by Mark Anthony
"I beg you," Robart gasped hoarsely. Even speaking was agony. "I have told you… the truth. I am… innocent."
Sirraun picked up a wooden box. "No, Robart. You are mistaken. You see, no one is truly innocent. Everyone conceals some dark secret in his heart. Sadly, the methods I am forced to adopt to discover those secrets are somewhat crude." The lipless gash of his mouth parted in an evil smile. "But they are, I have found, almost invariably effective."
Opening the box, Sirraun drew out a large silver ring covered with spidery runes. It looked like a circlet a king might wear around his head.
"You must wonder what this is," Sirraun said. "I confess, I do not truly know. But it is a most intriguing object."
He picked up a wooden staff and slowly slipped the ring over its tip. Strangely, the tip of the staff disappeared. After a moment Sirraun lifted the silver circlet from the staff. Robart gaped. The end of the staff was blackened and charred.
"I cannot be certain," Sirraun explained coolly, "but I suspect the ring is a gateway to another realm of existence-another world, if you will. It seems to be a world filled with fire." He approached the young man. "Searing fire." He moved the ring toward one of Robart's manacled hands.
"Please," Robart choked, staring at the ring fearfully. "I've told you everything I know."
"Oh, we have only just begun to explore the depths of your depravity," Sirraun cooed. "You see, we know you to be a reader of books. Books are dangerous things. They lead to ideas, which in turn lead to questions, which in the end, of course, lead to treachery. I think you will be amazed, Robart, at the crimes and sins to which you will find yourself confessing."
The ring hovered closer. Robart let out a wordless cry of terror.
"Enough, Sirraun!" a deep voice cut through the air. "I grow weary of your dramatics." A figure robed and hooded in rich purple stepped from an alcove. "I do not have all night to watch you satisfy your pathetic cravings for sadistic entertainment."
Poison filled the lord inquisitor's black eyes, but he responded with a sharp nod, placing the ring back in its box. "As you wish."
"Things are always as I wish." The robed man approached the prisoner.
Hope flared in Robart's heart. "Have you come to set me free?"
"In a way," the other replied. He held up a polished black stone. The robed man whispered a dissonant word, and a faint crimson light flickered to life inside the stone. The light began to throb, slowly at first, then faster. Abruptly Robart realized that the stone's pulsating rhythm was matching the cadence of his own frantically beating heart.
"What… what is it?" he gasped.
"Watch," the robed man replied.
A ray of crimson light arced from the stone, striking Robart in the chest. The young man screamed as crystalline pain pierced him. His back arched, and his hands clenched themselves into rigid claws. The ray of magical light flared, changing from angry red to shimmering green. Now the light seemed to stream outward from Robart's chest, rebounding into the dark stone. Suddenly the pain that racked Robart subsided. His body went limp. As the green light drained into the stone, he felt himself growing colder and colder. His skin turned sickly gray, and deep shadows appeared beneath his staring eyes. He shuddered one last time as the emerald ray of light vanished. The stone went dark. Carefully, the robed man stored the stone in a pocket.
"Please," Robart whispered. It seemed strangely difficult to move his jaw and tongue. He was unbearably cold. "Please… don't kill me."
"But don't you see, Robart?" Laughter emanated from within the purple hood. "You're already dead."
Robart stared in disbelief.
"Can't you feel it?" the other went on with eerie calmness. "You are no longer breathing, Robart. Listen. Your heart has fallen still."
"No…" Robart croaked. He tried to struggle, to free himself from his shackles, but his movements were feeble, jerky. "It's hard… to move… so cold."
"Ah, yes," the robed man said dispassionately. "The stiffness of rigor mortis is already Setting in."
Robert could only move his lips wordlessly. Gradually his twitching stopped. The robed man reached out a hand and gently shut the apprentice's eyes
"Rest in peace, Robart," he whispered mockingly.
Darkness shrouded the young man. A cry of madness welled up inside him, rending his soul to shreds, but he could not give voice to it.
Dead men, Robart realized dimly, cannot scream.
Baron Caidin pushed back the purple hood of his robe. He was beginning to enjoy watching the stone drain the life-forces of its victims.
