Tower of Doom r-9

by Mark Anthony

  Mika struggled down the lane, valiantly trying to hold the hem of her dress out of the muck, all the while curling her toes in her shoes to keep the leather from being sucked off her feet as she made slow progress.

  "Apparently they don't have stones enough in the provinces to cobble these streets," she murmured wryly to herself. "Though with all the rocks the coach ran over on the journey here, I would have thought they could have found a few."

  She was on her way to visit a village woman who was due to give birth shortly, to make certain all was well. Since her arrival in the village of Nartok several days before, Mika had found herself almost constantly occupied with the stream of villagers that poured through the door of the Black Boar complaining of all manner of maladies. It was exactly what she had hoped for. At last she had come upon people who were grateful for her skills, not dismissive of them because she was a woman.

  Mika rounded a corner. She stopped short to avoid running headlong into a villager, a man wearing a grubby brown farmer's tunic.

  "Excuse me," she said breathlessly.

  The man only regarded her with a flat stare. He did not move out of the way. Mika thought this curious, but she supposed she could just as easily go around him. She turned to do so.

  This time a red-faced woman blocked her way. Mika's heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. Hastily she turned to her left, only to find a toothless man with rheumy eyes standing before her. Spinning around, she saw lhat a dozen villagers ringed her in all directions.

  She swallowed hard. "Do you… do you need healing?" She held her chin high, trying to keep the trembling from her voice. "If so, please come to the Black Boar this afternoon. I'll be happy to attend to you there."

  Steeling her will, she tried to set off down the street. She quickly came up against a wall of villagers who wouldn't budge.

  "No, thank you, milady," a rough voice said behind her. "No one of us wants healing… leastwise, not from a witch."

  Gasping, Mika turned around. A burly man with close-set eyes had pushed his way to the front of the small throng. He grinned, but not in any expression of humor.

  "Please, let me be on my way," Mika said hoarsely.

  The burly peasant shook his head regretfully. "But how can we let you go, milady, knowing that you'll just place more folk under your spells?"

  "Spells?" she echoed in confusion.

  "That's right, milady."

  "Tell her about the ones we know she's enchanted, Rillam," the red-faced woman said accusingly. "Tell her about Clampsy Atwell and Darci Grayheather."

  "Oh, I'm sure she knows about them well enough," the man called Rillam replied, looming over Mika. "I'm sure she knows that the night after she gave old Clampsy a potion to fix his palsy, his wife found him outside on all fours, baying at the moon like a hound. And I'm certain she knows that since she cured Darci's fever, three times shepherds have caught Darci stealing into their flocks, cutting sheep with a knife and sucking out blood. 'Tis abominable, it is."

  "Indeed?" Mika said sharply, suddenly angry. "And do you know what I find abominable? That a grown man has nothing better to do then frighten folk by telling children's stories." She turned to the others. "This is nonsense. You've seen what I do at the inn. I heal people. That is my business and that's all I do."

  Rillam nodded grimly. "Aye, you do. But the price for healing folk is their souls, isn't it, witch?"

  "No!" Mika said emphatically.

  "Don't lie to us, witch!" Rillam snarled. "We know you're in league with the Powers of Darkness. Look at your eyes. They give it-away!"

  Mika's outrage began to turn to fear. "My… my eyes?"

  "Aye," Rillam accused. "I've never seen anyone with purple eyes before. No one has. But a witch always has a mark that makes her different from other people. It's the curse of magic."

  The knot of villagers tightened about her. Mika saw that some held lengths of rope, and others smoking torches. Murder glinted in their eyes.

  "Please," she said weakly. "Please, you must believe me…"

  Rillam's dark gaze bore into her. The mirthless smile he wore broadened.

  "Burn her," was all he said.

  Mika screamed as the crowd closed in on her.

  "Burn the witch," they chanted gleefully. "Burn her. Burn the witch.I"

  Suddenly the sun was blotted out as a hulking shadow leapt down from above to land in the midst of the crowd. The villagers cried out, scattering in fear.

  "A daemon!" someone shouted. "The witch has summoned a daemon to protect her!"

