There was a platform in the center of the square, perhaps six feet off the ground and ten feet wide. Three men were on it, two of them standing and the third kneeling before a block of wood. The kneeling man wore the mail shirt and leather breeches of the town’s men-at-arms, and was very young and very pale. He seemed upset about something, though Garth’s limited understanding of human emotions and expressions prevented him from recognizing the lad’s abject terror. The standing men were very different. One was rather fat, wore a black robe, carried a double-bladed axe that Garth assumed to be ceremonial, as it was not sturdy enough in construction to use in battle, and had a rather blank look to his face, while the other, who was decidedly thin and somewhat shorter than average, wore a gaudy tunic of red and gold and an expression that Garth guessed to be resentment. The latter had his hands clasped behind his back and, Garth noticed, a gold circlet on his head. It was he who spoke.
“By virtue of the hereditary grant given my father by Seremir, third of that name, High King at Kholis of Eramma, and by my accession to my father’s lands, properties, and titles as enacted in law upon his death, I, Doran of Skelleth, son of Talenn, am rightful Baron of the village and lands of Skelleth and the Northern Waste. As such I am charged with the keeping of the law, with the protection of my realm and the realm of Eramma under the High King, and with the maintenance and promotion of the public welfare.” This speech was recited in a sing-song tone; obviously, it was a ritual to be recited before taking an official action, though Garth had no idea what action was about to take place.
“It has been established that Arner, son of Karlen, has disobeyed my laws and orders given for the good of the state, in that he deserted his assigned post without permission. Therefore, as is my right and duty, I hereby decree that he suffer the punishment I have deemed fitting for such an offense and be put to death.” He hesitated, briefly, as if unsure of what he wanted to say next. An angry mutter ran through the crowd. Garth, shocked by the realization that he was watching a public execution, stood utterly motionless. Part of his mind was telling him that he should have known all along. What else could such an axe be for? A headsman’s axe did not need to cut armor nor parry weapons, so it could be lighter and more fragile than a battle-axe and still serve its purpose.
The Baron’s speech was continuing. “Furthermore, inasmuch as the condemned did flee from lawful imprisonment, it is my right and duty to levy further penalties, which in such a case can only be made manifest in the manner of death. However, I have declined to have the condemned put to torture or death by slow fire, but have instead decreed that his death be swift and painless.” The Baron’s expression was very curious as he said this. Garth could make no sense of it at all. “Further, as is customary, I grant the condemned the right to speak here before the townspeople, though ordinarily this privilege is not granted to a recaptured fugitive. I am being as merciful as the law allows. In exchange, I hope that the condemned will reveal the names of those who assisted his escape, and that he shall forgive me for his death.” These last few words seemed strained, as if the man were making a great effort in speaking them. Garth found himself wondering why the Baron was making such a speech; surely it was more than the law required.
“The condemned may speak,” announced the black-robed executioner.
Arner, his expression still panic-stricken, though Garth did not recognize it as such, looked desperately out over the crowd. He licked his lips and tried to speak.
“I . . . I . . . I wish to apologize for whatever wrongs I have done. I beg to live, my lord; but I will not . . . I will not say who aided my escape, for they acted from mercy.” The Baron was standing totally motionless, his face frozen, his jaw clenched. The crowd was utterly silent. Garth began to suspect that they were not happy with Arner’s imminent death. But desertion, he knew, was ordinarily punished with death. He was puzzled. Why should Arner be an exception? Or rather, why should the villagers want Arner to be an exception?
Arner was speaking again, more strongly this time; his fear had apparently lessened. “The Baron has asked my forgiveness. I will grant it.” The Baron looked surprised, an expression much the same in humans and overmen. Arner was addressing the crowd now, rather than the two men beside him on the platform. “It makes no difference in any case, for what can the forgiveness of a single soul avail when our Baron has sold himself to the Dark Gods?” A murmur arose. A suspicion appeared in Garth’s mind; was Arner trying to incite a riot, an attempt to free him by the population of the entire town? “The Baron who rules our village is in the service of the Lords of Evil! He has brought madness upon himself and woe upon our village! Does he not kill someone every spring, whether they deserve it or not? It is a sacrifice! Why does our trade lessen, and our people starve? Because the evil gods will it, and the Baron allows it! He will execute me, yet he allows overmen to walk our streets unmolested!”
Arner’s speech was suddenly cut short. In response to a gesture from the Baron, the executioner had clapped a hand across the prisoner’s mouth. Beside him, the lord of Skelleth was visibly trembling.
Bringing himself under control, the Baron announced, “The right of the condemned to speak does not allow him to commit further crimes. I will allow Arner to speak further if he will refrain from seditious slander. Although it is not my place to debate with criminals, I must insist that I am not in league with evil gods, and I will not permit it to be said that I am. Furthermore, it was not I who permitted an overman to enter Skelleth unescorted, but Arner himself. Otherwise he would not be here. Arner, you may continue.”
