The Sword of Bheleu by Lawrence Watt-Evans Read Free Book Online

him? What of Garth himself? What would the presence of personified Death do to the surrounding area?
    He had no way of knowing what would be involved. Probably no one knew except the Forgotten King.
    â€œWhat will happen to those around you, if you are successful in whatever magic you intend to perform in order that you may die?”
    The old man shrugged once again.
    â€œDo you mean that you do not know, or is it merely a matter of indifference to you?”
    â€œI do not know exactly.”
    Garth paused, phrasing his next question carefully.
    â€œHave you reason to believe that the magic which will permit you to die will also bring about other deaths?”
    After a moment of silence, the King replied, “Yes.”
    â€œHow many other deaths?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œOne? A few? Many?”
    â€œMany.”
    That was it, then; that was why the old man had been so reluctant to say what he was after. Furthermore, it was the reason Garth would not serve him any longer and would not turn over the booty he had brought from Dûsarra.
    At least, that was what Garth told himself. Then he reconsidered and asked, “Is it possible that there might be some other way in which you could die, some way that would harm no one else?”
    The old man answered, “I do not know of any such possibility; I have sought one for centuries without success. The basilisk was very nearly my last hope for such a death.”
    Very nearly his last hope, Garth thought—not absolutely. There was a chance, then. He would not aid in the Forgotten King’s scheme to loose The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, but he might be willing to help out in other ways. He might not win eternal glory by helping the old man to die, but it would be something worth doing. He would not assist in bringing the gods down from the heavens, but he would put an end to an immortal and kill the high priest of Death. That was something that would be noteworthy and significant. He did not feel that he owed the King anything, but there was no reason he shouldn’t take pity on him.
    That being the case, he did not wish to antagonize the ancient wizard-priest. However, he also was hesitant to turn over the Dûsarran loot. He sat, debating with himself what he should do next.
    â€œYou said you had brought me things; let me see them.” The dry, deathly voice cut through his meditating.
    â€œForgive me, O King, but I am reluctant to give you what I brought, lest you perform your magic and cause these many deaths we spoke of.”
    â€œI asked only to see them.”
    He could hardly refuse such a request, under the circumstances. Perhaps the old wizard could tell him what some of the items were, what magic they possessed.
    â€œFirst,” he said, “there is the sword. I pulled it from a burning altar in a ruined temple, apparently dedicated to Bheleu, god of destruction. It appears to have great power—or at least, some power.” He remembered the seeming ease with which the King had turned the blood-red gem black and decided to forego guesses as to relative magical might.
    â€œIt is the Sword of Bheleu, true token of the god,” the Forgotten King said.
    Garth was startled; the old man rarely volunteered information. He looked at the shadowed eyes and thought he might have seen a glint. Was the ancient actually showing signs of excitement?
    Interested now himself, the overman reached down and lifted the sack onto the table, then thrust a hand into it.
    The first item he brought out was wrapped in cloth. “This is the gem from the altar of Tema, the goddess of the night,” he explained. “I keep it concealed because it has hypnotic properties that can snare the unwary.” He placed the head-sized bundle on the table beside the sword.
    At the other table, Frima sucked in her breath.
    â€œWhat is it?” Saram whispered.
    â€œHe robbed Tema! That’s sacrilege!”
    â€œIt