Lawrence Watt-Evans - Dus 03 - Sword Of Bheleu

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The Sword of Bheleu
Book Three of the Lords of Dûs
Copyright 1982 by Lawrence Watt-Evans
CHAPTER ONE
Galt, the overman trader, shifted uncomfortably, sending a rivulet of cold
rain down the back of his neck and under his mail; it soaked into his quilted
gambeson and trickled slowly down his furry back, chilly and damp and
thoroughly unpleasant. He suppressed a growl. The itching of the armor was
quite bad enough without this added discomfort. He wondered how warriors could
stand to wear the stuff day after day. Despite the padded undergarment, he was
quite sure that he had acquired several scrapes and scratches from the metal
links, and nothing he had tried had alleviated the itching. He suspected that
he was allergic to the quilting.
Wearing the mail was bad enough; the added annoyance of drenching rain
during his watch had him ready to give up the whole venture. And what was he,
the co-commander, doing standing watch in the first place?
Packing up and going home would undoubtedly be the sensible thing to do,
he told himself; Kyrith, however, didn't see it that way. She had insisted on
this ridiculous siege, and that meant he was stuck here. The City Council
would never forgive him if he left her here unsupervised, in sole command.
In truth, though, he knew he didn't provide much supervision; there was
no doubt that, whatever their nominal status, Kyrith was in charge and he was
not. She was all fire and drive and fury, despite her handicap, while he had
been restrained and reasonable. It was no wonder at all that anyone fool
enough to have volunteered for this all-volunteer force would prefer to follow
an aggressive idiot, a warrior and the wife of a warrior prince, rather than a
quiet, calm trader.
He blinked rainwater out of his great golden eyes and pulled his cloak
more closely about him; with his free hand he removed his broad-brimmed hat,
shook off what he could of the accumulated rain, then jammed it back on his
head. He glanced behind him at the dark shapes of the camp tents, black humps
against the gray-black sky. The rain had put out the last trace of the
campfires, and the last lantern had been extinguished hours ago. The old
Wasteland Road was invisible in the darkness and the northern hills too
distant to see through the falling rain. A gust of wind swept water into his
face, and he snorted, blowing the moisture out of his slit nostrils. Those
ugly noses the humans had apparently had some use after all; they kept out the
rain. There were plenty of advantages to being an overman, though, and on
balance he felt his species came out ahead. The very word for his kind implied
as much, of course. He looked about, peering through the rain and the
darkness.
Immediately to his right waited the warbeast he had been assigned, its
flank less than a yard away; its eyes were closed, either in sleep or to keep
out the rain, he was unsure which. Its glossy black fur blended with the night
sky and the darkened plain, so that it seemed almost a phantom, its edges
indistinct, as if it were only a vague outline of an animal. Its triangular
ears were laid back against its skull, smoothing its already sleek shape still
further; its pantherlike tail lashed silently from side to side. Galt knew
that most cats disliked water-very few overmen kept pets, but he had seen them
aboard the trading vessels out of Lagur-and he wondered if the creature was as
miserable as its feline forebears would have been if forced to stand in
pouring rain for hours on end. He was not familiar with warbeasts, and could
not tell from its face or its actions; to him it seemed as calm and impassive
as ever, save for the motion of its tail.
To his left was empty plain; several yards away a dark shape rose up
against the night sky where some human farmer had built his home. Somewhere
beyond that, lost in the gloom, he knew there was another overman standing
watch with a warbeast ready at his side.
Ahead of him, perhaps a hundred yards away, stood the ruined wall of the
town of Skelleth, and the fallen towers that marked its North Gate. A pale
flicker of light reminded him that some unfortunate human was also stuck with
watch duty, but that man, whoever he was, at least had the comfort of a fire
and whatever shelter was provided by the one tower wall that still stood.
Galt envied the man his fire. Even if he had had enough dry fuel to keep
a fire going, he would not have dared to light one; it went against policy and
good sense in so underequipped a siege as this one. The enemy forces could use
such fires to locate the sentries, making it that much easier to send spies
out between them, and to smuggle supplies in.
The firelight flickered oddly, and Galt's attention was drawn to it
briefly, but he dismissed it as unimportant. The guard had probably walked in
front of it, stretching his legs, no doubt.
The light flickered again, and then seemed to brighten. Galt blinked
rain away and peered at it more closely.
It was brighter; in fact, there were now two lights, and one was moving.
The watch fire remained where it was; the increase in brightness had been the
addition of this new light, whatever it was. He watched and listened
carefully.
