Twelve
The peasant family huddled together in the cold before their rude cottage, staring in fear as the uniformed knights ransacked the meager hovel. Kraikus, lord of the exchequer of Nartok, watched with an air of gratification from the vantage of his steed. He was a small, ratlike man with darting eyes and a pointed nose that was prone to twitching, especially when loot was nearby.
'You, there!' Kraikus shouted to one of his officers. 'Make certain you look to see if they've buried anything beneath the floor. I wouldn't put it past this refuse to try to hide their valuables.'
A minute later the knight stepped out of the cottage. 'You were right, my lord. I found this buried in a corner of the dirt floor.' He held aloft a bowl of beaten bronze. It looked very old and was no doubt a treasure passed down from generation to generation.
'Throw it on the pile with the rest,' Kraikus ordered in his wheedling voice. He eyed the heap of iron pans, clay pots, and cheap knives. It wasn't much, but altogether it should bring a silver penny in the market, perhaps two.
'It really isn't enough,' the treasurer snapped, glaring at the cowering peasants. 'However, in my graciousness I will consider this heap of garbage as payment of your taxes. At least for this year.'
Untangling himself from the clutches of his wife and children, the peasant man stepped forward and bowed deeply before the treasurer. 'Thank you, milord,' he said fearfully. 'You're very kind. And I swear to you-we won't ever try to hide anything from you again!'
'Oh, I know you won't, my good man.' Kraikus's lips curled in an unsavory smile. 'That's because you'll have nothing left to hide.'
The peasant man's jaw dropped as Kraikus turned to his officers, issuing the command.
'Torch the place.'
Several of the knights lit pitch-soaked torches and tossed them onto the dry thatch roof of the cottage. Kraikus looked on in satisfaction, crimson flames reflected in his dark eyes. Then he whirled his mount around, leaving behind the roar of the fire and wails of loss and anguish.
Midnight found Kraikus in the treasury of Nartok Keep, happily counting the revenues of the day's collection. Here, ten-foot-thick walls of stone guarded Nartok's hoard of gold, silver, and other treasure. Only two people in all the fiefdom had keys to the chamber's massive iron door-the lord of the exchequer and the baron himself. As was his custom, Kraikus had locked himself inside the treasury while he toiled. There was nothing that irritated him more than a distraction that caused him to lose count.
Muttering numbers under his breath, Kraikus piled coins into neat stacks on the counting table before him, pausing now and again to scratch a few ciphers on a sheaf of parchment with a quill pen. For a moment he halted, yawning deeply. Tax-collecting was wearisome work-what with the plundering and burning, and all those screaming peasants. However, he was determined not to sleep until he had counted the day's haul down to the last copper half penny. He scribbled some more ciphers and, noticing his inkwell was running low, opened the drawer where he kept his inkpots. A murmur of surprise escaped his lips.
'So that's where I put you,' he exclaimed. In the center of the drawer was a large gold coin. The coin was obviously old, its engr.aved surface worn smooth. It was the first gold coin Kraikus had ever counted, which he had kept as a fond memento. Often he held it in one hand, stroking it with a thumb, when he was worried or deep in thought. A few days before he had been terribly distressed, believing he had lost the precious coin. Now here it was. Kraikus should have known. He was not one for misplacing money. Grinning to himself, he picked up the coin.
It hopped out of his grasp.
Kraikus let out a small cry. As if it had a life of its own, the coin jumped onto the desktop. It rolled a short way, then spun to a stop. Kraikus gaped at it a moment, then shook his head. What was he thinking? Coins couldn't roll of their own volition. He had dropped it, that was all. Once again, he reached for the coin.
This time, before he even had touched its smooth surface, the coin leapt upward. It hovered for a moment, flashing brightly as it spun in midair. Kraikus was entranced by its beauty. Suddenly the coin dropped to the floor and rolled toward a locked chest. As the coin approached, the lock sprang open and the lid lifted slowly upward. The gold coin hopped neatly inside. A heartbeat later a brilliant radiance began to emanate from within the chest. The silver-gold glow pulsated, slowly at first, then with increasing speed.
