He put down the glass, blew out the single candle that lighted the chamber, and went to give the order that would set the prepared machinery in motion.
Chapter Two
Garth was unsure just where, amid the hills and mountains, he had crossed the border between the Eramman Barony of Sland and the independent region of Orgûl; if there were any signposts or markers, he had missed them in the dark. Shortly after dawn arrived, however, he topped the crest of the final encircling ridge to see the valley of Orgûl spread out before him, its fields and forests a thousand shades of green, its rivers gleaming blue and silver in the morning sun. He saw no traces of the draconic ravages he had been led to expect.
In fact, he thought as he looked out across the countryside, Orgûl appeared far richer and more peaceful than the lands he had traversed to reach it.
For the first three days after leaving Skelleth he had ridden at a leisurely pace across flat plains brown with mud, traveling openly by day and stopping freely at the very few inns and taverns along the way. He had been turned away once simply because he was an overman, but had met no other serious inconvenience or opposition until the third evening, when, amid the smoldering ruins of a farm that chanced to lie between disputing baronies, a human soldier took a shot at him with a crossbow. The quarrel missed its target, and the man fled when Koros, Garth’s warbeast, bared its fangs and roared; Garth himself did not even have to draw his sword. Still, he knew he had been lucky that the bolt had missed; he had not seen the man crouching behind a broken wall.
After that he had traveled by night, sleeping by day in whatever cover he could find. The land had grown ever richer as he moved south; though he could see no color by night, at sunset and dawn the earth was lush and green—where it hadn’t been burned black.
That first burned-out farm had not been unique; as he continued on to the south he found many others, usually in clusters along the invisible lines between baronies. Nor were farms the only things destroyed; he passed an inn that was reduced to charred timbers, and a gallows nearby held three rotting corpses. On one piece of prime land the blackened crops were still smoldering. Some fields had been destroyed not by fire, but by marching feet, and one had apparently been the site of a recent battle; it had been churned into a muddy waste, strewn with broken links of mail and scraps of cloth spattered with dark blood. Everything of value, every weapon that might be reforged or melted down, had been removed, though Garth suspected that had been the work of looters rather than the contending armies.
He rode by still more farms, some abandoned, some where families cowered behind barricaded doors, and others where the doors were wide open in welcome, on the assumption that resistance to the whims of soldiers would be fatal. Garth avoided villages and towns and castles, giving them all wide berths, and dodged any armed men he spotted in time. No unarmed humans were to be found abroad after dark.
Those few patrols and sentries that he could not avoid, for whatever reason, invariably let him pass unhindered after the warbeast clearly indicated that it was ready to defend its master. Only rarely did Garth feel it necessary to draw a blade or speak a serious threat. He considered himself fortunate that he had not encountered any company larger than a patrol squad, nor any other sniping bowman with a grudge against overmen.
Eramma, in the throes of internal war, he had seen as a patchwork of the land’s natural wealth and the barren leavings of battle.
The last portion of his journey had been the worst. The fighting had begun when the Baron of Sland had attacked the High King at Kholis, and although the High King had never managed to restore his full authority, several barons had helped him make sure that Sland would no longer be a threat. The troublesome Baron had been assassinated after his defeat on the field of battle, and his successor had made peace with his Eramman neighbors—though Garth had heard rumors that the new Baron had designs on the lands beyond his western border, outside Eramma’s limits. Unfortunately, by the time this peace had been established, much of Sland was a burned-out desert. The land showed some signs of recovery after a year of peace, but was still largely desolate and empty. Garth had been relieved to get up into the hills, into the forests where he was not surrounded by mud and ash.
And now, as he emerged into the valley of Orgûl, the warm, green vista before him was a staggering contrast.
It was very odd. He had spoken with people along the way, wherever it had seemed safe to do so, and those who had heard of Orgûl at all had also heard of the dragon; they had described the valley as a scorched wasteland. Even in Sland, the survivors, racked by hunger and disease, had considered themselves more fortunate than the people of Orgûl. They had spoken of burned crops, seared fields, empty, ruined villages, and whole populaces devoured or destroyed.
That description did not accord with what Garth now saw. He wondered briefly if somehow he could have gotten turned about in the forest’s darkness and wound up in the wrong valley. The sun was where he had expected it to be, and he had noticed no other trails as he had ridden, but he resolved to ask the first person he found.
If he was lost, he had no idea where he might be or how to get to the real Orgûl. He had little choice but to assume that he had indeed reached his destination and that the stories of the dragon’s depredations had been exaggerated. He wondered whether the Forgotten King had known more of the situation than he had said; Garth hoped that he was not once again becoming entangled in some labyrinthine scheme the old man had concocted.
With an almost imperceptible shrug, he urged the warbeast forward. The spire of a small temple gleamed golden above the trees before him, not more than two or three leagues away at most; he was sure that he would find a village there, and someone from whom he could ask directions. If there were no one in the temple or village, then it was a safe assumption that he was in Orgûl and that the dragon was real and terrible.
