Hemlock And The Wizard Tower (Book 1) (30 page)

Hemlock proved to be too quick for the beast, however.

Wherever it dashed, she met it there and raked its body with a ferocious slash.

Soon, the Mathi was unable to move and lay dissipating on the rock of the hilltop. 

Hemlock was poised over the dark form, which still had a presence of great malice, even in its helplessness.

Safreon approached.  He was clearly in great pain, but was still able to walk.  Gwineval supported him as Hemlock was poised to finish the Mathi.

"Hemlock, stop.  I will bear the burden of slaying the beast," said Safreon, pushing off Gwineval’s help and striding forward with the Tanna Varran spear which he still grasped with his left hand.

"Believe me, it is no burden," responded Hemlock, and before Safreon could intervene, she slashed the Mathi with her rapiers one final time.  With an echoing cry, it dissipated completely.

"Hemlock!" Safreon yelled weakly.  He dropped the spear and grasped her violently.

"Haven’t I taught you anything?  Don’t you understand the burden that you will bear for the rest of your life when you kill?  Never rejoice in a kill, it will weigh on you over the years and be an even heavier burden!"

"That thing almost killed you, Safreon!  I feel no sympathy or guilt.  I’m sorry but I don’t!" Hemlock screamed in response and looked angrily at his hand which still grasped hers.  But she did not struggle.

Safreon let go of her like one would cast off garbage, and he glared at her.

Suddenly, the group was distracted by light near the rocky ground at the point of the Mathi’s passing.  A pale light was forming there.  At once, a bright point of light rose unerringly skyward and bolted into the stars above.

"So passes Bradrun," said Tored loudly and looking skyward.  The Tanna Varrans had approached but had remained around thirty feet away.

After a moment, the Tanna Varrans came closer and tended to Safreon and Hemlock with a salve.  The salve eased the many spots where Hemlock’s skin still burned from contact with the darkness of the Mathi.

Safreon was laid down on the rock and tended by several Tanna Varrans, including Tored.

Hemlock and Gwineval stood at a distance observing, feeling that Safreon was in capable hands.

Taros Ranvok approached Hemlock.

"How bad is he?" asked Hemlock.

"His right arm was burned badly by the Mathi’s breath.  He is developing a fever and he will be sick for a while.  The Mathi’s breath has killed many of our people according to Tored, yet he says that Safreon’s spirit is strong and that he will be ok by the look of it.  He’ll need some time to recover."

"Like I said, this was never our fight," said Gwineval, with a note of scorn in his voice.

Taros Ranvok regarded Gwineval and Hemlock before responding. "You have acted bravely and we will not forget this.  Return with us to our town.  Safreon can heal there and then you can return to the City.  We should leave this area soon."

"What’s the hurry?" asked Hemlock.

"The Witch will soon learn of the passing of her minion.  We are close to her Ziggurat now and we should return to the safety of our town."

Gwineval nodded once and Hemlock agreed.  Safreon was borne to the hillside by the Tanna Varrans and once there, a litter was constructed for him.

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
glide
d
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 bega
n 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. 
H
e
was
carry
ing
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
intervene
d
.  It made Hemlock physically ill even to think of i
t.  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 watchma
n.

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 p
lace,
"
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 t
hey 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
. 

Sud
denly 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
t
hought
fondly of
her
younger sister, and then an image entered her mind uninvited; an image
of the animalistic look in her
stepf
ather'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
.

"Heml
ock!
" 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 s
ister. 
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. 
Th
e look of unbridled joy in her s
ister'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
wood
en
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 sin
ce deceived themselves, however.  Th
ey 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
.  L
ong 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 supernaturall
y 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
zi
ggurat 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 W
itch 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 environ
ment, to be found by some other and returned to the world of Men
.

What had been piece
d 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 thro
ugh inchoate systems of tunnels
which culminated in foul orifices
that fed into
the
upper
levels
the
ziggurat
.