by Jeffery Scott Sims
in Issue 155, December 2024
Latia, hereditary Ruhtinatar of the island demesne of Xylinthia, was beloved by her people for her youthful beauty and her mild, just ways, yet her subjects would scarcely have known her this day. Perched imperiously as possible on her simple satin-cushioned throne in the small receiving hall of the palace, she scowled her fury and, her green eyes blazing, demanded of her visitor, “Lord Hekkon, explain yourself! You pressed the limits of my patience before, my hand stayed only by regard for your mighty and honored land of Dyrezan. Thither you came to me as guest, offering to employ your wizardry on behalf of Xylinthia, so I permitted your sojourn in good faith. How did you repay my generosity? You vexed me often, never with cause, promised much while delivering nothing, indulged in secretive, dark doings, and now this! What say you, my Lord? What have you done to the palace bell tower?”
He to whom she spoke smiled affably, seemingly at ease despite the warmth of Latia’s rebuke and the twin pike-armed guards who flanked his berobed, skeletal frame. “Lovely Latia, much do I appreciate your kindly condescension and forbearance. Pray continue in that fashion. Such is my advice. I have made adjustments to the bell tower. My needs require them.”
“Your needs?” The Ruhtinatar strove to maintain commanding composure, though despite her best efforts almost verging on angry tears at this shameless effrontery. Her lower lip quivered as she said, “My grandfather erected that tower, had cast the ornate bronze bells as a tribute to the consort whom he worshiped, a princess of supreme nobility bestowed by your kingdom of Dyrezan. Now, in a single night, on your authority—your authority!—workmen have defiled the tower, knocked out the walls of the bell chamber and flung the hallowed bronze bells to the ground. This disgraceful deed would disgust your own countrymen.”
Amidst his fish-white and hollow features Hekkon flashed teeth, snarling a laugh. “My dear, you think rather higher of my people than do I. They are no longer useful to me. I spurn them. As to the bell tower, I have finally consummated a grand magic. Prodigious labors I devoted to an ambitious objective. It lies within my grasp.” He snorted. “Those bronze trinkets had to go. I have replaced that trash with massy iron bells, of my design, suitably anointed with arcane power.”
Latia rose from her seat, trembling with rage. “That crosses the line, base warlock. Hekkon, I shall deal with your case officially, later. Guards, take him to his quarters, and hold him there until I beckon.”
The pikemen, nodding, shifted ever so slightly as to lay firm hands upon the crimson robes of their prisoner. The eyes of Hekkon glowed red to match his garb. He uttered a word, a distinctly enunciated word that no one in Xylinthia ever heard before, a word old before Xylinthia ever was, and he gestured with splayed bony fingers, from which flared bristling talons of lightning. The jagged bolts struck, washing over the two men, in moments consuming them entirely. Fiercely moldering ash littered the marble tiles.
Hekkon laughed again, a still more awful laugh. He advanced through the oily smoke, Latia shrinking away from him, stumbling back onto her throne. Hekkon crowed, “You made your play, my sweet, only your dice roll ill. Now I shake the cup, with better luck I think. I would tell you of my bells, of my supremely special iron bells, except I prefer you hear them first. The proof is in the hearing. Relish their unique music, fair Ruhtinatar. Harken to them!”
And at his wild, arm-swinging motions and weird cries unintelligible save as bird shrieks, an awesome, low, throbbing sound filled the hall. It reverberated around the space and resonated against the walls in a pulsing cadence. It swelled into pounding, shuddering booms. Latia felt tendrils of sound probing into her brain, then daggers of sound stabbing. That sound—those dreadful detonations in her mind—the aural explosions of impossible bells!
Hekkon’s cackling countenance ballooned to overwhelm her vision. She screamed, as blinding black fog smothered her senses.
Seven cycles of the moon had passed through their phases before the oar-ship pulled up anchor, departed the mainland and steered across the channel toward the island city-state of Xylinthia. At the legate post ashore its captain had been warned to shun the island, whose denizens had grown surly and no longer entertained travelers or any custom at all; something of a quandary, since Xylinthia was his destination, ordered by his sole passenger, a very important personage indeed. Said the passenger, “Ridiculous! Since the late troubles commerce and diplomacy have both faltered, but Dyrezan remains a firm friend of the Ruhtinatar Latia, and my king sends me to retie that knot. Forward, Captain.”
Lord Morca, esteemed mage and warrior of Dyrezan, thus declared his decision. Who would dare argue? His reputation preceded him. A big man, fierce to behold, he seldom deigned tolerate obstacles of any degree or stripe. Renowned along the frontiers of the empire for chastising with sorcery and sword the enemies of Skyrax his sovereign, in the none too distant past he had, in the midst of terrible civil war, crushed the conspiracy of the usurpers. That weighty issue settled at last, and his homeland’s wounds healed, Morca voyaged now on this peaceful endeavor.
