Tower of Doom

Twelve

The peasant family huddled together in the cold before their rude cottage, staring in fear as the uniformed knights ransacked the meager hovel. Kraikus, lord of the exchequer of Nartok, watched with an air of gratification from the vantage of his steed. He was a small, ratlike man with darting eyes and a pointed nose that was prone to twitching, especially when loot was nearby.

"You, there!" Kraikus shouted to one of his officers. "Make certain you look to see if they've buried anything beneath the floor. I wouldn't put it past this refuse to try to hide their valuables."

A minute later the knight stepped out of the cottage. "You were right, my lord. I found this buried in a corner of the dirt floor." He held aloft a bowl of beaten bronze. It looked very old and was no doubt a treasure passed down from generation to generation.

"Throw it on the pile with the rest," Kraikus ordered in his wheedling voice. He eyed the heap of iron pans, clay pots, and cheap knives. It wasn't much, but altogether it should bring a silver penny in the market, perhaps two.

"It really isn't enough," the treasurer snapped, glaring at the cowering peasants. "However, in my graciousness I will consider this heap of garbage as payment of your taxes. At least for this year."

Untangling himself from the clutches of his wife and children, the peasant man stepped forward and bowed deeply before the treasurer. "Thank you, milord," he said fearfully. "You're very kind. And I swear to you-we won't ever try to hide anything from you again!"

"Oh, I know you won't, my good man." Kraikus's lips curled in an unsavory smile. "That's because you'll have nothing left to hide."

The peasant man's jaw dropped as Kraikus turned to his officers, issuing the command.

"Torch the place."

Several of the knights lit pitch-soaked torches and tossed them onto the dry thatch roof of the cottage. Kraikus looked on in satisfaction, crimson flames reflected in his dark eyes. Then he whirled his mount around, leaving behind the roar of the fire and wails of loss and anguish.

Midnight found Kraikus in the treasury of Nartok Keep, happily counting the revenues of the day's collection. Here, ten-foot-thick walls of stone guarded Nartok's hoard of gold, silver, and other treasure. Only two people in all the fiefdom had keys to the chamber's massive iron door-the lord of the exchequer and the baron himself. As was his custom, Kraikus had locked himself inside the treasury while he toiled. There was nothing that irritated him more than a distraction that caused him to lose count.

Muttering numbers under his breath, Kraikus piled coins into neat stacks on the counting table before him, pausing now and again to scratch a few ciphers on a sheaf of parchment with a quill pen. For a moment he halted, yawning deeply. Tax-collecting was wearisome work-what with the plundering and burning, and all those screaming peasants. However, he was determined not to sleep until he had counted the day's haul down to the last copper half penny. He scribbled some more ciphers and, noticing his inkwell was running low, opened the drawer where he kept his inkpots. A murmur of surprise escaped his lips.

"So that's where I put you," he exclaimed. In the center of the drawer was a large gold coin. The coin was obviously old, its engr.aved surface worn smooth. It was the first gold coin Kraikus had ever counted, which he had kept as a fond memento. Often he held it in one hand, stroking it with a thumb, when he was worried or deep in thought. A few days before he had been terribly distressed, believing he had lost the precious coin. Now here it was. Kraikus should have known. He was not one for misplacing money. Grinning to himself, he picked up the coin.

It hopped out of his grasp.

Kraikus let out a small cry. As if it had a life of its own, the coin jumped onto the desktop. It rolled a short way, then spun to a stop. Kraikus gaped at it a moment, then shook his head. What was he thinking? Coins couldn't roll of their own volition. He had dropped it, that was all. Once again, he reached for the coin.

This time, before he even had touched its smooth surface, the coin leapt upward. It hovered for a moment, flashing brightly as it spun in midair. Kraikus was entranced by its beauty. Suddenly the coin dropped to the floor and rolled toward a locked chest. As the coin approached, the lock sprang open and the lid lifted slowly upward. The gold coin hopped neatly inside. A heartbeat later a brilliant radiance began to emanate from within the chest. The silver-gold glow pulsated, slowly at first, then with increasing speed.

Drawn by the hypnotic light, Kraikus rose from his chair and walked slowly toward the chest. He knelt before it, peering inside. Cool light played across his ratlike face. Inside the chest, the gold coin lay atop a pile of copper pieces, glowing brilliantly. Even as he watched, the glow spread out to the surrounding coins and seemed to infuse them. Each shone brightly for a moment, then dimmed. Kraikus drew' in a sharp breath. The copper coins had been transmuted to silver and gold!

