Tales of Dark Fantasy

by Robert E. Keller

  ***

  Geleon spent another sleepless night locked in his room. He heard more groans and thumping noises, and a terrible screech like that of a bird of prey. "Unlock this door, you stubborn old fool!" Geleon howled, but no one responded. Once again, he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked at his hair, his body shaking.

  At last, morning came along with Helen. Geleon found the door was now unlocked. He ordered Helen to wait in his room, and then he ran downstairs. A corpse lay in pieces in front of Drezian's door, but the skin was bluish and the body parts looked different than those of Geleon's latest creation--more like parts from a typical corpse warrior.

  "Is Drezian okay?" Helen asked, running down the stairs.

  Geleon peeked into the room. Drezian was sitting on his bed, and standing near him was Geleon's warrior, its bone-crusted arms folded across its chest. "Yes, come on in," Drezian said, motioning impatiently.

  They entered the room. "What corpse warrior lies torn apart in the entrance?" Geleon asked, struggling to make sense of the scene.

  "One of my own making," said Drezian. "The same one that defeated your warrior the night before. It was my best fighter."

  "Then there was no assassin," Geleon said, his hands clenching in anger. "The threat was not real. But why did you lie to me, Master?"

  Drezian frowned. "The assassins will still come--eventually. Vasyl's death order is real. I was simply testing your creations, using my best fighter from a stable of corpse warriors I keep in hiding. I wanted you to be under extreme pressure because I felt it would bring out the best in you."

  "And my creation defeated your greatest warrior," Geleon said, unable to keep from feeling a surge of pride in spite of his anger.

  "It didn't just defeat my best fighter," said Drezian, "it obliterated it! You've created the most powerful corpse warrior that I have ever seen--perhaps that has ever existed. I knew your talent far exceeded my own, Geleon. I knew it the first day I tested you and made you my apprentice. You just had to reach deeper than you thought you could to unlock it. It must have taken extraordinary courage to give in to your sorcery like that. I'm proud of you."

  "I suppose you expect me to make more of these," Geleon said.

  "It is not necessary," said Drezian. "There is a great risk involved in creating such monsters, and I only need one."

  "Why only one defender?" Geleon asked.

  "I don't need a defender at all," said Drezian, smiling. "I need an assassin."

  "An assassin?" Geleon said. "But who are you planning... Oh, I see."

  Drezian sneered. "Lord Vasyl is getting kind of old. Why, I'm starting to think he might be turning a little feeble, too. Perhaps it's time I did him a favor and gave him the honorable death he was planning for me. What do you say to that, Geleon?"

  Geleon smiled. "I say Lord Vasyl deserves such a gift, if anyone does."

  "If Lord Vasyl dies," said Helen, "will things be normal around here again? Or will I have to worry until I'm an old woman?"

  "Things will return to normal," said Drezian.

  "Not entirely," Geleon said, sitting down next to him. "I have been under a lot of pressure over the years, Master. I'm getting old before my time. I'm thinking I would like to quit being a necromancer and instead practice more traditional sorcery."

  Drezian nodded, his face not betraying whatever he was feeling. "You have done all I could ask of you. I think it's a shame, however, since your talent is so vast."

  Geleon sighed and leaned back. "I don't care about that anymore. This latest turmoil has finally pushed me over the edge. I'm tired of dealing with deadlines and dead bodies. I want some peace of mind. I have made enough money at this business to be comfortable for life. Now I just want to relax and broaden my knowledge a bit."

  "I saw this coming," said Drezian. "I dreaded it, but it is no surprise. I'll just have to find a new apprentice." He fixed his gaze on Helen. "Perhaps I have already found one."

  Helen's face brightened. "Do you mean...?"

  "No," Geleon said, standing up. "Helen is my apprentice now, Drezian. I won't have her living as I have lived. She doesn't need such burdens."

  Drezian's eyes narrowed. "Then you are serious about this?"

  "Yes," Geleon said. "I'm tired of this business and I want out."

  "Take a few days off and think it over," said Drezian. "You may change your mind. Many challenges still await you in this profession, Geleon. You have only just begun to unlock your potential. Choose carefully, my friend."

  "I will," Geleon said, and walked away.

  For the first time in months, Geleon left the castle grounds and wandered into the fields. He paused in the deep grass and inhaled a breath of fragrant summer air, and he whispered a prayer of peace for the dead.

  End.

