The Book of Silence

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Something dark was hanging in the open doorway of the Baron’s house; shadows and distance hid the details, but Garth felt a sick certainty that this was the Aghadite surprise. The crowd faced toward the thing in the doorway, but had left an empty semicircle around it, and the wailing seemed to emanate, not from the house, but from somewhere in that semicircle.

  Determined to find out what was happening, Garth marched forward and began shoving his way through the crowd; people parted readily when they saw him and almost seemed to be hurrying him onward. He crossed the square as quickly as if it were empty and emerged at last into the little cleared area.

  He found there that the wailing was coming from Frima, who knelt facing the door of her home, her head thrown back, her arms limp at her sides, her eyes shut and her mouth open, pouring forth her grief.

  Garth would not have guessed that such a sound could come from a lone woman, particularly one as small as Frima; he stared at her in helpless astonishment for several seconds before thinking to look up at the cause of her despair.

  The ghastly thing that hung suspended in the doorway by its outstretched arms was all that remained of Saram, Baron of Skelleth. His wrists had been nailed to the doorframe with heavy metal spikes. His eyes were gone, leaving bloody sockets, and more blood spilled from his open, tongueless mouth. The front of his embroidered robe had been cut away and strips had been peeled from his chest, forming four red runes that spelled out AGHAD.

  Grief and rage mingled with a feeling of helplessness before such savagery; Garth felt a need to do something, anything, to react to this new abomination, to help the woman who knelt, keening, before him. Fighting down a boiling wave of anger, he suppressed the urge to send forth white-hot flame to destroy everything before him. That would do no good, he told himself; it would only leave Frima still more bereft.

  “You,” he called, pointing at the nearest man who looked strong enough to be of use, “get him down from there!”

  The man hesitated; Garth growled and lifted the Sword of Bheleu. “Help him,” Garth ordered, pointing to two more villagers. “You women, prepare a place for him to lie.” He spotted Saram’s housekeeper in the crowd and called to her, “Find something to dress him in!”

  The villagers did not move quickly enough to please him; he struggled against the urge to blast them all. Frima’s keening bit through him, adding to his irritation, until he could not tolerate it further. He reached down, grabbed her shoulder roughly, and dragged her to her feet.

  She refused to stand on her own; he supported her with one hang as he barked at her, “Listen to me, woman!”

  Her wailing died away as the overman shook her; her head fell forward and her eyes opened, but then fixed on her husband’s mutilated corpse. She did not speak and would not meet Garth’s gaze.

  “Listen to me!” Garth insisted. “Your husband is dead; there is nothing that anyone can do about that. It does no good to bewail his death like this. You do yourself only harm by kneeling here and screaming.”

  Frima hung limply in his grasp, and a sympathetic murmur ran through the crowd. The villagers were all watching intently every second of the drama taking place in their midst.

  “Stand on your feet, woman! Do not let the scum who did this see how much they have hurt you!”

  Frima met Garth’s eyes for an instant, then turned her gaze back to the doorway. The man Garth had chosen was trying to pry out a spike, using a knife someone had handed him. He was making a mess of the wooden frame, but carefully avoiding any contact between the blade and Saram’s dead flesh.

  The Dûsarran swallowed and twisted her dangling feet about so that she could stand. Garth loosened his grip, and she did not collapse.

  “The cult of Aghad has killed your husband and vilely abused his body; stand strong now so that they will not have harmed his dignity as well,” Garth muttered in Frima’s ear.

  She nodded.

  “You are the Baroness of Skelleth,” Garth reminded her quietly. “You must behave accordingly.”

  Frima nodded again, then demanded hoarsely, “Where are they?”

  Startled, Garth asked, “What?”

  “Where are the filth who murdered him?”

  “I don’t know,” Garth admitted. “I killed one of them just a few moments ago, when he came to boast to me of this latest crime, but there must have been others. I have sworn to destroy them all when I find them, and the temples and shrines of their foul god with them.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Frima said.

  “There is no need,” Garth told her. “Saram’s death will be avenged. I swore to destroy the cult for what it did to Kyrith, and this new butchery strengthens my resolve beyond what I can express in words. I will make them all pay for this.”

  “I am coming with you,” Frima insisted. “They killed my man.”

  Garth thought it best to shift the grounds for argument. “You still live, my lady, and are still the Baroness of Skelleth. You have other concerns.”

  “They don’t matter. Are there any Aghadites in Skelleth, or will you be going to Dûsarra?”

  The first spike came free, and the men struggling with it hurried to catch Saram’s body as it fell. While two held the corpse, a third began working on the other spike.

  “I don’t know where they are,” Garth replied, “but I will find them.”

  “We will find them.”

  Garth could not think of any good way to deal with this. He turned from the intense, fixed stare that Frima was giving him and watched as the workers freed Saram’s other wrist.

  They stood for a moment holding their lord’s body, uncertain what to do next.

  “Take him inside,” Garth said. “The housekeeper will find a place for him.”

  Two of the men earned the corpse out of sight while the third closed the doors.