  "No," the figure swathed in black snarled, standing before the paralyzed doctor. "She did not summon me here." The daemon pointed an accusing finger at the crowd. "You did!"

  The villagers screamed in terror.

  Rage burned hotly in Wort's mind. How dare these wretches threaten an angel? Theу were the ones in league with Darkness, not she. The villagers backed away, all except a burly farmer who stood his ground.

  "Begone from our village, daemon." The peasant's voice was bold, but Wort could see trepidation glittering in his eyes. "Find yourself another witch. We are going to burn this one."

  "You are wrong," Wort hissed. "It is you who shall burn. All of you." He pulled the magical silver candle from his pocket and focused his fury upon it. This time it was no dancing flame that appeared on its tip, but a shaft of blazing fire. Blistering heat radiated from the column of flame. "Come to me!" he shouted, holding out his weirdly elongated arms in a mocking gesture of love. "I am yours, folk of Nartok. You created me. And all of you are mme.'We shall burn in the Abyss together!"

  With a chorus of shrieks, the villagers fled in all directions. The burly farmer hesitated just a moment. Wort lunged at him, waving the magical torch. The peasant let out a yelp and turned to dash after the others, soon outpacing them. Wort watched in satisfaction. It was just as the voice had hinted it would be. He had never known such strength before, such mastery of others. Fear was indeed power.

  He put the blazing candle out and placed it back in his pocket. "I owe you my thanks," a voice spoke behind him.

  Wort whirled around to find himself gazing into the face of the angelic woman. She was still pale from fright, but stood before him straight and calm.

  "Why are you here?" he whispered in shock. "Why did you not flee with the others?"

  The suggestion of a frown touched her smooth brow. "I owe you my life. They're the ones I would have fled. Not you."

  "You would be wise to flee me," he snapped. Strangely, he found he was the one shaking with fear. He reached up and pushed back the hood of his cloak. "I am a monster."

  He saw many feelings flicker through her violet eyes-surprise, interest, even pity-but fear was not among them. "Who told you that?" Her voice seemed almost angry.

  "The villagers told me," he growled ferociously. "And they are right!"

  "No," she said firmly. There was steel in her voice. "No, they are not. You are no monster."

  The confidence his power over the villagers had given him now drained from Wort. He took a step backward.

  "Do you not fear me?" he demanded.

  She shook her head calmly. "I do not."

  Alarm flooded Wort's chest. What was wrong with this woman? Could she not see what he was?

  "Well you should!" he cried fiercely.

  Before she could reply, he turned and bolted into the dark mouth of an alley. He heard her voice calling behind him, but he shut the words out of his mind. It was not for him to listen to the voice of an angel. He lumbered down the alley, leaving the village far behind.

  Baron Caidin paced up and down the length of the Grand Hall, fury darkening his handsome face. Pock scurried behind his master, short legs pumping frantically to match speed with the baron's swift stride.

  "What do you mean you found nothing that indicates the Lady Jadis murdered Castellan Domeck, Pock?" Caidin rumbled.

  "Forgive me, Your Grace," the gnome sniveled. "I meant to say that I didn't find an
ything that did indicate the lady murdered the castellan."

  Caidin came to a halt, whirling around to glare at his gnomish knave. "That's the same thing, you dolt."

  Flailing his arms wildly to keep from careening into the baron's shins, Pock skidded to a stop. "Oh," he gulped. "Then I suppose I was right the first time."

  "As usual, Pock," Caidin said acidly, "your stupidity utterly astounds me."

  Pock doffed his feathered cap and bowed deeply. "Indeed. Sometimes I astound myself, Your Grace."

  "I can only imagine," the baron replied dryly. He resumed his pacing as Pock trotted eagerly after him. Sunset's crimson light streamed through tall windows, spilling across a mural that dominated the far wall-an intricate painting depicting fat cherubs drifting on fleecy clouds. The scene might have been serene and idyllic, but the scarlet sunset lent a lurid cast to the painting. The cherubs seemed to leer. Their lush smiles were too knowing and sensual for their childlike faces, and the clouds they languished upon were tinged with crimson, as if stained by blood.