“‘Tis undoubtedly a misunderstanding,” he mused. “With the world in an uproar, Latia closed her borders, a sensible precaution, though she’s absurdly slow to reopen them in these days of blessed harmony. I know these folk, having paid a call of state when Latia was a child. My delegated smiles and phrases of sweet wine should do the trick.”
So Morca reasonably reasoned as the ship turned its prow into harbor to approach the docks. The skyline of the city rose around. There at short remove beyond loomed the upper walls of the palace, surmounted by the one great tower, a slender spire topped by a gaudy onion-shaped bulb. Still nearer, on the wharf, he observed a curious scene: a crowd of armed men brandishing motley weapons, braying vulgar oaths and threats. Morca shook his head, instinctively clapping his helmet over his raven hair. He patted his bejeweled sword scabbard. “They take themselves too seriously. Captain, display to them our complement.”
As a grandee of Dyrezan, Lord Morca necessarily traveled with an honor guard and, chosen by him, they were necessarily the best to be had. The company with practiced alacrity formed on deck, standing motionless as a barricade of flesh, mail, shield and blade, the men smirking at the local militia opposite. The ship grated alongside the pinewood pier to a halt, oars up. Morca, with studied gravity, announced himself to the unusual welcoming committee.
Then something amazing happened. Upon the words leaving his mouth, a deep, solemn tolling of bells resounded, a strangely hateful noise, a metallic moaning as should accompany a dirge for dying gods. A shock wave of hurricane wind ripped through the air. Timbers flew from surrounding roofs. The antagonistic throng on the wharf cowered or threw themselves flat.
A violent blast rocked the ship. A mere gust of nature, however severe, could not account for what then transpired. This gale eddied and swung blows with a ruthless, purposeful vitality. Focusing all its energy on the ship, it tore apart the superstructure, hurling heavily armored men over the gunwales to sink like stones into the murky water. Those men who managed to desperately hang on received special treatment of the most insidious sort. Aye, this blast acted with genuine cunning. The vicious breezes swathed themselves about floundering soldiers and crew, prising hands from buckling supports, twisting their struggling frames in ghastly fashion ignorant or uncaring of anatomy. Necks snapped, spines splintered, ruptured bodies dropped to the tilting deck or slid off into aquatic graves. Below deck, horrid cries suggested the unseen, abominable fates destroying the rowers.
Ashore, the miraculously untouched Xylinthian gang recovered and, hoarsely yelling, leaped from the gangway and rushed onto the ship, As wild animals do they massacred all they found still living, few enough in number to be sure, nor any fit to fight or even plead for their lives. Blood and brains sprayed oaken surfaces. When they had completed the slaughter they evacuated the ship, first hammering spikes through the planked floor of the bilge. Suddenly dazed, as in a dream, they watched without a word or trace of emotion as the ship settled to the bottom of the harbor, destroyed with every man who had sailed aboard her.
On the contrary, one did survive. At the initial impact Lord Morca, magician exemplar, knew without cogitation that potent conjuration lay behind the onslaught. He instinctively secured his consciousness from attack, a process which incidentally kept his thoughts clear and functioning at preternatural speed. Even as he plummeted off the deck, as he sank into the silty gloom of the harbor, his brain raced and calculated.
Cape and chain mail he wrenched from his torso in one quick motion. Striking the muddy bottom, finding himself held fast, he realized his ornamental scabbard had tangled with a broken spar. He twisted that from his belt, maintaining presence of mind to clutch firmly his extracted long sword. Then he maneuvered to the surface, swimming beneath the wharf to reach air unseen.
From this vantage, filling his lungs by gasps, he witnessed the final atrocities, the scuttling of the ship, heard overhead the withdrawal of the assailants. Safe for the moment, he nevertheless comprehended the uncertainty of his situation. Transport, crew, and troops wiped out, stranded alone in an improbably hostile environment, he armed only with his hand weapon. Though the magnitude of his intrinsic mystical skills excused proud bragging, Morca lamented the loss of his magical materials, the powders, potions, the enchantment-soaked relics that enormously boosted his esoteric strength. The fact that a pernicious spell had wrought the murderous doom only heightened his regret.
Morca spat greasy water, muttering to himself, “I have my work cut out for me.”
He tarried shivering under the wharf until nightfall, knowing he could not pass challenge in his current sodden, beslimed condition. Overcast skies dulled the moonlight, while the paucity of harbor torches and watchmen allowed him to slink into the expansive shadows unmolested. Well and good, but what next? His appearance mimicked that of a forlorn tramp, one armed for mischief at that. He dared not publically contact anyone of influence or power until he understood matters, yet he craved food and drink, desired presentable clothing. Rest, he feared, must wait considerably longer. A private audience then? Yes, most satisfactory that might serve, if he be extremely careful.
