The Sword of Bheleu

Chapter Two-1

Chapter TwoThe rain stopped shortly after dawn. Garth mounted his warbeast—which had been named Koros after the Arkhein god of war by a captured bandit a few months earlier—for the last leg of his long journey back to Skelleth from the black-walled city of Dûsarra. The clouds lingered in the sky, hiding the sun, making the day gray and gloomy, allowing the road to remain a soggy, muddy mess. Garth’s supplies and clothing and the clothing of his human captive had all been thoroughly drenched when Garth had found no shelter from the downpour the evening before, and they remained uncomfortably damp for hours. Even Koros’ fur was soaked, and the captive, a Dûsarran girl who called herself Frima, complained about the smell.

It didn’t bother Garth particularly, though he couldn’t deny its presence. He ignored her monologue; in the last two weeks, spent mostly in the saddle, he had grown accustomed to Frima’s fondness for complaining.

When she had exhausted her first topic, the smell of wet warbeast fur, she went on to others—her own sopping garments, the unsuitability of her attire for a respectable person, the length of the journey, and all the other things that displeased her about the world and her place in it.

The overman didn’t really blame her. He wasn’t particularly happy about being caught in the rain; the water had soaked into the garments he wore under his mail, and the armor was holding the moisture in. His own fur was as wet as the warbeast’s, though not as odorous.

Even Koros seemed to be irritated, and it was usually the most tranquil of beasts as long as it was properly and promptly fed and not attacked. The mud of the highway stuck to its great padded paws, slightly impeding its usual smooth, silent, gliding walk, so that its footsteps were audible as faint splashings.

Frima was still complaining when Garth first caught sight of Skelleth, a low line of sagging rooftops and jagged broken ramparts along the horizon.

He pointed it out to her, and she immediately forgot her complaints. “You mean we’re finally there?”

“Almost.”

“I can’t see any domes or towers.”

“There aren’t any.”

“There aren’t?”

“No.” Garth had long ago gotten over his annoyance at the girl’s habit of asking questions over again and simply answered each one however many times it might be asked. They had been together more than a fortnight, and he had grown accustomed to queries, and complaints. She was only human, after all; he couldn’t expect much from her.

“What are their temples like, then?” she asked.

“To the best of my knowledge, there are no temples in Skelleth,” he replied.

“There aren’t?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Are they all atheists, then?”

“No. At least, I think not.”

“Are you an atheist?”

“I used to be; I am no longer certain.”

“Why aren’t you certain?”

“Because I saw and felt and did things in Dûsarra that have convinced me that at least some of your seven gods exist—though I am not certain they are truly gods, rather than some lesser sort of magical being.”

“They’re not my seven gods; I worship only Tema!”

Garth did not bother to answer. Instead, he studied the horizon carefully. Skelleth looked different from this angle; he had never approached from this direction before. Even when he had left on this expedition, he had done so by way of the West Gate, and then circled southward onto the highway he now rode.

He wondered briefly if it might be wise to enter by another gate. After all, he was still an exile by order of the Baron of Skelleth. It might well be advisable to use caution until such time as a proper opportunity for vengeance presented itself.

But no, that was not what he wanted; he would ride directly into town, defying the Baron to stop him. He had previously acquiesced to his banishment to avoid damaging the prospects for trade, but his trip to Dûsarra had proven very educational indeed; besides learning more about the gods humans worshipped, he had become convinced that Skelleth was by no means the only possible overland trade route between the Northern Waste and the rich lands of the south. It should be possible, he thought, to circle around Skelleth and trade directly with southern cities; he no longer believed that the old hatred between men and overmen would be strong enough to prevent commerce from flourishing once the southerners saw the gold his people mined in the Waste. Furthermore, he had learned that the Northern Waste was not the only surviving colony of overmen; Dûsarra traded with overmen who lived on the Yprian Coast, and though he knew nothing about these people beyond the simple fact of their existence, he saw no reason that his own people couldn’t trade with them as well.

With all these opportunities, he had no intention of being pushed around by the mad baron of a filthy little border town.

He had no intention of cowering before the Baron of Skelleth; he would ride straight into town, straight into the market square. If the Baron objected, then Garth would laugh at him. Better still, Garth would kill him! He would take the great sword he had brought from Dûsarra, hack the Baron into pieces, and spill his blood across the dirt of his village...

“The ruby’s glowing again,” Frima said, interrupting his chain of thought.

Garth looked down at the hilt of the immense two-handed broadsword that was strapped along the warbeast’s side. Sure enough, the large red jewel that was set in its pommel sparkled with more light than the morning sun could account for.

The thing had been at him again, he realized; it was the sword’s influence that had made him think of killing the Baron. He forced thoughts of blood and destruction out of his mind, concentrating instead on his knowledge that the sword he had taken from the burning altar of Bheleu, god of destruction, was trying to warp his personality again. It had tried to do so several times on the journey from Dûsarra to Skelleth, but so far he had been successful in resisting its influence. He had avoided killing Frima several times, and kept himself from killing three farmers, two innkeepers, a drunkard, four travelers, and a blacksmith encountered along the way. The fact that both Frima and Koros remained calm and sensible had helped, and the glowing of the red stone served as a warning signal, allowing him to become aware of the insidious effects before they became irresistible.