  "What can she have forgotten to hide, Pock?" Caidin mused. "There must be something the Lady Jadis failed to consider, something that will show she murdered the castellan. If I had proof of her guilt I could simply execute her, and Azalin would not dare raise a hand against me."

  Pock's purple face wrinkled in puzzlement. "There's one thing I don't understand, Your Grace."

  "Really, Pock? Are you certain there's only one thing you don't understand?"

  The gnome went on blithely. "How do you know it was the Lady Jadis who killed Castellan Domeck?"

  Caidin threw his arms up in the air. Sometimes he didn't know why he wasted his breath. "She's Kargat, Pock. Of course she killed Domeck."

  Pock shrugged. "If you say so. I just wonder why a Kargat spy would go to all the trouble of setting up a dozen sabers to do the trick." He pranced about foolishly, making catlike slashing motions.

  Abruptly Caidin halted, frowning. "I hate to say this-believe me, I do-but you might be right, Pock."

  The gnome beamed smugly.

  "It doesn't make sense," Caidin went on. "If Jadis is a werecat, why wouldn't she simply-"

  The ornate, gilded doors of the Grand Hall flew open, and the gaunt figure of the Lord Inquisitor drifted in, followed by two guards hauling a young man between them.

  "Forgive the interruption, Your Grace," Sirraun said as he approached.

  "I will if it's worth forgiving," Caidin replied darkly.

  The lord inquisitor bowed solemnly, then gestured to the young man held by the guards. "This man is the squire of Sir Logris-one of your knights, Your Grace."

  "And?" Caidin inquired in a bored tone.

  "Show the baron what you found, squire," Sirraun commanded. The guards shoved the young man forward. He fell to his knees, terror and awe written plainly across his simple-minded face.

  "Well, what is it, you dunce?" an annoyed Caidin demanded.

  "I-l'm sorry, Your Grace," the squire stuttered. He fumbled with something in his pocket. "I–I found this when I was emptying my master's saddlebags this morning. It s-seemed a trifle strange to me, so I showed it to my captain, wh-who then brought me to Lord S-Sirraun…"

  The squire held the object out toward the baron. Caidin drew in a sharp breath. It was a bloodstained glove. He took the glove from the shaking squire and gazed thoughtfully at the intricate letter D, embroidered in gold thread.

  "Take him away," Caidin said with a disdainful wave of his hand. The two guards grabbed the wide- eyed squire and dragged him from the hall.

  "So," Caidin said after a long moment. "It seems there is treachery in my keep after all."

  Pock clapped his hands together. "Oh, joy!" he cried, capering about ecstatically. "There's going to be an execution, isn't there, Your Grace? I simply adore executions!"

  A sharp smile sliced across Sirraun's cadaverous face. "If you like them so much, my good gnome, perhaps I can arrange a personal execution for you."

  "Really?" Pock gasped.

  "Enough," Caidin warned. "Sirraun, I want you to bring Sir Logris to me."

  The lord inquisitor gave him a speculative look. "Shall I first render him a little more… cooperative, Your Grace?"

  "If you must, Sirraun," Caidin replied wearily. "But I want him alive when he gets here. And sane."

  "Of course, Your Grace." Sirraun bowed obsequiously and drifted from the hall.

  When the lord inquisitor was gone, Caidin clenched his hands into fists. "Here I have been waging a false inquisition simply to gain bodies, and all the time it seems that there truly are some who would dare plot against me. I swear, Pock, by all the blackest oaths, I despise traitors."

  The gnome thought about this for a moment. Finally he patted the baron's hand reassuringly. "That's all right, Your Grace. I imagine they must despise you as well."

  Nimbly, the gnome scrambled away before Caidin could wring his purple neck.

  Wort peered through the iron grating high in the belfry. In the courtyard below, a cold, drizzling rain fell on a crowd gathered in front of the scaffold. Kneeling before the bloodstained block was a man with long golden hair.

  "You must believe me!" the knight cried out. A slash of crimson paint marked his blue uniform-the sign of a condemned murderer. "I am innocent!" The half-moon blade rose slowly into the air above him.

