Hemlock and the Dread Sorceress

by B Throwsnaill

Chapter Six

  Tored shook his head as he watched Hemlock jog toward the entrance of the stronghold’s courtyard.

  She may run to her death. But the time for my control over events has passed.

  He watched as she slowed to a walk then disappeared from view. Soon there was a gasp from an unseen crowd.

  Taking this as a signal, Tored broke into a run toward the nearest point on the wall of the stronghold. Being spotted by the wyverns on the balusters was his chief concern, but as he reached the wall and felt the surety of stone blocks at his back, there was no outcry or sudden motion above him.

  Believing he hadn’t been seen, he ran along the wall toward the opening Hemlock spotted. As he ran, he heard shouted words from the courtyard but was unable to hear what was said or who was shouting. He considered turning back, but decided against it.

  When he reached the opening, he saw it was formed by a section of the wall of the corner tower that had collapsed. The opening revealed a torch-lit interior passage and a circular stair winding upwards into the tower itself. He knew he had to get to the far side of the stronghold, so he decided to take the ground level passage. He passed under an arched doorway which had been sculpted into the likeness of two great arms with hands interlocking at the apex. Smaller, sculpted figures of warriors stood in various poses atop the span of the arms.

  A single torch lit the long hallway, leaving it darkened on the far end. There was a heavy wooden door blocking his way but it stood slightly ajar, and a bright light was coming from the crack of the opening.

  Tored paused and listened at the door. Hearing nothing, he leaned to look through the crack. As his eyes adjusted to the light, all he saw was a continuation of the stone hallway on the other side.

  He pushed at the door gently, cringing as it creaked slightly on rusty hinges.

  The opening door revealed a large, circular room in front of him. Chairs were arranged in a descending pattern of curved rows on a gently down-sloped floor. Two figures were seated in the front row, apparently looking down on proceedings taking place below them. A low railing in front of the two men indicated that this was some sort of balcony.

  The air was laden with the familiar scent of incense, and there were colorful banners hanging all around the room. Voices spoke in murmurs from the lower floor then a sharp note from a large gong silenced them.

  Tored raised his spear and warily looked behind him. The passage he had just traveled was gone. Behind him was the hallway used by commoners to observe the King’s council in his hometown of Tor Varnos.

  What devilry is this?

  Nothing happened for several moments as Tored continued to take in his altered surroundings. He felt an intense curiosity about what was happening on the floor of the rear of the council chamber, but he knew it would only be visible from the lower seats. He walked slowly down the stairs and approached the two seated figures.

  The two men turned toward him. They were both aged—one large and fleshy and the other thin and gaunt. The larger man was none other than Pan Taros—fallen leader of his people. The other was Tored’s dead father, Tyvel—looking like he had in his final months of life. His once sky blue eyes were shiny and clouded by the passage of years. His prominent jaw, once the centerpiece of a powerful visage, now jutted from his face awkwardly amidst dangling flesh and sunken cheeks. Both men gestured to him and pointed toward the unseen voices on the floor below.

  Tored paused. He remembered where he really was—or at least where he thought he really was.

  I’m still in the stronghold, and I need to stay hidden.

  He turned away from the men and walked back to the top of the stairs. He circled the perimeter of the chamber against the wall, heading toward another door at the far end. Pan Taros and his father rose and began to climb after him. Tored cursed under his breath and hurried his pace. He desired to speak with his father, but wasn’t sure what the men represented in this vision. When he looked ahead, the two men were standing at the far door waiting for him. Tored cursed again.

  Soon, he had reached the door, and the two figures stood in his way.

  “You’re not real,” said Tored softly.

  “Tored,” began his father, “I had high hopes for you, but you abandoned our clan for the Taros clan.”

  Tored knew this was not really his father, but the experience seemed so real that it inflamed his passion. He couldn’t help but answer, though he continued to speak in a low voice.

  “After the battle of Bacca Ridge, you made Tabar the hero of the journey, though I had singlehandedly slain a mathi. You always favored him over me, and made me stay behind to serve you instead of allowing me to pursue glory as a warrior. That is why I left our clan and joined the Taros!”

  Tyvel sneered and spat on the floor. “I was grooming you to lead the clan, you fool! You could have increased the standing of our clan to rival the Taros and Vyle clans. But you gave up on us.”

