Tower of Doom

Fifteen

A murderer stalked the barony of Nartok.

By most accounts, Nartok's treasurer was the first to die. Few were sorrowful to see the merciless tax collector meet his end, but even fewer failed to shiver at the gory details of his demise-crushed to death by a chest heaped with gold. Next to go was the village tanner, a man known to tan the hides of his apprentices as readily as those of the animals whose skins he fashioned into leather. He was found dangling from a rafter in his shop, horror on his bloated face, hanged by the neck with the belt he had used to whip his errant helpers. Some whispered that perhaps the apprentices themselves had turned upon the man. As the days passed and the bodies were heaped higher and higher in the charnel house, such mundane theories were forgotten.

Each killing seemed stranger and more gruesome than the last. A pair of lovers were found in the woods, dark leaves clinging damply to their naked skin, bound together by the thorned vines that had strangled them. In the keep's kitchens, a scullery boy stirred one of the gigantic iron kettles hanging above the hearth only to see the bulging-eyed face of the kitchenwife bob to the surface. The sharp- tongued woman had been boiled alive in her own foul stew. The village scribe, the acerbic Master Demaris, was discovered in his shop one morning, quill pens protruding from each of his eyes. His body was covered with sheaves of parchment, and on each, penned in the dark-rust ink of human blood, was a hideous poem. The one he clutched in his stiff hand was perhaps the worst of them all:

We live out our lives the dreaming dead,

All born to brief waking, to know and dread

The ancient, cruel, voiceless call-

Proclaiming our fate

To lie swaddled again

In the tomb's cold pall.

Eternity breathes dark breath on our face,

Whispering of earth and its damp embrace.

We rise from the soil only to fall

Our souls to reap

Then grind to meal

Doom shall come for us all.

By day, folk huddled together in taverns, stables, and smithies, whispering of the bizarre and grisly deaths that plagued the fiefdom. "Did you hear about the miller?" The peasants gathered in the common room of the Black Boar shook their heads fearfully, gazing at the man who had spoken. He took a sip from his mug of dark ale and wiped the foam from his bushy mustache.

"His brother found him this morning," the man went on grimly. "Ground to bits on his own millstone, he was." The others shuddered. "That makes thirteen so far. Thirteen murdered in the last week alone. You know what I think? I think that it's a-" He lowered his voice dramatically. "-a werewolf."

Another man snorted at this. "You're wrong, Rory. Everyone knows the killings have to do with the tower on the moor. It's the ghost of the murdered Vistana, it is. The gypsy is building the tower, and he's using the blood of the people he kills to mix the mortar." Gasps of shock went around the circle. All knew the tales concerning the mysterious tower- how the ring of stones had first appeared on the exact spot where a gypsy man had been robbed and stabbed to death, and how his spirit was said to haunt the accursed pl amp;ce.

"That's not what I heard," the brewer's wife countered. "I heard it's the monster that lives in the bell tower. Haven't you heard the bells ringing at odd and frequent hours of late?" This was greeted with murmurs of assent.

A beady-eyed man spoke then. "You are fools," he sniveled in a wheedling voice. "Have you all forgotten about the witch and her daemon?" He cast a fearful look at the door, behind which all knew the golden-haired healer saw her suffering patients.

The man with the bushy mustache frowned. "We've all heard enough of your witless talk, Cray. If the doctor's a witch, then you're a warlock. Besides, I still say it's a werewolf…"

Every evening as the eye of the sun drowned in a sea of blood-red clouds, folk in the village shut themselves tightly inside their hovels. In the keep, courtiers and servants alike barred the doors of their chambers and lit candle after candle until their rooms were virtually ablaze. All stared with wide eyes until at long last they heard the dissonant chorus of cocks heralding the dawn, and shuddered with relief that they had lived through one more night. Then all would emerge fearfully from their hiding places to discover, as they knew they would, which of them had not been so fortunate. Even by day, now, the fiefdom seemed deathly quiet. No travelers came to the keep, no merchant wagons slogged through the muddy streets of the village, no gold changed hands, no goods were crafted, no dice were thrown in the dank back-street hideaways. Fear held Nartok utterly in its paralyzing grip.

Then at last came the dark discovery.

"Kill the fiend!"

The angry cries rose up the rocky slope of the tor from the village far below. Baron Caidin gripped the stone balustrade of the balcony outside his chamber with white-knuckled hands. He watched grimly as. countless torches bobbed in the dusky half-light, streaming like a procession of fireflies up the twisting road that led to the massive gates.

"Kill the fiend!"

Caidin swore bitterly. For the hundredth time that day, he asked himself how this could be happening. His plans were so near completion. The tower was all but finished. He had pored over every detail of his grand design to wrest the kingdom of Darkon from Azalin's hands. He had considered every possibility and difficulty. Yet, in all his scheming, he had not planned on this.

