Garth glanced down at the wooden rod at his belt, then pulled it out and placed it carefully on the floor; he didn’t care to haul the basilisk out into the passageway yet. Leaving the rod there, he strode down the corridor to where Saram stood, one foot on the bundle.
“It was in the armory,” the guardsman said as Garth drew near. The overman suddenly realized that the man held a sword, not his ruined short sword, but a long, thin rapier that glinted where it caught the torchlight. Sometime during his wait, Garth had sheathed his own blade, and his hand now fell instinctively to its hilt.
“Oh?” Garth tried to sound noncommittal as he stopped a few paces from Saram’s back. He had no idea what the soldier had in mind. Surely he could not plan to tackle an overman single-handed!
“It’s a long trip to the armory.”
Suddenly remembering Sarams earlier actions, Garth thought he understood part of the man’s behavior, though the sword remained a mystery. He said “Oh” again, and pulled out a gold coin. An open palm appeared to accept it, apparently in response to the clink of metal when Garth reached into his purse. The overman put the coin on the palm, and both promptly disappeared. So did the sword, which was sheathed in the same flurry of motion.
“Anything else I can get you?” Saram still kept his back to the overman.
“No.”
Saram shrugged, and strolled back up the stairs, leaving the cover where it lay on the floor. Garth watched him go, more than a little confused by the man’s behavior. Had the sword been entirely to keep him from snatching up the cover without paying? It began to appear that all the humans he met were insane; the Forgotten King demanding delivery of a basilisk while swearing not to use it in the only way Garth could imagine, the Baron collapsing into a near catatonic depression as he watched, the boy-thief risking his life for freedom, Saram’s irrational behavior . . . it was all more than Garth could understand.
Finally, shrugging, he turned and walked back to the wardroom, being careful not to look toward the basilisk. He untangled the cover as best he could in the limited space, then lifted it up to shield his eyes as he proceeded back into the dungeon. There was no room to drape it properly around the enclosure, so he made do with hanging it across the leading edge. There was barely room above the barrier to squeeze through enough chain and cloth to keep the battered shroud in place. Once that was done, it was a matter of a few minutes to drag the whole mess to the stairs and to start up them. There was some difficulty in getting the leading edge of the cover up the steps, and Garth found it necessary to feel his way back down, eyes closed, to untangle things three times.
A trace of venom had apparently found its way into the cut on his left foot and was stinging abominably, but Garth refused to let that slow him. Upon first reaching the top of the stairs, he saw bright morning sun pouring through a nearby window, plainly showing that it was full day out. He could ill afford to waste further time. The Baron might recover at any moment, or Herrenmer, the captain of the guard, might take charge and decide to stop the overman. Garth considered it fortunate that Herrenmer had not been present at the predawn encounter, Judging by his performance at the confiscation of the basilisk, he would not have allowed Garth to simply go on about his business as had the other guards.
As well as the sunlight, Koros was waiting at the top of the stairs. Garth greeted it affectionately, if rather hurriedly, and hooked the Sealing Rod into its halter before leading it out to the entry hall, carefully keeping the warbeast’s golden eyes facing forward, away from the imperfectly hidden basilisk.
They met no one in the hallway. Undoubtedly the residents of the mansion didn’t care to come too close to Koros’ fangs.
In the entry hall two men-at-arms were guarding the front door, which stood slightly ajar. Garth could see splintered wood where lock and latch had been ripped out, presumably by the warbeast’s entrance in pursuit of its master. The doors were still on their hinges, though, and reasonably intact. It was just as well. Garth had no wish to further antagonize the Baron, though he doubted that the mad nobleman would ever forgive what he had already done.
Upon seeing the overman and warbeast appear, the guards stepped back, and one drew his sword.
Garth said, “Don’t worry; we’re leaving. Shield your eyes; we are taking the basilisk.”
The guards said nothing, but merely looked at one another, nodded, and stepped further back-through the door to the audience chamber. Garth continued forward and swung open the front door.
