Tower of Doom r-9

by Mark Anthony

  An hour later Caidin's tour of the village was done. As he made his way back to the gilded carriage, he noticed numerous mute, terrified faces peering at him from dim windows and doorways. It appeared he had accomplished what he had come here for.

  "Pock, assist me!" he barked, pointing to a deep mud puddle before the carriage's steps.

  "Yes, Your Grace!" The gnome scurried forward and bent down to spread his crimson cloak gallantly over the puddle.

  Ignoring the proffered cloak, Caidin gave Pock a rough push. Arms flailing wildly, the gnome plunged face-first into the foul-smelling muck. Using Pock's back as a stepping stone, the baron climbed with great dignity into the carriage. The driver cracked his whip above the ears of the horses, and the carriage lurched into motion. Pock sprang onto the craft's running board, clutching the door's handle to keep from falling and being crushed under the spinning wheels. He managed to boost himself up and inside. They were nearly to the edge of the village when Caidin banged a the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to halt.

  "Pock, who is that?" Caidin whispered intently, leaning to peer out the window of the carriage. A woman clad in a plain black dress walked down the street carrying a leather satchel. Even from a distance, the rare violet hue of her eyes was visible.

  "Her name is Mika," Pock informed his master. "She arrived in the village some days ago. Folk say that she's a doctor."

  "Is that so?" Caidin mused, a hungry expression on his face. "She is quite beautiful, this doctor."

  Pock shrugged, apparently unimpressed. "I suppose so, if you like high cheekbones, full lips, and perfect skin."

  Caidin shot him a black look.

  "Er, which I'm assuming you do," the gnome added hastily.

  As the two watched, the golden-haired woman disappeared through the doorway of the Black Boar. Caidin knocked again on the ceiling, and the carriage rocked once more into motion.

  "Perhaps I should invite the good doctor up to the keep for dinner tonight, Pock." Caidin's eyes glittered speculatively. "I really should give her a formal… welcome to my barony. After all, I wouldn't want her to think I have been neglecting my duties as a good neighbor."

  The gnome let out a round of bubbling laughter. " 'Good neighbor?' That's a rich one, Your Grace!"

  Caidin glowered dangerously. "I wasn't joking, you maggot." Pock hastily shed his grin. "Er, I knew that."

  Clad in an elaborate gown of lavender silk, Mika. stepped into the Grand Hall of Nartok Keep. Everywhere she looked there was light, refracted by the myriad crystals of a dozen chandeliers. It shimmered off silver plates and spun glass goblets and gilded wood. The people who filled the room were, even more brilliant than the furnishings. Silk and velvet of a hundred different shades glowed richly. Jewels glittered against bare throats, ears, and fingers. Ornamental swords and daggers gleamed as if they had been polished with diamonds.

  "It's beautiful," she whispered softly.

  "Do you truly think so?" a man's voice asked behind her.

  She whirled in surprise, silk rustling, to find an unusually handsome man standing behind her. He was regally clad in a blue coat with silver buttons, gray breeches, and boots as black as his hair and neatly trimmed beard. Realizing this must be Baron Caidin, Mika hastily attempted a curtsey.

  "Good evening, Your Grace," she murmured.

  "My lady." His voice was rich and deep. "I am so glad you could come." He took Mika's hand, kissing A gentfy. The warmth of his lips against her skin sent a shiver up her spine. She snatched her hand back. It felt as if all eyes were on her.

  "Pay no attention to them, my lady." The baron, gestured subtly toward the nobles of his court who milled around the vast hall, casting surreptitious looks in Mika's direction. "I'm afraid that all of them find you utterly mysterious and fascinating."

  "Oh?" There was a faint quaver in her voice. "I find that hard to imagine, Your Grace."

  "It is your skill as a doctor, my lady. You see, they aren't accustomed to ladies-т-ог gentlemen, for that matter-who make their way through the world by doing something useful. Being nobles, they aren't required to be of much use."

  Mika found herself laughing. Perhaps this wouldn't be as difficult as she feared. Still, she could not imagine why the baron had thought to invite her to his keep. Perhaps it was simply that nobles took sick like everyone else, and thus he wished to make her acquaintance.

