The Man From The Tower

By Bruno Stella

"What if there were no boundary between Life and Death? What if the boundary was all there was? What if the mightiest sorcerer alive was a sadistic being of relentless evil, able to exploit such a grey half-world to the fullest?"

That is the question that Tergin, a simple herder in a desolate land, is confronted with. He is the person that unwittingly released the evil being, and he is the one who bears the consequence for his action. Driven by thirst for vengeance and by dreams of his lost love, he takes on the impossible task of righting his mistake, and of curing the deadly curse that he becomes afflicted with. In a long journey beset with dangers, he is forced to make alliances with questionable friends; his endurance and wits are tested to the limit as he faces enemies he never imagined even existed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruno Stella
• Release date: Nov 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301344024

Book preview

Book 1 of Tergin’s Tale

By

Bruno Stella

Copyright 2012 by Bruno Stella

Smashwords Edition

Cover Copyright 2012 by Bruno Stella.

Permission to reproduce and disseminate this work is withheld. All rights reserved. Please do not do this without recompensing the author. This was a lot of hard work, and I have kept the price low enough so that pretty much anybody can afford a copy. If you want free stories, go to my blog at http://brunoccstella.blogspot.com/ where you will find some.

This work is an original work of fiction and similarities between this work and other works and/or characters and living persons are coincidental and not intended.

To Anette

Map of the Desolate Coast, the Ruindrift & Inlands

Prologue

Brilliant stars were powdered sugar scattered across an inky sky. No clouds marred their light, and even the twin moons were only slivers of their selves in deference to the frosted heavens reflected in the rolling sea. Far below, the little inn rocked with rowdy laughter as the final round of the competition was reached. The common-room was packed with fishermen, herders and villagers celebrating Winter Harvest with steaming bowls of pungent fish stew. Talmond rolled up a homespun sleeve, exposing a bulging veined bicep. His opponent, Hafnar the village smith, set his jaw grimly. It would be the toughest challenge of the night, and the two armwrestlers squared up at a battered table. Beer was hastily wiped away, and sweaty supporters began to chant their respective champion’s names. Talmond looked over at Shanna, half-obscured by the press of people. Finally he caught her eye, and she grinned, waving a clenched fist. He gave her a wink, and turned to face his opponent. They grasped hands, and the innkeep signalled ‘go’. Muscles ran taut like stretched mooring ropes. The smith’s hand was slammed against the wood, and he gave a cry of pain, standing up, outraged. A cheer coupled with a grumble went up from the crowd. The slam had been a hard one.

Alright, you’re stronger than me, but do you have to show off by hurting my hand? This is the tool of my trade, you great lump! What if I get my hammer and find out how solid your skull is, instead? shouted the smith. Angry rumblings underlined his point from his supporters.

Talmond stood up, genuinely distressed. My apologies, Hafnar. Ah didn’t mean t’ do it on purpose. Ah’m clumsy that way sometimes. All that cuttin’ and hauling wood has made me strong but an oaf, aye, he said. But the smith wasn’t mollified.

It’s easy enough to be strong. Easy enough. I’m the strongest here except for you, so I know what I’m saying. But bravery is something else. I’m thinking that you’re strong, but a bully. A coward. He spat. A silence started to fall over the crowd, and it quickly spread. Talmond’s brow darkened.

Here, now. Ah don’t like t’ words that you’re sayin’. Those ‘r fighting words.

Another man from the village, Renald, stepped in quickly before Talmond put his great, knotted fists to use. They had all seen the results more than once, and it wasn’t pretty.

Come, fellows. It’s Winter Harvest, the catch of sardines was the best in years, the beer is here a dozen casks strong, and you want to end a magical evening like this by collecting your teeth from the floorboards? Come, now, he said smoothly. But Hafnar wasn’t about to let the matter drop.

I’ve lost a week’s work thanks to that, he said, holding up his swelling hand, that’s right, Ben, you’re not getting the horseshoes you ordered till Sunday. Speak to Talmond here if you have complaints. Ben, a tall gangling man, did not look happy at this news.

Renald drew Hafnar aside, and muttered something in his ear while Talmond stood there glowering, wondering what to do. Shanna had appeared at his side, brushing her long brown locks out of her face as she tried to calm him down.

Renald hopped onto the table lightly. He held up his arms. Silence fell again. Hafnar has made a strong statement-one which many of us feel to be unfair. Now, the usual way to see who’s right is for these chaps to go outside and punch each other in the face till one isn’t standing anymore. But hey! It is Winter Harvest, not Punching Day, and besides, everybody knows Talmond here specialises in accelerated attitude adjustments, Renald said, chuckling at his own cleverness, "so what I’m saying is -there’s no proof of bravery by taking a fight that you know that you’re going to win, is there? No, of course not. I suggest a different course of action. I suggest a true test of bravery."

Hafnar stepped up casually. If Talmond had had his senses about him, he might have thought too casually. But he did not. Half a dozen ales, his victory and his girlfriend standing hot at his side had dulled his wits.

Why, whatever test do you mean, Renald? asked Hafnar loudly.

Bring on t’ test, Talmond bawled, interrupting him, a fresh flagon of ale in his hand. He couldn’t imagine anything that they could think up to challenge him.

Well, it is simple, really. What’s the scariest thing in the region? Renald pointed an arm roughly south-west. "Brethwick’s Tower stands two and a half hours march that way. Let Talmond go to the Tower-right up to it, mind, and leave a token that he was there at its feet. In the morning we will all go as a group to see whether Hafnar was right or no. Whether Talmond is a coward or not."

