He awoke again as the first light of dawn painted the eastern sky with faded pink and lay for a moment watching the stars go out. He had dreamt again, but only in vague and muddled images-all unpleasant. There had been none of the eerie clarity of the first series; perhaps whatever power was affecting him had tired itself.
He had to destroy the sword. He dared not undertake any of the other tasks that he hoped eventually to complete while its baleful influence lingered. He could not, however, do anything with the sword without Galt's cooperation, as the guards posted upon it had been told specifically to keep Garth away from it unless Galt was with him.
At the first opportunity, he would have to take Galt out to the sword, convince him of its power, and then find a way to dispose of it once and for all. Until then, he could do nothing.
He sat back, leaning against the wall of a burned-out house, and did nothing.
When Galt awoke, he was instantly besieged with decisions to be made, orders to be given, and work to be done; Garth waited patiently. The morning passed. Garth contrived to speak with the master trader turned commander as they ate their noon meal.
Galt agreed that the sword should be dealt with. He promised that at the first opportunity he would accompany Garth to deal with it. The organization and reconstruction of the village was of primary importance, however; he had to oversee that. When he could spare the time, he would.
Garth resigned himself to waiting. He waited through the afternoon and evening. That night he slept heavily and dreamed of death; he awoke to find himself standing amid the ruins a few dozen yards from the sword.
Galt was busy throughout the following day as well, as heavy rains came, flooding foundations, turning the streets to mire, and slowing down all work. Villagers jammed themselves into the tents and the few structures that still had roofs.
The rain was not wholly unwelcome, though; for the first time, the smell of wood smoke subsided, and some of the soot and filth was washed from the ruins. Supplies of drinking water, which had grown scant, were replenished.
Garth spent the day in the King's Inn, speaking to no one, sitting in the front corner by the window, watching the people who crowded the room. He did not approach the Forgotten King. He did not see Galt at all. He noticed that Saram and Frima were together almost constantly and that the girl was now more of an aide than a messenger. On several occasions he noticed her staring at him; he guessed she was wondering at his inactivity or perhaps hoping he would return her to Dыsarra.
The third night after the battle, recalling his experiences of the first two nights, he moved his bedding further from the sword, up into the abandoned northeastern portion of Skelleth. He slept covered by a sheet of oilcloth someone had found in the rubble and felt the rain gathering in pools atop it.
He awoke several times, each time finding himself upright and moving south, the rain on his face. It was obvious that the rain had awakened him each time, and that only that had kept him from moving further. His dreams were jumbled images in red and black; he relived repeatedly all the bloodier incidents of his life. In stark contrast to the tedious hours he had spent doing nothing while he waited on Galt's convenience, his nights were full of fury and violence. He fought pirates and raiders on the coasts of the Northern Waste, killed bandits on the Plain of Derbarok,, and slaughtered priests and worshippers in Dыsarra. Throughout, whatever the actual circumstances had been, he found himself gleefully wielding the Sword of Bheleu, laughing as blood spattered about him, killing anything, friend or foe, that got in his path.
By dawn, he was resolved that he could not wait much longer. If Galt could not spare the time before sunset, he would leave Skelleth and try to get far enough away to escape the dreams.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The village of Weideth lay in a small valley in the foothills below Dыsarra and consisted of perhaps two dozen homes and a single combined tavern, inn, and meetinghouse, all arranged around a crossroads. The West Road led up the slope to Dыsarra; the North Road led through the mountains to the Yprian Coast; the South Road led to the rich farming villages along the upper branch of the Great River; and the East Road led through the heart of Nekutta to the civilized lands of Eramma, Orыn, Tadumuri, Amag, Mara, and Orgыl.
Of late there had been a great deal of traffic coming down the West Road and leaving by either the East or the South. Those who had bothered to stop at all reported that they were fleeing from an outbreak of the White Death. There were also stories of great fires, riots, and a heightening in the city's perpetual internal conflict among the seven cults.
There had also been more overmen leaving Dыsarra than usual; the Yprian traders had cut short their visits and were turning back their fellows from approaching Dыsarra. No more caravans came down the North Road, and all those that had come before had already returned. It seemed likely that there was not a single overman left in the city.