  "If they think me interesting, then I'm certain they'll be sorely disappointed, Your Grace," she said ironically. "I'm afraid I'm one of the very dullest of people." Suddenly she remembered her manners. "I must thank you for the gown, Your Grace. It is… er… quite lovely."

  In vain, she attempted to smooth down the silk gown, but the wide hoops beneath the skirt only sprang back, puffing the dress out to absurd dimensions. Mika had the distinct notion thatsfie looked like an overstuffed chair. But the gown had come to the inn along with the baron's surprising invitation. It would have been an insult not to wear it for the occasion.

  His eyes glittered. "It suits you well, my lady."

  Her cheeks flushed, and for this she scolded herself silently. It was an idle compliment, Mika, and nothing morel "Thank you, Your Grace," she said aloud. "You know, you have a beautiful voice. It makes me think of horns."

  His smile revealed uncommonly white teeth. "How nice of you to say so."

  The courtiers were edging toward the long table that dominated the center of the hall. It was time for the feast to begin. The baron guided Mika to a place halfway down the table. Nodding his leave, he moved to take a seat at the head.

  Mika felt distinctly out of place among the ranks of viscounts, duchesses, and other nobles. Before her was a dizzying array of gold forks, silver bowls of scented water, and curious utensils whose purpose she couldn't begin to fathom. Unsure what behavior court etiquette dictated, she surreptitiously observed the nobles around her, attempting to mimic their actions. More than a few disapproving frowns and mocking glances indicated she was less than successful.

  A silver pitcher poured wine into the crystal goblet before her. She turned to thank the servant, then gaped in astonishment. No one was holding the pitcher. It hovered in midair above her glass, red wine streaming from its spout. The liquid filled the glass to the brim, then overflowed onto the table.

  A nearby nobleman in a rancid-smelling wig glared at her. "You're supposed to tell it when," he said curtly as if she were a simpleton.

  "When!" Mika said hastily.

  Immediately‹fhe silver pitcher stopped pouring and floated to the next empty glass. None of the courtiers paid any attention. Apparently flying pitchers are commonplace here, Mika thought wryly. She allowed herself a nervous laugh as she sopped up spilled wine with her napkin.^.

  "Would you be so kind as to pass the saltcellar?" a plump woman to her left asked.

  Mika reached for an ivory saltcellar carved in the shape of a spider. It scurried nimbly beyond her grasp. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out in alarm. Given the flying pitcher, no doubt a walking saltcellar was to be expected. The ivory spider scuttled behind a bowl of plums. Forming a strategy, Mika picked up a fork in her left hand and carefully prodded behind the bowl. The ivory spider dashed from its hiding place, and she'deftly snatched it up in her right hand. She passed the wriggling saltcellar to the waiting woman.

  "Thank you, my dear."

  "You're welcome," Mika said with a forced smile.

  At the foot of the table, two servants set down a ponderous serving dish. They lifted the silver lid, and the woman to Mika's left clapped her plump hands.

  "Roast partridges!" she exclaimed. "My favorite!" She picked up knife and fork expectantly.

  Mika was wondering how the roasted birds were to be served when her question was answered for her. One of the steaming partridges leapt off the silver platter and began hobbling down the table on crisp legs covered with curly roasting papers. Its roasted compatriots followed behind. In moments a line of headless cooked partridges were mar
ching jerkily down either side of the table and plopping themselves onto empty plates. One of the roasted birds scuttled onto Mika's dish. It twitched several times, then lay still. She stared at it, wondering if it would be polite to stab it a few times to make certain it was ready to eat. The nobles around her fell on the feast, meanwhile, tearing into the birds and gobbling meat, wiping greasy fingers on silk and velvet. Mika picked unenthusiastically at the partridge and the rest of the food placed before her. She found everything to be lavishly prepared, exquisite to behold, and utterly tasteless.

  After a time her thoughts drifted to her encounter with Wort the day before. The man in the bell tower was a riddle to her. It had been brave of him, even noble, to protect her from the mob of villagers. Yet when she had hinted that she might be able to heal his back, he had grown so terribly defensive. Mika sighed. She was suddenly struck by the contrast between the opulence of the Grand Hall and the bleakness of Wort's tower home. It made her feel strangely guilty. Despite his rage yesterday-maybe even because of it-she wanted more than ever to help him. Nartok's mysterious bellringer seemed so lonely, and loneliness was something she understood. But did she dare visit his tower again? Mika almost wished she were there now. Wort's face might be homely, but the garishly rouged and powdered visages laughing all around her suddenly seemed far uglier.

