The Book of Silence

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The wire, he decided, must be ensorcelled in some way. There was no point in struggling with it—yet he had no desire to gratify the Aghadites by dismembering his wife.

  The problem could be handled in another way. He fetched his battle-axe from the warbeast’s saddle and, with three blows, cut through the foot-thick stake just above Kyrith’s sagging head. Having eliminated the spike that had held the braid, Garth was able to lift her easily, so that her hands slid up over the broken end and came free.

  That done, he remembered the pouch that had fallen from the neck cord. He laid the corpse gently on the ground and looked for it.

  The little bag lay where it had fallen, at the foot of the stake. He picked it up, opened it cautiously, and drew out the roll of parchment it contained.

  He had heard of spells that worked through runes, of messages that could bind an unsuspecting victim to the writer’s will, but he did not seriously consider it likely that this parchment was anything of that kind. He thought, rather, that it would be a threat or a boast, or perhaps both; the Aghadites had seemed to him the sort of vicious creatures who would not be satisfied with the mere fact of murder, or with the crude attribution carved on the corpse’s brow.

  He unrolled the parchment and read the following: “Greetings to Garth of Skelleth, once Prince of Ordunin. The righteous vengeance of Aghad has begun, and you will suffer a thousandfold for the affronts you have committed. For the desecration of the god’s shrine and the murder of his chosen high priest, you will pay with everything you value. All those you care for will die horribly. Your sons will die slowly as you watch. That which you have built will be cast down and destroyed. That which you have opposed will be exalted. That which you own shall be taken from you. As your pain grows, know always that Aghad will take joy in it, and his worshippers will laugh at your agony.”

  There was no signature.

  Garth crumpled the parchment in his fist and thrust it into a pouch on his belt. Before he could withdraw his hand, he felt a sudden warmth, and the smell of smoke reached his slit nostrils. Startled, he withdrew his hand and dumped the pouch onto a patch of bare earth.

  Nothing remained of the note but smoldering ash.

  He snorted. If the indestructible wire had not been proof enough, this little demonstration left no doubt that the cult was using magic against him. He looked up, glanced quickly around, but saw nothing. He had fought magic before, several times, and knew it to be a real and sometimes deadly force; he would need to keep a careful watch.

  Someone, he realized, might be watching him even now, and he could no longer resist speaking. “Your god will not save you, filth,” he said, his voice flat. “Your cult will die, to the last man or woman. My wife’s forehead bears your death warrant.” He picked up the axe he had dropped and, in a sudden display of fury, splintered the stump of the stake with a single blow.

  In Dûsarra, in his inner chamber, Haggat watched the overman’s actions and permitted himself a small, silent chuckle. Events were proceeding almost exactly as he had envisioned, though the failure of the wired wrists was slightly disappointing. It was still much as he had wanted. The stolen magics were working perfectly.

  This might, he thought, be worth the long wait.

  Chapter Six

  His anger under control once more, Garth returned the axe to its place on the warbeast’s saddle. He looked around at the scattered shards of the stake, then gathered up everything of possible value. That done, he picked up Kyrith’s body and ordered Koros to follow him. Carrying his dead wife in his arms, he marched into Skelleth.

  The manner of expressing certain emotions differed between human and overman. Overmen made no show of grief or anger on their faces, but instead displayed at such times an expression that in humans would appear to be one of utter disinterest. This was not a result of training in stoicism or any other cultural influence, but a difference in genetic makeup. An overman who seemed bored might be in a murderous rage.

  A human guard was posted at the southwestern gate—not a professional soldier, but a volunteer, put there not so much for defense as to run ahead of an arriving caravan to inform Galt and the town’s merchants of its approach. The man assigned to this job carried a crossbow and a short sword, more or less as a formality.

  The individual who was on duty at the time of Garth’s return from Orgûl had not heard the overman’s approach, having dozed off in the shelter of a ruined wall. He had stirred slightly at the sound of the axe smashing the post, but did not come fully awake until Garth’s footsteps had drawn quite near.

  Startled, he got to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and prepared to call a challenge.

  Garth’s face was calm and still, but had the guard spoken, Garth would have taken delight in killing him, probably using only his bare hands. He was in no mood to deal with strangers, particularly human strangers; the cult of Aghad was comprised mostly of humans. Few overmen took an interest in anything so ethereal as religion.

  Only the fact that the guard recognized both Garth and Kyrith saved his life; he was so shocked at the sight of the corpse that he could not speak at first, and when he had recovered something of his composure, a glance at Garth’s bloodred eyes discouraged any questions he might have had. He stood back respectfully and let the burdened overman and riderless warbeast pass unhindered.

  When they had moved on up the road he debated briefly with himself. He was supposed to run ahead of new arrivals and give warning of their approach; Garth, however, was a resident of Skelleth, however unwelcome his presence there might be to some of the villagers. Furthermore, the overman did not look as if he would appreciate a welcoming committee.

  The guard decided, with a glance at Garth’s armored back, that he would prefer facing a charge of dereliction of duty to risking the overman’s annoyance. He stayed where he was.