  “I am a warrior!” said Tored. He pushed past the two men then through the door. It led to a walkway in the heights of the town. The planks of the walkway were illuminated by the rays of a full moon that darkened as clouds passed overhead. Spectral cries from the ground added to the familiar atmosphere outside of the council chamber.

  Tored was confused, and didn’t know where to go or how his actions in this strange vision would affect his real journey through the stronghold. He took a moment to consider the layout of Tor Varnos and compared it to what he knew about the layout of the stronghold.

  The stronghold has a keep tower that is its largest structure. What’s the largest structure in Tor Varnos? Of course. The town hall!

  He walked hurriedly down the walkway then turned left onto a larger walkway that sloped downward toward a broad stair. He descended the stairs, noting that the town was oddly deserted. As he approached the town hall, he noticed the hall of clan Tyron—his old clan—ahead of him. His father and Tyvel, along with Pan Taros, stood abreast in front of the hall, and again blocked his passage.

  The booming voice of Pan Taros broke the eerie calm of the night as Tored approached. “Here walks a man who has betrayed his people. A man who has abandoned them, and left them to suffer a cruel fate—the same fate I suffered after he mismanaged our affairs and led us into a misguided war with the witches.”

  The din of assembled voices in the Tyron hall again piqued Tored’s interest.

  What is happening in there? But this isn’t real!

  “I wanted to help our people! It’s true that great men fell during the battles with the witches, and those remaining have been found wanting as leaders. Is this my fault? Your policies would have doomed us all to death. I saved our people! I left them so they could begin a future without being haunted by reverberations from the past. I care about our people, but I had to stop meddling in their affairs. I am a warrior, not a statesman!”

  Pan Taros looked unmoved, but Tyvel’s eyes were rimmed with red. “You must tell them, son! Enter the hall and tell your people why you abandoned them. You left them dishonorably, and they were confused and frightened. You must set that right.”

  Tored wanted to follow his father’s command and walk into the Tyron hall. He wanted it more than anything since failing to prevent the death of Taros Ranvok. But part of him remembered what was really happening, and he resisted the terrible temptation to seek redemption. Even the illusion of redemption held a strong appeal.

  “Father, I…This isn’t real. I can’t set things right. At least not now,” Tored said solemnly.

  “Son, I don’t understand. Look, just join the rest of the clan and tell us what is going on,” said Tyvel.

  Suddenly, a spectral glow fell over Tored and his two elders. A howling spirit flew over the far balcony and rushed toward them—its jaws impossibly misshapen by its cry of anguish.

  Tored’s instinct was to strike the ghost down, but he realized he wasn’t holding a spear any longer. He
was forced to duck, and though he evaded it, he was close enough to the spirit as it passed overhead that he felt the bitter cold air it left in its wake.

  The ghost continued to wail as it rose higher in the air, passing over the nearby clan hall.

  “Tored! The spirits are active tonight. We must seek the shelter of the hall!” cried Tyvel.

  “Yes, Tored. Perhaps there’s still time for you if you listen to your elders instead of defying them,” added Pan Taros.

  Tored rose, ignoring the words of the men, and jogged toward the town hall that lay slightly below where they stood.

  When he got to the hall, the windows were all closed and the front door was shut. He approached the door and heard a chorus of bestial cries from within.

  His mind struggled to place the sound, but then a memory resonated, and he was certain of what he’d heard.

  Wyverns!

  He knew this wasn’t the right way. He looked around wildly as he tried to figure out where to go next. Restless spirits continued to ride the winds of the night and invade the heights of the town. Travel on the exposed walkways was becoming increasingly dangerous.

  If this illusion is constructed to keep me away from the central tower, maybe I have to approach the danger.

  He thought about the most dangerous place in the town and then had an idea.

  Perhaps I have to leave the town. I will lower a ramp and descend to the ground. It could mean my death in this realm, but perhaps it will be my salvation in the reality of the stronghold.

  Tored cautiously followed the walkways to the lower levels of the town. He passed two more low-ranking clan halls, and Pan Taros appeared twice and tried to convince him to enter each one of them. But Tored just ignored him.

  He finally reached a walkway near ground level and found the winch that controlled the nearby ramp. He unlocked the mechanism and the handle spun wildly as rope unwound. The ramp hurtled toward the ground and landed with a crash.