  Finally the magical feast was over. As the courtiers drifted from the hall, Baron Caidin bade Mika farewell.

  "You see, Your Grace?" she said with a wavering smile. "I warned you that I was terribly dull."

  "Indeed, my lady." He raised a single dark eyebrow. "And when will I have the pleasure of your tedious company again?"

  Mika felt a pang of worry in her heart. The light in his eyes suddenly seemed so… feral.

  "I'm not certain…"

  "But I am, my lady. Return to the keep tomorrow." He reached out and took her hand. "Say yes…" He pressed his lips against her upturned palm.

  A shiver ran up her arm. That was exactly the way Geordin used to kiss her hand. With a choking sound, she pulled away.

  "Please, don't!" she gasped.

  Caidin looked up in surprise. His face seemed now more daemonic than handsome. He reached for her.

  "No, don't come any closer." In panic she backed away, gripping the golden locket about her throat. "Don't you see? It's too soon. My husband is…"

  Caidin's emerald eyes bore into hers. "Your husband is what, my lady?"

  Mika gaped at him. Her lips could not form the words. Pulling the lavender gown up above her ankles, she turned and fled the hall.

  Caidin paced before the blazing fireplace in his private chamber, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand, his coat unbuttoned.

  "I don't understand it, Pock," he said furiously. "Before she ran off, she looked at me as if I were some sort of monster. How could she possibly resist me? No one is as handsome as I."

  "You'll never seduce the good doctor, Your Grace," the gnome snorted, lounging on his back before the roaring blaze. "She's still faithful to her dead husband, you know. You'd sooner melt a glacier with your kisses."

  The baron grinned devilishly. "Oh, my kiss can melt things far greater than glaciers, Pock."

  "Really, Your Grace?" the gnome piped. "You know, my toes are rather cold at the moment…"

  The baron ignored him. "I will light a fire in her such as she has never known. I will win her love, Pock. Or if nothing else… her lust." Tilting his head back, he drained the glass of wine, then ran a tongue across his crimson-stained lips. "I am not about to let a dead man best me."

  Ten

  Jadis threw open the window's shutters. Cold air and honey-thick sunlight poured into her chamber, but like a dark rip in the fabric of the sky, an ominous blackness hung high above. Rapidly it grew, blotting out the light, until it alighted on the stone ledge, filling the arch of the window with its sooty presence. It was a raven. A jeweled medallion hung about its throat, indicating the great bird was a lord among its kind.

  Jadis curtsied deeply before the onyx-feathered raven. "Welcome, messenger of Azalin."

  The raven nodded its sleek head, eyes sparkling like bits of smoked glass. "Greetings, Velvet-Claw," it croaked.

  "I did not expect you to return until tomorrow, Goreon," Jadis said. "As ever, your feathers are as dark and swift as the midnight gale."

  In truth, she had known the bird would return that day. However, Azalin's ravens were proud and ancient creatures-some had served him for centuries. It did no harm to flatter them. Two days before, Goreon had arrived to take word of Jadis's progress back to the Wizard King. In her report, she had made an unusual request. Now she would learn if it had been granted.

  "I bring a message from our undying master, Velvet-Claw," Goreon said in his grating voice. "And a token."

  Jadis saw that the raven gripped something in one claw. She held out a hand, and the bird let the token fall into her palm. It was a tiny golden case, sealed with a circle of wax into which had been pressed the image of Azalin's personal intaglio-the Fiery Eye.

  "That is the token," said the raven. "And the message is this: 'Open the box, and fear not the bite of stone, my Jadis.' "

  A smile coiled sinuously about Jadis's lips. She clasped the golden box tightly. "Thank you, Goreon."

  The bird cocked its head, staring at her with one unblinking eye. "Azalin favors you, Kargat. You know this?"

  "Yes." Jadis's smile deepened. "I do."

