Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Sword Of Bheleu

Or perhaps this priest had an inflated idea of the Seer's own power; perhaps the, priest did not realize that the Seer's predecessor, a truly remarkable prophet of great vision, had died and been replaced by a much lesser seer.

Perhaps…but there was no need to wonder, when he could ask the girl. "Why were you sent to me?" he asked. "What can I do?"

"I don't know," she admitted truthfully. "My master did not say. He told me to seek you out, and to speak also to any and all other seers, or wizards or magicians I might encounter."

Perhaps this priest thought that the Seer would spread the word, until eventually the news reached someone in a position to act upon it. That made sense, though he found himself resenting slightly the implication that he was a gossip. As a matter of fact, though there was no way the priest could know it, he would see that the news, once verified, did indeed reach those who could respond appropriately; he would send a message to the Council of the Most High, of which he was a very junior and peripheral member. No priest would know that the Council existed, though; it had been a lucky chance, he was sure, that brought this young woman-whoever she was-to one of the councilors.

Surely it could be nothing more than that.

"I see," he said. "Very well, then. You have done your duty." He wondered if he should pursue the question of her identity, but decided against it. Every sect in the city was dedicated to darkness, in one way or another, and every sect apparently had been affronted by Garth. It mattered little, he thought, which one had chosen to take action.

There was the question, though, of how word had been received from Skelleth in a fourth the time it took a man with, a good horse to cover the intervening distance. Perhaps one of the priests had a hireling wizard with a scrying glass. That might be dangerous.

It wasn't his concern, however. He would contact the Council, tell them everything he knew on the subject, and let them worry about it. His place was here in Weideth, tending to the needs of the villagers, guarding and interpreting the prophecies of his forebears.

He downed the rest of his wine and rose. The girl rose as well. He nodded politely to her and turned to go.

The Aghadite watched the gray-robed man leave with her contempt scarcely hidden. The fool had hardly questioned her at all! He had asked for no proof, no details of Skelleth's destruction. He had hot questioned her motives nor divined her identity. He had not even taken the trouble to ask her to show her face!

He was probably a worthless drunkard, she decided, whatever talent he might possess.

It didn't matter; all that mattered was that she had done what Haggat had ordered and delivered the message. Her part was finished. She could not imagine what good it could do to inform this third-rate oracle of Garth's actions-but she was still a novice in the ways of intrigue. Haggat knew what he was doing, she was sure.

And if he didn't, if the whole thing turned bad, that was all right, too; she would use the failure to ruin Haggat and enhance her own position in the cult. She could advance with equal ease, she knew, either by allowing herself to be-pulled along in Haggat's wake or by stabbing him in the back.

And if the time came, she would enjoy stabbing the lecherous high priest in the back-either figuratively or literally.

It was midafternoon of the fourth day after the battle when Galt finally found himself with time to spare for Garth's obsession with the magic sword. As he had expected, he found the older overman in the King's Inn, sulking in a corner with a mug of ale.

"Greetings, Garth," he said, standing beside the table.

"Greetings, Galt. I don't suppose you have time to sit down."

"No, but I do have time to tend to the sword, if you like."

"Good!" Garth rose, a trifle unsteadily; Galt realized, with considerable misgiving, that the overman had been doing nothing but drinking since early morning. He knew that Garth would be offended if he suggested putting off the matter of the sword, and he was not sure how long he would be free of other concerns, so he said nothing, but followed as Garth led the way out of the tavern.

The fresh air seemed to help, Galt saw; Garth's step steadied quickly.

"Have I mentioned," Garth asked, "that I've been having strange dreams lately?"

The question caught Galt by surprise. It was not customary to speak openly of dreams; it was widely believed among overmen that, if properly interpreted, they revealed the inner truths of the dreamer's personality, so that learning the nature of another's dreams was a serious breach of privacy.

Besides; overmen only rarely remembered their dreams, unlike humans, who seemed to think that dreams showed the future and who therefore cultivated the art of remembering and interpreting them. They seemed undeterred by the usual failure of reality to fulfill the prophecies that resulted.

Startled, Galt said nothing.

"I have," Garth continued. "I have dreamed of blood and death every night since I abandoned the sword and I often awaken to find that I have arisen and moved toward it in my sleep. I think it's trying to draw me back."

Galt glanced at his companion, but said nothing. Such talk worried him. Surely Garth knew that dreams were wholly internal, he told himself. Was the prince really going mad?

"Had you not found time today, I had thought I might leave Skelleth for a time, and go further from the sword, to see if the dreams were lessened by distance. At the very least, I would then be assured that I could not reach it before waking."

"Garth, are you certain that the power that has influenced you is entirely in the sword? Perhaps some spell has affected you, some enchantment encountered in, your travels, and this obsession with the sword is a mere aftereffect."

Garth considered this, then replied, "It could be, I suppose; I have had spells put upon me in the past, and they can be very subtle. I honestly doubt it, though; I think you're overcomplicating a simple situation. Wait and see what you think when you've handled the sword yourself."

"Speaking of the sword, would it not be useful for your demonstration to have other subjects besides ourselves? In particular, you claim that the sword behaves differently when handled by humans than when handled by overmen. Should we not take a human or two along to test this theory?"

"You have a good point. You run things here, Galt, where can we find a subject for such an experiment?"

The two had now reached the market. The square was still cluttered with tents, but the surrounding ruins had been cleared away, and low barriers erected to keep passersby from falling into the open cellars. Work crews were busy sorting out stones and fallen beams, dividing those that might be re-used from those that were nothing more than ballast or firewood.

"Humans are Saram's responsibility," Galt replied.

"Then let us ask Saram." Garth pointed.

Saram and Frima were leaning over the barrier that had replaced the threshold of the Baron's mansion, speaking quietly between themselves; Galt had not noticed them until Garth drew his attention to them.

Galt shrugged. "As you please," he replied.

The two overmen turned from their course and approached the two humans. Saram heard them coming and looked up as they drew near.

"Greetings, my lords," he said.

They returned his salutation.

"What can I do for you?" Saram asked.

"We are going to deal with Garth's magic sword," Galt replied, "and it would be useful to have a human along to test Garth's theory that only overmen can use his weapon. Who can you spare for such a task?"

Saram glanced around the square, then shrugged. "I'll come."