  Tower of Dread

  The tower rose into the afternoon sky like a bony finger, its long shadow from the setting sun cutting into the grassy hills. Zercha ran his hand over the tower's smooth brown surface that reminded him of an insect shell. Deep mysteries bound the lad to the tower, demanding he unlock the secrets within, and time lost meaning as the sun settled down in a crimson blaze.

  A wisp of skuneberry smoke curled in front of Zercha's face, snapping him from his trance. He turned to see his father scowling at him. The old man puffed at the hollow skuneberry stem and shook his head in disgust. The blackened berry at the end of the stem burned like the old man's gaze. He was a tall, bald, lanky fellow with a large hook nose and beady eyes that seemed almost black. He held a sack of freshly picked mushrooms in one wrinkled hand.

  "Foolish boy," the old man muttered. "Why do you waste time gazing at that old tower? You've lived through eighteen winters now. You should have outgrown such pursuits."

  Zercha looked away sheepishly. His gaze wandered across the hills, where stone ruins lay crumbling in the grass. Towers, castles, and odd keeps had once dotted the countryside, rising darkly from the old world mist, but now only mossy boulders remained aside from the lone tower that loomed over him. Yet the footprints of spell-hands and great sky worms were still there in Zercha's mind, the traces of forgotten magic lingering on through summer warmth and winter frost.

  The old man raised his eyebrows. "Indeed!" His scowl deepened. A chill breeze rippled the grass of the hilltops and made Zercha shiver. His father's shadow seemed to bear down on Zercha. "I pick the mushrooms for our stew," the old man snarled, "while you stand around with your head in the clouds."

  Zercha shrugged, limped to a boulder, and sat down. He rubbed his aching thighs. "My legs hurt more than usual today, Father."

  The old man nodded, his face grim. "The disease grows stronger. Eventually it will take your legs."

  "Don't remind me," said Zercha.

  "I won't be carrying you home," his father said, grimacing. He adjusted his black robe made of troll skin that hung loosely over his frame. The robe was bound by a leather belt with a large brass buckle, and from beneath it poked pointy-toed ash boots of woodland design. Troll-skin clothing and woodland boots were very expensive, and Zercha always wondered how his father had managed to gain possession of the articles. Furthermore, such clothing was flamboyant and imaginative, not at all appropriate for a man who seemed to lack the slightest hint of either quality.

  Stung by his father's words, Zercha struggled up and stood swaying. "I can walk. I don't expect to be carried."

  "Not yet, anyway," said the old man. "But when your legs finally do give out, what then? With your mind lost in fantasies, you'll be utterly useless." His eyes narrowed. "Part of it is this wretched tower. All your life you've come here, seeking a way in and obsessing about it. And what have you gained? Wasted hours that could have been spent on worthwhile pursuits. I've had enough, my son. Maybe it's time we visited that old sap blood--the Wood Lord--in the forest."

  "You've been threatening that for years, Father," said Zercha, rolling his eyes. He gazed at the dark tower, wishing he could crawl inside it and escape everything.
>
  "This time I mean it!" the old man said. "The Wood Lord is the most cynical creature I know of, yet as wise as they come. He'll set you straight about this tower. All of these spell-hand keeps are barren old spires of dread and madness. There is nothing alive in there, just dust and cobwebs and evil energy. The old ways are gone forever. But we still have hard work and common sense."

  Zercha kicked a stone away angrily, and winced from the burning pain that erupted in his leg. "Let's go home, and you can make your stew. I would rather not hear any of this talk. I just want to eat and go to bed."

  The old man gazed into the distance. "No, I mean it this time. I've had enough." He threw down the sack of mushrooms. "The stew can wait. We are going to see the Wood Lord this very night, beneath the crimson stars and black willow boughs--across the three rocky rivers. It's time for you to grow up."

  Zercha studied his father's face and shuddered. "You actually intend to take me there. I can see it in your eyes."

  The old man didn't answer. He grabbed two staffs that were leaning against the tower and handed one to Zercha. Zercha's staff was plain, smooth oak, but his father's ash staff was engraved with delicate runes and was topped by a detailed sky worm's head. Zercha would have preferred the sky worm staff, and he saw no reason why his father should possess it other than to mock him.

  "The river cats will be on the prowl tonight," said Zercha, "with the recent arrival of summer. If we go, we should wait until tomorrow."

