Tower of Doom

Five

All through the endless night, Wort lay inside the ancient stone sarcophagus, the withered arms of the mummified corpse cradling him like those of a lover. Outside the coffin, howls echoed around the ruined cathedral. Wort cringed at terrible crashes and inhuman screams of rage. Could it be that the creatures out there were fighting each other? He wondered what they would do if they discovered his hiding place. Would the gargoyles battle each other to see which got the honor of tearing his throat out? Or would they simply begin to feed upon his living flesh?

He slipped into a dark delirium. The ravenous snarls, the scratching of claws, the dry-paper touch of the corpse-all of it wove itself into one endless nightmare.

Silence.

Dim realization crept into Wort's numb brain. Tomblike silence had descended over the cathedral. His eyes fluttered open. Faint golden light spilled through the crack in the side of the sarcophagus, illuminating his grisly companion. At last his mind grasped the import of these things. Dawn. Somehow he had lived to see the morning.

With the dull grating of stone on stone, the ponder ous lid of the sarcophagus slid to one side, crashing to the floor. Wort climbed from the coffin, struggling to free himself from the clutches of the mummy. Its bony fingers held him tightly, as if unwilling to let him return to the realm of the living. With a violent jerk he twisted free of the thing's grasp. The skeleton's arms snapped like dry kindling as it sank back into the coffin.

Wort spun, gazed upward. He breathed a relieved sigh. The gargoyles had returned to their high ledges, lifeless statues once more. Shivering, he made his way to the wagon. The bell shone richly in the morning light, apparently undisturbed. At least that was something. He moved around to the front of the cart and clamped a hand to his mouth to keep from gagging.

There was little left of the donkey. The leather straps of the harness had been cleanly snapped. Splinters of bone and tufts of fur swam in blood that pooled thickly on the stones. Wort saw one gory stump of bone ending in a hoof!

"Mow what am I to do?" he choked.

He could not stay in this accursed place, nor could he leave the bell behind. It was the key to everything. There was only one solution. Carefully, he picked up the broken harness and tried to shake the blood off of it. Winding the straps around his chest, he tied them tightly. He leaned into the harness. The cart did not budge. Grunting, he pulled harder. His face twisted into a horrible mask. The powerful muscles of his humped shoulders writhed beneath the coarse brown fabric of his tunic. Slowly the wagon began to inch forward.

As the cart gained momentum the pulling grew easier, but just barely. The leather straps bit painfully into Wort's flesh. With agonizing slowness, cart and bell moved through the open entrance of the cathedral and into the blinding daylight. Sweat streamed freely down Wort's brow, matting his shaggy hair. His hunched back burned. Trying his best to ignore the pain, he hauled the wagon down the overgrown track. Gradually the skeletal trees closed in behind him, blotting out the foreboding hulk of the ruined cathedral.

If his hours in the coffin had been a nightmare, then pulling the wagon to Nartok Keep was waking torture. Wort's progress down the forest track was agonizingly slow. Deep ruts continually caught the wheels of the wagon, jerking him to a halt. Roots tripped his aching feet, and thorny nettles tore his threadbare breeches to strips, tracing angry red weals across his shins. Fire ran up and down his twisted spine in searing waves. More than once he decided he could bear the agony no longer. Yet each time he was on the verge of giving up, a voice whispered in his ear. He could not understand the words the voice spoke, but they were oddly encouraging all the same, and they gave him the spark of willpower he needed to go on. Wort kept pulling.

He rounded a bend in the track and suddenly found himself brought up short. Lying across the path was a dead tree. In life it must have been a king of the forest. The tree's knotted trunk was as thick as the span of Wort's arms. During the night it had finally lost its long battle against rot and had fallen across the track. Wort stared dejectedly at the tree. He could scramble over the trunk easily enough, but no amount of will would get the cart over the obstacle. Nor could he drag the cart around it. The forest was too thick here, the trees too close together. The bell could go no farther.

Wort made a halfhearted attempt at pushing the huge tree out of the road, but it was futile. Panting in exhaustion, he collapsed onto a rock. He buried his face in his hands as an air of gloom descended over him. It seemed he was not destined to have his vengeance after all. He should have known. Fate had never shown him any favor in the past. Why now?

