Lawrence Watt-Evans - Dus 2 - Seven Altars of Dusarra

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by Lawrence Watt-EvansCHAPTER ONEThe rider paused at the top of the low ridge;

the plain that lay just beyond was spread out before him under the pale stars

of late summer. Directly before him there was an interruption of the flat

earth; jagged silhouettes rose in black humps, huddled together within an

uneven stone zing. The circle was broken at the point nearest him, and a

single shattered wall rose to mark what had once been a substantial gatehouse;

beside that wall flickered an orange flame, as warm as the stars were cold.

Although he was still too far away to discern any details, he knew that this

was the town of Skelleth, and that the single light was the watch fire of the

guardsman at the ruins of the North Gate. He had been here before, and knew

that of the five gates in the crumbling city wall only this one was guarded.

It was guarded against him and his kind. There was no sign of life other than

the lonely fire, and even had the man posted there been fully alert-as he

undoubtedly was not at this hour-he could not have seen the rider or his party

at such a distance in the dark. Their approach was undetected. The mounted

figure sat for a moment, his face invisible in the darkness and the shade of

his trader's hat, studying the panorama; he glanced up as a nightbird flew

overhead, and his eyes shone a baleful red with reflected starlight. His

hollow-cheeked face had no nose, but only close-set slit nostrils; ragged

black hair hung almost to his shoulders, but there was no trace of a beard on

the leathery brown hide of his jaw. He was inhumanly tall and correspondingly

broad. He was, in short, not human, but overman. His long-fingered hand,

with its oddly jointed thumb and opposable fifth finger, grasped the

guidehandle of his mount's harness, an unnecessary precaution; his warbeast

was trained to obey verbal commands or the pressure of its rider's feet, and

moved with such feline smoothness that there was no danger of dislodging its

master. The creature was blacker than the night sky, and as silent; its golden

eyes and polished fangs were the only discernable features. It stood the

height of a man and, from its stubby whiskers to lashing pantherlike tail,

measured a good eighteen feet. Its triangular ears were up and alert, but it

gave no warning growl. Accordingly, the overman raised his arm in the signal

to advance and led his companions over the final ridge and down onto the

plain. His warbeast moved with silent catlike grace, its great padded paws

disturbing not a single stone; the rest of the party was not so circumspect.

There were four in the party, all grown overmen, but only the leader rode a

warbeast; his three followers made do with yackers, the universal beast of

burden of the Northern Waste. Each rode upon one of the ugly creatures and led

another heavily laden with the goods they hoped to trade in Skelleth. There

was something slightly ludicrous in the stately dignity of the overmen as they

perched stiffly upright upon the broad backs covered with ropy, matted brown

hair, and guided their beasts with finely tooled silver bits in slobbering

black-upped mouths full of uneven yellow teeth. The yackers' hooves rattled on

every pebble, it seemed, and there was a constant snorting and rumbling from

the six shaggy, drooping heads. They were travelling the ancient Wasteland

Road, which led straight to Skelleth's North Gate; as the last yacker reached

the foot of the ridge, the leader turned his warbeast off the road, heading

west instead of south. "Hold, Garth!" called the second in the procession.

The leader tapped a signal with his heel and the warbeast halted. "What is

it?" His companion drew up beside him and asked, "Where are we heading?

Is that not Skelleth?" He pointed to the flickering watch fire. The third

overman pulled up beside them as well as Garth replied, "Yes, of course that

is Skelleth, and that is where we're going." "Then why have we left the

road? These yackers are quite slow enough as it is." It was, the third

overman who replied, "Larth, did not Garth explain our situation to you?"

"I remember nothing that explains our turning away from our destination."

"Then you remember nothing. We are to enter the town in secrecy." "It was not

you I asked, Galt." "Galt, however, speaks correctly," Garth said. "The

Baron of Skelleth does not want overmen in his town; most especially, he does

not want me there. When last I saw him he ordered his guards to kill me on the

spot. Fortunately, they did not cooperate. However, if we can present the

Baron with a peaceful trading caravan in the market square, not as a

possibility but as an accomplished fact, I think he can be made to see reason

and accept us." "So we are to sneak in like thieves?" "Why else are we

travelling by night?" Galt's tone was sweetly reasonable. "It is not

dignified!" "And what would be dignified?" Garth inquired. "To ride directly

in by daylight, and demand as our due that we be allowed to trade." Galt

snorted. "That might be dignified, but it would also be stupid, perhaps

fatally so. Garth says there are more than thirty guardsmen in Skelleth; true,

they are mere humans, and none too well equipped by his account, but there are

only four of us, and we are not exactly well armed either." Garth added,

before Larth could reply, "It would not do for friendly traders to be

bristling with weapons; we cannot risk incidents involving bloodshed. That is

why I required that you three be unarmed, and I will conceal my own weapons

before we begin our dealings with the people of Skelleth." "Quite correct."

