were… satisfied.
'Now,' he breathed. Trembling, he reached out and gripped the rope that hung from the bronze bell. 'To hear its voice at last…'
With strong arms, he tugged the rope. The bell tilted. The clapper swung, striking metal. A single note rang out. Startled pigeons erupted in a flurry of gleaming white wings. At first the tolling was deep, a thrumming so resonant and low Wort felt more than heard it. Quickly it grew, cresting into a clear, thunderous noise that seemed to surge through him, casting him adrift on the terrible beauty of its music. Gradually, the noise faded. Wort blinked, like one waking from a dream.
'It is glorious,' he uttered in awe. He reached out to pull the rope again. Abruptly he froze.
In the center of the belfry a patch of shadowy air began to swirl. It seemed to Wort he was gazing at a gray curtain billowing in a cold breeze, or at the surface of a languid pool of shimmering water. A sheen of fear-sweat formed on his brow. The acrid scent of lightning tingled in his nose. Dark shapes appeared within the seething sphere of twilight. Gradually the shapes grew more defined, taking on shape and substance. Then, like corpses rising from the murky depths of a lake to bob on the storm-swept surface, three figures drifted out of the roiling tendrils of mist.
'Who… who are you?' Wort whispered, backing away. The shadowy forms were shaped like men, but they were swathed in black robes and seemed fashioned of thick smoke rather than cloth. The three vaporous forms hovered before Wort, floating slowly up and down, buoyed by an unseen wind. One of the dim figures raised an arm to point at Wort.
'We are the spirits of the bell,' the figure spoke in a reverberating voice. 'You have called to us, mortal.'
Wort shook his head dumbly. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. 'I?'
'Yes,' answered another of the robed forms. 'The tolling of the Bell of Doom summons us, for we are bound to it.' 'But… but for what reason do you come?' Wort dared to ask. 'To kill,' the three dark spirits answered as one. The single word echoed about the belfry, growing in volume until it was a deafening chorus. Kill. Kill. KILL! Wort fell to his knees, pressing his hands over his ears. Finally the dreadful din faded. 'But why?' he cried out in terror. 'It is the bell's curse,' one of the spirits spoke. 'Each time the bell is rung, someone must die,' intoned another. 'That is the price to be paid for our blood,' said the last of the spirits. ''Blood that long ago was mixed with molten metal, so that silver would bind* with bronze and forge a bell like none before.' Despite his fear, hope flared in Wort's heart. The darkling had spoken truth. Here indeed was the means to his vengeance. 'Who… who will you kill then?' Wort whispered. The three spirits drifted menacingly toward him. 'You, bellringer…' Wort held his arms outstretched before him. Curse the darkling! Was this all a final, cruel joke? 'I beg you!' Wort moaned, groveling in the rotting straw before the hovering spirits. 'Please, spare me!' 'We cannot alter the curse. The bell has been rung. Someone must die…' Despite his fear, a calculating thought occurred to Wort. 'Must it… must it be me that you kill?' he asked slyly. 'Tell me, spirits. Is there not some way that another may die in my stead?' For a long moment the dark forms were silent. 'There is a way…' 'I knew it!' Wort exclaimed. 'But we must have a token,' the spirits went on. 'Something that belongs to the one we are to kill.'
Wort's mind raced. 'A… a token?' But what did he have that belonged to another? He could think of nothing. He felt hope slipping away like sand in an hourglass.
'Come, bellringer.' The voices of the spirits blended in dark harmony. 'It is time.' They reached their long arms toward him.
Suddenly Wort remembered. 'Wait!'
The spirits paused as Wort searched his tunic, sticking his hands into his pockets, pawing in panic. Then he found it. He pulled an object from his pocket and held it out. It was a glove.
'Here, take it!' he hissed. 'It is not mine. Kill him, not me.'
The three spirits nodded serenely. 'It shall be so.'
Wort gaped as the glove vanished from his hand. Looking up, he saw that the spirits had also vanished. He slumped to the floor. 'Alive, Wort,' he muttered to himself with weak laughter. 'You're still alive.' Shivering uncontrollably, he stared upward at the sinister shape of the bell.