Those houses in the lane beyond the harbor were mere hovels, the inmates unlikely to suit his wants; the next no better, but past that Morca entered into a finer zone of Xylinthia. That, or he discovered an isle within the island, an impressive walled manor, rustic perhaps, yet indicative of taste and refinement; the big house, plus a lesser structure of servant quarters to the side. No mistake, this dwelling he remembered from that consular call years before. A man of note, confidant of Latia’s then reigning father, had lived here, likely still did.
When he vaulted atop the wall a warning canine bark froze him, until peering through the darkness he detected the lengthy tether binding a large gray wolf. Morca possessed a sufficiency of occult charm to enthrall an animal, which he accomplished with dispatch, speaking with his eyes, to the extent of briskly making a fast friend. Closing and warily reaching out to test, he let the wolf lick his fingers.
Morca cut through the staked leather leash. He whispered into a pricked furry ear, “Act sentry for me, boy. Allow no one to approach while I consult with your master.”
The beast dutifully circled the manse as Morca reconnoitered. Too many locks and bars defended the ground floor, while a bored sentry lounged before the front entrance. An athletic jump gained Morca one hand on a ledge, then two with sword in mouth, a muscular heave propelling him up onto a balcony. More could be described at this juncture, but suffice to relate that within minutes the intruder stood above the single occupant of a night chamber, sword point pressing at the throat of the bedded man.
Identifying himself, Lord Morca avowed, “You know me, Eetu. See, I light the lamp. Examine my countenance.”
The flabbergasted fellow gaped his astonishment. “Truly it is you, Morca,” he quavered, “another villain from Dyrezan to plague us! What do you want? Whatever it is, take it and harass me no more.”
“Hearty sustenance, fitting apparel, and valuable information,” came the reply, “the order of same negotiable.” Having determined their mutual solitude, he marched his unwilling host downstairs. Over a tense, one-sided meal, the following conversation ensued.
“Neither villain nor vagabond,” declared Morca, “but one who expected to be friend and to meet friends. So far I confess myself a failure. That catches in my craw. Eetu, explicate this prejudice against Dyrezan, a land for which I feel inordinate fondness.”
Eetu did not spit, but he motioned as to do so. He growled an answer. “I speak freely, though you slay me with that overgrown toothpick. Our miseries began when the Ruhtinatar made common cause with a chum of yours, he also a lofty lord and wizard. They cloaked Xylinthia under a supernatural shroud of terror, Latia—she used to be an adorable kid!—backing that foreign born scum in all his machinations. They have transformed this island into a prison, shutting out the world while they conspire on the Gods know what. Evil scheming, unquestionably.
“That necromancer is a nasty slice of humanity, able to manipulate minds and bid decent men perpetrate his detestable crimes for him. If he needs more, he summons lethal perils out of the aether.”
Morca grimaced. “I know somewhat of that.”
Queried Eetu, “Thus your misfortunes? I should have guessed. The bells; my Lord, did you hear the bells?”
Morca threw down a chewed leg of mutton. “Indeed, in tones that drill holes in the eardrums. Yes, I heard, at the same instant as I sensed baleful force impinging from unearthly spheres, and a stout ship broke up under my feet. What of these bells?”
Eetu shrugged. “Do not ask me. I know not the mysteries of the adept. The old bronze bells sang dulcet to citizens and passing mariners alike. These iron monstrosities nauseate with their noise. When the bells chime, horror comes. Since they commenced to clang, we suffer death and terror. Nothing remains the same: a cryptic, dismal pall hangs over the island, inspiring dread and sickening men’s hearts. It is the technique of Lord Hekkon.”
“Hekkon?” Morca bolted to his feet. “Hekkon of Dyrezan? Lord Hekkon he styles himself?” Pacing, he continued, “Greedy for unearned honor, he grants himself a promotion. Pay heed as I tell you true, Eetu. I do know this Hekkon, only I pray you, sully not my character by association. Last year internecine war wracked my land, when Albragon, a scoundrel at least born an authentic lord, plotted to seize the throne of the legitimate Skyrax. I aided in Albragon’s defeat, resulting in his traitorous death. His chief henchmen mostly perished at his side, as brave as they were fell, but we did not account for all. The renegade Hekkon escaped, eluding justice it seems by fabricating a fiefdom for himself here. I can scarcely blame him. He preferred that to misplacing his head. How long ago came he hither?”
“Ten months, abiding in the palace of Latia. All seemed well, until Hekkon cast the iron bells.”
Morca contemplated. “During which period Latia changed her demeanor. That feeds me food for thought.” Then, “Eetu, I beg you to trust me, for I need your help. First a safe rest, then action. If we unite efforts, I may be able to right the wrongs inflicted on you and your neighbors. In order to attempt this, I must have audience with the Ruhtinatar.”
Eetu swore. “Thus placing my head at risk, and merely that if I am lucky. Hekkon will forbid it.”
