Tower of Doom

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.

Something stirred softly behind him.

"Caidin?" a voice asked dreamily.

Panic jabbed at Wort's brain. In dread, he turned around. Behind the gauzy curtains that covered the bed the contessa stretched sleepily.

"Caidin, my love-is that you?"

Almost without thinking, he spoke in a low, husky voice. "Yes, love." He winced, waiting for her to cry out in alarm. She did not.

"Come to me, Caidin," she whispered, eyes closed. "Touch me."

Slowly he reached out a hand. Through the sheer silk he stroked her shoulder gently with a gnarled finger.

"Mmm…" she murmured drowsily.

After a moment her breathing slowed as she descended into sleep once more. Wort shuddered in relief. A giddy thought crossed his mind. In the dark- i ness we are no different, my brother! He turned to j make his escape before she woke again. i

He froze at the rattling of a doorknob. The cham- \ ber door was opening! There was no time to think. Wort saw that the mahogany wardrobe was ajar. Hastily he plunged inside, concealing himself behind perfumed gowns. He watched through a hazy curtain of lace and brocade as a broad-shouldered man holding a single candle slipped into the chamber. Wort's lip curled back from his yellow teeth. Baron Caidin blew out the candle and pushed past the sheer curtains into the contessa's bed. Soon soft sounds of pleasure drifted across the room. Wort did not dare attempt to creep to the window. Caidin would surely hear his footsteps. He could only hope the baron would eventually leave after the contessa fell asleep once more. Wort leaned against the back of the wardrobe to wait.

The wooden panel behind him gave way. Wort barely stifled a cry as he rolled backward through the opening. Struggling to right himself, he felt rough stone all around him. He was in some sort of tunnel. Realization dawned on him. This must be one of the secret passages that, from his explorations, he knew riddled Nartok Keep, many long forgotten. He wondered if the contessa even knew of its existence. Probably not, he decided. Thick cobwebs hung across the entrance, suggesting no one had come this way in years. There was no telling where the secret passage led, but Wort decided he had to find out.

Carefully, he slid the wooden panel back into place, sealing himself in the secret passage. He stood up in the narrow space, drew the magical silver candle from his pocket, and concentrated his mental energy. A small flame flared to life on its tip, iHuminating the rough-hewn tunnel. Gripping the candle, he moved swiftly down the passage. The:‹iunnd led downward, twisting and doubling back on fcself until Wort lost all sense of direction. The blackness seemed to press menacingly from all around, ^perhaps he should go back. Better to risk discovery in the contessa's chamber than to lose himself in this endless labyrinth beneath the keep. Wort turned around-and froze.

Drifting toward him was a cloud of silvery mist. It glowed against the darkness, swirling and billowing like a miniature storm cloud. It floated closer. Wort backed away, but the cloud quickly closed the gap, as if with malevolent intelligence it sensed his readiness to bolt. Wort turned to run-down the tunnel.

He was far too slow. With a rushing sound, the glowing cloud of mist engulfed him. Chill tingling pricked his skin as he was lifted into the air. Wort clamped his mouth shut, holding his breath to keep from breathing in the clammy mist. He kicked and clawed at the silvery vapor, but it was as if he moved through thick ooze. His struggling had no effect. Finally he could resist the burning of his lungs no longer. He took in a shuddering lungful of the glowing gas. Numbness descended over his body, paralyzing him. The cloud began to drift down the tunnel, carrying Wort with it. Beyond the gaseous veil he had the impression of stone walls slipping by, illuminated by the mist's eerie phosphorescence. Whatever this cloud was, it was taking him somewhere-somewhere far below the keep. For what purpose he dared not consider.

At last the cloud of mist halted. As quickly as it had engulfed Wort, it let him go, dissipating on the dark air. Sensation flooded back into his numb limbs just in time to let him feel pain when he crashed to the hard floor. The silver candle clattered to the stones also, its magical flame casting a small circle of golden light. Groaning, Wort pulled himself to his knees.

There were at least a dozen of them-shadowed forms standing just beyond reach of the candlelight. Wort could not make out who they were. Or what. He caught outlines that were manlike in shape, and others that were… something else.

"Look what your mist elemental caught, Ghurr," a slurred voice spoke.