Galt nodded in agreement. Larth continued to look unconvinced. "Still," he

demanded, "why have we left the road?" His answer came from the fourth and

youngest overman, who had not yet spoken, showing the proper deference to his

elders; he could not, however, refrain from replying, "Because there's a guard

on the road, stupid!" Larth's voice was emotionless as he said, "Galt,

restrain your apprentice." As all knew quite well, that flat tone was

indicative of building rage; Galt did not hesitate to order his underling to

shut up. When Larth had calmed somewhat, he asked, "How do you know that we

can find another entrance unguarded?" "I don't know for certain," Garth

said. "But when I was here before, they guarded only the north; the West Gate

opens on a road that leads only to the Yprian Coast, which has reputedly been

deserted for centuries, so what need to guard it? Therefore, we will enter

through the West Gate. We will reach it by circling wide around, well out of

sight and sound of the guard at the North Gate. Now, if we are to reach the

market square before dawn we must move onward, so let there be no further

debate." His warbeast, in response to a signal undetectable to the others,

strode onward. "Very well," Larth said. It took rather more to get his

yackers moving once again, but a moment's prodding eventually registered with

their dim brains and they resumed their plodding and snuffling. Galt and his

apprentice were not far behind. There was still an hour remaining before

first light when the little caravan reached the West Gate-which was, as Garth

had expected, unguarded. It was also in such a state of total ruin that only

the fading trace of an ancient road leading through the rubble showed where it

had been, and it was only under protest that the yackers could be compelled to

make their way across the jagged bits of broken stone. Garth's war beast paid

this minor inconvenience no heed whatsoever. Once inside the wall, there

was little immediate improvement in their surroundings. On either side of the

road stood nothing but ruins. Gaping holes half-filled with rubble showed

where cellars had been of old, sometimes rimmed with uneven remnants of walls

of stone or wood or plaster, and between these pits were the broken pieces of

buildings that had had no cellars and now lay in heaps upon bare earth. Galt

commented, in a careful whisper, "Hardly the awesome fortress that our

ancestors described." Larth, in a rather less cautious mutter, replied, "Who

can tell in this darkness? It looks deserted; Garth, are you sure this is

Skelleth?" "Yes, I'm sure; only the central portion is still inhabited. When

the wars ended so did the town's reason for existence, and so did the supply

trains from the south that kept it going. It's been slowly dying ever since.

That's why I think the people will welcome trade, even if it's with overmen."

"I hope so." Larth's voice sank into an, incoherent mumble. The party moved

on, and around them the buildings became less ruinous; on either side stood

sagging, abandoned houses and shops-derelict, but still upright. Rotting

shutters hung from bent hinges; broken doors stood open, revealing only

blackness. Then, as they approached the surviving center, more and more doors

were closed, even barred, and fewer shutters missing or broken. Before too

long the only openings on either side were other streets, rather than empty

lots where buildings had been razed or had fallen in. Everything was dark,

however; the people of Skelleth were clearly all still abed. Finally the

street debouched into the market square that occupied the town's exact center;

it, too, was dark, silent, and empty. Garth was pleased to see that the

Baron's mansion, which occupied the entire north side of the square, was as

dark as any other building. He stopped his warbeast in the center of the

market and motioned for Galt to join him. When Galt obeyed, he whispered.

"This is the place, trader; that is the seat of the local government. Where

would you suggest we set up?" Galt studied the square carefully, and finally

pointed to the southeast corner. "That looks good." Garth nodded. "Then you

three set up there. It occurs to me that a warbeast will not be a welcome

sight in Skelleth, and I am going to put Koros and my weapons somewhere out of

sight. I would suggest that you do the same with the yackers; just tie them up

in an alley somewhere, where they won't upset the merchants. Koros, I think,

had best go somewhere further out; I'll find a ruin somewhere on the West

Road." "As you wish." "I'll be right back. Just remember, keep it

peaceful." Galt nodded. Garth turned and rode back along the route they had

just come, while the others made their way to the southeast corner of the

market and dismounted, stiff from their long ride. Galt studied the

location with a practiced eye, then indicated a spot in front of a tightly

shuttered shop, just beside the mouth of a narrow street. His apprentice

immediately hauled a bundle off one of the yackers and began spreading

blankets on the ground designated. Larth stood nearby, peering apprehensively

about in the gloom, and Galt found himself grateful that Garth had made sure

the party was unarmed; Larth was plainly nervous enough to have drawn sword at

the slightest sound, which would simply not do. Of course, that was Larth. He

himself was not so easily bothered, nor so easily commanded. The dagger in his

boot was simply a sensible precaution, and none of Garth's business.

