"Of course, master; I am yours to do with as you will." She bowed low and backed out, favoring the leg and foot he had injured a few nights earlier.

He looked about at the scattered chips of glass. How could he turn the Council and the overman against each other?

When Darsen's carrier pigeon arrived three days later with the old man's report describing the destruction of Skelleth and the murder of the Baron, Haggat had his answer.

CHAPTER NINE

Garth awoke to find himself lying in the middle of a narrow alleyway; to one side was an old ruin, to the other side a burning building. Directly before him the Sword of Bheleu lay in the dirt, the gem in its pommel dark.

It was night; his only light came from the fire. Stiff and sore, he clambered to his feet and looked about.

He recognized the burning building; it was the house where he had found and killed that old man. He vaguely remembered the actual killing; he had spent a long time at it. There was blood on his hands, he noticed, but he could not be sure that it came from the old man; he had killed several people. It might even have come from a wound of his own, though he hadn't noticed any.

He tried to remember what he had done after the man in red had finally died, to explain why he had found himself unconscious in an alleyway, but it was all very hazy. There had been something watching him, and he had done something with the sword-not cut, nor set afire, but something very difficult, something that had tired him. He couldn't recall exactly what. After that he had staggered out, setting the house ablaze behind him, and that was all he could remember. He must have collapsed immediately afterward.

Whatever he had done, it might have drained the sword of its power temporarily, he thought. He could detect not the tiniest spark of light in the jewel; it hardly even had the glitter of a normal gemstone. That was well; it meant that, at least for the moment, he was in control of himself.

That being the case, he knew he should get rid of the sword while he could. He had offered it to the Forgotten King, and it had been refused-or at least, it had not been accepted. That certainly discharged any obligation he might have had to the old man, so he was free to dispose of the weapon as he saw fit. He did not want to keep it. He wanted nothing further to do with it; it had made him do insane things, incredible things. It was the sword that had been responsible for the Baron's death and the burning of the village, and if he kept it, he knew he could not control the sword indefinitely; sooner or later the gem would glow anew, and he would again spread destruction and death.

What, then, was he to do with it? The simplest solution would be to let it lie where it was and leave, but that would not do; some passing human would doubtlessly find it and pick it up, and there was no telling what would happen then. It was true that Herrenmer had been unable to handle it, but he could not rely on such a thing happening again. He did not understand the nature of its magic, and it seemed wholly untrustworthy, one moment burning with supernatural power, the next seeming nothing but an ordinary blade.

He could not give it to anybody else; anyone but the Forgotten King would probably be overcome by it as he had been. The King seemed able to control it, but he did not trust the old man; besides, the King had rejected it.

He would have to find a safe place for it, someplace where no one could get at it-either that, or destroy it.

Could he destroy it? That would put an end to the problem once and for all.

It would be a shame to destroy such a beautiful weapon, but it was probably the only final solution. There was no hiding place in the world where it could not eventually be recovered. He would make the attempt.

He coughed; smoke from the burning building was beginning to reach him, though so far flames were only visible through the windows. He realized he was warm, almost hot, though the night was cool. It was time he moved away from the fire.

He reached down and reluctantly picked up the sword, keeping a wary eye on the gem. It remained dark.

He found his, way out of the alley and debated briefly which way to turn. He wanted privacy for his attempt to destroy the sword. He turned left, which he was fairly certain would take him out of the inhabited portion of Skelleth and into the surrounding ruins.

Though it was a moonless night, he had no trouble at all seeing his way; burning buildings lighted the sky behind him a smoky, lurid orange. The breeze was following him, carrying smoke and ash with it; his eyes stung, and he had to blink often.

He wondered what was happening around the marketplace. Had the overmen suffered many casualties? Had they butchered the villagers? How many survived on each side? Had any of the humans fled south, to gain the aid of their kin and bring the wrath of the High King at Kholis down upon the invaders?

Had he started the Racial Wars all over again?

Whatever happened, it would take time before any human reinforcements could arrive. He wanted to use that time to destroy the sword, so that he could deal with any new threats rationally.

He came to a place where a wall of heavy blocks of cut stone had been tumbled into the street, to lie in scattered chunks. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder what could have brought down such a wall; was Skelleth prone to earthquakes?

There were too many questions, far too many questions.

Whatever had knocked down the wall, the blocks of stone were well suited to his purpose. He laid the sword across a large slab, its quillons and hilt extending to one side, the last foot or so of its blade on the other. He placed another stone atop it, so that it was held firmly between the two smooth, solid surfaces. That done, he located another large, heavy block-one that he could lift, though it strained his inhuman strength near to its limit. He was not in the best of condition, after waking up in an alley after a messy battle, but he could still haul about three hundred pounds of stone up to chest level.

He then climbed atop the other two stones, so that his own weight was added to that on the sword, holding it motionless. Taking careful aim, he then dropped the stone he carried onto the sword's hilt, planning to snap it off the blade at the edge of the bottom stone.

He had gone to this amount of trouble because he was quite sure that this sword could not be broken simply by slamming it against a rock or bending it over his knee. Even a magic sword, though, could hardly survive his arrangement of stone, he thought. The finest sword ever forged could not withstand the shearing force of a three hundred-pound stone block dropped on its hilt while it was held motionless.

The block fell, struck the hilt and shattered. Garth could not see in detail what had happened, because he was too busy trying to keep his balance; the stone on which he stood had cracked, its two halves sliding to either side. He found himself falling, and dove off the stone, landing on his hands and knees. Slightly dazed, he got to his feet and turned to look at the blocks.

The sword lay gleaming, unharmed, on the stone he had used as a base; the block he had used as a cover lay in two jagged fragments on either side. The stone he had dropped had been reduced to scattered pebbles.

That approach obviously wouldn't work.

He thought he heard mocking laughter. He whirled, trying to locate it, but saw nothing. He turned back and saw that the gem was now glowing brightly.

He resolved not to touch the thing. If he did, he was sure he would be possessed once more by whatever malign force the sword served.