The old man nodded.
“Are you sure?”
The King shrugged.
Garth tried to think; it was difficult, for his mind was full of anger and confusion.
It had never occurred to him that the King’s final magic might be guided, that the King might have some control over who died when it was performed. Garth had assumed that the spell would involve conjuring The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken into the mortal world and that, thus freed, the god would kill all those in the immediate area.
Perhaps this was not the case at all. Perhaps the god would demand a certain number of deaths, but this summoner could choose who would be sacrificed in order to banish him again. That seemed to be what the King was implying. There was no reason to assume that a god would be limited by distance or even by time; weren’t gods supposed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once?
He did not trust the King, however.
Furthermore, there seemed to be something unsatisfying about the solution the King proposed. Garth wanted to kill the Aghadites himself, to see the color of their blood, to watch them die.
“I...” he began, then stopped. “I am not sure.”
“Another bargain, then. Bring me the Book of Silence, and I will loan you the Sword of Bheleu. I must require it back from you eventually, but I am sure you will not object to being freed of the god’s control.”
Garth turned that proposal over in his mind and, awash in fury as he was, could see nothing wrong with it at first. He would have the Sword of Bheleu, and with it he could destroy the cult of Aghad. He dismissed without thought the fact that he would be giving himself over to the god of destruction rather than simply wielding a weapon; it did not occur to him that Bheleu might not be satisfied with killing only Aghadites.
He did, however, realize that he would be delivering the Book of Silence to the Forgotten King, and after planning for three years to avoid that, he was reluctant to give in so quickly simply because the King now claimed that the other victims of his magic would be Aghadites.
The old man might be telling the truth; it might be that delivering the Book of Silence to him would do no Harm to innocents. Although Garth had been fooled in the past by partial truths and things left unsaid, the King had never, so far as he knew, told an outright lie.
This was a matter that deserved more than a moment’s thought, but there was no time to waste, he felt, in his pursuit of his wife’s murderers.
That pursuit would go nowhere, however, without the Sword of Bheleu.
If he accepted the King’s offer, he would be in possession, at least temporarily, of either the sword or the book, and it was his belief that both were required for the final magic. If he remained unconvinced of the King’s intentions, he could always withhold whichever totem he had at the time; after all, he was already forsworn, in his heart, and had no more honor to lose by such treachery. It would, he thought, be a just repayment for the King’s own deceptions and manipulations.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I agree. Tell me where I may find the Book of Silence, and I will bring it to you.”
“I left it in the royal chapel of my palace in Hastur. That palace is now a part of the crypts beneath Ur-Dormulk. Signs and portents will be sufficient to lead you to it.” Something like glee was in the old man’s tone.
“Will you provide me no further guidance?”
“You need none.”
Garth found himself growing wary. He was beginning to realize that he was again trusting himself to the Forgotten King, again agreeing to perform an errand for the old man. Always before, such errands had had unwanted and unpleasant results. Even his journey to Orgûl, just completed that day, had ended in Kyrith’s death.
An idea occurred to him, a strange idea. Always before he had set out alone, while the King stayed in Skelleth and awaited his return. Garth had been a messenger, a servant. What if the King were to accompany him this time? The old man’s magic could protect them both from whatever difficulties they might encounter; they would travel as equals, rather than Garth’s assuming the inferior’s role again.
“O King,” he said, “will you come with me?”
Behind him, Saram and Frima stared. The King was silent for a moment before replying, “No.”
“Why not?” Garth demanded. “Why must I act on your behalf?”
“I cannot venture far from Skelleth. My power is centered here.”
The old man’s tone was final, but Garth was in no mood to be put off. “Why?” he persisted. “Because you have lived here for so long? Is it possible that you do not wish to discomfit yourself ?”
“No,” the King said, with perhaps a trace of anger in his voice.
“Then why? Why did you come to Skelleth in the first place? How did you become trapped here? Explain yourself!”
“This place is the center of power in this time, as Hastur was of old; the world’s energies have shifted with the ages. I had no choice in my dwelling place once I had given up the book and the mask, but was compelled to live wherever the power’s heart might be. Had I the book once more, I could go where I pleased.”
“You left the village once, when I gave you the sword.”
“Only a few leagues, and yet that was near my limit.”
“What would happen to you, then, if you were to leave?”
“Garth, this is not your concern.”
“What would happen?” the overman insisted.
“I cannot leave.”
“What if I were to carry you?”
With apparent reluctance, the King admitted, “I would lose my strength, both physical and metaphysical. I would have no more power than a corpse, yet I would still live.”
“You mean that you would be unable to work magic?”
“I would be unable to move or speak or see or breathe; I would be in appearance as ancient as I am in truth.”
That explained, of course, why so powerful a being dwelt in this miserable border town and needed an ordinary overman to run his errands. For that reason, if for no other, Garth was willing to accept the King’s explanation, at least for the present. He still hoped, however, to have some sort of further aid.
