by Mark Anthony
The golems moved fast as they fell upon her. An arm ending in a slavering mouth snapped at Jadis's face. Snarling, she slashed with her claws. There was a wet, ripping sound, and the arm went spinning into the darkness. Whirling, Jadis barely dodged a series of powerful kicks from the flailing legs of the second golem. Abruptly a cry of pain and surprise escaped her lips. The spider-golem was grappling her leg while its head gnawed at her flesh. She grabbed the golem and ripped it from her leg to heave it at the wall. Head hit stone with a gurgling thunk! and slid to the floor. One of the thing's arms had ripped free and still held her in a clammy grip. With a sound of disgust Jadis shook her leg. The arm fell to the floor where it flopped wetly like a dying fish.
The spider-golem had gotten up and was scuttling toward her again. Jadis backed away as the three golems closed in on her. Her blows seemed to have little effect on them. Again she lashed out with her razor-sharp claws, tearing open the abdomen of the many-mouthed golem. Guts spilled out, and Jadis gagged. Even its writhing entrails ended in snapping, sharp-toothed mouths. Suddenly she realized she had made an error. She had backed away in the direction of the inquisition chamber's door. She fenced over her shoulder and saw the basalt archway rippling, molding itself into the giant fanged maw that guarded the door.
A desperate idea came to her. Jadis tensed her powerful legs and sprang upward in a high, arcing leap. She somersaulted over the golems and landed on her feet behind them. Jerking her head up, she was just in time to see the momentum of the three flesh golems carry them into the gigantic maw. The huge mouth closed, sinking jagged stone teeth into dead flesh. The stone maw chewed fiercely on its grisly repast. The golems writhed mindlessly as bones popped and flesh tore. In moments all that was left of the creatures were quivering gobbets of putrid meat. The stone mouth gave a satisfied belch.
"My, we were hungry, weren't we?" Jadis laughed, though with a slightly manic edge. Clutching the small golden box, she picked her way carefully through the slimy remains of the golems toward the giant maw. Its stone lips quivered around stalactite teeth, sensing the nearness of more flesh. Jadis broke the wax seal on the box. There was a small crimson flash, and the acrid scent of lightning drifted on the air. Unassisted by her touch, the tiny hinged lid opened. Inside she saw a small amount of silvery powder. Raising the box higher, Jadis blew. A cloud billowed forth to engulf the enchanted stone mouth. Each of the countless motes of dust flared brightly like a tiny star. Their brilliant radiance tore the darkness to shreds, then dimmed. Jadis blinked. When her vision cleared, she saw that the stone mouth had hardened and was frozen solid. It was animate no more. King Azalin's counterspell had worked.
"You are indeed a great magician, my king," she murmured in admiration.
Moments later, still in her manther form, Jadis prowled through the dank inquisition chamber. What she found puzzled her. She saw all the predictable paraphernalia for causing pain-shackles, stretching racks, iron maidens-and more than a few of the instruments of torture still bore pathetic victims. But there was nothing else, nothing that would require the room's defensive measures.
"Why go to so much trouble to keep me out of here?" Jadis wondered to herself. Was it simply a false trail to waste her time? If so, then Caidin was more clever than she had given him credit for. With a growl, she turned to leave the inquisition chamber.
Jadis halted. One of the prisoners-a man whose limbs had been distorted to grotesque dimensions in a nameless contraption of steel and leather-seemed to be staring at her. Fascinated, Jadis approached. At first she thought he must still be alive. As she drew near, she realized that this was not the case. Blood pooled darkly beneath his pallid skin, and she could smell the first hint of decay emanating from his flesh. Yet he gazed at her with a sort of supernatural awareness.
"You can see me, can't you?" she said softly, leaning over the man.
"Must go… He says… I must go…
Jadis raised an eyebrow. Mow this was interesting. Though hideous, the flesh golems had been unremarkable. Every other Vistana in the bazaar of II Aluk knew the charm that made a dead chicken's heart twitch across a piece of cloth and trace in blood the name of an onlooker's true love. But this- a dead man who was somehow still sentient-this was astounding. She bent closer. She had barely been able to hear his croaking words. Of course, it was probably difficult to talk if you couldn't breathe.
