From his cramped hiding place inside an empty barrel, Pock peered through a knothole at what appeared to be a black panther dropped from an opening in the far wall to land silently on the stone floor. Earlier, he had pursued the sultry Lady Jadis as the baron had ordered. He had followed her into this room only to find she had vanished. Hoping she might return, he had hidden inside the barrel to wait. Soon he had all but forgotten about his mission. Once the barrel had been filled with wine, and its wood still exuded an intoxicating aroma. Pock's purple head was spinning. He speculated whether this was the first time anyone had ever smelted himself drunk.
The sight of the black panther quickly sobered his dizzy little brain. Pock wondered how the large wild cat had found its way into the fortress. More importantly, he wondered if panthers had a taste for gnome meat.
As he watched in trepidation, the black panther padded across the room. Suddenly the creature's body blurred, molding itself into a new shape. Pock blinked. When he opened his eyes again the black panther was gone. In its place was-a beautiful, naked woman with coppery skin. The Lady Jadis.
'I must be drunk!' Pock murmured to himself, though rubbing his eyes did not make her disappear.
He watched as the lady retrieved her gown from beneath a pile of old sacks and hastily slipped it on. She moved softly to the door and was gone. Pock waited until he was certain the coast was clear, then tumbled out of the barrel.
'Pretty kitty,' he mumbled lasciviously as he tottered toward the door. 'I wonder if she would like to be my personal pet…'
He swayed groggily on his feet, grinning foolishly, as he made his way through the keep. Something told him the baron was going to be very interested in this.
Seven
'I tell you, it ain't right, Cray.'
'I hear you, Rillam.'
'Teaching deaf children to speak wizard-talk with their hands! It's unnatural, it is.' Two men stood in the mud outside the Black Boar, speaking in low voices. A few other villagers had gathered around them. All wore the drab, threadbare garb of farmers and workmen. 'What's more, she isn't afraid of sick people,' Rillam went on in a disgusted voice. He was a burly man with a piggish nose. It was clear from their attentive posture that the others regarded him as a leader of sorts. 'Why, she put her hands right on Am the Beggar's clubfoot without so much as a shiver! Now, I ask you-why would a pretty young woman in her right mind even want to look at cripples and lepers, let alone touch them?' Rillam rubbed his stubbly chin, his beady eyes speculative. 'You know what I think?' Curious whispers ran around the huddled knot of villagers. 'I think that just maybe she's a-' Rillam paused dramatically '-a witch.' Gasps ran around the circle. A dozen hands fluttered in the sign against the Evil Eye.
'A witch?' a young man said tremblingly.
'That's right,' Rillam said with a nasty grin. 'And you all know what we do with witches…' Murmurs of assent ran through the small throng.
There was no moon that night. A thick fog had rolled off the moor to shroud the sleeping village in soft folds of darkness. Nothing stirred on the empty streets. The stray dogs that roamed the village square by day had sought out abandoned basements and forgotten shacks in which to cringe, as if even mere animals knew enough not to wander about the barony of Nartok after the sun had set. The mist swirled. A hunched figure lurched awkwardly out of the inky mouth of an alleyway between two shabby buildings. The streets were not entirely empty after all.
Wort limped silently down the narrow village street. He clutched his black cloak tightly around himself, keeping to the murk and shadows. He felt a strange giddiness. As a child he had lived in terror of the monsters said to stalk the night. No more.
'Now I am the monster,' Wort whispered gleefully.
The thought left him strangely elated. No longer did the fear he instilled in others cause him regret. Fear was power. He knew that now. It was a truth he had embraced when Castellan Domeck's bloodied glove had fallen from the magical bell. He wasn't certain where the dark realization had come from. Perhaps it was the voice that had been whispering to him of late-the voice he was beginning to think issued from the bell itself. It did not matter. Everything was crystal-clear to him now. The folk of Nartok had branded him a monster. Caidin had deemed him one. By acting as a monster he would gain his revenge against them all for the suffering they had inflicted on him.
He came to a run-down building on the edge of the village. In contrast to the silent dwellings around it, this structure's grimy windows flickered with light, and coarse laughter drifted on the air. A weather- beaten sign hung above the peeling door. Wort could just make out the lettering in the cast-off light of the windows. The Wolf's Head Tavern, the sign proclaimed. Below these words, as if further explanation were somehow needed, was the crudely drawn head of a wolf, severed at the neck and dripping gore. Wort noted the sound of angry voices, followed by the clinking of pewter mugs and more laughter. Uncoiling his bent back, he craned his neck and peered through one of the glowing windows.
In the dingy room beyond, a half dozen men sat around a knife-scarred wooden table, drinking and gambling with dice. By their unbuttoned blue coats and the sword belts and sabers slung over the backs of their chairs, they were knights of the baron, but their drunken behavior was anything but knightly. A plump tavern maid sloshed ale into dented tankards. One of the knights snaked an arm around her waist. She slapped his hand and wriggled away, though not before treating the man to a fatuous smile.
'Where is he, my friends?' Wort whispered, as though the pigeons in the keep's bell tower could somehow hear him. 'I heard him speaking down in the courtyard today, telling his companions he would come to this place tonight. But where-'
Another man stepped into view. Like the others, he wore the blue livery of a. knight. He was a handsome man with long golden hair. Smiling lustily, he swept the barmaid into his arms. She shrieked but made only a perfunctory effort to free herself from his grasp.
'There he is,' Wort breathed. Hatred glittered in his bulbous blue eyes. He recognized the knight as the one who had almost trampled him with his charger on the muddy road outside the village. The barmaid gazed rapturously at the handsome man, dull-witted adoration shining on her plump face.
'She thinks you magnificent now, Sir Knight,' Wort seethed quietly. 'But soon you will know what it is to be an object of loathing. Just like me.'
Wort turned from the window and slunk toward a blocky shape behind the tavern. He pushed open a wooden door and slipped inside'. The loamy scent of horses filled his nostrils. He rummaged in the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a.small object. It was a metal cylinder fashioned in the shape of a candle. Wort's brow furrowed in concentration. Suddenly a flickering flame sprang into being on the tip of the cylinder. Golden light illuminated the interior of the stable. Wort had discovered the silver candle some years ago in the forgotten storeroom in the keep, along with the enchanted book and the tapestry of the angel. Quite by accident he had learned that if he held the candle and imagined it was lit, a flame would appear on its tip. No matter how long it burned, the flame would never go out until he imagined that the silver candle had been extinguished.
Wort lumbered past stalls of sleeping horses until he found a white charger chomping drowsily at its feedbag. This was the one-the horse that belonged to the golden-haired knight who had almost ridden him down. Wort unbuckled one of the beast's saddlebags. He pulled another object from the pocket of his cloak. It was a leather glove, stained with blood. Wort stuffed the glove deep into the saddlebag. Yes-this was what the voice had told him he must do. He refastened the buckle. Sinking down on the hay, he rested for a moment. The steep trek down from the keep was tiring for his malformed legs.
'You don't mind if I share your stall for a minute or two, do you, my friend?' Wort asked the horse. The beast only continued its placid chewing. 'No, I thought not.' Wort's eyes fluttered shut as he leaned back against the wall. 'You know, my friend, I warrant you'll soon have a new master…'
Somewhere a rooster crowed. Wort's eyes drifted open. Dim gray light filtered through chinks in the stable's walls. Suddenly he sat up in cold dread. He must have fallen asleep! He leapt to his feet, then froze.
A man's voice chortled outside the stable. 'Looks like your purse is lighter than it was yesterday, Logris, while
