Lawrence Watt-Evans - Dus 1 - Lure Of The Basilisk

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The Lure of the Basilisk

Book One of the Lords of Dûs Series

PROLOGUE

"I am weary of all this death and dying."

The speaker was a huge armor-clad figure almost seven feet in height,

standing at the narrow mouth of a small cave near the top of a snowy and

rubble-strewn hillside. Even from a distance an observer would have seen the

fading light of the setting sun glinting a baleful red from his eyes, marking

him as something other than human. He was speaking to a bent, crouching

creature clad in tatters who stood inside the cave's mouth, at the edge of the

impenetrable gloom of the interior, her face and form only faintly visible in

the dim twilight. She was hunched and humpbacked, shriveled and bent with age.

Her face was twisted and broken, her teeth gone, one of her golden eyes

squinted horribly, yet she was plainly of the same race as the tall warrior.

"Death is everywhere;" the decrepit creature replied.

"I know that, Ao; I would it were not so." The hag addressed as Ao

merely shrugged, and the warrior continued: "It makes life pointless-to know

that I and all I know will die and pass away, as if I had never been." He

paused briefly, then went on. "I wish that it were possible for me to perform

some feat of cosmic significance, to change the nature of things, so that all

would look back millennia from now and say, 'Garth did this.' I wish that I

could alter the uncaring universe so that even the stars would respond to my

passing, so that my life would not be insignificant."

Ao moved uncomfortably. "You are a lord and a warrior whose deeds will

be recalled for a generation."

"I am known to a tiny corner of a single continent; and even there, as

you yourself say, I will be remembered only for a century or two, an instant

in the life of the world."

"What would you have of us, my sister and myself?"

"Is it possible for a mortal being to alter the way things are?"

"That, it is said, is the province of the gods; if the gods are the

baseless myth some believe them, then it is the role of Fate and Chance."

Garth had apparently expected this reply; there was only the slightest

pause before he said, "I would have it, then, that if I cannot change the

world, at the least the world shall remember me. I would have it that my name

shall be known as long as anything shall live, to the end of time. Can this

be?" He stared at the misshapen hag, his usually expressionless face intent.

She gazed back impassively and answered slowly, "It is your desire that

you be known throughout history, from now until the end of the world?"

"Yes."

"This can be done." Her tone seemed curiously reluctant.

"How?"

"Go to the village called Skelleth, and seek there the Forgotten King;

submit yourself to him, obey him without fail, and what you have wished will

be." "How am I to find this king?"

"He is to be found in the King's Inn, clad in yellow rags."

"How long must I serve him?"

Ao drew a deep breath, paused, and said, "You weary us with your

questions; we will answer no more." She turned and hobbled out of sight into

the darkness of the cave, the darkness that concealed her sister Ta and their

humble living facilities.

The warrior stood respectfully motionless as the oracle withdrew, then

turned east, toward where the last rays of sunlight lit the iced-in port of

Ordunin and the cold sea beyond, and started thoughtfully down the hillside.

CHAPTER ONE

The village of Skelleth was the northernmost limit of human civilization, a

perpetually starving huddle of farmers and ice-cutters. It shrank with each

succeeding ten-month winter. Its existence depended equally on the goats and

hay of the farmers and on the declining trade in ice to cool the drinks of

wealthy nobles to the south. This trade brought to the decaying community

those many necessities they could not obtain from their own land, but was less

each year as fewer of the ice-caravans survived the ravages of brigands and

bankruptcy.

Although Skelleth was universally acknowledged as the limit of human

civilization, both humans and civilization could be found further north. The

humans, however, were either the goat-herding nomads of the plains and

foothills or the barbaric hunters and trappers of the snow-covered mountains,

who were all too fond of banditry and murder and could hardly be called

examples of civilization; the civilization was that of the overmen of the

Northern Waste, driven there by the Racial Wars of three centuries before, and

they were most assuredly not human.