The new, smaller light was slowly approaching. Galt stirred uneasily,
sending another trickle down his back, and his right hand closed on his sword
hilt. The light was definitely coming closer. Although it was hard to be sure
through the hissing rain, he thought he heard boots sloshing through mud. He
patted the warbeast's side, then returned his hand to his sword and loosened
the blade in its scabbard. The warbeast's eyes opened, gleaming a ghostly pale
green in the dimness as they caught the faint light; its tail stopped lashing.
Galt took a step forward.
He had forgotten the added weight of his armor and that he had been
standing in mud for several long minutes without moving his feet; there was a
soft sucking sound as his boot came free, though the motion required little
more effort than it would have ordinarily.
The light suddenly stopped moving, still at least a dozen yards away;
there was an instant of silence, save for the pattering of the rain, and then
a voice called softly, "Overman?"
Galt made no reply, but slapped the warbeast's neck in the signal
meaning "separate and surround"; the monster obediently slipped silently away
in the darkness. Galt spared a second to wonder how anything that large could
move so quietly in the rain and mud.
"Overman? Please, if you're there, I come in peace. I want to talk to
your leader." The voice was speaking in little more than a loud whisper, but
Galt had no trouble in making out the words. Aware that the warbeast was
circling around and that a shouted command would bring it leaping upon the
intruder, Galt decided he could risk replying.
"Who are you?" he asked.
There was a pause; the light swung, and slogging footsteps approached a
few paces. Galt could see that the glow came from a lantern held by a human,
but could make out no details.
"My name is Saram. I used to be a lieutenant in the Baron's guard. I
want to speak with your leader."
"Saram?" Galt was startled; he knew the man very slightly, having met
him in the course of the trading expedition that had started this whole silly
mess. Garth, the leader of that expedition, had spoken with Saram at length.
Since Garth's disappearance was more or less the cause of the siege,
conversation with the man might prove worthwhile.
"Where are you?" the human asked.
"Never mind where I am. Hold the lantern up so I can see your face."
The man obeyed; although he was still too far away for Galt to be
certain, his face could well have been Saram's.
"What do you want?" Galt asked.
"I want to talk to the leader of your expedition."
"About what?"
"About Garth."
"Speak to me, then. I will decide whether what you say is worth bringing
to the attention of our commanders."
"But...who are you? I can't even be sure you're an overman. Come where I
can see you."
Galt considered. The man was merely human, and it was plain that he was
alone; unskilled as he was in fighting, Galt was sure he could handle a lone
human-particularly with the warbeast lurking somewhere close by.
"As you wish." He walked carefully forward until he stood at the outer
edge of the lantern's circle of light. His left hand dropped from holding his
cloak closed and fell instead upon the hilt of his dagger; his sword was drawn
and ready in his right. "Speak," he commanded.
Saram hesitated. "Who are you? You look familiar."
"I was unaware that humans could tell one overman from another."
"I may be mistaken"
There was no harm in admitting his identity. "No; we've met before. I am
Galt.""Oh, of course; the trader."
"The master trader, yes." There was a moment of silence as each
considered the other; then Galt demanded, "Speak. What have you to say
regarding Garth?"
"I know where he is."
"Do you know when he will return?"
"No. But what difference does that make? He is not in Skelleth. I will
swear to that."
Galt smiled humorlessly. "I am afraid it will take more than the word of
a single human to convince our leaders of that. If he is not in Skelleth, then
where is he? As a matter of fact, Saram, I know as well as you that the Baron
of Skelleth banished Garth; I was there, after all. Unfortunately, there are
those who prefer to view that entire scene as a fraud, a drama to convince me
that Garth was not in Skelleth while the Baron laid subtle plans for his
capture."
Saram snorted, a sound barely audible above the drumming rain. "That's
absurd."
"To you, it may seem so. To overmen and overwomen who know nothing of
humankind, it seems perfectly plausible. The treachery of mankind is legendary
among my people."
"But if I say where Garth has gone?"
"Merely another lie. However, I admit to a certain curiosity; where has
he gone? He told me only that he would be back before the start of the new
year.""I had hoped to have some assurance of peace before revealing what I
know.""I'm afraid, that we'll just have to forget about it; then. A pity. I
would very much like to know."
Saram considered for a moment, looking up at Galt's inhuman face, and
then said, "He has gone to Dûsarra on an errand for the Forgotten King."
Galt did not reply immediately; this brief answer raised so many further
questions that he preferred to tally them up in his head before asking any.
When he had thought it over, he asked, "Who is the Forgotten King?"
