by Mark Anthony
He pulled something from the pocket of his tunic. It was the cinnamon-brown lock of the contessa's hair. He tied it about the rope of the cursed bell, then tugged fiercely. The vast tolling of the bell shook the stones around him. As Wort had witnessed once before, the dimness before him roiled like an angry sea. Three black-robed figures surfaced in the darkling air. They drifted smokelike above the floor. This time, however, Wort was not afraid.
"You have summoned us, bellringer." The three spirits spoke in echoing unison.
"There is your token." Wort pointed to the lock of hair. "Take it. Take it and fulfill your curse!"
The three spirits bowed solemnly. "It will be so." Like mist before a wind, the apparitions dissolved. The lock of hair faded with them. A voice whispered in Wort's mind. There are no such things as angels…
The Contessa Sabrinda stretched languorously on the satin sheets of her bed, clad only in a diaphanous nightgown.
"Farewell, my love," she murmured.
Baron Caidin leered licentiously at her as he finished buckling on his sword belt. He leaned over her, and she felt his moist breath in her ear. "Farewell," he whispered.
Sabrinda closed her eyes, listening to her lover's bootsteps retreating from the room. She drowsed for a time in contentment. Then she roused herself from her bed to make her preparations for the morrow. She opened her wardrobe and chose a gown of dove-gray silk with silver brocade, laying it carefully over the back of a velvet chair. She turned to sit at her gilded dressing table, rhythmically brushing her hair with her favorite ivory-handled hairbrush. She paused in midstroke.
"That's odd." Setting down her brush, she reached out to pick up a lock of hair on the dressing table- her own hair by its length and color-which had been braided into a ring. Her frown of puzzlement gave way to a wicked smile. "I suppose this is a token left by my lover," she mused. She slipped it onto a finger. Soon Caidin would be thusly wrapped around her finger as well. Then, one night she would whisper casually into his ear that he should grant a fiefdom to one of his knights-a Sir Beacham by name-and surely the baron would comply.
"Then I can stop pretending to love the loathsome man," she crooned to herself, "and you and I can be together forever, my beloved Beacham." Smiling at her own genius, she reached down to pick up the brush.
Sabrinda froze, staring at the mirror before her. In its reflection she saw the gray dress that she had laid out rise into the air, stretching its empty sleeves toward her. Gasping in horror, the contessa stood and whirled around. Fluttering, as if wafted by some unseen wind, the silk gown drifted toward her.
"Get away from me!" she shrieked, hurling the brush at the animated gown. The dress floated nearer. Its sleeves coiled smoothly around Sabrinda's neck. Screaming, she fought against the gown, feeling its delicate fabric ripping beneath her fingers. Stumbling backward, she fell against the dressing table. There was a sharp crash of breaking glass as she felt something hot slice across the back of her head. Rolling to the floor, she grunted like a trapped animal, clawing at the gown. In moments the dress was reduced to tatters of silk that twitched strangely upon the floor. Sabrinda reached up and touched her head. Her hand come away streaked with blood. She struggled dizzily to her feet, and whirled around. A new wave of fear washed through her.
"No "
She tried to cry out, but her throat constricted, choking her voice to a whisper. From the open wardrobe, gown after gown was drifting out. As if propelled by a cyclone, the gowns swirled around, the contessa, Inexorably closing in on her. This time she did scream, the sound ripping forcefully from her lungs, but it was muffled by a mouthful of cool silk. The dresses clung to her tightly, encircling her arms, her legs, her throat, pressing themselves against her face. She struggled frantically, rending material and tearing brocade with clawing hands, but to no avail- soon she became tangled in the writhing gowns. She tumbled to the floor. The dresses piled on top of her in a soft but excruciatingly heavy mound. Choking, she clawed at her face. She could not breathe. Her lungs burned.
Gradually, the contessa's struggling grew feeble. It was so dark, and so warm. Sabrinda's last thought was of her beloved Beacham, and how they were going to spend eternity together. Then everything went black as the gowns smothered her with their silken softness..
