by Mark Anthony
"Come, Wort, I thought you wanted to follow me," he jeered. "Or are you too much of a coward?"
"Caidin, you mustn't!" Wort shouted in terror.
"You are a coward, Wort. I should have-"
That was when the rock beneath his heel gave way. The others screamed and stepped back as Caidin slid over the edge of the precipice. Desperately, he grabbed for a handhold, but the rock crumbled beneath his fingers. A strong hand clamped about his wrist, catching him. Caidin looked up in shock. It was Wort.
"I've got you, Brother," the hunchback said determinedly. "I won't let you fall."
With surprising strength, Wort hauled Caidin up over the cliffs edge to safety.
"Are you all right, Brother?"
Caidin only glared at Wort. Now he owed his life to the wretched hunchback.
"I hate you," he snarled.
"I'd sort of gathered that," Pock quipped from his chair-back perch. "Barons don't usually flog the people they like."
With a start, Caidin realized he must have uttered the old words aloud. The stiletto quivered before him, embedded deeply in the desk. Slowly he unclenched his fingers from its hilt.
"I don't mean you, you maggot," he snapped. Caidin reconsidered. "Of course, I do hate you, Pock. I'm just thinking of someone else right now."
Caidin sighed. Tempting as they were, he knew he must discard all thoughts of having the hunchback murdered at the moment. In his mind, he could still hear the terrible secret that the Old Baron, gray and "Withered on his deathbed, had whispered in his ear. As long as the hunchback kept to the solitude of his precious bell tower, the dark truth would be safe.
A sharp rapping came at the chamber's door. In a purple flash, Pock leapt from his chair and hid behind a heavy curtain where he could spy unseen. ~ "Enter," Caidin commanded. The unnaturally thin form of his lord inquisitor drifted into the chamber.
"You called for me, Your Grace?"
"Yes, Sirraun." Caidin pulled the stiletto from the desk. "I want you to increase the pace of the inquisition. It is taking too long. You must bring me more traitors."
A curious look crossed Sirraun's jaundiced visage. "Indeed, Your Grace. I hasten to obey. As you know, it is my sole purpose to see the conspiracy against you shattered."
Caidin slammed a fist against the desk. Parchment scrolls tumbled onto the floor. "Blast the conspiracy, Sirraun! You know as well as I that it does not exist. Of course there are peasants in the village who despise me. As well they should, for I have no qualms in using them for my own gain." His voice became an intense whisper. "But I need more bodies, Sirraun. If I am truly to challenge Azalin, I must have more bodies." He bore down on the lord inquisitor. "And so I must have more 'traitors.' Get them for me, Sirraun. I don't care how you do it. But do it, and fast!"
Sirraun gazed at Caidin for a silent moment. Slowly, a sharp smile cut across his thin lips. "With the greatest of pleasure, Your Grace." Bowing deeply, the lord inquisitor retreated from the chamber.
"How come you never flog him, Your Grace?" Pock complained, stepping from behind the curtain.
Caidin ignored his knave. Soon, Azalin, he thought with satisfaction. Soon all that is yours will be mine.
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 l
unged 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 g
rin. 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.