He would be glad when he got rid of the thing. Along with the rest of his loot, including Frima, it was to be turned over to the Forgotten King. He would be reluctant to turn the sword over to anyone else; he knew how dangerous it could be. The Forgotten King, however, was a feeble old man and a wizard, presumably well able to resist such spells.

Of course, he was also the lost high priest of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, the god of death, according to the caretaker of that god’s temple in Dûsarra. And it was a magnificent weapon, beautiful and deadly; it was a sword a warrior could be proud of indeed! With a blade like that he could slaughter any foe...

The red glow caught his eye, and he fought the bloodlust down again. He would have to discuss various matters with the King before he turned over the sword—or the other loot, for that matter; just because none of it had affected him significantly didn’t mean it didn’t have magical power—but one way or another he was going to have to get rid of the thing. He could not keep fighting off its domination forever.

The warbeast growled faintly, a noise he couldn’t interpret; it was not the growl that meant danger ahead, nor was it a growl, of displeasure. He looked away from the stone, but could tell nothing more from the back of the great beast’s head than from its growl.

“Are you all right?” Frima asked.

“I think so,” he replied. “It hasn’t gotten a good hold on me yet.”

“That’s good. I think there’s someone on the road ahead.”

Garth peered into the distance; the girl was right. That, then, must have been what Koros was growling about. There was a mounted figure ahead in the middle of the highway, perhaps a hundred yards from Skelleth’s ruined gate.

Had the Baron posted guards on this road, too? Previously only the North Gate had been guarded. The figure was quite large for a human. Garth tried to identify the mount; it did not appear to be an ox, a yacker, or even a horse. He had never seen any of the Baron’s soldiers mounted.

Koros growled again and this time was answered by a roar from ahead. The animal was another warbeast, which meant that its rider was almost certainly an overman.

What, Garth asked himself, was an overman doing on the highway southwest of Skelleth? And with a warbeast? There was something very strange going on.

Koros was making a hissing whine that was its noise to express frustration; Garth told it, “Go ahead.”

The warbeast let loose with a roar in answer to its fellow and quickened its pace slightly.

Frima shifted behind him. He looked back to see that she had clapped her hands over her ears. He had not, and regretted it; Koros’ friendly greeting left his ears ringing.

The other warbeast was moving now, approaching them. When Garth judged that he was within earshot, he called, “Ho, there! Who are you?”

The reply was faint, but distinct. “I am Thord of Ordunin! Who are you?”

“I am Garth, also of Ordunin!” He began to call another question, but thought better of it; he could wait until they were closer and save his breath.

A moment later the two came together; their warbeasts began to snuffle and growl at each other in the ritual greetings of their kind. Koros was by far the larger of the two, clean and sleek from nose to tail, every inch of its hide glossy black, while the other beast was slightly scruffy about the lower jaw, with its left fang broken off short and a patch of tawny brown fur on its belly. Both had great golden eyes.

Thord was the larger of the two overmen by about an inch in height and perhaps twenty pounds in weight; his black hair was hacked off just below the ear, while Garth’s reached his shoulders. Other than that, the two were quite similar. Both had the noseless, sunken-cheeked, lipless faces of typical overmen, and the leathery brown hide, beardless, but with a thin coat of fur from the neck down. Each had eyes of a baleful red. Thord wore full armor: mail coat, breastplate, helmet, gauntlets, greaves, and metal-clad boots. Garth wore a wide-brimmed trader’s hat, battered mail shirt, soft leather breeches, and ragged, worn-out boots. Thord bore a sword and dagger on his belt and had a battle-axe slung on his back. Garth’s only weapons were a stiletto in one boot and the two-handed broadsword thrust through the warbeast’s harness.

Thord was alone; Garth had Frima perched behind him on Koros’ back. The Dûsarran girl was in her late teens, with black, curling hair and brown eyes; her skin was a shade or two darker than that of the pale people of Skelleth, though lighter than any overman’s. She was barefoot and clad only in an embroidered tunic that would have reached her knees were it not bunched up higher as she sat astride the warbeast—hardly respectable garb for a human female, as she had told her captor repeatedly. Though she was fully grown, particularly in the bust, and not especially thin, it was a safe wager that she weighed less than half as much as either of the overmen.

Thord spoke first. “So it really is you, Garth! Where have you been?”

“I have been travelling in Nekutta, on business of my own. What are you doing here on human land with this warbeast?”

“We have Skelleth under siege; I am assigned to guard this road.” There was a note of pride in his tone.

“Siege?” Garth looked out across the empty plain stretching away in all directions, broken only in the northeast where Skelleth stood. There was no sign of an army, siege engines, or even other guards.