The Lure of the Basilisk

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “If you kill me, you will not only not know how to use the enclosure, you will be unable to move it, assuming any of you survive Koros’ assault. You will have to kill the warbeast to survive, and I doubt any of you can.”

  “We have a stalemate, then. You have not turned over your captive as agreed. Therefore, we will take you back to Skelleth and kill you there.”

  “I will tell you how to move it; freeing it would be far too dangerous. Is that not sufficient?” Garth wished he could reach his sword or his axe; the man carrying them stood off to one side, just a little too far to reach in a single lunge. If he were armed, he was sure he and Koros could easily handle eight soldiers and an unarmed baron.

  Herrenmer was obviously unsure of how to respond to Garth’s answer. He turned to the Baron, who nodded.

  Turning back, he said, “Very well, overman. You may live, and we will free you, in exchange for the basilisk, caged as it is. However, henceforth, you or any other overman passing through these lands must pay tribute to the Baron, as is his right to demand.”

  Garth considered briefly, then nodded. “The cage may be moved by moving a talisman; I left it over there, partially buried.” He pointed, and the soldier sent to search the “tent,” who had wandered back to the party, went to find the object indicated. A few seconds later he held up the wooden rod.

  Herrenmer asked, “How does it work?”

  “Move the rod beyond a certain distance and the cage will follow it. It may require some strength to move.”

  The man holding the talisman tried to rejoin the group, but stumbled and fell awkwardly backward when the rod he clutched suddenly refused to move beyond a certain point. Turning, he hauled on it with his full strength. Slowly, inch-by-inch, the rod yielded, and as it did the cage followed, the cloth cover flapping loudly. A loud hissing came from within.

  One of the guards said, “Vala, what’s that sound?”

  “The basilisk,” Garth answered. After a pause, he added, “I have fulfilled my end of the agreement. Give me my sword.”

  The man holding his weapons looked questioningly at his captain, who looked at the Baron. The Baron did nothing. He stood motionless, frowning at the basilisk’s enclosure. Shrugging, Herrenmer waved for the man to approach. He obeyed promptly, and began to offer the sword to its owner. Herrenmer interrupted, “Wait. Overman, your word that you will not harm any of us, nor take back the monster.”

  “I have given my word that my captive would be surrendered.”

  “It has been; we ask only a reasonable reassurance before returning your weapons.”

  “You may have my word that I will leave this place in peace.”

  Herrenmer glanced at the Baron, who was still frowning detachedly. Seeing no indication that he was even conscious of the conversation taking place, Herrenmer said, “That is sufficient.” Garth reached out and received his sword; it felt good to hold it once again. Strapping it on, he glanced at the cage as the basilisk hissed again. It was quite probable that he would have to recapture the damnable monster, and that the sword would be necessary to such an endeavor. He did not look forward to it. With the scabbard secure at his waist, he accepted the proffered hilt of his axe, and slung it on his back in its accustomed place. Thus equipped, he crossed to where Koros waited and hauled saddle and pack into place on the warbeast’s back. A moment later the straps were secured, and Garth swung up onto the saddle. The men-at-arms had watched these proceedings with casual interest; they made no comment as Garth turned his mount and rode off northward across the muddy farmland.

  It appeared, of course, that Garth was taking the fastest route back to his homeland. This was not the case. Once he was sure he was well out of sight he turned Koros westward, and proceeded around the northern edge of Skelleth. Since he now knew, from Arner’s execution, that a guard was maintained on the North Gate, he avoided that entrance to the town, giving it a wide berth, and instead rode on to the West Gate. It seemed unlikely that any guard would be kept there; no one had any reason to expect any traffic from the west. Garth’s rather limited knowledge of geography led him to the conclusion that a road leading west from Skelleth could only lead to the Yprian Coast, which he believed to be inhabited only by a few starving barbarians.

  It would have taken three or four hours to reach the West Gate on foot, but the warbeast’s steady glide, seemingly unhampered by the mud, covered the distance in an hour and a half. It was still well before noon when Garth dismounted and led Koros cautiously up to the crumbling remains of the town wall.

  Three hundred years of neglect, decay, and declining population following the loss of Skelleth’s original purpose as a military base and her consequent lack of trade had, as Garth had observed when he first arrived, left the outer limits of Skelleth a desolate ring of ruins, inhabited only by thieves, rats, and outcasts — until such vermin starved to death, as large numbers invariably did every winter, leaving room for a new crop each summer. Some public-spirited official, a century past, had had several of the uninhabited houses pulled down, but the industry of the townspeople had extended no further than that; the roofless, tottering ruins were left where they were. Though they provided very little shelter, it was not shelter Garth sought, but cover. When he had passed the West Gate into this no-man’s-land, he turned from the street that led into the village and made his way carefully through the rubble-strewn, overgrown maze of avenues and alleys.

  It took him perhaps twenty minutes to find what he sought — a cellar; hidden by two walls that still stood shoulder-high on the side toward the main road, which appeared relatively safe and not unduly difficult to climb out of. It took a moment’s coaxing to get Koros to leap down into such an uninviting pit, but Garth had decided that it was necessary to hide the beast somewhere; he plainly could not ride boldly into the village, nor did he care to leave Koros outside the walls advertising its master’s presence to anyone who passed — such as the Baron’s guards, who might well be set to patrolling the area, in case more overmen approached. This basement would serve admirably as a base of operations, and Garth cared very little whether Koros liked it or not.