The silence was awkward. Somebody giggled incredulously from the back. Shanna stepped forward. That’s ridiculous. People that go down there-especially at night-don’t come back. There’s a reason why nobody lives within two hours of the place.

Well, Talmond here is from Northend, and they don’t believe that nonsense down there, do they? Renald said, a smirk on his face.

He should go! Let’s see whether he’s a coward or not, said Ben loudly, still annoyed that he would have to wait another week for his horseshoes. There was a general rumble of agreement from the villagers.

Talmond stepped forward slowly, his craggy face thoughtful. Ah’ll go. Let it not be said that I’m scared of t’ dark or t’ Tower. But it’s easy, likewise, to call somebody a coward an’ expect them t’ prove you wrong. Some witnesses are needed t’ make sure that ah’m really going there, and no cheating. After all, ah’m from Northend, and w’ all know what these chaps are like, aye? Renald went a little pale at this, because he knew full well who Talmond would suggest that the witnesses should be. Talmond pointed at Renald, Ben, and Hafnar. "You chaps can come wi’ me and check that I go right up to your tower. If t’ shadows are too dark right at t’ tower for your livers t’ stand, you can hang around a short way off."

The assorted out-of-towners grinned and laughed at this. Talmond seemed somewhat dull, but beneath his stolid woodcutter’s face there lurked a keen intelligence, once he gathered his wits. Ben waved off the challenge. Forget it, chum. It is cold and dark and I’m not spending Winter Harvest blundering around in the dark on a mission to nowhere, he said. But there came a smattering of boos and even a single call of coward! from the back of the crowd. Renald raised his hands for silence. All right. All right, we’ll call your bluff. We’ll all go with, he said. Ben and Hafnar blanched at this. But Renald continued. I’ll bet that once we catch sight of the Tower you’ll run like a rabbit, anyway. Probably won’t even make it halfway. Now, what are we going to use as a marker that you can put at the base of the Tower?

In retrospect, in might have occurred to Talmond that if they were all going with, there was no need for a marker to serve as evidence. That might have been his first warning. But no such thought occurred to him. He walked over to Shanna who was sobbing openly by the fire. She looked up at him with brown eyes full of tears. "Please don’t go. That place really is dangerous. They say that there are … are shadows that walk, there. People vanish and are never seen again. Especially at night."

But pride burned hot inside Talmond, son of Arnd, son of Nathan. Black Nathan, a bona fide legend of this windswept Coast. He would rather die than dishonour that name. He didn’t have to speak to tell her this. This pride was what had made her turn to him, a woodcutter from the fringes, instead of any of the village suitors that lined up for her company. She took a long yellow scarf from her neck, and handed it to him. Here is your marker, she said, and may it keep you safe. He draped it around his own neck, the warm woman-scent still strong on it. Somehow, he felt invulnerable with that yellow band around him.

Renald came up to him. Hafnar isn’t going to be able to come. Unfortunately his hand is really messed up, and it isn’t right for him to trudge around when he should be sitting with it in cold water at home. But Ben and I will come. Just give us a few minutes to rustle up some torches. That might have been his second warning, if he had been suspicious.

A few minutes turned into half an hour, and eventually the two villagers came along with long torches, guttering in the chill wind. There was a reasonable crowd to see them off, and several of the braver ones walked for quite a way with them, before turning back. The three men headed south, not saying much, their breath white in the cold winter air, the crsh-crsh of their boots trampling the stiff, dry grass the only sound heard. Their air, and their bodies, grew colder. Ben and Renald carried their torches high, showing the way with flickering light.

Hours passed.

Eventually - yet all too soon, it seemed - they arrived at a gully that marked the downside of a slight rise. Beyond the gully, the land continued to gradually rise until it met the sea in high cliffs. From here they could hear the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. At the very tip of the triangle of rising land that thrust itself into the sea, there rose a hulking mass, a deeper darkness than the starlit sky or the phosphorescent sea. The Tower hunkered down there in stolid shadowed mass, a black animal waiting to pounce. Cold breeze poured over them as the sea-wind picked up, and the flame of the torches blew thin.

Some say it is a lighthouse, built to warn ships away from the Coast cliffs, Ben said in a low voice.

There are no ships that pass this coast. And there is no cradle for fire at the top, replied Renald.

There’s a legend where I come from that Brethwick’s Tower was built t’ catch the souls of t’ dead, Talmond said. The two others looked at him in surprise.

I thought that the folk of Northend didn’t believe in superstitions, Renald said, drawing his cloak tighter.

We don’t, said Talmond, but that’s what they say nevert’less. Are we going t’ get this over with?

You first, said Renald.

Talmond carefully made his way down the gully, the walls steep and slippery with sharp rocks, his way lit by the torches his companions held. As he reached the bottom, the world went dark. He whirled around, and saw the light vanishing to the sound of footfalls. His two ‘witnesses’ had decided to take flight, leaving him alone and without light. He swore, and tried to hurry back to catch them. He fell several times on the loose terrain, and by the time he made it to the top again the two torches were but two bobbing motes of light in the dark. There was no way that he could catch them without a torch of his own. He turned back to the Tower, and thought of Black Nathan, his legendary grandfather. What it would mean to him to have a coward as a descendant. The distant structure stood silent and black, waiting. A deep breath. He made his way down again and up the far side.

