Hemlock and the Wizard Tower

by B Throwsnaill

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hemlock had knelt between two barrels, which had easily concealed her ten-year-old stature as she had watched the strangest sight that she had ever seen. A boat was sailing up the river, garishly colored, with no oarsmen and only a smallish sail that had flapped uselessly in the slight breeze. Hemlock had wondered at how the boat had glided smoothly through the oncoming current toward the docks as if twenty men had been rowing it. Behind it, two more vessels had entered her view; they had used the same mysterious source of locomotion as the first boat had used.

  A jubilant man dressed in a long, rich yellow robe and wearing a red bandana on his head exited the first boat and approached the local townsfolk. Hemlock heard him asking for a merchant. Behind this man, less ornately adorned men and women began to move on the decks of the boats and loaded carts with goods that they brought up from the cargo holds. Hemlock caught a glimpse of some exotic clocks and other larger items, the likes of which she had never seen. The men and women on the decks all moved with an apprehensive quickness, as if they feared something. Many stole a look back downriver as they moved down a gangplank, pulling carts laden with goods. They hurried into the village, moving in the wake of the yellow-robed man.

  Hemlock waited until the other two boats unloaded their cargo in a similar fashion, and then approached the first boat, which was unmanned, save for one fellow of dim-witted appearance. He was carrying an imposing scimitar tucked into his belt, however, and looked the part of one who had used it.

  As she knelt on the dock, concealed behind two barrels, Hemlock thought back to her stepfather and the strange feral look that had been in his eyes the night before as he had entered her room; Hemlock also recalled how he had beaten her Mother when she had intervened. It made Hemlock physically ill even to think of it. She needed some time away and some time to think. She even considered the possibility that she could start a new life somewhere else, far away from her stepfather.

  After she wrestled her way through a long period of contemplation, she crept up the gangplank and onto the boat, and then skittered down into the hold, easily evading the gaze of the dim-witted watchman.

  It was dark and damp in the hold, lit only by several open portholes. She felt a thrill as she realized that she was free there in that dark place. She knew that nobody was aware of her presence, and she was content to sit quietly and enjoy that feeling for a while, careless of the world around her.

  After a time, she heard a booming voice that she recognized as the man in the yellow robe, as he concluded his dealings with a local merchant. She also heard the shuffle of feet and the loud clatter of carts being pushed over the staggered planks of the dock.

  "No, my friend, where we return to, you cannot follow–unless you intend to never return to this place," she heard the man in the yellow robe say in response to someone, which he quickly followed with a belly laugh.

  Hemlock considered that remark with some concern, but the pain of recent events was too great for her to reconsider her decision. Yet some part of her protested that she had made a momentous decision when she had decided to board the boat.

  She moved to the rear of the cargo hold as the sailors and laborers descended into the hold and loaded goods from her village into it. Hemlock could see that they had traded for grain, cloth, and even some iron ore. Around her, Hemlock noted barrels and crates of strange objects. Fine weapons were visible there as well as strange tunics and fine robes like many of these men and women on the boat wore. There were also ornate children’s toys. If these were the goods that these men had traded to her village, Hemlock realized what a stir this would cause.

  Suddenly she had a pang of regret: she desperately wanted to see the look in her sister's eyes when she saw these wondrous toys. She thought fondly of her younger sister, and then an image entered her mind uninvited; an image of the animalistic look in her stepfather's eyes directed toward her sister. Hemlock shuddered at the thought. Almost crying out, she leapt up and began to run for the ramp leading up to the deck, heedless of the danger of being detected by the strange crew of the vessel.

  "Hemlock!" a voice whispered to her urgently.

  Hemlock quickly ducked behind a crate and turned toward the voice. Sitting behind a barrel near the exit from the hold, with one of the oddly crafted toys in her hand, was her young sister. Hemlock thought that she had never seen something as beautiful as her sister was to her in that moment, even clothed as she was in a coarse and dirty tunic. Her sister’s hair was blond and curly; her eyes were blue and innocent, framed as they were in a face of flawless skin. The look of unbridled joy in her sister's eyes made Hemlock's heart swell.

  "I followed you here. We should get back, Hemlock! But can I take one of these?" her sister asked pleadingly, as she held up a beautiful brass horse with wheels on its feet.

  But suddenly there was a great shudder, and the boat moved with unnatural force. The movement hurled them both to their hands and knees, along with many of the objects in the various crates and barrels. Hemlock considered then, as she lay on the floor of the hold, and the scent of the varnish from the wooden hull filled her nose, that the vessel that her and her sister had boarded was no ordinary boat; and the full magnitude of her decision finally washed over her. She looked at her sister again, and saw that she looked scared and excited at the same time. Hemlock then felt a pang for their mother, who she loved dearly despite her having become distant since the death of their true father.

