Mark Anthony - Tower of Doom

"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.