Quietly and carefully he made his way closer. The ground was barren, punctuated only by thorn bushes that were barely visible in the gloom. He became aware of a foul smell on the wind. Something … dead. A dead animal? Even more warily he made his way forward, swearing silently as his cloak snagged here and there on thorns. Then he heard a sound that was not the wind blowing through the bushes. A sound that sounded more like something dragging through the bushes. His blood ran cold. It ran colder still when a black matted mass rose up out of the thorns not ten paces to his left, roaring, smelling like death incarnate.

With a yelp Talmond pumped his arms and hurtled onwards, not really thinking that he was putting the apparition between himself and escape. He sprinted a long way towards the Tower, while the thing was making long hacking sounds, like some sort of lurid laughter behind him. Talmond ran straight through a thicket of thorns, their sharp points shredding his flesh. He dived to the ground and kept absolutely still. On a dark night like this it was entirely possible that the thing would not find him.

Time passed while his pounding heart slowed down from bursting. He lay there, ears straining to pick up sound, an ant caught between the hammer and the anvil. The cold seeped into him like an amorphous living thing, like some sort of vast being trying to snuff out his life-spark. It felt as though he was being watched. Talmond looked over his shoulder. He was almost right under the Tower, and the tip of the shadow it cast just enveloped him as he lay there. The legends are true, he thought in sudden panic, this thing is trying to eat me. He forced himself to get a grip. It was just a building. That … thing out there was the real danger. But while he was this close to the Tower, he might as well fulfil his oath to put a token at its feet.

Slowly he crept towards it, and so carefully did he move, that he made no sound. Eventually he reached the icy rough stone, and on impulse he rose up slowly and jammed Shanna’s scarf as high as he could in a crack in the stonework.

There. Now even if he never made it back, all would know that the blood of Black Nathan still ran true.

Talmond decided that he would wend his way around the path that he had just taken in. Perhaps by going wide he would avoid whatever thing was out there. Half an hour passed while he crept out slowly from the shadow of the Tower. It was hard to tell over the rustling of the breeze through the leaves, but it definitely felt as though there was something moving towards him.

He picked up his pace. If he could hear it, it could hear him. Then another stab of fear caught his breath. A second set of rustlings incompatible with the night breeze reached his ears. It seemed as though the pair of moving things were trying to box him in. (Run! Run! Run!) He leapt to his feet and began running. Almost immediately the same ragged mass that he had been chased by earlier sprung out of the bushes and began chasing him again, howling. Talmond had never run as fast as that night before or since. He glanced over his shoulder. There were two creatures in the gloom, both trying to chase him down. The front one was the large, matted shape smelling of death. The back one was something dark, lithe, and indistinct, with eyes like lamps. He faced forward and put on another burst of speed. Thorns tore at his clothes and flesh.

A spine-chilling scream tore through the night from behind him, and that spurred him on to even greater swiftness. He nearly broke his neck when he reached the gully, tumbling into it suddenly. For a time he lay at the bottom, gasping for air. Then he crept up the far side of the gully, and turned to look back. Nothing. The night was silent, and cold. He watched a while longer. He fancied he caught a glimpse of shining eyes flash up at him once, from amidst the thick thorn bushes that carpeted the ground before the Tower, but then nothing more. He left stealthily.

It was nearly dawn by then time that he made it back to the inn.

Ben and Renald were there, nursing steaming stone jugs of bitter, milky akraa together with a number of other villagers. Raucous laughter met his face. They explained the set-up. They had left him without light, and Hafnar, who had left before them, had played the part of the monster, in an old bearskin stitched with rotting sardines. The many bleeding punctures and torn clothing that marked Talmond made the joke even funnier, because it was obvious that he had fled in terror through the thorns. Talmond was angry, but in a way he didn’t care. He had proven his bravery no matter what stupid practical joke these idiots had thought up. Shanna tended his wounds for a while, picking out the thorns, shaking her head at the needless stupidity of the male persuasion. And when he asked who had played the second monster-he received a number of blank stares. Dawn came, but there was no sign of the smith, who should have returned by then.

The men of that evening’s celebration gathered in a group, two dozen strong. Despite a multitude of hangovers, they needed to find Hafnar the smith, and more than a few were curious to see if Talmond had really gone right up to the Tower. Some carried clubs. Talmond’s mention of a second monster had jarred a few nerves. Shanna insisted on coming with. The journey was a sombre one. A thick sea mist had risen, thanks to the cold air and the marginally warmer ocean. It alternately lay in thick banks and in dissolving patches, ragged with strange shapes and cold breeze. For several hours they trudged south. The little peninsula upon which the Tower was situated appeared abruptly, rising clear out of the misty layer. Slowly they approached the infamous structure, imperceptibly drawing together as a group. Nobody seemed to want to be at the edges.

A cry went up. A villager held up a stinking, matted pelt. It was the bear pelt Hafnar had worn to disguise himself … soaked with blood. The ground where it lay was sodden with blood as well, and what looked like paw prints were pressed into the sticky earth all around the kill spot. Of the smith there was no sign. Gathering their courage, they tracked the prints, which led in the direction of the Tower.

It’s a wolf, said Ben, his voice quavering, the biggest damn one I ever tracked.

That makes no sense, said Renald studying the impressions, look at where the weight is. It’s all on the back legs, as if … His voice trailed away.

