Tower of Doom

Three

"They think they know fear when they gaze upon me…"

Roaring flames consumed the heap of leather- bound books in the fireplace. Shadows danced on the walls of the bell tower chamber, like dying phantoms writhing in the violent orange light.

"I will show them real fear…"

With gnarled hands, Wort tore apart another book and heaved it onto the fire. The burning mound settled under its own weight, letting out a serpent's hiss. Searing heat blistered Wort's face, but he did not care. Handsome princes and brave knights-heroes he could never be, stories he could never live. Let all the books burn. Suddenly the flames made him think of the ashwife who had fallen in her haste to get away from him. He relived how her hands smoked and her face bubbled. For years he had wallowed in guilt from that day. Yet it had been her own fault, he told himself now. Perhaps she deserved to be burned. Perhaps they all did.

"They have mocked me for the last time," he croaked hoarsely. "I will show them that a monster is not an object of ridicule, but one of terror. I will show them all. Even Caidin." A murderous glint lit his eyes. "No… especially Caidin. Caidin who has had everything while I… I have had this." He clawed at his twisted face.

What a fool he had been! Oh, what a loathsome, laughable idiot! Mow Wort saw everything clearly. He had not asked for this wretched, twisted body. He was the one who deserved pity. They were cruel and heartless, all of them-the villagers, the servants in the keep, the nobles of the baron's court. They deserved a monster, and he would give them one.

"But how?"

He stalked toward the slit of the chamber's lone window. Leaning heavily on the cracked window ledge, he glared at the folk that scurried like rats in the courtyard below.

"If only I could make them know what it is like to be an object of fear, Oratio," he whispered to a pigeon perched on the ledge. He picked up the bird, stroking the purple feathers of its throat. "Then I would know justice."

Perhaps the idea that came to him then was a phantasm of his fevered brain, brought on by the acrid smoke and heat of the fire. Whatever the genesis, Wort suddenly knew what to do.

"The darkling!" he realized. "Yes, I must go to the dungeon. The darkling will show me the way." He bared his jagged yellow teeth. "I will have justice!"

A sharp popping sound echoed off the walls. Startled, Wort looked down at the gory remnants of the pigeon in his hands. Blood matted the iridescent feathers of its limp neck, and its once-bright eyes stared now like dull stones.

"Oratio…" Wort gasped, blinking back burning tears. "What have I done?"

Peculiar thoughts crept into the turmoil of his brain. Leave the thing, Wort It is far too late now. He dropped the pigeon to the floor. Wort gathered his black cloak around his tortured body. He did not bother to wipe the blood from his hands. Let it mark him. "Farewell, Oratio," he whispered grimly.

Wort moved through the dank passageway deep in the bowels of Nartok Keep. The air was oppressive here, as if all the ponderous weight of the fortress pressed down ruthlessly frorrt above. Rancid- smelling torches burned in crude iron sconces at, irregular intervals, giving off more smoke than light. Dark slime dripped down cracked walls to pool on; the stone floor, like ooze from some festering dis- i ease. Screams of agony and moans of suffering echoed in the distance. Wort's bulbous eyes gleamed in the torchlight, flicking nervously left and right. He clutched a small rusted knife, scrounged from beneath the rotting straw that covered the floor of his chamber in the bell tower.

Crude laughter drifted from ahead. Cautiously, Wort edged his way along the wall until he came to an archway that opened into a side chamber. Holding his breath, he peered through. In the small room beyond, three forms clad in shabby blue uniforms crouched on the floor, gathered around a circle drawn in chalk*. Dungeon guards. Shaped like men, their flesh was a sickly green hue. Their bloated heads seemed too large for their bodies, and their eyes glowed like hot coals. Wort had read of such creatures. They were goblyns-pathetic humans who had been transformed by dark magic.

"Darkness grant me luck," one of the goblyns growled. He shook a wooden cup, and a dozen yellowed knucklebones tumbled into the circle.

"Blast you, Gordek!" another goblyn swore.

"You sold your soul to the cursed darkling, didn't you?" the third hissed accusingly.

"Fools," Qordek gloated. "You will never best me at Seven Bones." He reached to scoop up a pile of coins next to the circle, then froze. One of the knucklebones slithered away. Another followed suit. Suddenly all of the knucklebones started to twitch and scuttle across the floor like living things.

"So that's your secret, is it, Gordek?" one goblyn snarled.