Morca grinned. “But my friend, you carry such clout hereabouts!”
Come the morn, Ruhtinatar Latia and her esteemed advisor Hekkon presented to the people of Xylinthia, for their edification, a public execution. This they held on the city plaza before the palace, the area cordoned by armed guards. While Latia remained above to impassively observe from a second tier terrace, Hekkon directed the amusement from atop the broad palace steps, regaling the glum crowd with hectic energy, much wild gesticulation and swirling of crimson robes. Beyond the lines of pikemen the onlookers—commanded to attend—watched as several liegemen dragged the prisoner, weighed down by a virtual mound of chains, to a dais in the center of the square.
Bawled Hekkon, “Liro, judged criminal, in the name of your lawful Ruhtinatar I sentence you to death for your insane treachery. Behold, subjects, nor soon forget the penalty for opposing cherished Latia.”
The doomed man endeavored to struggle erect, tried to speak, crying, “I denounced tyranny! Of this I boast! Friends, comrades, stand against the despicable influence of Hekkon—”
“Silence!” Hekkon thundered, smashing air with fist, and at the gesture Liro choked, gagged, spoke no more. The wizard leered at the throng, grown unsettled at the words of the condemned. “Xylinthians, ignore the yapping of curs. This one would lead you to hell. See how quickly he marches there! The hungry fangs of death gnaw him!” Hekkon up-tilted his bony chin to face the sky, arms rigidly crossed, palms back to back, twining and writhing the fingers, opened wide his thin lips and emitted a distressing cacophony of harsh, guttural syllables.
The bells tolled! Eerie waves of excruciating sound washed down from the high palace tower. Through the exposed, broken sides of the bell chamber those huge instruments of black iron could be seen swaying into view at slow, regular intervals, with each swing the toxic noise erupting. Came another sound, scarce heard over the din; a whirlwind, the raucous shouting of an unseen host? Above all pierced a hideous screech of agony. Fearful gazes swiveled to fetter-laden Liro. Some who watched, those with keen eyes or, maybe, sensitive minds, thought or imagined for an instant an amorphous shape, a hazy shadow staining the sky, descending and compressing upon the prisoner. No one doubted the loathsome consequence. Liro died, by tortured degrees. Driven to his knees, he collapsed onto his belly, made as to crawl, could not, for an imperceptible toppling mountain inexorably crushed him to jelly. His screaming ceased only with the total pulverizing of his corpus.
One final reverberation and the abhorrent bells stopped, their noise echoing away. Gloating Hekkon said, “Return to your homes, to ponder this lesson lest ye stray. This I say to peasant or priest. Memorize the gory images of instruction! Thereby walk the road of continued life.”
On the outskirts of the morose, dispersing crowd, Eetu stood with sadly hanging head, his hulking, slouch-hatted bearer at his side. This bearer hefted three long burlap-wrapped bundles over his strong shoulder. Eetu casually leaned to him, whispering, “You see how the land lies. Opposition exists, in plenty, uprisings come and go. Latia’s henchmen can be killed, but how, my Lord, does mortal man stand against Hekkon’s malevolent bells?”
The bearer hissed, “Do not ‘my Lord’ me in these precincts.” Morca peered covertly from under his broad brim. “I cannot fathom the magical prominence of Hekkon. He I deemed a second-rate mage. And this business of the bells confounds me. Never mind. These guards, with their stony, blank stares, betray the symptoms of men ensorcelled. They cannot help what they do.” He risked a glance upward, to the palace terrace. Latia had gone. “Your princess exhibits similar signs. Eetu, I do believe she has been judged unfairly. Therein lies our best hope. I know but one way to find out. Come, we infiltrate the palace.”
They sauntered toward a servant’s entrance to the side of the steps, but Hekkon, in the act of withdrawing, spotted them and hotly intervened. “Eetu, what brings you here? You are aware that the Ruhtinatar has no desire for your company. Depart these premises, ere you learn to your cost the severity of her disdain.”
Steeling himself, Eetu replied in carnying manner, “Oh, Lord Hekkon, what luck this happenstance! The very man I prayed to meet! He who has earned the ear of our mistress!” As if in confidence, “I do keenly wish to ingratiate myself again with her Highness, in a manner that flatters her best. You see these bundles? I instructed my serfs—most strictly, I assure you, befitting the new way of Xylinthia—insisted they produce flags of the royal house, woven of the costly linens I provided. Here, let me show you.” He began to pull a corner of multicolored cloth from its covering.
“Enough,” Hekkon snapped dismissively. “The Ruhtinatar does not entertain now. However, you may leave these banners. Take them to the palace storeroom, then be gone, ere my bells chase you out.”
“With alacrity, mighty Hekkon.” Eetu scuttled crabwise past the guards into the portico, bowing and mumbling inanities. His ostensible servant followed with heavier, firmer tread.