  A chorus of jeers and hisses came from the throng. All knew the charge. The bloody glove of the murdered castellan had been found in the knight's saddlebag. It was more than enough to prove his guilt. "Murderer!" they shouted as they hurled handfuls of mud at the knight. "Beast!" Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the rain and dirt.

  In the bell tower above, Wort whispered in satisfaction, "Now you know what it is like to be reviled, my good, handsome knight. Just like me." He turned and hurried to the ropes dangling from the rafters above.

  A moment later he heard the sound of a blade cleaving bone and gristle before biting deep into wood. Wort pulled on the ropes. The bells rang out in their glorious voices, tolling a dirge for the newly dead man. Except for the one bell-which remained silent.

  "Don't you worry, my friends," Wort whispered to the pigeons that fluttered all about. "I will ring it again soon enough."

  Dark mirth bubbled out of him as the bells tolled their dire music.

  РART II

  The Angel in the Darhness

  Eight

  Rain.

  It lashed against the pockmarked walls of Nartok Keep, beating down in its gradual, ceaseless, and inexorable drive to wear away the ancient stones. Again and again, livid green forks of lightning pierced the jet-black night sky. Thunder rumbled mournfully in the wake of the violent flashes, shaking the very bones of the fortress. It was as if the elements sought to tear down this vast construction men had raised in their arrogance. High on a wall, Wort edged his way along a narrow ledge fifty feet above the dark abyss of the courtyard. He pressed his body close to the wall, his fingers scrabbling against rain-slick stone in a vain effort to find handholds. His cloak clung to his skin, drenched and heavy with rain. Howling gusts of wind buffeted him as he inched along the precarious ledge. More than once the crumbling stone gave way beneath him, nearly sending him plummeting before he caught himself.

  "Almost there, my friends," he whispered through clenched teeth. "Almost there."

  At last Wort reached the glowing square of a window. An overhanging stone arch afforded some protection from the wrath of the storm. He huddled on the sill and peered through the window's diamond- shaped panes of beveled glass. Inside was a chamber bathed in warm candlelight, decorated in rose-pink silk and peacock-blue velvet. A lady's room. She sat at a gilded dressing table, gazing into a glass mirror. Even from behind, Wort could see that she was very beautiful. The lady wore only a gauzy night robe that left bare the creamy skin of her shoulders. With smooth strokes she drew an ivory- handled brush through thick, cinnamon-colored hair. After a moment the woman set down the brush and stood
. As she did, he caught a glimpse of her fine- featured face in the mirror.

  Wort rubbed his gnarled hands together gleefully. He had come to the right window. He knew the lady.' Often of late, when gazing down from his belfry, he had seen her draped over the arm of Baron Caidin as the two strolled through the courtyard below. Her name was Sabrinda. The Contessa Sabrinda. All in the keep knew her to be Caidin's favorite lover, at least for the time being.

  As it had with growing frequency, a dry voice whispered in his mind. Excellent, Wort. This is just the one you need… one who is close to your loathsome brother. A brief shudder of pleasure coursed through his body, then receded.

  The contessa approached a mahogany wardrobe. She opened the wardrobe's doors and ran her hands sensually over the silken gowns within. She selected,one of crimson and draped it over the back of a chair to be ready for the morning. Stretching her arms languorously, she gave a delicate yawn.

  "That's it, my sweet," Wort hummed like a lullaby. "Go to sleep now. It is late."

  The contessa climbed into a bed draped with sheer curtains, then snuffed out the candles on the night- stand. Darkness stole into the room on padded feet. Wort crouched on the cold windowsill as the storm raged on, waiting for the contessa to fall asleep. It was midnight when he pushed gently against the window. It swung silently open. Wort crept inside accompanied by a gust of rain. Quickly he shut the window, then paused. After a moment he heard it- the soft sound of deep, even breathing. Navigating by chaotic flashes of lightning, he lumbered across the chamber toward the contessa's dressing table.

  What to take? he wondered. He supposed it did not matter, as long as it belonged to her. Picking up the ivory brush, he pulled off several long strands of red-brown hair. He wound them into a small lock and tucked it carefully in a pocket. He turned to hobble back toward the open window.