Arner ceased struggling, and the executioner removed his hand. The condemned man looked around, across the crowd, and seemed to sag. “I have nothing more to say.”
“Then let the sentence be carried out” The Baron turned and left the platform. Garth watched, appalled, as Arner was bent over the block. The axe fell.
The executioner knew his job; there was but a single stroke, and a single gout of blood, and it was done.
The overman, meanwhile, was mulling over the Baron’s final remarks. How was he involved in Arner’s death? Had the post Arner deserted been at the North Gate? If so, it was bad luck on Arner’s part that he had happened along when he did. Still, the man had deserted his post, and such a crime was punished by death among humans.
The crowd was beginning to disperse. Garth paid little attention, but stood where he was, waiting for the square to empty sufficiently to allow him to cross, bent over to hide his height and with his face and armor hidden beneath his makeshift cloak as best he could manage in the shadows.
A man cast him a suspicious glance, then moved on. Another paused and looked at the large figure crouched in the gutter. His eyes were sharper than those of the first man, apparently, for he raised a cry.
“The overman is here! The overman is skulking about our streets again!”
The crowd, which had been quiet, began to mutter as the townspeople turned toward this new attraction.
“Silence, man, or you die.” Garth hissed his words through his teeth as his hand fell to his sword hilt.
“What do you want here, monster?” It was someone new who spoke. Already a dozen men had ringed Garth in.
“Why do you pollute our village?”
“Are you a creature of the Baron?”
“Why did you want Arner dead?”
Garth realized he had no chance of dispersing this gathering quietly. He stood straight and flung aside his hood and cloak, making sure his sword and armor were visible.
“I meant no harm. It was no doing of mine that Arner died. I did not know of his existence until today, when I heard the noise here and came to investigate. As for my business in Skelleth, it is my own; it has nothing to do with the Baron nor with any of you. Now, let me pass.”
“You’re not welcome here, monster.”
“Go back where you belong.”
A
lump of mud was flung from somewhere; it flew past Garth’s ear and splattered against a wall. This was a bad sign, the overman knew. Words would not harm him, but once the step was taken from words to action it became very easy for matters to get entirely out of hand.
“I want no trouble. Let me go about my business in peace.”
A voice came from several rows back. Most of the crowd were now watching the overman. “I’ve heard it said that overmen have no gods, but I think that’s a lie. You serve the Lords of Dûs, don’t you?”
“I serve no gods.”
A second mudball flew by, missing Garth’s shoulder by inches; a third splattered messily against his breastplate. He drew his sword. The front row of hecklers tried to step back but was unable to; the crowd pressed too close.
“If you will not let me pass in peace, I go in war. Would you start again the Racial Wars?” Garth spoke in his most booming and impressive tones.
“You make empty threats. Who are you that your death will start a war? Your life for Arner’s!” A rock bounced harmlessly from his armor, and he began to wonder who it was who wished him so ill; the same voice had accused him of evil-worship and, he thought, of wanting Arner dead.
“I am Garth of Ordunin, and mighty among overmen. Who are you that taunts from behind others?”
There was no answer except another rock; this one ricocheted ringingly from his helmet. Another dollop of mud stained his armor, then another.
“If you wish my death, I would know your name, so that your fellows will know who to blame when Skelleth is smoking ruin in vengeance for this harassment.”
“Monster, you will not be avenged. There are not enough overmen left to harm Skelleth. Perhaps you are the last of your race; is that why you have fled your homeland?”
“You know nothing of what you speak. Come and face me.” Garth thought he had spotted the speaker, a dour old man wearing dark red. His answer brought nothing but more mudballs, however, this time a veritable shower of them. Reluctantly, he prepared to hack his way to safety. Shielding his eyes with his left arm, he raised his sword.
“I give you a final warning, humans. Let me go, or many of you will die.” There was a movement in the crowd. Garth thought he saw helmets. Had the men-at-arms joined the mob?
“Put up your sword, overman! And you people, go home!” The shout came from a man in a steel helmet. Garth recognized him as the captain of the guard who had confronted him on his first arrival. He did not obey, however; the man was still well back in the crowd, and Garth had no desire to get killed before assistance could reach him.
“Go on, go home!” It was a new voice, and Garth saw that a dozen guards were attempting to break up the mob, pulling people away and sending them off.
“With your permission, Captain, I will retain my sword at ready for the moment. But I will use the flat if it becomes necessary to strike.”
“Very well. Come on, you, move along!” Garth could see that the guardsmen were also making use of their swords to swat reluctant villagers. In a moment the crowd had diminished by half, and the guards were gathering in a ring around the overman.
“I thank you for your protection, men.”
“Don’t thank us yet. The Baron sent us to fetch you when he heard the disturbance.”
“Oh.”
“I trust you have no objections.”
“I am not in a position to object.”
“Good. Come on.” The captain led the way toward the Baron’s mansion. The remnants of the crowd parted reluctantly before the dozen swords that ringed the overman. They had crossed perhaps half the square when a clod of mud struck Garth’s helmet.
