The Sword Of Bheleu

CHAPTER EIGHT

The nightly sacrifice was done; this had been a sunset ritual, simpler and quicker than the midnight ceremonies used on special days. The victim's death had been relatively easy, and there had been no elaboration.

Haggat wondered whether such sacrifices were actually worth doing; did Aghad take pleasure in every murder? There was little real hatred in such slayings, little of the pure, dark emotion the god fed upon. Some stranger dragged from his bed had been killed; how did that help the cause of fear, of hatred, and of loathing? It did not truly increase the worshippers' hatred of their fellow Dыsarrans; if anything, he suspected it helped assuage their anger. It probably did little to increase the city's fear; the people had long since become accustomed to such random deaths and were much more frightened at present by the White Death, the plague that was loose in the city.

The sacrifices were traditional, though, and there was no real reason to stop them. They were no great drain upon the cult's resources, and the worshippers did enjoy them. His personal acolyte certainly did; she had been quite enthusiastic tonight, he thought. It was amusing to see the change that had taken place in her over the recent weeks. She had been a timid little thing at first, awed by her close contact with the then high priest, frightened at being given to Haggat, the temple's seer.

She had had reason to be frightened, since tales of Haggat's idea of pleasure were common among the cultists. But she had discovered that she could survive his amusements and even enjoy some of them. With the death of his former master and Haggat's elevation to high priest, she suddenly found herself second in the cult's hierarchy. That position she enjoyed completely.

Now, as he had expected, she had prepared his special chamber; the scrying glass was gleaming, freshly polished, and the candle was lighted. She knelt by the doorway, awaiting his appraisal of what she had done.

He saw nothing wrong and made a sign of dismissal; she prostrated herself, then backed stiffly out of the room, closing the door behind her. He knew she would be waiting in his bedchamber when he was done with the glass.

There was no hurry, however; he enjoyed using the glass as much as he enjoyed his less savory pursuits. He picked up the crystal globe and held it so that the image of the candle flame distorted within it.

When last he had used the glass, he had seen the overman Garth entering a tavern in Skelleth. It would be interesting to see what had become of him in the hours since. He concentrated on the globe.

The image of the flame grew and twisted, and then reddened.

That was unexpected; Haggat knew of no reason the image should be red. He wondered if the interference he had become familiar with was taking some new form. He tried to clear and strengthen the contact.

The crystal sphere was flooded with blood-red light. Two faces appeared, both etched in black and crimson. One was inhuman, eyes gleaming brightly; the other was a man, his face twisted in pain and terror. Haggat recognized them both, Garth and Darsen.

The high priest was surprised and confused. What was going on in Skelleth? Why was Darsen frightened? Why were the two of them anywhere near each other? Darsen was one of the more competent agents of the cult of Aghad and he certainly knew better than to confront so dangerous an opponent directly. He had been instructed to observe the overman and to do what he could to annoy and inconvenience him, to stir up fear, anger, and hatred. Had he gotten careless and provoked the overman openly?

A moment later it was plain that Darsen's terror had been justified; Haggat could still see nothing but the two faces, but he knew death when he saw it. Darsen was dead. The cult had lost its only agent in Skelleth.

Garth dropped the corpse, and Darsen's dead face vanished from the image in the globe. Haggat could not make out the overman's surroundings, even now, but only his face, hellishly red.

Garth looked up, and it seemed as if those baleful eyes, almost glowing in the red light, met Haggat's. The Aghadite knew that was impossible; only the greatest of sorcerers could detect a scrying spell. Still, those crimson eyes seemed to be watching him. Disconcerted, he let his concentration slip and lost the image of the rest of Garth's hideous face. He saw only the eyes.

Then a third red glow joined them, and Haggat drew back in shock and horror. What was that? He seemed to sense something dark and brooding in it, something beyond his comprehension. The new glow grew, and Garth's eyes faded. The crystal was suddenly hot in Haggat's hands, intensely hot; he dropped it.

It did not merely shatter when it hit the floor; it exploded, showering sparks and red-hot gobbets of glass in every direction. Miraculously, nothing caught fire, but Haggat would not have noticed if it had; he was staring at the burns on his palms.

This was powerful magic indeed! Could the so-called Sword of Bheleu truly be linked to the god of destruction himself? He had not seriously considered that possibility before. He knew of no device linking its user to Aghad, and had seen no reason to think other gods would provide what his own did not. He had dismissed such claims as superstition, or boasting, or an intimidating bluff.

This overman, however, seemed to have power of an order only divine intervention could explain. In that case, it would not be safe to use ordinary measures against him. Garth had defied the cult of Aghad and slain its high priest. For that he must die horribly; that could not be altered. Methods could be changed, however, and where Haggat had previously planned to use the cult's own elaborate system of spies and assassins to torment and eventually kill Garth, he now thought that might be unwise. It would be better to turn another enemy against the overman and let the two destroy each other, allowing the Aghadites to assess their power, and leaving the survivor weakened so that the cult might then handle him directly.

