless a mystery how he had appeared, unscathed, in the midst of the battle, at exactly the right moment. Garth realized that there were still attackers on all sides and said, "The wizards..."

"They will not harm us," the Forgotten King replied. "Swear that you will fetch me the Book of Silence."

Garth looked down at Kubal. He knew nothing about the man, save that he was a wizard who had come to halt the Age of Bheleu. He would die if Garth did not swear the oath asked of him.

All the wizards would die and hundreds more in time. Bheleu had said that his age would last for thirty years. Garth had not thought of it in those terms; he had thought of the duration of the sword's control as indefinite and vague. Thirty years was definite, and far longer than anything he had thought about.

Thirty years with no control of his own actions-thirty years of killing anyone who opposed him, rightly or wrongly-thirty years of aimless, wanton destruction and death! Garth could not face that. Anything was better than that. He had killed too often already, ended too many lives that were not his to end.

He would not give in to either destruction or death; he would not betray himself and others in that way.

"I swear," he said, "that if you tell me where it can be found, I will bring you the Book of Silence."

"After you bring it, you will aid me in the magic for which I require it. Swear!"

"I will aid in your magic."

The old man's other hand reached up and plucked the great sword casually from Garth's numbed fingers. "I will keep this," he said, "as a token of your good faith."

The words stung, but Garth nodded. He looked around at the wizards.

They stood, motionless, about him.

The Forgotten King held up the Sword of Bheleu and said, "I send you to your homes."

Blue mist gathered around each of the living wizards, thickened, and then vanished, taking them with it and leaving several corpses strewn across the valley, sprawled on the blasted earth. The snow had been melted away for well over a hundred yards in every direction.

"Won't they just return?" Garth asked.

"No. They have the war between Sland and Kholis to keep them busy, and they have been sealed away from the old magicks."

Garth had no idea what the old man was referring to. He gazed about regretfully at the dead. They had brought matters to a head sooner than he had wished; he had never had the chance to ask the Wise Women whether he had another course of action available. He was free of the sword now, but at a price to himself that seemed terrible indeed.

He had sworn an oath he had no intention of fulfilling; his honor was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Haggat put down his new scrying glass and stared at it thoughtfully. He was not entirely pleased with the course events had followed, but it would do. The Council of the Most High had suffered badly, though it was not destroyed. The overman Garth yet lived, but he no longer possessed the Sword of Bheleu and could therefore be dealt with by the cult's ordinary methods. That was all satisfactory.

The yellow-garbed figure might be a problem, however. Haggat did not know who or what he was, but he obviously controlled considerable power, judging by the ease with which he had taken the sword from Garth and apparently rendered it harmless. The scrying glass would not show him directly, any more than it had been able to show Garth while the sword's power shielded him, but Haggat caught glimpses while watching Garth's slow journey back to Skelleth. The man in yellow tatters had walked at his side the entire distance and occasionally come partially into view. His face had never been visible at all, not even for the briefest of glimpses. He carried the sword as if it weighed nothing and seemed unbothered by cold or fatigue from the long walk-though it was hard to be sure from such fleeting images.