The sensation of familiarity increased, and with it Garth's concern. By the time he told Koros to stop, he was seriously worried, convinced that he had come upon the body of someone he knew well.
He dismounted, and as he turned toward the suspended corpse he realized for the first time that it was female. Overwomen were not as clearly differentiated from overmen as women were from men; there was no difference in height, and both sexes were equally flat-chested, though males tended to be broader at the shoulder and narrower at the hip. The primary sexual distinction was in the odor.
With the realization of the sex of the corpse, he was suddenly sure of its identity; he ran to it, hoping that he was wrong, and lifted the drooping head.
He had not been wrong. It was Kyrith. Her red eyes were open, blank, and staring, and her leathery brown skin was cold and clammy; Garth could have no doubt that she was dead.
He was so horrified, so caught by her dead gaze, that he did not at first consciously notice the marks on her forehead. Like all their people, she had a broad, high forehead, the skin drawn tight across the bone; now her brow was caked with dried blood, and blood had congealed in rivulets down either side of her face.
When Garth was able to turn his eyes from hers, he saw the blood and followed the dried streams to their source.
There were cuts in her forehead, many of them, but not mere random slashes; Garth did not immediately see the pattern, for the blood had blurred it, and shock had dulled his wits. As he continued to stare, however, he made out the nature of the marks. On her right side was a horizontal curl, and a diagonal, and then a long downstroke-the rune for A. Next was the upward curve, hooked downstroke, and downward curve of GH, then another A, and finally the short upright and long double curve of a D-except that here the curve was broken and awkward, more like a series of short slashes. Runes were meant to be drawn with ink on paper, not cut into flesh.
AGHAD.
Garth knew that name well. Humans swore by it, sometimes, and used it in jesting reference to liars or unfaithful spouses, but Garth knew it to be no joke. It was the name of the god of hatred and treachery, and of a cult he had defied and defiled when he robbed their temple and slew their high priest in Dыsarra about three years before.
The cult had made a habit of casual and gruesome murders, and had sworn vengeance upon him, but he had long since dismissed it from his thoughts. He had believed the cultists to be limited to their own city, far to the west, and had considered their threats merely human boastfulness.
He had, he saw now, been wrong.
No trace remained of his earlier euphoria, nor of the boredom and purposelessness that had driven him to undertake his errand to Orgul. A cold, hard determination burned in his breast; he would destroy the cult of Aghad, and if the means could be found, he would kill the filthy god himself. Garth was an oathbreaker, forsworn, so he made no spoken vow, but his unvoiced commitment was none the less certain for that.
The initial astonished horror was fading, driven out by rage, and he looked over his wife's corpse.
A cord was wrapped around her throat, then looped back and tied around the stake. Wire bound her wrists behind the post so tightly that it had drawn blood, gouging deeply into the flesh. A third strand, this one of hideously inappropriate gold braid, passed across her chest, under her arms, and up to a spike driven into the back of the stake; it was this last that actually supported most of her weight and held her upright.
Garth drew his dagger and cut away the braid with a single short slash, then caught the corpse with his left arm as it started to slump. Another cut severed the line around the neck, allowing a small pouch he had not previously noticed to fall to the ground.
He ignored the little bag for the moment as, holding his dead wife with his left hand and body, he tried to pry apart the wire at her wrists. It resisted; although it had the appearance of cheap iron, the wire notched the blade of his knife when he worked the point underneath. Nor could he find any loose end whereby he might untangle it.
He lowered the body into a sitting position, the hands resting on the ground behind the stake, and considered. The followers of Aghad, he recalled, took a perverse delight in doing everything they could to infuriate their victims. They were also fond of mutilation. They probably intended to frustrate and annoy Garth with some manner of trickery, until he became sufficiently maddened that he would sever Kyrith's hand to free her from the post.
The wire, he decided, must be ensorcelled in some way. There was no point in struggling with it-yet he had no desire to gratify the Aghadites by dismembering his wife.
The problem could be handled in another way. He fetched his battle-axe from the warbeast's saddle and, with three blows, cut through the foot-thick stake just above Kyrith's sagging head. Having eliminated the spike that had held the braid, Garth was able to lift her easily, so that her hands slid up over the broken end and came free.
That done, he remembered the pouch that had fallen from the neck cord. He laid the corpse gently on the ground and looked for it.
The little bag lay where it had fallen, at the foot of the stake. He picked it up, opened it cautiously, and drew out the roll of parchment it contained.
He had heard of spells that worked through runes, of messages that could bind an unsuspecting victim to the writer's will, but he did not seriously consider it likely that this parchment was anything of that kind. He thought, rather, that it would be a threat or a boast, or perhaps both; the Aghadites had seemed to him the sort of vicious creatures who would not be satisfied with the mere fact of murder, or with the crude attribution carved on the corpse's brow.
He unrolled the parchment and read the following: "Greetings to Garth of Skelleth, once Prince of Ordunin. The righteous vengeance of Aghad has begun, and you will suffer a thousandfold for the affronts you have committed. For the desecration of the god's shrine and the murder of his chosen high priest, you will pay with everything you value. All those you care for will die horribly. Your sons will die slowly as you watch. That which you have built will be cast down and destroyed. That which you have opposed will be exalted. That which you own shall be taken from you. As your pain grows, know always that Aghad will take joy in it, and his worshippers will laugh at your agony."
