Hemlock and the Wizard Tower

by B Throwsnaill

  Chapter Five

  Hemlock moved quickly down the hallway, staying close to the inner wall of the passage. She hoped to find cover in the room ahead of her.

  She slowed to peer into the room as it came into view, hugging the wall for cover. The room was dark in contrast to the even light of the hallway and the light granite wall beside which she now stood.

  As her eyes adjusted, Hemlock could see that the room was quite unusual. The floor, walls and ceiling were composed of square panels which were all black as a moonless night, and flickering stars were visible through decorative openings in them. Mounted in the center of each of these panels was an extruded, black, cloth pillow. The uniformity of the floor, walls and ceiling gave the room a bizarre appearance; it lacked any normal directional frame of reference save for a dimly lit exit on the opposite side of where Hemlock stood. The exit was only barely visible through the intervening darkness.

  Hemlock risked leaning farther away from the wall to survey the entirety of the room, noting for the first time a faint hum which reverberated in a pleasing, almost melodic tone. She concluded that the room was empty.

  She moved deftly, still crouched, and halted immediately before the line of darkness on the floor which demarcated the room from the hall. Cautiously, she thrust her forearm through the dark border and into the room. She felt an odd tingling sensation in her arm, but it was not disagreeable.

  Deciding that she could not afford any further delay, she moved decisively forward.

  As her ears crossed into the space, the hum became louder–but it was still pleasant and relaxing.

  Hemlock discovered with great alarm, however, that she was floating and completely unable to control her motion. She could move her body normally, but she had left the ground. Her limbs thrashed back and forth easily, but without any noticeable influence on her momentum.

  She was floating across the room but also gently upwards. As she looked up, she suppressed a cry of surprise as she noted a young wizard in a fine grey robe with a red waist sash. He was floating near the ceiling and facing down toward her and the floor. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly ajar; he was obviously asleep.

  Hemlock continued to move her legs in a running motion and tried to reach with her arms toward the hallway across from her, which was now slightly below her as her momentum carried her toward the ceiling in the far end of the room.

  She found that concepts like floor and ceiling were becoming more abstract as she gazed around her at the uniform walls of the space. She now understood why the small pillows were mounted in regular intervals along the walls of the room.

  Is this where the wizards sleep? she wondered between fearful thoughts of the Wizard above her waking and raining down a fiery death upon her.

  She appreciated that the room provided quite a soothing atmosphere–but at the moment it was proving to be another hazard for her.

  Something drew her eyes back to the Wizard. She wanted to shy away from him and not look in his direction–fearing that her attention might somehow wake him. She tried to concentrate on a meditation that was helpful when she was lying in wait and trying to avoid detection. She imagined herself being made of stone.

  But in this case, she couldn’t help but notice the striking features of the Wizard.

  His face was possessed of an unusual angular beauty and had a youthful appearance. He had a light complexion with bold, dark hair. He was tall and well-built and a visible arm, protruding from his robe, displayed an understated musculature with prominent veins.

  There was a small glowing field surrounding him, which looked like a yellowish, dim fire.

  It gave the distinct impression of emanating from the Wizard’s form–like a mist rising from a pond.

  Hemlock blinked her eyes a few times, for the field around the Wizard was so faint that she wasn’t sure it was there. Something about the field began to register with her magical affinity.

  Suddenly, Hemlock had an idea, which interrupted her observation of the Wizard.

  She grabbed her small grappling hook and rope from underneath her cloak. It was wrapped in a dirty cloth, which she removed.

  Her removal of the cloth proved to be too hasty–for the cloth floated off quite rapidly to her right and was immediately out of her reach. Moments later, it came to rest on the wall far from her, but then seemed to catch a small current of air and began to float slowly upwards at an angle which suggested it might hit the sleeping Wizard.

  Cursing under her breath, Hemlock grasped the grappling hook and considered the arched doorway of the exit. There were edges in the stonework of the archway, and she hoped to catch one with the hook and pull herself down to the doorway.

  Taking her aim with a back and forth motion of her arm, and noting with dismay the steady progress of the cloth toward the slumbering Wizard, she prepared to throw.

  Her plan was to throw through the doorway and to quickly jerk the rope toward her before the hook hit the floor in the hallway and made a loud noise that might wake the Wizard. She hoped to catch the lip of the upper arch with the hook in the process.