"An old man who lives in a tavern in Skelleth; more than that is hard to
say. He claims that his kingdom is also forgotten and that he has lived here
in Skelleth for centuries. There is good reason to believe him a wizard of
some sort."
"Why would Garth be running errands for him?"
Saram shrugged, and the lantern bobbed, its light dancing and
spattering. "Garth is not, perhaps, the least gullible of beings. Apparently,
some oracle told him that the old man could grant him wishes, and he believes
it. I think that his current quest is supposed to be rewarded with
immortality."
"An oracle, you say?"
"I believe he mentioned one."
"The Wise Women of Ordunin, perhaps?"
"I don't know; it could be."
This began to make sense. Garth was one of the privileged few the Wise
Women would speak to, and he had consulted them on several occasions. No one
had ever yet known the Wise Women to be wrong, or actually to lie; however,
they took a perverse delight in misleading their questioners. Undoubtedly
Garth had misinterpreted some deliberately vague answer and betaken himself to
this mysterious old man on the basis of that misinterpretation.
"Why, then, did this so-called King send Garth to Dûsarra?''
"I'm not sure. He has some complicated magic he's planning, but he lacks
some of the necessary ingredients, it seems, and I think Garth was supposed to
bring back something he needed."
"Where and what is Dûsarra?"
"I believe it is a city far to the west, in Nekutta."
"How far?"
"I don't know."
Galt contemplated this. "Could it be so far that he has not yet had time
to return? It was a month or more ago that he vanished."
"Certainly it could. The world is a very big place."
"We overmen wouldn't know. These past three centuries we have had little
opportunity to see it."
Saram ignored the sarcasm. "I haven't seen much of it, either, but I've
heard that the land extends for hundreds of leagues to the west and south."
"So it is your belief that Garth is off adventuring in this Dûsarra and
will return in due time?"
"Unless he gets himself killed, yes."
"Why have you told me this? Why come here, alone, in the middle of the
night, in the pouring rain, to tell us that our missing comrade is running
some fool's errand for a crazy old man?"
Saram was momentarily taken aback. "It's the truth."
"Quite possibly it is, but why have you told me?"
"To end the siege!"
"You think this information will end the siege?"
"Why not? You came to rescue Garth; Garth isn't here."
"It would be more pleasant for all of us if things were that simple.
Unfortunately, they are not. Garth is not the reason for our presence so much
as the excuse. We are here at the behest of his wife Kyrith-who has come
seeking her husband, true. But do you think sixty of Ordunin's warriors and a
dozen of the best and most valuable warbeasts would be out here solely to
please a lone overwoman who prefers not to believe that Garth would rather go
off adventuring than come home to her? I was there when the Baron sentenced
Garth to exile and I do not think the man was dissembling. Further, I know
Garth reasonably well, and I am well aware that in his resentment of his exile
he would be disinclined to go meekly home to his wives and children. I know
that he might well be impulsive enough to undertake this mission you mention,
yet here I am, wearing armor in this miserable rain, watching the North Gate
of your stinking village in the middle of the night."
"No, I will be frank. Garth's disappearance was only an excuse. This
expedition was intended as a show of force. Our intent was to ride into the
market square, confront the Baron, and renegotiate the terms of our existence.
For three hundred years overmen have lived a lean and bitter life in a harsh
wasteland because your ancestors defeated ours in the Racial Wars and drove us
into the barren north. We believed that the defeat was final and irreversible.
Our legends taught us that Skelleth stood at the border, a mighty fortress,
ready to oppose any attempt on our part to renew our acquaintance with the
rest of the world. Your people were reputed to be our implacable and deadly
foes. Rather than confront you, we sailed the full width of the Sea of Mori
and traded with the smugglers of Lagur for the necessities our land could not
provide, paying whatever they asked because we had no choice and knew no
better.
"Then Garth came south on some quest of his own invention and discovered
that Skelleth was a pitiful ruin, three-fourths abandoned and on the edge of
starvation, worse off than we were ourselves. He returned with me and two
others to establish trade and, in accordance with our long tradition of bowing
to human demands, we allowed your Baron to set the terms of that trade,
including Garth's banishment and a dishonorable oath.
"However, this is not just. We saw, we four, just how low Skelleth had
sunk. There is no longer any reason for us to cower. It is not fitting for us
to do so. Therefore, we shall not. The time has come when the overmen of the
Northern Waste are going to assert themselves once again."
"Have you then decided to start the Racial Wars anew?" The harsh sarcasm
in Saram's tone was unmistakable.
