by Mark Anthony
"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 a
nd 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.
Four
The red-haired youth sat with his back against the ancient oak tree, his eyes dreamy behind gold- rimmed spectacles. He absently twirled a white quill pen, frowning in thought. Suddenly, inspiration lit up his freckled face, and he bent to scribble fiercely on a crisp sheaf of parchment. He leaned back, reading over the lines he had scrawled. The youth's name was Robart, and he fancied himself a poet. Of course, presently he was merely the assistant to Master Demaris, the village scribe. Robart spent most of his time hunched over a small writing desk in the back of Demaris's dim shop, recopying boring old tomes, legal contracts, and other tedious documents until his eyes blurred and his hand cramped.
"Why don't we spend more time making copies of romances, Master Demaris?" he had once eagerly asked his employer. "Or adventure stories. Or love songs. Or… or poetry." He couldn't help but sigh as he breathed that auspicious word. "I imagine such things would bring in far more revenue than all these dreadfully dull histories you have me copy."
Demaris regarded Robart sharply with his one good eye. "Romances?" he spat. "Poetry?" Before Robert's face, he shook a hand, its fingers permanently curled from decades of clutching a pen. "Why, those are rubbish, lad! Fancy and foolishness! You would do well to put such things out of your head entirely. Keep your mind firmly fixed on practical matters. Otherwise you'll never succeed in this world!"
Robart had never mentioned the subject to Demaris again, but he did not give up his dreams. One day he was going to be the most famous poet in all of Darkon. All the greatest nobles would invite him to their courts to read his work-perhaps even the king himself. Then let Master Demaris try to tell him poetry was foolishness!
The snapping of a dry twig startled Robart from his reverie. He leapt to his feet, hastily smoothing his green coat and yellow breeches. The clothes were of the same style he had heard was all the rage in the city of II Aluk, but they were cheaply made and a bit too short for his long, gangly frame.
"Who's there?" he called out nervously. He knew wild beasts were said to prowl the moors. Would they venture this close to the village? Perhaps, if they were hungry enough.
Without warning, a gray blur leapt from behind the oak tree and fell upon Robart, knocking him backward to the damp turf. He gasped in shock, fumbling to straighten his spectacles.
"Alys!" he exclaimed in surprise and relief.
On top of him was a pretty young woman with mouse-brown hair and bright eyes, clad in a gray homespun dress.
"Did I frighten you, my love?" she asked impishly.
He gently but forcibly extricated himself from her entangling limbs and sat up. "Of course not!"
She leaned on an elbow, gazing up at him mischievously. "Really?" She reached out and gripped his wrist, feeling his racing pulse. "Am I to assume that it's your excitement at seeing me that makes your heart beat so quickly?"
"Yes," he said defiantly, "you may." He bent over her then and silenced her mirth with kisses.
For a time, the two lovers sat together beneath the ancient tree. Before them, the countryside rolled to the distant horizon in patchwork waves of heath, grove, and stone-walled fields. Late afternoon sunlight spilled heavy as gold across the land. Somewhere doves were singing their mournful evening song. "
Alys pointed to the dark stump of the half-finished tower looming in the distance. "What do you suppose that building really is?"
"I don't know," he answered with a shrug. "I suppose it is the pet project of one of the neighboring lords."
"Really? That's not what I think." Alys rested her chin on a fist, gazing at the jagged spire speculatively. "Mo one ever goes near the tower. Yet every night it seems to grow a little higher. I think… I think that it's some kind of magic."
Robart felt a chill creep up his spine. "Magic? But it can't be magic, Alys." He swallowed hard. "Can it?"
Alys gave him a mysterious look. "You know, I have half a mind to stay up tonight, camp out here, and watch what happens. The moon is nearly full. There'll be enough light."
Robart gaped at her. "No, Alys. You mustn't even consider it. It's too dangerous to be out on the moor at night." He licked his lips slowly. "There are wild beasts aprowl, you know."
"So? I'm not afraid."
"Please, Alys!" An edge of desperation crept into Robert's voice. "You mustn't stay here tonight!"
