Book of Silence tlod-4

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Annoyed, Garth said, "Perhaps it explains everything to you, but it does not to me."

  "No, of course not. Come, then, and I'll explain." He sheathed his sword and held out a hand in friendship.

  Hesitantly, the human returned his own sword to its scabbard, while the first overman lowered his spear.

  At the second overman's urging, Garth dismounted and led Koros, with Frima still astride, into the camp. There was still no sign of the Forgotten King.

  Once inside the circle of light from the nearest fire, Garth was able to get a good look at his captors. As he had thought, they were obviously Yprian, wearing the brightly enameled, flaring helmets and gaudy, enameled armor customary on the Coast.

  They were not, however, exactly like the Yprians who had traded in Skelleth. The designs and colors on the armor were different, the accents, he realized, subtly altered.

  When they had drawn near the fire, Frima was lifted off the warbeast, and both she and it were placed under polite but thorough guard-though Garth was sure that the Yprians were underestimating the warbeast's strength and that Koros could easily leave anytime it chose.

  Garth himself was treated solicitously, led to a comfortable folding stool by the fire, and offered a cup of mulled wine. Wary of drugs, he refused the beverage, but seated himself and waited politely while the other overman made himself comfortable.

  When both were settled, the other began his explanation. Garth, upon seeing the differences between this group and those who had come to Skelleth, had already guessed part of it.

  The Yprian Coast, it seemed, was not a single united region living at peace with itself, but rather a patchwork of squabbling tribes, some human, some overman, most mixed.

  For the last century or two, the situation had been relatively stable; each tribe had its area staked out, and borders were only rarely violated. Raids were not unheard of, by any means, but full-scale wars were a thing of the past. The tribes traded with one another and formed elaborate networks of allies and trading partners, the better to get what they needed. Goods not obtainable on the Coast were bought from the most southwesterly tribe, the Dyn-Hugris, who traded with Dыsarra, and who were consequently the most powerful of the various groups. The Dyn-Hugris, however, were kept in check by an alliance of half a dozen other fairly large and wealthy tribes in the central part of the region. All in all, there had been a stable balance of power and an acceptable division of the available wealth.

  Then, almost simultaneously, two things had occurred to disrupt this situation.

  Dыsarra had been stricken by plague, its marketplace and warehouses burned and much of the city evacuated. Trade had collapsed. The Dyn-Hugris lost their power base overnight; their control of the trade routes to Dыsarra was suddenly worthless.

  In the east, a party of traders had come through the badlands from Eramma and offered to trade with anyone who was interested. The first tribe they encountered had been little more than a small company of bandits, but the second had been the Chuleras, a large and ambitious group previously limited by their poor location and meager resources.

  Now, abruptly, the Chuleras had gold, large amounts of it, and were able to hire mercenaries, bribe allies, and generally assert themselves. They had done so with none of the tact the Dyn-Hugris had developed over the centuries and were in the process of driving the six Alliance tribes out of their central homelands.

  Even without the resources of Dыsarra, the Dyn-Hugris were a formidable enemy, so instead of retreating westward, the six tribes had come south, making the hard trek over the mountains, looking for new homes, new lands, and new wealth.

  The Dyn-Hugris, not to be outdone, had sent armies south along their now-useless trade routes.

  The old alliances had collapsed under the new strains; now the six tribes, and the Dyn-Hugris as well, were all rivals, gobbling up as much of Nekutta as they could. It had been a pleasant surprise to find it all so poorly defended. Usually a company of Yprians could take over as much land as they pleased by simply moving in and declaring themselves the owners. The local inhabitants, mostly farmers, rarely dared protest.

  Conquest was so easy, in fact, that the Yprians became nervous, certain that there had to be a catch somewhere, some dire threat that would arise to thwart them. So far, no such thing had appeared-but Garth's arrival had been very suspicious. The camp was the foremost outpost of the army of the Khofros, most easterly of the six tribes, and just recently come around the central mountains hoping to claim the entire eastern region of Nekutta. The presence of an overman to the east of them was an unwelcome surprise.

