by Mark Anthony
"I am sorry, my lord baron," Domeck grumbled.
"Begging your forgiveness, Baron Caidin," Sirraun fawned obsequiously. "You know that I live only to ' serve Your Grace."
"Yes, you do," Caidin said darkly.
Sirraun's eyes bulged in alarm. The castellan shot him a satisfied smirk.
"Here is my will," Caidin went on in an authoritative tone. "Sirraun, do what you must in the name of the inquisition. A plot to assassinate me festers in my barony-we know that from the prisoners you tortured-and I want every trace of it found and excised." He raised a hand before Domeck could protest. "And you, my loyal castellan, will make certain my knights are prepared to defend me should an attempt be made upon my life. Understood?"
Sirraun and Domeck exchanged looks of loathing, then nodded reluctantly.
"Excellent," Caidin pronounced with satisfaction. "Then I shall expect-"
A sudden cry echoed about the vaulted Grand Hall. The three men looked up in surprise. Wort lurched from his hiding place, reaching behind himself to grab the creature that had leapt on him without warning. A sharp pain bit into his neck. With his powerful arms, he managed to yank the thing off and fling it across the hall.
"Baron Caidin," the creature squeaked as it flew through the air. "I have found an-"
Abruptly it struck a gilded stone column and slid slowly to tine floor.
"— intruder," the creature finished dizzily.
Wort could see now that the creature that had attacked him was a small, wizerted being with purple skin and large, pale eyes. A gnome. It was clad in a frilly white shirt and a frock coat of purple and silver, styled in miniature imitation of the baron's garb. The gnome still clutched the small stiletto with which it had scratched Wort's neck.
"Good work, Pock," Caidin said with a wolfish grin.
"Thank you, Your Grace," the gnome said in a croaking voice. He struggled to his feet, wobbled, then fell back down. "I've always excelled at being thrown."
Wort watched apprehensively as the three men advanced on him. He wondered if he should run. Too late, he saw Castellan Domeck reach out to jerk back the hood of his black cloak. Wort cringed, holding up a malformed hand to shade his eyes from the dazzling brilliance of the Grand Hall's many-candled chandeliers. Domeck stepped back, taking in a hissing breath of revulsion.
"Wort," Caidin said between gritted teeth.
"You know this grotesque creature, Your Grace?" Sirraun said in amazement, gazing at Wort as if he were a fascinating new species of insect.
Pock gained his feet and tottered toward the others. "Do you take the baron for a fool, Sirraun?" he demanded pompously. "Of course he knows his own brother
"Brother?" Domeck asked in curious disgust.
Caidin glared murderously at Pock. A hint of green colored the gnome's purple skin. He swallowed hard. "Er, I think I had better go lie down, Your Grace. The blow to my head must have addled my brains, which isn't all that hard, mind you." Quickly he scurried away, vanishing through an archway.
A knowing smile twisted Sirraun's mouth. "I have heard rumors that the Old Baron sired a bastard or two. Of course, I cannot blame him for keeping such a wretched thing as this a secret."
Wort tried to shrink away from the brutal stares of the others. He found himself backing up against the sharp stone antlers of the statue.
"Leave us," Caidin told the castellan and lord inquisitor. Knowing better than to protest, they retreated from the Grand Hall, though not without* casting a few more contemptuous glances at the hunchback who had been revealed as the baron's half brother.
"I should have you beheaded for this, Wort," Caidin said casually.
Wort tried to sketch a bow, but his twisted form made the action a mockery. "Forgive me, Caidin. I did not mean to disturb you. I leave my tower so sel- domly. I forget… I forget sometimes how things work outside."
"Then do not forget again." Caidin moved to a table and poured himself a glass of blood-red wine, draining it in one draught. He did not offer any to Wort. "Why have you come this time?"
Wort took a trembling step forward. "A small thing, Brother. One of the bells in the tower has cracked, I fear. It causes a dissonance in the harmonics. i would like… I would like a new bell."
Caidin laughed. The sound was harsh and sneering, a strange contrast to the baron's handsome face. " You want something from me?"