Wort looked up as a lock of cinnamon-colored hair fell from inside the cursed bell. Abruptly, swinging wildly of their own accord, the other bells began to ring out a deafening dirge. Wort scrambled across the moldering straw to snatch up the lock of hair. It was wet and sticky with blood.
"Yes," he whispered exultantly, letting the throbbing music of the bells swell his soul as he clutched the lock of hair. "I will be healed my way!"
Nine
It was after midnight. Alys opened her eyes with a start to see the quicksilver light of the moon pouring through the window of her attic bedroom. The cottage was silent. She sat up in bed, wondering what it was that had woken her. In her hands she cradled a small box filled with letters and poems Robart had written her. She must have cried herself to sleep, after she had argued with her father once again.
"We are a respectable family, Alys," he had thundered. "I will suffer no more talk of traitors in this house! Do you understand?"
"Robart was no traitor!" she had cried defiantly. Ignoring his shouts, she had climbed to the attic and had flung herself on her bed, sobbing and hugging the box of letters.
Now she carefully set down the wooden box. As if drawn by some irresistible force, she padded to the window. The cottage stood on the edge of the village, facing the fields her father owned and tilled. Beyond the fields was the rippling sea of shadows that was the moor. In the distance, looming atop a rise far out on the heath, she could just make out the jagged stump of the mysterious half-finished tower. Shivering, Alys moved from the window and traded the gray homespun dress she yet wore for a night gown. As she turned to climb back into her bed, her gaze once more roved outside the window.
"It cannot be!" she whispered.
She raised a hand to the open circle of her mouth. Then, without thinking, she threw open the window and climbed out. Quickly, as she had so often as a child, she scrambled down the ivy-covered trellis. Her nightgown flowing behind her like pale wings, she ran barefoot across the barren late-autumn fields.
There! Op ahead. She had not imagined it. Impossible hope flooding her chest, she ran after a tall, lanky figure who marched steadily toward the open moor. In the brilliant moonlight she had caught a familiar glimpse of red hair. She laughed for joy, not knowing how it could be possible, only that it was, must be.
"Robart!" she cried as she neared the figure of the man. "Oh, Robart, somehow it is you!"
Alys threw her arms wide as the young man turned to greet her. A frown creased her forehead. Did he not recognize her? He shambled forward listlessly.
"Robart, it's me!" she shouted. "Alys!" There was a strange, earthy scent on the air. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
As Robart neared her, moonlight stroked his face. Crumbs of moist dirt and bits of mold clung to his tattered clothes and bloated flesh. A dirt-caked wound, sewn together with crude stitches, ran all the way around his neck. One of his familiar green eyes stared at her blindly, but the other had fallen from its socket and dangled at the end of its nerve like a putrid grape. The stench of rot radiated from his body in choking waves. Shaking her head in mute terror, Alys tried to back away. Her legs wouldn't move. He reached his arms toward her.
"My love," he groaned in a slurred voice, as writhing worms dropped from his mouth. Alys felt his spongy flesh press against her own as his arms closed about her in the hideous mockery of an embrace.
A scream of utter madness rent the chill night air. Then the moor was silent, save for the haunting calls of owls.
"Alys!"
The cries rang out across the rolling heath, drifting with the gray mist that swirled along the ground.
"Alys, where are you!"
A stout peasant man stumbled across
the moof, calling hoarsely. His wife trudged after him, her broad face swollen from weeping.
"It is my fault, Marga," the man said despondently. "I drove her away."
"I won't listen to such foolishness, Hannis," she reproached him wearily. He seemed not to hear her.
Urgent shouts pierced the leaden fog. "They've found her!" Hannis exclaimed.
The two broke into a dead run. They burst through a bank of mist to find several villagers gathered around a pale heap slumped at the base of a skeletal tree. Only after a stunned moment did Hannis realize indeed it was his daughter. He knelt down.
"Alys?"
Gently, he reached out and lifted the young woman's chin. He heard Marga's stifled cry behind him. Alys stared with blank eyes, her skin as gray and clammy as the mist. Bits of moss and earth were tangled through her hair; her nightgown was filthy and tattered. After a moment Hannis realized she was muttering something under her breath, a weird, sing-song rhyme:
"Where is my love?