  Garth listened to this explanation silently. He realized that he, virtually single-handed, had managed to disrupt completely the society of the Yprian Coast and had thereby caused the invasion of Nekutta by these semibarbaric tribespeople. Both the destruction of Dыsarra and the rise of the Chuleras had been his doing.

  Once again, actions he had thought beneficial had led to mass destruction. He wondered if it was possible for him to do anything significant at all that Bheleu and fate would not twist and pervert.

  The Yprian, done with his story, asked, "Is that girl really the Baroness of Skelleth?"

  Garth had been waiting for this question. "I wanted to impress you," he replied. "I thought the whole Yprian Coast traded with Skelleth, not just one tribe."

  "Is she the Baroness?" the other persisted.

  Garth realized that he was not going to be allowed to dodge the question. "Not anymore," he said. "She was the Baroness; her husband was recently murdered by his enemies. I doubt that anyone would care much about the widow of a deposed baron. There were no children to claim the title; she was left alone and decided to return to her home in Dыsarra rather than risk her life by staying in Skelleth."

  He hoped that the implication that Frima had been exiled by a rival faction would be accepted. If the situation on the Coast had in fact been as the Yprian had described it, such things would probably have been common and familiar.

  "Ah," the Yprian said. "A pity, if true."

  "It is true." Garth spoke as if offended, his voice flat. As it happened, most of what he said was indeed accurate. It was the way it was said that gave a wrong impression, by implying that the enemies who had murdered Saram had been usurpers in Skelleth, rather than outside foes.

  "A shame; she would have been such a good hostage in dealing with the Chuleras."

  Garth shrugged. "I am sorry she is of no value to you. She has some worth for me; I am to be paid by her family upon her safe delivery to Dыsarra''

  "That seems very odd, you know. Dыsarra is largely deserted now. And how did a Dыsarran ever come to be married to the Baron of Skelleth?"

  "I do not know the details; she turned up in Skelleth almost three years ago. The dead Baron was something of an adventurer, you know; he took the title for himself, rather than inheriting it. His predecessor was murdered, as well."

  "You still haven't told me your name."

  "Thord," Garth said. "Thord of Ordunin, son of Dold and Sherid."

  "I am Chorn of the Khofros."

  "What do you plan to do with me?"

  "I have not decided."

  "I would like to point out that I will put up serious resistance if you do not release me very soon. Besides myself, the warbeast is a formidable threat. I do not think it worth your while to keep me here or to kill me. Far better to let me go in peace."

  "You have a good point there. I will keep it in mind while I discuss this with our elders." The Yprian rose and signaled with one hand.

  Three guards, all overmen, stepped forward and kept Garth under close watch while Chorn strode off and vanished into a large tent. They made no attempt to disarm Garth; he guessed that they judged the great two-handed broadsword too awkward a weapon to be much of a threat in such a situation. Were he to reach for it, he could be killed long before he could get it free of its scabbard-or at any rate, he could have been killed if it were an ordinary weapon rather than
the Sword of Bheleu.

  Garth was pleased that no one touched the sword; he was unsure how it might react, even when its power was damped by the Forgotten King. He sat waiting patiently for several minutes.

  When Chorn finally emerged again he was smiling. Garth did not know how to interpret that until he saw the Yprian gesture for the guards to depart.

  They obeyed, vanishing into the darkness beyond the fire's light.

  Garth rose as Chorn dismissed the watch on Frima and Koros.

  "Our apologies, Thord, for detaining you," he said. "You understand our situation, I'm sure."

  Garth nodded.

  "You are free to go, and we hope that you will speak well of the Khofros in the future. We bear no malice toward any people in Eramma or the Northern Waste, nor even in Dыsarra, and would welcome peaceful contacts with them. I am sorry that we were not more hospitable, but in war the amenities are neglected."

