The Lure of the Basilisk

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  THE LURE OF THE BASILISK

  LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 1980 by Lawrence Watt Evans.

  Wildside Press edition copyright © 2002 by Lawrence Watt Evans.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press, LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Moshe Feder,

  the first editor to tell me I could write.

  Prologue

  “I am weary of all this death and dying.”

  The speaker was a huge armor-clad figure almost seven feet in height, standing at the narrow mouth of a small cave near the top of a snowy and rubble-strewn hillside; even from a distance an observer would have seen the fading light of the setting sun glinting a baleful red from his eyes, marking him as something other than human. He was speaking to a bent, crouching creature clad in tatters who stood inside the cave’s mouth, at the edge of the impenetrable gloom of the interior, her face and form only faintly visible in the dim twilight; she was hunched and humpbacked, shriveled and bent with age. Her face was twisted and broken, her teeth gone, one of her golden eyes squinting horribly, yet she was plainly of the same race as the tall warrior.

  “Death is everywhere;” the decrepit creature replied.

  “I know that, Ao; I would it were not so.” The hag addressed as Ao merely shrugged, and the warrior continued, “It makes life pointless to know that I and all I know will die and pass away, as if I had never been.” He paused briefly, then went on, “I wish that it were possible for me to perform some feat of cosmic significance, to change the nature of things, so that all would look back millennia from now and say, ‘Garth did this.’ I wish that I could alter the uncaring universe so that even the stars would respond to my passing, so that my life would not be insignificant.”

  Ao moved uncomfortably. “You are a lord and a warrior, whose deeds will be recalled for a generation.”

  “I am known to a tiny corner of a single continent; and even there, as you yourself say, I will be remembered only for a century or two, an instant in the life of the world.”

  “What would you have of us, my sister and myself?”

  “Is it possible for a mortal being to alter the way things are?”

  “That, it is said, is the province of the gods; if the gods are the baseless myth some believe them, then it is the role of Fate and Chance.”

  Garth had apparently expected this reply; there was only the slightest pause before he said, “I would have it, then, that if I cannot change the world, at the least the world shall remember me. I would have it that my name shall be known as long as anything shall live, to the end of time. Can this be?” He stared at the misshapen hag, his usually expressionless face intent.

  She gazed back impassively and answered slowly, “It is your desire that you be known throughout history, from now until the end of the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “This can be done.” Her tone seemed curiously reluctant.

  “How?”

  “Go to the village called Skelleth, and seek there the Forgotten King; submit yourself to him, obey him without fail, and what you have wished will be.”

  “How am I to find this king?”

  “He is to be found in the King’s Inn, clad in yellow rags.”

  “How long must I serve him?”

  Ao drew a deep breath, paused, and said, “You weary us with your questions; we will answer no more.” She turned and hobbled out of sight in the darkness of the cave, the darkness that concealed her sister Ta and their humble living facilities.

  The warrior stood respectfully motionless as the oracle withdrew, then turned east, toward where the last rays of sunlight lit the iced-in port of Ordunin and the cold sea beyond, and started thoughtfully down the hillside.

  Chapter One

  The village of Skelleth was the northernmost limit of human civilization, a perpetually starving huddle of farmers and ice-cutters; it shrank with each succeeding ten-month winter. Its existence depended equally on the goats and hay of the farmers and on the declining trade in ice to cool the drinks of wealthy nobles to the south. This trade brought to the decaying community those many necessities they could not obtain from their own land, but was less each year as fewer of the ice-caravans survived the ravages of brigands and bankruptcy.

  Although Skelleth was universally acknowledged as the limit of human civilization, both humans and civilization could be found further north. The humans, however, were either the goat-herding nomads of the plains and foothills or the barbaric hunters and trappers of the snow-covered mountains, who were all too fond of banditry and murder and could hardly be called civilization; while the civilization was that of the overmen of the Northern Waste, driven there by the Racial Wars of three centuries before, and they were most assuredly not human.

  It was because of these last that the Baron of Skelleth had seen fit to make the North Gate the only portion of the crumbling city wall to be guarded, although none of Skelleth’s meager trade passed through the North Gate, even the wild trappers preferring to use the more accessible gates to east and west on their rare trading expeditions. At any hour, night or day, one of Skelleth’s three dozen men-at-arms could be found huddled over a watch-fire in the shelter of the one remaining wall of the fallen gatehouse — assuming that the man assigned had not deserted his post. This cold and unrewarding duty made a convenient punishment for any guard who chanced to run afoul of the moody Baron’s whims, and so was usually the lot of the younger and more cheerful among the company, as the Baron was prone to consider it a mortal offense should anyone be happy when he himself was sunk in one of his frequent and incapacitating fits of black depression.

  Thus it was that Arner, youngest and most daring of the guard, was ordered to stand twenty-four hours of guard duty without relief at this unattractive spot; and it was scarcely surprising that the youth should abandon his post and be asleep in his sweetheart’s arms when, for the first time in memory, someone did approach Skelleth down the ancient Wasteland Road.

