Tower of Doom r-9

by Mark Anthony

  The dancers careened about the red-veined marble floor with wild, jerky movements, like marionettes controlled by a drunken puppeteer. Their heads lolled strangely from side to side as they whirled and spun. The ceaseless smiles plastered to their faces were garish, even grotesque. It was the wine, of course. Dozens of pretty, golden-haired boys moved with fluidity through the throng, bearing trays of goblets filled with the glistening ruby liquid. It was no mundane vintage. The more wine the revelers drank, the more their eyes stared wide, dark, and unseeing behind their masks, as if each were gazing into some secret dream invisible to all the others.

  Bored, Jadis turned from the wild dance below, wondering when the summons for her would come. "Patience, love," she whispered to herself. She moved along the marble walkway, letting her gloved hand slip sensually over the golden balustrade. Wicked laughter and wordless sounds of pleasure drifted from sheer-curtained alcoves and dim grottos that lined the promenade. Jadis caught interesting glimpses of activity in each as she passed by.

  In one of the grottos, nobles lounged on velvet chaises while handsome attendants-their bare, muscular flesh slick with oil-placed crimson fruits into open mouths. The patrons wore heavy-lidded expressions, sated yet strangely hungry, their lips stained scarlet from the dark juices of the fruit. Within another alcove, men and women clad only in the skins of animals crawled about on all fours, barking, howling, and purring as though they were beasts.

  Without warning, an obese man wearing a ridiculous mask concocted of feathers and jewels rushed from a torchlit grotto and held something out toward Jadis.

  "You simply must try this," the nobleman said in a gasping voice. "I have never tasted anything so delicious in all my life."

  Jadis arched a dark eyebrow. In the man's hands was a raw, quivering heart. His chin dripped blood. She gazed past him into the grotto and saw that a score of other revelers were feasting in delight upon a white unicorn they had killed with their bare hands. Now they tore meat off the carcass with their teeth, their silken gowns and rich velvet coats soaked with blood.

  "No, it's all yours. Enjoy yourself," Jadis crooned indulgently.

  "Thank you, my lady," the man whispered tremblingly. "I will." He hurried back to the gory feast.

  As Jadis watched, a young nobleman wrenched the unicorn's spiral horn from its head. The horn began to glow with pearlescent* radiance. Tendrils of moon-pale light reached outward, spiraiing around the man's body. He threw his head back, trembling as if caught in the throes of deepest pleasure. Back arched, he rose to his toes. The magical radiance from the horn was lifting his body from the ground. Abruptly his trembling turned into violent convulsions. Blood trickled from his ears and mouth. Yet the look of rapture on his face did not lessen. The horn flared brilliantly, then went dim. Like a rag doll, the nobleman collapsed to the floor, stone dead. The horn rolled away. Of course, Jadis thought-only one who is pure of heart should dare touch a unicorn's horn. In moments, several other nobles bent over the fresh corpse to feed.

  A low sound of mirth escaped Jadis's throat. Aza- lin was brilliant. The pretentious nobles who had come here this night seeking to curry the king's favor or to hatch plots of intrigue against him would soon forget their subversive intentions as they drowned themselves in the sea of dark pleasures that filled the ballroom. Even after the revel was over, and after the party-goers returned to the city with only dim memories of what had occurred here, they would find themselves filled with strange, longing hungers, the pursuit of which would consume their energies in the year ahead, so that they would have neither time nor will to scheme against the king. Then would come another ball, and the sinister cycle would begin again. With his extraordinary masquerades, Azalin kept the nobility of II Aluk utterly in his thrall.

  Then again, as Jadis knew well, the Kargat played its crucial role in the king's perfect domination of Darkon. Few of the ordinary citizens knew of the Kargat, or at least few lived long with such dread knowledge. The secret society of spies and assassins to which Jadis belonged wove itself throughout the entire realm of Darkon, like a vast spider's web in which all threads led back to the center-to the master spider, Azalin himself. The Kargat had plucked Jadis as an orphan child from the streets of II Aluk and raised her to serve the order. Though given no choice in the matter, she did adore her work. There' was nothing she would not do to serve the king.

  A boy clad in a coat of golden brocade silently held out a tray of goblets toward Jadis. She took one of the glasses and raised it high.

  "To you, my great king."