"Kill the baron!"

The mob of villagers approached the stone walls of the keep, chanting their bloodthirsty chorus. "Kill the fiend! Kill the baron! Kill the fiend!" Some shook sharpened hoes and wooden pitchforks. Those who did not angrily gripped wooden clubs and heavy stones. They surged against the gates, crimson torchlight flickering in their eyes.

At last Caidin heard the sound he had been waiting for. Clear and stirring, a horn pierced the air, signaling a charge. With the clank of iron chains and the groan of wood, the ponderous gates of the keep swung open. A score of the baron's biue-coated knights thundered out astride galloping white coursers. The knights drew their curved sabers. Firelight glinted on the steel blades. The horses plunged into the mob.

Still chanting their violent refrain, the peasants raised their crude weapons. The knights spurred their horses through the crowd, crushing those unfortunate enough to fall beneath the hooves of their horses, hacking in all directions with their wickedly curved blades. The peasants clustered around each horse, jabbing upward with rusted spears and sharpened stakes. One of the knights screamed in agony, blood bubbling from his mouth, as a steel pitchfork plunged into his belly. He toppled out of the saddle and was trampled by the stamping hooves of his own horse. A rock struck another knight between the eyes, leaving a wet, crimson blossom on his forehead. He, too, fell to the ground, where a dozen peasants clubbed his quivering form while the mob cheered.

Eyeing their fallen comrades, the rest of the knights changed their tactics and formed two solid lines. They flanked the throng on two sides, slashing with their sabers. Untrained in the art of war, the peasants were no match for the organized onslaught. The chanting of the mob quickly changed to panicked screams. One peasant clutched his stomach, trying to keep his entrails from spilling to the ground. Another waved the severed stump of an arm, spraying the crowd with gore. A third futilely tried to close the gash in his neck as blood spurted in a crimson fountain. In moments the battle became a rout. The villagers dropped their torches and weapons. They turned to flee, dragging the dead and wounded with them. The knights let out a cry of victory. They sheathed their sabers and wheeled their mounts around, retreating into the keep's courtyard. The ponderous gates swung shut.

It was over. For now. Caidin knew the mob would return. Three evenings in a row the vengeful throng had approached the gates of the keep, and three times Caidin's men had repulsed them. Yet each night the mob was larger than the night before. More importantly, Caidin knew that whispers of suspicion had begun to circulate among his knights and servants. It was only a matter of time until his own followers turned against him. When that happened, all hope was lost.

Caidin did not know who had hidden the wooden box filled with bloodstained objects in his chamber. Whoever the interloper was, he was the true fiend, the agent of over a dozen macabre deaths in the keep and village. Each of the objects in the wooden box had belonged to one of the killer's victims. Each was an accusing finger of guilt. They had been found by a servant three days before in Caidin's own chamber.

Like any strong ruler, Caidin had always maintained a clever balance of terror in his fiefdom. The people had to fear him enough to obey his every command, but not so much that they would rebel. With the discovery of the incriminating objects, the folk of Nartok now believed their baron to be not only a cruel overlord, but the vilest and most heinous murderer of the time. The scales of fear had tipped wildly out of balance. The result was a violent uprising that could conceivably end in Caidin's own execution.

As night drowned the countryside in darkness, Caidin went to his private chamber. Pock lounged on a velvet chaise, clad in a ruffled shirt and a puffy coat of yellow satin that clashed with his purple skin. At least Caidin could be certain that the gnome would not turn against him. Who else would put up with the sniveling little maggot?

"I just thought of something, Your Grace," the gnome said, his bald head wrinkled in concentration.

"Please, Pock, I'm in no mood for jokes," Caidin replied acidly.

"None of this makes any sense," the gnome went on blithely. He scooped up a handful of blood- encrusted objects from the incriminating wooden box. "Why would someone go to so much trouble to frame you for a bunch of crimes you didn't commit, when there are so many other crimes that you actually did? It seems like it would be far simpler just to mention those to the peasantry to get their dander up." Pock chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. "In fact, now that I think about it, Your Grace, it's truly a wonder that the people haven't risen up against you a long time ago."

"No, Pock," Caidin countered. "It's truly a wonder that I didn't wring your scrawny neck a long time ago."

The gnome gulped, dropping the bloodstained objects back into the box. "May wonders never cease, Your Grace!"

Caidin groaned, flopping down into a gilded chair. He did not have the energy to give his wretched little slave the drubbing he deserved. All his life, Caidin had lived in utter confidence of his power and superiority. He had never encountered a situation of which he did not feel he was the ultimate master. Now, for the first time, he felt a hint of uncertainty, perhaps- did he dare think it? — even vulnerability.

