Hemlock And The Wizard Tower (Book 1) Page 7

  Gwineval thought of the idealistic rogue known as Safreon. Somehow, this Safreon had appealed to Gwineval’s good nature and his doubts about the outcome of the Guild’s power grab. Gwineval revealed certain information about the Guild to Safreon–information that would result in his death should his fellow wizards discover that it had been revealed to an outsider. He respected Safreon and he wanted to encourage the little bits of good that the man obviously performed in his neighborhood. He looked at Safreon like a little pet in a glass house with no awareness of the forces at work on the other side of the glass. What harm could there be in indulging his altruistic side? Deep in his heart, Gwineval knew that the Wizard Guild would rule the realm with an iron fist fortified by their control of magic–despite the fact that Gwineval believed that it was morally wrong to do so. It would sadden him greatly on the day he would have to reveal to Safreon that there was nothing he could do to stem the momentum–that the forces were already in motion and quite unstoppable.

  Suddenly he felt an itching in his head. He scratched at the back of his skull, his scales still feeling somewhat unfamiliar as he itched. His scales didn't itch often like human skin had. The itching then became a dull burning and the sensation quickly manifested into a voice crying out his name inside his mind.

  "GWINEVAL!"

  He staggered and his subordinates moved toward him to steady him, yet they remained frightened of him and hesitated to actually make contact.

  As quickly as the phenomenon had started, it was over. He was left to revel in amazement at the power that must have been necessary to accomplish such a feat; to get an audible message to him through the wards of the Tower would have been a trying task even for one of his level of wizardry.

  He believed that he had recognized the voice; if he was not mistaken it had been that of none other than the charming crusader that he had just been thinking of, Safreon of the Warrens. The message could only mean one thing; that Safreon was trying to initiate magical communications with him.

  The timing was poor, given his current need to apprehend the mysterious intruder. He considered whether or not to notify the other wizards of the intruder's presence. This idea was quickly dismissed in his mind; he knew how the Guild would react if they caught an intruder. There was a faction within the wizards known as the Crimson Order. In his mind, the Crimson Order embodied all of the negative attributes of the Guild that gave him reason to think that the tremendous power that the Guild was about to obtain was morally wrong.

  In Gwineval’s opinion, the Crimson Order took every eccentricity and flaw of the wizards and magnified them to an extreme. They were violently xenophobic, ravenously ambitious, viewed non-wizards as little more than farm animals, and considered rogue wizards to be dangerous extremists who should be dealt with quickly and with deadly force.

  Gwineval led a fragile alliance of non-Crimson Order wizards within the Guild, and they had been able to contain the influence of the Crimson Order in recent years.

  But an incident like an intruder in the Wizard Tower would be a flashpoint issue that could quickly give the Crimson Order an opportunity to exploit paranoia and fear among the other wizards in order to gain full political control of the Guild.

  He had to try to contain this situation and deal with this intruder himself, before the Crimson Order discovered them.

  But he was equally intrigued by the evidence that this seemingly harmless Safreon was a rogue Wizard of great power, able to contact him even within this magically shielded stronghold.

  Emerging from his line of thinking, Gwineval cast a reassuring glance to his subordinates and gestured for them to remain behind; he continued to walk down the hall toward his chambers.

  He decided that he would quickly initiate communications with Safreon, for he suspected that the two very unusual events that had just transpired could be related.

  His chambers were on the way toward the third floor stair, where he had intended to try to pick up the trail of the intruder. A few moments of conversation with Safreon would not, in his estimation, compromise his search for the intruder and could provide him with critical information about the situation, if Safreon knew something about the intruder. Plus, it would satiate his intense curiosity about how Safreon had contacted him so invasively.

  As he reached the door to his chamber, he slipped in quickly and moved through the artificially humid room to a corner where a thick ivory pedestal sat supporting a large half clamshell on top of it. The clamshell held a pool of dark water.

  Gwineval’s eyes flicked closed and his head lolled forward as he reached the small pool.

  A strange mist emanated from the water in an instant, and as that mist cleared Safreon’s distorted features were visible through ripples in the water’s surface.

  "Gwineval – thank all greatness! You received my message," said Safreon abruptly.

  "Yessss, we must speak about that–and quickly–for I have business to attend to here," replied Gwineval urgently.

  "I trust that our communications are private?" asked Safreon.

  "Yes, the Tower has innate protections and I have taken extra precautions, given my position here," replied Gwineval.

  "I believe that my associate–a girl of promising yet undeveloped talents–is planning to enter the Wizard Tower tonight."

  Gwineval did not reply immediately and Safreon waited, content that his message had been received without being misunderstood as a jest.

  Gwineval considered what Safreon might truly be, and whether this could be an indirect move against him by the Crimson Order. If Safreon was part of a plot to undermine him, it was being perfectly executed.

  Gwineval looked hard at Safreon’s distorted features in the pool.

  "Yes, you have a decision to make my friend," spoke Safreon after a time. "I can appreciate what must be going through your mind. Can I explain the background of the situation?"

  "You must be brief – I detected your associate not minutes ago and she may soon be detected by others!" replied Gwineval.

