The Book of Silence by Lawrence Watt-Evans Page B

hand already on the hilt of his dagger, since the table’s presence would have made it difficult for him to draw his sword.
    The glinting had not been, as he had first thought, the gleam of firelight on metal. There was no one behind him. The flash of light had come from something he could not identify, a blurry redness hanging in mid-air and glowing faintly.
    It hovered at the level of his eyes, perhaps a foot wide and a foot and a half in height, a blot of color against the dark background of the taproom.
    This, obviously, was magic at work. He kept his hand on his dagger, though he knew ordinary weapons would probably be useless against whatever it was. Various possible origins for the thing passed through his mind. It might be a manifestation of Bheleu, come to reclaim him with or without the sword. It might be a sending of the council of wizards that had sought to destroy him, as a menace to the peace of Eramma, three years earlier. It could be something the Forgotten King had contrived, for reasons of his own, or it might have been sent by the cult of Aghad as part of its revenge upon him.
    He had, he thought, made altogether too many enemies in his life, and too many of them possessed of supernatural power.
    The blot was changing as he watched; it swirled and roiled about, not like smoke or even liquid, but as if it were made of flowing light. It grew, and shadows appeared within it.
    Red was Bheleu’s preferred color, but that was the bright red of fire or fresh blood; this thing was of a duller, browner shade, like blood that had dried. The King was the King in Yellow, but could, of course, use any color he chose; the council wizards had employed a wide variety of spells. Still, Garth found that he associated the unhealthy hue of the thing with Aghad.
    As he realized that, the thing suddenly resolved itself into an image. It was a face, a not-quite-human face, twisted and sneering, with curving fangs protruding from its upper lip. Garth stared; he knew he had seen it, or one like it, somewhere before.
    He glanced around; the Forgotten King was paying no attention to this manifestation, nor to anything else for that matter, but the tavernkeeper was staring in horror. The other customers had departed.
    Garth turned back; the apparition was still there, hanging motionless, as if waiting.
    â€œWhat are you? Why are you here?” Garth demanded. “Speak, O vision, and explain yourself!”
    The face grinned and replied, “Greetings, Garth. It is good to see you so untroubled that you can share a drink and pass the time with this doddering old fraud.” The voice was a low rumble, lower than any human voice and not easy to understand; it spoke with an accent unlike that of Skelleth, but one that Garth had heard before.
    â€œWho are you?” Garth asked.
    â€œDo you not recognize me? Have you never seen my likeness?”
    â€œYou are familiar, but I cannot place you.”
    â€œAh, so, feeble a memory, and in an overman! It is scarce three years since you invaded my home and destroyed my altar.”
    â€œAghad!” Garth remembered now where he had seen that face; it had appeared on the small, carved idols sold in the Dûsarran market. The accent, too, was Dûsarran.
    â€œYou do remember! I am flattered!”
    â€œFilth!” Garth spat. He did not give any serious consideration to the possibility that this might be the god himself; he was quite sure that it was some sort of trickery contrived by the cultists. He shifted, so that the table would not impede him, drew his sword, and rose to his feet.
    â€œI had feared that you would be displeased by my paltry attempt to return the favor you did me, but I suppose you must have tired of your bitch years ago. Perhaps you would like to thank me for freeing you of her?” The thing grinned again.
    Garth’s sword came up and slashed through the image in a single smooth motion. It cut a narrow swath through the ethereal