"Where must you go?" she asked intently.
The man twitched, his eyes staring widely. Though conscious, he was clearly insane. No doubt his brain was beginning to rot like the rest of him.
"He says… go… go to..
"Where?" Jadis hissed.
"Tower…" The man's blue lips formed the word almost soundlessly. "Go to… the tower…"
The cadaver's twitching turned into violent convulsions. Jadis backed away, thinking. What tower could the dead prisoner mean? Her eyes flashed. An image came to mind of the forbidding, half-finished tower that loomed west of the village-the tower whose mysterious presence no one could seem to explain.
Suddenly shadows seemed to swirl about her body, molding it into a new shape. The black werepanther padded swiftly out of the chamber, leaving the dungeon's prisoners to their mad dreams of death.
It was all too easy.
Wort slipped the bloodied lock of cinnamon-colored hair between the pages of the book. Carefully, he set the tome back down on the circular table littered with scrolls, quill pens, and inkpots. Turning, he hobbled across the cluttered chamber that belonged to Lord Inquisitor Sirraun and opened the window. Nimbly, he climbed through.
Outside, dead vines clung to the stone wall. Wort clambered onto the vines. Some distance below him the wall met the sheer edge of the tor. From there it was five hundred feet down to the jagged heap of talus at the base of the crag. Wort was not afraid. The voice had told him he would be safe, and he believed it. Craning his neck, he peered through the window.
A short time later the door opened, and a boy dressed in a brown robe entered. Wort had never seen the boy before, but he recognized him all the same. The lad was Sirraun's assistant-he worked copying books and missives for the lord inquisitor. Wort knew this because the voice had told him. The voice of the bell whispered in his mind more and more each day.
The boy sat at the table and picked up a pen. He dipped it in an inkpot, then opened a book to begin copying. When the young scribe turned the page, he paused. Setting down his pen, he picked up something from between the pages of his book. Frowning, he studied it for a moment. Suddenly his eyes widened. Clutching the object, the boy dashed from the room.
Wort chuckled softly. He climbed down the vines to an open drainpipe. A thin stream of dark water poured from the wide mouth of the pipe. Wort climbed inside and soon waded through foul, knee- deep water. Crimson-eyed rats chittered angrily at the invasion. Following the whispered instructions of a voice only he could hear, Wort made his way through the sewers toward his bell tower. At dawn the next day, as the bloody light of the rising sun dripped down the dark walls of Nartok Keep, the bells rang out, tolling another execution. A head roiled from the chopping block and fell into a gore- stained basket, staring upward with a wide-eyed expression of surprise and terror. Until a moment, when the magical half-moon blade had flashed e" d descended, the head had belonged to the Lord Ш " Inquisitor Sirraun. Now it belonged to the crows.. — All in the keep had heard the dark story. Sirraun's young scribe had discovered a bloody lock of hair belonging to Caidin's unfortunate lover, the Contessa Sabrinda, in the lord inquisitor's study. In his rage at apparent betrayal, the baron had refused to hear sun's protestations of innocence. Despite Sir- I?" years of service, Caidin had ordered his lord inquisitor clapped in irons and taken to the dungeon to await dawn-and death. Both had arrived on schedule.
High in the spindly bell tower, Wort let the bell ropes slip through his fingers as the last throbbing strains of the dirge washed through him. Everything had happened just as the voice had said it would.
"Th
is is what it feels like to have power, Lisenne," Wort said softly to the mist-gray pigeon that perched upon his humped shoulder. "I've only just realized that, my friend, but it is so." A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as he hobbled toward one of the belfry's windows. "Look at them-look at them down there, scurrying about like so many rats. They think they hold their own destinies in their hands. They are fools to believe so. It is I who control their fates. It is I who have the power to shape their lives-and to take those lives away. All of them. Even my brother Caidin." His eyes fluttered shut, and he drew in a sensuous breath. "I like this feeling, Lisenne. I like it very much…"
He took the pigeon from his shoulder and tossed it into the air. "Go, Lisenne, join your companions." The creature winged away to a roost high in the belfry. "I must decide who will be next." While the pigeons cooed in their gentle voices, Wort busied himself with grisly plans.