Wondrous realization struck him. "I'll be rich," he whispered greedily. "Richer than Baron Caidin. Richer than King Azalin." His nose twitched fiercely. "I'll be surrounded by gold!" He reached into the chest to pick up his magical coin.

The lid slammed down with a violent boom!

Kraikus stumbled backward, then slowly lifted his right arm. The wrist was cut off in a ragged stump. The splintered ends of two bones gleamed white against torn flesh. Blood spurted out in arcs of liquid crimson. Kraikus stared numbly at the gory stump, too shocked to feel pain. He jerked his head up to see the lid of the chest open again, like a dark, hungry mouth. The chest rose into the air and floated toward him with sinister deliberation.

"No," Kraikus choked. "Stay away from me…"

He lurched to his feet and stumbled backward, clutching the stump of his wrist. Blood pumped through his fingers. The chest drifted closer. It tilted forward. Something tumbled out, falling to the floor with a wet plop! It was his own hand, still clutching the glowing coin. Kraikus retreated. He was starting to feel the pain in his wrist now-sharp, exquisite, soul-tearing. His shriek rose to the high-vaulted ceiling.

"Get away!"

There was a creaking noise behind him. Madly, Kraikus glanced over his shoulder to see another trunk behind him with its lid opening. The other chest was almost upon him. Kraikus fell back in revulsion, his heel slipping in the blood that slicked the stone floor. Flailing, he tumbled backward into the open trunk. The other chest tipped. A glittering shower of silver and gold cascaded down on the treasurer. It was raining coins. A.burst of manic laughter escaped him.

"Surrounded by gold!" he shrieked.

Coins piled heavily on top of Kraikus, filling the trunk, crushing him with their terrible weight. A piercing pain spread throughout his body. He could feel his chest collapsing. Kraikus's last thought was of how cool all the coins felt against his skin, how wonderfully smooth. Then, along with the clinking of gold and silver, came the percussion of popping bones. The lid of the trunk slammed down, sealing Nartok's treasurer and all his precious coins inside.

In the moonlight that filtered into the belfry, Wort watched as a small object fell from the inside of the cursed bell. He greedily snatched the thing up from the moldy straw. It was a gold coin, sticky with blood.

The tower's bells swung wildly back and forth, toiling the death of Nartok's treasurer. Wort grinned in dark satisfaction. He bore no particular enmity toward Kraikus-that is, no more and no less than he bore toward all the folk of Nartok. It had simply been good fortune (or had it? he wondered, gazing up at the silent, cursed bell) that, while prowling about the keep, he had seen the coin fall from the treasurer's pocket. Sensing it would make a perfect token for the Bell of Doom, he had retrieved the coin.

Abruptly, the frenzied tolling stopped. Quiet mantled the bell tower once more.

"It has begun, my friends," Wort whispered excitedly to the pigeons that fluttered about him. "My final vengeance. But what now? What action do I take next?" He squatted down on the rotting straw to ponder his next move.

There was a harsh squawk, followed by a soft thud! Wort's head snapped up. He stared at the gray shape of the pigeon that had dropped to the floor in front of him. Its neck was bent at an unnatural angle, broken. A second pigeon fell beside the first, and a third. Both stared with dull, lifeless eyes, their necks violently wrenched. Wort looked up in shock. A dozen pigeons whirled slowly in the air above him, but not under the power of their own wings. Each was frozen, its beak gaping and silent. One by one the dead birds dropped to the floor.

"My friends…" Wort gasped in anguish.

He reached out toward the poor broken birds, then suddenly hesitated. The pigeons lay in a pattern. Their gray bodies and splayed wings formed the shapes of letters, spelling out a word: MORE.

"But how…?" Wort did not need to finish his question. His gaze rose to the cursed bell. Suddenly his sorrow was replaced by exultation.

"Of course," he whispered excitedly, leaping to his feet. "It is a message. If I am to gain vengeance against Caidin, one token will not do." He gripped the blood-stained coin tightly. Gradually, a dark plan unfurled in his mind.

Wort scrambled down the ladder to his chamber below the belfry and opened the trunk next to his pallet. He drew out a small wooden box and set the bloody coin carefully inside. Then he returned the box to its place. Cackling to himself, he curled up on his musty pallet and went over things in his feverish mind. He was not certain which thoughts were his own and which were whispered by the dry, ancient voice. Nor did he care. At last he drifted into the dark waters of sleep.