Once they were alone, Lord Morca grumbled, “It says much about you, Eetu, that you so gamely feign subservience to the interloper.”
To which the Xylinthian replied, “Aye, it proves I wish to liberate my country, rather than perish in a futile gesture.”
Morca nodded with a wry smile. “That round you win. So, take your two bundles, obey Hekkon, then leave the palace after depositing them. Needless to say, this one wrapped ‘banner’ remains with me.”
One might describe the movements of Eetu from this juncture, trekking below to unburden himself of his two rolls of cheap, common cloth, then vacating the royal premises with a perspiring pretense of ease; one might, but it will prove more rewarding to follow the activities of Lord Morca.
Once well inside, Morca slipped into an unoccupied alcove, doffed extraneous clothing, took stock of his location courtesy of the map scrawled by Eetu, and shook his elongated burden from its burlap covering. This action revealed no flag, rather the sword of a high-born Dyrezanian wizard esteemed for his martial exploits. Taking it in hand, Morca felt the upsurge of resolute power course through his muscular frame, that sure determination known to well-armed, practiced warriors. He went seeking the Ruhtinatar Latia.
He progressed more swiftly than expected, for the halls contained little traffic. Occasionally he must dodge out of sight from passing guards. A small group at the end of a long corridor blocked (Morca deduced from his map) the sole access to a staircase winding up to the bell tower. Indeed, save for these few it seemed to Morca that the palace stood virtually deserted. He wondered to what extent they protected or imprisoned, and who they actually served. He learned soon enough.
Here it was, on the third level, the entrance to Latia’s private chambers, a gilded door before which two pikemen bided erect, stiff, silent. They scarcely moved until accosted. Morca demanded admission in the name of her Highness. In monosyllables they refused access. Morca persisted, stating, “The Ruhtinatar herself called me to attend her.”
Apparently the wrong thing to say, one soldier hoarsely declaring, “We obey only Lord Hekkon,” and both threateningly presenting their pikes. There was no help for it. As they poised for the lunge, Morca struck, with one lightning slice of his great jeweled sword splitting the duo clean through at the waist.
He edged by the gory mess, regretting the grim necessity of dealing death to them. Those men knew not what they did, their captive minds wholly under the sway of Hekkon. They surely had deserved better fates. All Morca could offer them was vengeance.
He need not break down the door, for it swung open at the prodding of sword point. He entered. This had once been a grand room, designed for royalty. Now a veil of desolate indifference hung over it. No one swept these floors, nor dusted this furniture. A table bore the remnants of a plain meal, a bowl of unidentifiable porridge. The Ruhtinatar Latia sat, not in her high seat, but huddled on a simple chair in the corner.
She sat there in apparently comatose condition. At Morca’s approach she moved not, neither blinking nor catching his focused gaze. Close up she appeared disheveled, even unwashed. A dribble of porridge marred her lower lip. Morca came near to touch her arm, peer inquisitively into her eyes. Only then did she betray the tiniest hints of awareness.
Gently he asked, “Latia, can you hear me? It is I, Lord Morca of Dyrezan. When you were a girl I honored your father. Do you remember? I am your friend, come to offer my service.”
Latia long hesitated before responding. She wrinkled her nose, shivered and said, very slowly, “Lord Morca? He comes to me in a dream. When he speaks, I do not hear the terrible bells.”
Morca harked to this. “The bells?”
“Whenever Hekkon speaks. They ring with his voice.” Then, childlike she queried, “But my Lord, who rings the bells? There are no bell pullers. Hekkon sent them away.”
Morca strove to analyze this weird discourse, to separate reality from fantasy. Later, perhaps; at the moment he had another priority, rescuing the Ruhtinatar. “Come, my dear, we must go.” Without resistance she accompanied him.
Nor did she aid in her escape. Morca reasoned that Hekkon had so clouded her mind as to eradicate her will. This could be easily remedied: Morca knew the fundamental arcane methods of healing the mind, which he could perform without recourse to special materials. That, however, he dared not attempt now. Hekkon must still be in the vicinity. Any magic spun by one mage would be readily detectable by another nearby. Morca, therefore, needed to whisk Latia to a safe place for her cure.
Leading her through the palace constituted the simple part of the plan. The handful of guards Morca avoided rather than slew. Dodging foes rubbed him raw, but in their parlous mental condition killing them seemed too much like murder. He refused to slay more unless backed into a corner.
Which almost happened when Morca and his helpless charge departed the palace. Two sentries were stolidly pacing their rounds at the rear of the building, where Eetu’s map indicated an old, disused passage into the adjoining alley. The pikemen disappeared around a corner. The echoes of their footsteps faded. Morca emerged, pulling Latia behind him. Another guardsman, a palace officer, chose that moment to appear round that same corner, stopping short when brought up face to face with the formidable stranger. Mechanically whipping out a dagger, the officer opened his mouth to shout. Morca shut that mouth by smashing it with his sword hilt. Half a minute later the two previous guards came trooping back, to find their comrade alone, sprawled unconscious on the pavement, much the worse for wear but still breathing.
