The Seven Altars of Dusarra

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The air was dry and warm as the trio moved down the tone hillside in an automatic effort to put some distance between themselves and the chaos of the Dыsarran marketplace; the orange glow that leaked through the gates paled until it was lost in the cloud-filtered moonlight. Somewhere behind them a faint rumbling sounded.

A few hundred yards from the city walls, Garth stopped and gathered Frima and Koros to him. He set about checking the straps and knots that had held his supplies and loot in place on the warbeast's back throughout the fighting as he asked, "How did the fires start?"

"I did it. With a torch from one of the posts."

"Why?"

"As a distraction; there were men sneaking around behind you."

"Oh." That was disconcerting; he had been totally unaware of any such maneuver. "Thank you. And the ropes on the gate?"

"They were tarred, to keep them from stretching in the rain; the tar burns well. That's why I had the torch when I saw the men coming."

"Thank you. You have been most helpful."

There was silence for a moment as he pulled tight a loosened buckle. A faint crackling came from the city; the fire must be spreading. Garth glanced up, but saw no sign of pursuit.

"I don't know why I helped you!" Frima burst out suddenly. "You're kidnapping me?"

"That's true," Garth replied. "But would you want to stay in Dыsarra at present? With fire, panic, and disease loose in the streets?"

"No." Her voice was fiat and definite, all defiance gone.

"That disease-have you ever seen it before?"

"No, but I have heard of it. It is the White Death, which P'hul uses to dispose of those who have displeased her. She must favor you, as her priest said."

A few days earlier Garth would have dismissed that as more human superstition; now, he was less certain. The events of the last few days and nights definitely seemed to have involved powers beyond any he was familiar with. He slid the sword of Bheleu into the place in the harness it had occupied before, wishing he had some other more convenient and more trustworthy weapon.

"It may be," he said, "that the Forgotten King will have no use for you. In that case, you shall be free to go as you please; you may return to Dыsarra and to your family if you choose. I make no promises, however."

"I may just escape before that." Her tone had lightened.

"I hope to prevent that. Recall that you are unarmed and half clad, and that the city is a most unhealthy place just now."

"Oh, don't worry, silly." She petted Koros, who was licking blood from its claws.

Garth smiled. No one had ever called him silly before. At least, not for a century or so.

A blaze of red light lit the sky; Garth and Frima turned to see that one of the volcanic peaks was brightly aglow. A moment later the now-familiar rumbling shook the slope beneath their feet.

"I think it would be wise to depart," Garth remarked. He lifted the girl onto the warbeast's back, then swung himself up in front of her. He was weary and would have preferred to sleep, but it seemed quite clear that he would not be safe anywhere near the city.

When both were astride, Koros started forward in its customary swift glide…apparently unbothered by its recent exertions. As Dыsarra and the fiery volcano receded behind them, Garth contemplated recent events.

His life-long atheism he now suspected to be incorrect; there was something that had directed his actions since his acquisition of the sword of Bheleu. No other explanation was adequate. Whether it was in fact the god of destruction he did not know, nor did he understand the relationship between this power, himself, and the sword. Whatever it was, it had gained him powerful allies in the cult of P'hul, and it might therefore have made him enemies as well-something he would have to be watchful for henceforth. The enmity of the cult of Aghad he had earned himself, and it was plain that the cult had power in lands besides its own; that, too, he must be watchful for.

The sword itself he did not trust; were it not his only weapon, he would have sworn never to touch it again. As it was, he was eager to deliver it to the Forgotten King and be done with it.

The Forgotten King-there was another matter for consideration. The old man was the high priest of death; it was not desirable, therefore, to serve him any further. Garth would deliver the loot from the various altars to him and then go his own way.

The vague promises of fame, of possible immortality, and of some great cosmic significance were, at present, of little interest; his recent dealings with cosmic powers had left him far less enthusiastic about such matters. There were mundane matters enough to occupy his time. There was the possibility of trade with the overmen of the Yprian Coast, should they actually exist; there might well be repercussions from the events just past to be dealt with; there was his vengeance to be taken upon the Baron of Skelleth. Trade or no, he was determined to have his revenge.

He rode on through the night, Frima hanging on forlornly behind him as she left the only home she had ever known, Koros padding smoothly along. His mind seethed with schemes to humble the Baron, with schemes to seek out and destroy the cult of Aghad, with thoughts of great deeds to be done. None of the three noticed the great red gem set in the pommel of the sword oЂ Bheleu, protruding from the warbeast's harness alongside its furry chest, where it burned with a murky flame the color of blood.