As if t’ were walking upright. Talmond finished the thought.

A werewolf, croaked a herder, gripping his hardwood club tightly.

Get a grip, chum. There’s no such thing … or at least none’s been heard of in living memory, said somebody from the back of the crowd, who, it had to be noted, didn’t seem especially keen to come to the front.

They were now quite close to the Tower, when it seemed as though the tracks simply vanished. True, the ground was rocky, but some of the hunters in that group swore that they could track a cat across bare rock.

Perhaps you’re not as good as you think you are, suggested Renald, to some scowls. Before them rose the Tower, heavily buttressed, falling to pieces, with a long cracked staircase leading up into a black arch. In the stonework at the foot of the structure there fluttered a yellow strip of material. Talmond made his way there alone, carefully unhooking Shanna’s scarf from the stones. He felt strangely calm, even under the shadow of the Tower. Everybody’s eyes were on his back. He made his way back, and handed the scarf back to Shanna. He thought he saw a look of awe in her eyes, and he felt as though he were as tall as three men.

We should search for Hafnar, said one of the villagers. Ben fixed him with a stare. You think he still lives? I’ve gutted livestock that lost less blood than that. But it was the only decent thing to do, and bolstered by numbers, they split into groups of four and five and searched the bushes and ground outside … fruitlessly. The only place left was the Tower.

Not likely it could have dragged him all the way up those steps, said one, also, there’s no blood there. Others joined in.

Besides, who wants to face some wild animal in that narrow space?

The place is falling to pieces. What if it collapses on our heads?

He’s dead. Let’s just say a prayer and leave.

Nobody went into the Tower that day, and Hafnar’s body was never found.

Nobody ever questioned Talmond’s courage again, either.

CHAPTER 1

Rumbling lonely waves heaved sadly against the weathered cliffs, hundreds of feet below the lighthouse. Cold wind tugged at the scant grass, and it seemed as though the lead skies were as permanent a feature as the old tower itself. A few spots of rain splattered down intermittently, and a single goat plodded into the lee of the structure. This beacon was a relic of long ago, its ponderous architecture uneasy and clumsy, the conical tower broken at its top. The stone had a careless quality about it, as if the masons had merely given the blocks a cursory hewing out and left as quickly as possible from this desolate place. Deep shadows frowned from between its four buttresses, and the tall doorway looked like a wailing mouth.

The goatherd paused, brushing the spots of rain from his forehead. The goat moved slowly into the arms of the buttresses, and a sudden gust swept more rain down, spattering the parched earth.

He hated that goat with a consuming passion. Always last when he had to get home before dark, always getting stuck amidst the thorns, always getting lost when the sun was at its peak. He glanced behind him. A hundred paces back stood the rest of the herd, faithfully clustered behind Ragtail, the lead ram. A chill wind blew in from the sea, and the herder shivered in his rough homespun.

Brethwick's Tower.

Of all the lonely, avoided and maligned places on the wretched peninsula that blasted Spotty would have to come to the tower. He knew that he should have stayed away from the general area in the first place, but the grazing was thin this winter. Thinner than last year, for sure. Most of the other herders had given up long ago, and left for the imagined bounties of the interior lands.

And now here he was. With a deep breath, he turned, and started up the slope. Perhaps he could just quickly grab her and hurry back. Quite possibly, he told himself, the stories of the corpses that walked, told to him by his grandfather were not true. He thought of his grandfather now, half senile and somnolent in his corner chair. When he had been a lad, his grandfather strode like a giant, and seemed capable of all, his stories alive in the mind's eye.

The herder thought of long ago, and he could hear Granda’s voice in his head ...

"At t’ tavern, there was a blast o' raucous laughter greeting me as I entered. Even though it was almost morn, the place was still packed wi' people come to laugh at the joke they'd played on me. Ben an' Renald were there, having returned via t’ path, and none laughed harder than they, as they had been in on it from the start. But Hafnar had not returned yet, having played the monster. And when I remarked that there had been two figures at t’ tower, t’ laughter stopped. Their skin broke out in goose flesh, 'cause there had only been Hafnar wi' them.

We lit up the torches, and morning came as we were walking back to t' tower, with half the village following. When we arrived, we could still see t' yellow scarf hanging in the shadow of t' tower. Sixty paces from the door, there was a torn bloody bearskin, wi' a lake of blood drying on the dusty ground. Hafnar's cloak.

As everyone, and Shanna looked on, I walked slowly to the cold shadow of t' tower, past the cloak, an' unsnagged t' scarf from where it was wedged. Slowly as I could I walked back and handed it back to my future bride. None ever mocked my courage again, nor dared enter t' shadow of t' tower either. 'An Hafnar was never seen again either, 'an may his soul rest in peace, for none knew what had happened to him, nor where his remains rest to this day...."

His grandfather's voice faded from his mind.

The goatherd looked long and hard at the tower, and the goat. It was just a building. (Then why does your flesh stand on end, and why do your neck hairs raise themselves?) He should not abandon the flock. He was the herder. Bad things were said to happen to those herders that forsook their pledge to their animals. Superstitions. Superstitions and nonsense, he said to himself. He didn’t believe in that twaddle. He told himself. What he did believe in, was in a goat that yet again, for the third day running, going to make him get back after sundown. He took two steps forward. Spotty the goat took two steps back.

The devil keep her, he thought, and turned back to return to his flock, cursing. He might return tomorrow, after the animal had spent a night in the freezing cold, to see if its attitude had improved any. More likely, it would find its way back on its own.