A queer rustling noise intruded on his dark reverie. Dread pricking his skin, Wort glanced to one side to see insects stream out of the forest. There were hundreds of them. Thousands. Rivers of black-carapaced beetles, fire-red ants, and eyeless worms crawled on the ground, forming a thick, writhing carpet. Rapidly the insects swarmed over the fallen tree. In moments the massive trunk was no longer visible beneath the undulating shroud of bugs. More scuttled from the woods, and more. Worms slithered across Wort's feet, leaving behind trails of slime, but he did not shrink away. Revulsion froze him to the spot.

A weird buzzing noise filled the air along with a cloud of fine dust. The swarm of insects was chewing apart the rotting wood. With growing speed the chit- tering mass sank to the ground. Then, as if responding to some unheard signal, the insects began to stream once more into the woods. In moments the last of the vermin wriggled away, disappearing into the leaf litter that had spawned them. All that was left of the dead tree was a scattering of rotting splinters. The path was clear.

Wort rose to his feet. Bloated beetles squished wetly beneath his foot. Gagging, he approached the cart. Almost reluctantly he reached out and stroked the cool surface of the bell. Again peculiar thoughts drifted into his mind.

I wish to be free. Wort I will do anything to be free once more.

He snatched his hand back. Could the bell have…? No, he did not want to know. The path was clear now. That was all that mattered. As he turned from the bell, he felt a warm sensation rush over him, so strong and delicious that it nearly overwhelmed him in a wave of dark pleasure. It was a feeling of… gratitude. As suddenly as it had come, the feeling disappeared. For a moment, Wort weakly gripped the side of the cart, then gathered his strength.

"You're imagining things, Wort," he muttered to himself. "Now keep moving, or it'll be your own funeral the bells toll next."

Strapping himself into the harness once more, he struggle'd onward. Soon, he was again engulfed by the throbbing miasma of pain. It was well after midday when he finally reached the stone watcher, the timeworn statue that marked the path. He paused to wrap himself once more in his dark cloak. From here on it was best to remain concealed.

Though the rutted forest track had been nearly impassable, the deep mud of the road seemed worse. Time and again his feet slipped beneath him, sending him plunging headlong into the stinking muck. Every few hundred yards the cart bogged down in the quagmire, and he was forced to kneel in the slime, digging with his bare hands to try to free the wheels. Several times riders galloped by, the beating hooves of their mounts spraying him with sludge. Not one even bothered to slow down as they passed the hunched man struggling with the heavy wagon. Wort slipped into a waking dream, drifting in a twilight world of pain. How wonderful it would be, he thought, to let go of the burning agony and allow himself to sink down into cool darkness. Yet the distant music of bells continued to pull him onward.

Abruptly a new sound cut through the thick fog that shrouded his mind.

"Are you simple, peasant?" a voice barked. "I said, what's your business at the keep?"

Wort shook his head, blinking in dull amazement. He stood before the great wooden gates of Nartok Keep. Ruddy light gleamed off the steel breastplate of the guard who stood before him. It was sunset. Yet it seemed impossible that he had completed the journey in one day. Or had it been just one day? Distance or time-or maybe both-had been strangely distorted during the course of his journey. Wort shivered, his mind dizzy.

The guard's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he peered into the shadows of Wort's hood.

Wort licked his parched lips. "A bell," he croaked. "I've brought a new bell for the keep."

"Who ordered it?" the guard demanded.

Wort blurted the first name that drifted to his brain.. "Baron Caidin did."

The grizzled soldier let out a snort. "You're a liar. The baron does not trouble himself with such mundane matters. Let me see your face, peasant."

Wort hesitated. Slowly he raised his hands to the cowl that hid his visage. "As you wish." He lowered the dark hood.

"By the Master of the Gray Kingdom!" the guard swore, stumbling back in horror. Wort's visage, always homely, was now hideously contorted with exertion. Hastily, the guard made the sign against the Evil Eye. Before, such a reaction would have caused Wort sadness. Now he felt only a strange satisfaction at the revulsion in the other's eyes. He took a lurching step toward the guard, the heavy wagon creaking behind him.

"Let me pass, or I will curse you," he hissed.

The guard shook his head. "I… I can't…" His hand fluttered weakly to the hilt of his short sword.