  She threw and jerked the hook back as it entered the space beyond the room–but the hook didn’t fully make purchase with the stone and flew back toward Hemlock, making a shearing noise of iron on stone in the process, that caused Hemlock to gasp silently.

  Fortunately, the pleasant and melodic humming of the room seemed to drown out the noise.

  Hemlock caught the hook again. She noted that the cloth was still floating toward the Wizard and was about one third of the way there. Briefly, she considered trying to impact the cloth with the hook but her instinct to flee the strange room was stronger.

  She threw the hook again toward the archway and this time when she jerked on the rope, the hook grabbed into the stone and Hemlock launched quite rapidly toward the exit. She continued to pull on the rope and soon reached the exit.

  As she crossed into the light, she was dazzled by its brilliance. She was pulled to the floor by her renewed weight, and she landed in the hallway almost silently, in a crouched position. An arm that she had outstretched caught the grappling hook before it clattered to the floor.

  It was difficult for her to see in the sudden brightness, but the hall before her continued in the lazy curve that she now thought characteristic of the tower. There were a few doors on either side of this hall. Driven by the memory of the fluttering cloth and the sleeping Wizard, she ignored them and dashed down the hallway, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the Wizard as possible.

  …

  The Wizard known as Falignus willed himself awake as a dirty cloth fluttered close to his face. He had taken the precaution of casting a light sleep spell on himself so that he might observe the intruder first hand without alarming her. His pride and boldness had prevailed upon him in this decision, as an invisibility spell would have been the safer choice.

  Judging by his impressions of the intruder (gleaned under the slightly imprecise effects of the spell of sleeping awareness), he had been lucky that the situation hadn’t gotten complicated. She had conducted herself with a cool efficiency, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she had also seemed to notice something unusual about his sleep.

  Her attire had been modest but her motions and mannerisms had indicated great ability that had been molded by superior training. She was startlingly young and very beautiful.

  Falignus felt that the wizards had grown complacent about security, yet the undeniable fact remained that the girl had negotiated tremendous challenges to get to this point in her intrusion.

  He wanted to interact with her rather than passively observe her.

  I desire her. This intruder could truly be dangerous to me.

  …

  Hemlock moved down the hallway under the glaring light. She paused beside some doors, listening, and then moved on when she heard nothing that would signal danger.

  She moved more re
cklessly than before and fought to control her growing alarm at her situation. Her thoughts returned to the mystery of her name being the answer to the riddle on the stair, the threat of the discovery of the drunken bust, and the dirty cloth and the slumbering Wizard in the weightless room behind her. It took a strong effort to control her anxieties and maintain her focus.

  Before her was another odd room. A strong smell of grease emanated from it and great creaks and groans could be heard–the sounds of iron under tremendous load.

  The room stretched for several floors above her, was evenly lit, and was bordered in plain granite. Suspended from large chains were several great iron spheres, as big around as a man. They were adorned with strange runic markings and odd numbered gradations. Many of the spheres moved in circular motions parallel to the floor – straining the great chains from which they were suspended.

  Seeing no presence within the room, Hemlock crept to the archway and looked around. She saw another exit across from her and a door on the wall toward the inside of the Tower. Looking up, she could see that the room culminated in a ceiling far above, where large iron hinges connected the chains to the roof at the apex of arched supports. Arrayed around the hinges was a network of walkways consisting of iron floor plates and twin hand rails.

  Eyeing the chains and the causeways above, Hemlock considered her options.

  The stair must be close, but one of these chains could buy me several floors at once.

  Her mind made up, she approached one of the spheres that wasn’t moving. She took a moment to attune herself to its magic. Once again she was taken aback by its power and complexity, which was well beyond anything that she typically encountered in the Warrens. There was a layer of force similar to divination, there was the unmistakable mark of suffering, and an aura of sensitivity was present as well. The magic was passive, however. She did not feel threatened by the dweomer.

  With a fleeting remembrance of the handsome Wizard in the red sash, she crouched low near the ground and launched herself lithely atop the sphere so that it barely moved as it bore her weight.

  The chain that supported the sphere was heavily oiled. The substance appeared to be applied at the top of the hinge by workers on the causeways and allowed to seep down the length of the chain. Due to this, it was heavy in places but practically non–existent in others.