The people of Weideth had watched the refugees go through, had offered what aid and comfort they could, and had accepted whatever payment was offered in exchange. They were practical people and saw no reason to refuse good money. The village was wealthy with Dыsarran silver.
It was three weeks since the plague's outbreak, and the number of people coming down the West Road had dropped from more than a hundred a day to a mere handful, when the girl in the black robe arrived in the nameless village inn.
She was young and walked with a limp, the Seer of Weideth noticed when she entered the public room. Her face was hidden by her cowl-that was typical of the secretive Dыsarrans. She carried no personal belongings that he could see; that was unusual for a refugee at this late date. There had been plenty of time now for anyone planning to flee to have gathered a few things together. Perhaps, he guessed, she had converted everything to cash and had the money hidden somewhere beneath her robe.
She paused just inside the door and looked about. He knew that she was looking for someone specific-he did have the true talent of a seer, though only weakly. That was very odd; how would a Dыsarran know anyone in Weideth? There were no other city-folk in the tavern just then-only him and a dozen of his fellow villagers.
He was interested. Could it be that she was not a refugee after all?
The innkeeper had noticed her now and was coming over to speak to her. The Seer watched and had one of his erratic flashes of insight. She was looking for him, the Seer of Weideth. Before he could do anything about this sudden knowledge, she was asking the innkeeper, who pointed him out.
He put down his wine cup and considered her as she approached the table.
"I am looking for the Seer of Weideth," she said.
"I am he," he answered. "Have a seat."
Made awkward by her injured foot, she took a moment to arrange herself on the offered chair. The Seer looked her over.
She was olive-skinned, like most Dыsarrans, with thick, curling, black hair which she wore long; a few strands spilled out of her cowl, reaching down past her breast. She seemed pretty, but he could not see clearly the outline of her face. There was something out of the ordinary about her that he sensed rather than saw, an aura of perversity and twisted emotion.
"I am Aralure; I'm a wizard's apprentice. I was sent here with a message for you."
She was lying about her identity, but had indeed been sent to him. He nodded. If it was important, he could worry later about who she really was and why she was lying.
She hesitated. "How can I be certain you're really a seer?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Ask anyone in Weideth." He knew her uncertainty was due partly to the ease with which he had accepted her lie. When she still seemed unsure, he added, "Your name is not Aralure, and you are not a wizard's apprentice, but you do have a message for me. What is it?"
"How do you know who I am?"
"I don't, but I would be a very poor seer if I could not tell truth from falsehood."
That seemed to satisfy her. "I have been sent here to warn you and any other magicians I may find, of whatever discipline, of the actions of a certain overman."
"You refer, I suppose, to Garth of Ordunin, who caused so much havoc in Dыsarra."
"You know his name?"
The Seer was gratified by her surprise. "Oh, yes," he answered. "Am I not the Seer of Weideth?"
The girl eyed him dubiously. "How much do you know about him?"
"Tell me what you came to tell me."
The Dыsarran considered for a moment, then said, "As you will. It was Garth who loosed the White Death upon the city, you know. He killed a great many people in other ways as well, including several priests. He was responsible for the burning of the market place."
"I know all that, and I am sure you know that it is common knowledge. The refugees who have passed through Weideth have kept us well-informed, quite aside from my own abilities. We have an ancient prophecy here that when an overman comes out of the east to Dыsarra he will unleash chaos and disaster upon the world. It would appear that Garth is the overman described, and the White Death the prophesied disaster. What of it? Why have you come here to tell me what I already know?"
"You did not allow me to finish, my lord. Did you know that the overman is still spreading destruction? Three days ago he destroyed the fortress town of Skelleth, on the northern border of Eramma."
The Seer studied the girl. "How do you know that?" He could perceive beyond any doubt that she spoke the truth as she knew it. "Skelleth is a fortnight's ride from here."
"My master has methods of learning what goes on in the world."
"Your master is the one who sent you to me?"
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"A wizard; he prefers not to give his name."