The Forgotten King said nothing.

"You seem certain that the old man will be allowed to work his magic," Garth said, irked. "I am not so eager to see him succeed."

The Seer looked sideways at him. "What can you do?"

"I hold the Sword of Bheleu-and I intend to hold it."

The King stirred, and the gem in the sword's pommel suddenly flared up, vividly red. A wave of unreasoning fury swept over the overman; he propelled himself to his feet, the sword ready, its blade glowing white.

Then the glow died, the stone blackened, and the King muttered, "Do you, Garth?"

"If it is the only way to prevent you from bringing on the Age of Death, yes, no matter what it may cost me." The rage had vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving his head feeling light; his right hand was warm, almost hot, where the sword's grip pressed against it.

"You swore to aid me in my magic."

Garth did not know how to reply to that at first, but finally said, "I did not know then what was involved."

"Do you now?" the Seer asked, openly curious.

"Do you?" Garth countered.

"In part. I have spent much time in study since last we met, learning more of what was to come. My own gift of prophecy is feeble, but it was sufficient to make clear the writings of others."

"Then tell me, Seer, what I am involved in. What is this magic the King pursues? What will it do? What is the Fifteenth Age to be?"

"The Fifteenth Age is the Age of Death; it will last no more than three hours-perhaps less-bringing time to an end. The gods themselves will die, and the Forgotten King with them. It will be brought about when a ritual from the Book of Silence is performed in the place of Death, a ritual requiring the totems of death and destruction as well as the book itself."

"And the world will be destroyed, as a result?"

"I would think so," the Seer replied. "How can anything exist when the gods are dead and time has ended?"

"The spell requires the Sword of Bheleu?"

"Yes."

Garth turned to the Forgotten King and smiled. "I think that I may stave it off for some time yet," he said. "Can even the King in Yellow, high priest of Death, take the sword from its chosen bearer against his will?"

"You have seen, Garth, how easily I restrain its power," the old man said.

"True, O King, but you have not restrained me. I am still an overman, while you are only human."

"Do you think my powers so strained by confining Bheleu that I cannot use them upon you?"

"If that were not the case, O King, then why have you relied upon more mundane methods of bending me to your will these past three years? Why did you not simply compel me to do what you wished me to do? Why did you allow me to return to Ordunin after slaying the basilisk? Why did you not send me directly to Dыsarra? I think that, mighty as you are, you cannot directly force me to act against my own judgment. I don't know why this should be so, but I believe it is. If I am wrong, then I have lost, and the world is doomed, and you have but to command me to give you the sword to prove it."

The King did not answer immediately. At last, he shrugged slightly and said, "I have waited for seven ages; I can endure further."

Elated by what he took as an admission of defeat, Garth grinned. He was still trapped between Bheleu and the King, but he saw now that his position was, perhaps, not absolutely hopeless. He might find some solution if he could hold the King off long enough and remain sufficiently free of Bheleu's influence to think rationally about it.

It did not occur to him to wonder why the King should continue to suppress the god of destruction when Garth had openly announced his intention not to cooperate.

The overman turned back to the Seer and said, "There, you see? Your doom has been delayed."

The Seer nodded, but asked, "For how long?"

Annoyed at this ingratitude, Garth replied, "For as long as I can prevent it."

"And how long will that be? Will you live forever? I cannot foresee your death, any more than I can my own, but my power of foresight is weak, particularly when far from home."

"I expect to live for many years yet, human, and perhaps in that time I will find some other way of forestalling the end."

"I can only wish you well, overman."

Somewhat mollified, Garth relaxed slightly. He stood silently for a moment as the Seer gazed dolefully at him, then at the sword he still held.

Feeling that the silence was becoming uncomfortable, Garth asked, "How is it that you are here, rather than in Weideth? If you came to see us, would you not have done just as well to wait at home? Our route passes through your village."

"Weideth is gone," the Seer replied. "It was taken by a Dыsarran army over a year ago and destroyed a month later by advancing Yprians. Many of us fled, in small groups. I am the only survivor of my company and I have lost contact with the other parties. I've been living alone, a few leagues south of here."

Reminded anew of the chaotic conditions in Nekutta, Garth was uneasy. "I am sorry to hear it," he said.

The Seer said nothing.

"If you wish to join us, you would be safer than while traveling alone."

"Thank you, but no. I couldn't stand it. Sooner or later I would take up the sword, or look at the mask, or touch the book, and I would die, even before the world ends. I prefer to live out whatever time remains to me without facing such dangers."

"As you wish, then," the overman said. He watched as the Seer departed, walking away slowly until he was lost to sight among the close-packed trees.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Haggat had planned it all carefully. The cult's best assassins and most powerful magicians would be employed systematically, one after another or in small complementary groups, until one or another managed to get through. The overman was to be their primary target; the old man came next, and then the warbeast. The girl was of no importance; she might wind up on a sacrificial altar, as she had once before, but with no rescuer this time.

He was aware of the Sword of Bheleu's power, but he could not believe that it was omnipotent and impregnable. He had gathered all the most potent death-spells the cult could devise or steal, all the most deadly killers, and had laced every water supply between Dыsarra and the plains with the most lethal poisons at his disposal. He had devised stratagems and diversions, methods for separating the overman from his sword, methods of disposing of both simultaneously. He had thought of little else for almost a fortnight. For three days he had not even taken the time to use his scrying glass, save for a quick daily check on the overman's progress each morning. He had forgone the nightly sacrifices and neglected the cult's other business. He had eaten hurriedly, if at all, and had not touched his acolyte-though she remained always close at hand, translating his commands from sign language or writing to spoken words, carrying messages, running errands, and generally attending to his needs. He had not given her presence much thought; he had been too busy to bother himself about her.

Now, though, all was ready. The killers were in place. The overman and his party were in the foothills, advancing along the highway, and Haggat watched his glass avidly. Unable to observe the overman or the old man directly, he had focused upon the road before them.

He was so involved that he neglected one of his customary precautions and allowed his acolyte to remain in the black draped chamber with him. She stretched up on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder at the glass. Together they watched as the warbeast's forepaws rose and fell, always at one side of the image, moving along the highway toward the crossroads.