  The old man smirked. "No one can enter the Wood Lord's hall in daylight. In fact, it cannot even be found. It must be approached on a clear night beneath the crimson stars--like I suspect this coming night will be. As for the river cats, that's why we have staffs to defend ourselves. I didn't train you to fight for nothing. You can't work or get your head on straight, so you at least better be able to fight."

  Zercha bowed his head. "I can't fight worth a damn and you know it. But never mind. Just lead the way and I'll try to keep pace."

  The old man frowned. "Look, my son, I've always only wanted what's best for you. Yet you view me as a tyrant."

  "Lead on," Zercha said, through clenched teeth.

  "I'm not a tyrant. I've always made sure you had food, shelter, and training. I taught you to read and write and to know wisdom. I taught you--"

  "Lead on!" Zercha drove the staff against the earth. "It's all about you, Father. It always has been. My opinion means nothing."

  The old man turned away in anger, his black robe billowing. "Fine, you ungrateful sod. Maybe the Wood Lord will force you to learn the value of gratitude. And perhaps he'll knock some sense into your head while he's at it."

  The old man strode on through the grass, with Zercha limping along behind him. Then he turned and tapped his staff against the earth. He waited, then tapped it a few more times. Then he took to waiting again.

  Zercha sighed with impatience. He didn't know what his father was doing, and he couldn't have cared less. Everything the old man did was merely to annoy Zercha. "Are you done yet, Father?"

  The old man puffed at the skuneberry stem and blew a twisting, serpent-like wisp of smoke that drifted off over the hills. "Yes, I'm done." He caressed the staff and closed his eyes, his lips muttering words too low for Zercha to hear.

  Zercha groaned. "Father? Can we please be off now?" His stomach boiled with dread over the thought of going before the Wood Lord, yet his father still found cause to delay the journey.

  The old man raised his staff and whispered something. The setting sun bathed his cheek in a crimson glow and lit up his brass belt buckle. He gazed into the distance, where gnarled petrified wooden villages stood like forests of craggy tree stumps. "It's a beautiful land we live in, my son. Even after all these years."

  Zercha threw up his hands. "I know what it looks like. If we don't get moving, Father, I swear to you that I'm just going to go home."

  The old man lowered the staff and nodded. "I'm just trying to prepare for our journey, son." With that, he started walking again. "Besides, your sorry legs needed a rest. We'll stop off at the Pine Vale Tavern and have a mug of Grodlop."

  Zercha cringed at the thought, but said nothing.

  The old man pulled something from his pocket, touched it to the burning skuneberry, and tossed it into the air where it buzzed off in a shower of green sparks. Some of the sparks settled over Zercha and made him tingle from head to toe. Zercha brushed them away angrily. "Don't do that, Father. I hate those stupid crackle-eggs of yours."

  The old man chuckled. "What's wrong with a little entertainment? Maybe you should lighten up a bit, my son. Have a mug of frog spit with me, watch some crackle-eggs without such a critical eye. Like the fellows in the tavern."

  Zercha groaned. "I don't want to be anything like them. All they care about is farming and hunting and working from dawn until dusk."

  "True," said the old man. "But they also love Grodlop and crackle-eggs." He blew a smoke wisp that reached forth like a finger and tickled Zercha's nose.

  Zercha batted the smoke finger into ruin. "Enough, Father! No marsh eggs, no skuneberry smoke, no lectures. Just lead to me the Wood Lord. It's not going to matter, anyway. I still want to know what's in that tower. I want to see magic, and read the writings of the spell-hands. That's right, Father, I said spell-hands! Yes, I live in a dream world. I make up silly stories in my head. I don't want to be anything like you or those men in the tavern. That's not who I am, or who I will ever be."

  The old man yawned. "Are you done spouting off? Because I'm done listening to it. I'll stick dirt in my ears if you keep on with this. You talk of spell-hands and old towers that no one cares about. You talk of magic, of all ridiculous notions. Face reality, boy. We're simple folk destined for simple things. I want you to quit trying to be a spell-hand and start learning how to take care of yourself."

  Zercha limped along, his teeth clenched in defiance.

  The old man paused by a lone apple tree and whispered to it, while caressing the bark. He studied the leaves carefully. "I think we picked a good night for this journey. This tree thinks the crimson stars will shine brightly, which will make it easier for us to enter the Wood Lord's hall."

  Zercha nodded, feeling too weary to care. "Can we move on, then?"

  "You should learn these techniques, my son," said his father. "Get your head out of the clouds for a moment and learn something. Apple trees can teach you a lot, if you know what to look for and how to listen to them."

