"It is I, defiler; it is I who say that you slew the priest of Tema and robbed her altar, that you slew priest and priestess of Regvos. And I am he who will face you in single combat!" With that the hood was flung back, revealing the noseless brown face of an overman, yellow eyes gleaming in the torchlight.
It took Garth a moment to realize he faced one of his own species; he recognized that voice, and for several seconds was aware only that he was face to face with the high priest of Aghad. His enemy had delivered himself; here was the opportunity for a part of the revenge he craved. He raised the sword of Bheleu.
"Priest of Aghad! People of Dыsarra, you have believed the ruler of the cult of treachery, the high priest of lies and deceit, whose altar I desecrated in righteous anger! Let our duel decide my fate!"
The Aghadite grinned and flung aside his robe, standing upright; for the first time it occurred to Garth that he might not win this fight. After all, he was tired, while the overman priest was still fresh. Furthermore, when he abandoned his concealing crouch, the Aghadite was almost eight feet in height, a monstrous size even among overmen. He was curiously lopsided, his right shoulder much higher than his left; such deformities were common among the infants of the Northern Waste, but their victims were customarily killed at birth. That had been a reason for the slow rate of increase in the Waste's population, but necessary, due to the very limited food supply.
Silvery mail gleamed on the monster overman's arms and legs; his chest was adorned with a gleaming red-enameled breastplate. A sturdy steel skullcap with chain-link earflaps protected his head, and blued-steel gauntlets covered his hands. Garth wondered for an instant where he had obtained the gauntlets, which were made to accommodate the peculiarities of an overman's double-thumbed, long-fingered hands; his own hands were unprotected.
Still grinning, the Aghadite reached up and slid his sword from a sheath on his back; its hilt was blood-red and its blade dull black-save for the edges, which gleamed silvery-red in the firelight. It was a magnificent weapon, a two-handed double-edged broadsword. It was in fact, to all appearances, the equal of the sword of Bheleu.
The creature was a priest, Garth told himself; he could have little real battle experience. His own greater skill should give him the advantage despite the monster's longer reach and presumably greater strength.
The black blade whistled; Garth parried the attack, only to find his enemy's weapon ducking downward unexpectedly, under his own silver blade. He dodged, and escaped injury.
The priest's grin remained, and Garth knew that the maneuver had not been the luck of a beginner. He made a feeble riposte, which was easily parried.
He felt a thin seep of despair as he reflexively met and countered the reply to his blow. This was not what he wanted. He was weary, his stomach hurt from his wild ride, his hands seemed weak and unfamiliar with scar tissue; this was not how he had wanted to face the priest of Aghad.
Of course, he had not known that the priest was an overman. One of his own kind! One of his people, serving-heading!-that loathsome cult! Despite his weariness, his despair turned suddenly to anger, and his next blow was faster, more aggressive than before.
He would not despair, he told himself; despair was the province of Sai, sister to Aghad. Of course, anger was the work of Aghad himself, and that realization angered him further. He would show this grinning monster his mistake, make plain to him his poor taste in employers! The sword of Bheleu flashed up, knocking aside the Aghadite's next blow, and whipped around and over, scratching enamel from the scarlet breastplate. The Aghadite's grin wavered.
Aghad! Aghad was nothing! His time had ended centuries ago; this was the Age of Bheleu! The red gem in the sword's pommel blazed.
"I am Bheleu!" Garth screamed.
The grin vanished. The black sword swung up into a parry, and with a long swooping blow the sword of Bheleu came down upon it, shattering it; splinters of black metal sprayed, ripping the silver mail, scoring the red breastplate.
The priest's face went blank with shock as he stared at the remaining foot of blade that protruded from the long hilt he clutched; instinctively, he brought the stump up to meet another blow that came sweeping toward his skull.
The sword of Bheleu went diagonally through blade, hilt, and hands; bones snapped and blood spurted, but the high priest of Aghad had no time to react. The blade traveled on, shearing through helmet and bone, and the brain that had devised so many taunts and trials was spattered in gory bits across the front of the crowd surrounding the battle.
The force of the blow was such that the corpse did not crumple, but was instead stretched out at full length upon the dirt of the marketplace, surrounded by gleaming shards of the black sword, a red-and-gray spray of blood and brain making an elongated halo about the ruined head.
The victor raised his sword in triumph, ignoring the baleful red glow of the gem in its pommel, and bellowed, "I am destruction!"
Koros roared in answer.
Then, abruptly, the spell vanished; Garth staggered and stared in horror at the dead form of his foe. He lowered the sword and looked about.
With the death of the Aghadite, much of the crowd had decided Garth had proved his point; the mob was shrinking steadily. The portion remaining, however, was the most militant group; when the berserk monster that had butchered their leader reverted to an exhausted overman, they began to advance toward him. Garth lifted the sword again.
The warbeast roared again, and stepped up beside its master; the advance halted. From the corner of his eye Garth noticed that Frima was no longer astride the beast's broad back, but he dared not divert his attention from the angry crowd to worry about her.