  Hemlock vowed to herself then that she and her sister would return to their mother one day, when everything was right in the world again.

  …

  The Witch bolted up suddenly and stood erect before her ornate throne.

  "A Mathi has been slain," she cried to herself with an unspoken thought as the shocking sensation of the Mathi’s magical death cry still echoed in her mind. Even though she considered the Mathi to be brutish and simple minded, they were still valuable to her as (sometimes incorrigible) allies. The Witch knew that they were stubborn dark spirits who developed great power through their sheer ferocity, and did so outside of the purview of the Witches. Once formed, they were too powerful to ignore, and so the Witches tamed them with souls and the promise of an easy life guarding and exploiting a remote area.

  Below her position on a raised dais, a throng of attendants rushed up marble stairs to attend to their Queen. A gesture from the Witch restrained them.

  She was beautiful, wearing a shimmering white gown that revealed her pale flesh in perfect form. Upon her head rested a glimmering crown of silver, polished so that it shone brightly. To the living, her beauty would have seemed ethereal, but imbued with a certain quality of morbidity and decay. Even the Witch, in her vast power, could not weave magic strong enough to remove a small shadow and hint of death from her form and surroundings.

  The dead had long since deceived themselves, however. They were not distracted by or even aware of this reality of decay, as those few had been who had beheld her and her terrible throne room through mortal eyes.

  The throne room rose around the Witch, cathedral-like in its scope and grandeur. It was bathed in a pale green and baleful light. Long and ornate tapestries hung in glory from the high vaulted ceilings, the decay and mold on them invisible to dead eyes.

  When the Witch spoke, her commanding voice echoed supernaturally through the massive chamber, which stood atop her ziggurat. Her booming voice was heard throughout the entire stepped pyramid, which extended down several levels below her feet.

  Each level of the ziggurat housed spirits of increasing cruelty and malice, constantly scratching and clawing their way above their weaker brethren, but always held down and in check by the power of the Witch at the top.

  How these spirits dwelt within the ziggurat and why was a great mystery. Scholars and mystics had often wondered from afar, trying to piece together the fragments of information that would emerge from the Witch Crags perhaps once in
a generation–when some errant traveler or lost soul would somehow return from the Witch's lair unscathed or perhaps leave a journal of their final days in that despondent environment, to be found by some other and returned to the world of Men.

  What had been pieced together was that at the core of and giving sustenance to the lowest levels of the Pyramid, was the Oberon, which the Witch's corporeal agents fed into vast underground stockpiles and evaporated in huge boiling cisterns whose magic-laden fumes broiled up through inchoate systems of tunnels which culminated in foul orifices that fed into the upper levels the ziggurat.

  Above the lowest level, the dark spirits existed in an eternal struggle with one another, feeding off of the energies of those below them and being sapped in turn by those above them. It was a brutal system that was thought to have produced the Witches themselves.

  The lower levels of the ziggurat were populated by the hungry ghosts who saw the massive energies of the Oberon that the spirits in the upper levels gorged upon, and were drawn toward advancement by desire for that power, or perhaps by fear of a return to their wayward and seemingly aimless existence in the ghostly realm of the Witch Crags.

  In these lower levels, the spirits were non-corporeal and closest in makeup (though far greater in evil intent) to the Ghosts that inhabited the Witch Crags outside of the Witch's vale. It was said that these non-corporeal spirits were heard and felt more than seen by such mortals as ever managed to lay eyes upon the interior of the ziggurat and retain enough of their sanity to communicate with the living afterwards.

  Some heroic souls told tales of reaching the second, third and even fourth levels. It was said that by the fourth level, the ghosts and spirits took on a demonic quality and that their malice began to take shape in hideous mockeries of the human and animal forms, sometimes in horrid combination. On these levels, despicable exploitation of the flesh was common, with beasts feeding upon one another in an orgy of fornication, consumption and excretion.

  On the fifth and sixth levels, souls were said to manifest in a dark beauty which could enchant mortal eyes. Their comeliness was hard and cold, like steel poised for the strike, and in their eyes a bale fire could be seen, in which burned jealousy for those more beautiful and powerful than they, and simmered in disdain for those lesser than them in their esteem. Sometimes one of their lot would fall from power and begin to decay, and these would be cast back down to the lower levels where they would be gleefully devoured by those below. And perhaps their passing would enable some from below to then have the power to ascend.

  At the seventh level, which was the top level, lived the Witch: more beautiful and terrible than any other in her realm. All other souls were subordinate to her and their power flowed up to her; all of the cumulative power of the Oberon and the spirits of the Pyramid coursed through her body.

