Tower of Doom

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 mouth 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.

"I beg you," Robart gasped hoarsely. Even speaking was agony. "I have told you… the truth. I am… innocent."

Sirraun picked up a wooden box. "No, Robart. You are mistaken. You see, no one is truly innocent. Everyone conceals some dark secret in his heart. Sadly, the methods I am forced to adopt to discover those secrets are somewhat crude." The lipless gash of his mouth parted in an evil smile. "But they are, I have found, almost invariably effective."

Opening the box, Sirraun drew out a large silver ring covered with spidery runes. It looked like a circlet a king might wear around his head.

"You must wonder what this is," Sirraun said. "I confess, I do not truly know. But it is a most intriguing object."

He picked up a wooden staff and slowly slipped the ring over its tip. Strangely, the tip of the staff disappeared. After a moment Sirraun lifted the silver circlet from the staff. Robart gaped. The end of the staff was blackened and charred.

"I cannot be certain," Sirraun explained coolly, "but I suspect the ring is a gateway to another realm of existence-another world, if you will. It seems to be a world filled with fire." He approached the young man. "Searing fire." He moved the ring toward one of Robart's manacled hands.

"Please," Robart choked, staring at the ring fearfully. "I've told you everything I know."

"Oh, we have only just begun to explore the depths of your depravity," Sirraun cooed. "You see, we know you to be a reader of books. Books are dangerous things. They lead to ideas, which in turn lead to questions, which in the end, of course, lead to treachery. I think you will be amazed, Robart, at the crimes and sins to which you will find yourself confessing."

The ring hovered closer. Robart let out a wordless cry of terror.

"Enough, Sirraun!" a deep voice cut through the air. "I grow weary of your dramatics." A figure robed and hooded in rich purple stepped from an alcove. "I do not have all night to watch you satisfy your pathetic cravings for sadistic entertainment."

Poison filled the lord inquisitor's black eyes, but he responded with a sharp nod, placing the ring back in its box. "As you wish."

"Things are always as I wish." The robed man approached the prisoner.

Hope flared in Robart's heart. "Have you come to set me free?"

"In a way," the other replied. He held up a polished black stone. The robed man whispered a dissonant word, and a faint crimson light flickered to life inside the stone. The light began to throb, slowly at first, then faster. Abruptly Robart realized that the stone's pulsating rhythm was matching the cadence of his own frantically beating heart.

"What… what is it?" he gasped.

"Watch," the robed man replied.

A ray of crimson light arced from the stone, striking Robart in the chest. The young man screamed as crystalline pain pierced him. His back arched, and his hands clenched themselves into rigid claws. The ray of magical light flared, changing from angry red to shimmering green. Now the light seemed to stream outward from Robart's chest, rebounding into the dark stone. Suddenly the pain that racked Robart subsided. His body went limp. As the green light drained into the stone, he felt himself growing colder and colder. His skin turned sickly gray, and deep shadows appeared beneath his staring eyes. He shuddered one last time as the emerald ray of light vanished. The stone went dark. Carefully, the robed man stored the stone in a pocket.

"Please," Robart whispered. It seemed strangely difficult to move his jaw and tongue. He was unbearably cold. "Please… don't kill me."

"But don't you see, Robart?" Laughter emanated from within the purple hood. "You're already dead."

Robart stared in disbelief.

"Can't you feel it?" the other went on with eerie calmness. "You are no longer breathing, Robart. Listen. Your heart has fallen still."

"No…" Robart croaked. He tried to struggle, to free himself from his shackles, but his movements were feeble, jerky. "It's hard… to move… so cold."

"Ah, yes," the robed man said dispassionately. "The stiffness of rigor mortis is already Setting in."

Robert could only move his lips wordlessly. Gradually his twitching stopped. The robed man reached out a hand and gently shut the apprentice's eyes

"Rest in peace, Robart," he whispered mockingly.

Darkness shrouded the young man. A cry of madness welled up inside him, rending his soul to shreds, but he could not give voice to it.

Dead men, Robart realized dimly, cannot scream.

Baron Caidin pushed back the purple hood of his robe. He was beginning to enjoy watching the stone drain the life-forces of its victims.

"You might have given me more time with him, Your Grace." Sirraun's voice was resentful. He ran a hand fondly over a machine fashioned of iron bars, leather straps, and sharp spikes-one of the many nameless engines of torture that filled the dank room far below Nartok Keep.