  "Thank you," Garth said, still slightly suspicious.

  No one interfered as he mounted the warbeast and helped Frima up behind him; no one attempted to stop them as they rode on westward through the camp and out the far side, past the sentries.

  The stay among the Yprians had delayed them for something over an hour, but Garth was not excessively annoyed. He knew that it could have been much worse. He was relieved that the Khofros had apparently decided that they did not need anymore enemies.

  He was not sure, however, whether he was pleased or dismayed at the Forgotten King's disappearance; he was still debating the point as he rode out past the final sentry, whereupon it became moot. The old man was walking alongside again as soon as they were out of sight in the darkness, as if he had been there all along-and Garth was not entirely sure he had not been. Invisibility could well be one of his wizardly talents. The overman decided not to mention it, and the old man did not volunteer any information.

  Frima, however, was not so reticent. When she noticed the King's reappearance, she demanded, "Where were you?"

  The Forgotten King did not reply.

  After she had repeated the question three times, each louder than the last, and had finally been hushed by Garth, while the King remained obdurately silent, she gave up. Instead, she asked Garth, "Why didn't they kill us?"

  "Why should they?"

  "We might have been spies."

  "We weren't."

  "But we might have been."

  Garth shrugged.

  "I think they should have killed us."

  "You would prefer to be dead?" Garth inquired politely.

  "I didn't mean it that way-though I don't know, really. Maybe when I die I'll see Saram again."

  Garth did not like the trend of that thought. "They did not kill us because it was not worth their trouble. Koros and I would have put up a good fight, and they would have lost several warriors before they could kill us-if they could kill Koros at all," he said, hoping to direct Frima away from thoughts of an afterlife. Even though he had come to believe in the existence of gods, or at any rate of supernatural powers, he had not accepted the human superstition of life after death. He did not want to risk saying anything that might tempt Frima to commit suicide or to permit herself to be killed at what might be an inopportune moment.

  "I suppose that's true," Frima agreed. There was a brief silence before she asked, "Who were those people?"

  "Yprians," Garth replied.

  "What were they doing there?"

  Garth explained the situation, repeating points every so often, clarifying what Frima did not immediately comprehend, and admitting ignorance when she asked questions he could not answer.

  When at last she was satisfied with his explanation and convinced that the whole camp had not been put there by the cult of Aghad, she fell silent.

  Garth glanced back and noticed that the sky was beginning to lighten in the east. They would be resting soon.

  That, he was sure, would do them all good.

  He had been thinking over recent events while answering Frima's questions; one subject was Frima herself. She was talking again, as much as she ever had. Garth took that as a sign that she was getting over the shock of Saram's death and wondered whether she still grieved.

  She was certainly more entertaining, if sometimes exasperating, as her normal talkative self than she had been during her long spell of silence. Traveling by night could be boring, with the scenery obscured by darkness, if one's companions refused to speak.

  He began looking for somewhere they could take shelter for the day. It would not do to be caught unawares by another party of Khofros, or by any other Yprian tribe.

  They found an abandoned, partially burned farmhouse shortly after sunrise, its former owner's skull on a stake by the door. A message was scratched on the wall with charcoal: "This is the fate of our enemies. This land belongs to the Khofros."

  Frima was reluctant to enter the ruin, but Garth was insistent, despite the ash and odor. It was shelter, burned or not.

  They spent the day sleeping peacefully; no one found them. Garth awoke in midafternoon and found the King sitting, fully awake, on the one intact chair at the unscathed kitchen table. The overman smiled at the familiar pose in the incongruous setting. He said nothing, but roused Frima, and the party set out anew.

  Having learned from their first encounter, Garth carefully avoided all contact with humans or overmen thereafter, circling wide around the camps and outposts they encountered, sleeping in ruins, caves, or other places of concealment, and stealing supplies rather than buying them. They passed several Yprian encampments of varying sizes, and Garth tried to distinguish the various tribes by the differences in their armor and accouterments; he was fairly certain of some identifications, less confident of others. Since they were avoiding contact, they never learned the names of the five tribes between the Khofros and the Dyn-Hugris, but Garth was reasonably sure he saw representatives of at least three of them.