Immediately he regretted doing so. He reprimanded himself for not noticing the mutter of noise outside.
It was market-day, apparently; the square outside the mansion was thronged with people milling about, merchants hawking their wares, farmers selling their produce, and children running underfoot. Several turned and stared in astonishment at the armored apparition standing in the door of the Baronial mansion, and Garth stared back.
Offensive action seemed called for, before the crowd could remember its earlier aggression; Garth had no desire to be pelted with mud and stones again. He drew his sword and stepped forward into the sunlight, roaring at the crowd.
Immediately those nearest him fell back, terrified.
Koros, in response to its master’s bellowing, appeared at his shoulder. The crowd’s murmur died away for a long moment, then returned to a higher pitch. It occurred to the overman that he would have to empty the square completely before he could safely bring the basilisk out, since only in the square itself was there room to straighten the covering. Therefore he strode boldly forward with sword raised, his left hand unslinging his axe, the warbeast growling along a few paces behind him. When he had reached what seemed a good point, where Koros could join him without hauling the basilisk’s enclosure past the open door of the mansion, he stepped up on a merchant’s box and bellowed, “Go! This place is mine!”
Like magic, most of the mob evaporated. It had already cleared a wide path from the mansion door to his speaking-box, and that path quickly widened to include the whole square. Guards posted around the edge, whom Garth had not noticed before in the crowd, hesitated, but gave way before the rush of villagers and also retreated. A few die-hards remained, but another bellow and a swing of his sword sent them scurrying. A short charge and a feint in the direction of a straggler sent even the stubbornest fleeing. To be certain, Garth circled the market, bellowing and making threatening gestures up each street. The market square was indeed empty.
Well satisfied with his achievement, Garth hurried to the basilisk’s enclosure as Koros dragged it forth, and rapidly spread the covering around it properly. He knew that any second people would begin drifting back to watch whatever happened. He only hoped that they would remain intimidated, and not work up a raging mob over his supposed responsibility for Arner’s execution. He also hoped that the guards would not rally.
When the cloth-and-chain covering was securely in place Garth tried to rush to Koros’ side, but found himself limping badly on his injured and poisoned left foot, so that his progress across the square was more of a stagger than a run and his mounting more of a scramble than a leap. Once safely astride, he directed the warbeast toward the best route around the mansion toward the King’s Inn, and looked at his foot.
The cut itself was insignificant, as he had thought all along, but the venom had caused massive swelling and discoloration. He comforted himself with the thought that there couldn’t have been much of the poison or he would be dead already. As it was, he once again regretted the loss of his supplies; the medicinal herbs that now lay under a foot of rainwater could have treated the wound.
Also, of course, the warbeast’s saddle, now drowned, was somewhat more comfortable than its bare back. That could be endured, however, though Garth would have preferred to have the guide-handle rather than merely the halter he had left on the beast.
To Garth’s delight, the villagers fled before his advance. He had been rather w
orried that they might stand their ground. His extended contemplation of the petrified youth had given him a higher opinion of human courage than he had previously held.
Were it not for the pain in his foot, he would have enjoyed the ride; the sun was bright and warm, though clouds were gathering, and he was at long last about to deliver the basilisk to the Forgotten King. Unfortunately, the aching wound served to remind him of less pleasant matters: that he had lost all his supplies save a part of his gold, his sword, and his axe; that he had no boots nor cloak to his name; that he was surrounded by enemies; that the injury might well become gangrenous and therefore fatal; that he didn’t know if the warbeast had found and eaten the goats. All in all, his situation struck him as unenviable, and he was very glad indeed that this ridiculous quest was nearing its conclusion. He had little patience left.
So little patience, in fact, that after installing Koros and the basilisk in the stable beside the tavern — and frightening away the new stable-boy — he marched boldly if somewhat limpingly into the King’s Inn with drawn sword, ready to deal with whatever he might find there, up to and including the entire village guard. All he found, however, was half a dozen morning drinkers guzzling ale, the innkeeper polishing brass, and the Forgotten King sitting motionless at his usual table.