Leaving Larth to his anxiety, he began hauling bundles off yackers. In a

matter of moments the ugly beasts were unburdened. Galt whispered to his

apprentice, "Tand, you start spreading out our wares. Get Larth to help you if

you can, but don't start an argument. I'll be back in a moment." He gathered

up the lead ropes from the six harnesses and began coaxing the yackers down

the narrow street, out of the market. The beasts were not actively

uncooperative, but it was still difficult to manage all six of them, so that

he was several minutes at the task. Finally he managed to get them arranged in

a circle, their lead ropes tied together. Although they could still move

about, they were far too stupid to move all in the same direction; this

arrangement should keep them more or less in the same place for quite some

time. It did block the street, but Galt hoped that wouldn't matter much. It

didn't look like a major thoroughfare. Besides, that meant that the overmen

could not be taken from behind by enemies coming up this street; even if they

got past the yackers, the inevitable noise would serve as a warning. The

yackers were a new problem for him. Though he was a master trader, all his

previous experience had been gained on expeditions to Lagur, since that was

the only place the overmen of the Northern Waste currently traded. There were

no yackers used on such expeditions, since all trade with Lagur went by sea.

Once the beasts were taken care of, he returned to the square. He could hear

the sounds of furs being unpacked; either Tand was working incredibly fast, or

he had gotten Larth to help him, judging by the noise. Then, just as he

was about to turn the corner into the market, the sounds stopped abruptly. So

did he. Something was happening, obviously. Peaceful, peaceful, he reminded

himself; he fixed his most nearly human smile upon his face and strolled

forward as casually as he could. Larth and Tand knelt motionless amid heaps

of furs and carved whalebone, staring off to their right. Following their gaze

he saw a ragged human farmer, pulling a rickety cart half-full of squash,

standing motionless in a street opening into the eastern end of the market.

The farmer's mouth hung open and his eyes were wide, the whites palely visible

in the first light of morning-light which had crept up while Galt was securing

the yackers without his noticing it. It appeared very much as if this man had

never seen an overman before, and quite possibly he hadn't. Larth and Tand

were also staring, and it occurred to Galt that it might well be that neither

of them had ever seen a human being before. This, Galt knew, was the

decisive moment. Secrecy was gone. Now, if their mission was to succeed, they

needed to convince the humans that there was nothing out of the ordinary about

overmen trading in their marketplace. Garth had hired him as an expert on

dealing with humans, and he knew that humans could be convinced of anything if

only approached properly. He waved gaily, broadened his smile, and called,

"Greetings, good sir! Would you care to see our wares?" The man turned his

gaze from the others to Galt, but his mouth remained open and his eyes wide.

Galt gestured at the heaps of trade goods. "We have fine furs, such as are

rarely seen in these lands; we have fine carved implements of use in any home.

Come and look, friend!" The man's mouth slowly closed. He swallowed, and

looked back and forth between the overmen. His eyes roved around the market

square and found no one else and nothing out of the ordinary-except the party

of overmen. Galt judged him to be recovered from his shock and considering the

situation. He would not turn and run, because that would mean abandoning his

cart; it had been a stroke of luck that the first human to find them had been

so encumbered. He had two sensible options; he could behave as if the overmen

belonged there, or he could raise an alarm. It was Galt's job to convince him

the former was the better course. Still smiling, he called, "It costs

nothing to look, sir, and should something catch your eye, our prices are

reasonable." They certainly were! This trip was, not expected to make a

profit, nor break even, but only to establish an opening; accordingly, he and

Garth had agreed that they would refuse no serious offer-though they would

haggle, of course; that was expected, and suspicion would be aroused if they

did not-and would even give away goods free if it seemed advisable. "If you

haven't brought any money, we might trade for those fine vegetables." That

decided him. The man found his voice and called, "Wait a moment, and I'll come

look." He began moving again, wheeling his creaking cart into the square.

As he did, a shuttered window in the second story of the building the overmen

had chosen to set up in front of opened, and a head was thrust out. "What's

all the yelling? It's not yet dawn!" Galt doffed his hat politely and

called up, "My apologies, good lady; it was thoughtless of me to bellow so."

The head, which was indeed female-Galt hadn't been completely certain-turned

to look at him. There was a moment of silence save for the creaking of cart

wheels as the farmer positioned his wares. Then the woman asked,

conversationally but in an unsteady voice, "You're an overman, aren't you?"

"Yes, good lady, my companions and myself are overmen, come to trade

peacefully. We have fine furs and jewelry that would surely please one as

lovely as yourself; Tand, hold up that white fox for the lady." Tand was

still motionless with surprise, but picked up his cue with only the briefest

hesitation and stood, displaying an excellent fur. The woman noticed Larth

and Tand for the first time but paid them little heed, looking instead at the

stacks of furs. There was a pause, and then she said, "I'll be right down."