It was because of these last that the Baron of Skelleth had seen fit to

make the North Gate the only portion of the crumbling city wall to be guarded,

although none of Skelleth's meager trade passed through the North Gate, even

the wild trappers preferring to use the more accessible gates to east and west

on their rare trading expeditions. At any hour, night or day, one of

Skelleth's three dozen men-at-arms could be found huddled over a watch-fire in

the shelter of the one remaining wall of the fallen gatehouse-assuming that

the man assigned had not deserted his post. This cold and unrewarding duty

made a convenient punishment for any guard who chanced to run afoul of the

moody Baron's whims, and so was usually the lot of the younger and more

cheerful among the company, as the Baron was prone to consider it a mortal

offense should anyone be happy when he himself was sunk in one of his frequent

and incapacitating fits of black depression.

Thus it was that Arner, youngest and most daring of the guard, was

ordered to stand twenty-four hours of guard duty without relief at this

unattractive spot; and it was scarcely surprising that the youth should

abandon his post and be asleep in his sweetheart's arms when, for the first

time in memory, someone did approach Skelleth down the ancient Wasteland Road.

Thus it was that Garth rode into Skelleth unannounced and unopposed,

astride his great black warbeast, past the wide ring of abandoned, ruined

homes and streets into the inhabited portion, his steel helmet glinting in the

morning sunlight, his crimson cloak draped loosely across his shoulders. His

gaze was fixed straight ahead, ignoring the ragged handful of villagers who

first stared and then ran as he appeared in their midst.

Although Garth's noseless, leathery-brown face and glaring red eyes were

enough to evoke horror among humans, it was quite possible that some of the

villagers did not even notice him at first but ran from his mount, thinking it

some unnatural monster of the Waste. It stood five feet high at the shoulder

and measured eighteen feet from nose to tail, its sleekfurred feline form so

superbly muscled that the weight of its armored rider was as nothing to it.

Its wide, padded paws made no more sound than any lesser cat's and its slender

tail curled behind it like a panther's. Like its master, the warbeast did not

spare so much as a glance from its golden slit-eyes or a twitch of its stubby

whiskers for the terror-stricken townspeople, but strode smoothly on,

unaffected, with the superb grace of its catlike kind, triangular ears

flattened against its head. Its normal walk was as fast as a man's trot, and

the relentless onward flow of that great black body moving in utter silence

through the icy mud of the streets was as terrifying in itself as the

three-inch fangs that gleamed from its jaw.

As the screams and shouts of the fleeting villagers increased, a faint

frown touched Garth's thin-lipped mouth, though his gaze never wavered; this

noisy reception was not what he wanted. He slid back his cloak, revealing the

steely gray breastplate and black mail beneath, and slid his double-edged

battle-axe from its place on the saddle, carrying it loosely in his left hand.

His right hand still held the guide-handle of the beast's halter, a guide that

was more a formality than a necessity for a well-trained warbeast. Garth knew

that his mount was the finest product of Kirpa's breeding farms, the end

result of a thousand years of magically assisted crossbreeding and careful

selection. Still, he kept the handle in hand, preferring to trust no creature

save himself.

As Garth approached the market-square at the center of town, he found

himself the object of a hundred curious stares. His lack of offensive action

thus far had allowed the villagers to gather their nerve, and they now lined

the street to watch him pass, their earlier shouting giving way to an awed

silence; he was by far the most impressive sight Skelleth had seen in

centuries. They gawked at the size of his mount, at his own seven-foot

stature, at the gleaming axe in his hand, at the dull armor that protected him

and, incidentally, hid the black fur that was one of the major differences

between his race and humanity. He could not hide his lack of facial hair, his

lack of a nose, nor the hollow cheeks and narrow lips which all combined to

give his visage, to human eyes, much the appearance of a red-eyed skull.

Garth was not impressed with Skelleth. It certainly failed to live up to

the ancestral tales of a mighty fortress standing eternally vigilant, barring

his race from the warm, lush south. Although the outer wall had plainly once

been a serious fortification, he had seen several gaps in it as he approached,

crumbled sections wide enough for a dozen soldiers to walk through abreast if

they were willing to clamber over loose stone. He could see why the wall went

unrepaired; the village guarded by this quondam barrier was scarcely worth the

trouble of taking that walk. Quite aside from the foolishness of the crowd,

even in the parts not utterly ruinous, the half-timbered buildings that sagged

with long years of harsh weather and ill care were no better than the poorest

sections of his native Ordunin-rather worse, in truth, and the people, dirty,

ragged, and flea-bitten, were worse still. But then, they were merely humans.

