DUES

By David A. Bennett

The dark mage, Athrolok, moved quickly through the empty lower halls of his immense tower. As a Sorcerer of great power and renown, Athrolok could bypass the traversing of the halls and passageways of his dark home by merely uttering the simple incantation which would instantly transport him to the upper reaches of his tower. Yet, Athrolok was a studious man and preferred to casually tour his halls each evening to ensure that his small cleaning staff had  properly  done  their jobs--many a lax custodian had lost more than a days wage by missing a spot of dust or disturbing the occasional statue or tome.

Tonight, however, the great mage  barely  noticed  the furnishings of his home--which would have been much to the servants delight had they known. Athrolok passed through the tapestry lined corridors and chambers as a man with a purpose, his cold eyes lost in thought. His crimson and purple robes swept out behind him as he moved, his closely trimmed white beard and mustache hardly able to conceal the firm setting of his thin lips and jaw. His bony hands clasped each other behind his back, and failed to strike out with the speed of a snake to test for dust on tables and bookshelves; his servants would have either fainted at the sight or run screaming in fear. As he reached the foot of the great,  stone-hewn staircase which spiraled its way up to the tower's lofty chambers, Athrolok began to ascend, hesitating for merely a heartbeat, as if deciding whether or not to take the black steps two at a time. He did, his aged frame an illusion to his hidden energy. As he climbed, he stopped only to glance out the occasional oval-shaped window, looking out over the night shrouded city of Antiwar the Sovereign. At each of the windows he paused only briefly, a furrow striking his brow, before continuing his ascent.

Two-thirds of the way along his climb, however, Athrolok glanced out a window, paused for a moment, and a then thin smile broke his stony countenance. The soft chuckle that grew slowly in his chest turned quickly into a howling laugh that echoed through the night air.

In the distance, one of the tall fortress-like buildings which topped the hill Antiwar was built upon was slowly blazing into fire. Black smoke slowly began to billow upward, as sparks and fingers of flame began to eat at the distant structure; not the yellow-orange flame of the ordinary, but the mind-numbing blue-silver fire of sorcery. Faintly, the air carried the sounds of distant bells  and  alarms  being rung--fire was the bane of all cities and fire alarms were hardly ignored.

"Like minute ants, they scurry to control a blaze which they cannot even begin to understand,"  his voice was merely a whisper between hideous laughter. He surveyed the scene quietly, chuckling softly to himself  for  several  more moments, lost in the distant dancing of sorcerous disaster. Then, as if in a dream, his gaze moved to follow the thick, black smoke as it made its way to obscure the stars.  Without surprise, Athrolok noted the tortured movement within the smoky haze:   Skeletal-like apparitions dancing in the smoke, screaming their way towards the outer ether.  The souls of the poor people trapped within the insidious blaze, the souls of the damned. The sight caused the mage to enter another bout of mocking laughter.

After several long moments, Athrolok gained control, looked at the scene across the city once more, nodded satisfactorily and turned to continue his ascent of the dark stair. Some time later--his step was less hurried now and he moved like one very contented--he reached the first of the great oaken doors which barred his path. The  door  was  magically reinforced and served as one of several barriers between the lower levels and Athrolok's private chambers.

Muttering the appropriate Word and gesturing almost off handedly,  Athrolok  passed through,  the door  closing heavily behind him. He passed through the remaining four barriers just as easily, not the least  worried  about  the multitude  of  traps  which strengthened  the  barriers. Finally, he passed into the central  chamber  of  his apartment. This was the main sitting room, furnished with plush carpeting, over-stuffed chairs and couches, exotic and expensive tapestries and artwork and a large picture window set into the west wall. Doors set into the north wall led to his extensive library, while a huge double oaken door in the south wall led to his bedchambers. The  whole  chamber  was illuminated by small globes of light suspended from the ceiling by chains of bronze. Athrolok ignored all of this and moved to the corner between the north wall and the picture window. Briefly touching a combination of bricks elicited a small grating sound as the corner swung open as if it were a double door. Beyond was another staircase, this one much smaller than the previous, and Athrolok ascended sedately, nearly humming to  himself. As he passed, the secret door closed, forming an ordinary corner once more.

The stair led to the topmost level of the immense tower: Athrolok's workshop  and observatory. The stair was also blocked by barriers, all three of which the mage circumvented with practiced ease. Athrolok revered his privacy, and no other person had ever set foot within he upper level. The room was large and circular, tables and shelves lining the walls; a plethora of objects and tools lining the shelves and tables. The center of the chamber was bare, he floor having been inscribed with several arcane symbols of power.  Books and maps of ancient look filled the sight and the air smelled faintly of sulfur and spices. Only a single wooden chair was present in all of the chamber, and Athrolok began to make his way to it from across the room.

Halfway to  the chair, however, the mage drew up short. He had been absent-mindedly glancing around the chamber as he walked and something had struck him as odd. He paused, turning slowly to survey the room, thinking that something seemed out of place, yet not Knowing what. To the uninitiated eye, the workroom could appear as an ordered mess, but to those who realized who called the chamber his own would know that every object in the room had its place, nothing was allowed to be left out of order. This was for very a practical reason:  Order made various items locatable in the large chamber, and kept entropy to a minimum when spells were cast. Thus, Athrolok knew SOMETHING was out of place.

Before completely surveying the room, however, the mage was stopped short again, this time by an unfamiliar voice coming from the previously unoccupied chair.

"Something wrong, my friend, or would you rather lock yourself in your impregnable tower as your city burns to the ground?"  the mocking voice asked. Athrolok spun in utter surprise to find a lone, black-robed figure sitting in the chair. Athrolok gasped in shock as the figure, its visage shadowed by a deep cowl sat back in the chair and crossed its legs as if perfectly relaxed.