Galt chose to ignore it. "No. We have no wish to commit mass suicide,
either slowly by starvation or quickly by a disastrous war. We had planned to
ride into the market and confront your Baron; we would present our demands,
and he would have no choice but to agree as completely as possible. He would,
of course, be unable to produce Garth. His failure to do so would allow us to
maintain a position of moral superiority in what would otherwise be a case of
outright aggression, and from that position we would dictate terms-the
revocation of Garth's exile, the elimination of all tariffs and restrictions
on trade, and free passage throughout his domain."
"It's a lovely theory."
"Yes, it is. It would have worked, too, had your Baron done his part and
met us in the marketplace yesterday morning. He is no fool; he would have
given in rather than risk a war he could not win."
Saram paused before replying. "It's hard to know," he said, "just what
the Baron would do. He is mad, after all. You have only seen him during a
lucid period. It's his madness that fouled up your whole plan."
"Is it?"
"Of course!"
"Your captain swore by all the gods that the Baron was ill in bed and
could not move or speak. That put us in a very awkward position; we had no
choice but to leave the town and begin our siege. Was he lying?"
"No, he spoke truly, but this is a regular occurrence. Every fortnight
or so the Baron's madness overtakes him, and he sinks into a state of
depression so intense that he cannot speak, cannot stand, cannot feed himself.
Such an attack occurred when word arrived that your company was approaching
Skelleth."
Galt digested this information. "How long will this last?"
"Who knows? It varies. This looks like a bad one; it could be days."
There was a moment of silence, save for the pattering rain, as each
considered his position. Saram was the first to break it.
"Then you will stay until the Baron recovers and meets your demands?"
"Yes. For myself, I was tempted to abandon the whole thing and try again
later, but Kyrith would have none of that. She is quite convinced that her
mate is somewhere within your walls and she has no intention of departing
without him. Most of the warriors are overeager young hotheads who did not
care to give up their chance for glory so easily, and they supported her. This
is the first time in more than three hundred years that the warriors of
Ordunin have been on the offensive, and they like the feel of it."
"I am..." Saram paused, as if reconsidering what he had to say, then
went on, "I am surprised that you have merely besieged us. Why not take
Skelleth by storm?"
Galt snorted. "And start the Racial Wars again? I know little of human
politics; but, while I doubt the High King at Kholis will interfere with trade
negotiations no matter how we carry them out, he can scarcely be expected to
ignore the capture of one of his baronies."
"It would seem we have a stalemate then."
"Only temporarily; sooner or later your Baron will recover and face us.
It should be a simple matter to resolve everything when that happens."
"I hope you're right."
"In the meanwhile, of course, I must stand watch in this miserable rain.
There is no need for you to be here, though; go home and dry off. I appreciate
your efforts at peacemaking, but there's little you can do."
"So it would seem. Farewell, then, Galt, and I wish you luck." He
turned, and began slogging back toward the ruined gate. The overman watched as
the lantern light receded and finally merged once again with the light of the
flickering watch fire.
CHAPTER TWO
The 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.
"Oh, yes. We have insufficient numbers to surround the town completely,
so we are using sentries such as myself in a ring around the walls, with
orders to summon others wherever they might be needed. The humans are so weak
that they haven't even attempted to break out yet."
Garth suppressed a derisive smile; he did not care to insult a fellow
overman, but the absurd inadequacy of such a "siege" was very obvious to him.
If the humans had not yet broken out, it was not due to weakness, but either
because they had not yet gotten around to it-probably because of poor
organization-or did not choose to do so. He wondered what fool had contrived
such a strategy even more than he wondered why his people had suddenly seen
fit to take military action. "Who devised this scheme?" he asked.
Thord smiled. "Your wife, Kyrith."
"What? Kyrith?" All mockery was forgotten in Garth's astonishment.
"Yes. She and Galt the master trader are our co-commanders, appointed by
the City Council."
Garth was momentarily dumbfounded. When he could speak coherently again,
ignoring the plaintive questions Frima was asking, he demanded, "What is going
on here? Explain this!"
Thord was taken aback at Garth's fiat and dangerous tone, but replied,
"Kyrith was concerned about your safety, Garth. She thought that the Baron of
Skelleth must have abducted you when you did not return with the others from
your trading mission. Galt told her that you had been exiled and had gone off
on your own rather than return home ignominiously, but she didn't believe it.
She petitioned the Council for permission to raise a company of volunteers to
march down here, confront this Baron, and demand your safe return. The Council
agreed; the story is that, though they believed what Galt said, they thought
such a threat might frighten the Baron of Skelleth and the other humans into
treating us better in the future. They insisted, though, that Galt share the
command, since Kyrith knew nothing of Skelleth or of human ways and might
behave rashly in her anger."