There was a murmur among the villagers as half a dozen men-at-arms

belatedly appeared, their short swords drawn. Garth looked at them in mild

amusement, dropping his gaze at last, and halted his mount with a soft word.

To the northerner, this pitiful sextet appeared as harmless as as many

geese; he had feared he would be confronted by cavalry in plate armor, or at

the very least a few pikemen, not a handful of farmers in rusty mail shirts

carrying poorly forged swords half the length of the broad blade that hung at

his side. Surely his ancestors had fought mightier foes than these? It was

clearly not just the wall that had decayed over the years since the overmen

had withdrawn into the Northern Waste. Still, these were plainly the town

authorities or their representatives, and it was necessary to treat them

diplomatically if he were to go on about his business unhindered. It being the

guest's duty to speak before the host, he said, "Greetings, men of Skelleth."

With some hesitation, the squad's captain-at least, Garth assumed he was

captain, since his helmet was steel rather than leather-replied, "Greetings,

overman."

"I am Garth of Ordunin. I come in peace."

"Then why is your axe unsheathed?"

"I was unsure of my reception."

Hesitating once more, the captain said, "We have no quarrel with you."

Garth slid the axe back into its boot. "Then could you direct me to the

King's Inn?"

The man gave directions, then paused, unsure of what to do next.

"May I pass?" Garth asked politely.

Well aware that, should the warbeast decide to pass, he and his men

would have no chance of stopping it, the captain motioned his subordinates

aside, and Garth continued on his way to the broken-down tavern that had been

known for longer than anyone could recall as the King's Inn, despite the utter

lack of any connection with any known monarch.

As the guard captain watched the looming figure of the overman recede,

it struck him that he had not yet fulfilled his whole duty; two details

remained. "Tarl, Thoromor, we must inform the Baron at once," he said.

Ignoring the unhappy expressions of the two chosen to accompany him, he

pointed to those not named and went on, "And you three will go see whether

that monster killed Arner or whether the young fool deserted his post, and

report back to me" The trio saluted and marched off as the captain cast a

final glance at Garth's back, sparing himself a moment to envy the overman's

armor and weapons before hurrying toward the Baron's mansion. The pair he took

with him followed reluctantly, muttering over the unpleasant likelihood that

their lord would be in one of his notorious fits of depression.

It was a sign of Skelleth's poverty that the Baron could afford neither

palace nor castle, but made do with a house that was referred to as a mansion

largely out of courtesy, facing the market-square and blocking a few winding

streets that perforce ended in a short cross-alley along the rear of the

Baron's home. Once these streets had been thoroughfares leading into the

square when Skelleth had a less immediate government; but the first Baron had

erected his domicile and seat of government with an utter disregard for

anything except the appearance of its unbroken façade. Thus the alley that had

once been an unimportant cross-street became even less important as the

streets leading into it were cut off, and sank into a state of filth and

disrepair unequaled anywhere in the kingdom of Eramma. It was on this alley

that the King's Inn faced.

Garth's face, having no nose to wrinkle, showed no sign of disgust at

his unhygienic surroundings as he led his mount into the stable beside the

tavern, but he was disgusted nevertheless; no community of overmen, he told

himself, would ever allow such feculence. Trying to ignore his environment, he

made sure the warbeast was as comfortable as could be managed, removing the

battle-axe from the saddle to prevent chafing where its haft slapped the

creature's flank and cleaning the beast's catlike ears with the wire brush

designed for that task. The creature accepted these attentions silently, as

always. That done, the overman leaned the axe and his broadsword against one

wall of the stall, as neither was suitable equipage for a visit to a tavern;

his only weapon would be the foot-long dirk on his belt. Looking around, he

spotted the stable-boy who had tremblingly refused to approach the monstrous

beast, and strode over to him. The frightened youth cowered, but stood his

ground.

"My warbeast will need feeding. See that he is brought meat, as much as

you can carry, raw, and as fresh as possible. If he is not fed before I

return, I will let him eat you instead. Is that clear?" The lad nodded, too

frightened to speak. "Further, if any of my belongings are disturbed, I will

hunt down and kill whoever is responsible. Here." He pulled a handful of gold

from the pouch on his belt and dumped it in the boy's hands. The youth's eyes

widened, his fear forgotten, though he remained unable to speak. Garth

realized that he had probably just given away as much gold as the entire

village possessed, but the thought did not bother him; he had plenty, and

could expect good service if he were generous. Leaving the boy staring in

disbelief at the wealth he held, the overman strode out of the stable toward

the tavern.