  The sword's gem remained black throughout, to Garth's relief. He had no desire to defend Nekutta by destroying the invaders; after all, many of the Yprians were his own species, which the Nekuttans were not.

  As well as the invading armies, they came across camps of ragged humans, mostly unarmed, whom Garth guessed to be refugees. Many of the inhabitants of these camps wore the traditional hooded robes of Dыsarra; others wore the homespun tunics of farmers.

  Checkpoints had been set up at several places along the road; circling around them became enough of a nuisance that, Garth gave serious consideration to Frima's suggestion of abandoning the road altogether, before finally rejecting it. He had traveled this route once before, but he was by no means sure that he would be able to find Dыsarra if he left the highway.

  They were, by Garth's estimate, about a day's travel-or rather, a night's-from Dыsarra, with the mountains visible on the western horizon, when their rest was interrupted early one afternoon.

  They had taken shelter in an orchard, hidden from view by the thick foliage of the apple trees. Garth did not expect anyone to trouble them unless the owner of the grove should turn up, and a farmer or two was a threat the overman knew he could handle easily.

  It was not a farmer, however, who coughed politely to awaken him. He rolled over, reaching automatically for the Sword of Bheleu, and found himself looking up at a man of indeterminate age, muscular in build, and clad in a gray robe and hood.

  There was something familiar about him, Garth realized as his hand closed on the hilt of the sword.

  "Greetings, Garth of Ordunin," the man said. "I come in peace; you will not need the sword."

  The fact that the man recognized him somehow did not surprise Garth; he was certain that they had met before, though he could not recall when or where.

  "Greetings, man," he said.

  "You don't recognize me?"

  "No."

  "I am the Seer of Weideth; we met three years ago, on two occasions."

  "I recall only one," Garth replied. He had run afoul of illusions sent by the
Seer and the village elders of Weideth when first he traveled to Dыsarra. He remembered the incident well and saw that this man was indeed the one who had called himself Seer on that occasion. On the way back to Skelleth he had passed through Weideth without incident, and without meeting the Seer again.

  "I was one of the Council that fought you in the hills north of Skelleth," the gray-robed man explained.

  "Oh, yes." Garth had not realized that the Seer had been included in that group, along with Shandiph, Chalkara, and a score or so of others whose names he did not know. There had been so many in robes, the traditional garb for a wizard, that he had not noticed the Seer among them. "Why are you here?"

  "I have not come to interfere; it's far too late for that. You need not worry. I just wanted to see you and look at the sword that has caused so much destruction and meet the King in Yellow while we both still live."

  There was a sadness in the Seer's tone, and something else Garth did not recognize; overmen were not prone to wistfulness, so Garth was not familiar with it. He saw no harm in the man.

  "Here I am," he said, "and here is the sword. The King is the old man in rags over there."

  "I know." The Seer looked down at the sword Garth held and remarked, "It's hard to believe that that thing can hold so much power."

  The overman shrugged.

  "And you have the book and the mask, as well. Do you know how long the spell will take?"

  "I know nothing about it," Garth replied.

  "O King, do you know?"

  The old man had been sitting quietly, ignoring their visitor, but he answered, "Three days."

  "And you have a day's travel remaining-four days in all. Why, then, can I not foresee my death? Is my gift that weak?"

  The Forgotten King said nothing.

  "You seem certain that the old man will be allowed to work his magic," Garth said, irked. "I am not so eager to see him succeed."

  The Seer looked sideways at him. "What can you do?"

  "I hold the Sword of Bheleu-and I intend to hold it."

  The King stirred, and the gem in the sword's pommel suddenly flared up, vividly red. A wave of unreasoning fury swept over the overman; he propelled himself to his feet, the sword ready, its blade glowing white.