Hemlock and the Wizard Tower Read online

  Chapter Two

  Somewhere on the seventh floor of the Wizard Tower, a wizard stood in a small, dark room amidst a din of shrieks. His long robe did not conceal the fact that he was relatively young and of vigorous appearance, having a slight but muscular build with dark hair and sculpted facial features. He carried himself with an energetic bearing, which also communicated an unmistakable hint of power.

  The Wizard stood before a stone shelf, which was the only feature of the small closet-like chamber. On the shelf, a row of small, metallic skulls were arrayed in a line; they had been cast in silver and polished to a shine. Below each skull was a small wooden stand with a placard which bore the name of a location. Two of the skulls were emitting a loud shriek and their eye sockets were glowing red, bathing the room in a crimson light. Their placards bore the words "Front Gate," and "Service, First Floor."

  The Wizard bristled at a lack of discipline that he attributed to his fellow wizards. He had pushed for more rigorous security measures, but the other wizards had been more intent on their research than anything else; they had not wanted to be disturbed by false alarms or guard duty. Additionally, they had argued that the Tower was well–nigh impregnable.

  The Wizard judged that the current policy of relying on automatons to check the safety of the Tower’s defenses was reckless–especially given the fact that he knew that the automatons only checked for alarms in this room once every hour.

  Despite his anger at the fact that someone had apparently infiltrated the Tower, the Wizard’s thoughts were also laced with a raw feeling of excitement.

  "Who has entered the Tower? Is it the one that my visions have suggested will come?" were the questions that raced through his mind over and over again, inspiring an intense feeling of curiosity in him which overshadowed his other feelings of anger, fear and concern.

  The Wizard concentrated for a moment, and then he extended his hand past each of the clamoring skulls. As he did so, their eyes went dark and their shrieking subsided. When all was quiet again, the Wizard paused and his body tensed, as if he was confronted by a sudden doubt or fear. But his body gradually relaxed over the course of several seconds, and then he strode out of the room with a confident gait.

  …

  With a final glance at her surroundings, Hemlock began to methodically climb the circular staircase. She sensed in it a magical force kept in check by a delicate control. The nature of the force was pure aggression surrounded by and contained by a boundary of civility.

  As she reached the first small hand mounted on the stair railing, she heard the strange metallic grating sound, as the fist abruptly began to glow and then opened up into a restrictive gesture, with fingers extended and palm jutting forward.

  This hand was cast with a furry appearance–like that of a hairy ape. The hairs were rendered with some detail in the iron and as she halted and turned her attention to the hand, she saw a small fanged mouth appear in the middle of the palm.

  The little mouth spoke the first riddle, which she answered with the same response that she had heard the Gnome use, using an audible but very hushed voice. She figured that an audible answer was probably a requirement of the process. After she spoke the answer, the hand clenched back into a fist, and she took this as a signal that she could continue to climb.

  The second hand was a human looking hand. The same sequence of events occurred as had with the first hand, and she answered the second riddle correctly.

  Hemlock desperately hoped that no one was in the room above and able to hear her speaking the answers to the riddles. But she couldn’t figure out any alternative to proceeding as she had seen the Gnome do before her.

  As she resumed climbing and approached the third hand, she struggled to catch a glimpse of the upper room in order to try to see if anyone was observing her. Despite her stealth, her footfalls were making a faint metallic clunk on the stairs as she climbed, and this concerned her greatly. Beyond that sound and the pulsating rhythm of the machine, she didn’t hear anything else–including from the upper room. But she did notice another light, orange hued and otherworldly, which seemed to pulsate in time with the rhythm of the machine below, emanating from the room above.

  She reached the third riddle. Again, she cringed as the strange voice from the third metallic hand asked the question and she tried to provide the answer as silently as possible. With that done, she reluctantly started her climb up toward the fourth hand, and her adrenaline surged in anticipation of whether she would be able to think quickly enough to figure out the answer.

  …

  She and Safreon had been relaxing one day in their favorite tavern, when he had unexpectedly started telling her about the wizards.

  "The ale has loosened my tongue… You’ve been wanting to know about the history of the wizards. Now I’ll tell you, but be patient, for it’s not a short tale."

  "Everyone has heard the tale of the Bridge of Ninety-Nine Tears and knows that the wizards are not to be meddled with. In fact, passive obedience is how most folk try to deal with them–if ever an occasion arises where they must be dealt with."