"Please, Brother…" Wort stuttered.
"Do not call me that," Caidin warned. "I suffer you to live in the tower, Wort. In my kindness, I have food brought to you so that you need not leave to face the cruel jeers of others. Do you think the debt I owed you once has not been paid many times over? You would do well not to press my generosity. Otherwise…"
Caidin dropped the empty wine glass. It shattered, and several drops of crimsorl wine spilled upon the mosaic embedded in the floor. Suddenly the wine vanished, as if sucked into the mosaic, and as it did so the images formed by the shards of colored tile began to shimmer and move. With eerie silence, the battle played itself out beneath the baron's boots. The two armies clashed. Swords bit deeply, arrows flew, blood flowed in streams of undulating red-ochre tiles. Wort watched in dread fascination, sickened at the carnage played out in the swirling mosaic. At last the images grew still once more.
"What, don't you care for the mosaic, Wort?" Caidin said mockingly. "Its enchantment is quite old, and quite rare."
Jerkily, Wort shook his head.
"Truly? I find it… compelling." A vicious smile curled itself about his lips. "Now leave. And do not disturb me again. Brother."
With a heavy sigh, Wort turned away. He pulled up the hood of his cloak once more and left the Grand Hall, passing servants and courtiers as he shuffled through the keep's corridors. It had been more than a year since he had last spoken to Caidin. He should have known his brother would have, as usual, grown crueler in the meantime. Why that was, Wort could never understand. Caidin had everything-a strong body, a handsome face, a rich fiefdom to rule. Could he not spare his unfortunate brother the cost of a single bell? — As he stepped into the courtyard, Wort saw Castellan Domeck moving across the open square. Quickly, Wort lumbered forward, kneeling in the cold mud and grasping the castellan's black-gloved hand before the surprised man could recoil.
"Please, Castellan Domeck," Wort begged. "You must speak to my brother…"
Domeck's lip curled back. "Get away from me," he snarled. He jerked his hand away, leaving the empty glove in Wort's grip, and strode across the courtyard. Wort stared at the glove as hope died in his heart. Nearby, a flock of pigeons pecked at the mud. "What will I do, my friends?" he whispered sadly. They offered no answer.
A horse clopped by, spattering Wort with mud. As' he gazed at the horse's steel-shod hooves, an idea struck him. Perhaps the blacksmith in the village could help him. A smith might be able to fix the broken bell. Wort hastily stood, absently tucking the castellan's glove into his pocket, then hobbled through the gate of the keep.
It had been years since Wort had been down to the village. He picked his way slowly along the winding road carved into the crag upon which Nartok Keep stood. Far below, the motley collection of thatch- roofed buildings that made up the village lay clustered haphazardly at the foot of the tor. It looked almost as if the meager dwellings were huddled together in fear against the endless landscape of bog, thicket, and dun-colored heath. Perhaps a league west of the village, Wort could see the jagged stump of what seemed to be a tower rising up in the midst of the windswept moor. No road led to the half-finished tower, and no buildings stood near it. it loomed dark and lonely on the horizon like a giant's tombstone.
That must be the tower the folk in the courtyard spoke of, Wort thought.
Often, when the wind was still, the voices of people standing in the courtyard below drifted clearly through the window of Wort's chamber in the bell tower. That was how he first learned that folk believed it was a monster who rang the bells each time the soul of someone in the keep passed on to the Gray
Kingdom of the Dead. Of late, the thing he had overheard people down in the courtyard whispering about most was this forbidding tower.
Rumor told how, one night, the ring of stones had appeared without explanation far out on the grassy moor. A shepherd was the first to discover it. He found three of his flock inside the ring of stones, all dead. Afterward, other shepherds told similar tales. Soon it was whispered that the place was blighted. Some said that the ring stood upon a spot known to have been cursed by Vistani after one of their gypsy kindred was robbed and murdered there by a village man. One day several curious boys ventured to the circle on a dare. Inside they discovered Jurgin, the village drunkard, or at least the remains of him. It appeared that much of his body had been consumed by some beast. After that, no one ventured near the circle. Yet each night the ring seemed to grow inexplicably, for each morning when the folk of the village awoke and gazed out their windows, they saw that another layer of stones had been added to the mysterious tower.