"You're using golem bones to cheat us!" cried the other.

Gordek bared his needle teeth in a grin, then lunged for the coins. With bestial howls, the other two goblyns fell upon him. Green blood flowed as the three tore at each other with fang and claw. Wort took advantage of the distraction. Averting his eyes from the struggle, he scurried past the opening and continued down the corridor. Soon the walls gave way to corroded bars of steel. Chains clinked as shadows stirred in the cells. Scabrous arms reached out, clutching in vain at Wort's cloak as he moved past.

"Help me." The gasping whispers came from all directions. "Please, help me."

"No," he choked. "No, I cannot. I… I am sorry."

Wort hurried on. He glimpsed an iron door at the far end of the passageway, set apart from the other cells. He hobbled to the door. The portal was locked, but in the stone wall beside it was a small opening through which a bowl-or a spear point-might be slid. Awkwardly, Wort knelt on the slimy floor and peered into the opening. Beyond was absolute blackness.

"Vistana," Wort whispered. "Vistana, are you in there?"

For a long moment there was no reply. Then a voice like a rusting hinge spoke from beyond.

"Give… me… light."

Wort backed away from the opening and stood up. A torch guttered in a nearby iron bracket. With a painful effort, he managed to reach the torch. He bent down and slipped it into the hole. Something beyond grabbed the torch and dragged it through.

"Ah, light.. the cracked voice beyond the wall whispered. "Beautiful, yes. But oh, it hurts so to look upon."

Wort squinted one bulging eye and peered through the narrow opening. In the wavering light of the torch he could see a cramped, filthy chamber. Black water pooled on the floor, and eyeless insects hung on the walls. Huddled in the room's center, clutching the torch, were the wretched remains of a man. Rags clung wetly to his spiderlike limbs, and his skin was withered and mottled like rotten fruit. His sunken face was twisted into an expression that was part anguish and part weird mirth, while his colorless eyes glowed like moons in the darkness, staring with blind intensity. They were the eyes of one who had gazed too long upon things no man should see. While the goblyns had been frightening, the darkling was a thing of genuine horror. Wort could smell rank corruption radiating from him like the overwhelming stench of a decomposing corpse.

Swallowing hard, Wort dared to speak. "I have come… I have come to-"

"I know why you have come," the shriveled man spat, turning his disconcerting gaze toward the opening. "I am still Vistana. They cast me out for what I have seen, but they cannot change what I am!"

Wort knew it was perilous even to speak to a darkling. It was said their words alone were enough to cast a listener under a spell. All darklings were Vistani-or at least, all had been so at one time. Each had committed some nefarious crime for which the gypsies had branded him an outcast. Cut off from his people, the darkling descended deeper into evil, until he was utterly consumed by it. Though corrupted, darklings retained their Vistana power of gazing into the future. This darkling had been captured by the baron some months ago. Wort had watched from his bell tower as two of Caidin's knights had hauled the wretched Vistana to the iron gate that led to the dungeons.

"If you know why I have come, darkling, then you already know what you're going to tell me."

"Oh, no, not yet." The darkling jammed the end of the torch into a crack and scurried on all fours toward the opening. "For that, I must have your hand."

Reluctantly, Wort slipped his left hand through the slit. He shuddered as stick-thin fingers brushed his palm.

"Stained with blood, you are," the darkling hissed. Wort resisted the impulse to pull his hand away. "Your soul is twisted, as is your body. Only one thing can heal it."

"Vengeance," Wort snarled.

The darkling did not reply. It did not matter. That was the one thing Wort already knew.

"Tell me, Vistana," he demanded. "How am I to gain my revenge against Caidin and all the others who have despised me?"

The darkling spoke again in a wheedling voice. "Two leagues east of the village, a path leads northward from the main road. It is overgrown and difficult to see, but you will know it by the old stone watcher that stands nearby. Follow the path until you reach the ruins of an ancient cathedral. Within, you will find the means to gain your vengeance."

"How will I know what to look for in the cathedral?"

Shrill laughter raised the hair on the back of Wort's thick neck. Quickly he snatched his hand back.

"Oh, you will know."

The darkling fell silent. Peering again through the crack, Wort saw that the man had crawled to the far wall. He sat now, clasping his gaunt arms about his bony knees.

"I don't know how I can repay you for your help," Wort said finally.

The darkling did not answer for a long time. "Gain your vengeance. That will be payment enough."