Garth interrupted. "They might have done well to include a commander who
knew something of military matters. This so-called siege cannot possibly have
cut off communication between Skelleth and the rest of Eramma, and we, can
only hope that no one in town has seen fit to summon reinforcements from the
south as yet."
It was Thord's turn to be struck dumb. "Reinforcements?" he asked at
last. "Yes, reinforcements! Decayed as it may be, Skelleth is still an outpost
of the Kingdom of Eramma, the nation that defeated ours in the last of the
Racial Wars. They could probably have ten thousand men here within a week, to
flay us all alive." He had no real idea how large a force Eramma's High King
could muster, or how quickly it could reach Skelleth; his figures were sheer
guesswork. He had no doubt at all, however, that the Erammans would have no
trouble in obliterating a force of overmen too small to lay a proper siege.
"Oh." Thord's face remained impassive, but his discomfiture was plain in
his stiff silence. Garth heard Frima suppress a giggle. He hoped that Thord
hadn't noticed. He would undoubtedly be mortally offended to know that a human
was laughing at him. Garth himself was slightly irritated at the girl's lack
of respect and was equally annoyed at the stupidity of Thord and his comrades
who had volunteered for so asinine and dangerous a scheme.
"Go on, then; you just explained how the Council came to grant their
permission for this venture."
"Oh, yes. Well, Kyrith had no trouble in finding sixty volunteers, and
was allowed a dozen warbeasts as well. We marched down and arrived yesterday
morning, but the Baron refused to see us; one of his guards told us he was
sick in bed. Galt thought that we should just set up camp somewhere to the
north, in the hills, and wait, but Kyrith didn't want to do that; she was
afraid that the Baron might slip out unnoticed, I think. There was a vote, and
Kyrith won, and we laid siege to the town yesterday afternoon."
That was a relief, Garth thought; it was too soon for any messages to
have reached the cities of Eramma. It was possible that Skelleth's people had
not yet even noticed that they were besieged; things could still be handled
peacefully.
"All right;" he said, "you've done your duty, but I'm relieving you now.
You go back and tell my wife to call off this ridiculous siege. I'm safe and
well and I'll come and find her as soon as I've finished a little business of
my own in town. Where is she camped?"
"The main encampment is on the Wasteland Road to the north, but I can't
leave my post yet."
"Nonsense. You go tell her I'm here." Garth was in no mood to argue; if
he left Thord standing guard here on the main highway, the fool might attack a
caravan or an innocent traveler, should one happen along.
"I have my orders, my lord."
"Forget your orders. I outrank whoever gave them and I'm countermanding
them. This siege will end immediately; as a member of the City Council, the
Prince of Ordunin, and a lord of the overmen of the Northern Waste, I am
assuming command. Now, go tell that to Kyrith and tell her to wait for me and
do nothing hostile toward the humans until I arrive. Is that clear?" Without
his intending it, his right hand crept down toward the hilt of the great
two-handed broadsword; the gem in the pommel gleamed blood-red.
Thord hesitated a moment longer, trying to decide whether Garth did in
fact have the authority to overrule a commander appointed by a quorum of the
City Council. Garth was here and annoyed; the Council was not. That decided
him. "As you wish," he said, as he turned his warbeast's head northward.
Garth watched him go; he was growing angrier as he thought about the
stupidity of the overmen who could plan and execute such an inept maneuver-his
own chief wife among them? A siege was a delicate and sometimes dangerous
operation, not a casual lark. It would serve the lot of them right if someone
did happen along and take them in the rear. It would be only just and fitting
if the entire sixty were slaughtered. For half a silver bit he'd go up there
himself and teach them all something about war-teach them at swordpoint!
"Garth?" Frima's voice was not entirely steady.
The human had interrupted his chain of thought-the insolent creature! He
almost snarled as he asked, "What do you want?"
"The jewel's glowing again." She pointed.
It was, indeed, and glowing relatively brightly. He looked at it and
摘要：

TheSwordofBheleuBookThreeoftheLordsofDûsCopyright1982byLawrenceWatt-EvansCHAPTERONEGalt,theovermantrader,shifteduncomfortably,sendingarivuletofcoldraindownthebackofhisneckandunderhismail;itsoakedintohisquiltedgambesonandtrickledslowlydownhisfurryback,chillyanddampandthoroughlyunpleasant.Hesuppressed...

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