  Zercha knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn't resist. He sneered. "A spell-hand wouldn't need to talk to an apple tree, Father. He would use magic to tell him what he needed to know."

  The old man grimaced. "Learn the ways of the land, boy, and forget about spell-hands. The natural world provides all that we need in life."

  The hills grew wooded, a dirt road winding along between the trees. Darkness settled over the land, the crimson stars burning in the deep blue heavens, and animal noises filled the woods around them. The old man did something to his staff to make the worm head glow with a greenish flame. The old man was always fiddling with something, and sometimes his skills inspired envy in Zercha. Zercha glanced at his own sorry staff and sighed.

  The old man made great strides down the trail, and Zercha was barely able to keep up. The forest seemed as ugly as his mood in the greenish light, the trunks huge and gnarled and the craggy roots crisscrossing the trail. The roots let the old man pass, but they occasionally tried to trip Zercha. The boy had no idea why the trees favored his father over him, but it was just one more source of annoyance.

  Laughter erupted in the treetops as burning blue ghost lights frolicked about. Some of them hovered around the green fire of the old man's staff, their pale eyes wide with delight, but they ignored Zercha completely even though he was fascinated by them and would have loved the attention.

  "My little friends!" the old man laughed. "You know, son, if you weren't so cynical, perhaps they would find you more appealing."

/>   "You're the cynical one, Father," said Zercha, "which is why I can't understand why they are attracted to you."

  "I'm only cynical toward the clutter that fills your mind," said the old man. He waved the ghost lights away and they rose into the treetops.

  They entered a tavern with walls made of petrified wood that was nestled amidst some pines by the roadside. As they stepped inside, Zercha cringed. He didn't look at anyone, but he could feel the men staring in his direction. He followed his father to bar, and stood with his hands in his pockets.

  "Welcome, Brimbal," said the short, scrawny tavern owner, addressing Zercha's father. "Fresh Grodlop tonight, and it is a good brew indeed." He looked Zercha over, and his hawk nose wrinkled in some unfavorable gesture. "I see you got your boy out of the house." He winked at the old man and grabbed a pitcher and two mugs. He dipped the pitcher inside a large, hollow tree stump that stood behind the bar and placed it before them. Foam ran down the side.

  Brimbal nodded. "My son is a grown man now, Werlo. Though his head is still lost in the sky."

  Werlo chuckled. "Is that right, boy? Do you still believe in spell-hands?"

  Zercha shrugged, wishing he had waited outside. His instinct was to say nothing, but his mouth seemed to have a will of its own. "Why shouldn't I believe in them? It's better than sitting around getting drunk."

  The bar keep nodded. "That's true enough, I suppose." He laughed. "So when are you going to meet one of these spell-hands and bring him to my tavern? He might provide some good entertainment. Unlike your father here, who does nothing but drink frog spit and throw around crackle-eggs."

  "That reminds me," said Brimbal. He tossed some crackle-eggs into the air and they danced around the room. A few of the patrons cheered.

  A drunken bear of a man turned toward Zercha, foam dripping down his thick black beard. He belched. "Spell-hands, huh? Where they at? I want to see one for myself!" He roared laughter and swatted Zercha on the back. Werlo laughed as well, and the two men exchanged a wink.

  Zercha took to glaring straight ahead in silence, which was the only way to get the fellows to stop tormenting him.

  "We would all like to see one of those spell-hands," mused the bar keep. "Wouldn't you, Brimbal?"

  "No, I wouldn't," said Brimbal, his voice taking on a hard edge. "Listen now, you fellows watch what you say. I don't want my boy thinking you actually believe in that nonsense. There are no spell-hands these days."

  The bar keep shrank back. "Not a problem, Brimbal. Didn't mean to offend. Can I buy you another pitcher of Grodlop?"

  "Indeed," growled the bear of a man, "don't offend old Brimbal! We like having you around, Werlo. Who else is going to supply us with Grodlop? No one else owns a queen stump anywhere near these lands. Old Brimbal might take that staff and send you over hill and river."

  "I'm not sending anyone anywhere," said Brimbal, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I'm just enjoying some good brew."

  A tall, bony man with a chest-length grey beard approached them. "Hey, Brimbal," he said, "what kind of winter are we going to have?"

  "Mild," said the old man, wiping foam from his lips. "The chill will creep north and bed down in the eastern slopes. It will not rise again until the following fall, when its wrath will be twofold."

