The Lure of the Basilisk

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  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?”

  The Forgotten King’s cowl rustled as his head turned at this question, but he said nothing 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 shrugged 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.

  “You would wish, then, not merely to have your name known, but to have it honored?”

  Garth could not bring himself to speak; he nodded.

  “I have no objection to altering our bargain to that effect.”

  His rage subsided in sudden confusion. “What?”

  “You are from Ordunin.”

  “Yes.” Garth was now completely bewildered.

  “It is a poor city.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you have wealth. There is gold to be mined, fish in abundance, rich furs to be trapped. Why, then, are you poor?”

  The overman made no reply at first. When the old man said nothing and the silence began to grow, Garth said, “Because we must trade away our wealth for food. An overman cannot live on fish alone, nor can every overman spend his time fishing, for someone must work the mines.”

  “Where do you trade?”

  “At Lagur, ten days sail southeast.”

  “Why?”

  Comprehension was seeping in as Garth replied, “Because trade overland was impossible, we thought. The Racial Wars made it so. And we know of no other ports.”

  As he spoke, Saram resumed his seat, a full mug sloshing in his hand. “What’s due to the Racial Wars, did you say?”

  Garth looked at the yellow-robed figure to see if he wished to explain and, seeing only a faint trace of a smile, said himself, “The impossibility of trade between Skelleth and Ordunin — and in fact, between all Eramma and all the Northern Waste.”

  “Well, the Racial Wars are long ended, it seems, yet there’s still no trade, is there?” Saram gulped his ale. “I don’t suppose Skelleth has anything you’d want up there. You’ve got ice and hay of your own.”

  “But you, here in Skelleth, can trade with the south.”

  “So?” Saram did not yet see Garth’s point.

  The Forgotten King interrupted before Garth could speak. “Saram, why is Skelleth dying?”

  “Because we haven’t got anything to eat or trade.”

  “And what if you had gold, and furs, and other valuable goods to trade with the south?”

  Saram looked at the old man, then turned to Garth. “You mine gold up there?”

  Garth nodded. For a moment the oddly assorted trio sat silently. Then the overman remarked, “There may be difficulties. They hate me here; I am blamed for Arner’s death, and overmen are still mistrusted of old.”

  Saram waved that away. “No one will care once they see gold.”

  Garth made no reply.

  The old man smiled sardonically, making his face even more horrifying than usual.

  “Thus, O Garth, will you be known as the one to bring wealth and prosperity to Ordunin and Skelleth. Is this more pleasing to you?”

  The Forgotten King’s question needed no answer, but Garth had a question of his own.

  “Why do you suggest this scheme? I have not fulfilled your purpose, you say, yet you offer this advice. Why?”

  “Is it not to my benefit that Skelleth prosper? It seems that I must live here for a time yet. I have no wish to inconvenience myself with either starvation or fleeing south, should Skelleth continue to decline.”

  There was a pause, then Garth replied, “Earlier you spoke of this being the age of decay, and told me that there was no way for mortals to defy the will of the gods and reverse that decay.”

  “Perhaps I was pessimistic.”

  The overman remained unconvinced. Ha said, after another moment’s silence, “Whatever your reasons, the idea has merit.”

  “Indeed. So you will return to Skelleth with gold and furs, and become the hero and benefactor of its people. When you do, mayhap we will speak again.”

  “Perchance we will.” Garth rose. “Though never again will I blindly obey you, O King. Saram, come. We have unfinished business.”

  Startled, Saram rose; not caring to argue, he followed as Garth led the way to the tavern door, pausing only to scoop up one of the two crossbows that lay where they had been dropped, motioning for Saram to get the other. He did, and followed Garth out into the alley, blinking in the slanting light of the setting sun as it peeped through the clouds. Though a few eyes glanced up curiously as the pair departed, the buzz of conversation did not lessen and no man moved to halt them.

  Outside, the overman leaned his crossbow against the wall of the Inn and ordered, “Load them.” He strode on and vanished into the stable. Saram shrugged and wound back the string of his weapon. He still wore a quiver holding eleven quarrels, not having bothered to remove it after the abortive battle in the tavern.

  Inside the stable it was dim and cool, the pleasant smell of fresh hay and the stink of manure mingling weirdly with the stench of the basilisk. Garth crossed to where Koros stood waiting placidly, the Sealing Rod still securely tucked into its harness. A pace from the warbeast’s side he stumbled over a small object.