  It would be a difficult climb because of the oil, but more so because she felt compelled to try and get to the top before that sleeping Wizard might wake and set off an alarm. She hoped that this unconventional route would save her several critical minutes if she had been, or was about to be detected.

  …

  Gwineval watched the climbing form of a young woman from a hidden alcove in the towering Chamber of Measurement. He was impressed with her abilities. If he hadn’t been looking for her, he wasn’t sure that he would have even seen her. She was an expert at stealth. Her motions were strikingly steady and regular; her slim form always kept hidden in the shadows of the great chain upon which she climbed.

  Safreon had said that she was a promising pupil, but it seemed that he had understated her abilities. Gwineval again felt his pulse surge at the thought of Safreon and the Wand of the Imperator. If he truly possessed this item, and knew how to use its power, then he wielded a power that could rival the might of the most powerful wizards in the Wizard Guild! These were the Seventh Circle wizards, who aside from their lone representative in the Tower, were said to still exist in seclusion and in defiance of the passage of many more years than a natural body could possibly endure. The Seventh Circle wizards were said to exist predominantly in spirit form and to have lived for centuries. Gwineval wasn’t sure how powerful the Seventh Circle wizards were, beyond their new youthful leader, Falignus. But what he knew of the power of the Wand gave him confidence that their power, no matter how great, could not be very much beyond that of the Wand. His mind began to consider whether the Wand would enable him to defy Falignus and the tyranny of the Seventh Circle and the Crimson Order, but he quickly chastised himself for becoming too hopeful.

  Gwineval considered that he had to get to the top of the Chamber to meet Hemlock. The noise of the machinery would hopefully shield them from unwanted observation. Safreon had warned him that she was headstrong–but Gwineval felt confident that he could reason with her once he called her by name and mentioned her friend.

  …

  Hemlock reached the upper causeway after a harrowing climb. Her limbs were exhausted and she wasn’t sure that she had been very stealthy. She had managed to put some distance between her and the room where she hoped the mysterious, handsome Wizard still rested undisturbed.

  She took in her surroundings: the causeways all led to a sizable room which only spanned a single floor. Several large machines were connected to the huge chains which connected with the cogs and gears on the machines. Though some of the machines clearly were in operation–she could see spinning apparatus and whiffs of smoke or steam being expelled from several of them–she could not hear any noise. The eerie quiet of the lower room, only punctuated by the creaks and groans of the chains, extended all the way up here.

  Moving silently and low to the walkway, Hemlock approached the room.

  As she stepped across the threshold her senses were assailed by the sudden noise of the machines churning and expelling gasses with many a savage hiss.

  This caused a surge in her nerves and she sprung over to a large iron cauldron which held a quantity of a greasy, dark liquid.

  Her eyes discerned motion then, from the opposite side of the chamber.

  A door opened and in strode a figure in a long yellow robe. She noticed something odd about the gait of the individual first: a strange motion of the head with each step forward. Also, there was an unusual structure to the head: a protrusion of the jaw.

  Hemlock realized then that there was not a human figure under that robe–but some monstrous parody of a man.

  She could see the face clearly now, as the beast approached her position. Her pulse raced and she took in the demonically deformed features with the cool detachment that she often felt in moments of true peril. The mouth was large and dominated the face, and it was filled with a row of small, sharp teeth on both the upper and lower jaw. There were two nasal holes, oval shaped and angled, and they were close to the mouth. Two large glassy eyes peered toward her position under the shelter of fleshy eyelids. The complexion was greenish and scaled.

  The creature stopped short and raised its arms as if to parlay. In fact, it appeared to be speaking after some fashion but a loud hiss from one of the nearby machines drowned out the sound.

  In an instant, Hemlock drew a knife and dashed at the creature. She closed the distance of twenty yards in mere seconds and the creature appeared startled as it still was trying to communicate.

  She threw herself upward and thrust the knife with both hands, going for the throat.

  The creature was amazingly quick, however, and managed to throw itself backwards with astonishing speed. Her knife tip caught the point of its lower jaw, but it was an inconsequential wound.

  As she drew her arms down and into her body, the creature’s tail came around and struck a powerful blow to her right shoulder – causing her to careen sideways into one of the machines. She impacted with moderate force, her clothing shielding her flesh from a scalding impact.

  She dropped into a fighting stance and regained her balance as the creature again seemed to be trying to communicate.