Wort raised a gnarled hand and pointed it at the guard. He grinned evilly. "Then let this be your curse…"

"No, wait!" the guard cried. "Please! The castellan will flay my hide if he finds out, but… "He swallowed hard, then stepped to the side of the gate. "I'll… I'll let you through."

Laughter rumbled deep in Wort's chest. "Wise choice," he whispered. A new feeling washed over him. Fear was a formidable weapon. Once more he seemed to feel a sensation of power radiating from the-bell. Slowly, his whole body trembling with exhaustion, he dragged the cart into the courtyard of the keep. The guard only watched, the whites of his eyes shining, as he muttered over and over a charm his grandmother had once taught him to ward off curses.

It was midnight.

The cold light of the horned moon spilled through the iron gratings that covered the belfry's arched windows. Rows of sleeping pigeons lined high ledges, their heads tucked under their wings, glowing eerily in the pale illumination. Like some great, deformed bird himself, Wort perched atop the maze of thick wooden rafters that supported the bells.

"Almost done, my friends," Wort whispered. Several birds ruffled their feathers, then sank back into slumber. Wort finished threading the end of a stout rope through an iron pulley. Below him the rope disappeared through the trapdoor in the belfry's floor. His pulse quickened.

Earlier, as night had mantled Nartok Keep, Wort had managed to push the swathed bulk of the bronze bell from the back of the wagon through the door of his tower. After hiding the cart behind the keep's stable, he had stumbled back to the tower and collapsed in exhaustion. For a time he had slept like one dead, but a vision had gradually invaded his sleeping mind, glowing with brilliant incandescence. Then he had woken, knowing he could wait-it could wait-no longer.

Wort tightly gripped the end of the rope in thick- fingered hands. "Now it is my turn to fly, my friends." He leapt off the rafter.

His ragged cloak fluttering like black wings, Wort dropped down through the trapdoor. The rope whistled as it went through the pulley above, going taut as his weight began to lift the object tethered to the other end. Wort dropped through another trapdoor, and another, continuing his descent into darkness. A bulky shape appeared from below and rushed past him, upward. In moments, the bell vanished above Wort's head.

At last Wort's feet touched the ground. Quickly he lashed the rope to an iron ring in the floor, then lumbered up the tower's narrow spiral staircase until he reached the belfry once more. Gasping for breath, he craned his neck to gaze at the bell dangling above his head.

"There it is, my friends!" He clapped his hands together. "By my soul, it is beautiful."

The bell hung from one of the belfry's rafters. Moonlight dripped like water off its smooth surface, flowing into the runes carved along its lip. Wort clambered up a rickety ladder and busied himself with securing the bell to its moorings. Only when he was certain that everything was right did he carefully remove the rags that muffled the clapper. He climbed back down. Waves of emotion seemed to radiate from the bell. It was almost as if the thing were… satisfied.

"Now," he breathed. Trembling, he reached out and gripped the rope that hung from the bronze bell. "To hear its voice at last…"

With strong arms, he tugged the rope. The bell tilted. The clapper swung, striking metal. A single note rang out. Startled pigeons erupted in a flurry of gleaming white wings. At first the tolling was deep, a thrumming so resonant and low Wort felt more than heard it. Quickly it grew, cresting into a clear, thunderous noise that seemed to surge through him, casting him adrift on the terrible beauty of its music. Gradually, the noise faded. Wort blinked, like one waking from a dream.

"It is glorious," he uttered in awe. He reached out to pull the rope again. Abruptly he froze.

In the center of the belfry a patch of shadowy air began to swirl. It seemed to Wort he was gazing at a gray curtain billowing in a cold breeze, or at the surface of a languid pool of shimmering water. A sheen of fear-sweat formed on his brow. The acrid scent of lightning tingled in his nose. Dark shapes appeared within the seething sphere of twilight. Gradually the shapes grew more defined, taking on shape and substance. Then, like corpses rising from the murky depths of a lake to bob on the storm-swept surface, three figures drifted out of the roiling tendrils of mist.

"Who… who are you?" Wort whispered, backing away. The shadowy forms were shaped like men, but they were swathed in black robes and seemed fashioned of thick smoke rather than cloth. The three vaporous forms hovered before Wort, floating slowly up and down, buoyed by an unseen wind. One of the dim figures raised an arm to point at Wort.

