The Lure of the Basilisk

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  That done, he looked over the heads of the guards at the Baron’s face. Whatever the news was, it seemed unwelcome, as the customary frown was deeper than ever. Then, with a curious shrug that seemed to leave him smaller than before and with an audible sigh, the frown vanished, to be replaced with an expression of utter despair such as Garth had seen heretofore only on caged animals — the expression that meant the animal would soon waste away and die. The Baron sagged, as if it took all his will merely to stand upright; he leaned heavily on the corridor wall.

  One of the men-at-arms nearest the Baron asked solicitously, “Is there anything we can do, my lord?” His voice was sympathetic, but Garth thought he detected a note of contempt where he would have expected surprise or confusion. Surely this sort of collapse could not be a common occurrence?

  The soldier had sheathed his sword and was helping the Baron to stand. He looked toward the overman, standing at the foot of the stairs on what would have been the natural route to the Baron’s bedchamber, then glanced back toward the door to the dungeons, unsure which way to go. The messenger also looked about, apparently noticing Garth for the first time, and asked, “What should we do, my lord?”

  The Baron shook his head and managed to croak, “Doesn’t matter.” Garth was appalled. The man was clearly suffering some sort of seizure, displaying the symptoms of a person in deep shock or sorely wounded. The entire party was now watching the Baron rather than the overman; swords were lowered, crouches abandoned. Seeing the easing of tension, the man escorting the Baron led him through the cluster of soldiers, past the motionless overman, and up the stairs, where the remaining men fell back to make room.

  When he was past and out of sight around the corner at the top of the stairs, a man remarked casually, “It’s a bad one this time.”

  A companion nodded, as heads began to turn in Garth’s direction again. The overman, for his part, was utterly astonished by this turn of events, and glanced about in confusion. Could this anticlimax be the end of the battle? He was about to ask what the messenger had told the Baron when he received an even greater surprise. The guardsmen on the stairs moved abruptly downward, retreating from something, and there appeared at the top a huge black catlike head, with golden eyes and gleaming fangs, peering down at the torch lit corridor.

  “Koros!” Garth’s greeting burst forth involuntarily. He was almost as amazed by how happy he was to see the beast as he was by its presence. It growled pleasantly in response, but made no effort to move closer. It apparently didn’t care to try squeezing around the corner onto the narrow staircase. Seeing this, Garth ordered it, “Wait,” and turned to the nearest guard, one of those he had wounded in the brief melee.

  “Where is the basilisk?”

  “In the dungeon.”

  “Show me.”

  The man glanced around at his companions, who merely shrugged or looked away. One ventured to comment, “The Baron said it didn’t matter.” He did not look as if he meant it.

  Resignedly, the wounded man turned and led the way to the door at the end of the corridor. Beyond it was a small room holding a rough wooden table, with several rings of keys hung on the wall and a statue standing in the center. The statue was of a wretched underfed youth. Garth stared at it in dismay.

  His guide, feeling some explanation was in order, said, “The Baron wanted to test the legend. He promised the boy his freedom if he lived.”

  “His freedom?”

  “He was awaiting sentencing for theft.”

  “Oh.” Garth paused as the man took a set of keys from the wall and opened an iron-bound door at right angles to the one by which they had entered. As it swung wide to reveal a dreary stone passage, lit by a single torch, he said, “Tell me about the Baron. What is wrong with him, that he acted as he did just now?”

  The man shrugged. “No one knows for sure. He’s always been that way. He has these moods every few days where he refuses to do anything, he can’t stand, can’t speak. Once or twice he has slashed his wrists, but then bandaged them before the blood loss was serious. He’s usually at his best, full of wit and charm, just a day or two before, which makes it seem all the worse. When he’s well, he’s a very clever man, there’s no doubt, as methinks you’ve seen. But of late his fits have been getting worse. Some say he’s under a curse, or that he deals with evil forces and suffers thus as payment.”

  Garth suggested, to see the man’s reaction, “Perhaps he’s mad.”

  “Oh, there’s little doubt that he’s mad! The only question is why.”

  This served only to confuse the overman. “If he’s mad, why is he permitted to remain in power?”

  The man gaped at Garth in astonishment. “He’s the Baron! The High King gave Skelleth to his father! How could that be changed?”

  Garth was on shaky ground, since he knew very little of Eramman politics, but ventured, “Could you not petition the High King to replace him?”

  The man was slow in replying, “Well, I suppose we could, but why? He’s not that bad, and he is our rightful lord. Better a madman like our own than one like the Baron of Sland!”

  Since Garth had no idea who the Baron of Sland was nor what he was like, he could make no cogent reply. Instead he fell silent and permitted his escort to lead him into the passageway, a corridor about twenty feet long ending in another door identical to that he had just passed, with another corridor opening off the middle of the right-hand side and with several metal doors in the left wall, apparently leading to cells for imprisoning criminals. The smell of basilisk was readily noticeable.

