"Oh." She was immediately less enthusiastic. "That's right, the White Death was in the marketplace, and the city was on fire. Maybe I don't want to go back. What should I do, then?"

"That's up to you." Garth rose. "I have affairs of my own to attend to, and I want to get out of here before the Baron sends his soldiers after me-if he hasn't done so already."

"You can't leave me all alone in a strange town!"

Garth hesitated. "I can't very well take you to a military camp, either. How would I explain a human's presence? Besides, I can't keep looking after you forever. At least here in Skelleth you're among your own species."

Saram interjected, "I could look after her for a while, I suppose."

The overman was startled. "It is not necessary; she's not your concern."

"I don't mind."

Garth looked from Saram to Frima and back. Was he missing something here? Had the former guardsman taken some sort of interest in the girl? He had noticed them speaking to each other, though he had not heard what had been said.

What sort of an interest could it be, though? He knew that he didn't understand humans very well, but what sort of attachment could have been formed so quickly? No, more likely the man was just curious about the Dыsarran, or wanted to do Garth a favor-doubtless expecting the debt to be repaid later. There was nothing wrong with that; Garth already felt he owed Saram something, as the man had been of assistance in the past.

"Very well, then. Perhaps you can find her some more suitable clothing; she's been complaining about what I gave her, and I would like to have my tunic back."

"Don't worry; I'll take good care of her." There was something odd about the man's smile, Garth thought, but he dismissed it.

The sword and other items were still strewn across the table; though he was eager to be on his way to straighten out the mess Kyrith and Galt seemed to have gotten themselves into, Garth paused to gather them up. It would not do to leave magical objects lying around where any casual tavern patron might pick them up. He knew from personal experience that the white stone and the sword were dangerous, and the black stone might be as well. The rest the King had dismissed as junk, but gold was gold, and not to be thrown away, while the whip and dagger were decent enough weapons. The pouch of dust he almost left, but an instinct for tidyness overcame him, and he threw it into the sack with the rest.

The sword, of course, didn't fit in the sack; he kept it clutched in his right hand while his left hefted the bag up onto his shoulder. The gem flickered dimly.

A final glance assured him that he had left nothing behind except Frima. The Baron's guards could appear at any moment, he knew. He turned and strode out the door.

Saram and Frima watched him go. When he was out of sight, the former guardsman turned and looked his new companion over carefully, then said, "Sit down, girl, and tell me about yourself."

Frima saw the obvious appreciation in Saram's eyes and noticed that the man's hair and beard were as dark as any Dыsarran's, and they neatly framed a strong, attractive face. With a shy smile she sat and said, "My name is Frima. What would you like to know?"

Outside the King's Inn, Garth slid the Sword of Bheleu back into his warbeast's harness, then climbed onto the creature's back. Koros stood placidly, apparently paying no attention, until the command came to go; then, instantly, it surged forward in its customary smooth, steady glide.

If guardsmen were coming, they had not yet arrived; there was no opposition as overman and warbeast made their way northward through the twisting streets. The ground had finally dried somewhat, though it was still soft underfoot, and the warbeast's great padded paws were able to move with catlike silence, no longer hampered by clinging mud.

As he rode, Garth found himself wondering at the Forgotten King's behavior. What had the old man expected him to bring back? He had spoken of a book; what book did he mean? There had been no book in the temple of Death. The temple had been a cave in the side of the volcano that towered above the black walls of Dыsarra, a cave that had been enlarged artificially, with elaborately carved walls. The altar had looked as if it were carved from a stalagmite; it was tall and narrow, he recalled, with a sloping top, rather like a lectern or reading stand, with the eerie horned skull where a candle or lamp would go on a reading stand. Other than the skull, it had been completely empty. There had been no book. There had been nowhere in the cave that a book could have been hidden where it would not have risked being consumed by the monstrous thing that lived in the depths below and behind the temple.

The altar was, he had to agree, the right shape to hold a book. Could the doddering old priest who tended the temple have taken the book and hidden it somewhere outside?

Why would the caretaker do such a thing? To protect it from the thing within, perhaps? That might be it. He would suggest such a possibility to the Forgotten King should he ever care to return to the old man's service.

What made this book so precious?

That, actually, was fairly easy to guess from what the King had said. The book must be necessary for the magic he intended to perform. Perhaps it was a book of spells, containing the needed instructions and incantations, or perhaps the book itself had some magic to it.

Whatever the exact situation, it didn't really matter. What mattered was that he had performed the errand he said he would perform for the King, keeping his word, and that the King was not able to perform his deathcausing magic. That put his dealings with the old man at an end. Now he was free to do as he pleased with the loot from Dыsarra, to deal with the upstart Baron of Skelleth as he saw fit, and to straighten out the actions of Galt and Kyrith. When the Baron and his wife's war party had been taken care of, his time would be his own once again, and he could relax and figure out what to do with the magical sword and gem at his leisure.

He was approaching the North Gate now; as he had expected, there was a guard posted in the ruined watchtower beside the road. He expected no difficulty there; the man was supposed to keep enemies out, not to prevent them from leaving.

Beyond the gate lay open plain, and perhaps two hundred yards along the Wasteland Road stood the encampment he was headed for. He could see warbeasts standing calmly in a group at one side and overmen milling about amid the tents. They appeared to be moving in an aimless muddle; he hoped they weren't as disorganized as they looked. How could the City Council have been so stupid as to send them out without a competent warrior in command?

The human guard had noticed him now, alerted by the jingling of armor and harness; Koros' soft footfalls were inaudible. The man rose to his feet, short sword drawn; even Garth, inhuman as he was, could read the confusion and nervousness on the young human's face.

"Halt!" the guardsman cried.

It was too soon for trouble; Garth spoke a word to his mount, and Koros halted a few feet from the soldier.

The man was obviously unsure what to do next, so Garth took the initiative. "I think you are making a mistake in stopping me, man," he said. "I am leaving peacefully. You are here to warn of approaching enemies; I am not approaching, but departing."

The soldier was still plainly uncertain.

When no response seemed forthcoming, Garth continued, "Besides, you cannot very well stop me. You are a lone man on foot, while I am an overman with a warbeast and with many more of my kind within earshot." He motioned toward the camp. "I suggest you tell me I can go, before I become impatient."

The logic of this was irrefutable. The guard sheathed his sword and waved Garth on. "You...you can go."