Tower of Doom r-9

by Mark Anthony

  Deciding she had spent enough time in the Grand Hall to maintain her front, Jadis departed, ignoring the whispers and surreptitious glances that trailed her. She made her way through winding corridors and down twisting staircases until she reached the dim archway that led to the keep's dungeon. As always, a pair of armed guards stood to either side. She chewed a lip delicately with pearl-white teeth. She hadn't quite decided what to do about the guards. No doubt they would find it odd for a lady to express an interest in touring the dungeon.

  So as not to arouse suspicion, she strolled casually past the guarded archway, though not before letting her eyes linger over the guards. Neither was particularly handsome, but both had youth and muscular physiques in their favor.

  "Now, now, love." She whispered an admonishment to herself. "Let's not mix business with pleasure."

  She smiled seductively at the two young guards, savoring the crimson rising in their cheeks, then continued on. Slipping into an antechamber, she paused to consider her options. She could dispose of the guards simply enough, but that would be a messy solution and would no doubt alert Caidin to her activities. She tapped a cheek thoughtfully.

  Then she espied it. High in one wall of the dusty antechamber was a hidden opening. She approached the wall, running a finger over its rough-hewn surface. These stones were darker than those of the chamber's other three walls, and seemingly much older. Like any fortress, Nartok Keep had been built in dozens of stages over several centuries. It was clear this had once been an outside wall. That meant the opening concealed an outdated ventilation shaft. In which case it almost certainly connected with the sewers below the keep-and the dungeon.

  The opening was at least a dozen feet off the ground, but that posed no great problem. Making certain no one was around, Jadis shut the door of the antechamber. Slipping out of her silken gown, she hid the garment beneath a pile of rat-gnawed sacks. She shivered in her nakedness, but in moments she would be warm enough.

  Jadis shut her eyes and tilted her head back. For a heartbeat she stood as still as a statue. Suddenly her coppery skin began to undulate. Dark fur sprang out on the back of her arms, her legs, her neck, and quickly spread to cover her entire body. As fluidly as if made of clay, her hands and feet lengthened and her limbs grew shorter. Her back stretched sinuously. A tail coiled out behind her, flicking and lashing like a black serpent. Gracefully, she crouched on all fours.

  The woman Jadis was gone. In her place was a black werepanther.

  Jadis extended her claws and bared canine teeth gleaming like white daggers. It felt good to don her cat form once more. As with so many things, she owed the Kargat for discovering that she had been born with the blood of a werepanther surging through her veins. She would never forget the day an older Kargat, a grizzled wereboar, had helped her undergo her first glorious transformation. She had instantly fallen in love with the grace and power of her panther form, a love that had only deepened over time.

  With easy strength, Jadis sprang into the high opening. She padded swiftly down the shaft. The blackness was no barrier to her green-gold eyes. She found herself in a labyrinth of ventilation shafts, many sloping down at odd angles. Guided by her sensitive nose, she followed the scents of damp rot and fungus, traveling deeper below the keep. Finally she leapt from the mouth of a tunnel into a dingy corridor. Moans of agony drifted on the air, along with the rank stench of blood and fear. The dungeon.

  Clinging to the shadows, she padded down the passageway. She came to a huge iron door set within a stone archway. The scent of fear was stronger here. Instinct told her that beyond the door lay the inquisition chamber.

  Jadis froze at the metallic sound of a lock turning. Her black fur blended seamlessly with the shadows. She watched with werepanther eyes as the iron door swung open. Two men clad in the livery of the keep's guard stepped into the corridor carrying a stretcher. On the stretcher was a young woman, her face a shroud of agony. She was quite obviously dead. Behind the guards came a gaunt man clad in tight- fitting black. Jadis recognized him as the Lord Inquisitor Sirraun.

  "Shackle her in the cell with the others," he ordered the two men. "We'll execute them all in three days' time."

  The guards, nodded, disappearing down the corridor with their grisly burden. Sirraun locked the door with an iron key, then vanished into the gloom. Jadis waited until the shuffling sound of his footsteps faded before padding from her hiding place. Interest glittered in her eyes. Why had Sirraun ordered a dead body shackled? Stranger still, why behead a corpse? Curious, she approached the door.

  Sirraun had locked the portal, but sometimes a talon was better than any key. Jadis's body contorted once more, but this time the transformation stopped halfway. In the dimness she might almost have appeared a normal woman, at least from the waist up. But flickering torchlight illuminated traits that were far from human-black fur, pointed ears, and a sharp-toothed smile. She stretched out a finger, extending a gleaming talon toward the keyhole.

  Jadis's flesh was not the only substance capable of transformation. Without warning, the stone arch that surrounded the iron door began to twist and flow, forming itself into the shape of a huge maw. Fangs of rock formed beneath curling basalt lips. The gigantic stone mouth trembled with a deep rumbling sound almost like laughter. With terrible speed the fanged maw snapped shut. Jadis sprang back barely in time to avoid getting chewed to ribbons. Even so, a knife-sharp fang traced a hot line across her leg as she tumbled to the floor. The huge stone mouth opened and closed hungrily several times, teeth gnashing. Hastily, Jadis scrambled away. As she did, the stone mouth undulated, reshaping itself into a mundane-seeming archway once more.

  With calculating eyes, Jadis regarded the portal. The enchanted stone mouth was a formidable defense. She was more interested than ever in what lay beyond the door. It had to be important. Bending her supple neck, she licked the wound on her leg with a pink tongue. Her form flowed once more. The lithe shape of a werepanther disappeared into the darkness.

  From his cramped hiding place inside an empty barrel, Pock peered through a knothole at what appeared to be a black panther dropped from an opening in the far wall to land silently on the stone floor. Earlier, he had pursued the sultry Lady Jadis as the baron had ordered. He had followed her into this room only to find she had vanished. Hoping she might return, he had hidden inside the barrel to wait. Soon he had all but forgotten about his mission. Once the barrel had been filled with wine, and its wood still exuded an intoxicating aroma. Pock's purple head was spinning. He speculated whether this was the first time anyone had ever smelted himself drunk.

  The sight of the black panther quickly sobered his dizzy little brain. Pock wondered how the large wild cat had found its way into the fortress. More importantly, he wondered if panthers had a taste for gnome meat.

  As he watched in trepidation, the black panther padded across the room. Suddenly the creature's body blurred, molding itself into a new shape. Pock blinked. When he opened his eyes again the black panther was gone. In its place was-a beautiful, naked woman with coppery skin. The Lady Jadis.

  "I must be drunk!" Pock murmured to himself, though rubbing his eyes did not make her disappear.

  He watched as the lady retrieved her gown from beneath a pile of old sacks and hastily slipped it on. She moved softly to the door and was gone. Pock waited until he was certain the coast was clear, then tumbled out of the barrel.

  "Pretty kitty," he mumbled lasciviously as he tottered toward the door. "I wonder if she would like to be my personal pet…"

  He swayed groggily on his feet, grinning foolishly, as he made his way through the keep. Something told him the baron was going to be very interested in this.

  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 building
s 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."*****