Time seemed to distort. Both Jadis and Pock watched in astonishment as, with terrible slowness, the jar slid over the edge of the shelf. Caught as they were in their violent embrace, neither could reach the thing before it fell. The jar struck the floor, shattering. For a fleeting moment the elemental flickered like a tiny, fiery dancer among the broken shards of glass. It was almost beautiful, Jadis thought dimly.
Then all at once the elemental grew. Confined by the magical prison no more, the brilliant creature expanded outward. Searing waves of fire radiated from its lithe form as it whirled and danced. In the space of a heartbeat the entire chamber was transformed into a blazing inferno. Books burst into puffs of flame. Velvet curtains went up like paper torches. The marble floor darkened and cracked. Blistering, fire engulfed the woman and gnome as they clutched each other. Their screams rose in a shrill duet, but the sound was quickly drowned in the vast roar of the fiery sea as the elemental danced faster and faster.
The throng that massed at the base of the tor was far larger than any that had gathered previously. Torch smoke rose in the air. In every hand was gripped some object capable of wounding, maiming,* or killing. To the rusted swords, scythes, and sharpened stakes had been added buckets of hot pitch and bottles of flammable naphtha. Only the very..young and the very old had stayed behind in the village. Jubilant shouts rang out.
'The fiend won't stop us this time!'
'There are too many of us!'
'The baron's knights can't kill us all!'
The dark chant rose. 'Kill the fiend! Kill the baron! Kill the fiend!' The crowd started up the twisting road to the keep.
The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. Peasants toward the rear of the mob turned to see if storm clouds were approaching. Their screams brought the rest of the throng to a halt. AH spun around, gazing in horror. It was not storm clouds that appeared over the distant horizon, but dark, galloping horses. A score of riders thundered toward the village, bearing red-hot sparks of light. Torches.
'Raiders!'
With cries of fear, the people turned their backs to the keep, forgetting their rage of moments before, and surged toward the village. The marauders raced ahead of them. The dark horsemen moved swiftly through the streets, thrusting blazing torches into thatch roofs and tossing them into woodpiles stacked against timber walls. Swiftly the raiders whirled their mounts around and pounded away across the moor. By the time the screaming peasants reached their hovels, it was far too late. Countless pillars of scarlet flame rose toward the leaden sky along with howls of anguish.
The village was burning.
'Damn him to the Abyss.'
With hate-filled eyes Wort peered through the bel-v fry's rusted iron filigree. Columns of greasy black smoke rose from village below. For the last five evenings, Wort had watched in glee as angry mobs marched up the road to the keep. The folk of Martok had forgotten all about the daemon in the bell tower. It was the fiend in the Grand Hall they despised. Now there would be no uprising. The mysterious raiders- raiders Wort suspected were wearing coats of blue beneath their concealing cloaks-had seen to that.
Wort's cry of anguish sent ghost-pale pigeons winging in all directions. He gripped his lank brown hair in twisted hands, pulling it out in clumps. Madness assailed his brain. He could not bear this. After all he had done, after all the dark deeds he had dared to commit, he could not possibly bear this- that once again his brother Caidin had bested him.
'I should have let you fall, Caidin!' he cried wildly. 'All those years ago at the cliff-I should have let you fall. I could have done so. I had the power, only I did not use it. What a fool I was to save you!' He sank to his knees, clutching his head as though it was going to burst. 'I should have let you die, my brother!'
Suddenly, as though drawn by an unseen force, his gaze flickered upward to rest upon an object half — brooding in shadow, half glowing in burnished light. The bell. His cries fell silent. The pigeons drifted to their myriad perches. All at once it came to him. He had wasted one opportunity long ago. Here before him was a second chance. He had been so caught up in the dementia of his desire to brand Caidin a monster that he had overlooked the obvious.
The dry voice whispered in his mind. Ring it, Wort…
He hauled himself to his feet. Eerie laughter racked his misshapen chest. 'Yes, my friends,' he cackled. 'Let the bell toll one last execution-that of my dear brother. Then at last I will have one thing, one precious thing that he does not-life!'
First he needed a token. Wort clambered down the ladder to his chamber below and threw open the lid of his trunk. He sifted through the ancient junk, then stood up with a gurgle of triumph. In his hand was a faded wooden soldier, in a moment of jealousy he had stolen the toy from his brother decades ago. For years Wort had been racked with guilt at this deplorable deed. Now he stroked the worn soldier fondly. Swiftly, he scrambled up the ladder to the belfry.
'The end has come, my friends,' he chortled. He placed the wooden soldier carefully beneath the sinister bronze bell. 'This token belonged to my brother, you see.' Wort tightly gripped the rope that hung from the cursed bell. 'Now the spirits of the Bell of Doom will do what I myself should have done long ago. They will take the token and kill Caidin!' He tensed his arms to pull.
'So, Wort,' a darkly elegant voice spoke behind him. 'That's how your intriguing bell works.'
Wort jerked around, the rope slipping from his startled hands. Tall, handsome, and powerfully graceful, Caidin climbed through the trapdoor into the belfry. A pair of knights followed in his wake, the heavy iron shackles they bore clanking dully.
'No!' Wort cried in desperation, turning back to the bell rope.
'Don't let him ring it!' Caidin thundered.
Wort tried to grab the dangling cord, but a brutal impact from behind knocked him away. Another blow struck him forcefully from the side. He careened into the wall, his skull striking the stones with a resounding crack! By the time he shook his head clear, the knights had him. His arms were twisted cruelly behind his back, while hot pain shot up his hunched back. He fell to his knees. Cold iron clamped tightly around his wrists as the knights shackled him, looping the chains around a stout post. A look of smugness played on Caidin's face. More knights appeared through the trapdoor.
'Remove the bell,' Caidin ordered the new arrivals. 'Transport it to my tower on the moor. And take care that it does not make a sound as you move it!'
In minutes the knights had bundled the instrument carefully in wool and lowered it through the trapdoor. Wort could only stare in despair. It was over.
'Now, my brother,' Caidin said after all the others had gone, stroking his bearded chin thoughtfully, 'I am curious to try out this bell of yours. Thank you for so kindly showing me how it operates. I'll need a token, yes?'
In terror, Wort realized what his brother intended. He tried to scramble away, but the manacles bound him tightly to the wooden post. Quickly, Caidin searched the pockets of Wort's ratty tunic. After a moment he pulled out an object.
'Ah, yes… this filthy little handkerchief of yours should do nicely.' Caidin shot Wort a satisfied smirk. 'I'll place it on the bell, and once I ring it… well, I'm certain you know what will happen after that.'
Wort gaped dumbly at the handkerchief in Caidin's hand. It was stained darkly with blood, but here and there remained a spot of its original color-lavender so pale it was almost white. It was the handkerchief Mika had used to bandage his hand that day in the woods that now seemed so long ago, when he had been pricked by the thorn. The object was not Wort's, but Mika's. If Caidin used it for a token when he rang the bell, the spirits would not come to kill Wort. Instead they would appear before Wort's mind reeled. Mika! Suddenly, in that one fractured moment, he realized a terrible truth. Whatever she had done, whatever she thought him now, what he believed her to be meant nothing. She was as far above him as the pale moon above the dark earth. She was and always would be-regardless of his fury, his hatred, or his sorrow-an angel.
Desperation etched his voice. 'No, Caidin! You mustn't ring the bell with that! That handkerchief is-' s — is Mika's, he was going to finish, but the back of Caidin's gloved hand knocked him forcefully to the moldering straw, silencing him. Caidin moved to the trapdoor, but once on the ladder he paused.