  It would, however, be a good idea to make sure the warbeast was fed. There was no urgency; it had eaten a day and a half ago, leaving at least twenty-four hours before there was cause to worry.

  That left him with nothing to do. He did not dare enter Skelleth proper by daylight, but planned on sneaking to the King’s Inn under cover of darkness to speak with the Forgotten King. He could make no further plans until he had discussed the situation. That left him rather at loose ends until sunset, still a good seven hours off.

  He polished his sword until it shone; with a suitable stone, he sharpened both sword and axe to a razor edge; he took inventory of his supplies; he brushed down the warbeast; he polished his breastplate; he brushed off his makeshift cloak; he cleared half the cellar so that Koros could move about. By sunset he had exhausted his ingenuity. He spent the last half hour before the skies seemed sufficiently dark in watching the clouds drift and thicken. When he did finally clamber out of the ruins, it was with a better knowledge of the ways of clouds and a suspicion that it would be raining by midnight.

  Chapter Twelve

  Crouched awkwardly, Garth stood under an overhanging upper story, dripping wet, his slit nostrils filled with the reek of decaying sewage. The smell, as much as his memory of the route, told him that he had at last found the right alleyway. Unfamiliar as he was with Skelleth, and not daring to use the main thoroughfares, he had wound his way cautiously inward from the ruins, only to become quite lost. His prediction had been fulfilled sooner than he had expected. It was pouring rain two hours after sunset, while he was still attempting to convince himself that he was not lost. The attempt had failed; it was pure luck that finally brought him to the malodorous alleyway behind the baronial mansion, and Garth knew it. The rain had proven a blessing in disguise, in that it had driven
everyone indoors, making his detection less likely; but it was a mixed blessing at best, as he was cold, wet, and miserable, and the crowd at the King’s Inn was staying late rather than walk home in such a storm. He dared not enter until the mob inside thinned out enough to allow him to walk across the room without bumping elbows on every side. He wished once again that he knew how to curse as he wondered how a tavern in such an appalling neighborhood could attract such a large clientele.

  From his refuge, Garth could see up the alley to the back of the Baron’s mansion. Lights shone in several windows. From snatches of conversation picked up from passers-by, Garth knew that the Baron had made a triumphal procession out of bringing the basilisk into Skelleth; the cage had been paraded, safely covered, through the streets to the market square, where it had remained, heavily guarded, until sunset, when onlookers had been chased from the area. It had disappeared when they were allowed to return, and no one knew where it had gone, nor what it was, nor where it came from, nor anything else about the mysterious tentlike object. In short, the knowledge available to the public was no more than Garth would expect, and much less than he had feared. It would not do to have it known that a basilisk was around; some fool would be certain to test its legendary powers of petrifaction.

  A movement from the direction of the King’s Inn caught his attention. He turned and watched motionlessly as half a dozen drunken farmers reeled and staggered through the puddles toward their homes — or where they drunkenly assumed their homes to lie. Garth was doubtful that they would all make it out of the alley, let alone to their various places of residence. Sure enough, one stumbled and fell headlong in a stinking pool of rainwater and sewage. His companions helped him up, and the whole party was soon out of sight.

  The overman guessed it to be about midnight. Abandoning his bit of shelter, he made his way slowly, bent and shuffling, toward the inn. A glance through the window confirmed that, though the crowd had thinned, there were still too many people. A closer look showed that the Forgotten King, invisible in his ragged saffron cloak and hood, was seated in his customary place, as though he had not moved since Garth’s departure a month before. It also showed that a good many of the patrons were unconscious, which, combined with the fact that the rain showed no sign of lessening, caused Garth to reconsider risking entry. He was still arguing with himself when a movement off to his left caught his eye.

  A man was approaching from the far end of the alley. Even at that distance and despite the rain and darkness, Garth could see that he wore a sword and helmet. The Baron must have set the guards to patrolling the streets.

  Without further thought, Garth shuffled through the tavern door and stood, dripping wet, just inside. No one paid him any attention at all; they were all too busy with ale, wine, and conversation. Remembering to retain his stooped posture, he shook himself to dry his garments, then began to inch his way through and around the crowd toward the table where, despite the throng, the Forgotten King sat alone. Behind him he heard the door slam shut. He had left it slightly ajar, and assumed one of the patrons, disliking the cool outside air, had closed it. He did not turn to look for fear of showing his face.

  A sudden silence descended over the room, and his curiosity got the better of him. He craned about, as he had seen stiff-jointed old men do, and caught a glimpse of the soldier he had seen on the street and sought to avoid. The man was shaking water from his hair, paying no mind to the wet, cloaked figure halfway across the room. Relieved to see that the guard was not pursuing him, Garth proceeded on to the Forgotten King’s table and eased himself into an empty chair. Carefully keeping his face shadowed, he peered around the edge of his hood to see what the soldier would do when he had dried himself somewhat.