  Safreon had then explained to her that there was a strange plant called Oberon which was said to grow on the highest peaks of the Witch Crags, a mysterious region to the west of the City.

  "The Witch Crags are supposedly the place where despondent souls go to try to die. Apparently, as the lore goes, some people just can’t figure out how to let go of their life in this realm–even after their mortal body has perished. It’s said that spiritual forces begin to pull them into the next life; and these souls find it harder and harder to remain here as shades in the realm of the living. Eventually they are drawn to the Witch Crags. It is said that something about the rocky crags makes these spirits think they will find relief from the pull of the next life there."

  The crags themselves were steep and stark rock formations. Safreon told her that it was rumored that those crags, and the valleys that separated them, had once been beautiful.

  "No one is sure whether some unique properties of the region first drew the lost souls to the area or whether the souls arrived and brought evil with them. But the area is now called the Witch Crags–partly because it is perennially dark and noisome, and strange lights are often seen around the peaks."

  He related that the spirits of the not-quite-departed were frightening and often very dangerous–especially at night when they roamed the hills and valleys in great numbers, anxious to engage an unfortunate traveler in an icy embrace that would consume their very soul.

  "But it’s the evil hag-like spirits that truly give the Witch Crags their sinister name. These Witches are said to be powerful, malevolent spirits who gather the lost souls into evil covens. It is said that they mask their evil with great beauty, but little else is known about them in the City."

  "Oberon is pure concentrated magical energy in physical form. It can be used to make magical potions and can also be used to magnify the strength of magical spells. It is a vital resource for a Wizard to have in order to allow him to reach the heights of magical power."

  "The Wizard Guild is said to have been formed by an enterprising wizard named Julius who supposedly discovered the Oberon for the first time, in the possession of a dying man. This man had carried himself like a lunatic as he wandered into the City, and raved about surviving a sojourn through a land called the Witch Crags."

  Hemlock knew that their City, which was named San Cyra, but was always referred to simply as "The City," had strange properties compared to the other lands that it travelled through. The City never stayed in the same place for long. If one travelled to the edge of the land around the City, they saw a shimmering and opaque border, which was referred to as "the veil." Beyond the veil, things always changed. If one crossed the veil and lingered for more than a few hours, then they wouldn’t find the City where they left it, and would be stranded.

  "Julius studied the Oberon and quickl
y ascertained its properties of magical enhancement. By rapidly bringing his considerable power to bear, Julius was able to bind the Witch Crags region to the City before it faded away. Alone, Julius then assayed the Witch Crags and located the Oberon herb growing at the top of one of the crags. After some dangerous encounters with the hostile spirits of the realm, Julius quickly determined that the regular journeys from the City that would be necessary in order to harvest the Oberon would be unacceptably dangerous, even for a Wizard of his considerable stature."

  Hemlock asked Safreon how this Julius had the power to bind the Witch Crags to the City.

  "Nobody is certain of that," Safreon replied, "but I think it has something to do with the magic of the Imperator."

  Hemlock wasn't certain what that meant, other than being aware of the tales of the tyrannical Imperator and his rule over the City in times gone by. But she was content to let Safreon continue.

  "Julius formed the Wizard Guild with the intent to organize a group of wizards who would be able to use their combined magical power to safely harvest the Oberon from the Witch Crags."

  "They were successful, and they used the power of the Oberon to quickly become the most singularly potent wizards in the entire City. But something happened to them as they developed. Flush with their new power, they began to desire even more. They approached all of the other wizards in the City and delivered an ultimatum: use of Oberon outside of the Wizard Guild was to be forbidden and punishable by assassination. It became clear very quickly that Julius was a visionary, and his vision was one of dominance for himself and his new organization."

  "The wizards gained in power and influence in the City and though they were quick to anger and merciless in their retribution, they always stopped short of being truly megalomaniacal. Fortunately for everyone else in the City, their quest for more magical power was their driving ambition. All other ambitions were pursued only as surrogates to that ultimate aim. Therefore, though their demands could be seemingly arbitrary and often extravagant, they did not subject the peoples of the City to any organized subjugation."

  "But living under the shadow of the wizards was like living on the outskirts of a dragon’s lair: never being sure when the dragon would emerge to inflict some sorrow on your life, but with enough long intervals of peace and sanity that life was bearable, and at times even modestly joyful."