Her head vanished from the window, and Galt's false smile relaxed into a

genuine one. The danger was past. They had been accepted. When Garth

returned several minutes later he found a small crowd clustered around his

companions, bickering cheerfully over quality and price.CHAPTER TWOGarth

glanced apprehensively at the door to the Baron's mansion as it swung open for

the first time that morning. So far whatever gods there might be had smiled

upon his little caravan; they had had no trouble on the road from Ordunin, nor

with the merchants and farmers who had so far entered the market. The

reactions of the villagers to a quartet of overmen sitting calmly in their

midst amid displays of furs and carved whalebone had varied from simple

acceptance to astonishment and horror-which could usually be soothed by a few

quiet words and perhaps a gold coin or two. The fact that those already there

appeared unconcerned had been a major factor in preventing general alarm or

even a-riot. Unfortunately, Garth knew the Baron of Skelleth and his

guards would not be so easily swayed. His previous visit to this northernmost

outpost of humanity had ended messily, and the Baron had ordered his death,

more for being an overman and uncooperative than for any specific crime.

Of course none of Skelleth's pitiful guardsmen were likely to try and tackle

four overmen; Garth thought it unlikely that the village's full complement of

three dozen would have been a match for his party if he hadn't insisted his

companions be unarmed. They were on a peaceful trading mission, and he was

determined to see that it stayed peaceful. For far too long had the overmen of

the Northern Waste been dependent upon the sea traders of Lagur, who missed no

opportunity to exploit their monopoly; if Garth succeeded in opening a land

trade route through Skelleth the monopoly would be broken, and his people

would have their first chance at a decent life since the bitter Racial Wars of

three centuries earlier-and incidentally Garth would be honored and wealthy,

which would be enjoyable. The door was open now, and three guardsmen

stepped through, blinking in the bright summer sunlight; Garth recognized one

of them. The tall one in the steel helmet was Herrenmer, captain of the guard.

The unknown pair took up their posts, one on either side of the door.

Herrenmer, having stationed his men, took a casual glance around, his duty

done for the moment. His gaze fell on the overmen and Garth saw him tense. He

spoke to his men, but Garth could hear nothing over the noise of the market;

then all three started across the square toward the outlanders, Herrenmer in

the lead, all three with hands near their swords. Garth put down the

wolfskin he had been showing to an overweight woman and said, "Larth, keep an

eye on my goods while I speak to these men." He stood and stepped forward to

meet the soldiers. The trio stopped a dozen paces from the displays;

Garth stood halfway between. There was a moment's pause, then Herrenmer

demanded, "What are you doing here?" "We have come to trade." "You

know that the Baron wants no overmen in Skelleth." "I was aware that he

wanted no armed overmen adventurers, an attitude I can fully understand, since

such would tend to disturb the peace of your town; but surely he can have no

objection to four unarmed traders, whatever their race or nation!" Garth had

carefully thought out this little speech in advance, and was pleased to see

that it had the desired effect, leaving Herrenmer momentarily confused and

speechless. He pressed his advantage. "I have heard the Baron himself

express dismay at Skelleth's poverty and lack of trade; surely, then, he will

be glad to have a whole new people eager to deal with Skelleth. We have gold

and furs and other goods to trade for our needs, which will make Skelleth's

merchants wealthy when sold in the south, where we dare not venture. Surely

the Baron cannot object to that, for where the merchants are wealthy the

government cannot fail to profit thereby." "I know nothing of that; it is

not my concern." Herrenmer paused, considering, then went on, "I will speak

with my lord further about this." He turned and strode angrily back to the

mansion; his two men followed, and when Herrenmer vanished through the

still-open door, slamming it behind him, they took up their posts once more.

Garth watched them go, then turned back toward his companions. Before he could

take a step, however, he heard his name called. He stopped and looked about

for the source. A waving hand caught his eye, and he recognized a man

approaching across the market. "Greetings, Saram," he called. "Greetings,

Garth," the man replied. Saram was heavily built, of medium height; he

wore his hair short and kept his full black beard neatly trimmed, though he

claimed it was not from vanity but practicality. When last Garth had seen him,

he had worn the mail shirt and short sword of the Baron's guards, with iron

studs in his leather helmet marking him as a lieutenant; now he wore a ragged

but clean tunic of gray homespun and went bareheaded. Only the leather pants

and heavy boots remained the same. He drew up within convenient speaking

distance and remarked, "So you have returned as you promised." His tone was

casual, but his green eyes flicked warily about, missing nothing. "I have,"

Garth answered politely. Saram had done him considerable good when last he was

in Skelleth by refusing to attempt to kill him. "The old man said you would."

Saram's eyes focused on Garth's face as he spoke. The overman shrugged,

his face impassive, and said nothing. "I had my doubts, but here you are.