  The ziggurat was her home and the center of her power. She might leave it for some time but she knew that there were always those on the sixth level who thought themselves strong enough to ascend to challenge her. These she always had to keep in check, and because of that, she would not leave the ziggurat except in times of dire need. And in such times, she might order all within the ziggurat to sally forth and she might shut off the vast Oberon producing cisterns in order to force the lower spirits to follow. But this action was risky for her, for outside of the ziggurat, all of the souls would be restless and hard to control. If they mutinied, there was a chance that she would not have the power to control them.

  Thus it was that the Witch and her kind, after warring with the Tanna Varrans for many years, sought a non-aggression pact with them. The Witch knew that in a few years’ time, she and her horde would be so flush with Oberon that they would stream from the ziggurat in a rage, and overrun the pathetic Tanna Varrans, whom her agents informed her had lately turned toward pacifism.

  "A Mathi has been killed by Tanna Varran magic," the Witch declared angrily. Every dark spirit in that accursed ziggurat was called to attention by the power of the Witch’s voice. As she spoke, a hand motion beckoned her retinue to approach.

  A few dozen robed attendants approached her, some tending to her gown, whilst others carried teapots and trays in a bizarre mockery of human ritual, for the Witch and her kind took neither food nor drink any longer.

  In her heart, the Witch's immediate desire was great and terrible vengeance for the slaying of the Mathi. But as her advisors streamed into the throne room, her cunning nature took over and her mind began to explore other possibilities.

  She wondered whether the Tanna Varrans intended to provoke battle and war after all of the intervening decades since she and her lesser sister Witches had made the pact of peace with them? Had they learned of her long term plans to exterminate them and also deliver the Witch Crags from its subjugation at the hands of the City and the Wizard Guild?

  Are the wizards involved in this?

  Her chief advisor strode boldly forward, his youthful and beautiful appearance making obvious his stature and power in that dark ziggurat.

  "What will you do, my Queen?" he asked.

  She had no intention of revealing her plans to this one, whom she knew entertained ambitions to unseat her, though his maneuvering was so poorly planned that its progression was almost an amusement to her.

  "I must speak to my sisters about it," she replied forcefully after some moments, her sweet but commanding voice causing all in the chamber to bow their heads in deference.

  But the Witch had something different in mind. Her sisters were also rivals, each jealous of her ultimate supremacy. Her ziggurat was the largest, and she controlled the most hilltops. Her agreement with the foul wizards, though distasteful, had allowed her to harvest many more souls then her sisters had been able to. But she had to make certain to keep that advantage. Soon the wizards were bound to approach her sisters to place their Obelisks with them as well.

  If something new was going on with the Tanna Varrans, the Witch wanted to be the first to know about it. And she didn’t trust anyone else with the task to find out. She resolved to leave her dark pyramid in secret in order to find out for herself what the Tanna Varrans were planning. Then, if she could, she hoped to use this information to her maximum benefit, involving others only where it suited her designs on total domination.

  …

  Hemlock noted that Taros Ranvok seemed to be getting more introspective as they approached the Tanna Varran town. During the conversations among the Tanna Varrans, she had heard some references to his father, Pan Taros, the leader of the town, and it was clear to Hemlock that the young warrior was anticipating a confrontation with him upon their return.

  Safreon spent a few hours in the litter resting and nursing his wound, but much to the surprise of the Tanna Varrans, elected to walk once he had awoken. His burned arm had been lightly wrapped and placed in a sling.

  "How is the arm?" asked a visibly relieved Hemlock.

  "It is painful, but bearable. Fortunately I carry with me some salves which I was able to administer to speed the healing," Safreon responded mutedly.

  Hemlock felt the weight of their exchange on the hilltop bearing down on the conversation. She chose to walk on in silence, leaving the older man alone with his thoughts.

  Finally, after a return to the caves for two days and then an uneventful hike of some hours over the valley floor, they reached the Tanna Varran town, which was called Tor Varnos. As they had seen from the hilltop several days prior, it consisted of a tower built with an angular sensibility which was foreign to the City dwellers. The tower itself was composed of several individual and interlocking buildings which were connected by walkways that ran both within the outer silhouette of the tower and also around its outer edges.

  The angles of the many walkways, which crisscrossed the buildings as they rose along the outside of the tower–and even the window sills, which were placed at surprising heights and never quite rectangular–seemed to have been formed according t
o an overarching design.

  Hemlock sensed a weak aura of magic emanating from the entire vast structure, as if the construction process itself had imbued it with magical properties. The magic she sensed was one of warding.

