Mark Anthony - Tower of Doom

"Let's be on our way, beast," Wort said to the donkey as he started to climb into the wagon.

Once again, movement caught the corner of his eye. Wort craned his neck, gazing upward. One of the stone gargoyles high above seemed to move.

"Why, it's just another loose statue," Wort grumbled to himself.

Another gargoyle stirred on its stone perch, stretching its dark wings as though waking from a long sleep. Wide-eyed, Wort spun around. He watched raptly as gargoyle after gargoyle began to come awake. The statues flexed powerful arms and extended sickle-shaped talons. Their movements were stiff and slow at first, but gradually they began to grow more fluid. Doglike muzzles curled back from fanged maws, making hungry, bestial grins.

Their wings began to beat more swiftly. Wort knew he had only moments before the gargoyles woke fully. In panic, he jerked his head from side to side, searching in desperation for some place he might hide. Then he saw a row of stone sarcophagi deep in the nave. The lid of one sarcophagus was askew. Without thinking, Wort rushed to the stone coffin and dived inside. With the strength of terror, he gripped the stone lid and hauled it into place, sealing himself inside. Outside, the sound of wings swelled the air.

After a moment, Wort realized that he was not alone in the suffocating darkness of the coffin. In the twilight that filtered through a crack in the side of the sarcophagus he glimpsed the mummified corpse that lay next to him. Rotten velvet and tarnished jewels draped the thing's leathery flesh, but nothing could hide the cruel hand of decay. Eyeballs, which dangled like gray raisins in the corpse's eye sockets, seemed to stare at Wort. Strands of musty hair, dry and brittle as old silk, brushed against his face. He squirmed to move away from the mummy, but the motion only brought its bony arms down upon him. The sweet scent of rot filled his lungs.

Outside the sarcophagus, snarls and grunts echoed around the cathedral. Wort heard the terrified braying of the donkey and the clattering of its hooves on the stone floor. Abruptly, the animal's terrible screams ended. Moments later came the hideous music of popping bones and ripping flesh, followed by the sounds of feeding. All too quickly the noise of the terrifying feast ceased. Growls of hunger rent the air once more. A clicking sound approached the sarcophagus-sharp claws on cold stone. Wort froze. Something was stalking outside. Through the crack in the sarcophagus, he glimpsed muscles that rippled fluidly beneath scaly skin and a reptilian tail flicking sinuously, its spiked tip dripping blood.

At last the creature outside the sarcophagus moved on. Wort shuddered. The mummy's shriveled fingers gently caressed his cheek. He clenched his jaw to keep from screaming. Surely he must be going mad. Yes, better it was to lose himself in the dark pit of madness than to believe that statues could somehow, by some dread enchantment, come to life at the setting of the sun-that gargoyles hewn of stone could feast on living flesh and thirst for warm blood.

Again and again that night Wort heard the chilling approach of claws on stone. Each time he held his breath, waiting for the lid of the coffin to be heaved aside, waiting to gaze upon one of the hideous beasts, waiting to feel long talons slice deep into his throat. Once, he saw a glowing green eye peer through the crack in the sarcophagus. Wort caught a glimpse of unspeakable malevolence in the eye-a malevolence so vast and ancient that he thought it would sunder his mind. Then the baleful eye was gone.

All night long, Wort lay stiffly in the suffocating darkness of the coffin, listening to the bestial howls outside while the ancient cadaver encircled him in a cold embrace. One by one he counted his frenzied heartbeats, praying for the dawn.

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."