Stepping inside the taproom door, Garth stopped for an instant in

astonishment. Despite its ordure-coated, crumbling exterior, the King's Inn

was as clean and orderly within as a well-kept ship. The floor was

wellscrubbed oak, worn to a velvet smoothness by countless feet and shaped

into hills and valleys that showed the tables had not been moved in

generations; the walls were paneled in dark woods kept polished to a

reflective gloss; the windows, though the glass-was purple with age, were

spotless and unbroken. The tables and chairs were solid, well-made pieces of

the woodworker's art, worn, like the floor, to a beautiful softness. Most of

one wall was taken up by a stone fireplace where a friendly blaze danced.

Opposite it stood the barrels of beer and wine, their brass fittings polished

and bright. The far wall was partially obscured by a staircase leading to an

upper story, and various doors opened to either side.

Though it was too early in the day for even the lunchtime drinkers, half

a dozen customers were sitting about; they had been talking cheerfully, but

all conversation died when the overman entered. All eyes save two turned

toward the armored monstrosity that stood in the doorway, blinking in

surprise. The two that did not belonged to a figure that sat alone at a small

table in the corner between the fireplace and the stairs, a figure bent with

age whose only visible feature was a long white beard, the rest of his face

and form being hidden by the tattered ruin of a hooded yellow cloak that he

wore. As Garth's moment of astonishment passed, he spotted this lone shape and

wondered briefly why he did not look up as had his fellows. Perhaps he was

deaf and had not noticed the silence, or blind, in which case he had no reason

to raise his head. Both infirmities, Garth knew, were common among extremely

aged humans. He returned his thoughts to his quest and realized that this

ancient was the only one present fitting the oracle's description. Although

the other customers, apparently all farmers, were far from welldressed, none

were in rags. Only the old man wore yellow, the others being variously clad in

gray, brown, and a paler gray that must once have been white. With a mental

shrug, though outwardly impassive, Garth crossed the room to the shadowed

corner where the old man sat, and seated himself at the other side of the

table.The old man gave no sign that he was aware of the newcomer.

The other customers, after following the overman across the room with

their eyes, now turned back to their own conversations. Garth was unsure

whether his sensitive ears had caught the phrase "Should have known" being

muttered at another table.

After a moment, when the old man remained utterly motionless, Garth

hesitantly broke the silence by saying, in a low voice, "I seek one called the

Forgotten King."

"Who are you?" The voice was little more than a whisper, as dry as

autumn leaves, horribly dry and harsh, yet clear and steady.

"I am called Garth, of Ordunin."

"Your title?"

"What?" Garth was taken aback.

"What title do you bear?"

"Tell me first of him whom I seek."

"I am he; answer me your title."

Reluctantly, the overman answered, "I am Prince of Ordunin, and Lord of

the Overmen of the Northern Waste."

At last the old man moved, raising his head to gaze at Garth. The

overman saw that his face was as dry and wrinkled as a mummy's, and his eyes

so deeply sunken that they remained invisible in the shadow of the dark yellow

hood. Garth had a momentary uncomfortable impression that there were no eyes,

that he was looking at empty sockets, but he dismissed it as a trick of the

light."What would you have of me?"

"I have been told, O King, that you can grant me a boon I desire."

"Who has told you this?"

"An oracle"

"What oracle?"

"One among my own people. You would not have heard of her."

"She must have heard of me."

Unwillingly, unsettled by those darkened eyes, Garth replied, "She and

her sister are called the Wise Women of Ordunin."

There was no reply.

"They have said that you alone may grant what I ask."

"Ah. What do you ask?"

"I am weary of life as it is, in which decay and death are everywhere. I

am tired of being insignificant in the cosmos."

"Such is the lot of all, be they man or overman." The dry monotone was

unchanged, but Garth thought a glint of light touched the hidden eyes. He was

comforted by this proof that there were indeed eyes there.

"I would not have it so. O King, I know my place in the cosmos, I know I

cannot change the stars nor alter the fate of the world, although I would like

to; that is not what I ask. If I cannot change the world, then I would

influence the dwellers therein. I would have it that my name shall be known so

long as any living thing shall move upon the earth or sea, that I shall be

famed throughout the world."