  Thus it was that Garth rode into Skelleth unannounced and unopposed astride his great black warbeast, past the wide ring of abandoned, ruined homes and streets into the inhabited portion, his steel helmet glinting in the morning sunlight, his crimson cloak draped loosely across his shoulders. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, ignoring the ragged handful of villagers who first stared and then ran at his appearance in their midst.

  Although Garth’s noseless, leathery-brown face and glaring red eyes were enough to evoke horror among humans, it was quite possible that some of the villagers did not even notice him at first but ran from his mount, thinking it some unnatural monster of the waste; it stood five feet high at the shoulder and measured eighteen feet from nose to tail, its sleek-furred feline form so superbly muscled that the weight of its armored rider was as nothing to it. Its wide padded paws made no more sound than any lesser cat’s and its slender tail curled behind it like a panther’s. Like its master, the warbeast did not spare so much as a glance from its golden slit-eyes or a twitch of its stubby whiskers for the terror-stricken townspeople, but strode smoothly on, unaffected, with the superb grace of its catlike kind, triangular ears flattened against its head. Its normal walk was as fast as a man’s trot, and the relentless onward flow of that great black body moving in utter silence through the icy mud of the streets was as terrifying in itself as the three-inch fangs that gleamed from its jaw.

  As the screams and shouts of the fleeting villagers increased, a faint frown touched Garth’s thin-lipped mou
th, though his gaze never wavered; this noisy reception was not what he wanted. He slid back his cloak, revealing the steely grey breastplate and black mail beneath, and slid his double-edged battle-axe from its place on the saddle, carrying it loosely in his left hand. His right hand still held the guide-handle of the beast’s halter, a guide that was more a formality than a necessity for a well-trained warbeast. Garth knew that his mount was the finest product of Kirpa’s breeding farms, the end result of a thousand years of magically assisted crossbreeding and careful selection. Still, he kept the handle in hand, preferring to trust no creature save himself.

  As Garth approached the market-square at the center of town, he found himself the object of a hundred curious stares. His lack of offensive action thus far had allowed the villagers to gather their nerve, and they now lined the street to watch him pass, their earlier shouting giving way to an awed silence; he was by far the most impressive sight Skelleth had seen in centuries. They gawked at the size of his mount, at his own seven-foot stature, at the gleaming axe in his hand, at the dull armor that protected him and, incidentally, hid the black fur that was one of the major differences between his race and humanity. He could not hide his lack of facial hair, his lack of a nose, nor the hollow cheeks and narrow lips which all combined to give his visage, to human eyes, much the appearance of a red-eyed skull.

  Garth was not impressed with Skelleth. It certainly failed to live up to the ancestral tales of a mighty fortress standing eternally vigilant, barring his race from the warm, lush south. Although the outer wall had plainly once been a serious fortification, he had seen several gaps in it as he approached, crumbled sections wide enough for a dozen soldiers to walk through abreast if they were willing to clamber over loose stone. He could see why the wall went unrepaired; the village guarded by this quondam barrier was scarcely worth the trouble of taking that walk. Quite aside from the foolishness of the crowd, even in the parts not utterly ruinous, the half-timbered buildings that sagged with long years of harsh weather and ill care were no better than the poorest sections of his native Ordunin — rather worse, in truth, and the people, dirty, ragged, and flea-bitten, were worse still. But then, they were merely humans.

  There was a murmur among the villagers as half a dozen men-at-arms belatedly appeared, their short swords drawn. Garth looked at them in mild amusement, dropping his gaze at last, and halted his mount with a soft word.

  To the northerner, this pitiful sextet appeared as harmless as many geese; he had feared he would be confronted by cavalry in plate armor, or at the very least a few pikemen, not a handful of farmers in rusty mail shirts carrying poorly-forged swords half the length of the broad blade that hung at his side. Surely his ancestors had fought mightier foes than these? It was clearly not just the wall that had decayed over the years since the overmen had withdrawn into the Northern Waste. Still, these were plainly the town authorities or their representatives, and it was necessary to treat them diplomatically if he were to go on about his business unhindered. It being the guest’s duty to speak before the host, he said, “Greetings, men of Skelleth.”

  With some hesitation, the squad’s captain — at least, Garth assumed he was captain, since his helmet was steel rather than leather — replied, “Greetings, overman.”

  “I am Garth of Ordunin. I come in peace.”

  “Then why is your axe unsheathed?”

  “I was unsure of my reception.”

  Hesitating once more, the captain said, “We have no quarrel with you.”

  Garth slid the axe back into its boot. “Then could you direct me to the King’s Inn?”

  The man gave directions, then paused, unsure of what to do next.

  “May I pass?” Garth asked politely.

  Well aware that, should the warbeast decide to pass, he and his men would have no chance of stopping it, the captain motioned his subordinates aside, and Garth continued on his way to the broken-down tavern that had been known for longer than anyone could recall as the King’s Inn, despite the utter lack of any connection with any known monarch.

