The Book of Silence

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “As you wish, then,” the overman said. He watched as the Seer departed, walking away slowly until he was lost to sight among the close-packed trees.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Haggat had planned it all carefully. The cult’s best assassins and most powerful magicians would be employed systematically, one after another or in small complementary groups, until one or another managed to get through. The overman was to be their primary target; the old man came next, and then the warbeast. The girl was of no importance; she might wind up on a sacrificial altar, as she had once before, but with no rescuer this time.

  He was aware of the Sword of Bheleu’s power, but he could not believe that it was omnipotent and impregnable. He had gathered all the most potent death-spells the cult could devise or steal, all the most deadly killers, and had laced every water supply between Dûsarra and the plains with the most lethal poisons at his disposal. He had devised stratagems and diversions, methods for separating the overman from his sword, methods of disposing of both simultaneously. He had thought of little else for almost a fortnight. For three days he had not even taken the time to use his scrying glass, save for a quick daily check on the overman’s progress each morning. He had forgone the nightly sacrifices and neglected the cult’s other business. He had eaten hurriedly, if at all, and had not touched his acolyte—though she remained always close at hand, translating his commands from sign language or writing to spoken words, carrying messages, running errands, and generally attending to his needs. He had not given her presence much thought; he had been too busy to bother himself about her.

  Now, though, all was ready. The killers were in place. The overman and his party were in the foothills, advancing along the highway, and Haggat watched his glass avidly. Unable to observe the overman or the old man directly, he had focused upon the road before them.

  He was so involved that he neglected one of his customary precautions and allowed his acolyte to remain in the black-draped chamber with him. She stretched up on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder at the glass. Together they watched as the warbeast’s forepaws rose and fell, always at one side of the image, moving along the highway toward the crossroads.

  Garth remembered the narrow defile that led straight into Weideth; it was a welcome change from the winding of the road through the outer foothills. He judged that they would reach the gates of Dûsarra shortly after dawn; the eastern sky was just beginning to turn pink behind them.

  When he had first ridden this road, Weideth had vanished before his eyes almost immediately after he turned the last corner; that had been the doing of the Seer and the village elders, using illusions in hopes of diverting Garth from his path. On this second journey there was no such magical trickery. Nothing disguised the devastation that had befallen the little town.

  Where once an inn and a dozen houses had clustered around the crossroads, there were only heaps of ash and jutting, blackened timbers. Stones lay scattered about, strewn across the roads and hillsides. Garth remembered a small stand of trees that had adorned one slope; nothing remained but scorched stumps. Weeds grew thick in what had been tidy little gardens, and here and there white bones showed in pale contrast to the smoky darkness left by the destroying fires, catching the pale predawn light.

  It was a depressing sight, and the overman wished that it would vanish, leaving his memories of the village untarnished.

  The Forgotten King’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Garth,” the old man said, “be ready.”

  Puzzled, Garth glanced at the King, but saw no sign that would tell him what he should be ready for. The old man was walking along as calmly as ever.

  A red glint caught his eye, and he realized that the gem in the pommel of the sword was glowing. With the realization came an uneasiness. He twisted around to look at the jewel, then looked back at the King.

  The old man nodded and kept walking.

  Confused, but trusting for the moment in the Forgotten King’s supernatural knowledge, Garth reached up, leaning forward so the blade would not smack Frima, tipped the scabbard up over his shoulder, and unsheathed the sword.

  The hilt felt warm and comforting in his hands.

  “What’s happening?” Frima asked. “Why are you doing that?”

  Garth did not answer; he was too busy enjoying the mounting rush of strength and bloodlust that swept through him as he held the sword. The grip was hot in his hands, the gem glowing brightly, the blade shining faintly in the dim morning light. The sooty ruins of Weideth no longer saddened him; instead, the vista seemed almost inviting, the evidence of destruction somehow satisfying, even though it had been caused by hands other than his own.

  There were enemies here, he knew, many of them, hidden away among the heaps of rubble, some concealed by magic, others by natural means.

  This, he thought, would be fun.

  Something twanged; he whirled the sword about to meet the crossbow bolt that flew toward his head. Sparks trailed from the blade, bright in the half-light, and the quarrel shattered spectacularly against the gleaming metal, sending a shower of splinters to rattle against the rocks beside the roadway. Frima yelped as a stray sliver pierced her arm.

  Garth’s buoyant energy turned suddenly to rage as he saw the blood trailing down the girl’s sleeve; the sword blazed up in a burst of white fire that snatched the pale colors from the landscape around them, stretching sharp-edged bands of light and long black shadows out in all directions.

  “I’a bheluye!” the overman screamed as he brought the sword sweeping back before him. Flame erupted wherever it pointed, in great rushing waves, and the screams of dying men mingled with the roar of the fires as crouching Aghadite assassins were caught in the blaze.

