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.
He could not be trusted.
He did, however, have the power to control the sword.
A vague, uneasy thought occurred to Garth; he considered it, let it grow and take form.
Perhaps it was in truth the Forgotten King who controlled the sword's actions entirely, and not the mythical god of destruction. Perhaps Garth's entire mission to Dыsarra had been an elaborate charade the old man had contrived for reasons that remained unclear.
Such a theory seemed unlikely, but could not be completely discounted.
Carrying his imagining a step further, Garth arrived at another possibility. What if the sword and the Forgotten King were both being controlled by some other unseen power? It might be Bheleu, The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, or just some mighty wizard.
What if everything that had befallen him was part of some vast plot? Could his depression and resulting quest for eternal fame have been the result of some spell? Could the entire sequence of events that followed have been planned, his every action guided?
Had he ever had any choice at all in his actions?
He shook his head. This was all getting too complicated and farfetched; he doubted that there was any such conspiracy at work. If there were, it was obviously far beyond his own capabilities to do anything about it.
"O King," he said, returning to the subject at hand, "I would like to make you a gift of this sword. It was at your request that I brought it from Dыsarra, and I feel it right that you should have it."
The Forgotten King said nothing.
"You will not refuse it?"
"I will not accept it," the King replied, "until you swear to serve me by bringing me the Book of Silence and aiding in my final magic."
"You have said that this magic will kill many people; I cannot in good conscience aid you in it."
"Then I will not accept the sword." He did not say anything more, but it was plain to both what was implied; while Garth kept the sword, he would be in constant danger of having further death and destruction on his conscience. He faced a choice of two evils, neither clearly the lesser, and both, in fact, quite large.
Garth reached up to his breast and picked at the knot that held the scabbard on his back. As he had expected, he was unable to work the strands at all.
"Will you not reconsider?" he asked.
"Will you?"
Defeated for the moment, Garth sat back and thought.
It seemed clear that the Forgotten King would not help him; the overman had feared as much. The sword had not obliged him by driving him into a frenzy that the King would have been forced to quell; a glance over his left shoulder showed that the gem was glowing moderately, yet he felt no particular anger, no great compulsions. The thing was biding its time. Perhaps it knew something of the future and was waiting for something specific; perhaps it was aware of the Forgotten King and had learned that he was able to control it, and so was restraining itself.
Perhaps, should it attempt to wreak havoc in the future, he could contrive to bring it here and threaten the King, so that the old man would be forced to dampen its power in self-defense.
No, that would not work; what need did the King have to defend himself? He was immortal and wanted to die-at least, so he claimed.
That might be a bluff, Garth thought, to convince him that there was no point in threatening the old man. Next time the killing fury came, Garth decided, he would make an attempt to find the King and test out his invulnerability again.
For the present, though, there seemed nothing more to be gained here. He rose and left the tavern.
The streets were dark, but torches lit the marketplace directly in front of him on the far side of the cellars of the Baron's destroyed mansion. He paused and looked again at the knot that held the scabbard in place.
It was a very simple, rough knot; he had tied it himself and knew that to be the case. Ordinarily it would have been hardly adequate to hold the sword; normal jarring would have worked it loose in an hour or two. The sword's power, however, could apparently be spread beyond the weapon itself; the knot was tight and solid.
He picked at it again, but could not work the strands loose.
There was an ancient legend about a knot that could not be untied. The story was that after many wise men had tried to undo it, a simple warrior had cut it apart with his knife. If Garth could not untie the scabbard strap while the sword was sheathed, perhaps he could cut it.