Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Sword Of Bheleu

"No, you have to stay here and supervise," Galt protested.

"Do you see me supervising anything?" He waved to indicate the cellars he had been staring into. Garth smiled, amused by Galt's discomfiture.

"But…"

"Besides, I want to see this."

Galt gave in. "Very well, but do put someone in charge here."

"Certainly. Frima?"

"No, I'm coming, too. I don't trust that sword"

"All right. Ho, Findalan!"

A middle-aged man Garth recognized as one of the village's few carpenters looked up from assembling something.

"I'm going away for a little while; you're in charge until I get back!"

Findalan nodded.

"There. Let's go."

Reluctantly, Galt followed as Garth and Saram led the way. Frima brought up the rear at first, then ran forward to be nearer Saram.

As they made their way through the village and into the encircling ruins, Saram said, "We had an idea, Galt, that I wanted to discuss with you."

Galt made a noncommittal noise.

"Did you know there's a statue in the dungeons under the Baron's mansion?"

"No," Galt replied.

"It isn't a true statue," Garth said.

"No, but it will serve as one. That was our idea. Might we not hoist it out and set it up somewhere as a monument?"

"What sort of a monument?" Galt asked.

"That statue is a petrified thief, Saram, a half-starved boy. What sort of a monument would that make?" Garth asked.

"It would serve as a reminder of the cruelty of the Baron you slew, Garth."

"It would serve as a reminder of my stupidity in allowing a madman to gain possession of a basilisk, as well."

"I think it would make a good monument," Frima said. "He has such a brave expression on his face! You can see that he was scared but trying not to let it show."

Remembering what he had seen of the face in question, Garth could not deny the truth of her words. "Where would you put it?" he asked.

"We haven't decided yet," Frima answered.

"I'll consider it," Galt said, in a flat, conversation-killing tone.

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."