There was no signature.
Garth crumpled the parchment in his fist and thrust it into a pouch on his belt. Before he could withdraw his hand, he felt a sudden warmth, and the smell of smoke reached his slit nostrils. Startled, he withdrew his hand and dumped the pouch onto a patch of bare earth.
Nothing remained of the note but smoldering ash.
He snorted. If the indestructible wire had not been proof enough, this little demonstration left no doubt that the cult was using magic against him. He looked up, glanced quickly around, but saw nothing. He had fought magic before, several times, and knew it to be a real and sometimes deadly force; he would need to keep a careful watch.
Someone, he realized, might be watching him even now, and he could no longer resist speaking. "Your god will not save you, filth," he said, his voice flat. "Your cult will die, to the last man or woman. My wife's forehead bears your death warrant." He picked up the axe he had dropped and, in a sudden display of fury, splintered the stump of the stake with a single blow.
In Dыsarra, in his inner chamber, Haggat watched the overman's actions and permitted himself a small, silent chuckle. Events were proceeding almost exactly as he had envisioned-though the failure of the wired wrists was slightly disappointing. It was still much as he had wanted. The stolen magics were working perfectly.
This might, he thought, be worth the long wait.
CHAPTER SIX
His anger under control once more, Garth returned the axe to its place on the warbeast's saddle. He looked around at the scattered shards of the stake, then gathered up everything of possible value. That done, he picked up Kyrith's body and ordered Koros to follow him. Carrying his dead wife in his arms, he marched into Skelleth.
The manner of expressing certain emotions differed between human and overman. Overmen made no show of grief or anger on their faces, but instead displayed at such times an expression that in humans would appear to be one of utter disinterest. This was not a result of training in stoicism or any other cultural influence, but a difference in genetic makeup. An overman who seemed bored might be in a murderous rage.
A human guard was posted at the southwestern gate-not a professional soldier, but a volunteer, put there not so much for defense as to run ahead of an arriving caravan to inform Galt and the town's merchants of its approach. The man assigned to this job carried a crossbow and a short sword, more or less as a formality.
The individual who was on duty at the time of Garth's return from Orgul had not heard the overman's approach, having dozed off in the shelter of a ruined wall. He had stirred slightly at the sound of the axe smashing the post, but did not come fully awake until Garth's footsteps had drawn quite near.
Startled, he got to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and prepared to call a challenge.
Garth's face was calm and still, but had the guard spoken, Garth would have taken delight in killing him, probably using only his bare hands. He was in no mood to deal with strangers, particularly human strangers; the cult of Aghad was comprised mostly of humans. Few overmen took an interest in anything so ethereal as religion.
Only the fact that the guard recognized both Garth and Kyrith saved his life; he was so shocked at the sight of the corpse that he could not speak at first, and when he had recovered something of his composure, a glance at Garth's bloodred eyes discouraged any questions he might have had. He stood back respectfully and let the burdened overman and riderless warbeast pass unhindered.
When they had moved on up the road, he debated briefly with himself. He was supposed to run ahead of new arrivals and give warning of their approach; Garth, however, was a resident of Skelleth, however unwelcome his presence there might be to some of the villagers. Furthermore, the overman did not look as if he would appreciate a welcoming committee.
The guard decided, with a glance at Garth's armored back, that he would prefer facing a charge of dereliction of duty to risking the overman's annoyance. He stayed where he was.
Most of the outer portion of Skelleth was a ring of uninhabited ruins, a reminder of the town's long decline; only the central area, around the market, was populated. As a result of this, Garth walked some distance on empty streets, between fallen stones and broken beams, before he was again seen by human eyes.
Like the guard at the gate, the villagers who saw his approach recognized him. Remembering the sacking of Skelleth and seeing the warbeast at his heels, they hung well back and let him pass without hindrance or comment. The traditional fear of overmen had been largely dissipated by three years of trade, but Garth's berserker reputation, the sight of the corpse, and the presence of the warbeast were enough to send even the boldest scurrying out of his path without concern for their dignity.
He reached the market unmolested, not having spoken a word since he entered the walls. There he lowered Kyrith's body to the ground, turned toward the new house on the east side of the square, and bellowed, "Saram!"
Windows opened instantly, and faces peered out. Saram's was not among them, but Garth recognized one that appeared on the upper floor of the Baron's house. He pointed at the girl and shouted, "You, there! You get Lord Saram out here!"
The girl, Saram's housekeeper, vanished inside.
A moment later the front door opened, and one of the Baron's clerks thrust her head out. "My lord Saram is occupied at present, my lord Garth," she said. "How may I help you?"
Garth's hand fell to the hilt of his sword. He replied, slowly and clearly, without shouting, "You will inform Lord Saram that if he is not out here within the count of twenty, he will not live to see the sun set today, and this stinking village will not see tomorrow's dawn."
The clerk's politely noncommittal expression vanished instantly, to be replaced with a gape of terrified astonishment. She disappeared back inside, leaving the door open.
Garth did not bother to count; as he had expected, Saram appeared on the doorstep within a few seconds, a napkin in his hand.