The restored to her senses Latia exhibited none of the passivity or confused languor for which she had been lately noted, still less of the sweetness for which she once was famed. Hard experience had altered her, perhaps forever. In a compartment of Eetu’s manor, whither Morca had carried her, she addressed the two men in the most royal of terms.
“I want him dead,” she cried, “do you hear? Killed quickly if you like, or make it last if you will. After what Hekkon has done to me and my precious Xylinthia, any death is an act of mercy. If I could without risk, I would keep him alive to exquisitely suffer.”
“Justice comes,” said Lord Morca, “and swiftly, if I have my way.”
“Easy to propose,” rejoined Eetu, “less so to compose. So soon as you raise your head, Hekkon barrages you with his bells, and that’s the end.”
“Those unmentionable bells!” Morca leaped from the divan and strode impatiently about the room, alternating conversation with reflection. “Hekkon is, at his core, a weak reed. This I know. I can take him any time. Chief danger lies in these bells. How can that be? What is the secret? Latia, you tell me.” He, grandee of Dyrezan, could address her as a familiar, a privilege not vouchsafed to a subject, even one as worthy as Eetu. “Please understand, magical death-dealing bells are not the standard stock of sorcerers. Hekkon has pulled off an astounding coup. Any additional information must aid me.”
Latia shook her head, the embedded emeralds swaying in her newly cleansed ebony hair, shimmering in the glow from the fireplace. “The mystery to mystify you, my Lord, renders me laughably obtuse. Vile Hekkon seized the palace tower, forging his malicious bells I know not how, throwing down the bell chamber walls that his infernal sound should carry farthest. No one comes or goes to that chamber save Hekkon; no one allowed to approach, nor have I perceived any evidence of occupancy. Hekkon need not be present in the tower to wreak his unholy spells. There, you possess the sum of my ignorance.”
“Useful, though.” Morca rubbed his stubbly chin, responding after a pensive pause, “My dear, in your hypnotic state you mentioned the lack of ringers. A presumably empty chamber, only the bells chime. A datum to tease.”
Interjected Eetu, “Or a puzzle to petrify. Obviously Hekkon wields power of the vast sufficiency required to terrorize Xylinthia.”
Morca slammed a massive fist against the table top. “No, by Xenophor! I do not believe it. Of old he channeled poorly, relying on incantations diagrammed for him in scrolls, or pre-mixed potions purchased from his betters. He could instigate a spell of magnitude, but not sustain it. This bitter business has continued for months.”
Latia said, “Slay Hekkon, and his dying gasp resolves all. My beautiful bronze bells lie forsaken in the dirt, begging for restoration. They will replace his ugly iron things quickly enough.”
Morca deliberated. Then: “Eetu, I charge you with your Ruhtinatar’s safety. Keep her out of sight, and definitely accept no visitors. That guard wolf will savage anyone who comes near.”
Eetu shrugged, replying, “Aye, my wolf, trained at considerable cost to obey me, yet the beast now answers only to your commands. Very well, my Lord. You go after Hekkon?”
“No.” The eyes of Lord Morca reflected distorted patterns of firelight. “I go after his bells.”
The hunt was on! Hekkon sent forth his mental slaves with a single mission: at all costs, by any means, find the Ruhtinatar Latia. Track her down, seize her person, return her to the palace. The uncanny bells throbbed, Hekkon’s conjured voice rasped from the skies enunciating commands and threats, and all the soulless minions he could muster spread out across the island of Xylinthia. Of course Hekkon’s version, woven for the benefit of those not under the wizard’s direct control, recounted something about a royal kidnapping, the necessity of liberating the victim from these miscreants, and incidentally the license to exterminate those reprobates on sight.
The searchers fanned out across the realm raiding public places and private dwellings alike. They knocked on doors, they kicked in doors, they rapped at windows or smashed them. They harassed the civil population, brutalizing at the least show of resistance. When the search turned up nothing in the city they cast the net wider, eventually scanning and probing the rocky shores and beaches at the borders of the demesne. This the furious sorcerer especially advocated, urging his men to scout for an unauthorized ship, deeming it unlikely that his cowed subjects would dare to defy him in such a provoking manner. Not entirely accurate, but Hekkon was no fool either. His logic, if not his heart, was in the right place.
Eetu relied on all his connections, calling in all favors owed him to keep Latia safe. When the scouring and ransacking of Xylinthia rapidly closed in on his abode, he shifted his charge to the previously violated domicile of another freeholder as important and disaffected as himself. This revolving game of protection, carried on from mansion to shack to cottage and back again, shielded Latia from wicked clutches throughout an evening and long night of tempest and chaos. She concluded her odyssey once more at the house of Eetu, hiding in the brick cellar with a stoic wolf at attention before the only ingress.