The overman stopped in the center of the taproom and looked around at the silent, terrified customers. A sudden feeling of anticlimax, like that following the Baron’s collapse, washed over him as he realized that this peaceful tavern was the end of his adventure. It seemed inappropriate. But then, he reminded himself, was this really the end? He had yet to deal with the Baron, and it might be some time before he could return again to his home and family. Also, there was still the mystery of what the Forgotten King wanted with the basilisk. He sheathed his sword, crossed to the old man’s table, and seated himself.
The Forgotten King, as usual, did nothing to acknowledge his existence.
“I have brought the basilisk.”
“Where?” The hideous voice was a shock, as always.
“In the stable, as you suggested.”
“Good.” The old man began to rise, but Garth caught his arm. He immediately regretted it; even through the voluminous yellow sleeve he could distinctly feel every bone and tendon, as hard and tense as wire. The arm had none of the natural warmth Garth had expected. He snatched his fingers back, as if burnt.
“Wait.”
The old man seated himself again, his head raised, apparently looking at Garth, though his eyes were invisible under his hood.
“Will you tell me why you want the basilisk?”
“No.” The voice seemed even drier than usual, and was definitely lower in pitch.
Garth thought better of further argument. After a brief pause, the Forgotten King rose, and this time the overman made no move to stop him. Instead he started to rise himself, only to sit down abruptly after attempting to put weight on his left foot. The old man gave no obvious sign that he had seen the movement, but he paused, standing beside the table, and hissed something in a language Garth had never heard before, totally unlike either the speech used throughout the northern lands or the ancient dead tongues the overman had seen in books. Then he turned and moved silently across to the door as Garth, somewhat taken aback, sat and watched him go.
It was only when the door had swung shut behind the tattered figure that Garth realized the pain in his foot was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
By midafternoon Garth had given up wondering about the Forgotten King’s purpose, and turned his thoughts instead to such practical matters as footwear. He did not care to go barefoot any longer than necessary; life without boots was proving thoroughly unpleasant. If his feet weren’t being burned or stabbed, they were cold, or wet, or both, making his life miserable in any number of small ways. As the sunlight inched its way across the tavern floor, from early morning to noon, he had expected the old man’s return at any moment and put off any real thought. As the bands of light beneath the windows swung past the vertical and began to lengthen, he had alternately worried lest the Forgotten King had accidentally perished and hoped that the old fool had indeed done so, all the while asking himself what use a basilisk could be. And now, as the light began to dim and the early diners arrived, he had turned to more worthwhile musings.
He had just decided that it would be perfectly reasonable to ask the innkeeper to recommend a good cobbler when the King at last reentered the taproom, as silent as ever but perhaps more stooped, as if dejected. Garth immediately surmised that whatever his goal might be, the old man had failed to attain it.
The yellow-robed figure sank quietly into his usual chair, his head bent low. Garth waited a polite moment before speaking, noticing that the ragged cloak the old man wore smelled faintly of basilisk venom.
“Greetings, O King.”
The old man said nothing.
“What of the basilisk?”
“It lives.” The dry voice was faint.
“What is to become of it now?”
“I care not.”
“Has it served your purpose?”
There was a long pause, then what might have been a sigh. “No. No, it has not.”
Before Garth could continue, something registered suddenly. For the past few seconds he had heard footsteps approaching the tavern, but had not paid any attention. A sudden realization catapulted that information to the conscious level and the center of his attention. The footsteps were those of several men, marching in step.
Soldiers!
There was a sudden blur of motion as the tavern door burst in, revealing a small crowd of the Baron’s guards. Almost simultaneously, Garth jumped up and snatched up the heavy oaken table one-handed, to serve as a shield until he could draw his weapons. Two heavy crossbow quarrels thudded into the ancient tabletop, their barbed heads projecting from the solid wood in a direct line with Garth’s chest.