The ride down the hillside was pleasant; the highway wound down from the promontory through a final patch of forest before opening out into farmland, and the morning sun poured through the leaves in a spatter of honeyed light. Birds sang on either side. A deer wandered across the narrow road, then turned and flied at the sight of the warbeast. Off to the left Garth heard the splashing of a rocky stream, its cheerful burble accompanying him down the slope. He glimpsed a hawk overhead, soaring in graceful, wide circles.
It seemed utterly incredible that this peaceful valley could harbor a dragon. Dragons were said to be the most formidable and destructive creatures in all the world, and the dragon of Orgûl, Garth had been told along the way, was the most ferocious dragon ever known. Something here was not as it seemed, and his mistrust of the King’s motive for proposing the mission steadily increased. Having come this far, however, he was not inclined to turn back.
The road he followed was little more than a narrow trail at this point, but it was not seriously overgrown; Garth wondered what traffic it bore that kept down the weeds and grasses. He had been told that no outsiders dared venture into Orgûl and he decided that the Orgûlians themselves must be responsible. This implied that they still conducted a minimum of trade with the outside world, which did not quite accord with the stories Garth had heard. The people of Orgûl had been described to him as a dwindling handful of humans who lived constantly in hiding and in perpetual fear of the monster that ruled their land.
Obviously, if this valley was Orgûl, all the stories were greatly exaggerated.
The exact details were immaterial, however. He had come to dispose of the dragon once and for all, regardless of the extent of the damage it caused. A single unnecessary death was enough to justify his task.
It struck him as odd that the Forgotten King should allow him to risk his life in such an altruistic venture—if altruistic it actually were. He grew more certain that the old man had some ulterior motive, some subtle and selfish reason for sending Garth off on this journey.
His thoughts we
re interrupted by a growl from his beast; he glanced down at the creature’s flattened ears, then at the road ahead.
A figure was emerging from one side of the forest and waving desperately at him. Whoever this person was, he evidently wanted the overman to stop. Garth spoke a word to his mount, and the warbeast came to a smooth halt a pace or two away from the man.
The overman glared down at the human. He was aware that his appearance, particularly when mounted upon Koros, was impressive and even intimidating; he made good use of that fact at times.
The man hesitated, gazing up at the huge, dark form of the overman. He had heard of overmen, but had never seen one before. Descriptions had not done them justice, and he was certain of Garth’s species only because he knew of no other large humanoid beings.
Koros he could not place at all; he simply stared.
Two pairs of inhuman eyes stared back, one set golden and catlike, one red as blood and whiteless, but otherwise almost human.
He himself stood a little over five feet tall and was thin; the overman, he judged, was nearly seven feet in height, were he to stand on his own booted feet. He was not standing, of course, but was seated atop an immense and frightening animal, black as the heart of a cave and resembling an oddly proportioned, long-legged panther.
The man had never seen, nor heard of, a panther eighteen feet long and five feet high at the shoulder. The warbeast looked down at him, and he was not accustomed to having animals look down at him. Its rider, noseless, dark-skinned, black-haired, and beardless, towered above him as if he were no more than a crawling infant. Still, he finally managed to gather himself together sufficiently to stammer out his message in the face of these awesome intruders.
“Turn back, my lord! Do not venture further, I beseech you!”
Garth stared down a moment longer; then, without moving, he demanded, “Why not?”
Momentarily cowed still further by Garth’s bass rumble of a voice, the man had some difficulty in continuing, but at last got out, “The dragon, my lord! The dragon has once more awakened, after a month’s sleep, and is very hungry! I fear that this time the entire valley is doomed!”
After a brief pause, intended for dramatic effect, Garth asked, “This is Orgûl, then?” He wondered about the mention of a month’s sleep; could that account for the valley’s green richness? No, he decided, it could not. He had ridden through parts of Eramma that were not yet recovered from mere human battles after a year’s respite; how, then, could the devastation caused by a dragon vanish in a mere month?
“Yes, my lord,” the man said, “this is the accursed valley of Orgûl, home of the great dragon.”
“I have come to kill this troublesome beast,” Garth remarked casually.
“Oh, my lord, it cannot be done! His hide is like steel, his fangs like swords, his talons like scythes! He can outfly a hawk, and his breath is flame hotter than any forge!”
Garth saw that the man was almost trembling, but could not guess at the reason. He supposed that it might be fear of the dragon, or fear of Koros, or fear of himself, or some other emotion entirely. Even after living among them for three years, he still did not fully understand humans and knew that he did not.
“You think to frighten me, little man,” he replied. “Know, though, that I am Garth, Prince of Ordunin, Lord of the Overmen of the Northern Waste. No beast lives that might defeat me.” This was not exactly true, he knew; he would not care to tackle a hungry warbeast, and a dragon might also prove too much for him. Still, a little boasting was expected from a warrior. His statement was not quite an outright lie; had he kept the Sword of Bheleu and allowed himself to become the pawn of the god of destruction, he could easily have butchered any dragon that might exist.
He did not have the magic sword, but only an ordinary broadsword of good steel; even so, he thought he would be able to deal with the monster.
