The Sword of Bheleu Read Online Free PDF

to order Koros to charge, to ride them down like so many goats, to snatch the great sword from the warbeast’s harness and swing it among them.
    By the time he reached the King’s Inn he was muttering aloud, “I mustn’t harm them. I mustn’t kill anyone.”
    Far to the west, in the city of Dûsarra, in a room draped in black and deep red and lit by a single huge candle, a pudgy, balding man in a flowing black robe held a clear crystal globe and stared into its depths. Constant use of the scrying glass was tiring and it seemed to age him, but it was one of his greatest pleasures. His abilities grew stronger with practice, and of late he had practiced much.
    He had not, however, practiced as much as he might have liked; he had other duties now, many of them. A month ago he had been under orders that severely limited his use of the glass, but when his special abilities were not needed his time had been entirely his own. Now he had no restraints upon him, no one who could tell him what to do or not to do, but with this freedom had come responsibility for all the affairs of his sect. He, Haggat, was the new high priest of Aghad, god of fear and hatred, and it was his job to keep the cult healthy and active. He could not do that merely by studying his glass; he had to sit in judgment on disputes, choose what course the cult would take, and sift through and consider all the information gathered by means both magical and mundane.
    He had delegated many tasks, as many as he thought be could without weakening his authority, but he still found much of his time being spent on administrative trivia. It was a relief and a joy when he could return to his first love, spying.
    Unfortunately, his time was running out; be had to go and tend to business, choosing a candidate for the night’s sacrifice. He could not put it off if the victim was to be readied in time.
    That was a great pity; he had been watching his favorite subject, the overman who had made him high priest by slaying his predecessor. Garth’s image had been hard to summon of late, and Haggat did not think it was entirely due to increasing distance. Something was interfering, some magical force of great power. It was probably the Sword of Bheleu that was responsible.
    The overman was not doing anything of great interest at the moment; he had apparently arrived in Skelleth and was making his way through the streets. Now he seemed to be stopping at a small tavern. He was muttering something, but the glass showed images only, without sound, and the scene was not sufficiently clear for lip-reading.
    Haggat had better ways to spend his time than watching an overman take his noon meal, which was undoubtedly Garth’s intent. The image was blurring, and the sacrifice had to be chosen. He lowered the sphere, letting the vision within fade out of existence.
    He would return, however, when time allowed. Garth had defied and defiled the cult of Aghad, and it was Haggat’s duty to make sure that he suffered for that.
    The cult of Aghad was quite expert in such matters.

Chapter Three
    â€œWhere are we?” Frima asked.
    â€œThis,” Garth answered, “is the King’s Inn, where the Forgotten King may be found.”
    â€œDoes he own it? Is that why it’s called the King’s?”
    â€œI don’t know; it doesn’t matter.”
    â€œAre you really going to give me to him?” Her tone was wistful; Garth could not precisely identify the emotion, wistfulness being more or less alien to overmen, but he realized she was not pleased.
    â€œYes, I am; that is why I took you from the altar of Sai and brought you to Skelleth. I have no other use for you. It may well be that he will have no more need for you than I do, though, in which case you will most likely be free to go your way.”
    â€œOh.” That single syllable carried many mingled emotions; Garth was aware of none, and even Frima herself did not fully