Then, in shocking contrast to the flurry of activity, there was a long moment in which everything seemed frozen, suspended in time. Garth stood, his makeshift shield clutched in his left hand, his sword ready in his right, facing a dozen men-at-arms across half the width of the taproom. The crossbowmen seemed startled; they made no move to reload. The other guards were armed with swords — not their customary shortswords, but proper three-foot broadswords. The customers seemed paralyzed with astonishment, gaping at the battle tableau of a lone monster at bay holding off a dozen warriors.
And behind him, where the overman could not see him, the Forgotten King was grinning as he had not for centuries, his eye-sockets alight.
The silence was broken by a discordant screech from behind the soldiers, barely recognizable as the Baron’s voice.
“Kill him, you fools!”
Hesitantly, the foremost trio of guards advanced, only to fall back again as Garth crouched, sword raised. Again, all movement ceased, save for the maniacal dancing and yelling of the Baron, who stood in the doorway haranguing his men. The tension in the room mounted, as each side awaited a move from the other. Garth knew that his best move would be a sudden assault followed by a quick retreat, but he also knew that that would kill at least one of his foes, and he had hopes, even now, of avoiding bloodshed. He could see familiar faces among the guards. Herrenmer stood in the second rank, his steel helmet freshly polished; Saram held a crossbow and stood to one side, unmoving; the young man who had led him to the dungeon stood behind his captain; and other faces were also recognizable, men he had encountered upon his arrival in Skelleth, men who had saved him from the mob, men who had helped to confiscate the basilisk, men he had fought in the palace basement. Now they all stood facing him, with orders to kill.
Behind them the Baron continued to rave, his words all but unintelligible. Then one phrase suddenly rang out clearly in the tension-filled room.
“Remember Arner!”
Gar
th could see that those two words affected the guards, though he was not sure how. Expressions changed, stances shifted. Saram turned toward his master, his face showing surprise. Garth was too busy watching the swordsmen to pay much attention, until there came a sudden clatter.
Saram had flung down his crossbow. Even the Baron fell silent. Garth waited for the man to draw his sword, but instead he announced loudly, “This is stupid. Innkeeper!”
The other men forgot their opponent, and turned to gape in astonishment as Saram crossed to where the terrified tavern keeper stood beside the huge casks.
“Pour me an ale, you old fool,” said Saram in a normal voice that seemed like a bellow in the sudden stillness. The innkeeper hurried to comply, as Saram lounged comfortably against the wall and declared, “You people can get yourselves slaughtered if you want to, but I don’t intend to die on behalf of a mad baron. Luck to you all!” With this last he raised his just-delivered mug in sarcastic salute, then gulped down a large mouthful of the foaming brew.
The guards looked at one another, dumbfounded. Then, abruptly, a man flung down his sword, saying, “Bheleu take it!” He, too, crossed to the liquor barrels and poured himself a drink, ignoring the protests of the innkeeper. That ended the tension, and in moments the entire party of soldiers was at ease, drinking, joking, and laughing. Only the Baron remained in the doorway, screaming imprecations at his men.
Garth relaxed, righted the table, and sat again, looking amusedly at the two shafts protruding from the wood. He was startled when Saram appeared, pulling up a chair.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Whatever you please. I am at your service.” Garth was not given to polite exaggeration; he meant it. It was quite likely that Saram’s disgusted revolt had saved his life, and he felt indebted to the man.
The guard casually took a long draught from his mug, and seated himself.
There came the noise of a commotion near the door, and all but the Forgotten King turned to see what was happening. The Baron, finally tiring of his ineffectual yelling, had snatched up a dropped sword, apparently planning to attack the overman single-handed. Several of his men had jumped him and were now struggling to get the weapon away from him before anyone was hurt. Garth could hear muffled curses from the writhing mass of men, and saw one man roll apart, his hand bleeding from a long, shallow scratch.
The Lure of the Basilisk Page 18
