by Mark Anthony
That was when he felt the floor lurch beneath him. He almost fell, gripping the altar to steady himself. The tower shook again. A low groaning throbbed on the air. The floor began to rock up and down, almost like the heaving deck of a ship.
Carefully, Wort made his way to the narrow slit of a window. A howl of glee escaped him. Outside, the land moved steadily by. He peered downward and saw that the tower had raised itself upon two massive stone legs. These surged up and down, pounding the ground with terrible force as the tower strode swiftly across the moor. Wort clapped his hands together.
"I have done it!" he cried jubilantly. "I have-"
His words abruptly trailed off. Through the window he saw something that froze his blood. It was the sharp edge of a cliff. Before him lay Morrged's Leap. Wort knew the defile well. There, so long ago, he had saved Caidin's life. It was a thousand feet from the edge of the precipice to the sharp, jagged rocks below. And the tower was heading straight for it.
"Stop, tower!" Wort shouted. "Turn back!"
The rhythmic swaying drew the cliff closer.
"Halt!" Wort cried desperately. A thought struck him. The tower had responded before when he had gripped the stone. Perhaps he needed to do so again. With a flicker of hope, he turned toward the altar.
He had not heard them climbing up the stairwell.
They shambled into the chamber in a ghastly flood. They had not wasted time on the doctor after all. The zombies. In seconds they surrounded him. He struggled fiercely as their clammy hands closed upon him. Rotting flesh tore in his fingers; his hands sank into their decomposing bodies. There were too many of them. They continued to spill from the stairwell in a rank, crushing tide. Hundreds of them.
"No!" Wort shrieked. "Don't you understand? The tower is heading for the cliff. We'll all be killed, you fools!"
Dark laughter bubbled from Wort's chest as the zombies sank their dirty claws into him. It was he who was the fool.
"Don't you see, Wort? They don't care. They're already dead!"
More twisted laughter escaped his lips as the zombies began to tear him apart.
Mika clutched the stallion's tangled mane, trying desperately to stay oh the courser's back. The beast screamed as it whirled around, but in every direction its wild eyes saw the same horrible sight-hundreds of zombies. They shuffled by in varied states of decay. The stench that rose from them was so thick Mika thought it would drown her. Yet none of the animated corpses seemed to take note of her or the panicked horse. All shambled unceasingly toward the tower.
A terrible grating of stone on stone shook the air. Slowly, ponderously, the tower began to rise. Those zombies that had just been stepping through the doorway fell, striking the ground with wet thuds. Mika's amazement at this turn of events barely registered in her reeling mind. The stone spire rose higher into the air, revealing two massive pillars of stone beneath. Emerald lightning sizzled, coiling about the thick columns. Suddenly one of the gigantic columns lifted itself off the ground and swung forward. The tower tipped at a precarious angle. Mika screamed. It was falling!
The second column rose and swung forward, striking the ground with a boom! The tower moved forward. At last, realization pierced the fog that clouded Mika's mind. The spire was not raised upon two columns, but two massive legs hewn of stone. The ponderous stone legs moved forward. The massive construction lurched up and down as it began to move across the moor. The dark tower of war was walking.
Mindlessly, the zombies streamed after the moving spire. The weighty stone feet came down upon them, crushing dozens to an oozing pulp with every step. The other zombies seemed not to notice. Thfey continued to swarm after the tower. Like a weird, armless giant of stone, the tower lumbered onward.
The gray stallion could not find passage through the roiling sea of undead. As if caught in a dark rapture, Mika watched the tower stride across the moor. It was almost… glorious. She did not notice the edge of the cliff until the tower was almost upon it. Then she clamped a hand to her mouth, unable to tear her eyes away from the grim spectacle. One stone leg stepped over the precipice. For a moment, the tower tottered precariously. Then slowly, almost majestically, the tower toppled over the cliff. For a long moment, the only sound was the low moan of the wind. Then a violent tremor shook the air.
Mad with fright, the stallion reared onto its hind legs. Mika grabbed at the creature's mane, but her fingers were torn loose. Like a rag doll, her body was hurled through the air. For a second it seemed as if she were flying. Then she struck the ground with violent force, fire exploding in her shoulder. A single thought, like the feeble flame of a dying candle, flickered through her brain. I am coming, my loves. Then all went dark.
Epilogue
Purple twilight drifted down from the sky to settle gently over the Vistana camp. Countless lanterns flared to life, their golden light driving back the gathering gloom. Smoke rose from a dozen cookfires, thick with the rich scents of venison, pepper, and sage. Wild music drifted through the motley collection of painted wagons, as did bright laughter, the clinking of cups, and the rhythmic clapping of hands. Fires and lanterns were by no means the only warmth in the gypsy caravan. — In most of the realm of Darkon, the Vistani were regarded with mistrust and suspicion. They were rumored to be shiftless wanderers, dabblers in dark magic, thieves and swindlers all. Here, on the open moor, there were none to look askance at them. Here the gypsies were their own masters. The Vistani were an ancient people-perhaps as ancient as the land itself, some few and wise dared to whisper-and all the land was their home. So it had always been, and so, they believed, it would always be.