“Monster!” The crowd had not been cowed for long.
“Stop that!” The captain sounded genuinely angry.
“Herrenmer, don’t you care that that monster is responsible for Arner’s death?”
“Arner deserted his post, Darsen. The overman didn’t kill him.” The captain’s voice was cold as he answered the red-garbed old man. The taunter wasn’t easily stopped, however.
“What about you, Tarl? Why are you protecting the monster?”
“To get my pay, Darsen.” That got a laugh from the crowd. Garth was glad that the mood seemed to be lightened somewhat. No more mud flew, and he and his escort reached the elegantly carved door of the mansion without further incident. The captain opened it, and Garth stepped in. The captain and two others followed, while the remainder stayed on guard outside.
The antechamber was pleasant enough, though small; it was hung with woolen tapestries done in very few colors, with no gold or silver, and floor, ceiling, and walls were all of wood. Skelleth was not wealthy enough to have numerous dyes, nor to waste rare metals on ornaments, nor to import marble or other stones. Granite and basalt suitable for building could be found in the hills to the north, however, and Garth was slightly startled that none had been used for the floor.
He had little time to consider such matters; rather more quickly than he had expected, and with a complete lack of ceremony, he was ushered into the Baron’s audience chamber. His three-man escort remained with him.
The chamber was perhaps twenty feet wide and twice as long, with an acceptably high ceiling. Once again, tapestry covered the walls, save where three windows, rather above eye level, admitted greyish daylight. A little brief consideration told Garth that those windows faced north, which explained the poor light, and opened onto the alley where the King’s Inn lay, which explained why they were so high off the floor. Who wanted a view of that mess?
Below the middle window stood a large, unadorned oaken chair. The Baron, still wearing the elaborately embroidered red and gold he had worn at Arner’s execution, sat sprawled sideways thereon.
“Greetings, overman.”
Garth was unsure of the proper ceremonial for the occasion, but since the guards were not kneeling or bowing, he decided that any such sign of respect on his part might be construed as obsequiousness. He merely stood as he said, “Greetings, my lord Baron.” He was glad he had thought to sheathe his sword in the antechamber; though he might want to attempt an escape out the windows, the sword would do less good than having both hands free, and could easily have offended the Baron. At the very least it would have put him on guard.
Considering the possibility of escape, he began gauging the distance to the windows with his eye. It would take several steps and a leap, and then he would have to break the glass and frame — naturally, considering the alleyway’s odor, the windows were not designed to open. There were only six men in the room: his three guards, the Baron, and two courtiers, probably the only two the town had. Escape would be possible if this audience went badly.
The Baron had been considering him silently.
“Who are you?”
“I am Garth of Ordunin.”
“Ordunin being the overmen’s city on the northeast coast, I believe.”
“That is quite correct.”
“What brings you to Skelleth?”
“I was just passing through.”
“I find that highly unlikely. Where were you bound, that it was necessary to pass through Skelleth?”
“I passed through before en route to Mormoreth, and was able to obtain provisions here for the journey. I had hoped to do the same for my return to Ordunin.”
“What did you want in Mormoreth?”
“I had been sent to find something.”
“Oh? Did you?”
“Find it?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“How unfortunate. What was it?”
“A gem.”
“What gem?”
“We had heard that there was a gem in Mormoreth that could turn an overman invisible.”
“Oh? But you couldn’t find it?”
“No.”
“Who sent y
ou after it?”
“The Wise Women of Ordunin.”
“Who are they?”
“Oracles that live near Ordunin.”
“Why did they send you for this gem?”
“I should think that would be obvious; such a gem would be extremely valuable.”
“Why did they send you, rather than someone else?”
“I am reputed among my people to be fairly competent.”
“I see. So you went to Mormoreth seeking this gem. On foot?”
“No.”
“Then where is your mount?”
“My warbeast was slain by bandits on the Plain of Derbarok.”
“Yet you escaped?”
“I surrendered my gold, and they let me go.”
“While you still had your sword?”
“Yes.” Garth realized he had made a mistake, but it was too late to correct it.
“Curious.”
“I had slain several, and they did not wish to fight further.”
“Ah, of course. Bandits are a cowardly lot.”
Garth shrugged.
“So you made the journey to Mormoreth and back in four weeks. I take it you encountered the bandits on your return trip?”
“Yes.”
“How did you avoid them on the journey thither?”
“Luck.”
“Ah. And how long were you in Mormoreth, searching for this gem?”
“I don’t recall, exactly.”
“Oh.”
There was a pause, then the Baron continued, “And now you’re passing through again, on the way to Ordunin.”
“That’s right.”
“You are in Skelleth only to obtain provisions.”
“Yes.”
“It took two days at the King’s Inn to gather supplies for the journey to Mormoreth?”
“Yes.” Garth did not like the direction the questions were taking.
“And for this quest after a magic jewel, you needed chains, rope, a cage for pigeons though you had none with you, and a bolt of good cloth.”
The Lure of the Basilisk Page 12