So it had gone on, night after night, until now the half-finished tower loomed over the moor, and at sunset its giant shadow stretched like a sinister finger toward the village. What force was raising the tower none could say, nor was it known what would happen when it was finally completed.
The bloodshot eye of the sun was falling toward the horizon as Wort hobbled into the village. Foul- smelling water ran in rivulets down the muddy street before him, its breadth crowded with peasants clad in severe garb of dull gray. A scrawny dog growled as Wort passed by. Gathering his cloak more tightly about him, he hurried on.
He wasn't certain where the blacksmith's shop was, but he listened for the ringing of a hammer. Clumsily, he wended his way through the throng of villagers who pushed carts of radishes and turnips or carried straw baskets filled with eggs. The viscous mud of the street let off a sickening stench. A chill sweat slickened Wort's skin. He wasn't used to being this close to other people. It was almost frightening. Every moment he expected the folk around him to stop in their tracks and point at him. Clad as he was in his thick cloak, however, they paid him no heed.
A puff of acrid smoke filled Wort's nostrils. Op ahead he glimpsed a wooden sign with a horseshoe nailed to it. There! He quickened his pace. Surely the blacksmith would be able to help him.
The crack of a whip sundered the air.
"Make way!" a voice shouted roughly. "Make way, vermin!"
The crowd of villagers abruptly parted as a wagon drawn by four black horses careened down the street. The eyes of the beasts showed white, their sides flecked with foam. The driver cracked his whip again. Wort found himself pulled along with the crowd and crushed up against a building. Panic clawed at his throat as bodies pressed all around him.
That was when he saw the girl.
She was standing in the middle of the street, apparently forgotten by her mother or father, a golden-haired child drawing patterns in the mud with a stick. Her back was to the approaching wagon. She did not seem to hear it.
"She'll be crushed," Wort muttered in alarm. "Why doesn't someone help her?"
The peasants only stared with blank eyes, as if they saw nothing. The galloping horses bore down on the girl. Apparently the driver did not see her either. Or did not care if he did. Without stopping to think what he was doing, Wort forced his way through the tightly packed crowd. People muttered curses at him as he shoved by. He ignored them and fought his way to the fore. The girl in the street dropped her stick. She turned about to face the wagon, freezing in terror.
With a cry, Wort hurled himself through the ranks of the villagers. There was a sound of rending cloth. Dimly he realized his cloak had been torn off. He lunged forward and crashed into the child. She screamed as he fell with her into the muck. The horses and wagon hurtled by, scant inches from Wort and the child whom he protected with his massive arms. Then, with one last crack of the whip, the wagon was gone. A dead silence descended over the street. Slowly Wort stood, pulling the girl to her feet.
"Are you all right, child?" he croaked. She only regarded him silently with grave blue eyes.
Then someone screamed.
"The monster! He has the child!"
Wort looked up in shock. He saw a sea of faces staring at him with disgust, horror, and… hatred. He felt naked without his heavy cloak.
A pale-faced woman rushed toward Wort. "Get away from her, you monster!" she shrieked, snatching the girl roughly from his hands. She dashed away, clutching the girl tightly. The child looked back at Wort, her blue eyes strangely hurt. Then the woman was lost in the crowd. But the throng was not done with him.
"Look at the freak!" someone shouted.
"You should be ashamed!" another screamed.
"Get out of here, you beast!"
Wort reeled as a clod of mud struck him on the back of his head. "I was only trying…" another cold lump of mud hit him in the chest"… trying to help her." The crowd closed in on him. Shouts of fear and anger bore into him like knives.
"Begone from our village, monster!"
"The monster tried to kill the girl, did you see?"
"Kill the monster!"
More mud clods struck Wort. He spun around, trying to protect himself, but the blows hailed from every direction. With each blow, the word resonated in his head. Monster. Monster. MONSTER!
