That night each and every member of the Council of the Most High had the same dream, and each awoke knowing that he or she was to leave immediately for Kholis.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Saram was not called away immediately, but eventually, as Garth was beginning to feel rather soggy from the vast amount of ale he had consumed; someone came looking for the interim baron. A jurisdictional dispute had developed between two of his ad hoc ministers.

Garth watched him go, taking Frima with him, and marveled that he could walk straight. The human had consumed ale mug for mug with him, and if Garth was feeling the effects, then surely, he thought, the much smaller human should be staggering drunk. It did not occur to him that he had been drinking earlier as well, before picking up the sword, while Saram had not.

It was the middle of the evening and the tavern was crowded; nonetheless, as usual, the Forgotten King was alone at his table in the corner beneath the stairs. Garth seated himself opposite the old man.

For a long moment neither spoke; Garth was unsure how to begin, and the Forgotten King preferred to let the other speak first.

"I have questions I would ask you," Garth said at last.

The old man said nothing, but the yellow cowl dipped in a faint nod.

"You say that you cannot die by ordinary means. How can this be? What would happen if you were struck with a good blade? If your neck were to be severed, would you not die like any other mortal?"

"My neck cannot be severed by any ordinary blade," the King replied.

The hideous dry voice caught Garth off-guard; he had forgotten how unpleasant it was to hear. He hesitated before asking, "How can that be?"

The yellow-draped shoulders rose, then sank.

Garth felt a flicker of annoyance and immediately looked at the hilt of the Sword of Bheleu. The gem was glowing very faintly.

That was not necessarily bad, he thought. Perhaps if he were to allow himself to become angry, the old wizard would douse the sword's power as he had done before, and Garth would be able to escape from the weapon's hold without making any sort of deal at all.

He turned back to the Forgotten King and asked, "You say no ordinary blade can kill you; what of the sword I carry?"

"You are welcome to make the attempt," the old man replied.

Garth considered that.

If the result were the destruction of the sword, then all would be well, and his problems would be at an end for the moment. If the result were the death of the King, then he would have performed an act of mercy, but he might be stuck with the sword indefinitely. If both were destroyed, that would be best all around.

There was surely some other way of getting free of the sword. Perhaps, even if it were not destroyed, it would be sufficiently weakened by the effort to loose its hold.

One way or another, the odds appeared to be in his favor. He decided to risk it. He stood, reached up, and pulled the sword from its sheath, awkward in the confined space of the tavern. The tip of the up-ended scabbard scraped the ceiling as the blade came free. It was obvious that he would be unable to swing the blade up over his head; he would have to use a sweeping horizontal stroke instead.

There was a hush, and he looked about, realizing that the other patrons of the tavern had abruptly fallen silent. They were staring at him and at the great broadsword, wearing expressions that ranged from vague curiosity to abject terror.

"Have no fear," he called, "I mean none of you any harm. The old man here has challenged me to strike off his head. Haven't you, old man?"

The yellow-garbed figure nodded, and Garth thought he caught a glint of light in one shadowed eye.

The overman looked along the path he planned for the sword and saw that it would pass uncomfortably close to the humans at a neighboring table. "Excuse me, friends," he said, "but I would greatly appreciate it if you could step back for a moment, to give me room to swing."

The humans quickly rose and backed away.

Satisfied that he would endanger no one but the King, Garth took a good two-handed grip on sword and tried to swing it.

At first it moved normally, but as it approached the old man's neck it slowed, as if moving through water rather than air. From the corner of-his eye Garth could see the red gem glowing fiercely, but he felt none of the roaring anger and exultant bloodlust that usually accompanied the glow.

Then the sword stopped, inches from the ragged yellow cloth, frozen in mid-air as it had been just before it severed the rope earlier that afternoon. He could force it no closer.

He strained, putting all the strength of his arms into driving the sword toward the old man's throat.

The blade did not move; instead it rang, like steel striking stone, and flashed silver. The hilt grew warm in his grasp.

That inspired him to push harder; perhaps he could force the sword to reject him.

The ringing sounded again, louder, like the sound made by running a moist finger along the rim of a fine crystal goblet, and this time it did not fade, but grew. The red glow of the jewel was brighter now than the lamps that lit the tavern, and the blade was unmistakably glowing as well. The hilt was hot, but there was no pain, no burning, and he knew that he could not release his hold any more than before he had swung.

The sword did not move, but remained stalled in midair, as if wedged in stone, a few short inches from the old man's neck.

Then, abruptly, it forced itself back, against his will.

Startled, he released his pressure and found the sword hanging loosely in his grasp, apparently quite normal. The ringing had stopped. The glow had vanished, and the hilt was cooling rapidly.

He was determined not to give in that easily. He swung the sword back and attempted another blow.

This time, as the blade approached its target, it veered upward, twisting in his hands, and cut through nothing but the air above the Forgotten King's head.

He stopped his useless swing and brought the weapon back for a third try. This time he found himself unable even to begin his swing; the sword was suddenly heavy in his grasp, impossibly heavy, and he could not lift it to the height of the old man's neck.

Annoyed, he applied his full strength and hauled the blade upward. It seemed to struggle, and he felt a pull, as if a great lodestone were tugging it away from the King.

He fought it, but could not bring the weapon to bear on the old man.

After several minutes of struggling, the Forgotten King's dead, dry voice called to him.

"Garth. Stop wasting time."

Reluctantly, he gave up and let the tip of the sword fall to the floor. It lost its unnatural weight, and he picked it up as if to sheathe it.

Then, abruptly, trying to take it by surprise, he yanked it around into a thrust toward the King.

It stopped short a foot from the tattered yellow cloak.

He gave up in disgust and sheathed the sword. It did not resist.

He seated himself again and asked, "Was any of that your doing?"

There was a pause before the King replied, "Not willingly. None of it was of my choosing, but it was as much my curse as the sword's power at work."

"Then an ordinary blade would behave similarly?"

"Not quite. It would break if forced, rather than fighting back."

Garth sat back, thinking.

He was unsure whether or not to believe that an ordinary blade would break. He was not even certain that he should believe the old man's claim not to have willingly interfered. Perhaps he had lied, lied throughout; perhaps he did not want to die. His claims might be camouflage for some deeper, more subtle scheme.