The figure in yellow stirred. "Why would you have this?"

"Vanity, 0 King."

"You know it for vanity? There is no other purpose?"

"There is no other purpose possible to such a desire."

"Think you not that your desire exceeds reason, even in vanity? What

will it profit you that you be remembered when dead?"

"Nothing. But I would know while I yet live that I shall be thus

remembered, for this knowledge will comfort me when it comes my turn to die."

"So be it, then, Garth of Ordunin; what you wish shall be yours if you

serve me without fail in certain tasks. I, too, have an unfulfilled desire,

the realization of which requires certain magic I do not now possess, and I

swear by my heart and all the gods that if I achieve my goal with your aid,

then your name shall be known as long as there is life upon this earth."

The old man's face had slipped back into shadow as he made this speech,

but Garth thought he detected a smile as he said, "I shall serve you, O King."

"We shall see. I must first set you a trial of sorts, for I dare not

send an incompetent about certain businesses. I must also be sure I will not

be bothered unnecessarily."

Garth made no reply as the hooded face sank back to its original

contemplative position, so that only the thin white beard showed. It was some

ten minutes before the dry voice spoke again.

"You will bring me the first living thing you find in the ancient crypts

beneath Mormoreth."

"Mormoreth?"

"A city, far to the east. But details can wait. Fetch me food and

drink." The ancient head rose once more, and although the eyes were as

invisible as ever, the wrinkled lips were twisted upward in a hideous grin.

CHAPTER TWO

It was almost two days later when the overman remounted his warbeast and rode

toward the East Gate. Much of the intervening time had been spent deciding

what he might need and making sure he had it. Although he had come from

Ordunin equipped for most eventualities, he had not prepared for bringing a

live captive of some sort back across plains and mountains. He had no idea

what the first living thing he would encounter in the crypts would be, and had

to consider every possibility from insect to elephant. He could only hope that

it was not a dragon he was being sent after, although even that possibility

was provided for as best he could manage with an asbestos blanket and several

heavy chains. His first inclination had been to acquire cages of various

sizes, but he quickly realized that that was impractical and settled on a

single cage big enough for a large cat or small dog, but with a wire mesh so

fine it would hold most insects or spiders. Should his quarry prove to be

larger, he had several ropes and chains of various weights, and a short bolt

of gray cloth which could be used for binding or muzzling. He had determined

to make do with his usual three weapons, axe, sword, and dagger, rather than

weigh himself and his mount down any further with more specialized gear; as

with restraints, he could only hope he was not being sent after a dragon.

Besides these special preparations, he of course made the usual ones,

checking and refilling his canteen and water-cask, obtaining food that would

not spoil, and making certain that both he and his beast were as well fed and

healthy as he could contrive.

The Forgotten King watched all these preparations in silent amusement,

refusing to offer any advice or assistance other than a repetition of the

original charge and directions for reaching Mormoreth, which were absurdly

simple inasmuch as an old highway ran almost directly thither from Skelleth's

East Gate, requiring only that a traveler know which fork to take at each of

three turnings. He also consumed, at Garth's expense, an amount of food and

wine astonishing for one so old and thin. But prices being what they were in

Skelleth, this did little to deplete the overman's supply of gold.

While these preparations were being made, there was some stir in the

village over a local event that did not strike Garth as being in any way

relevant to himself; a man named Arner had been sentenced to decapitation by

the Baron, who was said to be in an even fouler temper than was customary in

the spring and to be behaving most erratically. When Garth overheard this,

whispered by villagers torn between excitement at the prospect of a public

execution and anger at the harshness of the decision, he shrugged it off as

yet another manifestation of the difference between the cultures of Skelleth

and Ordunin, an event that could only happen among humans. Unfamiliar as he

was with human emotions, he did not notice the resentful glances invariably

cast in his direction when the subject came up. He remained calmly unconcerned

about the entire matter, riding through the village streets and out the gate

unaware of the hate-filled glances he received, most especially from the

Baron's guards, the companions of the doomed man. The hatred of his own kind

was never visible in face or manner, but only in words and actions, so that he

was utterly incapable of seeing the human emotion for what it was. Nor would

he have cared if he did recognize it, for he thought little better of men than

he did of dogs.