Near the edge of the camp, three gypsy women stood in the flickering shadows cast by a stone- ringed fire. The three women were very different in aspect, one being fresh and young, another at the midpoint of life, and the last a wizened crone. Each seemed to wear a mantle of wisdom about her shoulders, and each wore an ancient jeweled ring on a finger. Their names were Karin, Riandra, and Varith, and they were the sages of this gypsy clan. They spoke together in soft tones, apart from the others.
"Was the augury fully unveiled?" asked Riandra.
Young Karin nodded firmly. "It was. The cards spoke clearly, as did the crystals. The bell has cracked. Its curse has shattered. Darkness has lost this battle."
Varith's sigh was like the low voice of a winter wind. "You speak hastily, Karin. The bell is no more. Yet many other relics of Darkness remain to devour the Light." Her small eyes glittered sharply as she leaned upon her crooked staff. "The battle is far from over."
"Will it ever truly be oyer?" Riandra murmured wistfully.
Silence was the only answer as the three women gazed solemnly at one another.
Suddenly the wild music that drifted on the purple air halted. Shouts of surprise and joy rang out. As one, the three Vistana sages rushed to the center of the camp.
"Steffan is back!" someone called out excitedly.
As one, the folk of the clan dropped what they were doing and rushed to gather about a man who limped into the circle of the wagons. He was handsome, with coal-dark eyes and a long mustache. His colorful gypsy attire-billowing pants, embroidered shirt, and crimson sash-was torn and stained with mud, and a splint fashioned of willow saplings was lashed tightly to his left leg. Quickly a chair was brought for him, and a silver cup of spiced wine placed in his hand. With an exhausted sigh, he sank down into the chair.
"It is good to be with the clan once more." His grin was tired but happy.
"Steffan, the Light shines upon us!" Karin said, her pretty face beaming as the three sages approached. "We feared that we had lost you."
Riandra nodded gravely. "What happened, Steffan?"
A dozen voices echoed the question. Ancient Varith silenced them with a sharp look.
"Shame! Can you not see the man has been through a dark ordeal? Let him be!"
Steffan held up a hand. "It is all right, Wise One. They are curious, that's all. Besides, I have good news." He reached into
a pocket and drew out a small object. It was a darkly mottled stone.
"The Soulstone," Karin breathed. "You found it, Steffan!"
He nodded, then held the stone toward Varith. "Will you take it, Wise One? I find that I do not like to carry it on my person."
"Nor should you, for it is a thing of utter evil." Varith took the stone. Carefully, she wrapped it in a cloth of blue silk and spirited it away into a pocket of her skirt. "You have done well, Steffan. Now one less relic of darkness is loose in the land. I will keep it safe and hidden." She glanced at the other two sages. "Until we find a way to destroy it."
"What happened to your leg, Steffan?" Riandra asked then.
The gypsy man shook his head sheepishly. "I was so happy when I found the stone in the wreckage of the tower that I grew careless. As I was climbing back up the cliff face, I slipped and fell. My leg was broken. I thought… I thought that I would die." He shuddered at the memory. "But I didn't."
Karin knelt to examine the splint on his leg. "A skilled hand did this," she murmured. "Who helped you, Steffan?"
His eyes glittered. Finally he whispered the words. "It was the angel…
Gasps went around the circle. In these last weeks, all had heard the legend of the Angel of the Moor. Again and again, folk who had become lost or injured on the desolate heath told the identical tale. Just as hope had faded, a mysterious woman had appeared out of the swirling mists to help them. Without speaking a word, the angel had healed their wounds and guided them to safety before vanishing silently into the fog. Some people said she was hideously disfigured. Othets said she was radiantly beautiful, as pale and ethereal as a ghost. All spoke of her eyes-haunting, mesmerizing eyes like violet flames.
Steffan went on. "Just when I was ready to let the crows take me, there she stood. She splinted my leg and gave me herbs to ease my pain. For three days she brought me food and water. Not once did she speak a word. Finally I was strong enough to try to walk again. As soon as she saw I could make it on my own, she vanished. I never even had the chance to thank her." He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was soft and low. "As long as I live, I will never forget her eyes." He shook his head in wonder. "An angel's eyes…"
Karin, Riandra, and Varith exchanged knowing, — sorrowful looks, but they said nothing.
Music and light drifted anew on the darkling air, filling the night with celebration.
She stood on the edge of a sheer precipice, glowing in the gauzy moonlight like a statue hewn of white marble. The wind whipped soft tatters of silk about her body like tendrils of lavender mist, and her golden hair streamed back from a face as round arid pale as the rising moon, injury had twisted one of her shoulders into a hideous hump, yet this imperfection only seemed to accentuate the ethereal beauty of her face. The woman gripped something that hung about her throat. Metal glinted in the moonlight. It was a golden locket. The woman stared madly into the night, as if her glowing violet eyes glimpsed something there that no other could see-something vast, and ancient, and eternally ravenous.
At last she turned and vanished into the gloom, leaving the darkness to its own designs.
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