"We are the spirits of the bell," the figure spoke in a reverberating voice. "You have called to us, mortal."

Wort shook his head dumbly. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. "I?"

"Yes," answered another of the robed forms. "The tolling of the Bell of Doom summons us, for we are bound to it." "But… but for what reason do you come?" Wort dared to ask. "To kill," the three dark spirits answered as one. The single word echoed about the belfry, growing in volume until it was a deafening chorus. Kill. Kill. KILL! Wort fell to his knees, pressing his hands over his ears. Finally the dreadful din faded. "But why?" he cried out in terror. "It is the bell's curse," one of the spirits spoke. "Each time the bell is rung, someone must die," intoned another. "That is the price to be paid for our blood," said the last of the spirits. ''Blood that long ago was mixed with molten metal, so that silver would bind* with bronze and forge a bell like none before." Despite his fear, hope flared in Wort's heart. The darkling had spoken truth. Here indeed was the means to his vengeance. "Who… who will you kill then?" Wort whispered. The three spirits drifted menacingly toward him. "You, bellringer…" Wort held his arms outstretched before him. Curse the darkling! Was this all a final, cruel joke? "I beg you!" Wort moaned, groveling in the rotting straw before the hovering spirits. "Please, spare me!" "We cannot alter the curse. The bell has been rung. Someone must die…" Despite his fear, a calculating thought occurred to Wort. "Must it… must it be me that you kill?" he asked slyly. "Tell me, spirits. Is there not some way that another may die in my stead?" For a long moment the dark forms were silent. "There is a way…" "I knew it!" Wort exclaimed. "But we must have a token," the spirits went on. "Something that belongs to the one we are to kill."

Wort's mind raced. "A… a token?" But what did he have that belonged to another? He could think of nothing. He felt hope slipping away like sand in an hourglass.

"Come, bellringer." The voices of the spirits blended in dark harmony. "It is time." They reached their long arms toward him.

Suddenly Wort remembered. "Wait!"

The spirits paused as Wort searched his tunic, sticking his hands into his pockets, pawing in panic. Then he found it. He pulled an object from his pocket and held it out. It was a glove.

"Here, take it!" he hissed. "It is not mine. Kill him, not me."

The three spirits nodded serenely. "It shall be so."

Wort gaped as the glove vanished from his hand. Looking up, he saw that the spirits had also vanished. He slumped to the floor. "Alive, Wort," he muttered to himself with weak laughter. "You're still alive." Shivering uncontrollably, he stared upward at the sinister shape of the bell.

Castellan Domeck walked through the silent armory. This was his favorite chamber in the keep. Nothing else could comfort him or free his mind as much as being surrounded by all the familiar trappings of war. Torchlight gleamed off rows of curved sabers and racks of steel-tipped spears. Oiled suits of mail hung on wooden stands while shields, axes, and spiked iron maces adorned the stone walls. Here in this chamber lay the real defenses of Nartok Keep. All of Sirraun's scheming and strategizing could not turn an attacking army away from the keep's walls. But these weapons could.

With a quill pen he made a notation in the small leather-bound journal he carried. Despite the lateness of the hour, Domeck planned to work until he had inventoried every weapon and every piece of armor. The castellan required little sleep these days anyway. He supposed it was just another sign of aging. However, Domeck was far from ready to spend the rest of his days sitting by the fire in the kitchen with the keep's toothless uncles and aunties. Beneath his blue uniform, his compact frame was hard with muscle. He bristled with the energy of a man ten or twenty years younger. Only in his heart of hearts did he sometimes feel tired, defeated, worried.

"I just need once more to face an enemy with a sword in my hand," the castellan told himself. "To see my blade sliding through his guts. That would make me feel young again."

Domeck found himself hoping, as he often did, for a good battle-perhaps with one of the neighboring barons. He knew there was nothing more pitiful than an old warrior without a war to fight. Sighing, he continued his counting.

"Odd," he murmured. "I didn't notice that before."

The castellan bent down to retrieve an object on the floor, then stood again. It was a leather glove. Puzzled, he realized it was the glove he had lost in the courtyard some days before, when that wretched hunchback had begged for his help. What was it doing here? After a moment Domeck shrugged. It was a good glove. He tucked it into his belt and moved on. A faint clinking sound brought him to a halt once more. He cocked his head, listening. There it was again-a metallic clinking. Slowly he turned around.