"I am lost, Pock," he said forlornly. "If the tower were complete, I would have nothing to fear from the most widespread rebellion. Indeed, a few nights more are all the zombies need to finish their task. But something tells me that I do not have even that long. Something tells me that a few more nights will find me dead." He covered his eyes with a many- ringed hand. "What am I to do, Pock?"

"Actually, Your Grace, I think I can suggest a solution."

Lowering his hand, Caidin shot the gnome a sour look. "It was a rhetorical question, Pock."

"You should have said so in the first place, Your Grace," the gnome complained. "The villagers seem to have their minds set on pounding a stake in your heart, stringing you up, and then burning you alive." The gnome frowned. "No, I suppose they would have to burn you alive first, then string you up. Hmmm… Of course, then there wouldn't be much left to-"

"Enough, Pock!" Caidin growled. "I get the point."

Pock clapped his hands together happily. "How terribly brilliant of you, Your Grace!" Caidin's face coloration approached that of the gnome's. Pock did not appear to notice. "Well," he went on, "my plan's actually very simple."

"What a surprise."

"If the villagers want to kill you because they're worried you're going to keep on murdering people, then why don't you just give them something else to worry about? Surely you can think of something dire enough to occupy their time-at least for a few days, until the tower is done. Then who cares what the peasants think. You can squash them,all like bugs!" This last idea was apparently too much for the gnome, sending him into a histrionic fit of laughter. He fell backward on the chaise, kicking and rolling as his purple little body was racked with uncontrollable mirth. "Bugs!" he squealed gleefully once more.

Caidin ignored him. A sharp light brought the old flicker of life to his green eyes. He sat up straight in the chair. The familiar confidence returned. "Of course," he said in amazement. "It's perfect. Yet so simple it would take an idiot to see it. And no one is more idiotic that yourself, Pock."

"Why thank you, Your Grace!" the gnome snorted between giggles. "You're too kind!"

Caidin had already stalked from the chamber to begin giving the orders.

Mika stared out the grimy window of the inn's back room into the gray morning light. The question that had tormented her all night, and the three nights before that, still festered in her mind. How could she, a woman of healing, have known such exquisite pleasure in the arms of a villainous murderer? She clutched the gold locket that once more hung around her neck.

"Forgive me, my loves," she whispered. "I am so very sorry. Forgive me."

That was the worst of it. Were they here, Geordin and Lia would forgive her. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. They would hold her in their arms and take her tears upon their own cheeks, and truly, absolutely forgive her.

"I do not deserve forgiveness, my loves," she whispered despairingly. Sighing, she turned away from the window.

She had not heard them come in.

Mika clamped a hand to her mouth, stifling a cry. Three women stood in the open doorway. That they were Vistani she knew from their garb-full white shirts, embroidered vests, skirts of brilliant, swirling colors. Over it all they wore so much jewelry that the sheer weight of it ought to have borne them to the ground. They glittered with copper bracelets, glass earrings, and beaded necklaces.

Despite their similar attire, the three women were markedly different from one another. One was barely more than a child, cheeks pink and bosom full with the first bloom of womanhood. A ring set with a large green stone sparkled on her hand. The second Vistana was of middle years, radiant in her maturity, the fine lines about her eyes and mouth accentuating her beauty. She, too, wore a ring with a shining stone. The third gypsy was ancient in aspect, a crone stooped over a twisted walking staff. About her wrinkled visage and wispy white hair there existed a faded, fragile beauty. Her ring bore a stone so black it seemed to absorb all light that strayed near its polished facets. Though the three women differed greatly in age and appearance, the same wise light' shone in each of their eyes.

Forcibly, Mika regained her composure. She had heard many mysterious stories about the Vistani- how they traveled constantly in their gilded, brightly painted wagons, considering all the land their home; how they read hints of the future in the patterns of cards and the flight of birds; how they were said to be able to look at a man's palm and know his soul completely. Still, somehow she knew that the three gypsies meant her no harm.

She cleared her throat. "Can I… can I help you? Is one of you hurt?"

To Mika's surprise, it was the youngest of the three gypsies who stepped forward to answer. "No, Doctor. It is your own hurt that brought us here. It is we who would help you."

Mika found herself sinking down into a chair. "I see." These were the only words she could manage. What did these Vistani want with her?

The women entered the chamber, accompanied by the faint music of their clinking jewelry. Their radiance seemed to brighten the dingy room.

The middle-aged Vistana spoke next. "May we ask you something, Doctor?"

Mika nodded dumbly.