  Suddenly, his father was at his side.

  “Tored, you need to make your peace with the past. You need to let go of your shame and your anger,” the old man said, pointing upward toward the Tyron hall on a higher level of the town.

  Tored looked into his father’s eyes and almost forgot where he was. He was angry that something had co-opted his father’s memory and was trying to use it to deceive him. But, as he considered what this image of his father said, a serenity he hadn’t felt in years came over him. “You are right, Father,” he said after a time. “Farewell.”

  But a great unease assailed him, and soon it developed into a paralyzing fear. He felt angry and confused as he stood trying to make his limbs move down the ramp but found he lacked the will.

  Is this what other men struggle with?

  The sensation of fear and its power were breathtaking. A myriad of doubts assailed him.

  Am I making the right decision? What if this is real and I’m abandoning my people, again? What if Hemlock is already dead?

  He grabbed his head without knowing why, and cried out with impotent rage. The sound of his own scream seemed to backstop his courage. Gathering himself, he leapt onto the ramp and ran toward the ground, heedless of a crowd of menacing ghosts that gathered around the base of the town.

  His surroundings changed again, and Tor Varnos was gone. In its place was a large room with rounded corners. It was well-lit by torches, and the walls were dominated by great slabs of slate. They were covered with strange, angular chalk drawings and interspersed with unintelligible numbers and diagrams. There was a large workbench topped with many tools, glass jars, and a large hourglass gilded in gold and boasting the most cunning gem work Tored had ever seen.

  But the most remarkable thing in the chamber hovered in the center of it, above a green marble dais. It was a golden Chalice that shone with an otherworldly brilliance. Runes and symbols were worked into its sides, and as Tored watched, the symbols slowly drifted and undulated over the face of the metal. There was a low humming that seemed to emanate from the Chalice, and the impression of powerful magic at work was impossible to ignore.

  The dais itself had an hourglass, similar in size and shape to the one on the bench, embedded into it and mounted on a swivel.

  Tored’s instincts were to back out of the room because he respected magic—especially powerful magic, as this clearly was. But his duty to Hemlock was foremost in his mind, and the sound of crackling thunderclaps from outside the open windows of the chamber underscored the need for decisive action.

  But his warrior’s mind struggled with what to do. The images written in chalk around him seemed to mock his efforts to understand what he was looking at. There were images of worlds—a concept he’d only recently come to understand during his brief journey between the City and Ogrun. The planets were arranged horizontally with a jagged orange line connecting them.

  They must be the strands of Maker’s Fire.

  The planet on the right was the largest, and the planet just to the left of it had a circle around it. Underneath each planet was a number. The circled planet had a one under it. The planet to its right had a one above a horizontal line and a seven beneath the line. Tored knew little about numbers, but he could see the values were increasing dramatically from the circled planet going right to left.

  It looks to be written by the same hand that drew that disgusting graffiti. The Sorceress!

  More thunderous explosions rocked the night sky, and a great wind blew in through the windows and made some papers on the desk fly about the room. Tored crouched and looked around him. As the wind subsided, there was nothing in the room to suggest the disturbance had originated from within it. Tored felt even more confused and pressured for time.

  “Father, guide me!” he cried, approaching the table. He gritted his teeth as he grabbed the gilded hourglass, expecting to feel a painful jolt of magic coursing through his body—but nothing happened.

  Then a surge of wind knocked him off his feet, and once again set the papers around the room fluttering. The floating Chalice was glowing more powerfully, and its color was changing from a lustrous gold to a deep, fiery red. It began to give off a palpable heat, and the humming in Tored’s ears became deafening.

  He heard triumphant laughter from the courtyard and knew something was very wrong. It was the voice of the Sorceress that laughed with a power and volume that reminded him of the witches in his old realm.

  …

  Cold enveloped Hemlock like an icy maw as the apparition of Falignus embraced her. It wasn’t exactly a physical embrace, but something about it restrained her and seemed to siphon her life force at an alarming rate. She was on her knees before she knew it. Next, she was on her back as the shimmering form greedily drained her.

  She became aware that she had unconsciously begun to draw energy from the celestial realm. She could feel the burden she placed on hundreds of other heroes as the shade of Falignus continued to drink from her essence.