  The tower was built on a raised bluff which was surrounded by a wide, shallow gulley which served as a rainwater runoff from the upper part of the valley.  Ringing the exterior of the circular bluff were many tightly planted trees, the trunks of which formed a natural barrier around the tower.  Ramps extended down from the sides of the tower above the trees, crossed the sunken gulley, and met the ground at the other side.

  The group approached one of these ramps, where a greeting procession was taking position. Two score of brightly festooned men made up the procession, wearing bright red robes and flamboyant hats which seemed to burst forth in yellows and oranges. Their demeanor, in contrast, was stoic. Around them, children and young adults thronged jubilantly.

  The procession stopped and lined the upper part of the ramp as Taros Ranvok, Tored, Hemlock and the others reached the foot of the ramp and halted.

  A short ceremony began, and the brightly dressed men blew crude horns and clashed small cymbals in their hands in unison. Words of greeting and prayers of safety were spoken.

  "Bradrun has fallen and given his life for Tanna Varra," proclaimed Tored loudly when there was a break in the restrained revelry.

  At this, the horns and the cymbals resumed, though Hemlock saw no joy in the eyes of the Tanna Varrans at this news.

  Hemlock noticed Taros Ranvok gazing up toward the top of the Tower. She followed his gaze and saw, many stories above, a lone figure adorned in similar raiment to the colorfully dressed men lining the ramp.

  Taros Ranvok raised his arm in greeting and the figure above returned the gesture.

  This seemed to be the final step in the unexpected ceremony and Taros Ranvok, Tored, Hemlock and the rest of the group began to ascend the ramp and enter the Tower.

  After reaching the top of the ramp and exchanging a few pleasantries with the townsfolk, they climbed up a long, wide, winding stair and rose higher and higher over the valley floor. Hemlock noted that the buildings were large and mounted centrally on the structure. As she caught glimpses into them through open doors and windows, she saw open spaces within that were free of any walls or interior doorways.

  The angles of the place still mystified her–and in a way, also thrilled her. She felt as if she were walking within the trace lines of a giant three dimensional rune. The power of the place was palpable.

  She noticed that many of the Tanna Varran wing packs and spears were stored along the exterior stairs and walkways. What this did to make the town appear battle ready was lessened in effect by the apparent state of disrepair of these items, which Hemlock found quite curious.

  They were escorted to a large chamber, within which many people milled about. Many families were gathered in the room, each occupying a distinct space wherein they had laid bedrolls, small lanterns, clothes, racks of beads and other personal effects.

  "This is the chamber of my family. You will lay here with us in honor during your stay," said Taros Ranvok.

  "Safreon, do you require any care from our physicians?" he asked.

  "My own ministrations appear to be having good effect. It will not be necessary, thank you," replied Safreon.

  The Townsfolk in the room grew silent and watched the group as Taros Ranvok led them across the floor to the far side from the door. He showed the newcomers to a corner where some bedrolls had been placed, apparently in preparation for their visit. After a few moments, cautious conversation began in the room again and people stopped staring.

  Taros Ranvok then showed them an adjacent room, relatively smaller than the main room, but still quite substantial by City standards. It was a communal bath and toilet.

  As they returned to their space in the larger common room, Taros Ranvok bid them a temporary farewell as an older man, in an ornate robe that suggested authority, entered the room. He was greeted with deference by all in his vicinity and Taros Ranvok approached him.

  Hemlock watched as the older man greeted Taros Ranvok and then spoke with him. The older man glanced their way a few times, nodding, and then his face colored in anger. He motioned for Taros Ranvok to leave the chamber and they walked off together in silence.

  Hemlock noticed that Safreon had also been watching the exchange.

  "The Father seems displeased," he noted.

  "Truly," she responded.

  "We may have some diplomatic work ahead of us here. We need to secure our stay here for a few days, at least, before we return to the City," stated Safreon soberly.

  "Safreon, are you up to all of this activity, given your wound?" asked Gwineval, joining the conversation.

  In response, Safreon unwound the cloth wrapping his arm and it showed only a light redness, where before the skin had been partially charred and peeling.

  Gwineval nodded his approval and Hemlock was impressed but not surprised, having witnessed Safreon’s healing talents many times prior.

  "As you know, there appears to be an issue between the older man, who I presume is the father, Pan Taros, and Taros Ranvok. I expect that we will soon be summoned to explain our role in this. I will serve as our spokesman at that time," Safreon explained, with a sharp glance at Gwineval.

  "If we are able to secure a few days stay here, then I will again signal the Griffin to meet us. Gwineval, you will then have some time to inspect the Wand as we agreed. After that, I recommend that we return to the City on the back of the Griffin, one at a time. I think this is preferable to risking an overland journey in this hostile environment," Safreon continued.

