Tower of Doom

Seven

"I tell you, it ain't right, Cray."

"I hear you, Rillam."

"Teaching deaf children to speak wizard-talk with their hands! It's unnatural, it is." Two men stood in the mud outside the Black Boar, speaking in low voices. A few other villagers had gathered around them. All wore the drab, threadbare garb of farmers and workmen. "What's more, she isn't afraid of sick people," Rillam went on in a disgusted voice. He was a burly man with a piggish nose. It was clear from their attentive posture that the others regarded him as a leader of sorts. "Why, she put her hands right on Am the Beggar's clubfoot without so much as a shiver! Now, I ask you-why would a pretty young woman in her right mind even want to look at cripples and lepers, let alone touch them?" Rillam rubbed his stubbly chin, his beady eyes speculative. "You know what I think?" Curious whispers ran around the huddled knot of villagers. "I think that just maybe she's a-" Rillam paused dramatically "-a witch." Gasps ran around the circle. A dozen hands fluttered in the sign against the Evil Eye.

"A witch?" a young man said tremblingly.

"That's right," Rillam said with a nasty grin. "And you all know what we do with witches…" Murmurs of assent ran through the small throng.

There was no moon that night. A thick fog had rolled off the moor to shroud the sleeping village in soft folds of darkness. Nothing stirred on the empty streets. The stray dogs that roamed the village square by day had sought out abandoned basements and forgotten shacks in which to cringe, as if even mere animals knew enough not to wander about the barony of Nartok after the sun had set. The mist swirled. A hunched figure lurched awkwardly out of the inky mouth of an alleyway between two shabby buildings. The streets were not entirely empty after all.

Wort limped silently down the narrow village street. He clutched his black cloak tightly around himself, keeping to the murk and shadows. He felt a strange giddiness. As a child he had lived in terror of the monsters said to stalk the night. No more.

"Now I am the monster," Wort whispered gleefully.

The thought left him strangely elated. No longer did the fear he instilled in others cause him regret. Fear was power. He knew that now. It was a truth he had embraced when Castellan Domeck's bloodied glove had fallen from the magical bell. He wasn't certain where the dark realization had come from. Perhaps it was the voice that had been whispering to him of late-the voice he was beginning to think issued from the bell itself. It did not matter. Everything was crystal-clear to him now. The folk of Nartok had branded him a monster. Caidin had deemed him one. By acting as a monster he would gain his revenge against them all for the suffering they had inflicted on him.

He came to a run-down building on the edge of the village. In contrast to the silent dwellings around it, this structure's grimy windows flickered with light, and coarse laughter drifted on the air. A weather- beaten sign hung above the peeling door. Wort could just make out the lettering in the cast-off light of the windows. The Wolf's Head Tavern, the sign proclaimed. Below these words, as if further explanation were somehow needed, was the crudely drawn head of a wolf, severed at the neck and dripping gore. Wort noted the sound of angry voices, followed by the clinking of pewter mugs and more laughter. Uncoiling his bent back, he craned his neck and peered through one of the glowing windows.

In the dingy room beyond, a half dozen men sat around a knife-scarred wooden table, drinking and gambling with dice. By their unbuttoned blue coats and the sword belts and sabers slung over the backs of their chairs, they were knights of the baron, but their drunken behavior was anything but knightly. A plump tavern maid sloshed ale into dented tankards. One of the knights snaked an arm around her waist. She slapped his hand and wriggled away, though not before treating the man to a fatuous smile.

"Where is he, my friends?" Wort whispered, as though the pigeons in the keep's bell tower could somehow hear him. "I heard him speaking down in the courtyard today, telling his companions he would come to this place tonight. But where-"

Another man stepped into view. Like the others, he wore the blue livery of a. knight. He was a handsome man with long golden hair. Smiling lustily, he swept the barmaid into his arms. She shrieked but made only a perfunctory effort to free herself from his grasp.

"There he is," Wort breathed. Hatred glittered in his bulbous blue eyes. He recognized the knight as the one who had almost trampled him with his charger on the muddy road outside the village. The barmaid gazed rapturously at the handsome man, dull-witted adoration shining on her plump face.

"She thinks you magnificent now, Sir Knight," Wort seethed quietly. "But soon you will know what it is to be an object of loathing. Just like me."