The sword felt unbearably heavy. Although the mob was reduced to a fraction of its former size, it was still more than Koros could handle unaided; not that the warbeast was likely to be killed, but it would be too bogged down by the enemy's numbers to defend Garth. He would have to defend himself, and he knew he couldn't unless the trance came over him again-and he didn't want that. He could never be sure it would pass.
And of course, he had no way of knowing what would bring it on; it had come twice now, once in the temple of Bheleu and once here in the market, but it had not touched him in the temple of death, so it was not anger or physical danger that triggered it.
Perhaps the sword itself would save him, as it had in the house behind the stable; he glanced at the pommel and saw that the glow of the gem had died away to a faint glimmer, which was not encouraging.
Perhaps he could talk the mob out of attacking; with sword and warbeast and strong words he might be able to deter them. He raised the blade above his head, with an effort he hoped was not visible, but before he could speak a low rumble sounded, as it had in the temple of Bheleu.
Recovering from his startlement more quickly than the Dыsarrans, Garth realized that the sound had come at the perfect moment for him; he took advantage of it by speaking in his deepest, most resonant tones, lower than any human throat could produce.
"Hold, scum! I have slain your champion in fair fight; would you still dare defy me?"
A tall young man in dark red robes answered him.
"You are still a blasphemer and defiler, a murderer and committee of sacrilege; the gods demand your death!"
"Fool! Which of your gods would dare? I am the servant of Dыs, Bheleu, the bringer of destruction; death and desolation follow me as hounds. What are you, to stand against me?" Even as he spoke, Garth wondered how he chose these words; although he knew his best hope lay in convincing his foes he was more than mortal, he felt that this eloquence was not entirely of his own making.
"You are Garth, an overman from the Northern Waste, sent here to steal by a third-rate wizard!"
This man was obviously another Aghadite, since he knew so much. Garth prepared to denounce him as such, but before he could speak a new voice sounded.
"This is Bheleu incarnate, come to herald the new age, whatever he may have been before! Let those who defy him know that P'hul and her servants recognize this her brother and serve his ends!"
The speaker of this proclamation stood behind the remaining mob and to one side, with a dozen gray-robed figures ranged behind him, all with hoods pulled forward and faces hidden. As he looked at them, it seemed to Garth that the light changed and the square became brighter.
Then it became brighter still, and he realized it was no illusion; some new flame had appeared behind him, but he dared not turn to see what it was.
There was a moment of near-silence as those who still stood against Garth muttered amongst themselves; the overman noticed that more had drifted away and vanished into the streets and alleys.
"The Lady P'hul your sister gives you greetings, my lord; what would you have of her?" The gray-robed speaker raised a staff toward Garth,
Before he could consciously decide upon a reply, Garth found himself shouting, "I am destruction!"
In a chorus, the priests and priestesses of P'hul replied, "Destruction!" Hands flew up, and a fine gray powder was scattered on the air, to be spread across the market by a sudden gust of wind.
"No!" cried the Aghadite. "The overman is a fraud and a thief! Slay him!" He drew a sword from beneath his robe and charged forward, a dozen others with him.
A black blur filled Garth's vision for an instant, followed by a flash of bone-white claws and gleaming fangs, and a spurt of rich red; but as Garth had anticipated, there were too many attackers for Koros to handle; even as half a dozen died screaming, others surged around and past the warbeast. Garth met them with a long sweep of the sword of Bheleu, disemboweling one, hacking open the side of another; a third came within reach and sent his own sword at Garth's flank. The overman twisted, and the blade scraped across his breastplate, bruising his flesh beneath despite his padding.
The sword of Bheleu came free. As Garth brought it around to run the point through the neck of his near-successful assailant, he saw that a new fire was kindling in the red gem. That threat disposed of, he turned to meet the next, and saw that the P'hulites were leaving, walking calmly away, without any opposition; he had hoped-that they would aid him. A dozen allies, no matter how ill, might have turned this battle in his favor. What had been the meaning of their speeches, then?
His blade demolished a man's face. Blood now covered half its length, starting at the tip.
Where, he asked himself, was this Bheleu when he was needed? Garth's arms ached as he heaved his unyielding weapon about.
A face appeared before him, and he tried to bring his blade to meet it; before the blow fell, however, the face seemed to dissolve. The mouth fell open; skin cracked like dry mud, oozing pus; white gum filled the eyes, and the man fell mewling at Garth's feet.
The sweep of the sword of Bheleu met no resistance, the man having fallen from its path; Garth struggled to regain control and defend himself even as the shock of what he had just seen filtered through him.
New screams ripped through the square, added to those of the men Koros was slaughtering; a blade lightly grazed Garth's throat, the dying effort of a man whose skin was peeling in blistered strips from his flesh. Gazing around, looking for new attacks, Garth saw none; instead, men lay dying on the ground, their wounds seeping white ooze rather than the natural red of blood. Those still on their feet were fleeing in terror; as Garth watched, more fell as they ran, to lie whimpering in the streets for their last few seconds of life.