  The pair turned down the side corridor, which extended about thirty feet, with five doors on each side and a blank grey wall at the end, where another torch served to lessen the gloom. The guide stopped and pointed. “It’s in the second cell on the left.”

  Garth nodded. “Where is the Sealing Rod?”

  The man looked blank.

  “The talisman that keeps it imprisoned. Where is it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Garth, though annoyed, saw no reason for the man to lie. “Were you present when it was brought here?” he demanded.

  “No.”

  “Well, fetch me someone who was.”

  The guard turned to go, and Garth suddenly realized what an incredibly stupid thing he was doing. It would be a very simple matter for the fellow to just close and lock the dungeon door and post guards with crossbows, in case Garth should hack down the door with his axe. Koros would be no problem; it had been told to wait, and as long as it was fed it would do just that. It might be a bit inconvenient having a warbeast in the front hall, but it could be lived with. And when Garth had starved to death, a way could be found to dispose of it.

  “Wait!” Preferring safety to dignity, Garth ran to catch up.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The gathering at the foot of the stairs had broken up. There was no sign of the recent abortive battle except one or two small spatters of blood on the stone floor. A lone guardsman sat on the bottom step, cleaning his sword. It was the man Garth had disarmed and knocked unconscious. His hand bore a few scratches where the rough hilt had been torn from his grasp. The sword was also scratched, apparently having suffered when so rudely flung about. As Garth and his escort approached the man picked it up to sight along the blade, and muttered, “Aghad and Bheleu!” The blade was bent.

  The escort interrupted. “Saram, the overman is looking for someone who saw the basilisk put away.”

  The man addressed as Saram looked up and growled, “So what?”

  “I don’t know who was there. I thought you might.”

  “I was there myself. Why?” He looked from his fellow soldier to his recent adversary.

  Garth spoke on his own behalf. “I want to know where the Sealing Rod is.”

  Saram squinted up at him, which Garth was su
re could only be an affectation in the dim torchlight, and asked, “The what?”

  “The wooden rod that keeps the basilisk caged.”

  “Is that what it is? A carved stick about thus?” He held up his hands to indicate the length, having laid his ruined sword on the step beside him.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I want the basilisk.”

  “But why should I tell you?”

  Garth had no ready answer.

  “You’re worried you won’t get the monster out of here before the Baron comes out of it, eh? Probably right, unless you can make it worth my while to help.”

  Comprehension dawned on Garth. He dug out his purse and handed Saram a coin. Saram studied it, acknowledged it to be gold and of sufficient size, and stood up.

  “I’ll show you. Come along.”

  Garth hesitated, then ordered his original guide, “You too.” Together they followed Saram as he stalked down the corridor, clutching his naked sword.

  Having appropriated a ring of keys in the wardroom, Saram promptly went, not to the cell that held the basilisk, but to the last door on that side. Unlocking it at last after trying half a dozen different keys, he swung the heavy metal door open to reveal a tiny cell containing nothing but a mound of straw. He indicated the pile and said, “Under there.”

  Garth started to step into the cell, then thought better of it. That would be even stupider than merely getting himself locked in the dungeon. Grabbing the other soldier, he said, “You get it.”

  The man obeyed. Apparently no trickery had been planned. The rod was indeed under the straw, and was handed promptly to the overman.

  “Good. Now unlock the cell with the basilisk in it”

  Saram handed the keys to his comrade and said, “Here. Your turn.” He then attempted a hasty departure, to be discouraged by the overman’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Wait. Don’t look at it and you’ll be safe.” He motioned to the other, who reluctantly approached the cell he had earlier indicated, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The key turned in the lock, and the door swung out an inch.

  Suddenly noticing that he was on the wrong side of the basilisk, Garth said, “Enough,” and began walking up the corridor. The rod in his hand began to resist when he had gone a few paces, and he found it necessary to push it over toward the wall opposite the creature’s cell; even then it required considerable force to move it, and he wondered how the Baron had ever gotten it there in the first place. Had the cell door not already been unlocked he might have dissolved the barrier, but as it was he did not dare, nor did he care to take the time to lock the door again for the few minutes necessary. Instead he merely pressed on, and heard a ferocious and familiar hissing in response. The two men-at-arms were rather visibly taken aback. It was only the fact that Garth had not yet sheathed his sword that kept the one whose name he didn’t know from running.

  Then suddenly he was past the crucial point, and the abrupt cessation of resistance almost sent him sprawling. Saram, his composure at least partly recovered, ventured, “’Twas easier getting it in here.”

  Garth growled as he steadied himself, carefully looking away from that ominous inch-wide opening; his displeasure was caused as much by the dry, deathly stench that was filling the passage as by the man’s irritating remark. The venomous vapor had had half a day to accumulate in the tiny room, and the air of that cell was undoubtedly lethal by now. Well, at least its next occupant need not worry about vermin.