Caidin fixed his lord inquisitor with a disgusted look. "I couldn't care less whether or not you have the chance to satisfy your perverse pleasures, Sirraun. I'm a busy man."

He stalked around the slumped corpse of the young man. "He must be beheaded for treason in the courtyard like the others. We must keep up the ruse of the inquisition. I cannot allow Azalin to learn the real reason I need these bodies. When will he be strong enough to walk up the steps of the scaffold?"

Sirraun peered at the corpse. Already dark blood was pooling beneath the pale skin. "They can usually move again in a day or two, after the rigor mortis fades. But I prefer to keep them chained up then. They are quite dangerous at that point, for they are in the midst of going utterly mad. It is better to wait a few more days. Once their brains begin to decay they are much easier to control."

Caidin nodded. "Very well. In the meantime…"

"Yes, I know-find more traitors." Sirraun finished. He bowed solemnly. "With pleasure, Your Grace." The lord inquisitor backed away, disappearing into the shadows.

Alone with the cadaver, Caidin drew out the dark stone once more. It was quiescent now, but he knew that the life-force of the young scribe-like that of all the other villagers falsely arrested for treachery- had been absorbed by the stone. The Soulstone was more powerful than he had ever hoped it would be.

Caidin had stumbled upon a reference to the Soul- stone years earlier, in an ancient, forgotten tome in the keep's library. The notion of an object that siphoned the spirits of living men had excited him, and right away he had realized that such a thing could prove the key to great power. He had searched for more information about the stone but had found only tantalizing hints and clues. Interest grew into obsession, and for years he searched in vain for the Soulstone. Then at last, in the ruins of a forgotten fortress, he found the darkling. In truth, it had been more as if the darkling found him. Regardless, it was the twisted Vistana who finally revealed the hiding place of the Soulstone: an underwater cave along the Vuchar River. For his help, Caidin had rewarded the darkling with imprisonment. From time to time, the baron descended into the dungeon to ask the evil Vistana questions about the stone, doing less so of late as he grew to understand the Soulstone's powers more and more. He supposed he should have the darkling killed soon.

"Just a few more lives," Caidin told the silent corpse. "A score or two, no more. Then I will finally have the power I need to confront the king." He turned on a heel and strode from the inquisition chamber, leaving behind the hideous iron contraptions and the stench of fear. Other matters required his attention.

An hour later found Caidin standing in the candlelit splendor of Nartok Keep's Grand Hall. His black hair and beard shone with perfumed oil, and his scarlet kneecoat was trimmed with gold braid. With graceful strength, he rested a white-gloved hand on the hilt of the decorative saber dangling at his side.

"So, tell me again, Domeck, who is this lady I'm suddenly playing host to?"

"She's a traveling noble from Il Aluk, Your Grace," the stout, gray-haired man replied in his gruff voice. "A duchess, I believe. I gather she recently inherited an estate some leagues north of here, and she's come to examine the property. Apparently there's a problem with the legalities of the transaction-missing papers or some such nonsense. She's hoping to indulge Your Grace's hospitality while the matter is sorted out."

"And perhaps His Grace will indulge the lady's hospitality as well," a mischievous voice piped up wickedly. Pock appeared from behind a marble column, clad in comical imitation of the baron. The small, purple-skinned gnome capered about in a naughtily suggestive dance.

"Be still, you maggot," Caidin hissed as the gilded doors of the Grand Hall started to open. Pock dashed back behind the stone column. Caidin leaned his head toward the castellan. "Quick-what is she called?"

"Her name," Domeck replied quietly, "is Lady Jadis."

A pair of pages with powdered faces and rouged cheeks pushed open the tall gilded doors. A woman drifted into the hall, her gown of emerald silk whispering against the smooth marble floor. Her jet-black hair was coiled intricately atop her head, and a single large pearl hung from a golden strand that encircled her graceful neck. Her skin had the tone of burnished copper, and her eyes glittered with green- gold light.

Caidin swore an oath under his breath. "You didn't tell me she was so beautiful, Domeck," he whispered.

"Your Grace didn't ask," Pock quipped from his hiding place. Caidin bit his lip to keep from cursing.

"Your Grace didn't ask-what?" the woman inquired in a lilting voice as she approached.

