replaced by fatigue and resolve. Garth, despite his weariness, felt peculiarly refreshed and clean as he settled down for the night on straw from the stable beside the King's Inn-which, like the tavern itself, had not burned. For more than a fortnight his dreams had been only of destruction, but he had spent this day obsessed with rebuilding-a welcome and healthy change. He was very pleased that he had managed to escape the spell of the Sword of Bheleu.
He was almost cheerful when he fell asleep.
Within an hour, though, his dreams began to trouble him. Images of blood and pain began to appear, and everything seemed washed in a red haze. He saw again the image of the high priest of Aghad whom he had fought in Dыsarra and again saw the Sword of Bheleu splatter the priest's brains and blood across the dirt of the Dыsarran marketplace. He saw himself slaughtering the entire cult of Bheleu with manic glee while thunder pounded overhead. He relived the battle just past and recalled in detail what he had done to Darsen. Finally, he found himself standing alone on a barren plain, holding the Sword of Bheleu before him. He tried to cast it away, but his fingers would not release the hilt; he tried again and became aware suddenly that there was someone behind him. He knew, not knowing how he knew, that behind him was the sword's rightful owner, the one to whom he could give the weapon and be rid of it once and for all.
He turned around and saw himself, clad in a loose red robe over black armor, hand held out to receive the sword; his other self's face was twisted into a malign grin that suddenly poured forth mocking laughter.
With a grunt of surprise, he awoke.
He was no longer on his pile of straw but on his feet, facing the part of town where he had left the sword.
He shook his head to clear it and looked about. He had not gone far; his pile of straw lay a yard away. He settled down upon it once again and considered.
The dream did not seem wholly natural. It might, he thought, be a lingering remnant of the sword's influence. Or perhaps he was more vulnerable while asleep, and the sword or its master had sent the dream to him for some reason. Or, of course, it might be an ordinary dream-perhaps a bit more vivid than most, but that could be attributed to exhaustion and the excitement of recent events.
The oddest feature was that he had started to sleepwalk; he did not recall ever having done that before. That, more than anything else, made him suspect a magical influence. Perhaps the sword was attempting to draw him back, and the dreams had been his own attempt to resist.
Whatever had caused the dream, it made him uneasy and ruined his earlier contentment. It appeared that he could not be really sure he was free of the sword until it was destroyed. He would have to see to its destruction as soon as possible. He decided not to go to sleep again, but to stay awake until he could discuss the situation with Galt. Fatigue overcame him, however, and he dozed off and slept uneasily.
He awoke again as the first light of dawn painted the eastern sky with faded pink and lay for a moment watching the stars go out. He had dreamt again, but only in vague and muddled images-all unpleasant. There had been none of the eerie clarity of the first series; perhaps whatever power was affecting him had tired itself.
He had to destroy the sword. He dared not undertake any of the other tasks that he hoped eventually to complete while its baleful influence lingered. He could not, however, do anything with the sword without Galt's cooperation, as the guards posted upon it had been told specifically to keep Garth away from it unless Galt was with him.
At the first opportunity, he would have to take Galt out to the sword, convince him of its power, and then find a way to dispose of it once and for all. Until then, he could do nothing.
He sat back, leaning against the wall of a burned-out house, and did nothing.
When Galt awoke, he was instantly besieged with decisions to be made, orders to be given, and work to be done; Garth waited patiently. The morning passed. Garth contrived to speak with the master trader turned commander as they ate their noon meal.
Galt agreed that the sword should be dealt with. He promised that at the first opportunity he would accompany Garth to deal with it. The organization and reconstruction of the village was of primary importance, however; he had to oversee that. When he could spare the time, he would.
Garth resigned himself to waiting. He waited through the afternoon and evening. That night he slept heavily and dreamed of death; he awoke to find himself standing amid the ruins a few dozen yards from the sword.
Galt was busy throughout the following day as well, as heavy rains came, flooding foundations, turning the streets to mire, and slowing down all work. Villagers jammed themselves into the tents and the few structures that still had roofs.
The rain was not wholly unwelcome, though; for the first time, the smell of wood smoke subsided, and some of the soot and filth was washed from the ruins. Supplies of drinking water, which had grown scant, were replenished.
Garth spent the day in the King's Inn, speaking to no one, sitting in the front corner by the window, watching the people who crowded the room. He did not approach the Forgotten King. He did not see Galt at all. He noticed that Saram and Frima were together almost constantly and that the girl was now more of an aide than a messenger. On several occasions he noticed her staring at him; he guessed she was wondering at his inactivity or perhaps hoping he would return her to Dыsarra.
The third night after the battle, recalling his experiences of the first two nights, he moved his bedding further from the sword, up into the abandoned northeastern portion of Skelleth. He slept covered by a sheet of oilcloth someone had found in the rubble and felt the rain gathering in pools atop it.
He awoke several times, each time finding himself upright and moving south, the rain on his face. It was obvious that the rain had awakened him each time, and that only that had kept him from moving further. His dreams were jumbled images in red and black; he relived repeatedly all the bloodier incidents of his life. In stark contrast to the tedious hours he had spent doing nothing while he waited on Galt's convenience, his nights were full of fury and violence. He fought pirates and raiders on the coasts of the Northern Waste, killed bandits on the Plain of Derbarok,, and slaughtered priests and worshippers in Dыsarra. Throughout, whatever the actual circumstances had been, he found himself gleefully wielding the Sword of Bheleu, laughing as blood spattered about him, killing anything, friend or foe, that got in his path.
By dawn, he was resolved that he could not wait much longer. If Galt could not spare the time before sunset, he would leave Skelleth and try to get far enough away to escape the dreams.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The village of Weideth lay in a small valley in the foothills below Dыsarra and consisted of perhaps two dozen homes and a single combined tavern, inn, and meetinghouse, all arranged around a crossroads. The West Road led up the slope to Dыsarra; the North Road led through the mountains to the Yprian Coast; the South Road led to the rich farming villages along the upper branch of the Great River; and the East Road led through the heart of Nekutta to the civilized lands of Eramma, Orыn, Tadumuri, Amag, Mara, and Orgыl.
Of late there had been a great deal of traffic coming down the West Road and leaving by either the East or the South. Those who had bothered to stop at all reported that they were fleeing from an outbreak of the White Death. There were also stories of great fires, riots, and a heightening in the city's perpetual internal conflict among the seven cults.
There had also been more overmen leaving Dыsarra than usual; the Yprian traders had cut short their visits and were turning back their fellows from approaching Dыsarra. No more caravans came down the North Road, and all those that had come before had already returned. It seemed likely that there was not a single overman left in the city.
The people of Weideth had watched the refugees go through, had offered what aid and comfort they could, and had accepted whatever payment was offered in exchange. They were practical people and saw no reason to refuse good money. The village was wealthy with Dыsarran silver.
It was three weeks since the plague's outbreak, and the number of people coming down the West Road had dropped from more than a hundred a day to a mere handful, when the girl in the black robe arrived in the nameless village inn.