  Zercha groaned in boredom. He tried to sip his Grodlop, but he didn't care for it. "We should get going soon, Father," he said. "You're not going to stand around and talk about dull stuff like the weather all night?"

  Brimbal shrugged. "They ask questions. I give answers."

  Zercha realized the bar keep was directing a look of pity his way. He glared back. "Is something wrong?"

  Werlo shook his head. "No, nothing's wrong, boy. But I have a question for you. Now that you're eighteen, is your father going to explain--"

  "Enough!" snapped Brimbal, pounding the bar.

  Werlo nodded sheepishly. "Sorry, Brimbal." He glanced at Zercha apologetically. "Your father would rather I keep my question from your ears."

  Zercha groaned and leaned on the bar, not caring in the least about whatever the bar keep had intended to say. "Can we leave now, Father? I really want to get this over with. Otherwise, I'm just going home to sleep."

  Brimbal polished off his mug of frog spit and tried to hand the bar keep some silver. As always, the bar keep adamantly refused the money. Zercha grimaced. It was amazing how many people respected the old fool and treated him like he was something special. But they didn't have to live with him and endure his criticism every day.

  When they stepped outside into the shadows, Zercha's anger boiled over. "Why do you bring me in there, Father? Just to humiliate me?"

  "I bring you in there for some good Grodlop," said the old man. He adjusted his robe, looking uncomfortable.

  "I hate frog spit," said Zercha. "You know I do. And now you want to make me walk on my aching legs all the way to the Wood Lord's domain so I can be made to feel even more foolish. Why do you treat me this way? If Mother was still alive, she wouldn't let you bully me like this."

  Brimbal's eyes widened. "Bully you? How dare you say such a thing! I've done nothing but baby you since your mother's death." He started to turn away, but Zercha was eighteen now and ready to open doors he had once feared to touch.

  "You never cared about Mother!" Zercha yelled. "You didn't even try to cure her illness. All you did was--"

  His eyes smoldering, the old man seized Zercha's tunic. "Don't ever say that again, boy! I did try to save your mother, but some things are beyond even... Some things just cannot be cured."

  "Like my legs?" said Zercha. "I'm sick like Mother was, but you obviously couldn't care less."

  "I do care," Brimbal said quietly. "That's why I try to teach you things, why I was hoping to take you to the Wood Lord this night. You're not as sick as your mother was. Your legs can be cured, but not by me."

  "Then who can cure them?" said Zercha, a spark of hope burning within him. "The Wood Lord?"

  "No, not the Wood Lord," said Brimbal. "They can be cured by you, when you learn to stop being so stubborn and self centered."

  "That's a lie!" Zercha shouted. "I can't cure my legs and you know it. You're just playing games with me, Father, like you always do." Zercha gazed into his father's eyes, and he understood just how deep the old man's contempt for him ran. His father cared nothing for him, and he made that known every day.

  Brimbal sighed and leaned against a pine. "I don't know, my son. Maybe I'm just an old fool. Maybe I have been cruel to you all these years." He threw down his worm-head staff. "I carved that to mock you." He threw down a handful of crackle-eggs. "I collected those--a very dangerous task, by the way--just to annoy you, because some say they have magical properties and I knew you lacked the skills to collect any yourself. I can't deny it. I wanted to mock your beliefs and make you feel terrible about them. I wanted you to hate magic, but I obviously failed miserably."

  "Why?" said Zercha. "What did I ever do to deserve that?"

  "Wrong or right," said Brimbal, "I felt you lacked character and work ethic. I felt like you would never amount to anything unless I kept humiliating and pestering you. I wanted you to learn common sense above all else."

  "You think I'm worthless," said Zercha.

  Brimbal shook his head. "No, son. I think you have plenty of worth and a big heart. But I wanted so much more out of you. My expectations were too high, and when you failed to live up to them, I didn't know how to handle it. But lately I've come to realize that was wrong. I want to take you to the Wood Lord because he can bring out the best in you. With the Wood Lord, hope yet lingers."

  "I'm not going," said Zercha, wiping his eyes viciously with his sleeve. "If I'm not the man you wanted me to be, then that's the way it is. But I'll never change! I'm going back to that tower, and I'm going to sit there until it opens up or I starve to death. I don't care anymore." With that, Zercha turned and limped off down the road.

  "Zercha!" Brimbal called. "Come back, son!"