The man tried again, saying, “Please, my lord, turn back; the dragon is no ordinary beast!”
He was clearly desperate, and Garth hid some small surprise. Why, he wondered, was this fellow so concerned? Even if he was completely convinced that the dragon would kill both overman and warbeast, why should that upset him so? He had given his warning, done what he could to prevent a catastrophe; why should he be so distressed at Garth’s determination? In Garth’s experience, humans did not worry much about what befell overmen.
“Do you fear that I shall enrage the dragon?” he asked. “Is that why you seek to turn me aside?”
“No, no, my lord, I am concerned only for your own safety! Other heroes have come, and all have died beneath the dragon’s flames and claws.”
Garth shook his head slightly, mentally dismissing the man’s actions as incomprehensible. “Stand aside, little man,” he said, “lest Koros trample you.” He signaled to the warbeast and rode on, ignoring the continuing protests and warnings that the man shouted after him.
It was not much later, and the sun was still low in the east, when Garth rode into the village that clustered about the temple spire he had seen from the slope. The shrine itself was an open pavilion, ringed with pillars that supported its spiraling cone of a roof; it faced onto a small plaza from which five roads led off in various directions. A handful of small, tidy, thatch-roofed cottages stood on each of the roads, and a larger structure that might have been an inn, with a roof of red tile, occupied one corner.
The plaza was paved with tessellated stone, and a small fountain played in its center. As Garth’s warbeast neared the pavement, a breeze tinkled its way through miniature bells that hung from the eaves of the temple, joining the hiss and splash of the fountain and the soft steps of sandaled feet.
The villagers stopped and stared at Garth’s approach, and the footsteps ceased. Then someone turned and ran for the inn, and the streets cleared almost instantly.
Garth found himself alone in the center of the square, looking about at the five roads with no idea which one he should take. It was time, he decided, to ask for directions. Getting himself and his beast a meal wouldn’t be a mistake, either, he thought. Koros was already drinking from the fountain, which reminded Garth that he, too, was thirsty.
He dismounted and stepped up to the fountain, where he filled his hands with water and drank.
A sound behind him caught his attention; he let the rest of the water drop and whirled, his hand falling automatically to the hilt of his sword.
The door of the inn had opened again, and several people were emerging. A white-haired man stepped forward from the group and addressed him.
“Greetings, my lord overman!”
“Greetings, man.” This human, Garth thought, unlike the one he had met on the road to the village, at least had the grace to speak politely.
“My I ask, my lord, what brings you to our humble village?” The man’s manner was almost fawning.
“I have come to slay your dragon, to save you from its depredations,” Garth replied, making an effort to sound casual.
The spokesman hesitated, then said, “My lord, do not think us ungrateful, but we ask that you turn back. We do not wish to see another great man ... ah, I mean, another great warrior such as yourself die fighting the monster. Too many have perished already.”
“I have no intention of dying, man.”
“Do you suppose that any of the dragon’s victims did? Please, my lord, turn back. You can do nothing for us. You would only throw your life away.”
Garth was becoming annoyed by this manifest lack of faith in his prowess. “My life is my own, to throw away should it please me to do so,” he said. “I have come to fight your dragon and I am not to be turned aside so readily, frightened by mere words.”
The spokesman bowed in acknowledgment of Garth’s words, but said, “We do not seek to frighten you, my lord, only to advise you. It would be foolish to waste your life in battling the monster.”
&nbs
p; Garth’s temper, already frayed, gave way. “You are the fools,” he called, “to refuse a chance of freedom from this menace! I am Garth, Prince of Ordunin, Lord of the Overmen of the Northern Waste, who brought the White Death to the black city of Dûsarra, who stole the sword of a god, who has fought the beasts of Death himself! I have come here to slay the dragon and I will have no one tell me that I must not!” He realized, as he finished his speech, that without consciously intending to, he had drawn his sword and was flourishing it about.
The little group of humans had clustered together and backed away from him a step or two, toward the inn. The spokesman looked back at his companions for support and, finding little, said nothing further.
His anger spent, Garth returned his sword to its scabbard and added, “But first, I have not eaten recently and would prefer not to face death on an empty stomach. Is this building whence you all came an inn, where an overman can break his fast?”
The spokesman reluctantly admitted that it was.
The inn was called the Sword and Chalice, though its signboard had fallen years ago and never been replaced. Garth had a goat sent out to his warbeast while he himself consumed a hearty meal of roast beef, carrots, and ale. He ate surrounded by a ring of wary villagers, silently watching his every move. He steadfastly ignored their presence and made a point of paying no attention to their comings and goings.
He paused in the midst of his meal at the sound of women screaming in the plaza, but a quick glance out the door reassured him. The screams were in response to the warbeast’s eating habits. Koros had killed the goat with a single blow of its paw and immediately devoured it, hair, hooves, and all, though the warbeast spat out the horns and larger bones. Those villagers who happened to be watching had been horrified to see a living animal reduced so quickly to a spatter of blood and a few scraps.
The Book of Silence Page 3