That night, after a long trip through the fading twilight, he sat in front of the fire in his Granda’s hovel, and mused. The grazing was getting sparser and sparser. From outside came the sound of pawing and shuffling around-the goats were always hungry, it seemed, and were disposed to dig up the roots of old weeds from beneath the cold ground at night.

The lively voices of his friends echoed in his head.

He saw the image of Logan, long limbed and lithe, bowed under a huge backpack of belongings, staff in hand. Two battered pots clanked dismally at his side as he walked away from the tiny settlement.

But why do you want to leave? Our families have been here for … for ever.

I’m going to try my luck inland, my friend

Why? It’s no guarantee of a better life. Remember Felian, and how he looked when he returned. He nearly got eaten by a Sand Beast.

Yes … but he went back again, didn’t he? There’s no future here. Less rain every year. Grass is dead.

Speaking of which … your parents are both buried here. You’re going to leave their graves untended?

Weeelll … no. Dorian will do the devotions for me. And I carry their memory.

And if he leaves too?

I … I don’t know. But to stay here is slow death. The last six years have been worse and worse. I remember dad talking about rolling meadows and pastures. I see mostly just dust and weeds, I do.

A low gust of wind swept up powdery earth, as if in agreement. Tergin the goatherd shielded his eyes against the particles. But he pressed on.

And what about Rania? I thought she was the only girl in the world for you.

Sorry my friend, I have woken up. She’ll not marry a miserable shepherd like me. She’s had her eye on the Smith’s son for a while now. Besides, even they are looking like they will move Inland.

You jest! There is practically nobody in the area left who can work metal. What will we do?

Come with me, old chap. You have nought to stay here for.

Nadia.

Nadia is dead. Forget her. Leave the dead with the dead.

I’ll not! I still remember the old customs and the old ways. I have a people. A history. If you leave you’ll have nothing! Angrily now.

But Logan did not take the bait. He smiled in his easy, dreamy way that belied his sharp mind.

Nothing, say you? Tell me, what was your great great grandfather’s name? Any one will do.

Uh … well, Black Nathan was one of them. And … old Arnd after him, as well, I think.

And before them?

I don’t know. That’s a lot of names to remember. Granda would know.

You remember only four generations back. That is no history.

Well, I’m lettered now. Come the winter and some time to play with … and I’ll write the names down on parchment. Then I’ll not forget.

Tergin. We are fewer and fewer every year. People have not only vanished along this coast for years …

Old wives tales! A load of rot! Bravely in the sunlight.

… but there is less and less to live on each year. Forget your stubbornness. Forget Nadia. Come!

But Tergin stood alone and silent, and watched his old friend slowly walk off into the distance, till he could see him no longer.

He wondered what had happened to him.

He tossed another dry log on the fire, and the flames crackled. His grandfather snored gently opposite him, swaddled in thick horsehair blankets. The old man was sick with cold, and needed rest.

The flickering flames danced in his eyes, and he saw Nadia when he had first met her, walking her flock by the small stream at Jonscroft, wandering gracefully twixt the animals, reproaching them if they wandered too far. They seemed to obey her every word, coming back with heads hung in shame at daring to make her task difficult. He hadn't spoken to her then, merely watched from a distance, from behind a cairn of black rocks, half scared that she'd see him. A smile came to his lips as he recalled the time they had met properly, as he was trying to coax a young goat back up from a tapering ravine ledge, barely wide enough for the kid, never mind him. From behind he had heard her soft voice, and as if by magic, the kid plodded back up the slope.

He started. Come to think of it, that goat was awful similar to Spotty, the goat he had left at the Tower. Same markings, same tendency to wander off. But no, it was impossible...

He frowned, trying to remember. No, her name had been Patch. Patch had had a bunch of kids ... hmmm ... let's see. Bobtail, Quickfoot, Tara and Bill. Bill had sired Fela and Grey . . . and Spotty.

A pang of conscience struck him. Patch had been the reason he had met Nadia in the first place. Now here he was, abandoning her children because he was scared of an abandoned pile of rocks. His grandfather’s voice echoed sternly in his mind, even as the old man snored softly before him.

Never abandon t’ flock! They are your children, and you are like an old mother bear, guiding them from danger and to food. Remember your enemies : the great cat, the wolf and the eagle. These are always hungry and a stray will attract them like bees to honey. Trust in t’ strength of your ram f’short whiles, and find you the lost ones before they come to bad ends.

He gave a deep sigh. Tomorrow he would return to the Tower, even though it would take the best part of a day, even though he would have to return in darkness, like today. He paused, warming his hands by the fire. Outside the long wind howled, and he thought again of Nadia before she had died. He thought about how she now slept forever under the cold earth on the low flat rise visible from the hut, grave marked by a solitary chunk of red sandstone. She was the last thing on his mind before sleep took him.

***

The road to the Tower was rugged and rock strewn, with grasping thorn bushes making every step a battle. There was no real path as such, only a buckled, mostly buried road of shattered reddish bricks, eroded and turning to dust in the elements. He sometimes wondered who had laid that road, so long ago. The sun was wan and barely managed to shine through the misty clouds; and the air cold. His breath panted white in the winter air, yet under the homespun he sweated. His journey had begun early in the morning, before the sun had risen.