  She lowered the goblet to her lips, then thought better of it. Not for her the dark rapture that seized the revelers. She poured the wine on the floor.

  Jadis turned to find herself facing a broad-shouldered man, his face concealed by a fanciful lion mask. For a moment, she wondered if he had been sent to take her to the Kargat lord for her next mission. But no, the man's eyes were empty and ravenous behind his mask. He was simply another noble caught in the tide of lust that surged through the ballroom.

  "Come with me, my lady," he said hoarsely, gesturing toward an alcove where Jadis glimpsed dozens of writhing, naked forms.

  "I think not," she replied coldly. She stretched a hand before her, like a cat extending its claws, and absently examined her scarlet fingernails.

  The man shook his lion's mane of long golden hair. "But I have never before seen a lady as beautiful as you. I must have you." He reached out and luxuriantly ran the back of his hand over the smoothness of her throat.

  Jadis's eyes glittered. The man's body was strong and attractive beneath his tight-fitting coat and breeches, but she had no time for such diversions. Swiftly, she reached up and grasped the man's wrist, twisting it sharply. He cried out in pain.

  "Find yourself different prey to feast upon, my lord," she said sharply, then'whirled to move away through the throng.

  The summons came just as she descended from the promenade and stepped onto the ballroom floor. She felt something pressed into her gloved hand and turned in time to see a hooded figure disappearing through the crowd. She looked down at her hand to see a small square of crisp golden parchment. Written upon it in flowing script were the words, Seek me in the northernmost antechamber. Even as she read the message the card was consumed by a puff of crimson flame, leaving only a small disk of gold foil in her palm, engraved with the symbol of an eye surrounded by tongues of fire. Jadis's heart fluttered. The Fiery Eye was Azalin's personal intaglio. The card had come from himl She hadn't hoped to meet him directly. Truly, she had risen high in the Kargat.

  Swiftly wending her way across the crowded dance floor, Jadis approached an iron door set in the north wall of the ballroom. A pair of crimson-uni- formed guards stood to either side, but neither glanced at her as she opened the portal. She stepped through and pressed the door shut behind her. The octagonal chamber beyond was empty save for a single, ornately carved mahogany chair. Jadis supposed there was nothing to do but wait. She sat down and smoothed her gown, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart.

  Without warning, the armrests of the chair swung inward, pinning her tightly against the chair's back. She let out a gasp as the silver piping that trimmed the chair's cushions snaked out, coiling around her wrists and ankles, binding her to the wooden frame. Suddenly the chair itself lurched into motion, its four legs creaking and bending, and it walked like a living thing toward a roaring fireplace. Jadis struggled to free herself, but the silver cords held her fast. Sweat beaded on her forehead as the chair approached the dancing flames. The thing swayed back and forth, lumbering nearer the hearth. It was going to bum her alive.

  Abruptly the fireplace pivoted, revealing a pas- sageway. The animated chair lurched through the opening, then the fireplace swung shut. The chair walked through stifling blackness as Jadis did her best to swallow the panic that clawed at her throat. The thing must be some sort of wood golem, she realized-a construction of dead material granted life by dark enchantment. Who had forged th
e golem? Was it Azalin? Or some other being of power? Jadis suspected she would discover the truth soon enough. The chair moved on, twisting right and left, its rhythmic groaning echoing eerily off stone walls she could not see in the darkness. This was some sort of labyrinth. Soon Jadis's bearings were hopelessly lost. The silver cords bit painfully into her flesh as the chair heaved ceaselessly up and down, like a piece of flotsam adrift on a black, roiling sea.

