Mark Anthony - Tower of Doom

"Excellent," Sirraun said, running his bony Fingers over the peasant's sweat-slickened brow. His "client" today was a young man with a broad chest and strong limbs. A perfect subject. The peasant moved his lips, but only a few feeble whimpers managed to issue from his mouth. "No, do not speak," Sirraun admonished gently. "Do not try to fight it. Just feel the pain."

The man stared in mute horror. Abruptly his eyes rolled into his head. Sirraun sighed. Now he would have to wait until the man regained consciousness to continue the fun. He made some minor adjustments to the apparatus, then strode out of the inquisition chamber. As he locked the iron door something caught his eye. Wedged in a crack in the stone archway of the door was a dark and glossy tuft of black fur. He pulled it out to examine it. Interest sparked in Sirraun's eyes.

"It looks as if someone has tried to visit my inquisition chamber unannounced," he murmured. "A perilous mistake."

Sirraun stroked the archway with a slender hand. For a moment the stones quivered, then were still. He had discovered the magical doorway by accident some years ago. Since then he had trained the ancient artifact to recognize his presence-his and no other's. Sirraun tucked the fur into the pocket of his close-fitting tunic, then headed swiftly down the corridor.

"Are you certain she didn't gain entrance to the inquisition chamber, Sirraun?" Caidin demanded a short while later. The baron paced the length of his richly appointed private chamber, regal in his perfectly tailored coat of blue and crimson.

Pock marched behind his master, his purple face screwed up in comic imitation of the baron's angry mien; The knave wore a coat to match the baron's, along with a ridiculously ruffled shirt. "Yes, Sirraun," Pock mimicked in his piping voice. "Are you certain?" The gnome stuck his purple tongue out at the lord inquisitor, popping it back into his mouth before the baron noticed.

Sirraun fixed the gnome with a sharp look. Mot for the first time did it occur to him that it would be very interesting to test some of his Inventions on a client the diminutive size of a gnome.

"I am quite certain, Your Grace," Sirraun answered. "Yet we must not underestimate the resources of the Kargat. It may be only a matter of time before Jadis finds a way past the obstacles that surround the inquisition chamber."

Caidin struck his palm with a fist. "Then create new obstacles, Sirraun."

"Yes, Sirraun-new obstacles," Pock proclaimed pompously. He struck his own palm, then shook his fingers frantically, hopping about in exaggerated pain.

"I want you to delay her investigation as long as possible," Caidin went on. "By the time the Lady Jadis learns my plans, I want it to be far too late for her to do anything to stop me."

An idea occurred to Sirraun. There was a fascinating experiment he had wanted to try for some time. Mow might be the perfect chance. "There is something I could arrange, Your Grace. However, it would require several… bodies, immediately. Can you spare some 'traitors,' Your Grace?"

Caidin considered this. He had used the Soulstone to drain the life essences of dozens more prisoners these last days. The magical stone had greedily drunk in the souls of its victims, and now it was nearly full. Soon it would contain all the life energy he required to defeat Azalin. After a moment, he nodded. "Very well,' Sirraun. Take what you need."

"Excellent, Your Grace."

"If you need bodies, Sirraun, why not use Contessa Sabrinda's?" Pock chirped helpfully. "I imagine it's still quite fresh."

Caidin's visage darkened. "Pock!"

Sirraun raised a speculative eyebrow. "Of what does the knave speak, Your Grace?"

Caidin gritted the words between clenched teeth. "The poor contessa was found dead in her chamber this morning."

"It seems she suffered a fatal loss of good fashion sense," Pock chortled wickedly, "when she tried to put on all her gowns at once." He puffed up his face foolishly, bugging out his big eyes as if he was smothering.

"That will do, Pock!" Caidin thundered.

"Thank you, Your Grace," the gnome replied with a sweeping bow, like an actor after a bravura performance.

"I am sorry for your loss, Your Grace," Sirraun said diplomatically.

Caidin shrugged noncommittally. "If you 'need her body for your plans, it's yours. It's of no use to me any more."

Sirraun nodded gravely, the gesture concealing a satisfied smile. For the experiment he intended to perform, the fresher the corpses the better. Something told the lord inquisitor this was going to be his greatest triumph yet.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said with genuine sincerity.

In the courtyard of Nartok Keep, Caidin climbed into ji waiting carriage. He had decided to make a tour pf the village. It was never a good idea to wait too long between appearances below the tor. The peasants might lose their fear of him. He could not bear that.

"Mind if I come along, Your Grace?" a voice squeaked. Pock scrambled nimbly into the carriage. The gnome perched on the bench opposite the baron, his frilly attire making him look like a peculiar purple bird. "If you wish, you can abuse me in public to show everyone how ruthless you are."

"An excellent idea, Pock," Caidin mused with an evil smile. "You do have your uses."

The gnome grinned broadly. "I enjoy being used, Your Grace."

"I know, Pock. That's why I tolerate you."

The driver cracked his whip. The carriage rolled through the gates of the keep and careened wildly down the winding road. Rounding a sharp bend, it bore down on a group of peasants. They were clad in grimy rags, stooped under heavy bundles of firewood. With cries of alarm the.peasants flung themselves out of the path of the hurtling craft. The horses did not even slow as the carriage rattled by. Caidin glanced back through the carriage's window and saw the peasants shouting and running after the vehicle.

"Animals," he spat in disgust.

Soon the conveyance rolled into the village, slowing so the baron could survey his domain.

"Everyone appears to be rather well fed, Pock." He stroked his oiled beard thoughtfully. "I must not be taxing them enough. Make a note to double their tithes at harvest time."

With a plumed pen, the gnome scribbled merrily on a piece of parchment. "Of course, Your Grace."

A sudden commotion erupted outside the carriage.

"Your Grace!" a haggard voice shouted. "Please, Your Grace!"

Caidin looked out the window and saw that one of the ragged peasants they had passed earlier now ran alongside the carriage. He was pointing frantically to the craft's wheels.

"What now?" Caidin muttered angrily. He pounded on the ceiling, signaling the driver to stop. Flinging open the door, he stepped out. A huddled mass of villagers scurried backward, cringing fearfully. Quaking, the peasant man stepped forward.

"Well, vermin, what is it?" Caidin snapped.

With a shaking hand, the peasant pointed at the wheels of the carriage. Caidin turned and saw that a gray mass of tattered rags was wound about one of the axles. Only after a moment did he realize it was a trampled human body.

"It… it is my son, Your Grace," the man choked.

Caidin clenched a fist. "Then I expect you to remove the sorry trash from my carriage!"

The man scrambled forward with several other peasants. A minute later he stumbled down the muddy street, weeping and bearing a limp gray bundle in his arms. Caidin watched with a bored expression, then turned to sweep through the village as peasants scurried out of his path. How like a flock of mindless sheep they all were. He sheared taxes from them like wool, and slaughtered them when he required their carcasses. If it were not for these benefits he would gladly raze the village to the ground, permanently removing the dismal eyesore that it was from the land.