Hemlock And The Dread Sorceress (Book 3) (15 page)

A net of blue magic scintillated around her body.  It was significant, but weaker than others she’d faced in the past.  She knew she could break free of it by tapping into the energy drawn from the other worlds she saw in her mind’s eye.

But what’s my next move?

“You two men, resume fighting or you both will face the Shadow Man!” commanded the Sorceress.

The two men raised their weapons as their fear appeared to overcome their reluctance to fight.  Their blows were clumsy and tentative.  Overhead, their wyverns circled one another, but did little else.

“Fight harder, or I will kill you both right now!” snarled the Sorceress, hurling fire into the field close to the men.

Soon, the sounds of clanging steel and the crack of lightning filled the arena again.

“Yes! Yes!” yelled the Sorceress, clapping.

I’m running out of time.  She says I need a beast to stand with me... Penelope!  She’s weak, but I can contact her.  I just need her to buy me some time.

Hemlock focused her mind into the strange other space and ripped her arms outward. An outburst shattered the magic spell that confined her and threw dirt for ten yards in each direction.

She shouted inaudibly in the way the griffin taught her.
PENELOPE!  I need you!
 

There was no response in her mind, but Hemlock hoped that the griffin had heard her and awoken.  She had no time to plan otherwise.

“There is a beast that will stand with me, Sorceress!  Will you face me?  Or do you fear me?” said Hemlock aloud, stressing the word fear.

The crowd stirred a bit at Hemlock’s challenge. The Sorceress drew up into an imperious pose.  “I should crush you now, you impudent fool!  But, wait.  You are not what you seem.  And you broke my spell.”

Hemlock turned toward the assembled people.  “Don’t fear her!  She feeds on your fear.”  A sudden thought struck her, then and her magic sense confirmed it.  “You think she cast a spell on your wyverns to take them from you?  You’re wrong!  The spell she cast is on you—a spell of fear.  If you conquer your fear, your wyverns will return to you!”

The Sorceress sneered. “You think they can overcome their fear?  You overestimate them.  They are a brainless lot.  And listen to you—so sure of yourself.  What do you really know?  Have you seen the great sea beyond space and time?  Have you realized our world is just the dream of a slumbering god?”

“My father was the Red Wizard himself.  Don’t lecture me about knowledge.  I know more than you ever will!”

“Is that so?  Well, have you seen the great sea, then?”

Hemlock ignored the Sorceress and turned toward the people. “Don’t be afraid!  Try to reconnect with your wyverns.  You can do it!”

“BE SILENT!” cried the Sorceress, grabbing her giant bat and mounting it.

“Run!” screamed Hemlock as she ran away from the people, hoping to spare them.

The bat rose under powerful beats of its wings, and squealed at a tremendous volume that made all present cover their ears.

Hemlock crouched as bursts of fire crackled through the air and landed all around her, making her cover her head.  The intense heat burned her arms and legs, and singed some of the hair off her head. 

A bitter laugh from above indicated that the Sorceress and the bat had risen into the air to a height of about fifty feet and now circled the stronghold.  The Sorceress rained more fire down on Hemlock. 

The citizens of Ogrun left their seats, and were streaming across the open field toward the gate.  Hemlock needed more room to maneuver, but dared not leave the corner of the courtyard for fear of putting the fleeing people at risk.  She darted toward the tower farthest from the gate, and fire fell all around her, burning her when it hit too close.  The side of the field where she evaded had become an obstacle course of flaming embers and smoking craters.

Hemlock was running with her head low and heard a heavy thud in front of her.  She drew back expecting to see the great form of the engorged bat in front of her, but instead she saw, to her great relief, the slightly bedraggled bulk of the griffin beckoning her to mount.

I came as quickly as I could.

“Thanks,” said Hemlock, panting.

The griffin burst into the air as sheets of fire landed where she had just been.  Hemlock saw the Sorceress and her bat bearing down on them from above. The bat had its claws extended, preparing to rake the slightly smaller griffin.

“Watch out above us!” shouted Hemlock.  In an instant, she felt the muscles in Penelope’s back knot into a rigidity that felt like she was suddenly riding atop a piece of iron.

A warning from the griffin filled her mind.
HOLD ON!

Hemlock grabbed onto the golden mane of the beast and clamped her legs as the griffin reared back spectacularly.  The next sequence of events seemed to proceed in adrenalized slow motion.  The great bat squealed again, disorienting Hemlock.  The dark beast was so close that she could see the raised, red ridges on its long, black claws and smell the fetid odor it gave off.  She could see the bloodthirsty visage of the Sorceress peering down at her expectantly.

Then the tension of the griffin was unleashed in the form of an unearthly, loud roar accompanied by a gale force wind that seemed to follow the sound.  The vast bulk of the bat was blown aside like a child’s kite, and the leathery flesh of its huge wings was torn in many places under the strain of the torrent of air.  The force of the blast was so great that the tattered pennants that remained atop the distant keep were blown whip-straight and parallel to the ground.

As the wind subsided, Hemlock saw the bat and its rider topple to the ground in disarray, both landing heavily on the pockmarked earth.

“Down!” said Hemlock. Penelope wheeled and landed some thirty yards from the bat and Sorceress, both of whom seemed little more than enraged by their fall—with the exception that the bat appeared to be grounded by the damage to its wings.

“I’ll give you a chance to leave here with your life,” said the Sorceress. “One chance!”

“I’m not going to leave you here to torment these people any longer!”

“That’s what I figured you’d say.  You care so much about these people?  What are they except a bunch of ignorant louts?  Another pointless herd in this pointless enterprise we call life.  So what if I have a little fun with them?  What’s the harm?”

“You’re wrong about everything.  This isn’t pointless, and they are worth more than you think!”

“Oh well, it won’t matter in the end.  Your foolish sentiment will avail them nothing!”

HEMLOCK!

She turned just in time to see a dark form at her flank, and realized the error she had made.  The sarcophagus in the distance was open.  The Sorceress had been stalling, and now the Shadow Man, whom she immediately recognized as the corrupted and bestial remnant of her lover, Falignus, was upon her.

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. 

Th
ey 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.