  "I concur," responded Gwineval, looking expectant but also a little apprehensive. Hemlock was surprised that his lizard-like visage still conveyed such subtleties as she nodded her approval.

  Safreon nodded in response and left them, making his way into the bathing chamber.

  Hemlock joined Gwineval, who was unrolling his bedroll and looking tentatively toward the bath chamber. Then she noticed a window to the outdoors, close to their space. It was equipped with a heavy shutter, but this was open and rested unobtrusively to the side. A light cloth curtain was mostly pulled aside, letting in the cool evening air.

  Hemlock rose and looked out the window and over the evening view. She had never seen the Witch Crags at night. The Tanna Varrans had them travel via underground caves when possible–and especially at night.

  Outside, the landscape that she saw was rendered in dark blues and blacks, below the tower and to the distant hills, which were silhouetted against the moonlit sky. The landscape was dotted with streaks of light and pockets of glowing mist, all of which seemed to move randomly across the valley. Above the hills, more streaks of light were visible, and a number of what appeared to be shooting stars, played across the night sky.

  Looking down, Hemlock could see the gabled roofs of adjacent and lower rooms, and far below she could see one of the long, straight entry ramps–which had been raised up to seal the Tower.

  As her eyes wandered to the ground directly below the tower, she noted a dull, insubstantial figure moving slowly with a staggering gait.

  The Spirits. They are everywhere at night, she noted, having been told this many times, but observing it herself for the first time.

  Hemlock had been so captivated by the view outside the window that she only sensed the approach of Taros Ranvok at the last moment.

  His hand on her shoulder was not a shock, but was a surprise. She turned, mildly disengaging his touch and looking into his eyes.

  She saw a guarded fondness there, which surprised her. Taros Ranvok was an attractively built warrior, a prince and a person of principle. But Hemlock did not feel any attraction to this young man, though she felt that he possessed all of the qualities that should engender such feelings. An image of Falignus emerged unbidden from her subconscious, bringin
g a thrill of excitement with it.

  Taros Ranvok sensed this spark, and seemed to misread it.

  He leaned closer as he asked, "Is Safreon truly well?"

  Hemlock broke eye contact and took a step back: "Yes, he removed the dressing on the wound and it is all but healed."

  If Taros Ranvok noted her disengagement from the more intimate vicinity of his person, his visage did not reveal a reaction. "It is well. My father, Pan Taros, wishes to meet with all of you when the fifteenth sands are exhausted." With that, he pointed to a mechanical device which was mounted above the entrance to the chamber, across the room.

  The device consisted of two long pieces of wood intermeshed with gears and pulleys. Along the two pieces of wood, twenty hourglasses were suspended. The sands of some of the hourglasses had already been spent, while others were suspended on their sides, apparently not yet activated by the workings of the machines. Sand was falling in one, apparently the fifteenth.

  Hemlock, understanding the function of the device, nodded her agreement: "We will be ready, will you escort us at that time?"

  "I will return," noted Taros Ranvok as he bowed and left.

  "He appears inflamed by you," observed Gwineval in a raspy voice behind her, which carried a note of humor.

  "Was it that obvious?" asked Hemlock, turning to him with a look of playful consternation on her face.

  "Rather, yes," he responded, holding some morsel in his scaled hand which he appeared to have just bitten into.

  "Did they bring food?" asked Hemlock.

  After taking another bite and discarding some bloodied bones into the corner, Gwineval responded: "No, food arrived of its own accord." He noted with a chortle, as he discarded a long wiry rat tail toward the direction of the bones.

  Hemlock groaned in disgust, but was a little jealous, since she was hungry herself.

  Safreon returned from his bath looking quite vigorous. Hemlock informed him of the impending audience.

  A Tanna Varran woman brought some food to them soon after that and Hemlock and Safreon ate enthusiastically, while Gwineval ate a little meat, but little else.

  Merit shuffled up to the group and observed their makeshift meal.

  "Will I accompany you to the audience?" Merit asked.

  Safreon glanced at him fondly as he devoured a large piece of animal meat.

  "Yes Merit, I think that would be a good idea. You are a part of this tale and no doubt a source of some wonder among these Tanna Varrans," Safreon replied warmly.

  "I will not burden them with my recent inner turmoil," Merit replied after a time, emitting a shrill whistle at the final word which echoed through the chamber, causing many of the Tanna Varrans to look at him.

  Safreon seemed surprised by the incident. "Oh, ah, yes Merit, I think that would be wise. It would be difficult to explain the full gravity of your situation to our hosts."