"You might have given me more time with him, Your Grace." Sirraun's voice was resentful. He ran a hand fondly over a machine fashioned of iron bars, leather straps, and sharp spikes-one of the many nameless engines of torture that filled the dank room far below Nartok Keep.
Caidin fixed his lord inquisitor with a disgusted look. "I couldn't care less whether or not you have the chance to satisfy your perverse pleasures, Sirraun. I'm a busy man."
He stalked around the slumped corpse of the young man. "He must be beheaded for treason in the courtyard like the others. We must keep up the ruse of the inquisition. I cannot allow Azalin to learn the real reason I need these bodies. When will he be strong enough to walk up the steps of the scaffold?"
Sirraun peered at the corpse. Already dark blood was pooling beneath the pale skin. "They can usually move again in a day or two, after the rigor mortis fades. But I prefer to keep them chained up then. They are quite dangerous at that point, for they are in the midst of going utterly mad. It is better to wait a few more days. Once their brains begin to decay they are much easier to control."
Caidin nodded. "Very well. In the meantime…"
"Yes, I know-find more traitors." Sirraun finished. He bowed solemnly. "With pleasure, Your Grace." The lord inquisitor backed away, disappearing into the shadows.
Alone with the cadaver, Caidin drew out the dark stone once more. It was quiescent now, but he knew that the life-force of the young scribe-like that of all the other villagers falsely arrested for treachery- had been absorbed by the stone. The Soulstone was more powerful than he had ever hoped it would be.
Caidin had stumbled upon a reference to the Soul- stone years earlier, in an ancient, forgotten tome in the keep's library. The notion of an object that siphoned the spirits of living men had excited him, and right away he had realized that such a thing could prove the key to great power. He had searched for more information about the stone but had found only tantalizing hints and clues. Interest grew into obsession, and for years he searched in vain for the Soulstone. Then at last, in the ruins of a forgotten fortress, he found the darkling. In truth, it had been more as if the darkling found him. Regardless, it was the twisted Vistana who finally revealed the hiding place of the Soulstone: an underwater cave along the Vuchar River. For his help, Caidin had rewarded the darkling with imprisonment. From time to time, the baron descended into the dungeon to ask the evil Vistana questions about the stone, doing less so of late as he grew to understand the Soulstone's powers more and more. He supposed he should have the darkling killed soon.
"Just a few more lives," Caidin told the silent corpse. "A score or two, no more. Then I will finally have the power I need to confront the king." He turned on a heel and strode from the inquisition chamber, leaving behind the hideous iron contraptions and the stench of fear. Other matters required his attention.
An hour later found Caidin standing in the candlelit splendor of Nartok Keep's Grand Hall. His black hair and beard shone with perfumed oil, and his scarlet kneecoat was trimmed with gold braid. With graceful strength, he rested a white-gloved hand on the hilt of the decorative saber dangling at his side.
"So, tell me again, Domeck, who is this lady I'm suddenly playing host to?"
"She's a traveling noble from Il Aluk, Your Grace," the stout, gray-haired man replied in his gruff voice. "A duchess, I believe. I gather she recently inherited an estate some leagues north of here,
and she's come to examine the property. Apparently there's a problem with the legalities of the transaction-missing papers or some such nonsense. She's hoping to indulge Your Grace's hospitality while the matter is sorted out."
"And perhaps His Grace will indulge the lady's hospitality as well," a mischievous voice piped up wickedly. Pock appeared from behind a marble column, clad in comical imitation of the baron. The small, purple-skinned gnome capered about in a naughtily suggestive dance.
"Be still, you maggot," Caidin hissed as the gilded doors of the Grand Hall started to open. Pock dashed back behind the stone column. Caidin leaned his head toward the castellan. "Quick-what is she called?"
"Her name," Domeck replied quietly, "is Lady Jadis."
A pair of pages with powdered faces and rouged cheeks pushed open the tall gilded doors. A woman drifted into the hall, her gown of emerald silk whispering against the smooth marble floor. Her jet-black hair was coiled intricately atop her head, and a single large pearl hung from a golden strand that encircled her graceful neck. Her skin had the tone of burnished copper, and her eyes glittered with green- gold light.
