in Wort's grip, and strode across the courtyard. Wort stared at the glove as hope died in his heart. Nearby, a flock of pigeons pecked at the mud. 'What will I do, my friends?' he whispered sadly. They offered no answer.
A horse clopped by, spattering Wort with mud. As' he gazed at the horse's steel-shod hooves, an idea struck him. Perhaps the blacksmith in the village could help him. A smith might be able to fix the broken bell. Wort hastily stood, absently tucking the castellan's glove into his pocket, then hobbled through the gate of the keep.
It had been years since Wort had been down to the village. He picked his way slowly along the winding road carved into the crag upon which Nartok Keep stood. Far below, the motley collection of thatch- roofed buildings that made up the village lay clustered haphazardly at the foot of the tor. It looked almost as if the meager dwellings were huddled together in fear against the endless landscape of bog, thicket, and dun-colored heath. Perhaps a league west of the village, Wort could see the jagged stump of what seemed to be a tower rising up in the midst of the windswept moor. No road led to the half-finished tower, and no buildings stood near it. it loomed dark and lonely on the horizon like a giant's tombstone.
That must be the tower the folk in the courtyard spoke of, Wort thought.
Often, when the wind was still, the voices of people standing in the courtyard below drifted clearly through the window of Wort's chamber in the bell tower. That was how he first learned that folk believed it was a monster who rang the bells each time the soul of someone in the keep passed on to the Gray Kingdom of the Dead. Of late, the thing he had overheard people down in the courtyard whispering about most was this forbidding tower.
Rumor told how, one night, the ring of stones had appeared without explanation far out on the grassy moor. A shepherd was the first to discover it. He found three of his flock inside the ring of stones, all dead. Afterward, other shepherds told similar tales. Soon it was whispered that the place was blighted. Some said that the ring stood upon a spot known to have been cursed by Vistani after one of their gypsy kindred was robbed and murdered there by a village man. One day several curious boys ventured to the circle on a dare. Inside they discovered Jurgin, the village drunkard, or at least the remains of him. It appeared that much of his body had been consumed by some beast. After that, no one ventured near the circle. Yet each night the ring seemed to grow inexplicably, for each morning when the folk of the village awoke and gazed out their windows, they saw that another layer of stones had been added to the mysterious tower.
So it had gone on, night after night, until now the half-finished tower loomed over the moor, and at sunset its giant shadow stretched like a sinister finger toward the village. What force was raising the tower none could say, nor was it known what would happen when it was finally completed.
The bloodshot eye of the sun was falling toward the horizon as Wort hobbled into the village. Foul- smelling water ran in rivulets down the muddy street before him, its breadth crowded with peasants clad in severe garb of dull gray. A scrawny dog growled as Wort passed by. Gathering his cloak more tightly about him, he hurried on.
He wasn't certain where the blacksmith's shop was, but he listened for the ringing of a hammer. Clumsily, he wended his way through the throng of villagers who pushed carts of radishes and turnips or carried straw baskets filled with eggs. The viscous mud of the street let off a sickening stench. A chill sweat slickened Wort's skin. He wasn't used to being this close to other people. It was almost frightening. Every moment he expected the folk around him to stop in their tracks and point at him. Clad as he was in his thick cloak, however, they paid him no heed.
A puff of acrid smoke filled Wort's nostrils. Op ahead he glimpsed a wooden sign with a horseshoe nailed to it. There! He quickened his pace. Surely the blacksmith would be able to help him.
The crack of a whip sundered the air.
'Make way!' a voice shouted roughly. 'Make way, vermin!'
The crowd of villagers abruptly parted as a wagon drawn by four black horses careened down the street. The eyes of the beasts showed white, their sides flecked with foam. The driver cracked his whip again. Wort found himself pulled along with the crowd and crushed up against a building. Panic clawed at his throat as bodies pressed all around him.
That was when he saw the girl.
She was standing in the middle of the street, apparently forgotten by her mother or father, a golden-haired child drawing patterns in the mud with a stick. Her back was to the approaching wagon. She did not seem to hear it.
'She'll be crushed,' Wort muttered in alarm. 'Why doesn't someone help her?'
The peasants only stared with blank eyes, as if they saw nothing. The galloping horses bore down on the girl. Apparently the driver did not see her either. Or did not care if he did. Without stopping to think what he was doing, Wort forced his way through the tightly packed crowd. People muttered curses at him as he shoved by. He ignored them and fought his way to the fore. The girl in the street dropped her stick. She turned about to face the wagon, freezing in terror.
With a cry, Wort hurled himself through the ranks of the villagers. There was a sound of rending cloth. Dimly he realized his cloak had been torn off. He lunged forward and crashed into the child. She screamed as he fell with her into the muck. The horses and wagon hurtled by, scant inches from Wort and the child whom he protected with his massive arms. Then, with one last crack of the whip, the wagon was gone. A dead silence descended over the street. Slowly Wort stood, pulling the girl to her feet.
'Are you all right, child?' he croaked. She only regarded him silently with grave blue eyes.
Then someone screamed.
'The monster! He has the child!'
Wort looked up in shock. He saw a sea of faces staring at him with disgust, horror, and… hatred. He felt naked without his heavy cloak.
A pale-faced woman rushed toward Wort. 'Get away from her, you monster!' she shrieked, snatching the girl roughly from his hands. She dashed away, clutching the girl tightly. The child looked back at Wort, her blue eyes strangely hurt. Then the woman was lost in the crowd. But the throng was not done with him.
'Look at the freak!' someone shouted.
'You should be ashamed!' another screamed.
'Get out of here, you beast!'
Wort reeled as a clod of mud struck him on the back of his head. 'I was only trying…' another cold lump of mud hit him in the chest'… trying to help her.' The crowd closed in on him. Shouts of fear and anger bore into him like knives.
'Begone from our village, monster!'
'The monster tried to kill the girl, did you see?'
'Kill the monster!'
More mud clods struck Wort. He spun around, trying to protect himself, but the blows hailed from every direction. With each blow, the word resonated in his head. Monster. Monster. MONSTER!
Suddenly a fearsome voice let out a bellow of rage. 'I wanted to help.r Only dimly did Wort realize the voice was his own. A terrible image flashed before his mind-the burnt ashwife from his boyhood, shrieking as fire licked at her hands, her arms, her bubbling, cracking face. Didn't she understand that he had wanted to help her? Couldn't any of them understand that? It was her fault she had been hurt. Not his. Blinded by mud and hot tears, Wort broke into a clumsy run. Peasants screamed as they scrambled to get out of his way. He did not see them or the horrified looks on their faces. Sobbing, he ran on, leaving the shouts and jeers behind him.
Wort wasn't certain how he made it to the bell tower. He did not remember how many townsfolk had shrunk from him in horror as he climbed the twisting road to the keep and stumbled across the courtyard. The next thing he knew, he burst into his chamber.
'Curse them!' he shouted. Rage ignited in his chest, searing his heart, burning away the self-pity that had dwelt there. 'Curse them all!' A cloud of pigeons erupted into flight before him. 'Only I would help the girl. Only I! Yet how do they reward me?'
Wort flung open the lid of his trunk of books. He grabbed the enchanted storybook he had been reading, then ripped it in half with the brutal strength of his bare hands. With a silver flash its magic shattered. White-hot fire consumed its crackling pages. Wort had been wrong. All these long years, he had been so terribly wrong.
'I am no hero,' he snarled. 'No brave knight or handsome prince!'
Swiftly he climbed the ladder'into the belfry. The last crimson rays of the sun dripped like blood through the iron gratings.