Trembling, Wort backed away from the hole. He gripped his heavy cloak more tightly about himself and hobbled down the passageway-quickly, lest the dungeon's guards discover him.

In the foul cell, the darkling rocked back and forth in the flickering light of the dying torch.

"First the stone, now the bell." Queer laughter racked his withered body. "Oh, what dark mayhem I have wrought!"

A memory flitted into the darkling's crazed mind- a memory of all the smooth, lovely necks he had broken with his bare hands. How sweet it was to squeeze and squeeze until finally he felt bones snap… until the others had discovered who it was that was murdering their sons and daughters. They had cast him out, thinking that by doing so he could cause them no more harm. What fools they were!

"Now the stone is free," he chortled. "Soon the bell will be, too. Then they will be sorry. Then all the Vistani will be sorry!"

A bloated beetled scuttled across his bare foot. With uncanny swiftness, the darkling snaked out a hand and grabbed the insect. Dark splotches marked its pale carapace, forming the shape of a grinning skull. The insect wriggled violently, then shot a stream of dark liquid from between gnashing mandibles. The fluid struck the floor. It sizzled and smoked, carving a pock mark into the hard stone. The darkling took care not to let any of the fluid touch him. One drop of a skull beetle's venom caused one's flesh to start decomposing, and there was no antidote. In minutes, the victim was reduced to a pile of putrid ooze. Despite their poison, the darkling found skull beetles to be quite… delicious. One by one, he picked off the insect's legs and popped them, still wriggling, into his mouth.

The cold autumn wind whistled mournfully through the tangle of dry witchgrass that grew to either side of the road east of the village. Wort bounced on the bench of a rickety wagon harnessed to a dun-colored donkey. It had been curiously easy to steal the cart and donkey from the keep's livery. The stable- master was called away at just the right moment, and the stableboy was asleep in the hayloft. It was almost as if some unseen hand were guiding Wort. However, now that he had stolen it, convincing the slow-moving donkey to keep up a good pace was not such a simple task.

"Come along, beast," Wort pleaded, giving the reins a shake. The donkey planted its hooves firmly in the mud, laying back its ears and rolling its eyes. "Please, beast. We haven't all day." Wort glanced up at the sky. The sun was invisible behind leaden clouds, but he knew it was past midday. Sighing, he clumsily climbed down from the wagon's bench and picked his way through the mud to stand before the donkey. "Now, beast," he said wearily. "Your legs are stronger than mine. Won't you bear me to the cathedral out of kindness?"

The donkey gave him a flat, sullen stare.

"I didn't think so," Wort grumbled. He pulled something out of a pocket. "Then will you do it for an apple?"

The animal's ears perked up as Wort held out a wrinkled fruit. It snuffled the apple briefly, then crunched it to pulp with big, yellow teeth.

"Now, there's more where that came from, beast." The donkey let out an excited snort. Wort hobbled back to the wagon and clambered onto the bench. "But first, the cathedral!"

The beast launched into a merry trot. Wort couldn't help but grin. It was a good thing he had stolen the stableboy's lunch as well as the cart.

After a time, the sound of thunder rumbled on the air. Wort glanced up nervously, wondering if it was going to rain. The rumbling drew nearer. Abruptly he realized it was not thunder at all, but the staccato hoofbeats of a horse. Over a low rise, horse and rider came into view. A massive white charger galloped swiftly toward him, mud spraying from its hooves. On the stallion's back rode a man with long golden hair, clad in the blue livery of one of the baron's knights.

"Out of my way, peasant!" the knight ordered in a booming voice. "I ride with a message for the baron!"

Wort pulled on the reins, trying to veer the donkey to the side of the road. The beast's hooves slipped in the mud, and the wagon slid sideways, blocking the road. Wort cringed as the charger reared onto its hind legs, skidding to a violent halt. The knight glared at Wort.

"I said out of my way, you wretched piece of filth." Rage contorted the knight's handsome, square- jawed face.

"I… I'm sorry, my lord," Wort gasped, cowering inside his concealing cloak.

"I did not give you leave to speak!" the knight said imperiously. He drew the saber at his hip and/with casual strength, struck Wort with the flat of the blade. Crying out in pain, Wort tumbled into the mud.

"Let that teach you to heed your betters."

The knight let out a harsh laugh, then spurred his charger past the wagon. Horse and rider galloped down the road toward Nartok Keep. Struggling to free himself from the tangles of his muddy cloak, Wort hauled himself slowly to his feet. He gripped his throbbing shoulder, staring hatefully after the golden-haired knight.