Where is your warbeast? I was sure you'd bring it if you came." Saram glanced

idly about. "It's hidden nearby. I saw no need to frighten your townspeople."

"Wise of you, no doubt. And you brought friends with you this time."

"Companions, rather; I am not myself adept at the ways of buyer and seller, so

I brought the master trader Galt, his apprentice Tand, and my double-cousin

Larth." He pointed out each of the other overmen as he named them; young Tand

and stolid Larth did not notice, but Galt nodded in acknowledgment.

"Pleased to meet them all, I'm sure. Gods, what are those?" This last was in

response to glimpsing the yackers, just visible from where he stood. Garth

was startled. "Yackers. Don't you know them?" He glanced down the alley at the

great beasts of burden, which stood quietly meditating, safely out of the

bustle of business. "No. I never heard of them." Saram stared at them

momentarily, then turned back to the overman and said, "Garth, I have a

message for you. The old man wants to talk to you." Garth replied, "I don't

want to talk to him." "No? He claims to have a proposition for you." "I am

not interested; when last I made a bargain with him it resulted in nothing but

deaths and difficulties." "Just as your agreement with the Baron did him

little good," Saram said smiling crookedly, "Yet you expect him to listen to

your explanations about your renewed presence in his domain." There was a

moment of silence. Then Garth said, "Your point is made. I will hear the King

out. Where is he?" "Need you ask?" "No. A moment, then." He turned and

called to his companions, "I have an errand; Galt, you take charge here." Then

to Saram he said, "Come on," and the pair ambled off across the market square.

Their goal was an ancient tavern called the King's Inn, though no one

knew of any connection between the inn and any recognized monarch; it stood on

an alley that had once been but a few steps from the village market, but which

had been cut off and left to die when the first Baron of Skelleth erected his

mansion across the north side of the square, leaving no opening to the streets

beyond. The alley, now accessible only by a winding route through the maze of

byways that made up most of Skelleth, had sunk into a state of decay and filth

unequaled throughout the known lands; yet the King's Inn remained an island of

comfort amid the surrounding squalor and retained a steady clientele. Among

its regular patrons, so regular in fact that he had never been seen outside

its walls, was a strange old man, so very old that none remembered a time when

he had not been there daily, crouched silently over his corner table. This man

Garth knew as the Forgotten King, having been given this title for him by the

Wise Women of Ordunin, but the townspeople had no name for him at all. Until

the overman first came, some three months earlier; few ever spoke to him,

fewer received an answer, and none sought him out; but in recent days, since

being expelled from the Baron's guards for insubordination, Saram had spent

many hours sitting at his table, trying to coax him into conversation and

receiving only a few cryptic words for his trouble. Among those few words were

instructions that when-not if, but when-Garth returned, Saram should bring him

immediately to speak with the mysterious ancient. Saram led the way

through the stinking streets, fortunately dry from the recent lack of rain,

and Garth followed, his reluctance concealed by the casual stroll he affected.

The slanting sunlight had not yet made its way past the upper story of the inn

in its slow daily crawl down the building's sagging half-timbered facade; the

ordure that lined the alley was still hidden by shadow, but its smell was not

so easily to be concealed and not for the first time Garth marveled that

humans could live with it. He held his breath as he and Saram picked their way

to the door and wiped their feet on the stone step before entering. The

tavern's interior was a welcome change from the filth of the alley; not so

much as a speck of dust marred the ancient floor, worn by centuries of

shuffling feet into a subtle wooden landscape of low hills and gentle valleys

that showed clearly that its furnishings had not shifted nor its patrons

changed their habits in many a long year. Each table crowned a hillock, each

chair rested in wide grooves cut by the dragging of its legs. The great

barrels of ale and wine that lined the western wall loomed above flooring so

stained and worn that Garth wondered how it still held-he had no way of seeing

the thickness of wood beneath, but only that this most popular part of the

room had a good two inches less floor remaining than elsewhere. The slate

hearth that stretched along half the eastern wall before the vast cavernous

fireplace showed little wear, being harder stuff than the soft floorboards;