"What do you think, Ghurr?" bubbled another. "Is he Clan Krillek or Clan Borrash?"

A growling voice spoke then. "Why don't we find out, Clan Ghurran?"

Wort cringed inside his cloak as one of the figures-the one called Ghurr-stepped into the circle of light. He was not entirely human. He had the torso of a powerful man, but also goatlike legs that ended in sharp talons instead of hooves. One of his arms was human, but the other was a glistening tentacle, covered with suction cups. Instead of a mouth, he had the recurved beak of a vulture. His crimson eyes glowed with evil intelligence.

Other creatures lurched into the circle of light. A legless elf woman with arms ending in crablike pincers slithered on a slime-covered pad like a gigantic slug. A green-skinned halfling with hissing snakes for arms peered with gigantic frog eyes. A man with hundreds of insect legs sprouting from his body wriggled on the floor like a huge centipede. There were dozens of the creatures. A few seemed strong and powerful like Ghurr. Most moved clumsily, as if in constant agony. Some were little more than shapeless heaps of quivering flesh. Ghurr uncoiled his sinuous tentacle- arm and jerked back the hood of Wort's cloak. Hisses and growls came from all around.

"This is no Broken One!" a creature shrieked.

"He is an Overling!" screeched another in revulsion.

The elf woman clicked her pincers. "We must kill him, Ghurr. You know the Overlings fear us. If he tells the other humans about us, they will seek us out and destroy us!"

"No!" Wort cried out, his bulging eyes almost as wide as the froglike orbs of the halfling. "I won't tell anyone about you. Don't you see? I know what it is liked to be loathed by others. I am a monster, too."

Ghurr's growling laughter echoed eerily. "You? A monster? No, Overling." With his tentacle he pointed to the centipede-man. "This is monstrous." He turned to the legless elf. "And this." His tentacle coiled sadly, almost lovingly around a bubbling pile of flesh. Wort could make out two eyeballs swimming in the shapeless mass, gazing up at Ghurr in adoration. "And especially this," Ghurr said with sorrow and rage. "Look carefully, Overling. These are real monsters. Any one of us would trade his body for yours in a moment."

Wort shook his head, gasping for words. "How… how…?"

"How did we become this way?" Ghurr paced a slow circle around Wort, his talons scraping against the stone floor. "We are the Broken Ones. But we were not always like this. Once we were whole and beautiful-elves and dwarfs, humans and halflings. Then we were captured by the Nightmage."

"The Nightmage?" Wort gulped.

"Yes. Three centuries ago he dwelt in this keep, a wizard more powerful than any this land has ever seen. He forged many objects of power." He pointed to the glowing silver candle. "That is one of them. There are hundreds of such enchanted artifacts lost throughout the keep. The Nightmage conducted experiments as well-magical experiments involving living beings and animals." Ghurr gestured to the others and himself. "We are the failed results of those experiments. And I tell you, there were many more failures than successes. The Nightmage kept us alive to study us. Finally we rose up against him."

"I tore his throat out myself!" the elf woman said hatefully, her crab-claws snapping.

Ghurr went on. "We thought his death would release us. We were wrong. The magic that transmuted our bodies kept us alive, as it does even now. We retreated beneath the keep, to dwell here in the darkness. But if the Overlings learned of our existence, they would not tolerate us." His cold tentacle brushed Wort's cheek. "So we must kill you."

Wort shook his head, stunned by Ghurr's dark tale. "Please," he gasped. "Please, I won't tell anyone "

Ghurr's eyes glowed murderously. "I know," he whispered. His tentacled arm coiled around Wort's throat and began to tighten. Wort's hands scrabbled uselessly against the slimy tentacle. Bright sparks flared in his brain as he fought vainly for breath. So this is how my life ends, he thought giddily, at the hands of another monster. The tentacle squeezed tighter.

Suddenly green light exploded from above. Ghurr jerked his head up as the other Broken Ones cried out. The tentacle slipped from Wort's neck. He slumped weakly to the floor, gasping. In the emerald incandescence he could see that they were in the center of a huge cavern. A score of misshapen forms lurched and shambled across the cave-more Broken Ones.