Drawn by the hypnotic light, Kraikus rose from his chair and walked slowly toward the chest. He knelt before it, peering inside. Cool light played across his ratlike face. Inside the chest, the gold coin lay atop a pile of copper pieces, glowing brilliantly. Even as he watched, the glow spread out to the surrounding coins and seemed to infuse them. Each shone brightly for a moment, then dimmed. Kraikus drew' in a sharp breath. The copper coins had been transmuted to silver and gold!
Wondrous realization struck him. 'I'll be rich,' he whispered greedily. 'Richer than Baron Caidin. Richer than King Azalin.' His nose twitched fiercely. 'I'll be surrounded by gold!' He reached into the chest to pick up his magical coin.
The lid slammed down with a violent boom!
Kraikus stumbled backward, then slowly lifted his right arm. The wrist was cut off in a ragged stump. The splintered ends of two bones gleamed white against torn flesh. Blood spurted out in arcs of liquid crimson. Kraikus stared numbly at the gory stump, too shocked to feel pain. He jerked his head up to see the lid of the chest open again, like a dark, hungry mouth. The chest rose into the air and floated toward him with sinister deliberation.
'No,' Kraikus choked. 'Stay away from me…'
He lurched to his feet and stumbled backward, clutching the stump of his wrist. Blood pumped through his fingers. The chest drifted closer. It tilted forward. Something tumbled out, falling to the floor with a wet plop! It was his own hand, still clutching the glowing coin. Kraikus retreated. He was starting to feel the pain in his wrist now-sharp, exquisite, soul-tearing. His shriek rose to the high-vaulted ceiling.
'Get away!'
There was a creaking noise behind him. Madly, Kraikus glanced over his shoulder to see another trunk behind him with its lid opening. The other chest was almost upon him. Kraikus fell back in revulsion, his heel slipping in the blood that slicked the stone floor. Flailing, he tumbled backward into the open trunk. The other chest tipped. A glittering shower of silver and gold cascaded down on the treasurer. It was raining coins. A.burst of manic laughter escaped him.
'Surrounded by gold!' he shrieked.
Coins piled heavily on top of Kraikus, filling the trunk, crushing him with their terrible weight. A piercing pain spread throughout his body. He could feel his chest collapsing. Kraikus's last thought was of how cool all the coins felt against his skin, how wonderfully smooth. Then, along with the clinking of gold and silver, came the percussion of popping bones. The lid of the trunk slammed down, sealing Nartok's treasurer and all his precious coins inside.
In the moonlight that filtered into the belfry, Wort watched as a small object fell from the inside of the cursed bell. He greedily snatched the thing up from the moldy straw. It was a gold coin, sticky with blood.
The tower's bells swung wildly back and forth, toiling the death of Nartok's treasurer. Wort grinned in dark satisfaction. He bore no particular enmity toward Kraikus-that is, no more and no less than he bore toward all the folk of Nartok. It had simply been good fortune (or had it? he wondered, gazing up at the silent, cursed bell) that, while prowling about the keep, he had seen the coin fall from the treasurer's pocket. Sensing it would make a perfect token for the Bell of Doom, he had retrieved the coin.
Abruptly, the frenzied tolling stopped. Quiet mantled the bell tower once more.
'It has begun, my friends,' Wort whispered excitedly to the pigeons that fluttered about him. 'My final vengeance. But what now? What action do I take next?' He squatted down on the rotting straw to ponder his next move.
There was a harsh squawk, followed by a soft thud! Wort's head snapped up. He stared at the gray shape of the pigeon that had dropped to the floor in front of him. Its neck was bent at an unnatural angle, broken. A second pigeon fell beside the first, and a third. Both stared with dull, lifeless eyes, their necks violently wrenched. Wort
