Hemlock And The Wizard Tower (Book 1)

by B Throwsnaill

  "Merit, is there any door that I can run to on this floor that will lead to the third floor?" she blurted out, fidgeting from one foot to the other as she spoke.

  "Yes, the first door on the western stairwell leads to the workshop. In the workshop is a stair to the third floor."

  She started to dash toward the door, but halted mid stride.

  "Merit, when will you be in the Atrium tonight?"

  "In two hours, Miss Megan."

  She deliberately slowed her speech down to a congenial pace.

  "Merit, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. I will meet you in the Atrium tonight. As we discussed, you must tell no one of our meeting tonight. I’m glad that we are friends."

  With that said, she dashed off toward the doorway. She had only a few minutes to navigate the stair. She hadn’t found out how Number Two would enter this room. If it was through the same door, she might have only moments to dash to the other service door across the stairwell, and remain undetected.

  As she ran off she heard Merit softly mutter, "Friends."

  Chapter Three

  Hemlock reached the exit to the service room and felt for a magical aura on the door. The door was magical, but the magic was identical to that borne by the door which she entered on the first floor. She quickly traced the required rune pattern in the air, and as the door started to slide open, she grabbed the side of it to stop its momentum and peered out into the hall through the crack that the open door had created.

  A quick scan revealed that the immediate area in the hallway was clear–nobody was on the stairs. She noticed odd sconces on the walls which supported small lamps. There was no flame in these lamps, yet they did emit a glowing light via a glass enclosure. Within these enclosures small winged creatures turned little handles. As she watched, momentarily entranced, one of the little imps scratched his head and when he paused, the light in that lamp went out.

  Apparently slave labor is popular in the tower.

  She would be gambling on the Imps not raising an alarm if she ventured into the hall.

  She noticed the door past the western stairway that Merit had told her about; she slipped out the door and moved quickly but steadily into the hall, avoiding eye contact with any of the Imps in the lamps. She moved with a feline grace, upper torso parallel to the floor and kept up a moderate but steady pace as her ears were attuned to every sound around her.

  The first thing that she heard was activity above. Some voices: maybe three or four, engaged in a melancholy discussion. A furtive glance toward the third floor above revealed that the speakers were farther up on the fifth floor–for she could see feet and robes on the stairwell there.

  The second thing that she heard was singing. Somewhere nearby, a deep baritone voice was singing a solemn song in a tone of regret. It sounded to her like it was coming from the same floor that she was on.

  She reached the door past the western stair quickly.

  She heard another door open with a creaking sound below her and then she heard the familiar sounds of shuffling mechanical footsteps, and the accompanying whir of many gears and cogs.

  That must be Number Two, she thought to herself with some alarm.

  She hoped that the door she had reached wouldn’t be a problem to open because she might easily be detected by Number Two if she had to linger at this door any longer than a few seconds.

  Adding to her discomfort, she sensed a flicker above and realized that the small Imp which had been cranking the lamp above her right shoulder had stopped and was gazing at her intently.

  Ignoring the Imp, she noted that this door had a keyhole on it. Gingerly, she tried the handle.

  Locked.

  With a sharp snap of her elbow, a lock pick set that she kept in her sleeve fell into her hand. Using a practiced motion, she extended the pick that she usually tried first for high grade locks. She inserted it into the keyhole and after a few dexterous manipulations of the pick she heard the satisfying sound of the lock clicking. She opened the door and slipped inside, having no time to be more cautious.

  The singing was now close–too close–it was coming from a source that was in the same room with her. Composing herself, she turned with resignation toward the voice and beheld a sculpted stone bust sitting on an oaken table. The bust was fashioned in the image of a scholarly looking man of middle age and it was singing in the same warm, baritone human voice that she had heard from the hallway.

  Relief swept over her.

  The room in which she now stood was a fancy parlor with a fireplace, a small table for cards and an ornate bar with many bottles, glass tumblers and wooden kegs of various shapes and sizes. There was a musky scent in the air of perspiration mixed with liquor.

  The magical singing was convenient because it masked any sound she that might have made, if others were nearby.

  She darted over to the bar, went around it and crouched behind it. She paused for a moment, and then raised her head to peer over the bar at the room once more.

  There were two exits from the room, each opening into a plain stone hallway without an intervening door. The relative finery of this room did not extend into the hallways, which were composed of rough cut stone blocks.

  Perhaps this was a break room of a sort for tired wizards, she speculated. The wizards must enjoy similar forms of leisure as people in the Warrens did. Admittedly, the singing bust was an exotic form of entertainment, but local mages in the Warrens had grown bold enough in recent years, before the waning of magical energy, to cast crude versions of this sort of enchantment to entertain pub goers. She was impressed by the enchantment, but not astonished by it.

  Then the singing stopped.

  She turned toward the bust and was confronted with the unmistakable fact that the bust was looking at her with a wry, almost roguish grin on its animated face.

  "Well, hello there. I figured I’d keep singing for a while until you got comfortable. I didn’t want to startle you out of your … skin," said the Bust in a flamboyant voice with an unmistakably suggestive tone.