Caidin swore an oath under his breath. "You didn't tell me she was so beautiful, Domeck," he whispered.
"Your Grace didn't ask," Pock quipped from his hiding place. Caidin bit his lip to keep from cursing.
"Your Grace didn't ask-what?" the woman inquired in a lilting voice as she approached.
Caidin smiled, displaying pointed canines. He made a mental note to box the foolish gnome's ears. A heady scent emanated from Lady Jadis, like the sweet fragrance of exotic spices. "I would be honored by the lady's company at table." He kissed her hand, lingering over it just a heartbeat longer than etiquette required.
"I must thank you for your kindness in taking me in," the duchess said warmly. "I trust that my affairs will be resolved soon, so that I will not overstay my welcome."
Caidin's oiled mustache curled in a devilish smile. "Oh, I fear there is little chance of that." He moved to a golden table. "Wine, my lady?"
"Please."
He filled two crystal goblets with pale wine and turned to hand one to her. Abruptly his eyes flashed in anger. Pock stood behind the lady, puckering up his purple face and hugging himself in a mockery of a passionate embrace.
"Is something amiss?" Jadis asked.
"Not at all," Caidin replied smoothly. He gently gripped the lady's elbow and steered her away. In the process he found the opportunity to plant a firm kick on Pock's hindquarters. The gnome let out a squeal.
"Did you hear something?" Jadis asked. Caidin could not stop her from looking over her shoulder, Fortunately, Pock had already vanished behind the column.
"I didn't hear a thing," Caidin said pleasantly.
The two spoke for a time, sipping their wine and exchanging formalities while the castellan stood apart at a respectful distance. When-she turned her head Caidin couldn't help running his eyes desirously over her supple neck and bare shoulders. Finally, he suggested they make their way to the dining hall. He downed his wine in a single gulp. Jadis nodded her acquiescence. Just then the gilded doors flew open. The pages hastily scrambled out of the way as a man with long golden hair stomped into the room.
"Your Grace, there you are," the man said breathlessly. Caidin noticed that his blue knight's uniform was spattered with mud. "I've been searching for you all evening, but no one I asked knew where you were."
Caidin gave him a sour look. "It never occurred to you, Logris, that if I had wished to be found I would have told people where to find me?"
The knight only stared at him in bewilderment.
Caidin sighed deeply. "I was attending to business, Logris," he said wearily. Was it his imagination, or did his knights grow more stupid with each passing year? "As I am doing now."
Logris bowed sweepingly. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I have urgent news I must tell you." He cast a sideways look at the Lady Jadis. "Er, in private, Your Grace."
The baron suppressed a groan. Logris was a loyal knight, but a trifle overeager. Caidin supposed the only way to be rid of him-and to continue the beguiling game of seduction with the lady-was to hear Logris's message.
Caidin turned toward Jadis.."Forgive me, my lady…"
"Think nothing of it, Your Grace." She touched his hand enticingly. "I will await уой in the dining hall."
Domeck volunteered to escort her. Caidin wistfully watched the emerald-gowned noblewoman as she and the castellan left the Grand Hall. When the golden doors had closed, he turned on the knight. "This had better be important, Logris."
Ten minutes later, after listening with increasing interest to Logris's report, Caidin dismissed the knight. He poured himself another glass of wine.
"What a fool," he murmured.
"You shouldn't say such things about yourself, baron," Pock teased, scampering out of his hiding place.
Caidin scowled in annoyance. "I wasn't talking about myself, Pock. I was referring to King Azalin." He drank the glass of wine. "Didn't you hear Logris's report? He just came from II Aluk. One of my agents there learned that Azalin has sent a Kargat spy to Nartok Keep."
"It isn't me, I swear!" Pock squeaked, falling to his knees.
"Get up, Pock!" Caidin snapped. "You're the one person I know would never betray me. You haven't the brains for it."
"Why thank you, Your Grace." Pock beamed.
Caidin gazed into the crystal goblet thoughtfully. "No, I think I can guess who it is that serves the Wizard King-someone who unexpectedly and quite conveniently arrived at the keep only today." He cast a murderous look at the doors of the Grand Hall, then advanced on the gnome. "I want you to keep an eye on the Lady Jadis, Pock."