"Why must those who have everything be so cruel to those who have nothing?" Wort whispered bitterly. The only answer was the low moaning of the wind. He climbed into the wagon, and the craft lurched into motion once more.

Soon the road plunged into a copse of beech and ash trees, their branches already bare with the advent of autumn. A coarse cry from above pierced the still air, and a dark blur flew scant inches over Wort's head. The thing sped by and alighted on a stump. A crow. Wort had the disturbing sensation that it was staring at him. He reined the donkey to a halt. It was not a stump that the bird perched upon, but a statue. Long years of wind and rain had worn it almost beyond recognition, yet something about the statue made Wort think of ancient and neglected majesty.

Wort gasped as moisture trickled like tears from the dark pits of its eyes. The statue's stone arm was moving, beckoning to him. The crow spread its wings, flapping away through the trees. Trembling, Wort tried to calm himself.

"Don't be a fool, Wort," he muttered. "Statues can't move. It was a trick of the shadows. That's alh" He forced himself to look again at the statue. This time it did not stir. Then he noticed a faint track leading into the trees.

"Of course, beast," Wort whispered to the donkey. "This must be the stone watcher the darkling spoke of." The animal pricked its long ears. Its nostrils flared, as if it caught some disturbing scent.

"Come along, beast. We have a bargain."

Reluctantly, the donkey plodded down the overgrown track. Creaking in protest, the wagon rattled behind. The path was deeply rutted, and the trees closed in threateningly from either side. It looked as if no one had come this way in years. Wort tried not to wonder why.

The air was growing thick and purple as the barren trees gave way and the cathedral at last hove into view. The structure looked as if it had been abandoned centuries earlier. One wall had collapsed into dark rubble, and much of the roof had fallen in, leaving spindly stone buttresses to curve overhead, like the exposed ribs of some gigantic rotting beast. Grotesque stone gargoyles leered down from high ledges, water dribbling like dark saliva from their rain-spout mouths. Wort guided the wagon through the dim archway that led into the cathedral, its doors long ago reduced to splinters. The donkey pranced skittishly as the wagon ground to a halt. Wort climbed down.

Outside, the westering sun had broken through the dark clouds on the horizon. Now its light streamed through intricate stained-glass windows that were oddly intact. The radiance fell upon the floor like a scattering of fiery jewels. Here and there, nettles pushed up through piles of rubble, and more beast- faced gargoyles grinned down at Wort from high ledges. Their dull stone eyes seemed to follow him disconcertingly wherever he moved. He shivered, trying his best to ignore them as he cautiously began exploring the ruin.

"How am I to search for something when I don't even know what it is?" he muttered in exasperation.

The gloomy atmosphere seemed to stifle his words. He came to a pile of rocks near one crumbling wall. Atop the heap, leaning at a precarious angle, was a horned gargoyle hewn of dark stone. With no better idea of what to do, Wort picked through the jumble of rocks. He pulled a stone from the pile, then heaved it down in disgust. This was futile.

Motion above caught his eye. He jerked his head up, his eyes bulging in fear. The stone gargoyle atop the pile had shifted position, leaning sinisterly for-, ward. Its muscled arms reached out toward Wort, its toothy maw gaping hungrily. Suddenly the gargoyle dived forward. With a cry, Wort scrambled back as the gargoyle tumbled downward. It shattered as it struck the hard floor, chunks of stone rolling in all directions. Wort gasped as the thing's head came to a stop at his feet. The frozen visage snarled up at him.

Abruptly Wort let out a nervous laugh. Nothing to be afraid of-just an old, falling-apart statue. Shaking his head, he turned from the broken gargoyle and continued his exploration of the cathedral. After poking around the rubble, he made his way up crumbling steps to the nave. The crimson light of the stained-glass windows filled the air with a thick miasma. Wort noticed a strange mound in the center of the nave. A rotting tapestry, fallen from above, shrouded the peculiar pile. Somehow the shape beneath the musty cloth seemed oddly familiar. Curious, Wort reached out and tugged at the tapestry. The rotting cloth tore to shreds in his hands, filling the air with dust. The object beneath shone in the scarlet light.

It was a bell.