  Though the rate of drain was prodigious, the rate of incoming energy was greater. Her strength was slowly returning, and she became aware of her surroundings. She heard a blast above her and felt intense heat as a sheet of fire blazed over her prone body. Then she heard an anguished roar and the beat of retreating wings.

  Penelope!

  I AM BURNED! THE PAIN! FORGIVE ME!

  “OH MY GOODNESS!” shouted the Sorceress between bouts of mirthless laughter. “WHAT CAN ACCOUNT FOR THIS POWER!!?”

  Hemlock could see the stars of the evening above her, but they were outshone by a burst of fire that leapt from the Sorceress’ outstretched hands and towered hundreds of feet above the stronghold, lighting up her surroundings like daylight.

  Hem

  Hemlock felt the flow of power leaving her body, entering the shade of Falignus, then transferring to the magic item in the wide tower. The power then flowed directly into the Sorceress.

  No wonder Falignus is still a spectre! Sh
e’s taking all of his energy as he drinks it from me.

  Hemlock tried to move, but her body was still too weak to overcome the dull, heavy sensation of Falignus on top of her. And while the incoming energy was stronger than the drain, Hemlock knew the supply was not infinite.

  Tored, you have to succeed—and soon!

  As if in answer to her entreaty, the sound of a great calamity arose from the wide tower. She heard the sound of arcing lightning and falling rubble. A large brick landed a foot away from Hemlock’s head as an explosive force washed over her. Since she was on the ground, she avoided most of it but she felt Falignus’ spirit get swept away then heard the Sorceress scream.

  She sensed that an invisible, magical shockwave had accompanied the blast—traveling between the item in the tower and the Sorceress. The power of the shockwave was epic, and Hemlock expected to find the Sorceress vaporized in its aftermath.

  Her strength was coming back, and she rose to her knees as the sound of hundreds of wyverns rising into flight reverberated over the courtyard.

  The Sorceress was still intact, but she was splayed out on the ground about twenty-five feet in front of Hemlock—apparently unconscious. Hemlock turned toward the tower and surveyed its wreckage. The part of the stronghold where the keep had stood was smashed and leveled out to the former midpoint of the adjacent walls. There was a wide scattering of stones and boulders amongst which the body of the great bat lay along with many of the wyverns who had been resting on the walls close to the tower.

  I have to find Tored! My goodness, so many wyverns are dead. And likely their people with them.

  She rushed into the rubble, desperately looking for her friend with a growing dread at the apparent loss of life. She remembered the shade of Falignus, and expected it had not been destroyed, so she was wary of attack as she searched. Just as she was beginning to despair in not finding her friend, a voice called to her from one side of the opening that had been blasted in the walls.

  Tored stood there, resting against the jagged edge of the remaining wall. His arm hung limply at his side and there was a huge, bloody gash on his face.

  “You yet live!” he said weakly.

  “As do you!” she said with tears of joy welling up in her eyes.

  Hemlock bid him to approach and sent him a hand signal that there was still danger. She saw Tored tense up. He found an elongated piece of stone to wield as a makeshift weapon as he reached her.

  “Tored, I found Falignus. But he’s…become something else—something terrible. But I think he’s still alive, if you can call it that.”

  “I see. What would you have me do?”

  “Keep a watchful eye while I check on Penelope. She was wounded by the Sorceress.”

  Tored nodded and took one of the blades when she offered it to him, dropping the stone.

  Hemlock reached out to Penelope with her mind and the griffin answered quickly.

  You survived?

  Yes. Are you alright?

  Your sister is tending to my wounds. Are you still in peril?

  No, I don’t believe so. Tell my sister we’ll be back soon.

  I will. And I’m sorry for deserting you. I am not worthy of your companionship.

  Penelope, the Sorceress would have incinerated you if you’d stayed another second. I understand.

  Thank you. But I am still shamed. I will inform your sister.

  Hemlock turned to Tored. “Penelope lives, and Mercuria is seeing to her burns.”

  “That’s good. Otherwise, how would we return to the City?”

  “You make a good point.”

  “What happened in that tower?”

  “Should we see to the Sorceress, first? Is she still alive?”

  “Yes, I think so. But she received a massive wave of magical energy when the tower exploded. I wouldn’t worry about her.”

  Tored kept an eye on the Sorceress as he answered her question. He told Hemlock about his experience in the illusory image of his old town, and about the room with the Chalice.

