The Lure of the Basilisk tlod-1

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Also, of course, the warbeast's saddle would have been 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 worried 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 slumped quietly into his usual chair, his head sunk 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!"

  Garth 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 tavernkeeper 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 singlehanded. 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 man's voice rose above the hubbub. "Oh, Death, that hurts! Aghad and Pria!" Several men not involved in the struggle rushed to his aid.

  Then the knot around the Baron broke up. The sword had been flung safely out of reach, and the Baron lay on the floor, crying like an infant. With a low curse and a glance at his wounded companion, one man launched a vicious kick at the fallen noble's midsection. The Baron crumpled into a ball and lay, sobbing.

  Someone gently reprimanded the kicker. "You shouldn't have done that."

  Herrenmer appeared from somewhere and knelt over his lord. Looking up, he called, "Someone help me; we'll get him safely in bed in the mansion." Willing hands reached out, and in a few moments Herrenmer and another guard were assisting the Baron, still weeping, out into the sunlit alley. The guard captain paused in the doorway to announce, "We'll be back soon."

  The episode over, Garth and Saram turned back toward their table.

  They sat silently for a moment as Saram poured his remaining ale down his throat. Then, thumping his mug on the table, he said, "I've been wondering about you."

  Garth looked politely blank. "Oh?"

  "Whatever under the gods brought you to Skelleth?"

  The overman considered the question; ordinarily he would have refused to answer it, but in the present state of gratitude he felt unusually open and willing to talk.

  "I was on a quest, of sorts."

  "A quest?"

  "Yes."

  "A quest for what? I don't mean the basilisk; I mean why did you go off questing?"

  "I wanted to do something of true significance"

  "Go on."

  "I wanted to change things, to have a lasting influence on the world. I went to an oracle near Ordunin, but was told that no mortal could change the way things are."

  "Ah, so you asked to be immortal?"

  Neither Saram nor Garth noticed the Forgotten King's reaction to this question; he looked up, light glinting in his eyes like two lonely stars in two black pits. Neither noticed, because Saram was too startled by Garth's reaction, and Garth was not noticing anything. Instead he was staring at Saram, his expression a baleful glare that appalled the man. For several seconds neither spoke. Then Garth muttered, "I never thought of that," and dropped his gaze to contemplate the tabletop.

  There was another moment of silence, ending when Saram said, "Then what did you ask for?"

  "I asked for fame-that my name be known forever."

  "One of those!" Saram leaned back, studying the overman. "Why do you want fame? I never saw much point in it."

  Garth looked up. "I wanted something to survive. I had never considered the possibility of living forever myself, but it seemed that having my name live on would be better than nothing."

  Saram nodded sagely. "I see. Never thought that, myself, but I can see how one could. So you set out to become famous?"

  "I asked the oracle how I might achieve everlasting fame."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. I was told to come to Skelleth, find the Forgotten King, and serve him without fail."

  "Find who?"

  "The Forgotten King." Garth pointed a thumb at the old man, whose head had sunk back to its usual droop.

  Saram's surprise was evident. "The old man?"

  "Yes."

  "Forgotten King? King of what?"

  Garth shrugged.

  Saram turned to the yellow-robed figure and demanded, "King of what?"

  "Of Carcosa. In exile." The dry voice was quieter than usual, but still shockingly harsh.

  "I never heard of it."

  The old man said nothing, and Saram turned back toward the overman.

  "Serving him was supposed to ensure eternal fame?"

  "Yes."

  "It seems unlikely."

  Garth shrugged. "It was the word of the oracle."

  "It still seems unlikely."

  "I have reason to trust the wisdom and truth of the oracle."

  "Well, I know nothing of that. But it doesn't seem possible. Nothing lasts forever, certainly not fame."

  Garth shrugged.

  "But think, Garth, can you name a single person who lived more than a thousand years ago?"

  There was a sound that might have been a dry cough. But the Forgotten King was silent as Garth admitted, "No, but I have made no study of human history. Overmen have not existed that long."

  "Well, can you name the first overman, or the wizard who created him?"

  "No."

  "Llarimuir the Great." Startled, both Garth and Saram turned toward the Forgotten King, who continued, "Llarimuir created a dozen overmen and overwomen simultaneously; there was no first."

  Saram demanded, "How do you know that, old man?"

  "I remember."

  "But it was a thousand years ago!"

  The Forgotten King said nothing, and after a moment Saram turned away again.

  "Most people know nothing of that, and no one can say with certainty that this old fool is correct."

  Garth said nothing. He was remembering the Forgotten King's eerie room upstairs and the casually miraculous cure worked on his wounded foot, and wondering who and what the King really was.

  Undaunted, Saram continued, "How do you expect to achieve this fame? Do you expect the old man to tell you how? Or do you think he can do it for you?"

  Garth remarked, quietly, "He is a wizard."

  Saram snorted. "Then why does he live in a tavern in Skelleth? Why does he not have a place in the warm south?"

  Garth shru
gged again.

  "So you intend to continue to blindly serve him?"

  "I am not sure."

  "Oh?"

  "I am not sure I still want the fame I sought."

  "Oh. But you still believe the old man could make it happen?"

  "Yes."

  Saram abruptly rose. "I'm going to get some more ale." He strode away, mail clinking faintly. Garth watched him go, then turned to the Forgotten King.

  "You still will not say why you wanted the basilisk?" The old man said nothing.

  "Then what of my goal?"

  "I have not yet decided upon your next task."

  "Nor have I decided that I wish to accept it."

  "What of your bargain?"

  "I begin to doubt it."

  "You doubt I can grant your desire?"

  "No; I doubt whether I truly desire it, and at the price asked."

  "Is the price too high?"

  "It may be. It may be that I asked the Wise Women of Ordunin the wrong questions; it may also be that the deaths of a dozen men are more than I wish to pay."

  "Yet, already, from this first errand, your name is known in Mormoreth and throughout Skelleth."

  "Known as the name of a murderer."

  "Nonetheless, it is known. You made no provision as to how you wished to be remembered. You merely wished that your name be known until the end of the world, and I can promise that if you serve me successfully, you shall have that."

  "I wanted fame, not notoriety!"

  "You made no such specification"

  Garth could feel a cold rage growing inside him. He felt betrayed, both by the Forgotten King and by the Wise Women who had sent him to Skelleth. He had trusted them; most particularly, he had trusted the King solely because the Wise Women had said he should, and trusted him to the point of killing for him. He said nothing, but merely glared at the ragged yellow cowl. Then, abruptly, he rose.

  "Sit down."

  The hideous voice could not be ignored; Garth hesitated, then sat, silent with fury.