On the other hand, Bheleu's mention of a final cataclysm frightened him. He tried to convince himself that a god would see time differently and that this last destruction might still be millennia away, but he could not bring himself to believe it. He knew that somewhere in the city the Forgotten King was preparing magic that was meant to destroy the world, and he was absolutely sure that if he were to leave the sword in the temple of Bheleu, it would find its way to the old man and the final spell would be completed.
He could not allow that to happen. "I will keep the sword," he said. His hand closed on the hilt.
He had expected the god's mocking laughter, but there was only silence; the red light faded, and he was in the ruined temple again.
Frima had watched with concern as her overman companion had walked up to the pile of ash, poked the sword into it, and then frozen. "What is it? What's happening?" she called, but Garth did not answer; he stood staring off into space. She came nearer, waved her hand before his face, but got no response. Worried, she fished the sling she had appropriated from the dead Aghadite out of her pouch.
Garth released the Sword of Bheleu suddenly; it wobbled, but remained upright, held by the mound of ash. Its glow died away, from a vivid white light to a pale yellow flickering, but Garth did not move or speak. He still stared ahead blindly.
Something appeared off to one side; Frima whirled, a dart in the sling, and let fly.
Not one dart but two rattled off stone; her own had struck the broken wall near where she had glimpsed the movement, and another had whizzed past Garth's head and hit the far side of the chamber. "Koros!" Frima called. "Kill them!"
The warbeast looked at her, as if debating with itself whether or not to obey someone other than its master. Another dart flew, ricocheting from Garth's armor with a sharp ringing, and Koros decided; with a roar, it leaped toward the hidden attacker.
Garth remained unmoving. Frima had another dart in her sling and was crouched, ready and waiting, glancing warily about.
Someone screamed, the cry mingling with the warbeast's growl and ending in an unpleasant bubbling. Frima could not see what was taking' place in the darkness, but it was obvious that Koros had found its prey.
Again something moved, and she turned to see a dark shape approaching with sword held high. She flung the dart in her sling, and the figure staggered and dropped.
Light flared up; Garth held the Sword of Bheleu once more, the blade burning brightly with its unnatural white flame. The overman was moving as well, turning away from the ashen remains of the altar. He and Frima gazed with almost equal surprise at the red-robed man who lay, his fallen sword nearby, midway between the Dыsarran girl and the temple's entrance.
The man was not dead, but only stunned. Garth picked him up with one hand, the sword blazing in the other, and demanded, "Where are the rest of you?"
Koros emerged from the shadows, its jaw smeared with blood. The Aghadite stared in terror, first at the warbeast, then at the flaming sword, and finally at the grim overman.
"I don't know!" he cried.
"Yours is the god of treachery, filth; betray your comrades!" Garth demanded.
"I can't," the man insisted. "I would, I swear to you by Aghad, but I can't!"
"You swear it, by all the gods?"
"Yes!" The man was nodding and weeping. "Yes, yes, I swear it!"
Disgusted and enraged, Garth flung the human aside; his head hit the stone wall with a sharp cracking sound, and he slumped in a heap at the base.
Garth had not intended to kill the man, but he did not doubt that he had done so and he did not regret it. "There may be more," he said.
"Koros got one," Frima told him. "I haven't seen any others."
"We'll search," the overman said.
They did search, going over the entire temple area carefully. Frima stopped and became ill when she saw what Koros had left of the sling-wielder. They found no more Aghadites, though, nor any evidence that others had been there.
When Garth was satisfied, he led the way back out onto the street and onward toward the temple of death. Frima followed reluctantly, Koros beside her. Garth did not look back, but he did find himself wondering whether he had done the right thing in keeping the sword.
That might, he realized, have been his last chance to get rid of it; still, he resisted the urge to run back and try to bargain with Bheleu. If he released the sword, the Forgotten King would get it, he was certain. He could not allow that, now or ever. He marched up the street, sword held up before him to light the way.
The city seemed deserted; nothing moved on the Street of the Temples save himself and his two companions. He wondered if anything still lived in Dыsarra other than the Aghadites, the huddled people in the temple of Tema, and his own little group.
At the end of the avenue, the glow of the sword revealed black volcanic rock forming a narrow defile that led into a cave; the sword's light did not penetrate the shadows of the cave's entrance, visible as a deeper blackness amid the surrounding stones.
A human corpse lay sprawled half in, half out of the shadows. That was hardly surprising in this city of death, where Garth had found himself almost tripping over bare bones at every turn. This body, however, was still fresh; it had not yet begun to rot. Garth could detect only the faintest scent of incipient corruption and judged that it had been dead no more than three days at the most.
The remains were those of a very old man; Garth paused to study them, and recognized who the man had been.
He was clad in a robe of so pure a black that the sword's light, or almost any other light, was not reflected at all, making the corpse seem almost a heap of tangible shadow. It was small and frail, with one leg twisted and shrunken, one hand missing, half the face hidden beneath a purplish growth, one eye long gone and the other buried beneath white cataracts.
This pitiful thing had been the caretaker of the temple of Death.
The overman glanced around warily, but saw no sign of anything that might have killed the ancient priest. It was entirely possible that age had caught up with him at last. Even the priests of Death died eventually-with one exception.
It was very near this spot that the overman high priest of Aghad, whom Garth had later slain, had once taunted him from concealment. One of the tunnels leading from the temple of Aghad might, Garth guessed, come up in this vicinity. He peered at the surrounding rock, but could see no sign of human presence.
"What happened to him?" Frima asked, staring at the corpse.
"He died," Garth said. After a pause, he added, "Probably of old age."
"Oh," Frima replied, suppressing a shudder. She found so fresh a corpse, dead so mysteriously, to be far more unsettling than the less recognizable remains of the plague's many victims.
Garth was no longer interested in the body and felt reasonably certain that no assassins lurked in the immediate area. "Come on," he said.
"That's the temple of Death," Frima said, not moving.
"Yes," Garth agreed, "it is."
"I don't want to go in there," she said.
"Why not? You suggested before that Aghadites might hide here; are you frightened of them? Have you decided to abandon your vengeance?"
"No, that's not it!" she cried. "I'm frightened of Death!"
"I am here to protect you," Garth replied. "I have been here before and emerged alive. I have the power of Bheleu to defend us. However, if you prefer, you may wait here while I investigate the temple."