Wort turned from the window and slunk toward a blocky shape behind the tavern. He pushed open a wooden door and slipped inside'. The loamy scent of horses filled his nostrils. He rummaged in the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a.small object. It was a metal cylinder fashioned in the shape of a candle. Wort's brow furrowed in concentration. Suddenly a flickering flame sprang into being on the tip of the cylinder. Golden light illuminated the interior of the stable. Wort had discovered the silver candle some years ago in the forgotten storeroom in the keep, along with the enchanted book and the tapestry of the angel. Quite by accident he had learned that if he held the candle and imagined it was lit, a flame would appear on its tip. No matter how long it burned, the flame would never go out until he imagined that the silver candle had been extinguished.

Wort lumbered past stalls of sleeping horses until he found a white charger chomping drowsily at its feedbag. This was the one-the horse that belonged to the golden-haired knight who had almost ridden him down. Wort unbuckled one of the beast's saddlebags. He pulled another object from the pocket of his cloak. It was a leather glove, stained with blood. Wort stuffed the glove deep into the saddlebag. Yes-this was what the voice had told him he must do. He refastened the buckle. Sinking down on the hay, he rested for a moment. The steep trek down from the keep was tiring for his malformed legs.

"You don't mind if I share your stall for a minute or two, do you, my friend?" Wort asked the horse. The beast only continued its placid chewing. "No, I thought not." Wort's eyes fluttered shut as he leaned back against the wall. "You know, my friend, I warrant you'll soon have a new master…"

Somewhere a rooster crowed. Wort's eyes drifted open. Dim gray light filtered through chinks in the stable's walls. Suddenly he sat up in cold dread. He must have fallen asleep! He leapt to his feet, then froze.

A man's voice chortled outside the stable. "Looks like your purse is lighter than it was yesterday, Logris, while mine seems strangely heavier. You never were lucky at dice."

"At least I'm lucky at love, Adaric," another man replied jovially. "That's a game your dice won't help you win."

Panic seized Wort. He recognized the second voice. It was the golden-haired knight! Quickly he searched for some means of escape. The stable door rattled as someone undid the latch. With growing dread, Wort realized there was no other way out. In desperation, he dived into a pile of hay and hastily tossed handfuls of dusty grass over himself.

Light flooded the stable. Trading more good- natured slurs, the two knights entered. Wort cringed inside the pile of hay, not daring to breathe. The knights seemed to move with maddening slowness. Finally they led their steeds outside. Wort heard the clattering of hooves fade away. He crawled out of the haystack, but his relief was quickly replaced by new apprehension. He still had to traverse the village and the steep road up to the keep-without the mantle of darkness-before he reached the safety of his bell tower.

"You are a fool, Wort," he grumbled to himself.

There was nothing else he could do. Swathing himself tightly in his voluminous cloak, he left the stable, hoping that this time the villagers would not see him for what he really was. He kept mostly to dank alleys. Though the crimson orb of the sun had risen above the horizon, the shadowed paths he tread seldom saw its rays. Wort picked his way through fetid heaps of garbage and gurgling rivulets of filthy water. Rats scurried back and forth across the way, chittering hungrily. Once, protruding from a pile of refuse, he saw a human'hand. Swallowing hard, he hurried on.

The alley dead-ended.

Wort muttered a curse under his breath. Then a thought struck him. Looking up, he saw that the buildings here were roofed with tiles, not thatch. Using his powerful arms, he pulled himself up a rough stone wall to one of the rooftops. Used to high places, he moved more easily along the roof, stooping to stay low. He saw villagers trudging through the streets below, but their cheerless gazes were all bent toward the ground. None saw the hunchback creeping along the rooftops above. Ahead, Wort thought — he caught a glimpse of another alley leading toward the village's edge. He kept moving.

That was when he saw her. Transfixed, Wort halted, peering down at a woman who walked below. Despite her dark dress and the severe knot into which she had bound her pale hair, she was beautiful. Though delicate, her face was curiously strong, like the visage of an exquisite porcelain doll. Most wonderful were her eyes. Even from above Wort noted that they were the rare, deep violet of a winter night. Impossibly, she somehow maintained an air of dignity and grace as she picked her way through the squelching muck of the street, carrying a black leather satchel.

"It's her," he murmured in wonder. "The angel."