Castellan Domeck walked through the silent armory. This was his favorite chamber in the keep. Nothing else could comfort him or free his mind as much as being surrounded by all the familiar trappings of war. Torchlight gleamed off rows of curved sabers and racks of steel-tipped spears. Oiled suits of mail hung on wooden stands while shields, axes, and spiked iron maces adorned the stone walls. Here in this chamber lay the real defenses of Nartok Keep. All of Sirraun's scheming and strategizing could not turn an attacking army away from the keep's walls. But these weapons could.
With a quill pen he made a notation in the small leather-bound journal he carried. Despite the lateness of the hour, Domeck planned to work until he had inventoried every weapon and every piece of armor. The castellan required little sleep these days anyway. He supposed it was just another sign of aging. However, Domeck was far from ready to spend the rest of his days sitting by the fire in the kitchen with the keep's toothless uncles and aunties. Beneath his blue uniform, his compact frame was hard with muscle. He bristled with the energy of a man ten or twenty years younger. Only in his heart of hearts did he sometimes feel tired, defeated, worried.
'I just need once more to face an enemy with a sword in my hand,' the castellan told himself. 'To see my blade sliding through his guts. That would make me feel young again.'
Domeck found himself hoping, as he often did, for a good battle-perhaps with one of the neighboring barons. He knew there was nothing more pitiful than an old warrior without a war to fight. Sighing, he continued his counting.
'Odd,' he murmured. 'I didn't notice that before.'
The castellan bent down to retrieve an object on the floor, then stood again. It was a leather glove. Puzzled, he realized it was the glove he had lost in the courtyard some days before, when that wretched hunchback had begged for his help. What was it doing here? After a moment Domeck shrugged. It was a good glove. He tucked it into his belt and moved on. A faint clinking sound brought him to a halt once more. He cocked his head, listening. There it was again-a metallic clinking. Slowly he turned around.
An empty chain-mail hauberk dragged itself across the floor toward him like a sinuous, metallic snake. Sparks of sizzling green light danced on the mail coat's metal links. Domeck stared in numb astonishment. Other pieces of armor were moving toward him as well, all of their own volition. A burnished breastplate fell off a wooden stand and clattered to the floor. Jerking and shuddering, it dragged itself after the hauberk. Steel gauntlets scuttled like metal spiders. Propelled by an unseen hand, a wooden shield rolled toward the hauberk. Greaves, chausses, and spurs slithered after. As the pieces of armor converged, tendrils of green incandescence sprang from the hauberk, coiling about them. Engulfed in sizzling emerald fire, the pieces of armor rose slowly into the air, assembling themselves into a headless, man-shaped form.
'This cannot be,' Domeck gasped.
The motley suit of armor walked haltingly toward him, dripping emerald fire. In moments, dozens of pieces of armor forged themselves into two other metallic forms. All three converged on the castellan, glimmering green. Domeck was no coward. Once he had faced a dozen footmen alone and had not so much as trembled as he systematically hacked them down. Now, however, his knees shook, and cold arms seemed to clamp tightly around his chest. Yes, Domeck thought, this must be what fear feels like,
A chain rattled behind him. He turned just in time to see a mace fly off the wall. The castellan ducked to avoid the murderous spikes. A moment later an axe jumped off the wall, then a warhammer and an iron flail. Spinning like a drunken dancer, Domeck narrowly managed to dodge them all. He glanced over his shoulder. The glowing suits of armor were closing in. A heavy oaken shield flew through the air to strike him in the chest. He tumbled to the floor, gasping.
'What… what is happening?' he choked, struggling to his feet. Domeck had never fled a battle in his life, but now he fixed his eyes on the doorway, thinking he might yet be able to flee.
A buzzing like the sound of insects filled the air then. Domeck felt a hot stinging sensation in his leg and looked down to see an arrow embedded in his thigh. Jerking his head up, he watched as scores of arrows flung themselves from a shelf, streaking through the air toward him. One grazed a fiery trail across his cheek. He grunted in pain as another arrow bit into his shoulder. With a cry, he dived behind a tall wooden rack laden with sabers and spears. Arrows pinged brightly as they bounced off steel.
Gritting his teeth, Domeck pulled himself to his feet. The scent of blood filled his nostrils. The pain in his leg