His journey was uneventful at first, a peaceful ride down a well-used

highway where the snow had been pounded flat and hard by the feet of farmers

and caravans and was only beginning to show signs of melting into the muddy

slush it would soon become. But with his turning at the first fork, the way

became much worse, as no trade passed along the road to Mormoreth and he was

beyond all but the furthest farms. The road here was buried in largely

untrodden snow, its presence discernible only because of the relatively large

spaces between the struggling trees, the greater-than-elsewhere number of

tracks, both human and animal-the human, as often as not, made by bare feet;

the locals must be either very poor or very barbaric, Garth thought-and the

irregularly spaced milestones, which were often buried, only a mound or small

drift in the even snow cover indicating their presence.

The snow actually did little to slow the warbeast, whose padded paws and

long legs had been intended for all weather, but the difficulty of being sure

of the road's location caused Garth to keep the beast's speed down and to stop

every so often to reconnoiter. As a result, it was a full week before he

crossed the hills onto the Plain of Derbarok, a distance he could ordinarily

have traveled in half that time. That week included two brief delays to allow

his warbeast to hunt its own food. Even had he wanted to, it would have been

impossible for Garth to carry with him enough meat to feed the immense hybrid,

especially in view of its preference for fresh meat. Instead he loosed the

beast every third evening after he had made camp. Ordinarily it would have

been back by morning, but the poor hunting the region allowed had kept it away

until almost noon on both occasions so far. Entering the open plain worried

the overman slightly, as he knew nothing of what wildlife was to be found in

such terrain. Although the beast was usually superbly obedient, if it became

hungry enough it would run amok, willing to devour even its master, and Garth

had no misconceptions as to how dangerous the creature could be. Even with axe

and broadsword, he had grave doubts that he could handle a starving warbeast.

It was with great relief, therefore, that he caught sight of large

animals grazing in the distance. They disappeared over the horizon before he

could decide whether to loose his mount or not, but he knew that where there

was any wildlife at all his beast would be able to find sufficient prey. This

weight lifted from his mind, he rode on calmly, meditating on his appointed

task, wondering what manner of living thing he would find and running through

every contingency he could think of, to be certain he was equipped as well as

he could manage. The matter of feeding the warbeast was ignored, as it had

been only two days since its last meal, the normal interval between feedings

being seventy-two hours.

Having decided that he was indeed sufficiently well prepared, Garth

pondered the purpose of his mission. The most likely products of his quest

would be serpents, rats, or spiders, and he could see no point in the capture

of vermin. The Forgotten King meant this errand as a trial, so there would be

difficulties encountered. It would appear that his intended quarry was not

mere vermin, then. But how could the old man be sure that the quarry he wanted

would be the first living thing that Garth found? It seemed unlikely in the

extreme that he had been to Mormoreth himself recently...

His thoughts were interrupted by a low growl from his mount. Its catlike

ears were laid back, as if in preparation for battle. Clearly, something had

disturbed the great black beast. He looked at it questioningly, but it gave no

indication of the direction from which danger threatened. Instead it stopped

dead in its tracks, its nostrils flared, its head lowered as if ready either

to receive a charge or to launch one itself; yet the head wavered slightly

from side to side. The beast was plainly as unsure in which quarter the threat

lay as was its master, and Garth thought it was unusually uneasy.

He unsheathed his broadsword and held it at ready; his own senses had as

yet detected no sign of danger, but he trusted the keener perceptions of his

mount. It had saved him before.

His eyes swept the plain, a vast expanse of drying mud, the winter snow

melted on this side of the hills. It seemed empty as far as the horizon ahead

and to either side, while behind lay only the barren, unthreatening ridge. He

could see no danger. Closer at hand he saw no snakes, no pitfalls that could

account for the warbeast's actions. Thoroughly unsettled, he sat unmoving upon

his unmoving mount for perhaps a minute. When no threat manifested itself, he

cautiously urged the animal forward, his sword still in his hand.

The beast took a single step, then froze again. Garth did not need to

wonder why. He himself sat utterly motionless for a few brief seconds that

seemed like long, slow minutes as he struggled to accept the evidence of his

senses.

He was staring into the face of a fur-clad human, not fifteen feet away.

