Mark Anthony - Tower of Doom

Wort's cry of anguish sent ghost-pale pigeons winging in all directions. He gripped his lank brown hair in twisted hands, pulling it out in clumps. Madness assailed his brain. He could not bear this. After all he had done, after all the dark deeds he had dared to commit, he could not possibly bear this- that once again his brother Caidin had bested him.

"I should have let you fall, Caidin!" he cried wildly. "All those years ago at the cliff-I should have let you fall. I could have done so. I had the power, only I did not use it. What a fool I was to save you!" He sank to his knees, clutching his head as though it was going to burst. "I should have let you die, my brother!"

Suddenly, as though drawn by an unseen force, his gaze flickered upward to rest upon an object half — brooding in shadow, half glowing in burnished light. The bell. His cries fell silent. The pigeons drifted to their myriad perches. All at once it came to him. He had wasted one opportunity long ago. Here before him was a second chance. He had been so caught up in the dementia of his desire to brand Caidin a monster that he had overlooked the obvious.

The dry voice whispered in his mind. Ring it, Wort…

He hauled himself to his feet. Eerie laughter racked his misshapen chest. "Yes, my friends," he cackled. "Let the bell toll one last execution-that of my dear brother. Then at last I will have one thing, one precious thing that he does not-life!"

First he needed a token. Wort clambered down the ladder to his chamber below and threw open the lid of his trunk. He sifted through the ancient junk, then stood up with a gurgle of triumph. In his hand was a faded wooden soldier, in a moment of jealousy he had stolen the toy from his brother decades ago. For years Wort had been racked with guilt at this deplorable deed. Now he stroked the worn soldier fondly. Swiftly, he scrambled up the ladder to the belfry.

"The end has come, my friends," he chortled. He placed the wooden soldier carefully beneath the sinister bronze bell. "This token belonged to my brother, you see." Wort tightly gripped the rope that hung from the cursed bell. "Now the spirits of the Bell of Doom will do what I myself should have done long ago. They will take the token and kill Caidin!" He tensed his arms to pull.

"So, Wort," a darkly elegant voice spoke behind him. "That's how your intriguing bell works."

Wort jerked around, the rope slipping from his startled hands. Tall, handsome, and powerfully graceful, Caidin climbed through the trapdoor into the belfry. A pair of knights followed in his wake, the heavy iron shackles they bore clanking dully.

"No!" Wort cried in desperation, turning back to the bell rope.

"Don't let him ring it!" Caidin thundered.

Wort tried to grab the dangling cord, but a brutal impact from behind knocked him away. Another blow struck him forcefully from the side. He careened into the wall, his skull striking the stones with a resounding crack! By the time he shook his head clear, the knights had him. His arms were twisted cruelly behind his back, while hot pain shot up his hunched back. He fell to his knees. Cold iron clamped tightly around his wrists as the knights shackled him, looping the chains around a stout post. A look of smugness played on Caidin's face. More knights appeared through the trapdoor.

"Remove the bell," Caidin ordered the new arrivals. "Transport it to my tower on the moor. And take care that it does not make a sound as you move it!"

In minutes the knights had bundled the instrument carefully in wool and lowered it through the trapdoor. Wort could only stare in despair. It was over.

"Now, my brother," Caidin said after all the others had gone, stroking his bearded chin thoughtfully, "I am curious to try out this bell of yours. Thank you for so kindly showing me how it operates. I'll need a token, yes?"

In terror, Wort realized what his brother intended. He tried to scramble away, but the manacles bound him tightly to the wooden post. Quickly, Caidin searched the pockets of Wort's ratty tunic. After a moment he pulled out an object.

"Ah, yes… this filthy little handkerchief of yours should do nicely." Caidin shot Wort a satisfied smirk. "I'll place it on the bell, and once I ring it… well, I'm certain you know what will happen after that."

Wort gaped dumbly at the handkerchief in Caidin's hand. It was stained darkly with blood, but here and there remained a spot of its original color-lavender so pale it was almost white. It was the handkerchief Mika had used to bandage his hand that day in the woods that now seemed so long ago, when he had been pricked by the thorn. The object was not Wort's, but Mika's. If Caidin used it for a token when he rang the bell, the spirits would not come to kill Wort. Instead they would appear before Wort's mind reeled. Mika! Suddenly, in that one fractured moment, he realized a terrible truth. Whatever she had done, whatever she thought him now, what he believed her to be meant nothing. She was as far above him as the pale moon above the dark earth. She was and always would be-regardless of his fury, his hatred, or his sorrow-an angel.

Desperation etched his voice. "No, Caidin! You mustn't ring the bell with that! That handkerchief is-" s — is Mika's, he was going to finish, but the back of Caidin's gloved hand knocked him forcefully to the moldering straw, silencing him. Caidin moved to the trapdoor, but once on the ladder he paused.

"Farewell, my brother. As always, I am fortune's favorite, while you…"-cruel mirth danced in his eyes-"you are simply fate's bastard." Then he was gone.

Dizzily, Wort sat up and stared after the baron, a single thought resounding in his mind. "I cannot allow you to kill an angel, my brother."

His powerful arms flexed with uncanny strength, and iron began to groan.

"Wort!"

Mika's cry reverberated upward through the dark shaft of Nartok Keep's bell tower.

"Wort, are you there?"

The plaintive echoes of her voice died slowly. The only reply was the soft rustling of countless pale wings. Clutching the mud-stained tatters of the lavender silk gown above her ankles, Mika stumbled desperately up the spire's twisting staircase.

What a fool she had been to believe that Caidin would honor his word. Yet how could she have known what a fiend the baron truly was? She had been caught under Caidin's dark spell as surely as Wort was bound in thrall by the enchantment of the cursed bell. Mika quickened her pace, daring to hope she had not come too late to save her friend.

In truth, she had almost not come at all. Not long after leaving the cathedral, her pony had slipped on the muddy edge of the forest track and plunged into a deep ravine. Mika had suffered only scratches and bruises, but the poor pony had broken its neck. On foot, she had stumbled along the marshy bottom of the ravine for hours before she had finally found a place where she could scramble up the treacherous slope. By then dusk had spread its sooty mantle over the forest. She had spent a cold, frightening night huddled at the base of a tree, pulling the moss and leaf litter over her for scant warmth. At dawn she had continued on her way. At last she had reached the forest's edge, finding herself not far from the village-or at least what' remained of it. The village had been reduced to a smoking pile of ashes, but Mika had not stopped. She knew one thing only-she had to find Wort.

"Wort, it's Mika!" she called out as she burst into his chamber. He was not there. Without hesitating she clambered up the ladder into the belfry. It too was empty. After a moment she noticed that iron chains had been looped around a thick post. Kneeling, she examined the chains. They ended in heavy shackles, but the thick metal was twisted and broken, snapped by some awesome force. She stood as sick fear overwhelmed her.