  …

  As Hemlock approached the fourth hand she glanced at the metal cylinder that was the inner support of the circular staircase. It was polished to a reflective sheen and she found herself gazing searchingly at her reflection. She saw uncertainty in her features. She looked over her high cheekbones and blonde hair, and was conscious of her beauty. She despaired suddenly that her bloodline might end there and then on what she suddenly worried had become a fool’s quest. But then she thought of the needs of her sister, and the thought calmed her.

  She regained focus and was careful not to linger too long. Taking a few more steps, she found herself facing the fourth hand and hearing the reluctant screech of metal forced into motion by magic, as the hand animated and opened.

  She chanced a quick glance upward and saw the source of the other orange light which shone from the room above her; but she could not focus on it well enough see what it was. She noted that the room above had stone walls and sweeping granite arches, however.

  But her attention was diverted when the small mouth on the palm of the fourth metallic hand spoke the words of the final riddle: "Some mistake the beauty of this white umbrella flower, which masks a fatal power."

  At hearing the riddle, Hemlock’s pulse surged in her veins and her mind raced through possible explanations for what seemed to her to be a dangerous coincidence, or worse still, a certain sign of her discovery by the wizards.

  What are the chances of this? Could it be a coincidence? Or is someone aware of my presence here? she despaired, as she was instantly certain of the answer to the riddle.

  She considered what it would mean if someone was aware of her intrusion. But then she remembered that she still had to answer the riddle.

  The answer rolled off of her lips easily. It was the innocent looking plant with the umbrella–like white flowers which housed a lethal poison. And it was her name.

  "Hemlock," she said softly.

  As the metal fist closed, Hemlock vaulted to the lip of the top stair and crouched; she paused to take in her surroundings. Her mind was still in turmoil because of the nature of that final riddle, but her instincts had taken over and she knew better than to ignore them in dangerous situations.

  The orange light pulsed, revealing great vats of liquid: heated and bubbling with a barely discernable sound. Behind her and to her right was the source of the orange light; the upper torso of the suspended green Dragon that she had seen in the room below. Turning, she saw that the great Dragon’s head and upper body were suspended with chains as thick as a man’s leg which effervesced with a magical dweomer. Through a bizarre mechanism of tubes, the liquid from one of the bubbling vats was being fed into the mouth of the Dragon, which was clamped wide open with a huge iron restraint. The eyes of the Dragon were open, but unseeing, though they were the source of the incredibly bright orange light.

  Pausing, she took a moment to do a quick scan for exits. She saw that there was one behind her which she believed corresponded to the door that she had entered on the floor below.

  There was more shelving in the room, and a great collection of ironworks, for a large machine lay strewn about the floor of the chamber. They were covered in dust and cobwebs.

  She noted with a start that the clockwork Gnome sat at the front of a set of massive chain links, which resembled those suspending the Dragon.

  Though the Gnome was motionless, Hemlock had the distinct impression that it perceived her.

  Her mind went into overload. She was still trying to consider the implications of the fourth riddle and its connection to her, but she judged that the Gnome was a more immediate threat, and thus she gave it most of her attention.

  Impulsively, she stood up and boldly strode toward the Gnome.

  "And who might you be?" sputtered the Gnome in his odd voice.

  She considered that it might be unwise to reveal the connection between her name and the riddle, so she answered using one of her street aliases: "I am called Megan. Pleased to be at your service," she said as she gave a small bow–favoring it over the more feminine curtsey.

  The Gnome paused, and then returned his attention to her after swatting at an errant gear that seemed to spin out of control for a moment on its right leg.

  "How did you get in here?"

  "I had magical aid," she responded.

  It seemed to consider that for a moment.

  She tried to attune her mind to the Gnome. It was clearly magical and its aura seemed non–threatening. She detected magical energies of support and connectivity, with perhaps a bit of discipline thrown in for good measure.

  "We haven’t had an unannounced visitor in one hundred and four years," the gnome stated matter-of-factly.

  "Well I am honored at having that distinction," Hemlock replied.

  "My Masters will no doubt think poorly on your decision to visit under such circumstances," said the Gnome with a mechanical sigh of resignation.

  "Perhaps they don’t need to know then," Hemlock replied with false cheer.

  "You do seem nice," stated the gnome .

  It was difficult for Hemlock to interpret emotion in the mechanical sounds of its voice, but she did sense some underlying emotion.