  As the guard captain watched the looming figure of the overman recede, it struck him that he had not yet fulfilled his whole duty; two details remained. “Tarl, Thoromor, we must inform the Baron at once,” he said. Ignoring the unhappy expressions of the two chosen to accompany him, he pointed to those not named and went on, “And you three will go see whether that monster killed Arner or whether the young fool deserted his post, and report back to me” The trio saluted and marched off as the captain cast a final glance at Garth’s back, sparing himself a moment to envy the overman’s armor and weapons before hurrying toward the Baron’s mansion. The pair he took with him followed reluctantly, muttering over the unpleasant likelihood that their lord would be in one of his notorious fits of depression.

  It was a sign of Skelleth’s poverty that the Baron could afford neither palace nor castle, but made do with a house that was referred to as a mansion largely out of courtesy, facing the market-square and blocking a few winding streets that perforce ended in a short cross-alley along the rear of the Baron’s home. Once these streets had been thoroughfares leading into the square, when Skelleth had a less immediate government; but the first Baron had erected his domicile and seat of government with an utter disregard for anything except the appearance of its unbroken façade. Thus the alley that had once been an unimportant cross-street became even less important as the streets leading into it were cut off, and sank into a state of filth and disrepair unequaled anywhere in the kingdom of Eramma. It was on this alley that the King’s Inn faced.

  Garth’s face, having no nose to wrinkle, showed no sign of disgust at his unhygienic surroundings as he led his mount into the stable beside the tavern, but he was disgusted nevertheless; no community of overmen, he told himself, would ever allow such feculence. Trying to ignore his environment, he made sure the warbeast was as comfortable as could be managed, removing the battle-axe from the saddle to prevent chafing where its haft slapped the creature’s flank and cleaning the beast’s catlike ears with the wire brush designed for that task. The creature accepted these attentions silently, as always. That done, the overman leaned the axe and his broadsword against one wall of the stall, as neither was suitable equipage for a visit to a tavern; his only weapon would be the foot-long dirk on his belt. Looking around, he spotted the stable boy who had tremblingly refused to approach the monstrous beast, and strode over to him. The frightened youth cowered, but stood his ground.

  “My warbeast will need feeding. See that he is brought meat, as much as you can carry, raw, and as fresh as possible. If he is not fed before I return, I will let him eat you instead. Is that clear?” The lad nodded, too frightened to speak. “Further, if any of my belongings are disturbed, I will hunt down and kill whoever is responsible. Here.” He pulled a handful of gold from the pouch on his belt and dumped it in the boy’s hands. The youth’s eyes widened, his fear forgotten, though he remained unable to speak. Garth realized that he had probably just given away as much gold as the entire village possessed, but the thought did not bother him; he had plenty, and could expect good service if he were generous. Leaving the boy staring in disbelief at the wealth he held, the overman strode out of the stable toward the tavern.

  Stepping inside the taproom door, Garth stopped for an instant in astonishment. Despite its ordure-coated, crumbling exterior, the King’s Inn was as clean and orderly within as a well-kept ship. The floor was well scrubbed oak, worn to a velvet smoothness by countless feet and shaped into hills and valleys that showed the tables had not been moved in generations; the walls were paneled in dark woods kept polished to a reflective gloss; the windows, though the glass was purple with age, were spotless and unbroken. The tables and chairs were solid, well-made pieces of the woodworker’s art, worn, like the floor, to a beautiful softness. Most of one wall was taken up by a stone fireplace where a friendly blaze danced; opposite it stood the barrels of
beer and wine, their brass fittings polished and bright. The far wall was partially obscured by a staircase leading to an upper story, and various doors opened to either side.

  Though it was too early in the day for even the lunchtime drinkers, half a dozen customers were sitting about; they had been talking cheerfully, but all conversation died when the overman entered. All eyes save two turned toward the armored monstrosity that stood in the doorway, blinking in surprise; the two that did not belonged to a figure that sat alone at a small table in the corner between the fireplace and the stairs, a figure bent with age whose only visible feature was a long white beard, the rest of his face and form being hidden by the tattered ruin of a hooded yellow cloak that he wore.

  As Garth’s moment of astonishment passed, he spotted this lone shape and wondered briefly why he did not look up as had his fellows. Perhaps he was deaf and had not noticed the silence, or blind, in which case he had no reason to raise his head. Both infirmities, Garth knew, were common among extremely aged humans. He returned his thoughts to his quest and realized that this ancient was the only one present fitting the oracle’s description. Although the other customers, apparently all farmers, were far from well dressed, none were in rags. Only the old man wore yellow, the others being variously clad in grey, brown, and a paler grey that must once have been white. With a mental shrug, though outwardly impassive, Garth crossed the room to the shadowed corner where the old man sat, and seated himself at the other side of the table.

  The old man gave no sign that he was aware of the newcomer.

  The other customers, after following the overman across the room with their eyes, now turned back to their own conversations. Garth was unsure whether his sensitive ears had caught the phrase “Should have known” being muttered at another table.

  After a moment, when the old man remained utterly motionless, Garth hesitantly broke the silence by saying, in a low voice, “I seek one called the Forgotten King.”