“Then can you give me no protection against the cult’s magic?” he asked.
“No.”
“You might loan me the sword now.” That, of course, would be ideal; he could then simply renege on his agreement.
The King did not bother to answer. Garth knew that, quite aside from his own present trustworthiness, once he was beyond the King’s power it might not be Garth but Bheleu who occupied Garth’s body; no oath or power would be able to restrain the god or bring him back to Skelleth against his will, if the King’s power were in truth limited to the immediate area.
“They have powerful magic,” he said, as a last resort.
The King shifted slightly, but said nothing.
“The image of the god, for example. What am I to do if they attack me with such things?”
“That was a simple messenger image; it could not even speak until ordered to.”
“What of the spell that shattered my sword?”
“A warding spell against metal, useless for any other purpose.”
“The red mist that caused the Aghadite and Kyrith’s body to vanish, then.”
“A teleportation device taken from a dead wizard; they have few more and will not waste them.”
“Surely, though, they have other magic and will not hesitate to use it against me. Can you do nothing to protect me?”
“Have you turned coward, then?” The King lifted his head, and though his eyes were still hidden in shadow Garth thought he saw a glint of light. The springtime warmth seemed to fade from the air of the tavern, replaced with a clammy chill. “Regardless of what magic they may possess, did they not say that you would see all those you care for die
before your own time came to perish? They will not harm you directly, then, until they have carried out their threat. Now go! Fetch me the Book of Silence, and trouble me no more until you have it!”
Disconcerted by the King’s sudden coldness, Garth nodded and rose to depart. Saram and Frima rose as well. The Baron began to speak, to make one more attempt at dissuading the overman, but Garth ignored him and stalked out into the marketplace, where a thin rain had begun to fall.
Chapter Eight
The eastern gate of the ancient walled city of Ur-Dormulk stood between two massive stone towers, set in a gap in the ridge that supported the eastern ramparts; the great valves themselves were carved from two immense sheets of ebony, bound in the brown-black hide of some extinct monster. There was no shining metal or bright paint anywhere on the gate or the somber gray walls to either side. The tower walls, Garth saw, were carven from roadbed to battlement with spidery runes of a tongue that he had never seen before.
Some of the runes seemed to have an odd familiarity about them that Garth could not explain to himself; he wondered idly what language they represented, and what they said. Perhaps they gave a history of the city’s founding, he thought, or were protective incantations of some kind.
He was quite sure from the very first that they were not Eramman or anything like it. As a child he had come across other, older languages, all dead, and this strange script was none of them.
Of course, he told himself, Ur-Dormulk was very old. It had stood, much as it was now, before Eramma became a nation half a millennium ago. There had been plenty of time for the builders’ native tongue to die out.
The whole matter was irrelevant, he told himself. He had an errand to perform. Despite the protests of the Baron and Baroness, and the arguments Galt had made when he had been informed of the situation, Garth intended to find the Book of Silence and return to Skelleth with it.
He was not completely certain as to exactly what he would do then, save that he would somehow pursue his vengeance against Aghad’s followers. He was not sure whether he would give the Forgotten King the book or whether he would take the Sword of Bheleu, but he had not cared to say anything that might cause anyone to doubt his intention of honoring his agreement with the King.
Saram had gone so far in his concern for the overman as to offer to accompany him on his journey; Frima had protested, and Garth had turned him down. Saram had a barony to run, and could not go haring off on adventures without warning. Garth had no commitments, save his vows to fetch the Book of Silence and to destroy the cult and temple of Aghad. He did not want to involve anyone else in either of these.
As a compromise of sorts he had accepted a letter of introduction to the overlord of Ur-Dormulk, signed by both Saram and Galt. That had been his only concession, and it was a practical one. If he was going to search the city looking for signs and portents, he would very much prefer not to have to worry about explaining himself to guardsmen or homeowners while doing so.
His only other delays had been to make a few basic preparations. He had left the copper gull at his house, borrowed a sword, and bought a few supplies, but had been in Skelleth so briefly that this new journey seemed almost a continuation of his trip to Orgûl. The mood, however, was very different; this was a task of real personal consequence, not the casual lark his attempt at dragon-slaying had been.
Since he intended to introduce himself to the overlord or at least to his representatives, he had no need for stealth in entering the city. That was just as well, as he saw no easy way to pass the fortifications unseen. Unlike Skelleth’s ruinous outer wall, these were intact and well maintained, extending quite some distance along the ridge top and then turning back westward out of sight.
Seeing no other entrance, he had ridden directly up to the huge gate, and now sat for a moment looking up at the black portal and rune-covered towers.
This was the sort of fortress the legends of Ordunin had described Skelleth to be, until he had ventured down and discovered for himself how greatly the stories had exaggerated. He wondered why he had heard no tales describing Ur-Dormulk.