  "She’s young and headstrong, but she’s with us; she fights for justice and fairness. Her sister is sickly– normally aided by magical alms–but the faltering magic in the Warrens is weakening her. The girl is named Hemlock. Can you try to save her for me?"

  Gwineval weighed the merits of the story. It seemed internally consistent and he judged that Safreon might be telling the truth.

  But what of Safreon himself? What is the source of his power? Is it the Crimson Order? Gwineval wondered to himself.

  "You must tell me this and you must be precise and candid or else I will not help you. Where did you obtain the magical power to contact me tonight?" demanded Gwineval.

  Safreon paused for just a moment before he replied.

  "I have a Wand of the Imperator," said Safreon with resignation.

  A great hiss left Gwineval’s mouth then and his forked tongue flicked back and forth among his teeth.

  "Truly?" responded Gwineval in disbelief, unable to believe that Safreon could actually possess such a legendary and powerful magical artifact.

  "Yes," responded Safreon evenly.

  "Then I will help this Hemlock. But in exchange, you will allow me to fully investigate the powers of the Wand," Gwineval replied, his pulse quickening at the anticipation of having access to the artifact.

  Chapter Five

  Hemlock moved quickly down the hallway, staying close to the inner wall of the passage. She hoped to find cover in the room ahead of her.

  She slowed to peer into the room as it came into view, hugging the wall for cover. The room was dark in contrast to the even light of the hallway and the light granite wall beside which she now stood.

  As her eyes adjusted, Hemlock could see that the room was quite unusual. The floor, walls and ceiling were composed of square panels which were all black as a moonless night, and flickering stars were visible through decorative openings in them. Mounted in the center of each of these panels was an extruded, black, c
loth pillow. The uniformity of the floor, walls and ceiling gave the room a bizarre appearance; it lacked any normal directional frame of reference save for a dimly lit exit on the opposite side of where Hemlock stood. The exit was only barely visible through the intervening darkness.

  Hemlock risked leaning farther away from the wall to survey the entirety of the room, noting for the first time a faint hum which reverberated in a pleasing, almost melodic tone. She concluded that the room was empty.

  She moved deftly, still crouched, and halted immediately before the line of darkness on the floor which demarcated the room from the hall. Cautiously, she thrust her forearm through the dark border and into the room. She felt an odd tingling sensation in her arm, but it was not disagreeable.

  Deciding that she could not afford any further delay, she moved decisively forward.

  As her ears crossed into the space, the hum became louder–but it was still pleasant and relaxing.

  Hemlock discovered with great alarm, however, that she was floating and completely unable to control her motion. She could move her body normally, but she had left the ground. Her limbs thrashed back and forth easily, but without any noticeable influence on her momentum.

  She was floating across the room but also gently upwards. As she looked up, she suppressed a cry of surprise as she noted a young wizard in a fine grey robe with a red waist sash. He was floating near the ceiling and facing down toward her and the floor. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly ajar; he was obviously asleep.

  Hemlock continued to move her legs in a running motion and tried to reach with her arms toward the hallway across from her, which was now slightly below her as her momentum carried her toward the ceiling in the far end of the room.

  She found that concepts like floor and ceiling were becoming more abstract as she gazed around her at the uniform walls of the space. She now understood why the small pillows were mounted in regular intervals along the walls of the room.

  Is this where the wizards sleep? she wondered between fearful thoughts of the Wizard above her waking and raining down a fiery death upon her.

  She appreciated that the room provided quite a soothing atmosphere–but at the moment it was proving to be another hazard for her.

  Something drew her eyes back to the Wizard. She wanted to shy away from him and not look in his direction–fearing that her attention might somehow wake him. She tried to concentrate on a meditation that was helpful when she was lying in wait and trying to avoid detection. She imagined herself being made of stone.

  But in this case, she couldn’t help but notice the striking features of the Wizard.

  His face was possessed of an unusual angular beauty and had a youthful appearance. He had a light complexion with bold, dark hair. He was tall and well-built and a visible arm, protruding from his robe, displayed an understated musculature with prominent veins.

  There was a small glowing field surrounding him, which looked like a yellowish, dim fire.

  It gave the distinct impression of emanating from the Wizard’s form–like a mist rising from a pond.

  Hemlock blinked her eyes a few times, for the field around the Wizard was so faint that she wasn’t sure it was there. Something about the field began to register with her magical affinity.

  Suddenly, Hemlock had an idea, which interrupted her observation of the Wizard.

  She grabbed her small grappling hook and rope from underneath her cloak. It was wrapped in a dirty cloth, which she removed.

  Her removal of the cloth proved to be too hasty–for the cloth floated off quite rapidly to her right and was immediately out of her reach. Moments later, it came to rest on the wall far from her, but then seemed to catch a small current of air and began to float slowly upwards at an angle which suggested it might hit the sleeping Wizard.

  Cursing under her breath, Hemlock grasped the grappling hook and considered the arched doorway of the exit. There were edges in the stonework of the archway, and she hoped to catch one with the hook and pull herself down to the doorway.