"Begging your pardon, baron, but I would rather keep a hand on her." The gnome winked slyly.
"Pock!" Caidin growled threateningly.
The gnome scampered backward in alarm. "An eye it is, Your Grace!" he chirped, then scurried quickly from the hall.
"So, Azalin, you have sent one of your foul Kargat to spy on me," Caidin said aloud. He hurled the crystal goblet at the wall. "But I am one step ahead of you." Broken glass crackled beneath the heel of his boot as he strode from the hall. He did not want to be. late in joining the Lady Jadis for dinner.
Five
All through the endless night, Wort lay inside the ancient stone sarcophagus, the withered arms of the mummified corpse cradling him like those of a lover. Outside the coffin, howls echoed around the ruined cathedral. Wort cringed at terrible crashes and inhuman screams of rage. Could it be that the creatures out there were fighting each other? He wondered what they would do if they discovered his hiding place. Would the gargoyles battle each other to see which got the honor of tearing his throat out? Or would they simply begin to feed upon his living flesh?
He slipped into a dark delirium. The ravenous snarls, the scratching of claws, the dry-paper touch of the corpse-all of it wove itself into one endless nightmare.
Silence.
Dim realization crept into Wort's numb brain. Tomblike silence had descended over the cathedral. His eyes fluttered open. Faint golden light spilled through the crack in the side of the sarcophagus, illuminating his grisly companion. At last his mind grasped the import of these things. Dawn. Somehow he had lived to see the morning.
With the dull grating of stone on stone, the ponder ous lid of the sarcophagus slid to one side, crashing to the floor. Wort climbed from the coffin, struggling to free himself from the clutches of the mummy. Its bony fingers held him tightly, as if unwilling to let him return to the realm of the living. With a violent jerk he twisted free of the thing's grasp. The skeleton's arms snapped like dry kindling as it sank back into the coffin.
Wort spun, gazed upward. He breathed a relieved sigh. The gargoyles had returned to their high ledges, lifeless statues once more. Shivering, he made his way to the wagon. The bell shone richly in the morning light, apparently undisturbed. At least that was something. He moved around to the front of the ca
rt and clamped a hand to his mouth to keep from gagging.
There was little left of the donkey. The leather straps of the harness had been cleanly snapped. Splinters of bone and tufts of fur swam in blood that pooled thickly on the stones. Wort saw one gory stump of bone ending in a hoof!
"Mow what am I to do?" he choked.
He could not stay in this accursed place, nor could he leave the bell behind. It was the key to everything. There was only one solution. Carefully, he picked up the broken harness and tried to shake the blood off of it. Winding the straps around his chest, he tied them tightly. He leaned into the harness. The cart did not budge. Grunting, he pulled harder. His face twisted into a horrible mask. The powerful muscles of his humped shoulders writhed beneath the coarse brown fabric of his tunic. Slowly the wagon began to inch forward.
As the cart gained momentum the pulling grew easier, but just barely. The leather straps bit painfully into Wort's flesh. With agonizing slowness, cart and bell moved through the open entrance of the cathedral and into the blinding daylight. Sweat streamed freely down Wort's brow, matting his shaggy hair. His hunched back burned. Trying his best to ignore the pain, he hauled the wagon down the overgrown track. Gradually the skeletal trees closed in behind him, blotting out the foreboding hulk of the ruined cathedral.
If his hours in the coffin had been a nightmare, then pulling the wagon to Nartok Keep was waking torture. Wort's progress down the forest track was agonizingly slow. Deep ruts continually caught the wheels of the wagon, jerking him to a halt. Roots tripped his aching feet, and thorny nettles tore his threadbare breeches to strips, tracing angry red weals across his shins. Fire ran up and down his twisted spine in searing waves. More than once he decided he could bear the agony no longer. Yet each time he was on the verge of giving up, a voice whispered in his ear. He could not understand the words the voice spoke, but they were oddly encouraging all the same, and they gave him the spark of willpower he needed to go on. Wort kept pulling.