Hekkon looked everywhere except where he should. Unfortunately for him, he mistook his proper target. It was not Latia he needed to locate posthaste; recovering her could not permanently relieve his dilemma, so long as Lord Morca ran free.
With no chance of a normal entrance under current conditions, Morca stripped to a loincloth and, with sword strapped to back, invaded the palace via a seldom cleaned sewer drain. A filthy rust-weakened wire screen blocked the exit from the cloaca beneath the lowest level, directly under the chute into which palace servants dumped refuse. The great Lord of Dyrezan, splashing through the most disagreeable of muck, repeatedly reminded himself that he labored for a worthy cause. He breached the screen with deft swipes of his sword.
Having counted on the royal habitation being even more deserted than usual, what with Hekkon’s mesmerized gangs out Latia-chasing, the reality proved him largely correct. Morca had more to fear of discovery by chambermaids. He experienced no difficulty worth noting until he approached the vestibule where remained the pikemen guarding the stairway to the bell tower.
Four of them, wordlessly, with unfocused eyes, swung out their long weapons, forming a barrier of steel points. Morca must make an instant decision. His radiant confidence assured him that with care he could best these ensorcelled foes, but that assuredly meant their butchery. In a conversational tone he said, “Well, my good men, my invisibility to Hekkon could not last much longer anyway.” With that Morca spoke awesome words of magic. The result was much as he had seen with Latia. The men swayed, staggered, let slip their pikes, sank to their knees or fell against the steps. Intelligence and amazement gradually flooded their countenances.
Morca demanded his query: “Soldiers! I have freed your minds. Do you know your enemy?”
Weak replies, then stronger, each of similar cast. “Foul Hekkon did this to me.”
Morca nodded. “Yes, and he threatens your Ruhtinatar. Be you her men, then be mine, and hold here my back while I ascend to contest the source of Hekkon’s villainy.” Morca’s simple charm of mental cleansing worked, as did the tiny twist added to render the men temporarily more agreeable to his suggestions. The mage of Dyrezan had no time to convince these fellows of the big matters afoot, nor to explain his own outlandish attire and soiled appearance. The latter cases especially would have required a great deal of talking.
That spell sprayed into the aether, radiating in faint waves unsensed by the common run of men, yet detectable within range by the keen arcane sense of the sorcerer. Of a sudden Hekkon, ensconced in another corner of the palace awaiting news from the search at the extremities of the island, was shocked into awareness of supernatural menace near at hand, a type of danger hitherto utterly unsuspected. Immediately he cast about with his mind, in a white heat of passion straining with extra-mundane sight to locate and identify the cause of his alarm.
Morca thundered up the circling stairs to the bell tower, bounding three steps at a time. He felt the weight of heavy magic pressing down from above, from an enigmatic source that he knew had no connection to Hekkon. More than the impregnation of material substance with enchantment, he read in the vibrations of the air a sentience lurking within the forbidden chamber.
His battering ram of a shoulder broke open the sealed chamber door precisely at the moment when the bells resounded. The explosion of noise burned through Morca’s brain, the sound alone tormenting his ears. Behind that assailed a forced slamming against him, driving him into the wall, striving to beat him to his knees, to rend him with mystic talons.
It did not quite succeed. Holding himself stiffly erect, bracing his soul with the strongest psychic defenses he could conjure, Morca surveyed the chamber. Copious light from the gaping stretches of wall long since defiled at Hekkon’s orders clearly showed him the four massive iron bells ponderously swinging, at each sweeping stroke buffeting him with pain. He sought something, anything that lived. Morca saw no bell pulls, nor any pretense of living pullers, yet the bells moved, with a weird animation that spewed evil.
Hekkon raced through the corridors of the palace, speeding toward the center of magical discord. He himself activated the terror of the bells, commanding them to grasp with their aural tentacles and crush his mysterious enemy. To his horror, the iron behemoths directed their lethal power incredibly close by . . . within the bell chamber itself! Hekkon rushed the tower staircase, encountering at its foot his four reformed stooges. Their unfriendly behavior briefly baffled him. After a standoff composed of mutual threats and menacing gestures a mental jolt brushed them aside, sending their pikes flying. The men, battered and bruised, owed their survival to the furious mage’s manic hurry.
Morca demanded explanations of the air, in lieu of an identifiable foe. An answer he received. The bells halted their crazy clanging. Rather than coming to a stop, they transformed into entirely different material entities.
The solid, black iron masses wavered, rippled, flowed. No longer chunks of metal, the dark shapes unfolded and stretched chitinous limbs, lashed snaky feelers, swiveled bulbous eyes on stalks. Impressions of spider, centipede, and mantis imprinted on Morca’s vision. He had neither time nor inclination to count the legs and eyes, but there seemed considerably more than necessary.