She scowled in annoyance. "Oh, all right. If you're going to be such a worrywart, I won't." She sighed, glancing once more at the tower. After a while she grudgingly let herself be consoled by more kisses. Finally, as the sun sank toward the dark line of the horizon, she pushed herself from Robert's embrace.
"I had better go home now, Robart."
Robart nodded reluctantly. It would be disaster if Alys's parents learned of their secret trysts. Alys's father was one of the most respected farmers in the village, and he would never approve of Robart and Alys's budding romance. Her father considered reading and writing frivolous pursuits, and he expected Alys to marry some farmer like himself one day.
"Will I see you tomorrow, Alys?" Robart asked hopefully.
"Perhaps," she replied. "If you're lucky," she added naughtily, vanishing from sight.
Robart gathered pen and parchment into a battered leather satchel and headed down the hill toward the village. Though the sun had only just set, shutters were already drawn against the night. Robart trudged through the churned mud of the streets, cold water seeping through his fashionable but impractical boots. Soon he reached the dilapidated boarding house where he rented a cramped attic garret for a silver penny a week. He opened the peeling-paint door and stepped into the dim squalor beyond.
"Good evening, Mistress Varsa," he said, nodding to the proprietress of the house, who sat behind a worm-eaten desk. A rancid candle provided the solitary light in the drafty entry hall.
"You're late, Robart," she replied in a surly voice. Mistress Varsa was a sour-faced woman, clad as usual in a shabby velvet dress that was far too snug for her expansive figure. "I was about to lock the door. And you know I open it for no one after dark. Not even the baron himself should he come knocking."
Robart ducked his head, — biting his tongue to keep from commenting on the unlikelihood of such an esteemed visitor coming to this rat's haven. "Of course, Mistress Varsa." He hastened past her and dashed up a rickety flight of steps.
"And don't dare pretend that you've forgotten the rent is due!" her shrill voice called behind him.
"Hideous old witch," Robart mumbled under his breath. He made his way down a murky corridor. Reaching the door of his tiny cubicle, he saw that the padlock he had fastened to the latch hung open. No doubt Mistress Varsa had called in a locksmith so she could snoop about his room. Muttering curses, he opened the door.
Inside the cramped cell stood two men. Robart's mout
h opened in shock. The men were clad in the- blue uniforms of the baron's knights, both armed with curved sabers. Robart saw that sheaves of parchment were scattered about the floor. His poems. Anger flared hotly in his brain.
"Hey there, what do you think you're doing?"
One of the knights stepped forward, his gloved hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his saber. "By the order of Lord Inquisitor Sirraun, you are under arrest."
Robart's face blanched. "Under arrest?" He slowly backed away, his poems suddenly forgotten. "What for?"
The knight advanced on him menacingly. "For high treason against His Grace, the baron."
"No!" Robart gasped. He turned to flee down the corridor, but the two knights struck him forcefully from behind. He cried out as they twisted his arms cruelly behind his back.
"You're coming with us, traitor." Ignoring his protests, the knights dragged Robart roughly down the stairs.
"Mistress Varsa!" he cried out as they reached the entry hall. "Help me!"
The sour-faced woman stood before the knights. "You said I would get my rent first," she demanded of one of them.
"Out of our way, hag." The knight pushed her aside.
"Curse you!" she shrieked, shaking a fist after the two knights. They shoved Robart through the door and out into the street.
"What's happening?" he sobbed in terror, but neither man answered as they dragged him into the cold night.
"Please, you must… believe me…"
Distant screams drifted on the fetid air, mixed with the sounds of clanking chains.
"I am innocent…"
Robart hung limply by his shackled wrists, dangling between two stone columns. His shoulders ached with dull fire. He licked his parched lips, tasting sweat and blood.
"I am very disappointed in you, Robart," a sibilant voice said. "I fear that is the wrong answer."
Painfully, Robart opened his swollen eyes to gaze upon the sinister mien of the man who had brutally introduced himself as Lord Inquisitor Sirraun.