'That's not what I heard,' the brewer's wife countered. 'I heard it's the monster that lives in the bell tower. Haven't you heard the bells ringing at odd and frequent hours of late?' This was greeted with murmurs of assent.
A beady-eyed man spoke then. 'You are fools,' he sniveled in a wheedling voice. 'Have you all forgotten about the witch and her daemon?' He cast a fearful look at the door, behind which all knew the golden-haired healer saw her suffering patients.
The man with the bushy mustache frowned. 'We've all heard enough of your witless talk, Cray. If the doctor's a witch, then you're a warlock. Besides, I still say it's a werewolf…'
Every evening as the eye of the sun drowned in a sea of blood-red clouds, folk in the village shut themselves tightly inside their hovels. In the keep, courtiers and servants alike barred the doors of their chambers and lit candle after candle until their rooms were virtually ablaze. All stared with wide eyes until at long last they heard the dissonant chorus of cocks heralding the dawn, and shuddered with relief that they had lived through one more night. Then all would emerge fearfully from their hiding places to discover, as they knew they would, which of them had not been so fortunate. Even by day, now, the fiefdom seemed deathly quiet. No travelers came to the keep, no merchant wagons slogged through the muddy streets of the village, no gold changed hands, no goods were crafted, no dice were thrown in the dank back-street hideaways. Fear held Nartok utterly in its paralyzing grip.
Then at last came the dark discovery.
'Kill the fiend!'
The angry cries rose up the rocky slope of the tor from the village far below. Baron Caidin gripped the stone balustrade of the balcony outside his chamber with white-knuckled hands. He watched grimly as. countless torches bobbed in the dusky half-light, streaming like a procession of fireflies up the twisting road that led to the massive gates.
'Kill the fiend!'
Caidin swore bitterly. For the hundredth time that day, he asked himself how this could be happening. His plans were so near completion. The tower was all but finished. He had pored over every detail of his grand design to wrest the kingdom of Darkon from Azalin's hands. He had considered every possibility and difficulty. Yet, in all his scheming, he had not planned on this.
'Kill the baron!'
The mob of villagers approached the stone walls of the keep, chanting their bloodthirsty chorus. 'Kill the fiend! Kill the baron! Kill the fiend!' Some shook sharpened hoes and wooden pitchforks. Those who did not angrily gripped wooden clubs and heavy stones. They surged against the gates, crimson torchlight flickering in their eyes.
At last Caidin heard the sound he had been waiting for. Clear and stirring, a horn pierced the air, signaling a charge. With the clank of iron chains and the groan of wood, the ponderous gates of the keep swung open. A score of the baron's biue-coated knights thundered out astride galloping white coursers. The knights drew their curved sabers. Firelight glinted on the steel blades. The horses plunged into the mob.
Still chanting their violent refrain, the peasants raised their crude weapons. The knights spurred their horses through the crowd, crushing those unfortunate enough to fall beneath the hooves of their horses, hacking in all directions with their wickedly curved blades. The peasants clustered around each horse, jabbing upward with rusted spears and sharpened stakes. One of the knights screamed in agony, blood bubbling from his mouth, as a steel pitchfork plunged into his belly. He toppled out of the saddle and was trampled by the stamping hooves of his own horse. A rock struck another knight between the eyes, leaving a wet, crimson blossom on his forehead. He, too, fell to the ground, where a dozen peasants clubbed his quivering form while the mob cheered.
Eyeing their fallen comrades, the rest of the knights changed their tactics and formed two solid lines. They flanked the throng on two sides, slashing with their sabers. Untrained in the art of war, the peasants were no match for the organized onslaught. The chanting of the mob quickly changed to panicked screams. One peasant clutched his stomach, trying to keep his entrails from spilling to the ground. Another waved the severed stump of an arm, spraying the crowd with gore. A third futilely tried to close the gash in his neck as blood spurted in a crimson fountain. In moments the battle became a rout. The villagers dropped their torches and weapons. They turned to flee, dragging the dead and wounded with them. The knights let out a cry of victory. They sheathed their sabers and wheeled their mounts around, retreating into the keep's courtyard. The ponderous gates swung shut.