curiously, the ancient stair that crossed the back wall had only the slightest

indentation in each tread. Plainly, it was as a tavern rather than an inn that

the establishment survived, since those stairs were the only access to the

rooms upstairs. Though every inch of the room was clearly old, worn, and

well-used, none could ever think it deserted for it was spotlessly clean, save

for the oft-scrubbed stains left by centuries of spilled wine. The morning sun

had not yet climbed high enough to pour unchecked through the polished and

age-purpled windows, yet the brass fittings on the barrels gleamed dully, the

stacked mugs of pewter and china and glass glistened on their shelves, the

blackened hearth shone dimly. The only spots of uncleanliness were two drunken

farmers adorning opposite sides of a small table near the door, clad in dirty

gray homespun, with greasy hair and smudged faces, who slouched forward

muttering to one another. The innkeeper, though a plump middle-aged man

wearing a well-stained apron, gave the impression not of disarray, but like

his tavern, of well-worn comfort. The room's only other occupant, sitting

alone in the corner between chimneypiece and stair, seemed somehow beyond such

mundane concerns as cleanliness. It was this lone figure that Garth and

Saram were interested in. The innkeeper watched apprehensively as the pair

entered and crossed the room, and twice opened his mouth to protest their

presence, but each time lost his nerve and remained silent. When they had

seated themselves across from the old man, he gradually relaxed and returned

to his task of polishing mugs that already showed a flawless silken sheen; but

he polished the same mug for a good fifteen minutes with short, nervous

strokes, and cast frequent glances at the overman who had intruded upon the

peace of his place of business. For a moment after they had settled in

their chairs neither Garth nor Saram spoke; they considered the strange figure

across from them, who sat motionlessly, seemingly oblivious of their presence.

The old man whom Ordunin's oracles hail called the Forgotten King wore

tattered yellow rags from head to foot, and despite the summer warmth he kept

them wrapped tightly about him, his cloak closed and his hood up, so that its

shadows hid much of his face. A long, scraggly white beard reached down across

his sunken chest, and what could be seen of his hands and face was skin as dry

and wrinkled as that of a mummy, with as little evidence of anything between

skin and bone. His eyes were lost in darkness; in all their conversations with

him neither Garth nor Saram had ever seen his eyes, and only on the rarest

occasions had either so much as caught a glimmer of light from them. The

shadows gave the illusion that he had no eyes, but only empty sockets; perhaps

that, more than anything else, was why generations of taverngoers had seen fit

to leave him sitting alone and unmolested. Garth studied him, but saw

nothing he had not seen before. Garth was a typical member of his species in

most respects, and as such he was not particularly good at recognizing human

faces or reading emotion in them; still, there was something about the

Forgotten King's face that made him uneasy. He shifted in his chair, which

creaked beneath his weight. He was out of proportion with his surroundings in

a tavern designed for mere men; he towered above the others, his natural

height of near seven feet augmented by a woolen trader's hat that not only

shaded his red-eyed, sunken-cheeked horror of a face, but hid a steel

half-helmet. Peaceful mission or no, Garth was given to caution; despite his

orders to his companions and hiding most of his armor and weaponry with his

warbeast, his flowing brown cloak concealed a sturdy mail shirt, and a

stiletto lurked in his right boot-top-the latter a precaution that was

incidentally rather uncomfortable, as its hilt, though safely hidden by his

leggings and the sparse black fur that adorned his leathery hide, chafed when

he walked. He studied the old man, but said nothing. Beside him Saram glanced

from the overman to the King and back again, his finger poking idly at a small

circle of mismatched wood in the table-top-a circle that was the sawn-off

shaft of a crossbow bolt Saram had fired at Garth, on the Baron's orders,

during Garth's previous stay in Skelleth. The overman had used the table as a

makeshift shield, and the barbed quarrel had proven impossible to remove, so

that the innkeeper had cut it off and sanded it down to blend with the oak.

After a moment, when it appeared that neither Garth nor the old man was

willing to speak first, the ex-soldier cleared his throat and said, "I have

brought Garth here, as you asked." The old man nodded very slightly, but gave

no other sign that he was aware of the presence of others at his table. There

was another pause, this one briefer than the first. It was broken when the

overman finally announced, "I am here at your request. Speak, then, and tell

me what you want of me. I have business to attend to." The old man spoke,

in a voice like the rustling of long-dead leaves. "Garth, I would have you

serve me further." The overman suppressed the shudder that ran through

him at the sound of that voice; he had heard it before, but it was something

that one could not truly remember-or want to remember. He replied, "I have no

desire to serve you, nor any person other than myself." The Forgotten King

raised his head slightly and spoke again. "There are very few in these waning

years of the Thirteenth Age who are fit to serve me. I do not care to wait for

another." "That may be; I do not deny that you may have uses for me. But why

should I serve you? You offer me nothing, and I have little cause to trust you

after the outcome of my last venture in your service." "What would you

have?" "I would have nothing of you but to be left alone. When you

promised me fame, my service yielded nothing but a dozen deaths and much

trouble to no purpose." "I did not slight you." "Is my fame then so great? I

see little evidence of it, old man." "Did you then fulfill your service

to me with a single trial?" "No. I saw my folly after the single trial and

went home." "Yet you have returned, upon my advice." Garth paused. That much

was true; it had been the Forgotten King who pointed out the possibility of

trade through Skelleth and its potential benefits. "What of it? I did you a

service, and you paid me with a simple suggestion I should have thought of for

myself-but did not, I admit. We are even, then. I have no wish to serve you

further. Hire Saram, here!" Saram was startled out of his silence. "I? Oh,

no; I am no adventurer." The Forgotten King ignored Saram and said, "Is

there then nothing that you seek, Garth? Are you content with your lot?"