Furthermore, he knew exactly the right enemy to use for this purpose; an enemy of his own, an enemy he had long sought vengeance upon.

The priesthood had not been his first choice for a career; as a youth he had set out to become a sorcerer and had served several years as a wizard's apprentice. His master, a very great magician, had mistreated him, insulted him, abused him, and withheld secrets from him. His frustration and anger had fed upon each other and grown in him until finally, one night, he had demonstrated decisively how well he had learned his lessons and how much his master had underestimated him. The demons he conjured took more than an hour to finish pulling the old wizard to pieces.

It was only after the demons had done their work and been sent away that he learned one of the facts his master had concealed from him-the existence of the Council of the Most High, a secret society of magicians of every kind that sought to limit and control the knowledge and use of the arcane arts. His late master had been a member and had carried a spell that alerted his fellow councilors the instant he died.

The killing of one of their number was something the Council did not condone under any circumstances. They destroyed or confiscated all Haggat's belongings, placed a geas upon him that severely limited his magical abilities, cut out his tongue to prevent him from revealing any of his forbidden knowledge or reciting incantations, and then dumped him before a temple of Aghad, the god of treachery and ingratitude, among other things.

Aghad was also, as Haggat had known even then, a vengeful god, and he had willingly entered the priesthood in the hope of eventually gaining the revenge he had sworn. Though he rose steadily in the cult's hierarchy, due largely to the little magic he still retained, vengeance had eluded him; he had been unable to convince the cult to take action against the Council. Even now, when he had become absolute ruler of the Aghadites, he had not yet attempted anything. He knew that the Council was too powerful and too well-informed to be attacked without much careful planning and preparation. Its members included virtually all the most powerful wizards of the northern lands, and to defeat such a confederation would require great stealth and skill-or equal power.

He had assumed that no equal power existed in the world, but now, he thought, this enchanted sword that the overman called Garth carried might be just such a power. It angered him to think that the weapon had lain unused in Dыsarra, a few hundred yards from his own temple, without his knowledge. It could well have been there, offering countless opportunities for theft, since he first came to the city. He had been unaware of it until this overman came along and blithely stole it, wiping out Bheleu's cult in the process, defiling Aghad's temple, and spreading the White Death in the marketplace.

Now, though, Garth and the Council of the Most High would both pay for their temerity in defying him. He needed merely to turn one against the other. Certainly one or the other would be destroyed, and he could then deal with the survivor.

How, then, could this be accomplished? How could he convince the Council that Garth was a menace, or convince Garth to attack the Council?

There was a hesitant knock on the chamber's door; the voice of his chief acolyte called, "Is all well, master?"

He turned, his chain of thought broken by this distraction, and noticed for the first time the damage done by the exploding glass. Glittering chips were strewn everywhere, and the draperies that lined the walls were spattered with smoking scorched spots where bits of hot debris had struck them. His own robe was similarly damaged, with several smoldering patches and half a dozen holes where the flying shards had penetrated. None had struck his flesh, though; the protective charms he carried, feeble as they were, had at least done that much.

His hands were another matter; when he snapped his fingers to summon the acolyte into the room he discovered that his fingertips were burned, as well as his palms. He winced with pain; when the acolyte limped into the chamber, he had his fingers in his mouth, a pose most unbecoming the dignity of his position as high priest.

The acolyte was not stupid enough to remark on it or to acknowledge in any way that anything was out of the ordinary. She said, "Forgive me, master, but I heard a strange noise, and feared for you. How may I serve you?"

Haggat considered for a moment. He would want her back in his bed shortly, but wished to have a few minutes to think first, and he knew he might as well put her to use. He made a sweeping gesture, indicating the broken glass on the floor.

"Your scrying glass?" The girl tried to keep her voice emotionless, but it was clear that she was puzzled.

He did not deign to nod; the fact that he did not hit her was acknowledgment enough that she was correct.

"I'll have it cleaned up immediately." She noticed the damaged hangings and added, "I'll have the draperies replaced as well, and inquiries will be made toward acquiring a new crystal. Is there anything else, master?"

It was not worth explaining by sign or note what he was considering; he would think it out himself first, before consulting with the other priests. He dismissed her with a wave, then caught himself. He did not want her to think that her duties would be done for the night after the clean-up. He pointed in the direction of his bedchamber.

"Of course, master; I am yours to do with as you will." She bowed low and backed out, favoring the leg and foot he had injured a few nights earlier.

He looked about at the scattered chips of glass. How could he turn the Council and the overman against each other?

When Darsen's carrier pigeon arrived three days later with the old man's report describing the destruction of Skelleth and the murder of the Baron, Haggat had his answer.