It was over. For now. Caidin knew the mob would return. Three evenings in a row the vengeful throng had approached the gates of the keep, and three times Caidin's men had repulsed them. Yet each night the mob was larger than the night before. More importantly, Caidin knew that whispers of suspicion had begun to circulate among his knights and servants. It was only a matter of time until his own followers turned against him. When that happened, all hope was lost.
Caidin did not know who had hidden the wooden box filled with bloodstained objects in his chamber. Whoever the interloper was, he was the true fiend, the agent of over a dozen macabre deaths in the keep and village. Each of the objects in the wooden box had belonged to one of the killer's victims. Each was an accusing finger of guilt. They had been found by a servant three days before in Caidin's own chamber.
Like any strong ruler, Caidin had always maintained a clever balance of terror in his fiefdom. The people had to fear him enough to obey his every command, but not so much that they would rebel. With the discovery of the incriminating objects, the folk of Nartok now believed their baron to be not only a cruel overlord, but the vilest and most heinous murderer of the time. The scales of fear had tipped wildly out of balance. The result was a violent uprising that could conceivably end in Caidin's own execution.
As night drowned the countryside in darkness, Caidin went to his private chamber. Pock lounged on a velvet chaise, clad in a ruffled shirt and a puffy coat of yellow satin that clashed with his purple skin. At least Caidin could be certain that the gnome would not turn against him. Who else would put up with the sniveling little maggot?
'I just thought of something, Your Grace,' the gnome said, his bald head wrinkled in concentration.
'Please, Pock, I'm in no mood for jokes,' Caidin replied acidly.
'None of this makes any sense,' the gnome went on blithely. He scooped up a handful of blood- encrusted objects from the incriminating wooden box. 'Why would someone go to so much trouble to frame you for a bunch of crimes you didn't commit, when there are so many other crimes that you actually did? It seems like it would be far simpler just to mention those to the peasantry to get their dander up.' Pock chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. 'In fact, now that I think about it, Your Grace, it's truly a wonder that the people haven't risen up against you a long time ago.'
'No, Pock,' Caidin countered. 'It's truly a wonder that I didn't wring your scrawny neck a long time ago.'
The gnome gulped, dropping the bloodstained objects back into the box. 'May wonders never cease, Your Grace!'
Caidin groaned, flopping down into a gilded chair. He did not have the energy to give his wretched little slave the drubbing he deserved. All his life, Caidin had lived in utter confidence of his power and superiority. He had never encountered a situation of which he did not feel he was the ultimate master. Now, for the first time, he felt a hint of uncertainty, perhaps- did he dare think it? — even vulnerability.
'I am lost, Pock,' he said forlornly. 'If the tower were complete, I would have nothing to fear from the most widespread rebellion. Indeed, a few nights more are all the zombies need to finish their task. But something tells me that I do not have even that long. Something tells me that a few more nights will find me dead.' He covered his eyes with a many- ringed hand. 'What am I to do, Pock?'
'Actually, Your Grace, I think I can suggest a solution.'
Lowering his hand, Caidin shot the gnome a sour look. 'It was a rhetorical question, Pock.'
'You should have said so in the first place, Your Grace,' the gnome complained. 'The villagers seem to have their minds set on pounding a stake in your heart, stringing you up, and then burning you alive.' The gnome frowned. 'No, I suppose they would have to burn you alive first, then string you up. Hmmm… Of course, then there wouldn't be much left to-'
'Enough, Pock!' Caidin growled. 'I get the point.'
Pock clapped his hands together happily. 'How terribly brilliant of you, Your Grace!' Caidin's face coloration approached that of the gnome's. Pock did not appear to notice. 'Well,' he went on, 'my plan's actually very simple.'
'What a surprise.'