  The chair lurched to a halt. Jadis felt the wooden arms and silver cords release her limbs, then she sprang to her feet. A crimson radiance erupted, pushing back the darkness. She found herself standing before a dais of black porphyry. On the dais was a throne, and upon the throne sat a figure clad in a robe the color of dried blood. Swallowing her fear, she bowed deeply. "My king," she murmured. "How may your Kargat serve you?" "As you always have, my Jadis," replied the thunderous voice of the man who sat upon the throne. "With your loyalty and your adoration." "Of course, my king." Jadis had glimpsed Azalin before, on the occasion of his rare public appearances-each time concealed by heavy robes as now-but never before had she been so close to him. She could feel power and majesty radiating from him irt hot, dizzying waves. "One of my provincial barons has grown overly willful," Azalin said from the shadows of his heavy cowl. "I have learned that he has concocted some plot to usurp my power." "Then he is a fool, my king, for none could dare dream to defeat you." Chill laughter drifted down from the throne. "How truly you speak, my Jadis. Still, futile as they may be, I wish you to discover his plans and find a way to twist them to my own purposes. Let his impudent treachery serve me before i crush him in punishment." "With pleasure I will serve you, my king." "I know your loyalty, my Jadis. Details of the mission will be delivered to you." The figure rose from the throne, then moved down the steps of the dais with unnatural slowness. His robe hung eerily motionless as he moved. Jadis could smell the sour scent of fear in her own sweat. "Tell me, Jadis," Azalin whispered, though the sound of it roared in her brain. "Would you care to gaze more closely upon your king?" She forced herself to take in a shuddering breath. "If you think it necessary, Your Majesty." The robed figure nodded. "I do. You have risen high in my favor. There is a way for you to rise further yet, if you are strong enough. You have served me well with your mind, my Jadis. Would you care to serve me with your body as well?"

  A sickly scent lingered in her nostrils, like the odor of rotting meat. "Show me, my king."

  The heavy robe fell to the floor.

  Jadis bit her lip fiercely to stifle a cry. Dimly, she noticed the metallic taste of blood spreading across her tongue. The man who stood before her was not alive, at least not in any usual sense of the word. He was a lich. His withered flesh clung to a skeletal body. Here and there a patch of leathery skin had peeled away to reveal livid bone. The simple kirtle he wore only accentuated the horror of his cadaverous body, as did the silver and gold rings that encircled his bony ' arms. Scraggly tatters of rotting gray hair framed the shriveled skull mask of his face. Most horrifying of all were the searing sparks of crimson flame that danced in the dark recesses of his empty eye sockets. They burned fiercely into Jadis's soul.

  "Tell me truthfully, Jadis," Azalin croaked: "What do you see before you?"

  She swallowed the sick taste in her mouth. "I see a king whose power is great enough to defeat even Death itself!"

  "Oh, my lovely one!" The lich king reached out a skeletal hand, trailing tatters of dry-parchment skin, to caress the smoothness of her breast. "Ah, rapture!" he hissed. "To feel again the firmness of living flesh."

  Jadis did not shrink from his undead touch.

  "I am yours, my king," she whispered.

  The man in the lion's mask prowled through the throng of gyrating dancers. Perhaps it was that he had not drunk as much of the crimson wine as had the other nobles. Perhaps it was that his will was stronger than most. Whatever the reason, the fierce desire that ached in his chest would not allow itself to be slaked on any common pleasure. Again and again he pushed away others who pressed themselves against him. There was one he did want, and only one. The darkly beautiful woman in the emerald gown. Searching for her, he stalked his way through the undulating sea of masked revelers. He would have her. Viscount Culdaine was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  His pulse quickened. There she was! He watched as she emerged from behind an iron door. Her dusky skin seemed strangely pale now, but that only made her lovelier yet. Culdaine pushed his way toward her, pursuing as she drifted down a dimly lit corridor. She cast a look over her shoulder, and a small, secret smile touched the corners of her deep red lips. Culdaine bared white teeth in a wolfish expression. She had only been toying with him before. Now she wanted'him, even as he wanted her. He watched as she vanished through a doorway, giving him one more languid look. Moments later he pushed through the door after her, shutting it behind him.

  The room was dark, though a single ray of moonlight spilled through a high window, illuminating a rumpled heap. Culdaine knelt and saw that it was a cast-off gown of green silk. Reaching down, he picked up a black mask with cat's eyes. A soft noise sounded behind him. Feeling his passion stir, Culdaine stood and turned around. There, in the shadows, he saw her moving sensuously toward him.

  "My lady," he whispered, his voice throbbing. "Come to me…"

  Without warning, a bestial shape leapt from the shadows. Eyes flashed like green fire. Fangs glowed in the moonlight, growing longei*even as Culdaine watched in terror. The sinuous beast fell upon him, knocking him forcefully to the floor. He screamed as sickle claws raked deep into his belly, spilling his guts out across the floor. His cry of agony was quickly silenced as the fanged maw clamped on to his throat, closing with crushing force. Blood gushed forth in a hot, dark fountain. Culdaine's hands beat feebly for a moment against muscled flesh covered by dark, glossy fur, then fell limply to the cold floor. The eyes behind his mask stared blankly upward, no longer filled with desire, but instead empty with death.