  Most of the outer portion of Skelleth was a ring of uninhabited ruins, a reminder of the town’s long decline; only the central area, around the market, was populated. As a result of this, Garth walked some distance on empty streets, between fallen stones and broken beams, before he was again seen by human eyes.

  Like the guard at the gate, the villagers who saw his approach recognized him. Remembering the sacking of Skelleth and seeing the warbeast at his heels, they hung well back and let him pass without hindrance or comment. The traditional fear of overmen had been largely dissipated by three years of trade, but Garth’s berserker reputation, the sight of the corpse, and the presence of the warbeast were enough to send even the boldest scurrying out of his path without concern for their dignity.

  He reached the market unmolested, not having spoken a word since he entered the walls. There he lowered Kyrith’s body to the ground, turned toward the new house on the east side of the square, and bellowed, “Saram!”

  Windows opened instantly, and faces peered out. Saram’s was not among them, but Garth recognized one that appeared on the upper floor of the Baron’s house. He pointed at the girl and shouted, “You, there! You get Lord Saram out here!”

  The girl, Saram’s housekeeper, vanished inside.

  A moment later the front door opened, and one of the Baron’s clerks thrust her head out. “My lord Saram is occupied at present, my lord Garth,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  Garth’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. He replied, slowly and clearly, without shouting, “You will inform Lord Saram that if he is not out here within the count of twenty, he will not live to see the sun set today, and this stinking village will not see tomorrow’s dawn.”

  The clerk’s politely noncommittal expression vanished instantly, to be replaced with a gape of terrified astonishment. She disappeared back inside, leaving the door open.

  Garth did not bother to count; as he had expected, Saram appeared on the doorstep within a few seconds, a napkin in his hand.

  The Baron of Skelleth did not
trouble to look about, but simply stared directly at the overman. “What is it, Garth?” he asked, a trace of annoyance in his voice.

  Garth’s reply was toneless and deadly. “Come here, human,” he said.

  Saram knew better than to argue. He came; halfway to where Garth waited, he suddenly noticed Kyrith’s body and stopped dead. After a moment’s hesitation, he continued on and stood a few feet away, staring down at the corpse in surprise.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You will tell me that, man, or I’ll burn this town to the ground. How could this happen?”

  “I don’t know, Garth, I swear by all the gods! She came into town two days ago, looking for you; she said you had sent an urgent message asking her to come to Skelleth. We told her it must have been a mistake, that you’d been gone for days, and that was the last we saw of her—until now. I thought she’d gone back north again, gone home?”

  “She was last seen alive two days ago?”

  “About that; ‘twas midafternoon of the day before yesterday.”

  “She has been dead only a few hours at most, Saram. Where was she in between?”

  “I don’t know, I swear it.” The Baron met the overman’s gaze for a moment, then turned back to the corpse.

  Garth reached out and grabbed the front of Saram’s elaborately embroidered tunic. “What do you know about the cult of Aghad?” he demanded.

  Startled, Saram looked up again. “What cult of Aghad?” he asked. “There isn’t any, is there? I never heard of anyone outside Dûsarra who worshipped him or any of the other dark gods, and the White Death has destroyed Dûsarra.”

  “Look at her forehead, human.” Garth released Saram’s tunic and grabbed his neatly trimmed back hair, pulling his head down close to Kyrith’s face. Saram looked, as Garth added, “There was a note as well, a magical one that destroyed itself after I read it. A cult of Aghad still exists, and his followers have killed my wife.”

  “I don’t know anything about them,” Saram insisted after Garth allowed him to straighten up. “Perhaps ‘tis some other enemy of yours, trying to avoid the blame.”

  “What enemy?”

  “How should I know? Maybe ‘tis that bunch of wizards that tried to kill you three years ago.”

  “No; why should they kill Kyrith? Why would they not attack me directly? I am no longer defended by the power of the Sword of Bheleu; the wizards would surely know that. If they sought revenge they would simply slay me, attacking directly, as they attacked me before. No, Saram, this is cruelty for its own sake; this is the work of evil people, to kill an innocent like this just to get at me. It must be one of the cults I angered. The followers of Bheleu are all dead; the priest of Death is a harmless old man. I did nothing to anger the cult of P’hul. That leaves four: Tema, Andhur Regvos, Sai, or Aghad. Only Aghad takes pride in treachery; had one of the others slain Kyrith, that cult would have proclaimed itself openly. The followers of Aghad might have lied and blamed others, but no one would falsely accuse them. It is in truth the Aghadites who have done this, I am certain.”

  “Then what do you want of me?” Saram asked. “I am no Aghadite.”

  “You are the Baron of Skelleth. Whatever happens in this town and the territory surrounding it is your responsibility.”

  “I accept no blame for this murder, Garth.”

  “You have allowed the cult of Aghad to exist, to take action in your domain.”

  “I have not! I told you, I thought the cult was extinct.”

  “The cult is not extinct, Saram, but if you value your life, you will do what you can to see that it becomes extinct.”