Far under the earth
Crowned by the worms
The mold gives birth.
"Who is my love?
The scion of Death
Whose kisses drown me
With sweet, cold breath."
"Why it's… it's a poem!" Marga choked. "Alys!" Hannis said fiercely. He shook the young woman's shoulders in desperation. "Alys, wake up. Please" The young woman only rocked back and forth, clutching her knees to her chest as she stared blindly with mindless eyes. And hummed. "Where is my love? Far under the earth…"
In the dank shadows of the inquisition chamber, Sirraun gave the iron wheel one more turn for good measure. The peasant man strapped into the machinery of pain let out a high-pitched scream. Sirraun nodded in satisfaction. He had created this particular instrument of torture himself. It was a complex device, with myriad wheels and levers, designed to bend the limbs of the client into agonizing contortions. It was one of the lord inquisitor's idiosyncracies that he never referred to the prisoners on whom he tested his machines as victims. The word seemed to imply some sort of malicious intent on his part, when in truth he bore them none. Pain was simply his craft, and one in which he took great pride. Sirraun preferred to call his subjects clients. They in turn never called him anything. They simply screamed.
"Excellent," Sirraun said, running his bony Fingers over the peasant's sweat-slickened brow. His "client" today was a young man with a broad chest and strong limbs. A perfect subject. The peasant moved his lips, but only a few feeble whimpers managed to issue from his mouth. "No, do not speak," Sirraun admonished gently. "Do not try to fight it. Just feel the pain."
The man stared in mute horror. Abruptly his eyes rolled into his head. Sirraun sighed. Now he would have to wait until the man regained consciousness to continue the fun. He made some minor adjustments to the apparatus, then strode out of the inquisition chamber. As he locked the iron door something caught his eye. Wedged in a crack in the stone archway of the door was a dark and glossy tuft of black fur. He pulled it out to examine it. Interest sparked in Sirraun's eyes.
"It looks as if someone has tried to visit my inquisition chamber unannounced," he murmured. "A perilous mistake."
Sirraun stroked the archway with a slender hand. For a moment the stones quivered, then were still. He had discovered the magical doorway by accident some years ago. Since then he had trained the ancient artifact to recognize his presence-his and no other's. Sirraun tucked the fur into the pocket of his close-fitting tunic, then headed swiftly down the corridor.
"Are you certain she didn't gain entrance to the inquisition chamber, Sirraun?" Caidin demanded a short while later. The baron paced the length of his richly appointed private chamber, regal in his perfectly tailored coat of blue and crimson.
Pock marched behind his master, his purple face screwed up in comic imitation of the baron's angry mien; The knave wore a coat to match the baron's, along with a ridiculously ruffled shirt. "Yes, Sirraun," Pock mimicked in his piping voice. "Are you certain?" The gnome stuck his purple tongue out at the lord inquisitor, popping it back into his mouth before the baron noticed.
Sirraun fixed the gnome with a sharp look. Mot for the first time did it occur to him that it would be very interesting to test some of his Inventions on a client the diminutive size of a gnome.
"I am quite certain, Your Grace," Sirraun answered. "Yet we must not underestimate the resources of the Kargat. It may be only a matter of time before Jadis finds a way past the obstacles that surround the inquisition chamber."
Caidin struck his palm with a fist. "Then create new obstacles, Sirraun."
"Yes, Sirraun-new obstacles," Pock proclaimed pompously. He struck his own palm, then shook his fingers frantically, hopping about in exaggerated pain.
"I want you to delay her investigation as long as possible," Caidin went on. "By the time the Lady Jadis learns my plans, I want it to be far too late for her to do anything to stop me."
An idea occurred to Sirraun. There was a fascinating experiment he had wanted to try for some time. Mow might be the perfect chance. "There is something I could arrange, Your Grace. However, it would require several… bodies, immediately. Can you spare some 'traitors,' Your Grace?"
Caidin considered this. He had used the Soulstone to drain the life essences of dozens more prisoners these last days. The magical stone had greedily drunk in the souls of its victims, and now it was nearly full. Soon it would contain all the life energy he required to defeat Azalin. After a moment, he nodded. "Very well,' Sirraun. Take what you need."