There was a moment of silence; Garth contemplated the shadowed face while

Saram looked back and forth, and neither could see where the old man's gaze

fell. Finally the overman admitted slowly, "No, I am not content. I still seek

what in truth I sought before; I want to know that I am not insignificant, not

merely a meaningless mote in an uncaring cosmos. I sought eternal fame because

it seemed to me that that was as close as I could come to making a real

difference, and my nearest approach to immortality. I see little point in

wealth or power or glory that will last only so long as I live. What, then,

can you offer me? I no longer feel that the promise of undying fame will

suffice to comfort me; can you offer more?" "Under the proper

circumstances I can give you whatever you want. If you fear death, I can

promise you life to the end of time. If you seek to give your life a

significance beyond the norm, then we are at one, for it is to work a

fundamental change in the nature of our world that I seek your aid." There

was another moment of silence; then Garth asked, "What is this change you

seek? You speak around your purpose. When I served you before you had me fetch

you the basilisk and would not say why you wanted it; was it for this same

mysterious goal?" "My goal is unchanged." The harsh monotone of the old man's

voice was likewise unchanged, but his head sank slightly, deepening the

shadows that hid his face. Garth sat back, considering. He had concluded,

after much thought, that the Forgotten King's use for the basilisk-a use for

which it had proven inadequate-included the old man's own death. He had no

idea why the ancient would want to die; had he perhaps wearied of his long

life? Nor had he any idea why a single old man should have difficulty in dying

should he choose to do so, yet it was indisputable that he had survived

whatever he had done with the basilisk. Perhaps, Garth thought, he had somehow

misinterpreted previous events, for how could one lonely old man's suicide

have cosmic repercussions? That assumed, of course, that the old man spoke

the truth. It was possible that he was indeed under some sort of curse of

immortality which he hoped to break with Garth's aid-and dead men are under no

obligation to fulfill their promises, so that he would offer whatever the

overman wanted, knowing that he would never have to pay. Then again, it was

possible that the old man-who was very probably a wizard of some sort-really

was attempting some world-shaking magic. That did not mean that his purposes

were anything Garth sympathized with. "What is this goal? Why will you not

tell me? It could be some monstrous evil, some affront against nature and the

gods." "I seek only to fulfill that purpose the gods have given me,

Garth; I swear this to be true." "You still do not say what it is." "Nor

will I." "And yet you ask me to serve you in this, without knowing?" The

old man said nothing, but nodded very slightly, once. "I must consider this

carefully. I will speak with you again when I have decided." Garth rose and

strode from the table; Saram stirred, but reseated himself, and when the

overman had left the tavern and the door had closed behind him, he turned back

to the Forgotten King. "It seems you offer a bargain only a fool would

accept, full of vague terms and mysteries." The Forgotten King said

nothing, but Saram detected a faint shrug of his sagging shoulders.CHAPTER

THREEAs Garth rounded the last corner and came in sight of the marketplace, he

saw Galt standing talking to someone. His fellow overman towered over the

surrounding crowd, readily distinguishable, but at first Garth could not see

who it was he was speaking with; then, as he began threading his way into the

throng, he caught the glint of sunlight on a steel helmet and realized that

Herrenmer had returned, presumably bearing the Baron's decision. He hastened

his pace; the villagers, awed by his size and terrified by his face, parted

before him, so that a brief moment later he was at Galt's side. "Ah, Garth,

it would seem that the local government wishes to speak with you and you

alone. I offered myself as your representative, but was refused." Galt spoke

smoothly and quickly, in a light tone, but Garth recognized a note of tension

in his voice and saw that Herrenmer's hand was on his sword hilt. Behind their

captain stood a full dozen guardsmen and, though no weapons were actually

drawn, it was plain that a confrontation had been brewing. "Oh? I apologize

for my absence, Captain Herrenmer, but one of your townsmen wished to speak

with me in private." "The Baron also wishes to speak with you, overman;