It didn’t matter, he told himself. He was stalling, putting off the necessity of announcing himself and having to deal with unfamiliar humans.
“Ho, the gate!” he bellowed, refusing to delay any longer.
An answering shout came, much more loudly than he had expected.
“State your business, overman!”
He looked, but could not see any face above the parapet, and the echo from the towers made it impossible to judge just where the sound had originated.
That, he decided, was probably intentional; the builders of this city had done their work well.
“I come from Skelleth on a personal errand; I bear a message, as well, from the Baron of Skelleth to the overlord of Ur-Dormulk!”
“Dismount and approach,” the voice called. “Leave your sword and axe on the saddle!”
Garth realized that the voice was not coming from above, or at least not from very far above; the speaker was, therefore, not on the battlements at all. The only other place that he could be was in one of the towers, and the overman looked at the runes with new interest, noticing how deeply some of the symbols had been cut. Somewhere in those shadowy tracings were openings into the towers from which a man could peer out, or shout commands, or perhaps aim a crossbow.
It was a very clever device, he thought; it would be almost impossible to find the actual holes amid the myriad lines and curlicues. He would want to remember this for later, but for the present he had business to attend to. He swung down from the warbeast’s back, checked the axe that hung on the saddle, then took the scabbarded sword from his belt—a sword he had borrowed from Galt, since he had not wanted to take time to have a new one forged after shattering his on the Aghadite protective spell, and since human-sized weapons were not suited to his grip—and hooked it through one of the straps that held the saddle in place.
He looked questioningly up at the nearer tower, his hand on the sheathed dagger that remained on his belt; no command or comment came. The knife was apparently not considered a serious threat. He shrugged, lowered his hand, and strode toward the gate, the dagger still in its place.
With a series of rattles and thuds, the bars were removed from the gate, and one side of the great portal swung slowly ajar. A guard in a peculiarly shaped brass helmet and dull green tunic leaned out through the opening.
“You have a letter?” he said. The voice was not the one that had called from the tower.
Garth said nothing, but proffered the folded parchment.
The guardsman took it, looked at the seal, and hesitated. “It looks genuine,” he said, not to Garth, but addressing someone out of sight behind the gate.
A hand appeared, and the guardsman surrendered the letter.
A moment later a new voice called, “Let him in.”
The guardsman stepped back and motioned for Garth to enter. The overman hesitated. “What of my weapons and my mount?” he asked.
“Your pardon, my lord, but we prefer to be cautious until we have established that you are what you say you are. Your weapons will be brought, if you like, and returned to you when your identity is confirmed.”
“I would appreciate that,” Garth said. “What about Koros?”
“Your beast? I regret, my lord, that no beasts of burden are welcome in the city, for reasons of sanitation and public safety. We maintain a stable outside the wall to serve visitors such as yourself.”
Garth was not happy about that. The indomitable warbeast had served him well in human cities in the past when, on occasion, things had turned nasty. He was, however, on a peaceful errand, one that might well stay peaceful. To the best of his knowledge, even if the people of Ur-Dormulk knew that he meant to take the Book of Silence, they should have no reason to object; he had been told that no one but the Forgotten King could
use it and that for anyone else even to handle it might well prove fatal—though his own undesired connection with Bheleu would be sufficient protection to allow him to transport it. Logically, nobody should mind if he were to remove so dangerous an object from the city.
He would just have to hope that nothing went wrong and that no one had any unreasonable objections.
“Do you know anything about handling warbeasts?” he asked the guard, certain of what the answer would be.
“No,” the man replied. “I never saw one before.”
Garth nodded; he had assumed that to be the case, since the creatures had been invented by the overmen of Kirpa, in the Northern Waste, too late to have been used in any number in the Racial Wars. Even three centuries after the wars ended they remained rare and valuable and were almost all owned by governments, as being too precious and dangerous to be left in private hands. Garth had one of his own only because he had accepted it in lieu of all further tribute that, under an ancient agreement, the people of Kirpa had owed to him as Prince of Ordunin.
“What sort of animal do you have in the stable ordinarily?” he asked.
The guardsman shrugged. “Horses, I suppose, and oxen; I’m no stableboy. Yackers, too, I think.”
Garth glanced at Koros, standing motionless on the highway, triangular ears flattened back slightly, golden eyes half shut, three-inch fangs gleaming dully in the midday sun. The warbeast would have no objection to being stabled, but it wouldn’t mind staying out in the open, either, as long as the good weather that had followed the brief rain held. The other occupants of the stable might not care for its presence; the smell of warbeast was not recognizable to most animals as that of a predator, due to its magical origin, but the sight of one tended to make many beasts understandably nervous.
More importantly, it was possible that Garth might find himself fleeing the city, and in that case he would not want to waste time finding the stable. Having the warbeast waiting right at the gate would be far more convenient.
“I think I’ll just leave it where it is,” he said.
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