  A coarse sound emanated from the bird's throat. It might almost have been laughter. "You are bold, Vel- vet-Claw. I like that. Thus I will give you a warning. Remember, as in all our master touches, there is Death in his love."

  A frown creased the dusky skin of Jadis's brow. "You're wrong, Goreon," she said coolly. "I have known his touch. As you can see, I am very much alive."

  The raven ruffled its shadowy feathers. "Do not presume to know what I see." It stretched its onyx wings. "May Darkness preserve you, Velvet-Claw."

  Jadis nodded in reply. Like the shadow of a cloud passing across the sun, the raven was gone. Light and air streamed once more through the window. Jadis ran the back of her hand thoughtfully under her chin. It was time to pay the inquisition chamber another visit.

  Soon a werepanther padded through the eternal night of the dungeon, muscles rippling smoothly beneath a glossy black pelt. Often, as a child, Jadis had cursed her parents, though she remembered them only dimly. All she knew was that they had abandoned her, leaving her to scrape a wretched existence in the dangerous back alleys of II Aluk with a gang of street urchins. It had been a grim existence-living in the filth of abandoned basements, searching for bits of rotting food in heaps of refuse, daring to pick pockets for the local thieves' guild even though getting caught would have meant losing a hand. Even the stray dogs had it better. At least their mangy coats kept them warm in the frigid depths of winter.

  In all likelihood her parents had not truly abandoned her, but simply died of the Crimson Death, leaving her an orphan. All the lonely, bitter child knew was that her parents had left her alone in life, and for that she had despised them. Yet there were some wounds time did heal. Nowadays Jadis regarded her unknown parents with more gratitude. At least one of them had possessed the lycanthropic blood type that she had inherited-the blood lineage that made her a natural werecat and allowed her to reshape her body whenever she desired into her cherished panther form.

  Jadis stalked silently down a murky passageway until she reached the iron door of the inquisition chamber. Her flesh began remolding itself into a new shape. Her dark pelt rippled fluidly as muscles weaved and twisted beneath her skin. Limbs lengthened, her tail shrank to a stump, and her face melted into that of a woman's, though it retained pointed ears and daggerlike teeth. In moments the transformation was complete. Still covered with glossy fur, Jadis stood upright on bent hind legs. Her powerfully muscled arms ended in human hands with retractable talons. This was her manther form-half- panther, half-woman. Aesthetically it was not her favor
ite, but sometimes it was useful to have fingers instead of paws, yet still possess the fangs of the cat.

  Jadis lifted the small golden box that hung now from a fine chain about her neck. Inside the box was a counterspell Azalin had prepared for her to break the warding enchantment of the door. A sound stopped her as she approached the portal. At first it was faint-a wet, smacking noise, like that made by the village women when they beat their dull gray clothes on the dull gray rocks beside.the dull gray river on wash day. But the noise grew louder, and the reek of rotten meat filled the air. Jadis's eyes narrowed in alarm as the source of the noise came into view. It seemed Sirraun had arranged a new obstacle for her to conquer.

  Three forms shambled out of the corridor's gloom. The creatures that moved spasmodically toward Jadis were grotesque mockeries of the human form, like beings seen through the warped glass of a nightmare. Each had been formed of pieces hacked from many different corpses. The crude stitches that held the mismatched body parts together were plainly visible. These were flesh golems-creatures forged of dead bodies and animated by dark alchemy.

  Jadis crouched, extending her claws, as the flesh golems drew near. One was shaped like a normal man except that his face bore no mouth. His body, however, was covered with mouths. They were everywhere, gaping open on his neck, his torso, his legs-even snapping hungrily at the ends of his arms. The mouths gnashed, moaned, and drooled green spittle.

  Another golem lurched clumsily forward. Its body was forged of two human torsos fused together. The abomination walked on four legs, and instead of arms, three more legs were crudely sewn to each of its shoulders. The golem's multiple legs kicked violently in all directions.

  Behind these two came the most hideous of the three-a madly staring human head supported by eight writhing arms attached to the stump of its neck. It scuttled along the floor like a huge spider, an impossibly long tongue hanging from its mouth. Jadis was neither coward nor weakling, but the sight and stench of the flesh golems sent waves of revulsion shooting through her.