"Excellent, Your Grace."
"If you need bodies, Sirraun, why not use Contessa Sabrinda's?" Pock chirped helpfully. "I imagine it's still quite fresh."
Caidin's visage darkened. "Pock!"
Sirraun raised a speculative eyebrow. "Of what does the knave speak, Your Grace?"
Caidin gritted the words between clenched teeth. "The poor contessa was found dead in her chamber this morning."
"It seems she suffered a fatal loss of good fashion sense," Pock chortled wickedly, "when she tried to put on all her gowns at once." He puffed up his face foolishly, bugging out his big eyes as if he was smothering.
"That will do, Pock!" Caidin thundered.
"Thank you, Your Grace," the gnome replied with a sweeping bow, like an actor after a bravura performance.
"I am sorry for your loss, Your Grace," Sirraun said diplomatically.
Caidin shrugged noncommittally. "If you 'need her body for your plans, it's yours. It's of no use to me any more."
Sirraun nodded gravely, the gesture concealing a satisfied smile. For the experiment he intended to perform, the fresher the corpses the better. Something told the lord inquisitor this was going to be his greatest triumph yet.
"Thank you, Your Grace," he said with genuine sincerity.
In the courtyard of Nartok Keep, Caidin climbed into ji waiting carriage. He had decided to make a tour pf the village. It was never a good idea to wait too long between appearances below the tor. The peasants might lose their fear of him. He could not bear that.
"Mind if I come along, Your Grace?" a voice squeaked. Pock scrambled nimbly into the carriage. The gnome perched on the bench opposite the baron, his frilly attire making him look like a peculiar purple bird. "If you wish, you can abuse me in public to show everyone how ruthless you are."
"An excellent idea, Pock," Caidin mused with an evil smile. "You do have your uses."
The gnome grinned broadly. "I enjoy being used, Your Grace."
"I know, Pock. That's why I tolerate you."
The driver cracked his whip. The carriage rolled through the gates of the keep and careened wildly down the winding road. Rounding a sharp bend, it bore down on a group of peasants. They were clad in grimy rags, stooped under heavy bundles of firewood. With cries of alarm the.peasants flung themselves out of the path of the hurtling craft. The horses did not even slow as the carriage rattled by. Caidin glanced back through the carriage's window and saw
the peasants shouting and running after the vehicle.
"Animals," he spat in disgust.
Soon the conveyance rolled into the village, slowing so the baron could survey his domain.
"Everyone appears to be rather well fed, Pock." He stroked his oiled beard thoughtfully. "I must not be taxing them enough. Make a note to double their tithes at harvest time."
With a plumed pen, the gnome scribbled merrily on a piece of parchment. "Of course, Your Grace."
A sudden commotion erupted outside the carriage.
"Your Grace!" a haggard voice shouted. "Please, Your Grace!"
Caidin looked out the window and saw that one of the ragged peasants they had passed earlier now ran alongside the carriage. He was pointing frantically to the craft's wheels.
"What now?" Caidin muttered angrily. He pounded on the ceiling, signaling the driver to stop. Flinging open the door, he stepped out. A huddled mass of villagers scurried backward, cringing fearfully. Quaking, the peasant man stepped forward.
"Well, vermin, what is it?" Caidin snapped.
With a shaking hand, the peasant pointed at the wheels of the carriage. Caidin turned and saw that a gray mass of tattered rags was wound about one of the axles. Only after a moment did he realize it was a trampled human body.
"It… it is my son, Your Grace," the man choked.
Caidin clenched a fist. "Then I expect you to remove the sorry trash from my carriage!"
The man scrambled forward with several other peasants. A minute later he stumbled down the muddy street, weeping and bearing a limp gray bundle in his arms. Caidin watched with a bored expression, then turned to sweep through the village as peasants scurried out of his path. How like a flock of mindless sheep they all were. He sheared taxes from them like wool, and slaughtered them when he required their carcasses. If it were not for these benefits he would gladly raze the village to the ground, permanently removing the dismal eyesore that it was from the land.