  "It would be a shame to see them hurt you," continued the Gnome.

  "What is your name?" she asked.

  "My…name?"

  Some springs and valves sputtered to life in the Gnome’s head, and a small puff of dust was kicked up around the red conical hat that it wore.

  This part of his mind machinery hasn’t been used in quite some time apparently.
>
  "…Yes, I did have a name. What was it? Ah yes, Merit. I was called Merit."

  "Hello Merit, nice to meet you." Again Hemlock bowed.

  "Likewise Megan," said the Gnome and it rose with some effort and bowed in return.

  "Merit, I’d like to tell you why I came here," said Hemlock, trying her best to seem charming and maternal–which was difficult for her to do since she was speaking to an automaton and not a child. "I believe the wizards are stealing magic from the Warrens with one of their devices. It’s harming our people. It’s harming my sister, in fact, and her magical medicines are not working. I have to stop whatever they are doing."

  She knew that she was gambling here. She considered that if the wizards had the ability to listen into this conversation somehow, then she had laid bare her intentions. By doing so, she probably wouldn’t even be kept alive long enough for torture and interrogation were she captured.

  But she sensed an opportunity in the idea that perhaps the automaton had emotions like a real person did. She even considered the possibility that maybe it had once been a person. And she felt, instinctively, that she needed its help.

  "My masters do hurt people–I’ve seen it before," observed the Gnome sullenly, breaking the silence brought on by Hemlock’s contemplation.

  "Merit, do you think you can help me to help my neighborhood?" she asked, thinking back to a certain woman that Hemlock had always admired for seeming matriarchal, and trying to emulate her manner of speech.

  "Well…" the Gnome said and then hesitated. "I can try–but what if they hurt me?"

  "We’ll arrange it so they will never find out, Merit."

  …

  Safreon had been mock furious when she’d told him that Megan was really a pseudonym, and that she was the thief known as Hemlock. She knew that her minor celebrity within the Warrens would elicit a reaction from him.

  "You’re Hemlock?" he had responded, first with disbelief and then with theatrical rage. "YOU ARE HEMLOCK?"

  He sat down then and actually chuckled. He always grasped for the hair at the front of his head (that hadn’t yet succumbed to baldness) when he laughed. She found it to be an endearing habit.

  "I’ve followed your career for many years now," he stated seriously. "You were greedy and sometimes you were cruel. But then the word was that you had changed and I started to hear that you were losing your edge–that you were sparing your victims who were weak or poor or who pleaded with you sincerely. It was then that my heart knew hope that maybe this …Hemlock… might be someone of real substance, someone who might take up the cause that I work toward."

  "Safreon, have you been lonely all of these years?" Hemlock asked soberly, changing the subject. "Haven’t you found any other companions besides me?"

  "There have been others," he sighed heavily, but seemed to catch himself before elaborating. "But none that could commit to the life of ones such as we. There is little glory or profit in it."

  "I cannot believe that in the whole of the Warrens that there are no others who feel as we do and have the strength to fight for their ideals," she said, her eyes burning with indignation.

  "Spoken like a true idealist," he responded, smiling. "I’ve found that many people’s hearts are in the right place. But we need leaders and people of action, because we are trying to lead the Warrens to a place where it hasn’t been before. Most people just aren’t ready to accept change, let alone champion it!" He had finished the final sentence with a comic heroic flourish and had hit his head on a low ceiling beam in the process.

  Hemlock laughed as he rubbed his head and glared at her, muttering some mild curses under his breath, though he wore a rueful smile on his face as he uttered them.

  …

  Hemlock believed that she was close to getting the Gnome to reveal the layout of the Wizard Tower to her.

  "Oh yes, Miss Megan, I have seen the thing that makes the lights in the evening. It is in the atrium on the seventh floor. That’s where all of the most powerful wizards work. They are called the Seventh Circle," Merit commented with some unmistakable pride in his voice.

  "And do each of the other floors have a ‘circle’ of wizards as well?" asked Hemlock, scratching nervously at her scalp through her hair.

  "Yes, Miss Megan."

  Merit had started calling her Miss Megan at some point in the conversation, which she hadn’t noticed immediately. She took it as a term of endearment and a reassuring sign. She felt sure that she was the only being that had been kind and attentive to Merit in many, many years, and she planned to use this to her advantage.

  "Why does it matter what circle the wizards are members of?" she asked.