Athrolok exploded from his shock:  "How in the Eyes of Bothaal did you get in here?"

"Oh, my dear Athrolok, your fortress is not as secure as you might think.  When one puts one's mind to it, one may accomplish  anything. Like.. .murder, for instance." The figure punctuated this last, cold statement with a wave of a gloved hand in the direction of the unseen sorcerous fire. The dark mage stood agape. Moments of tense silence ticked by, counted by a small pendulum clock set on a stone pedestal near the chamber's entrance. Finally, Athrolok's eyes grew even colder with quite rage.

"You shall die for your intrusion!" The mage responded, waving his bony hands in complex sigils. "Erthig, vie nar thryldia!" The commands spoken, lightning  blasted from Athrolok's hands towards the seated figure, who, with a mere wave of a leather-covered hand, deflected the bolt into the chamber's circular wall.

Athrolok hesitated for only a moment as he watched chunks of stone and dust settle onto the floor, before his hands were in motion again.  This time, a death incantation sprung from his lips, and as he sent it at its seated target, he figure pulled gold powder from a pouch within its cloak. The powder was thrown into the air and the figure muttered but a single word; Athrolok's spell altered and died.

In a near blind rage, Athrolok began casting a volley of spells at the figure, who casually countered each with a more effective one. Great words of inhuman power and rage rang through the tower as the dark mage sought to destroy the intruder. The figure, however, never even uncrossed its legs as it responded. Finally, all but  exhausted  from  failed attempts at destruction, the dark mage growled softly and studied the figure, but beyond the cowl and cloak, he could see nothing save the various pouches and pockets from which the figure had pulled components.

"Who are you," Athrolok hissed, his mind racing, his body weak from spell failure. He glanced about the chamber looking for something to aid him, and he was once again struck that something was out of place.  The figure merely chuckled.

"I am the Lord of the Night, if you will," the  figure responded cryptically. "I rule all that lives within this city. I control the balance of power--"

"Silence!" Athrolok roared, his breath slowly coming back to him. "'Lord' indeed. You know aught of who I am or of my power. Now, what do you wish here? What do you want?"

"Simply put, to settle a score," the figure responded, casually picking up an aged tome from the small shelf next to the chair. The dried pages rustled together as they were turned. Athrolok winced at the sound, bile rising in his throat.

"What score is this? What do you speak of?"  Slowly, through the cloud of red-misted rage, fear began to grow in Athrolok's heart for the first time in ages.

"You know of what I speak, Athrolok," the figure responded with a voice that had suddenly become  cold  and  serious. "Tonight a fire claimed the life of the Grand Marshal of the Order of the Black Watch, an old rival of yours. The fire also claimed the lives of an entire household of people.   No ordinary fire, that. Oh, no. It danced around and destroyed the LIVING, as if it hungered for them alone.  It hardly damaged the      building itself.

Remarkable really, such a sorcerous fire."  The figure rose,  Its  cloak  rustling slightly.  Athrolok took an involuntary step backwards as the  tall,  lean  figure approached. "It's no doubt that you know the sorcerous ways," Athrolok said hesitantly, "but this has nothing to do with me; you shall pay for your insolence!" More words  of  power  came  to Athrolok's thin lips, but froze there as the figure stepped closer. "Don't mock me, wizard! YOUR insolence is what brings me here," the figure responded with an accusing finger. "You cast the spells of destruction. You killed tonight.  You and none other. Tonight you tipped the scales of power too far in your favor. I cannot allow that."  The figure began to pace. "He was a good man before you killed him, wizard. A loyal man, unlike some I could name." Athrolok winced at the figure's acid. "You see, wizard, I hold the balance of power in check here in Antiwar. I choose who wields the right of life or death.  I hold the city, not you, not the Guild, no one...." Athrolok held his ground before the dark cowl. "Oh, others play the game of control and power, and I let them. At least until I feel that they have played long enough. Then I remove them from the game. The governor is nothing; the Guild is nothing; YOU are nothing." "No one stands in my way," Athrolok spat coldly.  "I've ruled this city from this tower for more years than most can count, not you. I've ruled all: The governor, the gangs, the bloody Guild! They all paid homage to me and my power. And when that Order of the Black Watch was sent here by the blasted king at Drilithae to control  the  streets  and people--" he paused, breathing threw  clenched  teeth--"I destroyed them.  Tonight the Grand Marshal died, my final stroke. They mocked my power, as did the Guild years ago. He died, they died, and now I'll end it for you. ..."

"Aye, just as you ended it for the all Guild masters, one by one. The  'assassins' assassin, that's you, wizard.

They paid their dues in the end, though.  To ME... now its your turn." "What   do you mean?" Athrolok  growled,  his eyes searching for escape.  Panic had nearly taken him.  "What are you?" "The tax collector, wizard, the justicator.  I rule this city, and your time has come." The figure chuckled as it glided slowly forward.  The sound was that of the last breath whispering  from a dead  man. Fear welled up in Athrolok so foreign, yet so strong that he broke for the door, halting once again as his eyes finally fell upon the one thing that had been out of place. A cold, steel scythe had been leaned casually against  the  wall. Athrolok spun, his eyes wide. "Wait! NO!" His hands came up protectively to cover his eyes as he sank to his knees, as if to ward off the apparition before him. With  steady, corpse-like slowness, the figure pulled  back  its  cowl  and laughed... Athrolok screamed as madness took him and his life ended. The figure drew the cowl back over its skull-like visage then slowly faded to nothingness, the dead laughter lingering behind.