berserk monster. It could burn without taking harm, and set fire to anything in sight-or almost anything; he remembered the King's Inn. That had probably been protected by the Forgotten King's spells.
The sword could shatter stone and cut its way through solid metal as well. It resisted his attempt to destroy it and tried to draw him to it, as if it wanted him to carry and use it-but when Herrenmer tried to touch it, it had burned him. Was there some mystic link between the sword and himself?
He remembered how he had pulled it from the burning altar of Bheleu. Had that created a connection somehow? But even then, he had been drawn to it as if hypnotized, though he had not yet touched it. None of the worshippers of Bheleu had been affected by any such compulsion, so far as he could recall. Perhaps it had an affinity for overmen; he knew that the idols of Bheleu always took the form of an overman, though the god's worshippers had all been human.
That connection could explain a great deal. It made clear how the sword had existed before his arrival without having captured anyone until he came to rob the ruined temple. He had no idea when the blade had been forged, but he was sure it was not new.
But then, could he be sure? The blade had no nicks or scratches and bore no sign of ever having been used. The hilt was not worn. On the other hand, the blade showed no smithing marks, and the hilt did not have the rough feel of new work not yet smoothed by use.
The age of the sword was a mystery, he admitted.
Still, it seemed unlikely that it had been newly forged just in time to be placed in the altar the night he arrived to steal it. It had almost certainly been in the cult's possession for some time previous to his acquisition of it, and there was no evidence that it had ever before usurped anyone's will or caused widespread destruction.
Perhaps it was indeed attuned to overmen, and could not be used by humans. There were overmen in Dыsarra on occasion, he knew, traders from the Yprian Coast, but none of them would have any reason to visit the Street of the Temples. It was possible that none before himself had ever come within range of the sword's spell.
Its call did seem to be limited by distance.
Was there, perhaps, another explanation? Was he constructing his theory on insufficient evidence?
He felt that he could be sure that no one before him had wielded the sword to any great effect in Dыsarra, at least not within the past several years. If any such event had occurred, it would almost certainly have been mentioned to him by Frima or by Mernalla, the tavern wench he spoke with-or perhaps by the high priest of Aghad or the caretaker of the temple of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken. None of them had made any significant comment about the temple or cult of Bheleu.
The god of destruction had been mentioned, however. Tiris, the ancient priest of P'hul, had told him that he, Garth, was either Bheleu himself or his representative. Garth had dismissed that as the babblings of a senile old man, but perhaps it had not been entirely that. Tiris might have known something of the magic sword and somehow recognized Garth as the one who would wield it. There was nothing particularly distinctive about Garth, except the fact that he was an overman.
That was evidence, then.
No other theory seemed to fit very well. Therefore, he would act on the assumption that the sword's magic was somehow geared so that only overmen could use it-or more accurately, it could use only overmen.
If that was in fact correct, then he need not worry about leaving it where it was. Wandering humans might come across it, but they would not be able to handle it. He would order the overmen to stay away from it, or perhaps even post guards around it.
Whatever became of it, he did not want to touch it again. He wanted to retain his own mind and will. The sword was insidious and unpredictable; he had managed to restrain it on the journey back from Dыsarra, when violence would have been nothing but an unfortunate incident, but had completely lost control here in Skelleth, where the resulting battle might have been the opening engagement of a new Racial War. Its magic had seemed to fluctuate randomly in strength, but Garth was beginning to suspect that it was not random at all.
Perhaps he could wall off this part of the village to keep out the curious. Some way to destroy or control the sword might eventually be found, or perhaps he could persuade the Forgotten King to do something with it, since the old wizard was plainly able to handle it.
That could all wait. He was rid of it for the moment and could turn his attention to other matters.
He and his troops had sacked and burned Skelleth with little or no justification. He had personally murdered the Baron, stabbing him dishonorably from behind. The people of Eramma would have to find out eventually; so major an event could not be kept secret. There would be much careful negotiating to be done if full-scale war was to be prevented, and only a near-miracle could restore the possibility of the peaceful trade he had hoped to establish.
Other trade routes were possible, though. There were overmen on the Yprian Coast, and a route might be found to Dыsarra or other cities in Nekutta. So far, the overmen of the Northern Waste had acted only against the people of Eramma; the other human nations would have no grievance. If overland routes could not be found, the sea trade need no longer be limited to Lagur; there were other seaports in Orыn, he was sure, though he knew no names. There might well be other lands of which his people knew nothing, lying beyond Orыn to the east and south, or beyond the Gulf of Ypri to the west. Expeditions would have to be sent out.
There was so very much to do!
The first thing to do was to gather together the survivors of both sides of the battle and set up some sort of organization. That could best be done from the marketplace; it was the one gathering place in town, the place where anyone seeking aid or leadership would go.
Garth knew he should return there immediately. He headed in that general direction, following the glow of the fires that were centered on the square. There was enough light for him to find his way, and within a few moments he found himself on a street he recognized. He followed it in the direction of the market.
He had been certain of the street's identity; but as he approached the market, he thought for a moment that he had made a wrong turn and become lost. The square and its surrounding buildings were unrecognizable; not a single one of the surrounding structures still stood. The smoldering ruins were more thoroughly destroyed than those on Skelleth's fringe. Only the fact that he knew there was no other large clear space in the center of town reassured him that it was indeed the familiar square.
The market was thronged with people and animals, sitting, standing, or lying, clumped together at random. There were several overmen in sight, and a few warbeasts, but most of the crowd was made up of ragged humans and their pets and livestock. The majority were bunched tightly together in a mass that occupied most of the square, avoiding the hot and sooty rubble that surrounded it.
The overmen seemed to be distributed around the perimeter, Garth realized, acting as guards. It was obvious, though, that they were too few to have halted any concerted effort by the humans to leave. The warbeasts were posted in various streets, but the buildings had been so completely leveled that anyone with footwear adequate to protect him from heat and sharp edges could easily have walked out over the rubble between the streets. The humans stayed where they were because they had nowhere else to go.
He looked at the mob of sooty, filthy, ragged humans, at the sooty and bloodstained overmen, and at the smoldering ruins. This desolation was his own doing. He was appalled. How could he have done this?
No, he told himself, he hadn't done this. The Sword of Bheleu, or whatever power controlled it, was responsible. Garth's only fault had been overconfidence in believing that he could resist the weapon's magic. He was a reasonable being, with only good intentions; he would not willingly lave contributed to such devastation. The sword's power had warped his thoughts and clouded his mind, subtly feeding the honest anger he had felt toward the Baron of Skelleth and using it to overcome his resistance.
He was rid of the thing now, and it was time to start making amends.
'Ho, there!' he called to the nearest overman. 'Who's in charge?'
The warrior had been facing away from him, watching the milling humans; now he turned, and Garth recognized him as Tand, Galt's apprentice. His face was black with soot, but that did not quite conceal a line of blood on one sunken cheek. His breastplate was dented near the left shoulder, and a sword was ready in his hand.
When Tand saw who had spoken he lowered the sword. 'Oh, it's you,' he said. 'Galt and Kyrith are over there, talking to some of the humans.'