A vision descended before his mind's eye, of the time-darkened tapestry he had discovered in the ancient storeroom, and the radiant angel floating in the midnight garden, her violet eyes swollen with love. The angel of the tapestry was there before him-or at least a living woman so kindred that there could be little difference between the two. She had the same calm beauty, the same shining hair, the same deep violet eyes. Wort moved along the rooftops above, following her like a shadow in the sky. "My angel," he whispered. "I've found my angel."*****

Mika struggled down the lane, valiantly trying to hold the hem of her dress out of the muck, all the while curling her toes in her shoes to keep the leather from being sucked off her feet as she made slow progress.

"Apparently they don't have stones enough in the provinces to cobble these streets," she murmured wryly to herself. "Though with all the rocks the coach ran over on the journey here, I would have thought they could have found a few."

She was on her way to visit a village woman who was due to give birth shortly, to make certain all was well. Since her arrival in the village of Nartok several days before, Mika had found herself almost constantly occupied with the stream of villagers that poured through the door of the Black Boar complaining of all manner of maladies. It was exactly what she had hoped for. At last she had come upon people who were grateful for her skills, not dismissive of them because she was a woman.

Mika rounded a corner. She stopped short to avoid running headlong into a villager, a man wearing a grubby brown farmer's tunic.

"Excuse me," she said breathlessly.

The man only regarded her with a flat stare. He did not move out of the way. Mika thought this curious, but she supposed she could just as easily go around him. She turned to do so.

This time a red-faced woman blocked her way. Mika's heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. Hastily she turned to her left, only to find a toothless man with rheumy eyes standing before her. Spinning around, she saw lhat a dozen villagers ringed her in all directions.

She swallowed hard. "Do you… do you need healing?" She held her chin high, trying to keep the trembling from her voice. "If so, please come to the Black Boar this afternoon. I'll be happy to attend to you there."

Steeling her will, she tried to set off down the street. She quickly came up against a wall of villagers who wouldn't budge.

"No, thank you, milady," a rough voice said behind her. "No one of us wants healing… leastwise, not from a witch."

Gasping, Mika turned around. A burly man with close-set eyes had pushed his way to the front of the small throng. He grinned, but not in any expression of humor.

"Please, let me be on my way," Mika said hoarsely.

The burly peasant shook his head regretfully. "But how can we let you go, milady, knowing that you'll just place more folk under your spells?"

"Spells?" she echoed in confusion.

"That's right, milady."

"Tell her about the ones we know she's enchanted, Rillam," the red-faced woman said accusingly. "Tell her about Clampsy Atwell and Darci Grayheather."

"Oh, I'm sure she knows about them well enough," the man called Rillam replied, looming over Mika. "I'm sure she knows that the night after she gave old Clampsy a potion to fix his palsy, his wife found him outside on all fours, baying at the moon like a hound. And I'm certain she knows that since she cured Darci's fever, three times shepherds have caught Darci stealing into their flocks, cutting sheep with a knife and sucking out blood. 'Tis abominable, it is."

"Indeed?" Mika said sharply, suddenly angry. "And do you know what I find abominable? That a grown man has nothing better to do then frighten folk by telling children's stories." She turned to the others. "This is nonsense. You've seen what I do at the inn. I heal people. That is my business and that's all I do."

Rillam nodded grimly. "Aye, you do. But the price for healing folk is their souls, isn't it, witch?"

"No!" Mika said emphatically.

"Don't lie to us, witch!" Rillam snarled. "We know you're in league with the Powers of Darkness. Look at your eyes. They give it-away!"

Mika's outrage began to turn to fear. "My… my eyes?"

"Aye," Rillam accused. "I've never seen anyone with purple eyes before. No one has. But a witch always has a mark that makes her different from other people. It's the curse of magic."

The knot of villagers tightened about her. Mika saw that some held lengths of rope, and others smoking torches. Murder glinted in their eyes.

"Please," she said weakly. "Please, you must believe me…"

Rillam's dark gaze bore into her. The mirthless smile he wore broadened.

"Burn her," was all he said.

Mika screamed as the crowd closed in on her.

"Burn the witch," they chanted gleefully. "Burn her. Burn the witch.I"

Suddenly the sun was blotted out as a hulking shadow leapt down from above to land in the midst of the crowd. The villagers cried out, scattering in fear.

"A daemon!" someone shouted. "The witch has summoned a daemon to protect her!"

"No," the figure swathed in black snarled, standing before the paralyzed doctor. "She did not summon me here." The daemon pointed an accusing finger at the crowd. "You did!"