  Pausing, he looked down and saw he had trod on a stone, a curiously smooth and symmetrical stone. He picked it up, and found it was a stone rat; his foot had snapped off its tail, which lay in fragments amid the straw on the floor. He immediately turned his gaze to the other side of the stable, where the basilisk lurked silently within its enclosure. There was no opening in the cloth cover. The rat had not, then, chewed its way in; nor could it have crawled under the cloth, for how would it get back out, once petrified? No, the cover must have been lifted and replaced in the course of whatever the Forgotten King had done, and the unfortunate rat had been in line with the creature’s gaze. Nothing else was disturbed. Odd that the King had taken such a risk as looking at the monster, Garth thought. Then he thought again, remembering certain things the old man had said, and a possible understanding dawned.

  Then he dismissed the matter from his mind and returned his attention to Koros.

  When Garth emerged from the stable leading the warbeast, both crossbows were loaded and cocked, leaning against the wall. The overman picked up one in passing and Saram retrieved the other, following Garth at a distance of a few yards. They continued up the alley until the basilisk’s enclosure appeared in the stable door and slid into the street. When it was clear of the doorframe and the cloth cover free of all snags, Garth stopped and pulled the Sealing Rod from its place in Koros’ harness. Saram watched in some confusion as Garth proceeded to tap several of the carved facets, one after the other.

  When he tapped the final spot there was a soft sigh from the basilisk’s direction, and Saram turned in time to see the cloth covering sinking to the ground, like a tent with its supports suddenly removed. It did not come to rest flat on the ground, but instead revealed the outline of an immense lizard, thrashing about angrily under the entangling fabric. Saram raised his crossbow.

  Garth fired first; the bolt struck the basilisk in the neck, and the thrashing momentarily heightened as a gout of yellowish ichor stained the dirty cloth. Saram fired; his missile struck somewhere in the body, drawing another spurt of the basilisk’s pale blood. The thrashing ceased as Garth calmly cranked back the bowstring for another shot.

  He continued to wind, load, and shoot until all eleven quarrels protruded from the motionless form, and the alleyway reeked with the smell of basilisk more than it ever had with common ordure. A pool of reddish-gold, watery blood covered most of the fallen expanse of rough cloth, and a single green-scaled claw showed through a small tear. His last bolt shot, Garth thrust the now-useless crossbow at Saram, who accepted it while still clutching his own in his other hand.

  The overman swung gracefully up onto the warbeast’s back and announced, “You can tell the Baron that the basilisk is his, if he wants it. He can thank me when I return.” Then, with a word to Koros, he rode off, turning north at the first corner and vanishing amid the first drops of a light rain.
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  Appendix A: A History of This Novel

  The Lure of the Basilisk is the first volume in the four-part “Lords of Dûs” series. There are no published spin-offs or related series outside the four volumes, nor are any presently in the works, but the possibility of adding more eventually hasn’t been ruled out.

  It seems to me that a brief account of the novel’s history is in order, and here it is.

  In February 1974 I flunked out of Princeton University’s architecture department, and rather than go home in disgrace I wound up living in a run-down apartment in Pittsburgh’s Oakland district, upstairs from an ice cream shop. I had no job, no money, no prospects, and was living off what little money I could cadge out of my disappointed parents. (While I am not proud of sponging off them, please note that I did pay them back every cent a few years later.)

  So what did I do with myself? Did I go out looking for honest work? Did I apply to another college?

  Hell, no. I intended to get readmitted to Princeton. The rules at the time allowed this, but required that the would-be reapplicant spend at least one full year off-campus — to get his/her head together, I suppose. So I wanted something I could do for about a year and a half.

  I wasn’t interested in a mere job, something to pay the bills but that wouldn’t go anywhere, and I couldn’t very well start an actual career if I intended to cut it off short in sixteen months or so.

  And there was this anecdote I’d heard — I still don’t know if it’s true, and I suppose I should ask Larry Niven about it the next time I see him. The story was that when Niven decided as a young man that he wanted to be a writer, he gave himself a year — did nothing but write for a year, while living on his family’s money. If he hadn’t sold anything by the end of that time, he promised himself, he’d give up and get a real job.

  Obviously, since he went on to a successful writing career, toward the end of the year he started selling his stories.