It was late in the afternoon when a faint voice echoed from far below. "Hello?"
Wort jerked his head up at the sound of the distant call.
"Are you there, Wort?" Someone was ascending.
"She has come back!" he muttered under his breath with fury. And once again with impossible wonder: "She has come back!" Swiftly, he half climbed, half leapt into his chamber below the belfry.
"I would not have taken you for a common thief," he snarled as the violet-eyed doctor stepped from the spiral stairwell into the dingy room. "Do you often break into people's homes?"
Boldly, she took a step forward. "I am sorry. I knocked on the door, but you did not answer."
"Why have you come?" he demanded.
"To apologize," she said simply.
Those were not the words he had expected. She took advantage of his mute surprise to continue in an earnest voice. "You were right, you know. When I said I might be able to straighten your back, I wasn't really thinking of what you might want. I was only thinking that I was a doctor, and here before me was an affliction I might be able to cure." She shook her head fiercely. "I was wrong. What in truth stood, before me was not an affliction, but a man. By expecting you wished healing, I made the gravest of mistakes. I assumed that there was something wrong with you." Wort regarded her silently. Then his lips parted in a leering smile. "A pretty speech, Doctor," he said in a harsh voice. "No doubt a wretched hunchback should quiver with joy at being so lucky to hear such sweet words." He advanced on her. "Well, I tell you this, Doctor. It is an affliction! A true affliction."
Spittle flew from his lips.
"You claim to understand me, because you know what it is like to be loathed." Wort shook a heavy fist. "You understand nothing, Doctor. You-who have the beauty and grace of an angel- you have the audacity to cry your false tears and tell me that you know what it is like to be scorned. I laugh at you. Do not think for one moment that you in any way like me. Look at me, Doctor!" He beat his shoulder furiously, pounding the misshapen that weighed so heavily upon his stooped shoulders. "This is loathing. This is hatred. This- this is true suffering!" Wort's raving echoed off the cold walls, then fell into silence.
Mika's eyes burned with anger hot enough to match Wort's. No-it was far hotter, a bonfire to his pitiful, guttering torch. "How dare you." Her words were quiet, even. They cut him like a knife. "How dare you claim to have a monopoly on misery." She roughly wiped tears from her pale cheeks. "I tell you this, Wort-it might as well be misery that fills each well in this kingdom rather than water, for sometimes it seems there is no man, no woman, no child who does not drink deeply of sorrow every day. A mother dies in childbirth. Her husband drinks a cup. A farmer is trampled by horses. His family passes the cup around. A nobleman loses his foot to gout. Let his cup be of silver then, though the drink is just as bitter. Disease races like a swarm of rats through the streets of a city-let all its people go to the well again and again, pulling up bucket after bucket of misery until their shoulders ache with the labor. Then let them drink down every drop of sorrow to slake their parched throats.
"You think I don't know true misery? Then reconsider. I drank a full cup from the well when my daughter died of the Crimson Death. I drank a deeper cup when my husband followed her to the grave a month later. Consider every time someone has scorned me for daring to be a doctor another sip I have suffered, and two for every poor soul I have tried to heal and failed. Pour it all into a pool together, and I will give you a lake of grief you would drown in, Wort, and in whose dark depths your body would never be found!"
She fell silent, as if the words had gushed out of her like wine from a broken barrel, and now the barrel was empty. Wort could only stare at her. It felt like someone had plunged a knife in his gut and was even now twisting it with abandon.
Once more the doctor spoke, though this time her voice was quiet, measured, and terribly distant. "If you think your suffering so much grander than anyone else's, Wort, then I will leave you to savor it."
Lifting the hem of her dark dress out of the moldy straw, she turned to go. Wort's heart lurched in his chest. Words issued raggedly from his throat. He himself listened in dull amazement, as if someone else were speaking.
"Please-don't go!"
Mika froze. She regarded him solemnly. "Why?"