immediately." The man's voice shook slightly. "I will oblige him

momentarily. Larth, I leave you in charge. Galt, you come with me, in case we

need to discuss business." The other overmen nodded; Garth took a step toward

the mansion, but was halted by Herrenmer's hand raised in restraint. "Wait

a minute; I was told to bring you, not this other monster." "But Galt is the

business manager for our party. Should we need to discuss exact terms I will

want his advice." "If it will ease your mind, Captain, I will promise not to

speak unless spoken to." Galt's voice was honeysmooth. Herrenmer looked

from one hideous face to the other, from Garth's crimson eyes to Galt's golden

ones, and at last shrugged and led the way across the square. The Baron's

audience chamber was much as Garth remembered it, a fairly spacious room hung

with old tapestries, with three small windows high in the northern wall behind

the Baron's seat providing the only light. The Baron's seat was a simple oaken

chair, and the Baron himself sat slouching in it, a small, slender man wearing

a richly embroidered scarlet robe, with a circlet of gold on his brow. He

fingered his thin black beard for a moment, then spoke. "So it's true; you

have returned." This being self-evident, no reply seemed necessary, but

Garth did not care to antagonize the Baron further with insolent silence; he

replied simply, "Yes." "I had not thought you would have had the gall to do

so, despite your boast to that scum Saram, yet here you are. You have even

brought others of your filthy race." "We have come on a peaceful trading

mission." "So I am told. Are you aware that you are under sentence of death

here, on charges of trespass, espionage, and crimes against the state? And

that all your stinking species are enemy aliens?" "I was aware that you

were not eager to have us here. I hope to convince you that it would be to

your advantage to welcome us." "And how do you plan to do that?" "In

two stages: firstly, I will convince you that a regular trade between Skelleth

and the Northern Waste will be very much in your own interests; and secondly,

that killing me or otherwise thwarting me would make that trade impossible."

"Very well, then, I will listen. Why should I allow you monsters to trade on

my lands?" "Because we have much gold, from hidden mines in the northern

mountains, with which to pay for what we want. Surely, much of this gold will

find its way to you, in the form of taxes and tariffs. You told me once that

you were not happy with your inheritance and hoped to improve your lot by war

and plunder; would it not be equally satisfying to make yourself rich by

peaceful means? Or even if it is the blood and glory of war you seek, will not

our gold help to finance such an ambition? The terms of our former agreement,

which you apparently feel I violated but which I feel I merely interpreted

differently from yourself, included a statement that all overmen crossing your

lands would pay what tribute you might rightfully demand; we will honor that,

so long as such tribute does not make our trade prohibitively expensive.

Surely you cannot refuse such an opportunity!" "Dare not tell me what I can

or cannot refuse, overman! Still, you make it sound very tempting. If your

gold is as plentiful as you imply, I could indeed find uses for it." The Baron

mused for a moment and then went on, "But then, to your second point, your own

life; why should I not accept trade arrangements with your people, but still

put you to death? I could easily demand your life as the necessary tribute;

would not overmen give up a single life for a new trade route?" "Perhaps

they would under certain circumstances, but they will not give up my life, for

I am the hereditary Prince of Ordunin, and the life of a reigning prince is

not within your rights to demand." Garth was relying on the Baron's ignorance

of the culture of the overmen of the Northern Waste in this, for in fact the

title he claimed, though genuine, was strictly a ceremonial honor with no real

significance beyond the privilege of speaking first in the City Council; a

privilege it was customary to waive. There was a moment of silence as the

Baron considered this. Then he shifted his gaze to Galt and demanded, "You!

Who are you?" "I am Galt, my lord, a trader out of Ordunin." "And who is

this?" He pointed at Garth. "That is Garth, Prince of Ordunin, a lord of the

Overmen of the Northern Waste." Galt spoke casually, his pale blue cloak

draped across one arm, his wide-brimmed hat shading his yellow eyes, looking

completely at ease and unconcerned. Long years of experience had taught him

that such a pose was most desirable in almost every sort of dealings with

humans, be it trade, diplomacy, or less formal activities. "You will swear to

that?" Galt blinked, and smiled a lipless smile. "If you wish." "I

do." "I swear by my head that this overman is Garth, hereditary Prince of

Ordunin, son of Karth and Tarith, known to me as such for many years and so

recognized by all my people." "There were more of you, were there not?" "Yes."

"Will they so swear?" "Undoubtedly. Larth is Garth's double-cousin,

and Tand has known him since childhood." The Baron turned back to Garth. "Why

did you not let me know this before, that I might have treated you as your

rank deserved?" "Why should I tempt you with a prince's ransom?" "Are

you not doing so now?" "No, for I am not alone this time, and furthermore my

people are now aware that Skelleth is no longer the mighty fortress that

repelled our ancestors' attacks. Even should you take all four of us captive,

there would be no ransom but fire and sword. As you surely realize, paying out

ransoms sets a bad precedent." The Baron scowled and slumped back in his

chair. After a thoughtful pause he said, "It seems that you have the better of

me in this matter; to indulge my whims would be far too costly, so I must let

you live and go free. However, if you are in truth the reigning Prince of

Ordunin, then there are other demands I may make. You seek for your people the

free use of roads and rights of way that I happen to have proprietary rights

upon. Our two nations are technically still at war, however, so that I cannot

under ordinary circumstances grant such permissions as you seek without being

untrue to my own oaths as vassal to the High King at Kholis; this is true

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