Hardly daring to breathe, Wort reached out to touch the smooth surface of the bell resting on the marble altar. He had never before seen a thing of such beauty. Its smooth surface was flawless, glowing with a rich luster in the half-light, hinting at the wondrous sound it would have if it were rung. Flowing runes were engraved about the rim. Wort did not know what they signified, but they surely added to the glorious beauty.of the thirtg.

"This has to be what the darkling said I would find," Wort murmured softly. "But how can a bell help me gain my vengeance?" He did not know, but whether it could help him or not, he had to have the wondrous bell for his own.

Maneuvering the bell onto the cart was an arduous task. Though only as large as the circumference of Wort's arms, the solid bronze bell was ponderously heavy. He found several wooden planks in the back of the wagon, and with them fashioned a sort of ramp from the altar, down the nave's steps. After much straining and heaving, he managed to push the heavy bell down the makeshift wooden ramp and into the wagon. He used some old rags to muffle the clapper, and then bound the bell securely in place with a length of rope. Wort stroked the bell with satisfaction. Just then the crimson glow faded from the stained-glass windows. Outside the sun had set.

"Let's be on our way, beast," Wort said to the donkey as he started to climb into the wagon.

Once again, movement caught the corner of his eye. Wort craned his neck, gazing upward. One of the stone gargoyles high above seemed to move.

"Why, it's just another loose statue," Wort grumbled to himself.

Another gargoyle stirred on its stone perch, stretching its dark wings as though waking from a long sleep. Wide-eyed, Wort spun around. He watched raptly as gargoyle after gargoyle began to come awake. The statues flexed powerful arms and extended sickle-shaped talons. Their movements were stiff and slow at first, but gradually they began to grow more fluid. Doglike muzzles curled back from fanged maws, making hungry, bestial grins.

Their wings began to beat more swiftly. Wort knew he had only moments before the gargoyles woke fully. In panic, he jerked his head from side to side, searching in desperation for some place he might hide. Then he saw a row of stone sarcophagi deep in the nave. The lid of one sarcophagus was askew. Without thinking, Wort rushed to the stone coffin and dived inside. With the strength of terror, he gripped the stone lid and hauled it into place, sealing himself inside. Outside, the sound of wings swelled the air.

After a moment, Wort realized that he was not alone in the suffocating darkness of the coffin. In the twilight that filtered through a crack in the side of the sarcophagus he glimpsed the mummified corpse that lay next to him. Rotten velvet and tarnished jewels draped the thing's leathery flesh, but nothing could hide the cruel hand of decay. Eyeballs, which dangled like gray raisins in the corpse's eye sockets, seemed to stare at Wort. Strands of musty hair, dry and brittle as old silk, brushed against his face. He squirmed to move away from the mummy, but the motion only brought its bony arms down upon him. The sweet scent of rot filled his lungs.

Outside the sarcophagus, snarls and grunts echoed around the cathedral. Wort heard the terrified braying of the donkey and the clattering of its hooves on the stone floor. Abruptly, the animal's terrible screams ended. Moments later came the hideous music of popping bones and ripping flesh, followed by the sounds of feeding. All too quickly the noise of the terrifying feast ceased. Growls of hunger rent the air once more. A clicking sound approached the sarcophagus-sharp claws on cold stone. Wort froze. Something was stalking outside. Through the crack in the sarcophagus, he glimpsed muscles that rippled fluidly beneath scaly skin and a reptilian tail flicking sinuously, its spiked tip dripping blood.

At last the creature outside the sarcophagus moved on. Wort shuddered. The mummy's shriveled fingers gently caressed his cheek. He clenched his jaw to keep from screaming. Surely he must be going mad. Yes, better it was to lose himself in the dark pit of madness than to believe that statues could somehow, by some dread enchantment, come to life at the setting of the sun-that gargoyles hewn of stone could feast on living flesh and thirst for warm blood.

Again and again that night Wort heard the chilling approach of claws on stone. Each time he held his breath, waiting for the lid of the coffin to be heaved aside, waiting to gaze upon one of the hideous beasts, waiting to feel long talons slice deep into his throat. Once, he saw a glowing green eye peer through the crack in the sarcophagus. Wort caught a glimpse of unspeakable malevolence in the eye-a malevolence so vast and ancient that he thought it would sunder his mind. Then the baleful eye was gone.

All night long, Wort lay stiffly in the suffocating darkness of the coffin, listening to the bestial howls outside while the ancient cadaver encircled him in a cold embrace. One by one he counted his frenzied heartbeats, praying for the dawn.