  "Each circle specializes in a certain area of Magic. The First Circle learns about the art of battle and its members often leave the tower. The Second Circle studies the use of magic as a tool for replacing human labor. The Third Circle specializes in the harnessing and storage of magical energy."

  Hemlock noted that the Third Circle might relate to what was happening to the magic in the Warrens.

  "The Fourth Circle," continued Merit, "specializes in Illusion. The Fifth Circle researches how to enhance their bodies with magic. The Sixth Circle specializes in cataloging magical spells. Finally, the Seventh Circle wizards take the work of the other circles and apply it to secret research. They are the masters of the Tower and are seldom seen."

  Merit had delivered the description of the circles of the wizards in a monotone as if it was being recited verbatim from memory rather than being derived from any understanding of the subject matter.

  Hemlock felt daunted by the descriptions of the functions of the wizards. Hearing more about them had made their power seem more tangible to her.

  She put her concerns aside though and focused on her need to figure out a means to get to the seventh floor without attracting attention.

  A thought sprung into her mind unbidden: even one Wizard would probably be a match for me–especially here in their inner sanctum.

  "Merit, is there any connection between the wizards of the Third Circle and the Seventh Circle? Why is the atrium on the seventh floor?" she asked, hoping that the compound question would not be too complex for the seemingly simple creature.

  "I’m afraid I’m not sure, Miss Megan," replied the Gnome after much thrashing of gears in its cranial area.

  Taking another tack, she considered that Merit probably had a schedule of duties. She tried to prioritize the many questions that sprang into her head as she pursued this line of thinking.

  "Merit, what is the best way to get to the seventh floor undetected?" she asked, hoping that this direct question would result in a meaningful answer.

  Merit responded after his head evidenced more furious spinning of gears and another puff of smoke, which emanated from his ear: "Miss Megan, I think I know what you mean but I’m not used to thinking like that. I just go where I need to go, when I am told to go. I have never considered doing other than what I am told."

  Hemlock had a sudden inspiration.

  "Have you been told to report strangers in the Tower?" she replied.

  "No, Miss Megan."

  She felt relieved and concluded that apparently the wizards were as arrogant as she had expected.

  "Then you’re not going to tell anyone that I’m here?" she asked leadingly.

  "If I am asked, I will have to tell–I will not be able to keep it from the wizards," Merit replied, sounding a bit dejected at the prospect.

  "But what if they don’t ask you?"

  "Then I will not tell them. I never speak unless spoken to or instructed to by prior training."

  "And you haven’t been trained to report intruders?" she pressed, wanting to be certain.

  "No, Miss Megan."

  "Are there others like you in the Tower?"

  "Yes, there are."

  "How many?"

  "One per floor of the Tower."

  "So you are assigned to th
e first floor. But we’re on the second?" she thought aloud.

  "I share the maintenance of the Oberon pumping machines with Number Two. I also work in the atrium with Number Seven."

  "When does Two come to these rooms?" she hurriedly asked.

  "He will be here in approximately four minutes," responded Merit.

  She began to speak faster then.

  "Merit, when do you go to the atrium to work?"

  "We clean it once per evening and check on the machines there," Merit replied without any apparent recognition of her new tone of urgency.

  "Merit can you destroy the machines in the atrium for me?" She asked, knowing that this was a reach.

  "I cannot do that. I wouldn’t know how to attempt it," replied Merit with some hesitation.

  She was conscious of the fact that she needed to take action in less than four minutes. Alternatively, she could wait here for Number Two to enter and attempt to reason with him as well. But she was pretty sure that she didn’t want to deal with more than one of these automatons. She thought that even if she assumed that their personalities were similar, that revealing herself to two of the automatons would expose her to more risk of detection. Plus she now knew that Merit would be in the seventh floor atrium at some point that night, and likely willing to help her. She figured that was probably the best advantage she would be able to obtain from the automatons.

  She had to concentrate on her next move though. If she waited here, she risked more complications and wouldn’t move toward her goal. She decided to focus on finding a way to get upstairs.

  "Merit, are there any ways up to the higher floors besides the main stairways?"

  "Yes, there are many."

  "How many wizards are on this floor right now?"

  "Well, let me see. It’s difficult to say exactly but I would expect that…well," Merit continued to think out loud as he worked through the problem.

  Hemlock decided that she needed to change the focus of her questions.

  "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."