  He motioned for the guards to precede him out. He did not care to speak aloud and give that poisonous atmosphere greater access to his lungs. They obeyed promptly, both of them beginning to gag on the fumes. They had not developed the tolerance Garth had from his prolonged exposure in Mormoreth, and would probably have been more sensitive in any case, being merely human. They seemed too busy choking to try trapping Garth in the dungeon, but nonetheless he kept his sword ready and made sure both remained within easy reach until they were all in the wardroom. His left hand kept a secure hold on the rod, which he thrust into his belt.

  There was a hiss from behind as the basilisk objected to being moved, and the nameless guard started to turn, thoughtlessly. Garth slapped him, hard, with the flat of the sword, leaving a small slash in the sleeve of his mail shirt where the edge had not been angled away sufficiently. Startled, the man looked at the overman rather than the basilisk. Without a word, Garth pointed at the petrified prisoner who stood a yard away. The guard shuddered and looked faint. Saram tried to grin, but he, too, was pale.

  Since there were no further doors between him and the outside that could stand up to more than a few quick blows of his axe, he decided there was no reason to keep his two-man escort any longer. With a motion he indicated that they could go. The first promptly ran for the stairs; Saram started to depart at a more leisurely pace.

  “Wait!” Garth called, remembering something. Saram stopped, but did not look back. Although, from where he was, the monster was around a corner and therefore invisible, he was not taking chances.

  “Where is the cover for the enclosure?” Garth demanded.

  Saram shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Find it. You were there when the basilisk was delivered. You must have seen what became of it.”

  “It was dragged off toward the other stairs.”

  “Find it and bring it here.”

  Obviously none too pleased, Saram shrugged again, then nodded. He strolled off for the stairs again. Garth choked back an order to hurry; such a command would do no good when the man was out, of sight. Besides, he was already beginning to regret opening his mouth at all. Though the vapors in the wardroom were not concentrated enough to really bother him, they seemed to have put a foul taste on his tongue that he would have greatly preferred to do without. He wondered whether the monster’s trail would do any harm to his bare feet; it seemed unlikely, since it had only passed along this route once. In any case, he felt nothing but the ordinary cool stone against his soles.

  Having sent Saram off, Garth now had to wait where he was, for fear of petrifying the guard on his return should he move any further; this meant he had nothing to do but contemplate his surroundings and avoid looking behind himself.

  There being little else in the room worthy of study, he found himself inspecting the remains of the unfortunate youth used to test the basilisk’s legendary power. He was interested to notice the expression, which meant little to him, but was plainly not the look of abject terror he would have expected. He had seen human panic on Arner’s face when that youth, somewhat older and a good bit healthier than the current specimen, awaited his execution, and the aspect of the alleged thief bore no resemblance to that distorted countenance. Instead, Garth decided, there was something resolved about it; the mouth was shut, even compressed, so that those hideous oversize human lips scarcely showed; the jaw was set and the eyes open, but not unnaturally wide. The overman found himself wondering what peculiar combination of emotions could produce such a look on the face of one facing certain death. No, not certain death; he had been told that he might die, or that he might go free. It suddenly struck Garth that the young thief had been inordinately brave to take such a risk. Theft was not a capital crime in Skelleth, he was sure. He did not know what the customary penalty was, but to gamble one’s life, one’s very existence, on an unknown chance for freedom, with no chance to defend oneself . . .

  He shuddered slightly. It was not a thing he would care to do in such a situation. Though he thought highly of himself, Garth admitted that he probably would not have such courage. Perhaps the humans placed a higher value on freedom than overmen did, or a lower value on survival. The latter was certainly possible from what little he had seen of human society. Perhaps their beliefs in supernatural powers, gods and the like, had something to do with it; he had heard that most believed in some sort of existence after death, where t
he essence, the personality of the individual — they had a special word for it, the soul — lived on, in some other world. The idea seemed very nebulous and unlikely to Garth, but such a concept would undoubtedly account for the disregard for life some humans seemed to display-such as the dead thief he was studying.

  But then, the boy had been very thin. Garth imagined he could make out the bones in his arms and legs, and ribs made visible ridges in his ragged tunic. Perhaps he had gone mad from hunger, like an unfed warbeast, and taken the first opportunity to leave his cell, despite the possible consequences. That did not explain what Garth was now fairly certain was the determined expression on the stone face, though; a starving warbeast appeared to be angry, enraged rather than determined.

  Overmen, he knew, did not go mad from hunger — he had seen too many of his people starve to death in bad winters to doubt that — but perhaps humans did. He was musing on the Baron’s apparent insanity, wondering if it were diet-related, when Saram called from the foot of the stairs. The villagers seemed to take their lord’s insanity for granted. Such afflictions were plainly far more common among humans than among overmen.

  It did not occur to Garth that his own behavior, leaving his home and family for an idiot quest after fame, might well be considered mad by his fellow overmen.

  Turning his attention from such theoretical musings back to immediate concerns, he saw that Saram stood well down the corridor, facing the opposite direction and clutching a huge bundle of dirty cloth.

  “Bring it here!” Garth called.

  “Get it yourself,” Saram retorted, dropping his burden to the floor with a rattle of chains.