"Because…" He licked his lips slowly. Why did he wish her to stay? Why was there such a deep aching in his heart, a feeling that, if she were to disappear into the shadows of the stairwell, he would howl with madness, or lie down on the cold floor and die? "Because," he gasped at last, "because I am lonely, Mika. I am so terribly, terribly lonely."
Slowly she lifted a hand, reaching toward him. "I know you are, Wort." Her voice was as sweet and quavering as a nightingale's. "I am, too."
Trembling, he stepped toward her and clasped her small hand.
Wort peered through the iron grating, watching the fiery eye of the sun sink toward the horizon. The moor stretched as far as he could see, beautiful in its desolation. West of the village loomed the nameless tower. It was taller now than before. Yet even its ominous presence could not dampen the exhilarated fluttering of his heart.
For an hour, in the dappled light and shadow of the belfry, he and Mika had spoken as the pigeons fluttered around them like pale spirits. They had talked of simple things. He had asked her to describe what life in the far-off city of II Aluk was like. Then he had listened angrily while she described the way others had scorned her for studying medicine at the university in II Aluk, and had cried silent tears when she spoke in halting words of the Crimson Death, and the tragic loss of her husband and daughter.
She in turn had asked him how he knew which ropes to pull to form the clarion harmonics of the bells, which he was excited to explain to another for the first time. All the while he had marveled that such a wondrous creature would deign to be so close to him.
Finally, Mika had risen to go. But as she did so, she had said something to Wort that even now echoed in his mind. Gently, he stroked the pigeon that sat upon his outstretched arm, preening its iridescent feathers. "Did you hear her, Armond?" Wort whispered to the bird. "She said my voice was beautiful."
Wort could not help but laugh at this. How strange to think that anything about him might somehow be beautiful. Wort shook his head as he stroked the pigeon's smooth feathers. In the shadows above him, the last rays of the sun fell upon the bell forged of bronze, silver, and blood. Its rope dangled down, swinging gently in the faint breath of air that blew through the windows, as if to beckon Come, ring me…
Eleven
The dying man's screams echoed eerily down the corridors of Nartok Keep.
"This way, milady. Please-we must hurry. I don't… I don't think he can hold out much longer."
Mika strode swiftly after a rag-clad serving boy with tousled red hair. In a white-knuckled hand she gripped her satchel of doctor's tools. The screams grew louder, rising and falling.
"Can you tell me what is wrong with your uncle?" she asked the boy gravely.
He cast a white-faced look at her over his shoulder. "You'll
see, milady."
Mika clutched the hem of her dark dress up above her ankles, breaking into a trot to keep up. A quarter of an hour before, the boy had burst into the Black Boar, explaining breathlessly that his uncle, a manservant at the keep, was ill. Mika had grabbed her black satchel and rushed outside to the carriage Baron Caidin had sent in which to take her up the tor. Whatever she thought of the baron, it seemed he took an admirable interest in his servants.
"In here, milady!"
The boy led the way through a squalid warren of servants' quarters to a dingy room. A cloying odor hung on the air, so thick it was almost palpable. On a rude cot, a gray-haired man writhed beneath a blanket, shivering despite the fire roaring in a stone fireplace only a few feet away. Several servants clustered around the cot, staring with frightened eyes.
Mika entered with an air of authority. "All right everyone, step back," she said briskly. "Somebody bring candles-I'll need more light." The servants scurried to obey her requests. "How long has the patient been like this?"
"Since he was bitten this morning, milady," a young maidservant replied nervously.
"Bitten?"
The red-haired boy nodded. "It was an insect, milady."
"I see." Mika approached the cot. The man gazed up at her, agony contorting his pallid face.
"Please," he gasped. "Please help me."
"Don't be afraid," Mika said reassuringly. "It will be all right. I promise."
She pulled down the threadbare blanket, then clamped a hand to her mouth to keep from gagging. The man's right arm was bloated to hideous proportions and covered with purple-black splotches. Even as she watched, the dark splotches inched their way onto his shoulder and chest. Mika steeled her will. This was not the first time she had faced a terrifying illness, nor would it be the last.
She began by making notes to herself about his condition. "The patient's right arm appears to be in an advanced stage of gangrene. Infection is spreading rapidly. Immediate amputation is the only-"