  He did exactly what anyone would expect a man to do in a tavern on a cold, wet night; he shoved his way to where the innkeeper was dispensing spirits and loudly demanded a pint of warm red wine. The fat, harried fellow ignored other importunities to fetch the beverage requested, and gratefully accepted the coin proffered in exchange before returning to his regular customers.

  The soldier downed half the wine at a gulp, then turned and seemed to notice the crowd for the first time.

  “What are all you scum doing here?” he demanded. “You know the Baron disapproves of such frivolity.”

  A voice in the crowd called, “He doesn’t approve of his guards drinking, either.” That caused a good bit of laughter. The soldier himself grinned broadly.

  “As often as not he doesn’t approve of anything at all, ’tis true; but then again, he has spells where he’s as merry as any, and in his fits he couldn’t care less either way. So, as we don’t know his mood just now, if you don’t say anything, neither will I, and we’ll all be the better for it. The gods know a man needs something to warm his belly on a night like this. But there’s another man due in fifteen minutes who may not be so agreeable. The Baron thinks the overman will be trying to sneak back here.” That called forth a burst of derision and treasonous remarks about Skelleth’s lord, and Garth could make out no more conversation.

  He turned to the yellow-robed figure across the table and whispered, “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  He was unsure whether the cowled head nodded slightly or not, but a moment later the old man rose and turned as if to go. Garth did likewise, only to find himself following as the Forgotten King led the way upstairs. At the head of the stairs a corridor led toward the front of the building, with four doors opening off either side. It was utterly bare and smelled of dust, a dry, ancient smell despite the rain which rattled on the roof above it. There was no ceiling; the naked rafters and planks of the inn’s roof were dimly visible some fifteen feet overhead, and the ridgepole ran along the center of the passage.

  Behind them, Garth heard the sound of chairs pushed back and departing feet. The soldier’s warning had apparently had some effect, and he wondered if it had been necessary to abandon the cheery tavern for this dark musty corridor that somehow reminded him of the crypts beneath Mormoreth.

  Heedless of the darkness, the Forgotten King led the way directly to the farthest door and brought an ornate key out from under his tatters. It clicked loudly, and the door swung open, revealing a large, low-ceilinged room with a broad, many-paned window overlooking the street, whence a dim glow trickled in to provide the only illumination. As Garth stepped across the threshold, the old man reached up to an ornate wrought-iron candelabrum, and the huge tallow cylinder that topped it sprang alight, though Garth had seen no splint, spark, or match. The candle cast a dull, smoky light whereby Garth could make out something of the furnishings.

  The room was a bedchamber. A velvet-canopied bed stood against the far wall, with elaborate candelabra on either side, both freestanding and on tables. The light was too dim to distinguish colors, but the velvet coverings reminded Garth of dried blood.

  A gust of wind slapped rain against the glass, and Garth looked toward the window. Two low chairs, richly upholstered and resembling none he had ever seen before, stood on either side of a low table that glittered oddly, as though it were made of mica-bearing stone.

  The old man motioned toward these chairs. Cautiously, Garth settled his weight on one, and found it surprisingly comfortable, though too low to sit straight in. He adjusted himself as best he could and peered through the gloom at the King.

  The silence was finally broken when Garth announced, without preamble, “I have returned from Mormoreth.”

  The Forgotten King did not deign to reply to so obvious a statement, and after a pause Garth went on, “I brought forth that which I found in the crypts, and it is now in Skelleth.”

  “Indeed?” The dry, hideous voice startled the overman, though he had heard it before. He had forgotten, while traveling just how harsh it was. Likewise, noticing the hands that clutched the arms of the Forgotten King’s chair, he saw all over again how old and withered the man was. His fingers were lit
tle more than bone bound in a thin layer of wrinkled skin. His face was hidden, as always, and Garth wondered again what his eyes looked like.

  “Yes.”

  “Then deliver it to me, and we may resolve further the terms of our bargain.”

  “There are matters to be settled first.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I believe you know what it was I found.”

  The King made no answer.

  “I do not believe you would have set me such a task had you not known its nature.”

  Again there was no reply.

  “Therefore, I believe that you have some use for this creature. When we spoke before, you made mention of certain desires of your own, which required things you do not yet possess. This creature is one of those things, is it not?”

  “I have a use for the basilisk.”

  “What use?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “Perhaps not; still, I would know what it is.”

  “That was no part of our agreement.”

  “True. But when we framed our bargain, I had no idea that I was being sent for so venomous a creature.”

  “Ah. How does that alter the agreement?”

  “I want no part of unleashing so potent a force of death as the basilisk. I can see no use or need for such a creature unless you plan to use it as Shang did, to destroy large numbers of people.”

  “Nonetheless, I have a use for it, and you have agreed to bring it to me as the first part of our bargain.

  “As I told you at our first meeting, I am weary of the omnipresence of death and decay. I do not wish to contribute to the spread of death.”

  The yellow-clad figure stirred slightly. “Garth, do you know what year this is?”

  Garth was puzzled by the apparent change of subject. “It is the year three hundred and forty-four of Ordunin.”