He had tossed the remains of one of the dried bales from the summer into the rickety paddock for the sheep with his herder’s stick, and watched them jostle each other for the meager nourishment. For his grandfather he made broth from oats, salt and fat, and he had just packed a cheesecloth with more of the same fare when the old man awoke. Granda’s face had been sweaty and tired, from his cold.

Missing sheep, Granda’

Well, take care then. When’r you returnin’ ?

Maybe tomorrow midday. Depends on that bitch

Ayuh. Where’s she lost this time?

Near the old tower There was a small silence.

’An just how near’s that?

Well … actually quite close

Could you see t’ place from where she strayed?

Uuumm … well, actually, she was taking shelter in the doorway of the Tower Uncomfortably.

You’re a fool then, Tergin! I told your ears a t’ousand times … stay away! Do you think I’m a liar or fool? He ended with a heavy bout of coughing.

"But Granda, p’raps she’s already a mile from the place. I’m not going close, anyhow.

His grandfather waved his hand at the herder, still coughing. Do as ye wish then. Jus’ remember what I said.

Those last words weighed on Tergin’s mind as he walked.

His breath came heavily, in great frosty plumes. Even though it was past midmorning, there was still rolling mist that blanketed the land, formed by the sea breezes wafting inward. It gave the herder an impression of an eerie tunnel, opening and closing silently behind him. He still kept up a fast pace, the leather sandals he wore covered in red dust.

As the day wore on, the landscape changed slightly, with more and more thorn bushes and the straggly creepers that were typical of the peninsula. Once he passed an old circle of stones, remnants of a campfire the herders used to use years ago, before they had moved inland. A laugh escaped his lips as he remembered Logan and Satrin, the two herders that he had been friends with when he was young. Always joking around on their camping places. Where were they now?, he wondered.

The wind had picked up, and the mist was dissolving.

Soon, he could see the Tower in the distance, rising solidly from the cliffs not a few thousandpace hence. Breathing deeply, Tergin readjusted his pack, and started off, his herder’s stick thumping resolutely on the ground. His pace slowed, once within distance of the Tower. Well, that was it. No goat in sight.

He tried calling out aloud a few times, and wandered about the Tower in a wide arc, struggling through the thorn bushes that infested the area. Several times his cloak caught on jagged spines, and he had to extract himself very carefully to avoid a tear. Dry puffs of dust rose from the parched soil as he looked for tracks n its surface. The muted roar of the waves and the tang of seawater mocked his dry throat. Several times in his circuit he looked up from the search to see the old tower watching him, brooding.

It bothered him.

Not that he believed the crud that the simple people of the coast spun about the Tower and its surrounds … most were old wives tales, spun out of boredom and nothing more. But, it bothered him that he had practically fled the last time he was here, at the remembrance of Granda’s tales. It bothered him even more that he had left one of the flock behind, because of a pile of old rocks. True, that goat was hardly worth the effort, but the lessons had been learnt early and hard … never abandon one of the flock.

He looked defiantly at the lighthouse. (Was it a lighthouse?). The tower stared back, expressionless.

It bothered him.

Picking up a flat stone, Tergin let fly at the structure with the snappy action that had made him the champion amongst the herders. The stone dropped short, despite the peppery throw, puffing dust up as it bounced along. In annoyance, he made his way closer, and picked up more missiles as he trod, slipping some into his pouch as he went. The next throw clattered off the side of the lighthouse, and successive flings drew dust and chips from it, as he neared it. Not so tough now, are you? he muttered, as another projectile knocked a small stone off of one of the large buttresses. He stopped. Lying in the shade of the buttress was a small hairy shape. Spotty?

As he approached, he realised that it was indeed his wayward goat. But something was wrong with her. Her breathing was belaboured, and the head hung low on the earth. A rasping cough came from it. For a moment he hesitated, the Tower casting its shadow towards him. But his natural concern for his charge took precedence, and the herder hastened over to it. The goat looked sick, in bad shape.

He reached it.

What happened next Tergin was unprepared for. As he reached out to the animal, it raised its head, and with a bloodshot eye stared straight at him. He almost felt a psychic wave of triumph emanate from it; with a sudden alacrity that belied its formerly sick frame, it scrambled up and bounded towards him. The rasp sounded like a growl.

Frozen in confusion and horror, Tergin was barely able to act as it snapped its teeth (fangs?) at him, snatching back his hand an instant too quickly for the goat. (Were those fangs?) All that ran through his head was that the poor animal was delirious (why was it moving with such coordination, then?) and that it might be best to get the hell away. It seized an edge of his homespun cloak in its mouth and shook the material like a dog. A long rip appeared, and it tore off the fragment with a jerk.

In horror he watched his former herd animal’s face writhe in a most un-goat-like manner … and then it growled deeply, exposing a yellowed set of saliva flecked canines of a positively wolven nature. He turned to run, and the thing leapt at the same instant. A shock went through his leg as it sank its canines into his calf, and he beat it across the back repeatedly with his crook, shouting in pain and fear. He crashed through a thorn bush, the small hook-like thorns entangling his cloak.

A wild stroke thwacked it hard across the head, and for a moment it let go, and bit again, seizing his cloak. As luck would have it, the knot holding it to his throat snapped with the jerk, and the cloak tumbled on the creature’s head. The wound burnt like fire, and Tergin found that fear lent him wings. Brambles tore into his face and arms, and once, when he glanced back, he saw the thing half entangled between the cloak and the thorns, struggling free.

Several painful minutes later, he had to stop, gasping for air.