"It is Clan Krillek!" the elf woman shouted. "They are attacking!"

"Clan… Krillek?" Wort choked in confusion.

"Not all the Broken Ones follow me," Ghurr snarled. "Some serve Borr, and these ones follow Krill. They have come to try to steal our territory from us. But they will not find it so easily done." His eyes flashed hotly. "I will deal with you when we are done with the Krillek, Overling."

Ghurr pushed Wort aside and lunged toward the advancing Krillek. The rest of Clan Ghurran hobbled, slithered, and crawled after him. With shrieks of hatred, the two clans of monsters clashed. Ghurr's tentacle wrapped around a lizard-scaled woman and squeezed until his opponent snapped in two. Blood spurted in a gory fountain. The elf woman's pincers closed on a beetle-man's insectile arm and sliced it cleanly off. Yellow ichor oozed from the stump as the beetle-man waved it in agony. One of the Krilleks, a dwarf with a boar's head, skewered the centipede- man on his long tusks. Suddenly the dwarf screamed. The shapeless blob of flesh with the staring eyes had landed on the back of his neck. From the center of the blob, a tube like a mosquito's mouth plunged into the dwarf's skull and began to suck out his brains. And that was only the beginning.

Somehow, Wort managed to tear his gaze away from the grisly melee. Then he spotted something. Nearby was another opening in the wall of the cavern. He did not hesitate. Grabbing the silver candle, he lunged. Without stopping to see if any of the creatures pursued him, he raced down the narrow passage as fast as his bowed legs allowed. Snarls of rage and squeals of agony echoed after him. Leaving the Broken Ones to their bloody struggle for dominion of the underdark, he raced on.

It was morning when Wort finally stumbled out of a filthy storm drain into the courtyard of the keep. He breathed the cold air in relief. For a time he had feared he would never find his way out of the labyrinth below. Then the now-familiar voice began to whisper in his mind, telling him where to turn and which passages to take. He had encountered no more of the Broken Ones. Though they had meant to kill him, Wort found he almost pitied the creatures. He was like them. He dwelt alone, hiding his monstrous appearance. Soon, he vowed, he would never have to hide again. He moved stealthily toward the bell tower.

When Wort stepped into his high chamber, he instantly knew something was awry. Crouching warily, he gazed about the dingy room. Nothing seemed out of place. It was the pigeons that gave it away. They fluttered about in agitation, calling out querulously in their sweet, stupid voices.

"What is it, my friends?" he whispered, moving slowly into the room. "What has happened?"

He heard a squeak in the floorboards above. There was someone up in the belfry. His belfry!

Murder glinted in his bulbous eyes. How dare someone trespass upon his private demesne? Casting off his cloak, he sprang onto the wooden ladder and scrambled nimbly upward like a malformed ape. He burst through the trapdoor and crouched on the floor of the belfry, long arms before him, ready to grapple the intruder and snap his spine like a willow sapling. What he saw plunged a cold spike into his heart.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," he said grimly.

Before him, an expression of shock etched across her pale visage, the violet-eyed angel-woman froze, in the act of reaching for the rope that hung from the cursed bell.

"I–I'm sorry," she gasped, snatching her hand back. "I only wanted to hear the sound of the bell."

"Believe my words," he croaked, taking a step toward her. "You would not wish to hear the voice of that bell. Any other bell, perhaps. But not that one."

She nodded, unconsciously backing away from him. Wort noticed this with satisfaction. Perhaps she was afraid of him after all. As well she should be.

"Why have you come here?" he asked accusingly.

The woman visibly steeled her shoulders, lifting her chin high. "I wanted to speak to you after you frightened that mob away in the village, but I didn't know how to find you. Then I heard folk talking of someone who lived in the bell tower of Nartok Keep. They said it was a… "

"A monster," Wort finished for her. "That's what they said, isn't it? That in the bell tower there lived- a monster."

She nodded gravely. "Yes."

Wort lurched closer. "So you put two and two together and thought you would come to get another glimpse of this hideous creature, is that it?"

The woman retreated farther, only to find herself backed up against one of the belfry's arched windows. "No," she breathed.