"We have learned that there is a hunchback who lives in the bell tower of Nartok Keep. You are familiar with him, are you not?"

Surprise flickered across Mika's face. "Yes, that's so. His name is Wort. How… how do you know of him?"

A cackle escaped from the lips of the eldest Vistana. "How do you know that the sun shall rise each morning, my child? How do you know that, after winter, spring will come again?"

Mika shook her head in puzzlement. "I suppose I just know."

The ancient gypsy nodded gravely, as if Mika had just uttered some profound truth.

"We believe your friend may be in terrible danger, Doctor," the youngest of the three spoke.

Mika thought of her last encounter with Wort and found that she was shaking. Her heart still held many feelings for the hunchback-sorrow, pity, even a degree of love. Now to that list had been added another-fear. For a moment, she remembered the way Wort had twisted the neck of the poor gray pigeon.

"He… he isn't my friend any longer," she replied at last.

The pretty Vistana arched a single eyebrow in curiosity. "Then he is in even greater danger," she replied solemnly.

"Tell us, Doctor," the middle-aged gypsy asked, "do you believe in evil?"

"I… I'm not…" Mika swallowed hard. She thought of all she had witnessed, long ago in II Aluk, and now these last days. Finally she forced herself to say the word. "Yes."

The youngest of the three nodded. "You are right to believe so, Doctor. You see, long before there was light, there was darkness. Even now, night dwells in brooding jealousy of day, begrudging the hours when light touches the land darkness once possessed so completely. Darkness is very ancient, and very powerful, and it schemes ever for the time when it will rule the world once more."

"But what does this have to do with me?" Mika asked hoarsely. The Vistana's words terrified her.

"Nothing," the gypsy crone answered. "Or everything."

A slightly manic smile touched Mika's lips. "Well, that about covers all the possibilities."

"It does indeed," the young Vistana replied. She grew solemn once more. "There remain in this land many relics of the ancient time when darkness ruled the world, objects of terrible evil. We are fortunate, for most are lost, or at least hidden away so deeply they will never be found. Yet a perilous few are not so well concealed. From time to time, such a relic is unearthed, and then only woe can follow."

Mika shivered. "You believe Wort has one of these… these relics?"

The Vistani nodded. For a time they spoke while Mika listened. She learned the names of the three women-Karin was youngest and most forthright, Riandra motherly and questioning, and Varith the wizened crone who wrapped herself in mystery.

"Ages ago, in another land, there was an arrogant and foolish king," Karin began the horrible tale. "In his kingdom lived a great smith, and one day the king demanded that the smith forge for him a bell of bronze and silver. The smith told the king that these two metals would not mix, and that such a bell would crack the first time it was rung. Because of his pride, the king would not recant his request, ill-considered though it was. He commanded that the smith forge such a bell, and if it cracked when it was rung, the smith's eldest child would be killed. In anger and fear, the smith set to his impossible task. At first he despaired, but then-and how we will never know- dark knowledge came to him. He discovered a way to make molten bronze and silver bind.

"When at last he unveiled the'bell, the king marveled at its beauty. The king commanded the smith to ring the instrument, and this was done. The bell's voice was pure and rich and like nothing those who looked on had ever heard. What was more, it did not crack.

"But the king's joy at this triumph was marred. As the bell rang out, the smith gleefully revealed how he had accomplished this impossible task. He had learned that there was one substance, and one alone, that would cause silver and bronze to bind, and that was human blood. 'Whose blood was spilled to forge this abomination?' the king asked in dread. The smith's laughter rang out as loud as the bell. 'That of your three sons,' he replied. 'It seemed fitting, since you would have gladly slain my child had I failed.'

"Before the king could call for the smith's death, the tolling of the bell faded, and suddenly the air darkened as three apparitions appeared. They were the spirits of the king's dead sons. The smith fell to his knees, begging for mercy, but as the others gazed on, the spirits tore his body apart. Then they vanished into the air once more. Forever after, it was the curse of the bell that, each time it was rung, someone was forced to pay for its music with his life."

After Karin finished, silence reigned for a spell. At last, Mika managed to ask the question whose answer she feared to learn. "What… what became of this bell?" "The bell's history is long and tangled," Varith replied in a voice like a crow's. "Eventually it came to lie in a cathedral, a cathedral whose ruins yet stand in the forest east of here." Riandra placed a motherly hand on Mika's shoulder. "Tell us, child. You have seen something in the bell tower, something that stirs fear in your heart even now. What was it?" Mika could barely speak for her trembling. "I saw him. I saw Wort in the belfry. He had rung one of his bells, and he… he was talking to… them." "Who, child? You must tell us!" Mika drew in a ragged breath. "Three dark spirits…" As one, the three Vistani nodded grimly.