"Come, Wort, I thought you wanted to follow me," he jeered. "Or are you too much of a coward?"
"Caidin, you mustn't!" Wort shouted in terror.
"You are a coward, Wort. I should have-"
That was when the rock beneath his heel gave way. The others screamed and stepped back as Caidin slid over the edge of the precipice. Desperately, he grabbed for a handhold, but the rock crumbled beneath his fingers. A strong hand clamped about his wrist, catching him. Caidin looked up in shock. It was Wort.
"I've got you, Brother," the hunchback said determinedly. "I won't let you fall."
With surprising strength, Wort hauled Caidin up over the cliffs edge to safety.
"Are you all right, Brother?"
Caidin only glared at Wort. Now he owed his life to the wretched hunchback.
"I hate you," he snarled.
"I'd sort of gathered that," Pock quipped from his chair-back perch. "Barons don't usually flog the people they like."
With a start, Caidin realized he must have uttered the old words aloud. The stiletto quivered before him, embedded deeply in the desk. Slowly he unclenched his fingers from its hilt.
"I don't mean you, you maggot," he snapped. Caidin reconsidered. "Of course, I do hate you, Pock. I'm just thinking of someone else right now."
Caidin sighed. Tempting as they were, he knew he must discard all thoughts of having the hunchback murdered at the moment. In his mind, he could still hear the terrible secret that the Old Baron, gray and "Withered on his deathbed, had whispered in his ear. As long as the hunchback kept to the solitude of his precious bell tower, the dark truth would be safe.
A sharp rapping came at the chamber's door. In a purple flash, Pock leapt from his chair and hid behind a heavy curtain where he could spy unseen. ~ "Enter," Caidin commanded. The unnaturally thin form of his lord inquisitor drifted into the chamber.
"You called for me, Your Grace?"
"Yes, Sirraun." Caidin pulled the stiletto from the desk. "I want you to increase the pace of the inquisition. It is taking too long. You must bring me more traitors."
A curious look crossed Sirraun's jaundiced visage. "Indeed, Your Grace. I hasten to obey. As you know, it is my sole purpose to see the conspiracy against you shattered."
Caidin slammed a fist against the desk. Parchment scrolls tumbled onto the floor. "Blast the conspiracy, Sirraun! You know as well as I that it does not exist. Of course there are peasants in the village who despise me. As well they should, for I have no qualms in using them for my own gain." His voice became an intense whisper. "But I need more bodies, Sirraun. If I am truly to challenge Azalin, I must have more bodies." He bore down on the lord inquisitor. "And so I must have more 'traitors.' Get them for me, Sirraun. I don't care how you do it. But do it, and fast!"
Sirraun gazed at Caidin for a silent moment. Slowly, a sharp smile cut across his thin lips. "With the greatest of pleasure, Your Grace." Bowing deeply, the lord inquisitor retreated from the chamber.
"How come you never flog him, Your Grace?" Pock complained, stepping from behind the curtain.
Caidin ignored his knave. Soon, Azalin, he thought with satisfaction. Soon all that is yours will be mine.
Three
"They think they know fear when they gaze upon me…"
Roaring flames consumed the heap of leather- bound books in the fireplace. Shadows danced on the walls of the bell tower chamber, like dying phantoms writhing in the violent orange light.
"I will show them real fear…"
With gnarled hands, Wort tore apart another book and heaved it onto the fire. The burning mound settled under its own weight, letting out a serpent's hiss. Searing heat blistered Wort's face, but he did not care. Handsome princes and brave knights-heroes he could never be, stories he could never live. Let all the books burn. Suddenly the flames made him think of the ashwife who had fallen in her haste to get away from him. He relived how her hands smoked and her face bubbled. For years he had wallowed in guilt from that day. Yet it had been her own fault, he told himself now. Perhaps she deserved to be burned. Perhaps they all did.
"They have mocked me for the last time," he croaked hoarsely. "I will show them that a monster is not an object of ridicule, but one of terror. I will show them all. Even Caidin." A murderous glint lit his eyes. "No… especially Caidin. Caidin who has had everything while I… I have had this." He clawed at his twisted face.
What a fool he had been! Oh, what a loathsome, laughable idiot! Mow Wort saw everything clearly. He had not asked for this wretched, twisted body. He was the one who deserved pity. They were cruel and heartless, all of them-the villagers, the servants in the keep, the nobles of the baron's court. They deserved a monster, and he would give them one.
"But how?"
He stalked toward the slit of the chamber's lone window. Leaning heavily on the cracked window ledge, he glared at the folk that scurried like rats in the courtyard below.
"If only I could make them know what it is like to be an object of fear, Oratio," he whispered to a pigeon perched on the ledge. He picked up the bird, stroking the purple feathers of its throat. "Then I would know justice."
Perhaps the idea that came to him then was a phantasm of his fevered brain, brought on by the acrid smoke and heat of the fire. Whatever the genesis, Wort suddenly knew what to do.
"The darkling!" he realized. "Yes, I must go to the dungeon. The darkling will show me the way." He bared his jagged yellow teeth. "I will have justice!"
A sharp popping sound echoed off the walls. Startled, Wort looked down at the gory remnants of the pigeon in his hands. Blood matted the iridescent feathers of its limp neck, and its once-bright eyes stared now like dull stones.
"Oratio…" Wort gasped, blinking back burning tears. "What have I done?"
Peculiar thoughts crept into the turmoil of his brain. Leave the thing, Wort It is far too late now. He dropped the pigeon to the floor. Wort gathered his black cloak around his tortured body. He did not bother to wipe the blood from his hands. Let it mark him. "Farewell, Oratio," he whispered grimly.
Wort moved through the dank passageway deep in the bowels of Nartok Keep. The air was oppressive here, as if all the ponderous weight of the fortress pressed down ruthlessly frorrt above. Rancid- smelling torches burned in crude iron sconces at, irregular intervals, giving off more smoke than light. Dark slime dripped down cracked walls to pool on; the stone floor, like ooze from some festering dis- i ease. Screams of agony and moans of suffering echoed in the distance. Wort's bulbous eyes gleamed in the torchlight, flicking nervously left and right. He clutched a small rusted knife, scrounged from beneath the rotting straw that covered the floor of his chamber in the bell tower.
Crude laughter drifted from ahead. Cautiously, Wort edged his way along the wall until he came to an archway that opened into a side chamber. Holding his breath, he peered through. In the small room beyond, three forms clad in shabby blue uniforms crouched on the floor, gathered around a circle drawn in chalk*. Dungeon guards. Shaped like men, their flesh was a sickly green hue. Their bloated heads seemed too large for their bodies, and their eyes glowed like hot coals. Wort had read of such creatures. They were goblyns-pathetic humans who had been transformed by dark magic.
"Darkness grant me luck," one of the goblyns growled. He shook a wooden cup, and a dozen yellowed knucklebones tumbled into the circle.