"Then you came in search of some perverse thrill, yes?" Wort demanded sinisterly. "Or perhaps you came to examine the monster, to make a study of it. I've heard talk. They say that you're a doctor." He indicated his twisted body. "Perhaps you find my horrible form… fascinating."

Sudden fire replaced the alarm in her purple eyes. "No," she said fiercely. "That's not it at all. I came here…" deliberately, she took a step nearer him "… I came here to thank you." She reached out and touched his gnarled hand in a gesture of gratitude.

Wort snatched his hand back, clutching it as if it had been burned. Now he was the one retreating. "This is my tower," he snarled. "You have no business here. Get out!"

The woman sighed. "As you wish. I was wrong to have come here without invitation. Again, I only wanted to thank you." She moved to the trapdoor.

As she bent to descend the ladder, the dappled sunlight spilling through the belfry's windows alighted like glowing sparks upon her skin and hair. Once again, Wort was struck by her resemblance to the radiant angel in the long-forgotten tapestry-the angel whose night-deep violet eyes were so full of compassion he had once dared to believe they might hold enough even for him.

"Wait," he said hoarsely.

The woman looked up expectantly.

He frowned. Mow that he had her attention, he did not know what to say. He swallowed hard. "Why… why bother to thank me? Why do you even care?"

Straightening, she fixed him with a direct expression. "I know what it is to be mocked, you know. I myself have been an object of laughter, and scorn, and now-as you yourself have witnessed-even of fear." She walked slowly to a window, gazing through the intricate wrought iron at the keep's soaring towers.

"People fear the unfamiliar," she went on. "I think it's because it makes them realize that the world is. greater and far more complex than they could ever possibly understand. That makes them feel vulnerable, and terribly, terribly small." She turned around, a rueful smile touching her lips. "In the city of II Aluk, they feared a woman bold enough to become a doctor. Here in Nartok it is a man who is… shaped differently than others."

Wort realized he was shivering. Was this woman in truth an angel? He ran a hand through disheveled hair and across a face marked by deep lines-lines that made him seem far older than the man of three- and-thirty years he was.

"Do you truly not fear me?" he whispered in amazement.

She returned his gaze unflinchingly. "No, I do not."

For a moment they gazed at each other in silence. At last the woman spoke with mock chagrin. "You know, I've utterly forgotten my manners. My name is Mika."

He swallowed hard before managing to find the words to reply. "I am… I am called Wort."

"Wort." She repeated the word. "I am glad I came here today, Wort."

Mika smiled warmly. Hesitantly, Wort returned the expression. It was more grimace than smile, but it did not seem to disturb her. Suddenly she reached out to touch the hump that contorted his shoulders into their unnatural shape.

"You know, I am a doctor," she said softly. "Perhaps I could help you."

The warmth drained from Wort's chest. "Help me?"

She nodded nervously. "I might be able to… operate on your back. To make you appear normal."

Fury blazed to life in his eyes. The happiness he had felt only a moment ago now seemed a cruel lifetime away. Mika took a step back and gasped.

"Ah, then you do find me hideous," he said ominously. "Of course, I should have known. You are a doctor. It is your compulsion to seek out the diseased. Is that not so?"

Mika shook her head, her jaw working soundlessly.

"Tell me, do you wish to perform some kind of dissection on me?" Wort went on coldly. "I've heard doctors favor such experiments. Perhaps you can make a fascinating study of my deformities, or perform operations on me that you have only dared to try on animals." His voice built to a roar. "Then your brilliance will win you accolades from your counterparts in the city, and you will be scorned no more, but heralded as a great scientist-as one who transformed a monster into a man! Is that it?"

"No, Wort," she whispered sorrowfully. "You're wrong. I only want to help."

"If you want to help, then you can leave me alone!" he thundered. "I do not need your pity, doctor. Nor do I need your healing ability. Go!"

Quickly she moved to the ladder, but before descending she turned to give him one last pointed look. "I will go because you have asked me to," she said quietly. "But know this, Wort. I do not go out of fear." She disappeared through the trapdoor.

Howling in rage, Wort slammed the trapdoor shut.

"She is no angel!" he shouted, clenching his hands into fists. "She thinks me a monster; she is no different from the others." Wort lumbered to the bell ropes. "Yes, I will be healed someday-someday soon-my way!"

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!"