  “Of course I will! Do you think I want more murders? Do you think I do not regret this one? Kyrith was my friend, Garth, and you are my friend as well. What has hurt you has hurt me. I wish that there were something I could do to undo what has happened, but I am as mortal as you; I cannot turn back time.”

  Garth did not reply; the phrasing of Saram’s defense reminded him that he had other business to attend to. As Saram had said, he was merely mortal and could do nothing to restore Kyrith to life, any more than Garth could—but there was one person in Skelleth who was something other than mortal. The Forgotten King was the chosen of the god of death; he had lived for centuries, perhaps for millennia, and had powers and abilities greater than any ordinary priest or wizard.

  He was also a treacherous old schemer. Garth did not say so to Saram, but he suspected that if anywhere in the world there was anyone other than the cultists of Aghad who was implicated in Kyrith’s murder, it was the Forgotten King. His part in it, if he was involved, might have been anything from the most indirect sort of encouragement to planning and carrying out the whole scheme himself and falsely accusing the Aghadites. The old man could, of course, be innocent, but Garth would not take that for granted; the King had been entangled in Garth’s life too often for the overman to dismiss the possibility of his complicity. It was the old man who had suggested that Garth should go adventuring and who had proposed his destination and thereby ensured a certain minimum travel time.

  Perhaps the old man had planned the whole ghastly murder for some perverse reason of his own; perhaps it had been calculated to goad Garth into some action he would otherwise have avoided.

  It was just as likely, though, that the cult of Aghad had simply seized upon the opportunity Garth’s absence had presented and that the old man had had no part in it.

  Garth had mulled this over while carrying Kyrith’s body through the village to the market; the possibility of the King’s involvement had been immediately obvious as soon as Garth had gotten over his initial shock.

  It bore looking into, but he had wanted to acquaint himself with the available facts about Kyrith’s return from Ordunin and whatever was generally known of her death. The Forgotten King, with his reluctance to speak, would have been of little help there. Nor had Garth wanted to waste any time in alerting Saram to the murder, the probable presence of the cult of Aghad, and Garth’s anger.

  He had done that; now he could turn his attention to the King.

  Saram’s words had also suggested a faint possibility Garth had not previously considered. The King, no mere mortal, had an undeniable connection with The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken; if there was anyone in all the world who might be capable of restoring Kyrith to life, it was he.

  With that in mind Garth turned, leaving Kyrith’s body on the packed earth of the marketplace, and marched toward the King’s Inn. “See that she is not disturbed,” he called back over his shoulder to the Baron, “and that the cult of Aghad is driven from Skelleth.”

  Saram stood in open-mouthed astonishment at this sudden change. Garth seemed to have abandoned the conversation in midstream and had simply walked off after dragging him, Saram, Baron of Skelleth, out of his home. Koros, too, was apparently caught by surprise; the warbeast gave a low, questioning growl, which the departing overman answered with an order that meant “stand and guard.” Saram looked at the beast, noticed the gleaming metal bird on its back, and grew still more confused. What, he wondered, was that thing? He looked again at Garth, then back at Kyrith’s body, and decided to stay where he was until he could get everything straight in his mind.

  Garth stalked across the wooden weighing platforms that occupied what was once the site of the old Baron’s mansion, across the narrow strip that used to be a back alley cut off from the square by the mansion, and through the open door of the King’s Inn.

  The tavern looked very much as it always had; there was no indication that anything within was not as it should be. The heavy, worn tables were in their accustomed places, the great brass-bound barrels still lined the west wall, and the vast stone hearth still took up most of the east. At the rear stairs led to the upper floor, and the Forgotten King’s table stood in the corner beneath. Everything was clean, with the soft sheen that could only result from cent
uries of use and care.

  The tavernkeeper stood by one of his barrels, a mug and a polishing cloth in his hands; two customers were conversing over wine. The Forgotten King sat motionless at his table.

  Garth marched across the room. He did not bother to seat himself, but stood beside the King’s table and demanded, “What did you have to do with it?”

  The old man croaked, “Nothing.”

  “Is that all you have to say? Am I to trust you so readily?”

  “I swear by my heart and all the gods, by the true name of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, that I had no part in your wife’s murder.”

  Some portion of Garth’s mind was aware that the old man was taking this seriously indeed, to make so long an answer so quickly, but his anger would not permit him to consider that. “And what good is your vow? How can it bind you? Death holds no terror for you, old man; you have little to lose in that regard. Nor have you shown any thought for your honor; what need have you of honor or trust, you who have incomprehensible power and no desire but death? You have abandoned the service of your god; can I know that his name still holds you?”

  “You cannot be certain. Take my word or not, as you please.” The old man’s ghastly voice was as dead as ever.

  Garth was by no means so calm; with a wordless bellow, he reached out and grabbed the King’s throat in one huge hand. “Lying scum!” he cried. “Deathless monster! Do you dare to mock me at such a time?” In his rage, he cared little for accuracy or fairness and ignored the fact that, if any mockery had been spoken, it was he who had mocked the King and not the reverse. He squeezed.