  Composing herself, Hemlock stood to her full height–still behind the bar–and instinctively stared down the Bust like she would a drunken warrior on a two day bender.

  She moved quickly, and stood within a few feet of the Bust, which regarded her with what she thought was an expression of amusement.

  "I imagine," the Bust began, speaking more hurriedly than before, "that you are considering what it would take to silence me–no doubt with little consideration for my welfare. Be aware," it continued, "that it would be difficult for you to succeed, and certainly impossible for you to destroy me before I could summon help from the wizards working on this floor."

  Hemlock was annoyed. The Bust was talking very loudly and she had, in fact, planned to try and smash it. But apparently it was cunning enough to make a rational argument for self-preservation. She knew that she couldn’t risk any sort of alarm.

  "I’m listening," Hemlock replied coldly, "but can you keep it down a little, please?" she asked glancing left and right quickly. Both hallways curved out of sight, so she knew that she couldn’t be seen by anyone at the moment, but she would have little warning if someone or something came down either one of those hallways. And she was concerned that their conversation might be heard by someone well beyond the limits of her vision. She knew that that would be a problem.

  "Anything for you," cooed the Bust at a more discreet timbre. "Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a beautiful woman?" it continued with an emphasis on the word long.

  "What, the wizards haven’t conjured up a female Bust for you to fawn over?"

  "There may be venom pouring out of your mouth, but I’m just watching your lips move–so distracting. I’m not even sure what you said. I’m in a state of bliss just looking at you. Do tell me your name, won’t you?" the voice took on a mock begging tone as it completed.

  "As flattered as I am to have a lusty book end as an admirer, I have to get out of here. What’s
the best way to reach the third floor?" she asked in what she intended to be a level tone.

  "Your name, please. Otherwise, I might have to yell for the wizards," the Bust responded lightly.

  "Megan."

  "Well, Megan, I can tell you how to get to the third floor using the back stairway which will, no doubt, aid in your aim to travel through the tower undetected. I can also tell you where the wizards are." The voice turned contemplative then: "Of course you’ll still have to cross the workshop somehow–but you seem resourceful."

  "Yes, and let me guess," responded Hemlock cynically, "you want something in return?"

  "Well…" and the stone eyes flared for a moment. "I can only imagine the possibilities, were I not a gentleman. Fortunately for you, I am. We will share a drink, you and I. The wizards don’t often let me drink–they’re a boring lot of humdrum bookworms. Go and get two glasses and a bottle of rum. Don’t worry–you will not be discovered–I know the comings and goings of the wizards and their minions."

  "You are a minion, aren’t you?" questioned Hemlock skeptically.

  "Not exactly–the bane of my existence is boredom. The wizards torment me with it–leaving me in empty rooms with nothing going on. All I can do is sing to pass the time. If I sing for them and serve as a communication mechanism for them with my twin brother, then they teach me new songs or let me watch the experimental magic spells. That keeps me going and it keeps me cooperative, for the most part. But this," the Bust continued, "this is a rare pleasure. We must drink a toast, you and I. Go on Megan–get the rum and let’s celebrate–if just for a moment."

  Hemlock glared at the Bust. It was persuasive, and she felt chagrined that it had succeeded in casting itself in a sympathetic light. On the other hand, she considered how she would feel in its place. If what it said was true, then it probably was under the sway of the wizards much more than it was letting on. She considered that it could be trying to trap her in some way.

  Why would it risk their wrath to help me?

  "Why do you drink?" she asked as she walked toward the bar and retrieved the glasses and the liquor. "Does it affect you?"

  "Oh yes," it replied. "I can enjoy spirits just like a man or woman would–perhaps more so since it hits me immediately, and lightens my unbearable burden for a time."

  The Bust’s explanation gave Hemlock an idea. She located the bottle of rum and brought two glasses over to the table where the Bust rested. Placing the glasses on the table she poured two generous shots of liquor as the eyes of the Bust looked on with evident anticipation. Leaving the bottle uncorked, she grabbed her glass and then looked at the Bust uncertainly.

  "Yes, I’m afraid I will require some assistance in this affair," it quipped.

  Putting her glass down, she used both hands to carefully place the glass to the lips of the Bust and tilted the glass gently as the thing drank. It closed its eyes and made a slight wince and then an exhalation of pleasure.

  "Wonderful…" it began to say and then Hemlock made her move. She took the open bottle in hand with a quick motion. She covered the Bust’s nose with her other hand and jammed the bottle into its mouth forcefully, applying pressure to tilt the wooden head backwards.

  The Bust’s eyes darted back and forth frantically and she saw its magically animated Adam’s apple moving spasmodically as it gasped for air and got liquor instead.

  She noted that the bottom of the Bust was green felt and she began to wonder exactly where the liquor was going. But she really didn’t see any point to that line of thinking, and moved on.

  When the bottle was nearly empty, she pulled it out of the Bust’s mouth as it coughed liquor all over her hand.

  She hoped that it had not lied about its reaction to alcohol. She quickly cupped her hand over its mouth as it began to scream and gripped the back of the head for leverage.