  Ottering a low growl of pleasure, the werepanther began to feed upon her prey.

  "There goes another one, Your Grace," Pock chirped merrily.

  The little gnome was perched on the back of a chair, watching out the window of Baron Caidin's private chamber as, in the courtyard below, a headless corpse toppled off the scaffold to the muddy ground. As always, the impish gnome was clad in miniature imitation of the baron, from his crimson long coat trimmed with golden brocade to his blue velvet breeches. A few wisps of white hair flew wildly around an otherwise bald head that seemed too big for his scrawny body.

  "Let's see," Pock went on. "So far this week that makes-" he counted his fingers, then held up both hands, fingers splayed "-three!"

  Baron Caidin paused in his pacing to glare at the gnomish knave. "You mean ten, Pock. You're holding up ten fingers."

  The gnome frowned. "Whatever, Your Grace."

  Caidin gritted his teeth in annoyance, but there was no point in correcting Pock. It was not for his brains that Caidin tolerated the foolish gnome. Castellan Domeck had caught Pock several years ago picking the pockets of petty nobles in Caidin's court. Normally a thief was beheaded without question, but Caidin had sensed that he might put the crafty gnome to good use. He had been right. These last years, Pock's big eyes and pointed ears had uncovered many interesting secrets and conspiracies whispered by Caidin's vain and ever-scheming courtiers.

  "Ten this week, Pock. Twelve last week, and nine the week before that." Caidin moved to the window, watching as servants tossed the corpse and its detached head into a cart and hauled them away. "But it isn't enough." The baron turned from the grisly sight just as the keep's bells began to toll a funeral dirge. His lip curled back from his teeth in disgust.

  "Wort!" he said sourly. "No doubt he's aping about his blasted belfry like an animal." He turned on the gnome. "Remind me to have you flogged for telling Domeck and Sirraun that Wort is my half brother."

  "Er, what if I happen to accidentally forget to remind you?" Pock gulp
ed.

  Caidin grinned wolfishly. "Why, then I'll have you flogged for forgetting."

  The knave nervously scratched his wrinkled head while he tried to decide if there was any sequence of events which wouldn't result in his getting flogged.

  Caidin sat at his cluttered desk, absently fidgeting with a jeweled stiletto. He wondered if he should finally have Wort killed. The hunchback's appearance in the Grand Hall yesterday had been utterly embarrassing. Few in the keep remembered the deformed half brother of the baron's childhood. Caidin wanted to keep it that way. His eyes grew distant as an unbidden memory surfaced in his mind.

  They had been children together. Even then Caidin had been tall and strong, and at all boyish things- riding horses, shooting arrows, convincing girls to skulk with him into the stable's loft-he far surpassed the other boys of the Old Baron's court. The keep's children looked to him as a natural leader, a role he gladly accepted. Yet there was one child Caidin always wished would not follow him.

  "Wait for me, Brother!" Wort would call out, hobbling after Caidin and the other boys as they set off to buy plum pasties in the village or to go catch toads in the bogs. The others would laugh, making fun of the ungainly little boy who always tripped and fell in his haste to catch up. Caidin would only cross his arms and stare with silent disapproval. The stunted boy with the twisted spine became the butt of all Caidin's worst jokes. Hardly a day went by that Wort did not find horse dung between the covers of his bed, or worms in his bowl of stew. Nothing seemed to deter him. Blithely, a smile constantly upon his homely face, he continued to follow after his handsome brother. Even then, Caidin did not truly hate Wort. Not yet. That came later, one day on the edge of the sheer precipice west of the village.

  The cliff was called Morrged's Leap, after a spurned lover who, legend held, threw himself to a bloody death on the jagged rocks a thousand feet below, and whose shade was said to haunt the place. Caidin and some of the keep's older boys had gone to the precipice one spring afternoon, daring each other to teeter on the precarious edge. As usual Wort followed, his hunched chest racked with exertion. A dark thought occurred to Caidin then. Perhaps here was his opportunity to be rid of his troublesome brother at last. Wort was so clumsy. If he fell, it would seem an accident. So Caidin balanced boldly on the edge of the cliff, taunting his brother.