Wort woke with the dawn and made his way downstairs to find, as he did on every third day, the basket of brown bread and jug of water that were left outside the door of his tower. Taking these back up to his chamber, he broke his fast,sharing some of the crumbs with the surviving pigeons that clustered around him.

"Do you think she will come today, my friends?" he asked the mist-gray birds. He was answered with a soft chorus. "Truly? Well, I hope that you're right. I find… I find that I am lonely when she is not here."

Wort closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the pale oval of the doctor's face, glowing like the angel who drifted in the ancient tapestry. Sometimes Wort did not see Mika for several days, and then, just when he had given up hope of her ever returning, he would once more hear the gentle rapping at the tower's door. Rushing down, he would find Mika waiting, and she would explain with grave eyes that she'd been detained by a bad outbreak of fever in the village, or that she had just had to attend to a village woman going through a long, difficult birth.

Happily, there were also times when Mika managed to come several days in a row. Often she brought things with her-flowers to brighten his dismal chamber, or honey cakes, or a gameboard with carved wooden pieces to play Castles and Kings. Wort had never played the game before, but Mika seemed to draw upon an endless reservoir of patience as she explained the complex rules to him.

It was midday this time when he heard a faint rapping echoing up from below.

"She's here!" Wort exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

In vain, he tried to smooth down his matted brown hair and brush bits of straw from his threadbare brown tunic. He flung open the trapdoor in the center of the floor, threw down the length of rope coiled next to the opening, and clambered down to the bottom of the bell tower. In one swift motion, he sprang from the rope and opened the door.

Mika gasped in surprise, holding a hand to her breast. Then she laughed. "I'm happy to see you, too, Wort." She was clad in a dress of thick gray wool. She had thrown a heavy sky blue cloak over her shoulders against the autumn chill. She carried a straw basket in her arms.

"Please, come in, doctor," Wort said, attempting a clumsy bow. His grin was a trifle mischievous. "I've been practicing my opening gambits in Castles and Kings. I think you might not find me so easy to beat today!"

Mika arched a single eyebrow. "Is that so? Well, I'm afraid you'll have to wait until another day to embarrass me. Today we're going on a picnic in the woods."

Wort stared at her. He had never been on a picnic before. In fact, he had no idea what a picnic involved, but he grinned at Mika all the same.

"I'll need my cloak," he said gruffly. He hobbled quickly upstairs to the belfry and grabbed the garment, but as he turned to head back down, he paused. The cursed bell brooded darkly among the rafters. A strong feeling of… disapproval seemed to radiate from it.

"Why shouldn't I go?" Wort whispered angrily. "What's the harm in it?"

The dry voice echoed in his mind. Monsters do not walk with angels.

"I don't have to listen to you," he snarled. "You are not my master!" The voice repeated its message, but Wort clamped his hands to his ears and dashed back down the stairs.

"What's wrong. Wort?" Mika asked, concern clouding her violet eyes. "Were you arguing with someone up there?"

He shook his head. "No," he said hoarsely. "Let's go."

That afternoon found them walking together through a grove not far fronrj the keep. The trees were bare with the lateness of the year, and the ground was a crisp, crackling carpet of russet, crimson, and dark sienna.

"This looks like a good spot for lunch," said Mika when they reached the mossy bank of a brook. The jagged stump of a dead tree stood beside the brook. Only a few dark, twisted branches still ciung to the gnarled, moss-covered trunk. "What an interesting old tree. I bet once it was the tallest tree in the forest." She started to set down the straw basket.

Wort shook his head, suddenly feeling uneasy. "No, not here," he whispered. "This is a sad place. Can we go somewhere else?"

Mika regarded him with serious eyes. "Of course, Wort."

They wound up in the center of a small glade. Mika pulled bread, cheese, dried fruit, and a clay jug of wine from the basket. As they ate, Wort was once again amazed that one so fair as she would deign to be friends with one as monstrous as himself. It was like a miracle. Of course, weren't angels accustomed to performing miracles? After they had eaten, Mika coaxed chattering gray squirrels into plucking raisins from her hand. Then she made Wort give it a try. His big, clumsy hand shaking, he held out a palm full of dried fruit. A squirrel approached tentatively through rustling leaves. The creature regarded Wort with bright eyes, then scurried forward to snatch a raisin from his hand before hopping away.

"It… it didn't fear me!" Wort said in amazement.

"Why should it, Wort?" Mika asked, puzzled.