The villagers screamed in terror.

Rage burned hotly in Wort's mind. How dare these wretches threaten an angel? Theу were the ones in league with Darkness, not she. The villagers backed away, all except a burly farmer who stood his ground.

"Begone from our village, daemon." The peasant's voice was bold, but Wort could see trepidation glittering in his eyes. "Find yourself another witch. We are going to burn this one."

"You are wrong," Wort hissed. "It is you who shall burn. All of you." He pulled the magical silver candle from his pocket and focused his fury upon it. This time it was no dancing flame that appeared on its tip, but a shaft of blazing fire. Blistering heat radiated from the column of flame. "Come to me!" he shouted, holding out his weirdly elongated arms in a mocking gesture of love. "I am yours, folk of Nartok. You created me. And all of you are mme.'We shall burn in the Abyss together!"

With a chorus of shrieks, the villagers fled in all directions. The burly farmer hesitated just a moment. Wort lunged at him, waving the magical torch. The peasant let out a yelp and turned to dash after the others, soon outpacing them. Wort watched in satisfaction. It was just as the voice had hinted it would be. He had never known such strength before, such mastery of others. Fear was indeed power.

He put the blazing candle out and placed it back in his pocket. "I owe you my thanks," a voice spoke behind him.

Wort whirled around to find himself gazing into the face of the angelic woman. She was still pale from fright, but stood before him straight and calm.

"Why are you here?" he whispered in shock. "Why did you not flee with the others?"

The suggestion of a frown touched her smooth brow. "I owe you my life. They're the ones I would have fled. Not you."

"You would be wise to flee me," he snapped. Strangely, he found he was the one shaking with fear. He reached up and pushed back the hood of his cloak. "I am a monster."

He saw many feelings flicker through her violet eyes-surprise, interest, even pity-but fear was not among them. "Who told you that?" Her voice seemed almost angry.

"The villagers told me," he growled ferociously. "And they are right!"

"No," she said firmly. There was steel in her voice. "No, they are not. You are no monster."

The confidence his power over the villagers had given him now drained from Wort. He took a step backward.

"Do you not fear me?" he demanded.

She shook her head calmly. "I do not."

Alarm flooded Wort's chest. What was wrong with this woman? Could she not see what he was?

"Well you should!" he cried fiercely.

Before she could reply, he turned and bolted into the dark mouth of an alley. He heard her voice calling behind him, but he shut the words out of his mind. It was not for him to listen to the voice of an angel. He lumbered down the alley, leaving the village far behind.

Baron Caidin paced up and down the length of the Grand Hall, fury darkening his handsome face. Pock scurried behind his master, short legs pumping frantically to match speed with the baron's swift stride.

"What do you mean you found nothing that indicates the Lady Jadis murdered Castellan Domeck, Pock?" Caidin rumbled.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," the gnome sniveled. "I meant to say that I didn't find anything that did indicate the lady murdered the castellan."

Caidin came to a halt, whirling around to glare at his gnomish knave. "That's the same thing, you dolt."

Flailing his arms wildly to keep from careening into the baron's shins, Pock skidded to a stop. "Oh," he gulped. "Then I suppose I was right the first time."

"As usual, Pock," Caidin said acidly, "your stupidity utterly astounds me."

Pock doffed his feathered cap and bowed deeply. "Indeed. Sometimes I astound myself, Your Grace."

"I can only imagine," the baron replied dryly. He resumed his pacing as Pock trotted eagerly after him. Sunset's crimson light streamed through tall windows, spilling across a mural that dominated the far wall-an intricate painting depicting fat cherubs drifting on fleecy clouds. The scene might have been serene and idyllic, but the scarlet sunset lent a lurid cast to the painting. The cherubs seemed to leer. Their lush smiles were too knowing and sensual for their childlike faces, and the clouds they languished upon were tinged with crimson, as if stained by blood.

"What can she have forgotten to hide, Pock?" Caidin mused. "There must be something the Lady Jadis failed to consider, something that will show she murdered the castellan. If I had proof of her guilt I could simply execute her, and Azalin would not dare raise a hand against me."

Pock's purple face wrinkled in puzzlement. "There's one thing I don't understand, Your Grace."

"Really, Pock? Are you certain there's only one thing you don't understand?"

The gnome went on blithely. "How do you know it was the Lady Jadis who killed Castellan Domeck?"