Morca did not flinch. “What manner of things are you, that you poison this world with your presence?”
Said they, in tremulous unison through horny jaws, “We be denizens of Thadisul, a crystalline plane beyond your known spheres, where all consciousness and force consists of pure vibration. This cosmos meant nothing to us until Hekkon learned of a pathway to our dimension utilized by your people in ancient days.”
“From an old scroll, no doubt,” Morca muttered, “purloined from a true sage.”
Droned the bizarre creatures of Thadisul, “Ever pursuing fresh sustenance, the temptation of satiated hunger lured us here. We could not long survive in this overly structured sphere, but the sorcerer offered us material forms if we remained. Hekkon promised us the life frequencies of your kind, in exchange for favoring him with our power. He kept his word. Often we feast on human pulsations, an exceptional delicacy.”
“He turned you into bells?” Despite the lethal situation, Morca’s curiosity demanded answers. “Remarkably clumsy magic, I say.”
“At his beck we assumed these shapes. The material patterns create a strong conduit for our energies. Hekkon told us that the sonic vibrations of great bells inspire awe in his subjects.”
Morca shook his head. “Aye, perhaps, and meanwhile he guarantees that you do not wander out of his control. Hekkon plays you false.”
The insectoid quartet tensed. “Hekkon plays true with us. Therefore, we uphold the bargain. You are his enemy. Your brain frequencies repel our vibrational assault, but there are other ways to slay. Man, die.”
The creatures sprang. Morca swept out with his sword, hurling himself into a thrashing, enmeshing tangle of feelers and snapping jaws. The battle became a maelstrom of fighting madness.
Hekkon panted, sucking air in shuddering gasps, hugging the curving wall, wearily planting one boot before another on the long, long stairs. His nervous energy spent, he struggled to complete the final winding of steps to the bell tower. He could hear the cacophony of combat above: thumps, crashes, angry shouts, weird inhuman squeals. The din ceased, a thunderclap of silence, as he turned the last circuit.
He wrestled at first to comprehend the sight he beheld. The bell chamber had become a slaughterhouse, littered with dark chunks and fragments of uncommon viscera, drenched with what might pass for blood despite its greenish hue. Hunched amidst this reeking slop and steaming ichor stood a scarcely less repulsive form, a mass of flesh scarred and bedaubed with scarlet that inched itself upright into human form. A lengthy appendage came up suddenly, splashed with red through which bright steel glittered: a long sword! The figure stood erect. A terrifying visage glared back.
“Lord Morca!” shrieked Hekkon. “You, of all men. It cannot be!”
“It is I,” declared Morca. Delighted cruelty curled his grin. “I beg pardon for the delay in this meeting. I missed you that day in Dyrezan when seditious Lord Albragon perished at my hands. Fortunate indeed this chance encounter. The universe tilts askew when justice tarries.
“Hekkon, your horrors from blasphemous spheres are dead. It is fitting that one of us join them. Brought you a spell or charm specially prepared for this moment? No? In that case, my innate abilities challenge yours. Let us invoke the blessing of Xenophor, and commence the game of wizards.”
To which Hekkon, charged with desperation, retorted, “Aye, and the first round goes to me,” jabbing a bony finger and without formality firing his bolt. A storm of blasts and counter-blasts followed. The chamber walls blackened. Jagged chips of stone spalled into the air, flying through sulfurous fog. The contending mages battered one another, seemingly impervious as granite statues amidst the mayhem until one of them suddenly cracked.
“Surrender,” demanded Morca, a breathless whisper.
“To fit my neck for a noose?” croaked Hekkon, one knee sunk to the floor. “To grovel before the Ruhtinatar and her lackeys? Never.”
“So be it.” And Morca burned him down.
Some days later the bells chimed again, but not the same bells these. Melodious brass bells with golden voices sang in a new day, and rang out the departure by ship of one duly honored.
Said Lord Morca, taking leave of his royal hostess, “‘Tis a distressingly balanced report, esteemed Latia, that I shall make to Skyrax, my master in Dyrezan. Hekkon the traitor eliminated at last, that chapter closed, righteousness upheld, yet at fearful cost. All who accompanied me here slain, and your realm polluted by the dregs of foreign treason. Not the sort of visit planned by me, who remembers happier times.”
To which Latia wryly replied, “My Lord Morca, ever shall the great men of Dyrezan be welcome where I rule. However, take with you this message to your King: in future, send us only of your best, such as my friend Morca. My experience with your lesser lights has proven unsatisfactory. They make for troublesome guests.”
©December 2024, Jeffery Scott Sims
Jeffery Scott Sims has recently published a novel, The Journey Through the Black Book, a book of weird tales, Science Sorcery IV, and a number of short stories in various publications. His work has appeared previously in Swords & Sorcery.
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