Wort almost spoke the words. Because I have killed, Doctor. He shook his head and said nothing.

For a time, Mika took her basket and collected herbs useful for her healing craft while Wort explored among the trees. In a small hollow he was surprised to discover a flower blooming despite the lateness of the season. He did not know its name, but its petals were the same dusky lavender as Mika's eyes. Thinking it would give her joy, he reached down to pluck the bloom. Then he cried out in sudden pain.

Mika rushed toward him. "Wort, what is it?"

Shaking his hand, he dropped the flower. He could see a long thorn protruding from its stem, wet with blood. "The flower. It… it pricked me."

"Here, let me see."

Gently, Mika took his hand and turned it over. Blood welled up freely from a deep puncture. She examined it critically, then took several of the leaves she had gathered and crushed them into a ball. She held the fragrant compress against Wort's wound. Instantly the fiery pain vanished. From the pocket of her dress, Mika pulled out a pale purple handkerchief and deftly bound it around his hand with a neat knot. "That should do the trick."

Wort flexed his fingers. "Thank you, my lady," he said in a low, shy voice.

Mika frowned at this. Suddenly a flicker of realization crossed her face. "That's where I've heard it before," she said.

"What?" he asked in trepidation.

"Your voice, Wort. I've told you that your voice is beautiful, and it is. But I've also had the strange feeling that I've heard a voice just like it somewhere before. I only just now realized where." She studied his features carefully, then nodded. "Yes. Now that I take a closer look, the resemblance is clear." The doctor took a deep breath. "You are Baron Caidin's brother, aren't you Wort?"

Slowly, almost painfully, he nodded. "How is it that you know my brother?" he asked warily.

She turned away with a shrug. "Oh, we've met briefly once or twice." The doctor turned to face him. There was a sadness in her eyes. " Wort… it hardly seems like the name of a baron's son."

"They say… they say my mother called me Wor- ren when I was a baby. She didn't live very long after my birth." Anger tinged his voice as he dredged up the dark memories. "You see, something went wrong the night I was born. She ripped deep inside, and I… I came out misshapen. The midwife thought me cursed because I was not formed right. She wanted to put me outside in the cold to die. My mother forced the Old Baron to swear I would not be killed. He gave her his word… and then she died."

"She was a courageous woman, your mother," Mika said Firmly. "Was she the Old Baron's wife?"

Wort shook his head. "No, my mother was his mistress. Caidin was born about the same time I was, to the baroness-though she too died in childbirth. Caidin was the Old Baron's legitimate heir, while I… I was his bastard." Wort had never told this tale to anyone before. The words seemed to gush out of him.

"After my mother died, no one wanted to care for me. But though I knew he despised me-despised the fact that his offspring could be so terribly deformed-the Old Baron was a man of some honor, and he did not forget the fact that his blood ran in my veins. He saw to it that i was cared for, though mostly by servants who were threatened with death if they neglected their jobs. As long as I can remember, I was called not Worren, but Wort." He shrugged as if none of this mattered anymore. "I suppose it's a good name for a hunchback."

He went on glumly. "When we were children, everyone adored Caidin. How could they not? Even then he was strong and handsome and smart. I loved him just as much as the others. Probably more. As for myself… well, you can imagine how the other children regarded me. In the end, I found it was better to keep to the tower, with my pigeons, and my bells." Wort fell silent.

Finally Mika spoke softly. "Worren. I like that name. It's gentle-just like you."

Wort shook his head. What could he say? That she was indeed an angel he had no doubt. Slowly, she reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Wort, I know that once I made you angry by saying that I could… help you. But I want you to know something. You don't have to live with your affliction forever."

He cringed, but this time he did not lash out at her. There was too much compassion in her voice.

The doctor went on earnestly. "More than once I've operated to correct clubfoot. I don't think this is so very different." He felt her fingers running lightly over his humped shoulder. "There seem to be extra spurs of bone protruding from some of your vertebrae." Her hands followed the contorted curve of his spine. "Yes, that's it. And the ligaments along the right side are too short and too tight. I might be able to cut some of them to release the tension. It might take several operations. There would be some pain, and a fair amount of work afterward to stretch and lengthen the muscles. Nor do I think we could straighten your back entirely, but…"

Wort dared to breathe the words. "But what?"

"I think, with time, I could heal your back." Mika gripped his hand. "Let me help you… Worren."