He could no longer hear the thing rustling between the bushes.

As he caught his breath, he tried to make sense of what had happened. The thing had fangs. No doubt of that. Looking down to his wound, he saw that the pain matched the wound: two deep, profusely bleeding punctures in his calf, with a smear of gummy yellow saliva above. But what the heck was it? It looked exactly like his goat. Or did it? Trying to concentrate on specifics, he found that his memory was playing tricks on him. He could not for sure swear it had been Spotty. Very dirty and mangy. On the other hand it was uncannily like the missing charge. But then, Spotty did not have fangs. Or did she?

A wave of dizziness passed through him.

He half squatted on one haunch, hand on the ground for a long while until it passed.

The sun that had been plaguing him a mere hour ago was rapidly setting, and he did not feel at all well. Scratches from the brambles oozed blood, and the bite throbbed. Belatedly the thought occurred that the wound might carry some foul poison, and he squeezed it, wincing at the pain. He wrapped a dirty strip of cloth cut from his shirt about it as best he could. Standing cautiously up, he tottered as another wave of nausea struck him. The Tower was quite close, to his left, and he realised that his route had been circuitous around the old structure. Peering through the dusky light, he strained to catch an indication of his tormentor.

Nothing.

Or … was that faint rustle the breeze on leaves … or not? There! Not fifty yards to his right.

The brambles shook slightly, just enough to be distinguished from the wind’s effects. Base fear clenched his stomach. Trying to run, Tergin found his balance was disoriented. The world spun crazily, and his efforts to stay vertical seemed to always be a second too late. Crashing to the ground, he lay stunned. I must get away! he thought. The rustle was louder, though due to wind or creature he knew not. Glancing up, he saw the sinister doorway of the Tower gaping at him from atop its tongue-like staircase.

Gods. The hell goat or the hell-hole?

A distinct snap behind him clinched the matter. In a scramble he covered the distance to the tower’s doorway, stumbling about like a drunk, using his staff for support as best he could. Poisoned.

The wound must be poisoned, he thought, retching. The cold stone steps belied the fact that they had been in the sun the whole day. At their top was a deep recess, and a heavy wooden door, braced with black iron strips and fronted with a large handle. He stepped into the shadow of the doorway, and his hair stood on end. What the hell was he doing? His grandfather would have a heart attack if he knew where he was. And … he did not really want to admit it … but there was indeed a sullen, brooding air of danger that hung like a heavy cloak over the spot. Turning around, he saw the thing emerge from the brush not thirty yards away. It snickered horribly and fixed him with an implacable stare that boded no good whatsoever.

Screw the ‘air of danger’ , Tergin thought to himself, that creature is as real as it gets.

He shoved on the door, and to his surprise it swung open with barely a groan. Clinging to the handle for support, he saw the creature start moving towards him with malicious purpose. With an effort, he righted himself, stepped into the Tower and slammed shut the door behind him.

CHAPTER 2

Unearthly silence. The first thing that struck him was the silence and pitch darkness of the place. The second thing was the animal realization that he had just made a terrible blunder. It did not feel safe at all in here. Rather, his senses tingled with the proximity of a malign presence and with claustrophobia. Reflexively he reached behind him and discovered with a jolt that there was no handle on this side-merely two holes in the thick wood where one had been. Tugging on them with his fingers had no effect.

The dizziness came strongly again, and he slid down against the door and onto the cold floor. Tergin lay for a long while with his head between his legs, ears straining for sounds of motion. There were none, and the darkness hid him from the dangers surely present. It became almost comforting. Thoughts of Nadia flashed through his mind, and with a great longing he wished for the days of old, of light, life and most importantly, days away from this wretched situation.

Tergin awoke with a small start. Slightly disoriented, it took him some seconds to realize where he was. He had fallen asleep. Was that an effect of the bite? The darkness felt even blacker. It must be night by now, he thought, and remembered Granda’s story.

The hairs of his nape rose in fear.

Clumsily he groped for the small jade keepsake his dead wife had given him, and the little square felt good in his palm. The goat-thing at least could not enter, he reasoned. And, furthermore, with the coming of dawn surely enough light would enter for him to work out a way to open the closed door behind him. Calm and logic were his friends now.

Slowly he felt about in circles on the floor with his arm. A piece of wood-his staff! Gratefully grasping it, he stood and found the nausea had largely passed, replaced by a throbbing headache. He slowly swung the staff around in circles, and presently discovered a staircase to his left, some four foot wide. For a while he stood, thinking. It did not feel safe down here. On the other hand, nothing save the attack from the thing had actually harmed him-and it was kept at bay by a thick door. Finally he made up his mind.

"I don’t believe the ghost stories, Tergin muttered under his breath, convincingly, and from the top of this stupid tower the moons might well illuminate the country and let me know the lie of my surroundings. Also, that creature could be prowling about … who knows, I may yet drop a fat rock onto its miserable skull."

So he began the fateful journey up the stair, slowly, carefully, and talking to himself.

Of course I feel scared as hell. I’ve just been attacked by some crazy, poisoned-tooth animal. An animal that looks just like Spotty. Of course that can’t be. But I feel better now, yes I do, and huddling at the very door behind which it hides is simply useless., he reasoned, as he slowly tap-tapped his way up.

Up and up he went.