  “Then something changed, and I could tell a great power was flowing through the cup,” he continued. “So, I finally did the only thing I could think to do. I grabbed the gilded hourglass, took a running start, and hurled it at the Chalice with all my might. The next thing I remember is waking up in the rubble and finding you.”

  “Amazing! That’s good work, Tored. You are lucky to have survived the blast.”

  Hemlock related what had happened in her encounter with the Sorceress as the people of Ogrun began to gather around the gates of the stronghold.

  “Is the Sorceress defeated?” yelled one of the bolder ones.

  “Yes!” replied Hemlock hoarsely.

  The people streamed into the courtyard and began to frantically search the rubble.  When they located the remains of a wyvern, they cried out and others met them with small litters to remove the winged bodies.

  Hemlock was very curious about these goings on, and a look at Tored showed he felt the same.  The smiling face of Esmeralda emerged from the gathering crowd before Hemlock could approach the rescuers.  The little girl was followed by a woman whose resemblance to the child identified her as her mother.

  "These are the people I was telling you about," said Esmeralda.

  "Hello, I'm Tiffan.  My husband, Canthos, and I are so very grateful for what you've done.  Canthos was fighting in the arena when you came.  You saved his life," said the woman.

  Hemlock was too tired for pleasantries. "What are they doing?" she asked, pointing to the citizens.  She noticed Tored was still looking down at the Sorceress, and around them for signs of Falignus.

  "Oh, they are taking the fallen wyverns to their human counterparts.  If both rest together, the wyverns that are not too badly disfigured by their injuries may yet return to life, and in doing so will allow the person bonded to them to live a long life."

  Hemlock felt a wave of relief.

  "We should tie her up," said Tored, pointing to the Sorceress.

  Hemlock nodded, and they cut some thick leather from the harness around the neck of the great bat.  When Hemlock bound the Sorceress, the latter groaned and streams of blood came out of her nose.  But she didn't awaken.

  "What are we going to do with her?" asked Hemlock.

  Esmeralda's face darkened. "We should kill her for what she's done to us!"

  "Esmeralda!" cried her mother, kneeling.  "These are adult matters.  Say goodbye to these brave people then leave us."

  The girl nodded, and approached Hemlock with her arms wide.  Hemlock knelt down and embraced the girl for several seconds.

  Esmeralda next approached Tored, who looked mightily uncomfortable. He winced in pain as he hugged the little girl with his good arm, but the smile on his face made Hemlock smile in turn. 

  "Alright, honey.  Run off to Daddy.  And be careful amongst the rocks!" said Tiffan.

  When the girl was out of earshot, Tiffan leaned in toward Hemlock and spoke in a soft voice that was filled with passion. "We want you to kill the Sorceress.  I didn't want Esmeralda to hear it come from me—from all the adults of Ogrun—but we discussed it while we waited to see what would happen.  We all said we would kill her ourselves if you weren't able to.  But now, looking at her lying there helpless, I can tell that we'd struggle to do it.  You should be the one to kill her.  Please. Before we falter."

  Hemlock was conflicted.

  The Sorceress deserves to die.  But why must it be by my hand?  A hand that already has so much blood on it.  Why must it fall to me?

  She looked at Tored, but knew that the warrior would be of little help in the decision—her decision.

  Suddenly, there was a strange sound like the reaping of stalks of wheat and the movement of liquid occurring in unison.  Hemlock turned and saw the shimmering wraith of Falignus that she'd been looking out for. Somehow it evaded all detection and was now on top of the tied up Sorceress, drawing the life from her like a
child sucking the juice from a slice of orange.

  It was over before anyone could act.  The Sorceress' flesh drew in on itself and hung over her bones.  The garish facial tattoos faded and darkened, and the strong jawline of the woman sunk in, parting into an excruciating death mask.

  The effect on the wraith of Falignus was equally dramatic, though opposite.  The shimmering outlines of his figure became more distinct. Soon, flesh tones and the textures of fabric emerged from what had been nebulous and incorporeal.

  It was now a man that knelt over the hideous, dried corpse of the Sorceress.  Pale skin covered veins and sinew, and an angular face with a shock of dark hair atop turned toward Hemlock with the look of someone staring into the sun.

  The voice was feeble and strained, but the puissant intonations were unmistakable. "I've wanted to do that for a very long time," said Falignus.