The face had not approached, not slid in from the side, not swooped down

from above, not risen out of the ground; it had simply appeared!

Attached to the face was a lean body wrapped in gray furs and seated

upon a beast thoroughly unlike Garth's own, a brown beast with a long, narrow

muzzle, great round eyes on either side of its head of a brown a shade darker

than its hide, a shock of long black hair starting between its ears and

running down the back of its neck.

Garth took this in instantly, without any conscious reaction; indeed,

the image of that bizarre creature and its barbaric rider burned itself into

his mind to the momentary exclusion of all else.

The rider had skin burnt brown by the sun and wind, but still paler than

the overman's own. He had dirty, ragged black hair trailing to his shoulders;

his features were contorted into an expression that conveyed nothing to his

inhuman observer; and his right arm was raised above his head, clutching a

long, curved, dull-gray sword, which was sweeping down and to the side, a

motion that, when combined with the forward charge of his mount, would bring

the blade sweeping into the eyes of Garth's warbeast.

This all flashed before the overman in seeming slow motion as he sat

frozen in astonishment. Then time started to resume its normal pace as he

brought his own blade up to meet and parry the attack.

It was only after he heard the clash of steel on steel, heard the

warbeast roar in anger, felt it moving under him as it swung its head aside,

and felt himself slipping from the saddle that he realized the attacker was

not alone; at least a dozen of the strange animals and their barbaric riders

were approaching from a dozen directions.

The combination of utter unbelieving astonishment, the sudden thrashing

of his mount, and his own sideways lunge in parrying the first attack did what

it would ordinarily take several men to do; Garth lost his balance. Rather

than fight to regain it, which would waste precious seconds, he swung his legs

free and slid to the ground, standing beside his beast. This action also

served to guard his rear, as the furry bulk of the animal was almost as

impenetrable as a stone wall at his back.

Fortunately for the overman, his opponents were disorganized, attacking

without any order or plan. When he hit the ground he found the one facing him

all but motionless, while the others remained out of reach. Never one to miss

an opportunity, he drove his sword forward with all the power he could manage

at the extreme reach necessary to hit a mounted warrior; it was sufficient.

The point of the blade ripped through the man's fur jacket, through the rusty

mail underneath, and into his chest. He let out a gasping moan, and his eyes

sprang wide. Garth guessed he had pierced a lung. His face grim, the overman

withdrew his blade, unleashing a gout of blood from both the wound and the

man's gaping mouth. The barbarian fell forward and to the left, tumbling

messily from his mount, which shied away in terror, eyes rolling.

Even as the man died, Garth heard two screams, one human and one

hideously inhuman; the warbeast was defending itself. Its low growl could be

heard as the screaming subsided, but Garth dared not take the time to look to

see what was happening; he was again beset, this time by a yelling maniac

charging at him with saber swinging. Not caring to risk the strength of his

sword's metal against the swooping arc of the saber, Garth ducked low and

thrust his blade at the man's mount. The saber whistled over his head. His own

weapon slashed open the animal's belly and was almost torn from his grasp by

the momentum of the creature's charge. The thing screamed, horribly, then

fell, flinging its master aside; Garth could spare no further attention for it

as two more mounted warriors approached, much more cautiously.

This pair showed the first teamwork the attackers bad displayed;

approaching from opposite sides, they swung their blades in unison, both

aiming for the body rather than the head. The overman parried one blade while

attempting to dodge the other, but was not totally successful. His breastplate

took the blow he had attempted to dodge, the sword scraping across it,

bruising his body beneath, while his parry locked with the other blade,

notching the overman's weapon and requiring three vital seconds to untangle.

Thus delayed, Garth was unable to defend himself against a second blow

from his other antagonist. Seeing the blade approaching, he attempted to dodge

again. He was lucky; the blade became entangled in his cloak, grazing his

shoulder lightly. Awkwardly, Garth dropped his left hand from his sword hilt

and drew his dagger. Maintaining his guard as best he could with the

broadsword on his right, he turned his attention to the left and hacked with

his dagger at the hand that held the entangled sword. The man released his

weapon, his wrist gouged messily, and Garth turned his attention once again to

the right.