The stair felt abnormally high for the structure that he had seen in the daylight. After many minutes of climbing, he began to discern a faint light from up above. Yes! Moonlight! Isidra must be full tonight, he thought. Diligently Tergin increased his pace, and soon enough he arrived at a landing. And halted in shock. The light which he had fancifully imagined to be coming through a cracked roof or window in fact radiated out from beneath a door … and it was not the clean silver blue of a moon, but the baleful yellow of taper-light.

His fears rushed back. The Tower was inhabited! But by who? Given the malign legends that were spread by the coastal folk, it was beyond belief that one of them would live here. Tergin turned about, and started back down the stair, treading as lightly he could.

The voice sounded like dead leaves on stone.

Come into the light, that I may see you.

Frozen in horror, the goatherd meant to bolt down the stairs. But he found his feet turning back, up the stair and into the dim puddle of light that seeped out from under the door. The knob was cold and smooth, and his hand twisted it. The mechanism clacked open. You fool!, his senses screamed to him, "You were warned! You were told about this place … and it sure as hell isn’t the tooth fairy that lives here …run! Run, run!"

But there was no choice now. His hand shoved the door open, and the light, though insufficient under most other circumstances, seemed unnaturally bright to his pupils. His feet stepped over the threshold and he firmly shut the door behind him, with a clunk. He blinked, and realized what he had just done. Sensation seemed to flow strangely into his limbs, as though they had been dead from sleep.

The room was a mess. Tables laden with tattered scrolls littered the carpeted floor, itself strewn with various debris and scraps of parchments. A low ceiling was festooned with hooks holding baskets with papers, dried plants and bits of animals. The air was foul and heavy. A single taper burned in a fluted copper holder, and behind it stood an indistinct, tall figure.

Well, now, what is this? A boy is what it is. By Romor, the omens are good.

The voice was sibilant, tired, with a slight rasp.

Who … who are you? stammered Tergin in response.

I believe, as this is my home, the stranger introduces himself first.

My name is Tergin. I am a goatherd from Dunshallow.

And it was as if some ancient instinct, struggling to fight through his consciousness, was shouting No! His gut twisted, and he felt as if he had made some subliminal mistake. Yet, when the voice spoke again, it sounded vaguely pleased.

Tergin? Tergin, you say? Advance, Tergin, that I may see you. My eyes falter in this dim light.

The shepherd did as he was bidden.

The figure before him was a wreck of a man. The goatherd almost laughed aloud with relief when he saw him. To think he had been afraid of this all along.

The man could barely stand up.

He was gripping the fluted brazier for support, the gaunt hands trembling with effort. The skin hung from the face in deeply wrinkled folds, and a sparse frizz of white beard was scattered like dead grass across the chin. The rheumy eyes were encircled by deep black bags, and they strained out from under what had once been a proud brow. A deeply pocked hook nose sagged from between them. His fears swept away on a tide of relief, Tergin felt his voice return.

Hullo, old man! But you can barely stand! Let me help you before you hurt yourself.

No, no! I’m quite capable to seat myself …

He ignored the old man’s protests and helped him sit down onto a low bench behind him.

What brings you to my humble abode, young man?

I … I’m a goatherd, as I said. My goats wandered off … well, one goat really, and at first I left it here, but then I returned, because one can never leave the flock …

The old man stared silently at him, a slight smile playing on the corner of his mouth.

Well, like I said, my grandfather said that one should never leave the flock, and so …

A flicker of interest passed over the ancient one’s face.

Your grandfather? And how is your grandfather, Tergin?

He’s a little sick right now, but I made broth and stacked the home with firewood. I’m going straight back when I leave.

Tergin paused, thinking a little.

Say, old man, do you know that this Tower is supposed to be haunted? At least that is what everybody says, and nobody ever goes here. It’s supposed to be too dangerous.

Really? If nobody ever comes here, then how do they know this place is haunted? his host asked, with a trace of irony in his windswept voice. The logic appealed to Tergin’s sensible mind.

True! Yet … my goat, well I think it was my goat-my goat was changed. Mad. It had grown teeth, fangs really! What say you to that?

It is not the goat that has changed, it is you. The danger of this place lies in a secret property of the brambles that grow in profusion outside. Their thorns cause madness in those that they prick, and indeed, some have been rendered so deluded by this effect that they have thrown themselves off the high cliff near the Tower, howling in fear.

Is that so? Well, that explains a lot. On the other hand, how do I know I am not still delirious and imagining this too?

Ah! Your own delirium explains its nature to you. I am thus a figment of your imagination.

The herder felt rather foolish. Despite his decrepit appearance, the old man possessed a sharp and penetrating mind. His host transfixed him with his eyes. Those black pebbles were hardly those of a dimwit.

Tergin, tell me now, what is your grandfather’s name?

Uh, it’s … uh, it’s Talmond, sir. Tergin stuttered under the gaze.

And you all live with your father, correct?

No, it is but us two in our house. My father is long dead, my mother too.

And the village, how fares it?

Actually, there is almost nobody left. The blight on this coast has driven all into the interior.

Ah! That explains it …

Explains what, sir?

The elder man smiled secretively and turned away. Holding his staff, he hauled himself to his feet, and tottered over to a table groaning under a vast array of bottles and sacks. He muttered in a low voice to himself while tossing various powders and leaves into a flask. A yellow fluid added to this turned the mixture brown, and he turned to Tergin.

"Here. Drink this. It will help purge the poison from your body and bring sleep. In the morning you will find your goat at the bottom of the Tower,