  Something flashed crimson, and Garth laughed horribly as he felt the sword fend off a death-spell. Slung stones whistled past his head or exploded into dust against the sword’s edge; arrows of every sort were diverted or destroyed by the blade’s coruscating energy. Colored smoke arose from a dozen attempted spells, only to be dispersed and driven away by the force of the supernatural flames. The overman did not bother to locate his attackers, but simply blasted everything in sight, destroying anything that might conceal a foe. The piles of ash were swept away in whirlwinds, the burned timbers powdered by fiery bursts; the ground shook, sending rocks tumbling and bouncing like the spatter of rain on flat stone. The light of dawn was first lost in the more vivid light of the sword and then buried in clouds as Garth gathered a storm about himself. The fire of the sword was joined by flashes of lightning.

  Long after the attacks upon him had ceased, Garth drew on the sword’s power to keep the earth dancing and to send bolt after bolt of electrical fire onto every available target.

  When at last he allowed the fury to subside and the clouds to part the sun was bright gold above the eastern horizon, but lit only blackened earth and drifting ash. No trace remained of Weideth or the assassins who had lurked there, save for scattered fragments of bone, shards of scorched metal, and a thin layer of cinders. The surrounding hills themselves had been gouged deeply and reshaped into stark, angular new forms.

  Amid this devastation, Garth and Frima sat astride Koros; the Forgotten King stood alongside, untouched by the havoc the sword had wrought. Frima had closed her eyes and kept her head down throughout the conflagration; now she stared about in stunned disbelief, ignoring the blood that trickled from her single wound. Koros growled uneasily and shied away from the heaps of ash that still smoked. Even Garth, who had caused it, seemed impressed by the result of his actions.

  The Forgotten King alone remained unperturbed and calm.

  In Dûsarra, Haggat stared in disbelief at the final image that filled his glass in shades of gray. He realized, with a sick certainty, that he had done everything he could to destroy the overman and had failed utterly.

  That was the last thing he thought; the acolyte who
stood at his shoulder throughout had seen the truth as well and knew that Haggat’s power was broken. She chose her spot carefully, making certain her thrust slid cleanly between his ribs and into his heart, forgoing the pleasures of a slow death to be sure that the high priest would not live long enough to retaliate.

  She smiled as she drove the knife into his back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The gates of Dûsarra were closed and barred; that came as something of a surprise to Garth. It was not, however, much of an obstacle. The gem in the sword’s pommel still glowed red, and a single blow sent the splintered remnants of the massive city gate slamming back against the neighboring walls while showering the marketplace that lay just beyond with chips, sawdust, and ash.

  Garth had dismounted to wield the sword and remained on foot as he marched into the city. Koros padded along close behind, Frima on its back, and the Forgotten King brought up the rear, the Book of Silence and the Pallid Mask in a bundle beneath one arm.

  The overman stopped in the middle of the square, and the others drew up behind him and joined him in looking about.

  The market was not as Garth and Frima remembered it. When Garth had first arrived in Dûsarra the square had been lined with merchants’ stalls, shaded with canvas and lighted with torches; it had been swarming with people in robes of gray and red and blue, buying and selling and going about the business of the city. Now the sides of the square were bare stone walls, the black stone stained with smoke. Several of the buildings had obviously been gutted by fire; the charred ends of timbers projected, the windows were empty, blackened holes, and the doorways yawned empty. In some cases daylight was visible through the openings, showing plainly that in those buildings the roofs were gone.

  The market was totally deserted, and the entire city seemed abandoned; Garth could see nothing alive and could hear nothing stirring, save for his own little group.

  “Now what do we do?” Frima asked.

  Garth considered that. His ultimate goal, of course, was the temple of Aghad, on the Street of the Temples in the northeastern part of the city. They had, however, been traveling for quite some time, having set out late the previous afternoon and it being now midmorning. For his own part, he was not particularly tired; his use of the Sword of Bheleu had left him feeling more invigorated than drained on this particular occasion. He did not understand why that should be so, yet it was. His companions, however, might not feel up to further activity.

  Given that they were to rest, he was unsure where to go. From the appearance of the marketplace, he doubted very much that the Inn of the Seven Stars, where he had stayed before, would be open for business.

  “What do you suggest?” he said at last.

  Frima gazed about at the desolate market that she herself had set afire so long ago and said, “I want to go home.” She was weary and distressed and, at least for the moment, more concerned with her own security than with avenging her murdered husband.

  Garth mistook her meaning. “We have come to destroy the cult of Aghad and we are not returning to Skelleth until that has been done. Would you have this whole journey go to waste?”

  “I don’t mean Skelleth, I mean my home, Garth!”

  “Oh,” the overman said, realizing that he had misunderstood. “Where is it?”

  “We lived above my father’s shop, on the Street of the Fallen Stars,” Frima replied, pointing off to the northwest.

  Garth nodded. That seemed as good a course as any; the girl’s home would provide lodging and a base from which to work. He would be able to plan his course of action, rather than simply charging in blindly.

  Of course, this delay would allow the cultists time to plan as well, and to lay traps—but they had had ten days and nights already since he left Ur-Dormulk, and the result of all their planning had been the ambush he had destroyed in Weideth. He doubted that they could contrive anything more effective in one day. If they did attempt another, similar surprise, it would most probably give him a chance to kill more of their number.