  As she prepared to strike once more, she made out a familiar word despite the heavy distorting effect of the creature’s mouth and large forked tongue.

  "…Safreon."

  She paused, but didn’t let down her guard. She analyzed the figure for any lapse in its defenses as she struggled to understand its odd form of speech.

  "…sent by Safreon of the Warrens," she managed to understand as the creature spoke.

  "What about him?" she demanded
recalling that lizards usually had soft and vulnerable bellies.

  "Hemlock, I have been sent by Safreon to rescue you from the wizards," continued the creature in its odd, falsetto hisses.

  "Why should I believe that?" she continued in a level tone.

  "Because it is your only chance at survival," replied the creature with a tone of impatience.

  "What are you? You wear a Wizard’s robe–aren’t you a Wizard?" Hemlock asked.

  "I am a Wizard and also a friend of Safreon. We have spoken in the last year about affairs in the Warrens and also events in the Wizard Tower. He contacted me tonight when he deduced your foolish intentions to attack the tower," explained the lizard man in a lecturing tone at which Hemlock inwardly bristled.

  She was becoming uncertain about the situation and this led to a feeling of extreme discomfort. If she trusted this…monster… to be a friend of Safreon then she was putting her life in its hands.

  Am I ready to do that?

  She felt confident that she could kill it–but it did claim to be a Wizard which would introduce unknown dangers.

  "You obviously know things about me," she replied "but that doesn’t mean that you are an ally. You may well be lying."

  "We don’t have time for this – I fear you have been detected already by others not so friendly as I. There are other watchful eyes in the Tower and they would not treat you as kindly as I will. Safreon has revealed to me that he holds a powerful magical artifact that I greatly desire to learn more about. That is the only reason I am risking my life to try and rescue you from certain death. Safreon made this bargain with me just minutes ago," responded the creature coolly.

  Hemlock always felt secure when she felt that she understood a situation and that she could control it. Her mind was trying relentlessly to maintain a grasp on this encounter but it was like trying to grasp sand with her hands–the harder that she tried to grasp, the more she felt control slip through her fingers.

  "What is the plan?" she asked, stalling for more time to assess the loyalty of the creature.

  "The plan is that we will meet…" began the Lizard Man when Hemlock sensed the opening. Her mind was reeling, she felt powerless and the opening was too enticing–it was like she was drowning and thrashing and then her arm hit a piece of debris floating in the ocean, after a shipwreck. Her mind could not resist trying to regain control of the situation by grasping at the opportunity.

  Her knife left her hand in a motion that seemed almost supernaturally fast.

  The creature tracked it instantly, but the aim was too precise for it to dodge it altogether. The best that it could do was to twist and take the blow in the shoulder instead of the torso. Green blood jetted from the wound as the knife bit deep and Hemlock sprinted in for the kill, another knife from her left leg holster immediately in hand.

  She slashed across her body and then as the creature faded back away from the slash, she caught it with a punch to the belly, which caused it to emit a hissing cry sounding much like one of the machines around which they fought.

  She saw its right arm moving rhythmically then and felt the alignment of gathering magical energy.

  Dropping hard to a knee, she thrust up and disrupted the motion and felt the gathering spell energy dissipate.

  She saw fear in those inhuman eyes then. She always saw that when the end was near for an opponent and it always made her try for a mercifully quick end when mortal force was required–as she judged that it would be in this situation.

  The creature began to attack then–slashing with its right claw–but it was wounded already and while it may have been a match for her speed before–it was not in its current condition.

  It used its tail effectively to slow her attacks down, but she was able to dodge it and she knew the creature was beginning to wear down under the force of her withering assault.

  Its robe was half covered in green blood now and pools of blood on the floor were becoming hazardous.

  They traded attacks and defenses, parries and countermoves for several seconds.

  As she feinted upwards and redirected a blow at the creature’s thigh, her eye caught the motion of the tail countering at an impossible angle. It happened too quickly for her to fully register her surprise, but she tumbled to her right to avoid what she feared could be a stunning blow from the tail and a reversal to her fortunes in the combat. She realized, too late, that the tail was no longer attached to the Wizard’s body and that a clawed fist was moving with tremendous force aimed irrevocably at her head. She reached a final conclusion before a flash of white exploded over her senses and then everything went black:

  Somehow the creature has detached its tail from its body.