  Reluctant to meet Frima’s gaze again, Garth looked about and realized that the market was still crowded with onlookers. A surge of irrational anger at their gawking boiled up within him.

  “Go home, you people!” he called. “There is nothing more to see!”

  He was answered with muffled voices and shuffling feet, but the villagers seemed reluctant to depart.

  “Go away, I said!” he bellowed, raising the Sword of Bheleu in one hand. The blade glowed white, crackling with chained energy, and the crowd melted away rapidly before the implied threat. In a moment the square was empty of all save the overman, the new widow, and the warbeast that waited at the northwest corner.

  Garth glanced about again, trying to decide what to do with Frima; he did not think it would be wise to send her home, into the house where her husband’s mangled corpse waited. He was unsure how humans dealt with the deaths of those they loved.

  “Are there any rites you must perform?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied. “We don’t bother with fancy funerals in Dûsarra. When the other cults kill someone, the body usually isn’t found; we grieve, but hold no ceremonies. The people of Skelleth can attend to the ceremonies. We have to go avenge him.” She looked about the square and noticed Koros, waiting patiently, at ease now that the keening had stopped. Without hesitation, she slipped from under Garth’s hand and began walking unsteadily across the marketplace toward the warbeast.

  Garth followed. He could easily have stopped her, but was not sure how she would react.

  Halfway across the square, she stumbled; he lunged forward and caught her before she fell. They stood for a moment while she regained her balance.

  “Garth,” someone called, in a hideous dry croak.

  The voice was instantly recognizable. Garth turned, astonished, and saw the Forgotten King standing in the doorway of the King’s Inn, the Book of Silence tucked under one arm.

  “There are no worshippers of Aghad in Skelleth,” the old man said. “Their transporting spells are not aff
ected by distance; they have been striking directly from their temple in Dûsarra.”

  Garth stood dumbfounded by this unexpected speech. He knew that the Forgotten King never volunteered information without a reason.

  “Then we have to go to Dûsarra,” Frima said calmly.

  The Forgotten King nodded, moving his head very slightly beneath the concealing hood of his robe.

  “Why are you telling us this?” Garth asked.

  “So that you will not waste time.”

  “Will you swear it to be true, by The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, at the cost of all oaths I have made to you if you lie?” Garth could think of nothing more binding; he knew that the old man would not be eager to give up the vows Garth had sworn. He was startled by his own cleverness in coming up with such a promise so readily; his thoughts had not been very clear of late.

  “I swear it,” the King replied.

  Garth looked at the shadows that hid the old man’s eyes, and at the firm line of his mouth, set in dry, wrinkled skin above the thin white beard that trailed from his chin. He glanced at Frima, who was obviously waiting for him to accompany her in pursuit of revenge, and at Koros, still standing patiently, and finally at the Sword of Bheleu, which dangled from his right hand, its tip almost dragging in the dust of the market, the red gem in its pommel flickering faintly. He still did not know why the Forgotten King should volunteer such information. Perhaps, he thought, the old man was eager to get the sword back, lest it gain too strong a hold upon Garth; he would want the overman to go about his errand as quickly as possible, so that the sword’s return would not be delayed. That would be in Garth’s own interest as well.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “Then I will go to Dûsarra and I will destroy the cult of Aghad there. I swore I would and I will honor that oath. But I go alone.”

  “No!” Frima cried. “I’m coming with you!”

  “I do not want to endanger you, Frima, and the journey will be very dangerous. You must stay in Skelleth.” His major concern was that the Sword of Bheleu might usurp control of him and cause him to kill any traveling companions, but he did not care to explain that. It would be too much like admitting weakness to say that he feared he would be unable to control his own body.

  “I have to avenge Saram! There’s nothing I want in Skelleth. Besides, you’ll need a guide; you don’t know your way around Dûsarra as I do. I grew up there.”

  “No,” Garth began, but before he could continue, Frima interrupted.

  “Besides, do you think I’m safe here? You heard what the old man said; the Aghadites can strike anywhere, and they’ve just heard you say that you don’t want me hurt. I’m a target now. If you don’t take me with you, I’ll follow you on my own.”

  The overman looked at the human’s face and decided that she meant what she said. She had a good point about being in danger in Skelleth, and also about her utility as a guide. She would certainly be safer guarded by Koros and himself than trying to traverse Nekutta on her own.

  “Very well,” he said. “We will go by way of Ur-Dormulk, however; I have something I must do there.” The monster had waited too long already. Garth found himself wondering how he could have delayed so long.

  “All right,” Frima agreed.

  “We’ll need supplies,” Garth said, his practical instincts coming to the fore.

  “We can forage on the way,” Frima replied. “I don’t want to wait.”

  “I will provide for your needs,” the Forgotten King said.

  Startled, Garth turned to look at him. “You will? From here?”

  The old man moved his head to one side, then the other, in so brief and smooth a movement that it could hardly be described as shaking his head.

  “I will come with you,” he said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the little party made its way toward Ur-Dormulk, Garth found himself feeling that he had been rushed into action against his will. He had not intended to dash so precipitously out of Skelleth. Within half an hour of discovering Saram’s death he had ridden out the southwestern gate, Frima perched behind him, the Forgotten King walking alongside.