  If they chose to hide, another day could make little difference, since surely they would already have spent considerable time upon their preparations.

  Better, he decided, to allow them that time, while he, Frima, and Koros rested and prepared, than to march up to the temple now, in broad daylight, and begin blasting away.

  “Lead the way,” he said.

  Frima leaned forward and spoke a word in the warbeast’s ear; she had, by listening, learned most of the commands it was trained to obey.

  The beast growled and looked at Garth, who nodded and waved it along.

  With a muffled snort, it strode forward, letting the girl direct it by twisting at the guide handle attached to its harness. The overman walked alongside.

  The Forgotten King did not; instead, when the warbeast headed for the northwestern corner of the market, he began walking toward the northeast. Garth, glancing back, noticed this divergence.

  “Where are you going?” he called.

  The King did not answer.

  Annoyed, Garth lifted the Sword of Bheleu, which he had not sheathed after breaking in the gate, and set the ground in front of the old man afire.

  Without even pausing, the King made a subtle gesture with his free hand. The flames vanished with a rush of air, and the gem in the sword’s pommel went black.

  Something whistled past the overman’s ear.

  Startled, he whirled in time to glimpse a human head ducking down below a burned-out window.

  “Wait,” he ordered Koros. Sword in hand, he ran toward the window. Again something whizzed past his ear; this time he saw it was a dart and realized that it came from a totally different direction. He spun about, but did not see the source.

  He was unsure just what was happening, but he found it very inconvenient to have the sword’s power repressed at this particular moment. He had come to rely on the weapon.

  “I regret, O King,” he called, while he kept moving to remain a difficult target, “that I so rashly annoyed you. I beg your forgiveness and ask that you release the sword from your restraint.” It had been stupid, he knew, to have tried using the sword against the old man in the first place. His power was able to stifle the sword’s greatest fury with ease and had protected the entire King’s Inn from destruction during the sacking of Skelleth. It had been foolish for Garth to think that the old man would be hampered by a simple supernatural flame. Furthermore, causing him any offense at this point was probably a mistake. Garth’s regret was completely genuine. Most of all, he regretted that he tended to behave stupidly when the sword’s gem glowed.

  Still walking northeasterly, completely unperturbed, the King waved a hand in dismissal, and the jewel flared red once more.

  Awash in power and his mind hazy with rage, Garth promptly turned back and blasted to powder the wall that had concealed his first attacker, revealing nothing but the burned-out shell of a small shop. The assassin had escaped.

  Garth could find no trace of whoever had thrown the second dart; he, too, had fled.

  Annoyed, but struggling to force his anger down and to maintain careful control of himself, the overman again ordered Koros to wait and then ran after the Forgotten King.

  He caught up to the old man half a block away, in a street leading out of the market, and slowed to a walk alongside the King. When he had composed himself somewhat, he said, “Your pardon, O King, for my lack of manners. However, I find it disturbing that you should choose to part ways at this point. I respectfully ask to know where you’re going and why you do not accompany us.”

  “I go to the temple of Death,” the old man replied, “to restore the Book of Silence to its proper place, in preparation for my final magic. That was my purpose in coming here. You have your own purposes to pursue. Go pursue them, and leave me to mine.”

  Garth was unsure how to reply to this; he beg
an to phrase another question, then broke off as he realized that he had stopped walking and that the Forgotten King was moving on ahead of him. He tried to walk, but found that his feet would not obey him. He stood and watched as the old man marched on up the street, around a corner, and out of sight.

  A red fury seethed through him, but he knew that there was nothing he could do. He struggled to fight down his irrational anger.

  The King could do nothing, either, he told himself. He did not have the Sword of Bheleu, and Garth had not done him the service he had sworn, to aid in the final magic. The Fifteenth Age could not begin while those conditions remained unmet—or perhaps it could begin, since the King had the Pallid Mask and Garth had done him the service of bringing him the Book of Silence, but it could not end, the world could not be destroyed. Let the old man go and make his spells, speak his incantations; they would be nothing without the sword!

  That, at any rate, was what Garth told himself, yet even when his anger had subsided, when he had fought down his rage sufficiently to dim the vivid glare of the sword’s jewel, he worried. Why should the old fool be so confident, if his magic was useless without the sword? Did he perhaps know something that Garth did not, something that would deliver the sword into his hands?

  If that were the case, Garth asked himself, what could he, Garth, do about it? The King’s powers had stopped him in his tracks here and could surely do so again. He could only go on, ignoring the old man and dealing with new threats as they arose, relying on the deduced fact that, for some reason, the King seemed unable to take the sword from him without his consent.

  With that decision, he sheathed the sword and turned back toward the market. His feet moved normally once more; he had no trouble in retracing his steps and rejoining Frima and Koros.

  With Frima pointing the way, they made their way onward into the streets of the city, away from the shattered gate. They were less than a hundred yards from the market when they passed the first skeleton. It lay on one side of the street, partially buried in the dirt; it had obviously been there for some time and had sunk into the mud after a rainstorm. No flesh remained; the skull gazed up from empty sockets.