  Taking her aim with a back and forth motion of her arm, and noting with dismay the steady progress of the cloth toward the slumbering Wizard, she prepared to throw.

  Her plan was to throw through the doorway and to quickly jerk the rope toward her before the hook hit the floor in the hallway and made a loud noise that might wake the Wizard. She hoped to catch the lip of the upper arch with the hook in the process.

  She threw and jerked the hook back as it entered the space beyond the room–but the hook didn’t fully make purchase with the stone and flew back toward Hemlock, making a shearing noise of iron on stone in the process, that caused Hemlock to gasp silently.

  Fortunately, the pleasant and melodic humming of the room seemed to drown out the noise.

  Hemlock caught the hook again. She noted that the cloth was still floating toward the Wizard and was about one third of the way there. Briefly, she considered trying to impact the cloth with the hook but her instinct to flee the strange room was stronger.

  She threw the hook again toward the archway and this time when she jerked on the rope, the hook grabbed into the stone and Hemlock launched quite rapidly toward the exit. She continued to pull on the rope and soon reached the exit.

  As she crossed into the light, she was dazzled by its brilliance. She was pulled to the floor by her renewed weight, and she landed in the hallway almost silently, in a crouched position. An arm that she had outstretched caught the grappling hook before it clattered to the floor.

  It was difficult for her to see in the sudden brightness, but the hall before her continued in the lazy curve that she now thought characteristic of the tower. There were a few doors on either side of this hall. Driven by the memory of the fluttering cloth and the sleeping Wizard, she ignored them and dashed down the hallway, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the Wizard as possible.

  …

  The Wizard known as Falignus willed himself awake as a dirty cloth fluttered close to his face. He had taken the precaution of casting a light sleep spell on himself so that he might observe the intruder first hand without alarming her. His pride and boldness had prevailed upon him in this decision, as an invisibility spell would have been the safer choice.

  Judging by his impressions of the intruder (gleaned under the slightly imprecise effects of the spell of sleeping awareness), he had been lucky that the situation hadn’t gotten complicated. She had conducted herself with a cool efficiency, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she had also seemed to notice something unusual about his sleep.

  Her attire had been modest but her motions and mannerisms had indicated great ability that had been molded by superior training. She was startlingly young and very beautiful.

  Falignus felt that the wizards had grown complacent about security, yet the undeniable fact remained that the girl had negotiated tremendous challenges to get to this point in her intrusion.

  He wanted to interact with her rather than passively observe her.

  I desire her. This intruder could truly be dangerous to me.

  …

  Hemlock moved down the hallway under the glaring light. She paused beside some doors, listening, and then moved on when she heard nothing that would signal danger.

  She moved more recklessly than before and fought to control her growing alarm at her situation. Her thoughts returned to the mystery of her name being the answer to the riddle on the stair, the threat of the discovery of the drunken bust, and the dirty cloth and the slumbering Wizard in the weightless room behind her. It took a strong effort to control her anxieties and maintain her focus.

  Before her was another odd room. A strong smell of grease emanated from it and great creaks and groans could be heard–the sounds of iron under tremendous load.

  The room stretched for several floors above her, was evenly lit, and was bordered in plain granite. Suspended from large chains were several great iron spheres, as big around as a man. They were adorned with strange runic
markings and odd numbered gradations. Many of the spheres moved in circular motions parallel to the floor – straining the great chains from which they were suspended.

  Seeing no presence within the room, Hemlock crept to the archway and looked around. She saw another exit across from her and a door on the wall toward the inside of the Tower. Looking up, she could see that the room culminated in a ceiling far above, where large iron hinges connected the chains to the roof at the apex of arched supports. Arrayed around the hinges was a network of walkways consisting of iron floor plates and twin hand rails.

  Eyeing the chains and the causeways above, Hemlock considered her options.

  The stair must be close, but one of these chains could buy me several floors at once.

  Her mind made up, she approached one of the spheres that wasn’t moving. She took a moment to attune herself to its magic. Once again she was taken aback by its power and complexity, which was well beyond anything that she typically encountered in the Warrens. There was a layer of force similar to divination, there was the unmistakable mark of suffering, and an aura of sensitivity was present as well. The magic was passive, however. She did not feel threatened by the dweomer.

  With a fleeting remembrance of the handsome Wizard in the red sash, she crouched low near the ground and launched herself lithely atop the sphere so that it barely moved as it bore her weight.

  The chain that supported the sphere was heavily oiled. The substance appeared to be applied at the top of the hinge by workers on the causeways and allowed to seep down the length of the chain. Due to this, it was heavy in places but practically non–existent in others.

  It would be a difficult climb because of the oil, but more so because she felt compelled to try and get to the top before that sleeping Wizard might wake and set off an alarm. She hoped that this unconventional route would save her several critical minutes if she had been, or was about to be detected.

  …

  Gwineval watched the climbing form of a young woman from a hidden alcove in the towering Chamber of Measurement. He was impressed with her abilities. If he hadn’t been looking for her, he wasn’t sure that he would have even seen her. She was an expert at stealth. Her motions were strikingly steady and regular; her slim form always kept hidden in the shadows of the great chain upon which she climbed.