Wort opened his mouth, but he truly did not know what to say. Quickly she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "No, don't give me an answer. Just think about for a while." She leaned forward and fleetingly brushed her lips across his cheek in a kiss. After a moment she turned and picked up her basket. "I'm going to search for a few more herbs. Fire- spur berries should just be getting ripe by now."

As she wandered off among the trees, Wort gazed after her in mute shock. For a long time he sat numbly on the ground, like one struck by lightning. Could he truly be healed? Once again the words he had heard in the belfry drifted through his mind. Monsters do not walk with angels…

"But what if she can do it?" he demanded angrily. "What if I can stand tall, like Caidin? What then?"

The voice whispered again in his brain, but was cut off as a scream shattered the air.

"Mika!" Wort gasped in alarm.

Leaping to his feet, he dashed through the trees. He ran stooped over, using his long arms as a second pair of legs, like some sort of beast. Another scream rang out but was cut short, muffled. Panting, Wort ran faster. Tearing through a tangle of brambles, he found himself on the edge of the small brook. The first thing he saw was Mika's straw basket on the ground. Bright red berries had spilled beside it, glistening like blood on the green moss. A creaking sound drew his gaze.

The dead tree beside the brook was moving. Its rough bark was twisted into a shape that suggested a grotesque human face. Two pits glowed with eerie green light like eyes, and a ragged hole in the trunk gaped like a huge maw, gnashing splintery teeth. Once this had been a living, evil, animate tree-a treant-but as it died it had not been willing to give up its carnivorous appetites. In undeath, it hungered more than ever for flesh and blood. Long ago Wort had read about an undead treant in one of his books-but then it had been only a story. This was all too real.

The treant bent its branches toward a struggling Mika. The doctor fought in vain against the dark roots that snaked out of the ground to entwine her. One had coiled about her mouth, stifling her cries. Another root wrapped itself about her arm. Its tip sank into her flesh. Her body went rigid as her flushed cheeks turned white. The thing was draining her blood.

With a wordless cry of rage, Wort leapt over the. brook and threw himself at the tree. A branch-arm swatted him aside as easily as an insect. He landed hard on the ground, grunting in pain. Damp roots started to encircle his legs. Kicking fiercely, Wort scrambled out of their reach. He turned back to see Mika staring at him with terrified eyes. Her struggling grew weaker as the root continued to drain blood from her body. The treant's maw opened in a terrible grin.

Wort searched the pockets of his cloak frantically, then drew out an object-the magical candle. Focusing his anger, he.created a shaft of searing fire that leapt from the tip of the candle. Roaring like an animal, Wort lunged at the animate tree, swinging the blazing candle like a fiery sword. The shaft of fire bit deep into one of the treant's branch-arms, cleaving it in two. The tree opened its ragged mouth in a scream of fury that seemed to vibrate through the earth. With the blazing candle, Wort hacked at the roots that gripped Mika. The treant screamed again as its roots released the doctor. Gasping, face deathly pale, she stumbled away and collapsed on the mossy ground.

"Mika!" Wort shouted, turning toward her.

One of the treant's gnarled arms struck him hard from behind. He fell forward, and the magic candle flew from his grip. Its flame went out as it struck the ground. Like a cold serpent, a thick root coiled about his body, holding him fast. Countless twig fingers brushed his face, scratching him. A weird creaking that might have been laughter emanated from the treant as it slowly lifted him toward the rotting hole of its mouth, ready to sink its splinter-teeth into his flesh.

Another soundless cry vibrated through the rotten wood, only this one was not fury, but agony. The root let Wort go, and he tumbled to the ground. He dragged himself to his knees just in time to see Mika pull the blazing shaft of the magical candle out of the undead tree. There was a grim expression on her ghostly face and a flinty light in her purple eyes.

Then Mika slumped weakly to the ground. The candle went out-but the undead treant still burned. Tongues of scarlet flame licked up its moss-covered bark. The ancient tree writhed violently. In moments it was engulfed in a pillar of roaring fire. It waved its branches wildly, then gradually grew still as a column of black smoke reached to the blue sky above.

Wort scrambled over to Mika, helping her sit up. "I'll be fine," she said hoarsely. Crimson still oozed slowly from the puncture wound in her arm. She cleaned it with a handful of dry leaves as Wort tore a strip from his cloak for a bandage. The two watched as the burning tree toppled over in a spray of sparks.

"It's dead," Wort whispered grimly. In his storybooks, the heroes had always been jubilant after they slew a beast. All he felt was sick. He helped Mika to her feet, and together the two walked slowly back toward Nartok Keep in the waning daylight.