  He told himself that every minute saved meant that much less destruction the monster in Ur-Dormulk could cause, and that he had already wasted far too much time destroying empty ruins. Still, he felt unprepared and harried.

  Thinking back, he wondered at his own willingness to delay in order to knock down buildings, compared with the insistent hurry of both his companions. He suspected that the sword had had something to do with his dawdling, and also with his eagerness to come to grips with the Aghadite assassins. Whatever the cause, he had behaved stupidly.

  If he had not delayed, the cultists might not have bothered to kill Saram. He was sure that Saram had been alive when he slew the first two assassins. Had he left Skelleth immediately, the Aghadites might not have returned and the Baron might still be alive and well, his wife secure and happy at home, rather than perched on a warbeast seeking revenge. Instead of leaving, though, Garth had gone smashing about the ruins, wasting time and giving the worshippers of Aghad the chance to carry out another of their ghastly murders.

  Could it be, he asked himself, that Bheleu had diverted him intentionally, to further the cause of his brother deity? Might Aghad himself have affected him somehow? Or had it just been the workings of chance?

  Had the Forgotten King been involved? He had certainly appeared in the doorway at an opportune moment, with exactly the information that would send Garth and Frima on their way without hesitation.

  The overman glanced to the left, where the yellow-clad figure strode along as smoothly and silently as the warbeast itself. The Book of Silence was still held under the old man’s right arm, and Garth reminded himself that the totem was what enabled the King to travel freely. He would no longer need an overman to run his errands for him.

  What benefit could the old man have gained from Saram’s death? For that matter, what could Aghad or Bheleu gain from it? Garth would have gone to Dûsarra soon enough without this added impetus, and the King could have accompanied him or followed him. Saram’s murder had increased his hatred of the cultists, if that was possible, and had impelled Frima to accompany him, but that was little enough. What good would it do anyone to have Saram’s widow come along? How much difference could the increase in his fury make?

  Garth could see no purpose in it and concluded, reluctantly, that it had been chance, rather than manipulation, that had led to the Baron’s murder. That meant that his own weakness in yielding to the whim to search the ruins had been the indirect cause; he was at fault. Once again he had brought destruction, this time to an innocent friend.

  The cult of Aghad would pay for that, he promised himself, and if he could ever contrive to accomplish it, the gods themselves, both Aghad and Bheleu, would suffer as well for what they had done to him.

  He rode on, silently mulling this over.

  Haggat watched the little group as best he could, trying desperately to think of some way of diverting them. He could not focus the scrying glass on Garth while the overman held the Sword of Bheleu, nor on the old man in yellow at all; he had to satisfy himself by following the warbeast’s pawprints, or by close scrutiny, just barely possible despite the sword’s influence, of the girl’s face and the reflections in her eyes of the surrounding countryside.

  The high priest had thought that Garth would be searching Skelleth for days, time which the cult could have used to lay false trails and arrange diversions; instead he had set out immediately, and there could be little doubt that he was bound for Dûsarra.

  Haggat did not understand what had happened. Something was interfering with his plans. He suspected that it was the mysterious old man. The overman had apparently spoken with him in the market and decided then and there to leave Skelleth without further delay.

  Who, Haggat wondered,
was the man? He could be glimpsed only briefly, and even then not clearly, in the glass; most of what Haggat knew of him came from the reports of spies or from his occasional reflection in windows and in the eyes of others. Once before he had become involved in the cult’s affairs, when he had put an end to the carefully contrived battle between Garth and the Council of the Most High, saving the lives of several councilors and taking the Sword of Bheleu away from the overman. That had apparently worked to the cult’s benefit in the long run, though its followers had been slow to take advantage of it, by rendering Garth vulnerable and by allowing them to track down, rob, and murder several of the surviving wizards.

  Now, though, the old man had given the overman back the sword and seemed to be leading him in his attack on the sect.

  That was not to be borne.

  All three of the party would have to be killed. The cult could neither afford further delays nor waste time on any more such pleasant preliminaries as the murders of Garth’s wife and the Baron of Skelleth.

  Only four of each variety of transporting crystal remained in the cult’s cache of magic; they were not to be squandered. Furthermore, the Sword of Bheleu was a formidable protection against any assault, magical or mundane.

  Haggat could not afford another failure. He glanced at the scarred face of his personal acolyte; he was well aware that she would be glad to replace him as high priest, should he allow the cult’s prestige to suffer.

  He needed to think out exactly what to do. He recalled all too well that, three years earlier, the full power of the Council of the Most High had been unable to do anything against the might of the overman and his damned sword.

  Some time did remain, however; the journey from Skelleth to Dûsarra was at least a ten-day ride. Perhaps his best course would be to use every moment of that time to prepare an ambush.

  At any rate, although he would want to keep a careful eye on the progress of the approaching party, Haggat decided that he would not waste any of the cult’s hoard of magic in tormenting them along the way, nor in abortive attacks that the Sword of Bheleu could easily counter. At least, he would not do so until he had devised something more subtle and effective than a direct assault.