Caidin smiled, displaying pointed canines. He made a mental note to box the foolish gnome's ears. A heady scent emanated from Lady Jadis, like the sweet fragrance of exotic spices. "I would be honored by the lady's company at table." He kissed her hand, lingering over it just a heartbeat longer than etiquette required.

"I must thank you for your kindness in taking me in," the duchess said warmly. "I trust that my affairs will be resolved soon, so that I will not overstay my welcome."

Caidin's oiled mustache curled in a devilish smile. "Oh, I fear there is little chance of that." He moved to a golden table. "Wine, my lady?"

"Please."

He filled two crystal goblets with pale wine and turned to hand one to her. Abruptly his eyes flashed in anger. Pock stood behind the lady, puckering up his purple face and hugging himself in a mockery of a passionate embrace.

"Is something amiss?" Jadis asked.

"Not at all," Caidin replied smoothly. He gently gripped the lady's elbow and steered her away. In the process he found the opportunity to plant a firm kick on Pock's hindquarters. The gnome let out a squeal.

"Did you hear something?" Jadis asked. Caidin could not stop her from looking over her shoulder, Fortunately, Pock had already vanished behind the column.

"I didn't hear a thing," Caidin said pleasantly.

The two spoke for a time, sipping their wine and exchanging formalities while the castellan stood apart at a respectful distance. When-she turned her head Caidin couldn't help running his eyes desirously over her supple neck and bare shoulders. Finally, he suggested they make their way to the dining hall. He downed his wine in a single gulp. Jadis nodded her acquiescence. Just then the gilded doors flew open. The pages hastily scrambled out of the way as a man with long golden hair stomped into the room.

"Your Grace, there you are," the man said breathlessly. Caidin noticed that his blue knight's uniform was spattered with mud. "I've been searching for you all evening, but no one I asked knew where you were."

Caidin gave him a sour look. "It never occurred to you, Logris, that if I had wished to be found I would have told people where to find me?"

The knight only stared at him in bewilderment.

Caidin sighed deeply. "I was attending to business, Logris," he said wearily. Was it his imagination, or did his knights grow more stupid with each passing year? "As I am doing now."

Logris bowed sweepingly. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I have urgent news I must tell you." He cast a sideways look at the Lady Jadis. "Er, in private, Your Grace."

The baron suppressed a groan. Logris was a loyal knight, but a trifle overeager. Caidin supposed the only way to be rid of him-and to continue the beguiling game of seduction with the lady-was to hear Logris's message.

Caidin turned toward Jadis.."Forgive me, my lady…"

"Think nothing of it, Your Grace." She touched his hand enticingly. "I will await уой in the dining hall."

Domeck volunteered to escort her. Caidin wistfully watched the emerald-gowned noblewoman as she and the castellan left the Grand Hall. When the golden doors had closed, he turned on the knight. "This had better be important, Logris."

Ten minutes later, after listening with increasing interest to Logris's report, Caidin dismissed the knight. He poured himself another glass of wine.

"What a fool," he murmured.

"You shouldn't say such things about yourself, baron," Pock teased, scampering out of his hiding place.

Caidin scowled in annoyance. "I wasn't talking about myself, Pock. I was referring to King Azalin." He drank the glass of wine. "Didn't you hear Logris's report? He just came from II Aluk. One of my agents there learned that Azalin has sent a Kargat spy to Nartok Keep."

"It isn't me, I swear!" Pock squeaked, falling to his knees.

"Get up, Pock!" Caidin snapped. "You're the one person I know would never betray me. You haven't the brains for it."

"Why thank you, Your Grace." Pock beamed.

Caidin gazed into the crystal goblet thoughtfully. "No, I think I can guess who it is that serves the Wizard King-someone who unexpectedly and quite conveniently arrived at the keep only today." He cast a murderous look at the doors of the Grand Hall, then advanced on the gnome. "I want you to keep an eye on the Lady Jadis, Pock."

"Begging your pardon, baron, but I would rather keep a hand on her." The gnome winked slyly.

"Pock!" Caidin growled threateningly.

The gnome scampered backward in alarm. "An eye it is, Your Grace!" he chirped, then scurried quickly from the hall.

"So, Azalin, you have sent one of your foul Kargat to spy on me," Caidin said aloud. He hurled the crystal goblet at the wall. "But I am one step ahead of you." Broken glass crackled beneath the heel of his boot as he strode from the hall. He did not want to be. late in joining the Lady Jadis for dinner.