Caidin threw his arms up in the air. Sometimes he didn't know why he wasted his breath. "She's Kargat, Pock. Of course she killed Domeck."

Pock shrugged. "If you say so. I just wonder why a Kargat spy would go to all the trouble of setting up a dozen sabers to do the trick." He pranced about foolishly, making catlike slashing motions.

Abruptly Caidin halted, frowning. "I hate to say this-believe me, I do-but you might be right, Pock."

The gnome beamed smugly.

"It doesn't make sense," Caidin went on. "If Jadis is a werecat, why wouldn't she simply-"

The ornate, gilded doors of the Grand Hall flew open, and the gaunt figure of the Lord Inquisitor drifted in, followed by two guards hauling a young man between them.

"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace," Sirraun said as he approached.

"I will if it's worth forgiving," Caidin replied darkly.

The lord inquisitor bowed solemnly, then gestured to the young man held by the guards. "This man is the squire of Sir Logris-one of your knights, Your Grace."

"And?" Caidin inquired in a bored tone.

"Show the baron what you found, squire," Sirraun commanded. The guards shoved the young man forward. He fell to his knees, terror and awe written plainly across his simple-minded face.

"Well, what is it, you dunce?" an annoyed Caidin demanded.

"I-l'm sorry, Your Grace," the squire stuttered. He fumbled with something in his pocket. "I–I found this when I was emptying my master's saddlebags this morning. It s-seemed a trifle strange to me, so I showed it to my captain, wh-who then brought me to Lord S-Sirraun…"

The squire held the object out toward the baron. Caidin drew in a sharp breath. It was a bloodstained glove. He took the glove from the shaking squire and gazed thoughtfully at the intricate letter D, embroidered in gold thread.

"Take him away," Caidin said with a disdainful wave of his hand. The two guards grabbed the wide- eyed squire and dragged him from the hall.

"So," Caidin said after a long moment. "It seems there is treachery in my keep after all."

Pock clapped his hands together. "Oh, joy!" he cried, capering about ecstatically. "There's going to be an execution, isn't there, Your Grace? I simply adore executions!"

A sharp smile sliced across Sirraun's cadaverous face. "If you like them so much, my good gnome, perhaps I can arrange a personal execution for you."

"Really?" Pock gasped.

"Enough," Caidin warned. "Sirraun, I want you to bring Sir Logris to me."

The lord inquisitor gave him a speculative look. "Shall I first render him a little more… cooperative, Your Grace?"

"If you must, Sirraun," Caidin replied wearily. "But I want him alive when he gets here. And sane."

"Of course, Your Grace." Sirraun bowed obsequiously and drifted from the hall.

When the lord inquisitor was gone, Caidin clenched his hands into fists. "Here I have been waging a false inquisition simply to gain bodies, and all the time it seems that there truly are some who would dare plot against me. I swear, Pock, by all the blackest oaths, I despise traitors."

The gnome thought about this for a moment. Finally he patted the baron's hand reassuringly. "That's all right, Your Grace. I imagine they must despise you as well."

Nimbly, the gnome scrambled away before Caidin could wring his purple neck.

Wort peered through the iron grating high in the belfry. In the courtyard below, a cold, drizzling rain fell on a crowd gathered in front of the scaffold. Kneeling before the bloodstained block was a man with long golden hair.

"You must believe me!" the knight cried out. A slash of crimson paint marked his blue uniform-the sign of a condemned murderer. "I am innocent!" The half-moon blade rose slowly into the air above him.

A chorus of jeers and hisses came from the throng. All knew the charge. The bloody glove of the murdered castellan had been found in the knight's saddlebag. It was more than enough to prove his guilt. "Murderer!" they shouted as they hurled handfuls of mud at the knight. "Beast!" Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the rain and dirt.

In the bell tower above, Wort whispered in satisfaction, "Now you know what it is like to be reviled, my good, handsome knight. Just like me." He turned and hurried to the ropes dangling from the rafters above.

A moment later he heard the sound of a blade cleaving bone and gristle before biting deep into wood. Wort pulled on the ropes. The bells rang out in their glorious voices, tolling a dirge for the newly dead man. Except for the one bell-which remained silent.

"Don't you worry, my friends," Wort whispered to the pigeons that fluttered all about. "I will ring it again soon enough."

Dark mirth bubbled out of him as the bells tolled their dire music.