  The Bust’s jaws tried to bite her, but all they could really do was clatter together without effect. The eyes looked furious and then began to glaze over. After thirty seconds or so, the Bust’s pupils fully dilated and after another thirty, the eyes closed and a pronounced snoring emanated from its nose.

  She picked up the slumbering Bust and moved to a couch which had large faded leather pillows. She placed the Bust under one of them, which muffled its snoring fairly effectively.

  A thought in the back of her mind surfaced. The Bust hadn’t bitten down on the bottle. Or had it? She reached out and she felt that there was magic in the structure of the bottle. It must have been unbreakable.

  She wondered whether she had known that. Or had she risked her entire plan on an assumption? Troubled, she concluded that she must have sensed it subconsciously.

  She returned to the bar and uncorked another bottle. She split the contents of that newer bottle between the two and then replaced both of them in the bar.

  She heard some commotion coming from the hall leading out of the room nearest to the table where the Bust had been.

  Hemlock recalled that it had mentioned something about a workroom providing access to the third floor. That meant people–which in turn meant danger. But she believed that the Bust had no reason to lie to her about that being her best course.

  Judging by the commotion, the workroom was likely down that rightmost hall.

  She moved toward that exit, aware that her movement of the Bust would be noticed if anyone entered the room; but it was a risk that she had to take.

  She mused that maybe people would think that the Bust had a practical joke played on it by another denizen of the Tower. Still, when it sobered, she knew that it would give her away. But she hoped that that would leave her plenty of time to do what she needed to do and make her escape.

  She peered around the corner of the wall that met the rightmost hallway. The hallway beyond had a gentle curve to it and there was a door on either side of it, some distance from the room in which she stood. An increase in brightness could be seen toward the far end.

  The second circle was about using magic to do work. I guess this is some of their handiwork.

  She could hear what sounded like laughter coming down the hall ahead of her. Then there was a tremendous rumbling sound and a mechanical groan. Figuring this sound might serve as a good distraction to screen her movements, she crept forward down the hallway.

  There were small brick alcoves recessed into the top of the walls where they met the ceiling, which appeared to be smooth granite. Oddly, she could see no shadow at all within these recesses.

  Her first glimpse of the room at the end of the hall showed that it was, in fact, the workshop. It was large and seemed to span multiple floors of the Tower; it was brightly lit (even brighter than the hallway) and there were machines and scurrying workers moving on ladders which covered some large metal construct.

  She moved forward a bit to get a full view. It was certainly several stories tall, and appeared to Hemlock to be deeper than the above ground portion of the Tower, and also rose above her for several floors. There was a balcony on the far end of the room at the same height as her current position, and another balcony on her upper right, which appeared to be on the third floor. The room contained several large metallic cylinders into which a variety of pipes snaked and intertwined. Dominating the room was a monstrous iron torso with human-shaped shoulders and arms, but without a head. It was located near the far wall of the room. She couldn’t tell if it had legs because the balcony over which she peered did not allow her to see below the waist of the huge sculpture. The sculpted figure was that of an athletic male youth whose physical features were rendered in iron that was smooth and featureless except for seams where the limbs met and where large arrays of bolts and welds could be seen. Man–sized figures scurried about the huge torso on ladders and platforms, working on the seam areas.

  A great chain, which was suspended from overhead, moved across Hemlock’s field of vision suddenly, breaking her reverie. The noise of its passing almost drowned out a sudden drunken song which boomed through the room and
elicited laughter at various points as it sang.

  The voice was that of the Bust that Hemlock had just rendered unconscious, interspersed with a similar sounding, but annoyed voice, which kept telling the other to be silent.

  Hadn't it mentioned a Brother?

  She recalled that the Bust had mentioned that it could communicate by some means with a twin.

  Hemlock reckoned that it was a good thing that the delivery of the song was slurred almost beyond recognition, because she realized with a sinking feeling that the Bust was singing about her.

  Hemlock wondered whether the wizards even had the capacity to consider that an intruder could have entered their stronghold.

  Turning aside her concern over the singing, she allowed the massive torso to catch her attention again–it was disturbing to her on many levels. It seemed to stand there like some looming leviathan and she imagined a malevolent head suddenly appearing.

  Figures wearing robes scurried over the huge sculpture, directing some type of bestial humanoid figures who carried twin buckets suspended from large boards, which the beasts bore across their muscular shoulders.

  "Disgusting," she muttered to herself, as she watched the bestial figures and wondered if they had once been men; for she knew that some wizards altered their bodies through magic. She considered that some of those that she observed might have actually been quite decent folk, but in her profession she had to play the odds–and the odds were that when you encountered a Wizard that the encounter was not going to have a happy (or peaceful) outcome.

  "Donnut…let her beeeeaaauty deceive yaaaaaaa!" boomed the drunken voice of the Bust again.

  "Stop it!" cried the similar voice in anger.

  A chorus of laughter erupted again, at first sounding much like a raucous Tavern crowd. But then the bestial men joined in, their guttural voices lending a sinister note to the sum of the sound of the crowd, like dark paint did when poured into white: it discolored it irrevocably.

  Hemlock heard the sound of a great chain being uncoiled then–and then the chain crashed down toward the floor of the room, sending a shudder through the great Tower itself.