Suddenly a fearsome voice let out a bellow of rage. "I wanted to help.r Only dimly did Wort realize the voice was his own. A terrible image flashed before his mind-the burnt ashwife from his boyhood, shrieking as fire licked at her hands, her arms, her bubbling, cracking face. Didn't she understand that he had wanted to help her? Couldn't any of them understand that? It was her fault she had been hurt. Not his. Blinded by mud and hot tears, Wort broke into a clumsy run. Peasants screamed as they scrambled to get out of his way. He did not see them or the horrified looks on their faces. Sobbing, he ran on, leaving the shouts and jeers behind him.
Wort wasn't certain how he made it to the bell tower. He did not remember how many townsfolk had shrunk from him in horror as he climbed the twisting road to the keep and stumbled across the courtyard. The next thing he knew, he burst into his chamber.
"Curse them!" he shouted. Rage ignited in his chest, searing his heart, burning away the self-pity that had dwelt there. "Curse them all!" A cloud of pigeons erupted into flight before him. "Only I would help the girl. Only I! Yet how do they reward me?"
Wort flung open the lid of his trunk of books. He grabbed the enchanted storybook he had been reading, then ripped it in half with the brutal strength of his bare hands. With a silver flash its magic shattered. White-hot fire consumed its crackling pages. Wort had been wrong. All these long years, he had been so terribly wrong.
"I am no hero," he snarled. "No brave knight or handsome prince!"
Swiftly he climbed the ladder'into the belfry. The last crimson rays of the sun dripped like blood through the iron gratings.
"If people wish me to be a hnonster, then that is what I will be!" He grabbed the ropes of the bells. "Beware Nartok," he shouted. "For on this day you have created a monster!"
The bells rang in a darkly dissonant cacophony as a storm of ghost-pale birds filled the air.
Two
When King Azalin of Darkon announced a masquerade at the royal castle of Avernus, each of the countesses, dukes, and petty nobles of the grand city of II Aluk waited breathlessly to learn whether he or she had been invited. Soon after the announcement, mysteriously hooded messengers began appearing at the doors of hilltop mansions and fashionable city redstones to deliver the coveted black and gold invitations to the lucky, while the less fortunate looked on with no small amount of envy. The invitations themselves were exquisite and wonderful things, which strangely and somewhat startlingly vanished in a puff of cool flame after being delivered, leaving only a small disk of thick gold foil, engraved with the Fiery Eye that was Azalin's personal signet. The precious gold tokens were the only means of admittance to what would certainly be the year's most talked-about social event.
Finally, the much-anticipated occasion arrived. As the pale orb of the moon lilted over the turgid waters of the Vuchar Riverrthe favored nobility of II Aluk streamed from the city in gilded carriages and undertook the brief journey to Avernus-an imposing castle that loomed on a rocky hill just south of the capitol. Mo one ever knew what to expect at one of Azalin's masquerades, but it was widely thought that the king was a great wizard, so everybody anticipated something fantastical. One by one the carriages rode the twisting avenue to the castle and were swallowed by the arched gateway. The party had begun.
A woman clad in a gown of emerald-green silk moved with smooth grace through the throng of revelers that Filled the vast ballroom. Her coal-black hair was coiled about her head in an intricate arrangement, and a single, uncommonly large pearl rested gently in the cleft of her bosom, glowing like a tiny moon against the luster of her dark copper skin. With a gloved hand, she held a mask with tilted cat eyes before her face. Behind the false face, her own green-gold eyes glittered with contempt.
The woman was Jadis, and unlike those around her, she was not one of II Aluk's pretentious nobles. She had not come seeking favor from the king, nor entertainment, nor even a fleeting lover. She was Kargat-one of King Azalin's personal spies-and she had come to be assigned her new mission.
Jadis ascended a wide stairway to the promenade that encircled the ballroom. Hundreds of masked lords and ladies danced below in the cavernous chamber, bathed in the crystal-refracted luminescence of countless candles. There was something out of the ordinary about the dancers. They moved in the same complex patterns favored in all of the city's fashionable ballrooms, but Jadis knew this was a dance like none ever witnessed in Il Aluk.
