"I am..." Saram paused, as if reconsidering what he had to say, then went on, "I am surprised that you have merely besieged us. Why not take Skelleth by storm?"
Galt snorted. "And start the Racial Wars again? I know little of human politics; but, while I doubt the High King at Kholis will interfere with trade negotiations no matter how we carry them out, he can scarcely be expected to ignore the capture of one of his baronies."
"It would seem we have a stalemate then."
"Only temporarily; sooner or later your Baron will recover and face us. It should be a simple matter to resolve everything when that happens."
"I hope you're right."
"In the meanwhile, of course, I must stand watch in this miserable rain. There is no need for you to be here, though; go home and dry off. I appreciate your efforts at peacemaking, but there's little you can do."
"So it would seem. Farewell, then, Galt, and I wish you luck." He turned, and began slogging back toward the ruined gate. The overman watched as the lantern light receded and finally merged once again with the light of the flickering watch fire.
CHAPTER TWO
The rain stopped shortly after dawn. Garth mounted his warbeast-which had been named Koros after the Arkhein god of war by a captured bandit a few months earlier-for the last leg of his long journey back to Skelleth from the black-walled city of Dыsarra. The clouds lingered in the sky, hiding the sun, making the day gray and gloomy, allowing the road to remain a soggy, muddy mess. Garth's supplies and clothing and the clothing of his human captive had all been thoroughly drenched when Garth had found no shelter from the downpour the evening before, and they remained uncomfortably damp for hours. Even Koros' fur was soaked, and the captive, a Dыsarran girl who called herself Frima, complained about the smell.
It didn't bother Garth particularly, though he couldn't deny its presence. He ignored her monologue; in the last two weeks, spent mostly in the saddle, he had grown accustomed to Frima's fondness for complaining.
When she had exhausted her first topic, the smell of wet warbeast fur, she went on to others-her own sopping garments, the unsuitability of her attire for a respectable person, the length of the journey, and all the other things that displeased her about the world and her place in it.
The overman didn't really blame her. He wasn't particularly happy about being caught in the rain; the water had soaked into the garments he wore under his mail, and the armor was holding the moisture in. His own fur was as wet as the warbeast's, though not as odorous.
Even Koros seemed to be irritated, and it was usually the most tranquil of beasts as long as it was properly and promptly fed and not attacked. The mud of the highway stuck to its great padded paws, slightly impeding its usual smooth, silent, gliding walk, so that its footsteps were audible as faint splashings.
Frima was still complaining when Garth first caught sight of Skelleth, a low line of sagging rooftops and jagged broken ramparts along the horizon.
He pointed it out to her, and she immediately forgot her complaints. "You mean we're finally there?"
"Almost."
"I can't see any domes or towers."
"There aren't any."
"There aren't?"
"No." Garth had long ago gotten over his annoyance at the girl's habit of asking questions over again and simply answered each one however many times it might be asked. They had been together more than a fortnight, and he had grown accustomed to queries, and complaints. She was only human, after all; he couldn't expect much from her.
"What are their temples like, then?" she asked.
"To the best of my knowledge, there are no temples in Skelleth," he replied.
"There aren't?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Are they all atheists, then?"
"No. At least, I think not."
"Are you an atheist?"
"I used to be; I am no longer certain."
"Why aren't you certain?"
"Because I saw and felt and did things in Dыsarra that have convinced me that at least some of your seven gods exist-though I am not certain they are truly gods, rather than some lesser sort of magical being."
"They're not my seven gods; I worship only Tema!"
Garth did not bother to answer. Instead, he studied the horizon carefully. Skelleth looked different from this angle; he had never approached from this direction before. Even when he had left on this expedition, he had done so by way of the West Gate, and then circled southward onto the highway he now rode.
He wondered briefly if it might be wise to enter by another gate. After all, he was still an exile by order of the Baron of Skelleth. It might well be advisable to use caution until such time as a proper opportunity for vengeance presented itself.
But no, that was not what he wanted; he would ride directly into town, defying the Baron to stop him. He had previously acquiesced to his banishment to avoid damaging the prospects for trade, but his trip to Dыsarra had proven very educational indeed; besides learning more about the gods humans worshipped, he had become convinced that Skelleth was by no means the only possible overland trade route between the Northern Waste and the rich lands of the south. It should be possible, he thought, to circle around Skelleth and trade directly with southern cities; he no longer believed that the old hatred between men and overmen would be strong enough to prevent commerce from flourishing once the southerners saw the gold his people mined in the Waste. Furthermore, he had learned that the Northern Waste was not the only surviving colony of overmen; Dыsarra traded with overmen who lived on the Yprian Coast, and though he knew nothing about these people beyond the simple fact of their existence, he saw no reason that his own people couldn't trade with them as well.
With all these opportunities, he had no intention of being pushed around by the mad baron of a filthy little border town.
He had no intention of cowering before the Baron of Skelleth; he would ride straight into town, straight into the market square. If the Baron objected, then Garth would laugh at him. Better still, Garth would kill him! He would take the great sword he had brought from Dыsarra, hack the Baron into pieces, and spill his blood across the dirt of his village...
"The ruby's glowing again," Frima said, interrupting his chain of thought.
Garth looked down at the hilt of the immense two-handed broadsword that was strapped along the warbeast's side. Sure enough, the large red jewel that was set in its pommel sparkled with more light than the morning sun could account for.
The thing had been at him again, he realized; it was the sword's influence that had made him think of killing the Baron. He forced thoughts of blood and destruction out of his mind, concentrating instead on his knowledge that the sword he had taken from the burning altar of Bheleu, god of destruction, was trying to warp his personality again. It had tried to do so several times on the journey from Dыsarra to Skelleth, but so far he had been successful in resisting its influence. He had avoided killing Frima several times, and kept himself from killing three farmers, two innkeepers, a drunkard, four travelers, and a blacksmith encountered along the way. The fact that both Frima and Koros remained calm and sensible had helped, and the glowing of the red stone served as a warning signal, allowing him to become aware of the insidious effects before they became irresistible.
He would be glad when he got rid of the thing. Along with the rest of his loot, including Frima, it was to be turned over to the Forgotten King. He would be reluctant to turn the sword over to anyone else; he knew how dangerous it could be. The Forgotten King, however, was a feeble old man and a wizard, presumably well able to resist such spells.
Of course, he was also the lost high priest of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, the god of death, according to the caretaker of that god's temple in Dыsarra. And it was a magnificent weapon, beautiful and deadly; it was a sword a warrior could be proud of indeed! With a blade like that he could slaughter any foe...
The red glow caught his eye, and he fought the bloodlust down again. He would have to discuss various matters with the King before he turned over the sword-or the other loot, for that matter; just because none of it had affected him significantly didn't mean it didn't have magical power-but one way or another he was going to have to get rid of the thing. He could not keep fighting off its domination forever.
The warbeast growled faintly, a noise he couldn't interpret; it was not the growl that meant danger ahead, nor was it a growl, of displeasure. He looked away from the stone, but could tell nothing more from the back of the great beast's head than from its growl.
"Are you all right?" Frima asked.
"I think so," he replied. "It hasn't gotten a good hold on me yet."
"That's good. I think there's someone on the road ahead."
Garth peered into the distance; the girl was right. That, then, must have been what Koros was growling about. There was a mounted figure ahead in the middle of the highway, perhaps a hundred yards from Skelleth's ruined gate.