Throughout this exchange Garth could feel the warbeast moving about

behind him, and a constant accompaniment of growling, screaming, and shouting

filled the overman's ears. Rage began to overcome him, and rather than

continue the defensive, cautious fighting he had been using up to that point,

he went on the offensive. Depending on his vastly superior strength and reach,

he drove forward, blade swinging.

From that point on, things happened too fast for Garth to follow

consciously: he hacked down at least two more warriors, one mounted and one on

foot; at least one sword broke before the fury of his onslaught; blood

spattered his cloak and armor, some of it his own, but mostly human.

Then, abruptly, the fight was over. A cry went up calling the retreat,

and Garth found himself standing alone, ten feet from his mount, with dead and

dying men strewn about him. His rage subsided abruptly, to be replaced with

revulsion; he did not approve of unnecessary bloodshed, and this gory mess

seemed definitely unnecessary.

Disgusted, he looked about, ignoring the handful of survivors fleeing to

the southeast. Nine men lay unmoving around him, with three of their strange

beasts. Three of the men were obviously dead, their throats ripped out by the

warbeast. Two of the animals were the same. The third downed animal was the

one Garth had gutted with his sword. The overman was not certain whether a

trace of life remained or not. Since he obviously could do nothing for the

creature if it still lived, he killed it as swiftly as he could with his

sword.Of the six men still more or less intact, investigation showed three

dead of sword wounds, one with a broken neck resulting from being flung from

his mount, one with a slashed wrist and a gash across his chest, unconscious

from loss of blood, and the last, his leg trapped beneath his fallen mount,

still alive and struggling.

His struggles grew frantic as Garth approached, then ceased when he

realized that he could not free himself. The overman looked at him and, seeing

no obvious wounds, decided the man could wait. Ignoring the barbarian's

terrified cringing, he motioned for the warbeast to stand guard over the

trapped man. The creature padded silently over and stood motionless, its

fearsome, blood-soaked jaws directly above the man's face, dripping gore on

the mud by his ear.

Garth then turned his attention to the unconscious warrior; stripping

off the man's armor and clothing, he used the cloth linings to improvise

bandages and bind the wounds. He was displeased to see the dull white fabric

turn bright red in a matter of seconds; the cuts were deeper than they

appeared. Momentarily leaving the man where he lay, he fetched his own medical

supplies from the pack on his mount's back.

The trapped barbarian asked hesitantly, "What are you doing?"

Garth did not bother to answer, but returned to his patient and

carefully removed the bloody bandages. He cleaned the wounds as best he could,

applied what healing herbs and drugs he felt he could spare, and bound them

anew with fresh wrappings. When he was satisfied that he had done all he

could, he arranged the warrior as comfortably as he could on the man's own

furs, covered him with furs from one of his dead companions, and placed a

sword beside the man's right hand so that he could defend himself, against any

carrion-eaters that might wake him.

This done, he turned his attention to his own wounds; none were serious,

but there were many of them. He had undoubtedly lost at least as much blood as

the unconscious human he had just treated. Upon realizing this, he realized as

well that he was very weary and that his entire body was laced with pain.

Still, he drove himself to complete the dressing of his injuries and then to

turn at last to his conscious captive.

Standing beside the warbeast, looking down at the pinned barbarian,

Garth demanded, "Are you in pain?"

"My leg hurts."

"The trapped one?"

"Yes."

The overman muttered a command to the warbeast. It growled softly, then

reached down, grabbed the dead animal's ruined neck in its teeth, and lifted

the creature's front half off the ground as if it weighed no more than a

mouthful of hay. The barbarian quickly pulled his leg free, and the warbeast

bit down, so that the animal's body fell heavily to one side while its head

fell to the other. Garth watched as a curious grimace crossed the face of his

captive. He had had too little contact with humanity to realize that the man

was struggling to keep from vomiting. The barbarian turned his head away from

the grisly ruin of his mount and the unsettling sight of the warbeast chewing

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TheLureoftheBasiliskBookOneoftheLordsofDûsSeriesCopyright1980byLawrenceWatt-EvansPROLOGUE"Iamwearyofallthisdeathanddying."Thespeakerwasahugearmor-cladfigurealmostsevenfeetinheight,standingatthenarrowmouthofasmallcavenearthetopofasnowyandrubble-strewnhillside.Evenfromadistanceanobserverwouldhaveseent...

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