An empty chain-mail hauberk dragged itself across the floor toward him like a sinuous, metallic snake. Sparks of sizzling green light danced on the mail coat's metal links. Domeck stared in numb astonishment. Other pieces of armor were moving toward him as well, all of their own volition. A burnished breastplate fell off a wooden stand and clattered to the floor. Jerking and shuddering, it dragged itself after the hauberk. Steel gauntlets scuttled like metal spiders. Propelled by an unseen hand, a wooden shield rolled toward the hauberk. Greaves, chausses, and spurs slithered after. As the pieces of armor converged, tendrils of green incandescence sprang from the hauberk, coiling about them. Engulfed in sizzling emerald fire, the pieces of armor rose slowly into the air, assembling themselves into a headless, man-shaped form.

"This cannot be," Domeck gasped.

The motley suit of armor walked haltingly toward him, dripping emerald fire. In moments, dozens of pieces of armor forged themselves into two other metallic forms. All three converged on the castellan, glimmering green. Domeck was no coward. Once he had faced a dozen footmen alone and had not so much as trembled as he systematically hacked them down. Now, however, his knees shook, and cold arms seemed to clamp tightly around his chest. Yes, Domeck thought, this must be what fear feels like,

A chain rattled behind him. He turned just in time to see a mace fly off the wall. The castellan ducked to avoid the murderous spikes. A moment later an axe jumped off the wall, then a warhammer and an iron flail. Spinning like a drunken dancer, Domeck narrowly managed to dodge them all. He glanced over his shoulder. The glowing suits of armor were closing in. A heavy oaken shield flew through the air to strike him in the chest. He tumbled to the floor, gasping.

"What… what is happening?" he choked, struggling to his feet. Domeck had never fled a battle in his life, but now he fixed his eyes on the doorway, thinking he might yet be able to flee.

A buzzing like the sound of insects filled the air then. Domeck felt a hot stinging sensation in his leg and looked down to see an arrow embedded in his thigh. Jerking his head up, he watched as scores of arrows flung themselves from a shelf, streaking through the air toward him. One grazed a fiery trail across his cheek. He grunted in pain as another arrow bit into his shoulder. With a cry, he dived behind a tall wooden rack laden with sabers and spears. Arrows pinged brightly as they bounced off steel.

Gritting his teeth, Domeck pulled himself to his feet. The scent of blood filled his nostrils. The pain in his leg and shoulder cleared his mind. Anger burned away his fear. His battle instincts took control.

"Come on, you bastards," he snarled at the three shimmering suits of mail. "You want a fight? I'll give you a fight!" He snatched a wickedly curved saber from the rack and waved it before him. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a fierce grin. This was what it felt like to be alive! One of the hollow suits of armor reached toward him. The thing was clumsy, opening itself to a slashing attack. Domeck spun inside and swung his the saber fiercely, striking the thing's breastplate.

"Take that!" he shouted. His blow was strong enough to cleave a man in two. That was his mistake, for there was no body within the armor.

In a burst of molten green fire, the suit of armor exploded. The strength of the castellan's swing spun him wildly around. He stumbled, fought to catch himself, then careened backward, crashing into the rack of weapons. Domeck tumbled to the floor. The wooden rack teetered precariously above him. For a second he thought it would hold. Then, slowly, it tipped toward him. A score of glittering sabers plummeted downward. Insane laughter welled up in Domeck's chest. Only yesterday he had given orders for all the weapons in the armory to be sharpened.

Laughter transformed into a short-lived scream as a dozen blades plunged deep into his body.

Wort watched in shock as something dropped from the darkness of the bell and onto the moldering straw. He hobbled toward the thing and picked it up. It was a leather glove, dark and sticky with blood.

Suddenly the bells above him began to ring deafeningly. They rocked wildly back and forth in a cacophony, guided by some invisible hand as they tolled the death of the castellan. All except the newest bell-the bell from the cathedral-which hung still and silent. Wort stared down at the bloody glove clutched in his gnarled hands. Then, low at first, but growing in strength, his own laughter rang out in time with the frenzied music of the bells.