Hemlock And The Wizard Tower (Book 1)

by B Throwsnaill

  She began to jog toward the center of the lines when she saw two companies of Tanna Varran winged Lancers pass overhead toward the City Knights. Hemlock realized that Tored and Taros Ranvok must have been holding their own reserves back to counter this move.

  Hemlock congratulated them on their successful planning in her mind.

  A cry from a runner sprinting toward the line caught Hemlock's attention from behind in the direction of the Tanna Varran Town. "Tored is wounded!" he cried.

  As Hemlock digested the import of these words, she remembered that an entirely different battle was playing out on the plains behind her. The Witch and her horde were apparently faring better against the Tanna Varrans than the wizards were. She knew that Tored was a critical part of their front against the Witch and she knew what she had to do.

  The Tanna Varrans will never hold off the Witch without Tored. Gwineval, or whatever he’s become, will have to hold off the wizards for now, she concluded.

  Activating her Tanna Varran wings, she soared into the air, dodging an arc of magical fire cast at her from one of the nearby Harvesters. Continuing to climb into the air, she saw the Tanna Varran town partially engulfed in flames, with civilian teams engaged in their own battle with the fire.

  On a bluff below the Town, Hemlock saw a sight that almost made her lose control of her wings. She saw Safreon standing before a great lattice of blue magical tendrils which emanated from the Wand of the Imperator, which he strained to hold before him. Within the blue tendrils struggled a chaotic form that Hemlock could not compare to anything that she had ever seen. It was a great mass of hideous eyes and mouths mounted on dripping tendrils of flesh, which seemed to be constantly morphing and undulating.

  Hemlock could tell that Safreon was straining mightily to control the demon. She knew that he was using the Wand of the Imperator to leech magical power from the demon in order to add this power to Gwineval’s spell.

  What would happen if that thing got loose?

  Her instinct was to descend and help Safreon, but she was restrained by the knowledge that she was not a spell caster. She simply didn’t think that she would be able to lend him aid.

  "If Tored has fallen, then I must face the Witch," she realized, and a great weight of responsibility seemed to fully rest upon her spirit. She remembered the words of the Tanna Varran warrior in the meeting hall, during the rally given by Taros Ranvok. "Kill the witch," she had heard the warrior say to her. She resolved to do just that.

  Reluctantly, she focused her attention away from Safreon.

  On the other side of the Town, she beheld the full extent of the Witch’s forces, which were hurling themselves against the Tanna Varran lines like a band of lunatics.

  The Tanna Varrans were holding out despite the desperate onslaught.

  Three of the great flying Mathi creatures circled above the battlefield, occasionally breathing fire on the Tanna Varrans below, but more often fending off a steady stream of flying Tanna Varran lancers. One of the Mathi already appeared to be seriously wounded, though Hemlock saw more than one Lancer plummet to their death as they fought the flying beasts.

  Hemlock looked below and could see a concentration of insubstantial warriors surrounding a ghostly figure which glowed with a fell light. Heading for these apparitions, Hemlock could soon discern the pale figure of the Witch, which she had seen on that dark night a fortnight ago.

  Hemlock landed near to the Witch and as she did so, she was immediately engaged by a ghostly swordsman which was adorned in palatial finery and wielded beautifully ornamental weapons.

  The creature was quick, but Hemlock was able to dispatch it after drawing it in with several parries. She noted that the Tanna Varran enchantment of her sabres was proving to be quite effective against the Witch’s minions. This magic made the ghosts almost as vulnerable to her sabres as if they had been composed of flesh and blood. When the blades hit them, they seemed to sap their strength and a strong hit caused them to fade away with a cry.

  Hemlock soon spotted Tored, lying on the ground about thirty yards away. He was surrounded by several of his honor guard, who were holding off a furious assault from ghostly warriors like the one that Hemlock had just faced.

  She had been told that the ghostly guardians that stayed closest to the Witch were the most powerful.

  Hemlock jogged toward Tored, but was cut off by another pair of the regal, but capable ghost fighters.

  Using their insubstantial blades, this pair of spirits engaged Hemlock with a level of ferocity that caught her off guard.

  When she parried their blows with her sabres, there was real force behind them, but the force was delivered slightly after the insubstantial swords had already been withdrawn.

  Hemlock had to adjust her fighting style slightly to account for this delay.

  The two spirits used an odd tandem fighting style, vaulting off of one another and playing off of each other’s attacks and parries in perfect unison.

  If I wasn’t wielding two sabres, this might be too much for me, she considered abstractly as she fought.

  After some minutes of intense fighting, Hemlock was beginning to tire slightly. She wondered if the spirits could tire, as she perceived a possible new tactic.

  I can’t find an opening to concentrate on either one of them: they are too coordinated. I’ll have to surprise them.

  Hemlock waited until one of the sprits had thrown its counterpart into a twirling attack, which, once blocked by Hemlock, left the two spirits standing abreast of one another.

  Hemlock paused and then used all of her energy to draw back, and in a near instant motion that might have been difficult for an average mortal to even detect, both of her sabres left her outstretched arms, hurtling unerringly at the throats of the spirits.

  In the space of time that the strange echo between the spirit and mortal realms that Hemlock had perceived might have consumed, the two sabres impacted both spirits in the upper chest, just below the neck.

  Their mouths contorted in rage and their arms flew to their necks, but it was too late for them. They fell backward and faded from view, and Hemlock rushed forward to retrieve her sabres, which had been lodged in their fading forms and now rested with handles in the air, embedded in the soft earth.

  Hemlock quickly took stock of the battle around Tored and could see the fallen bodies of his honor guard surrounding his prone form. They were all dead now. A few Tanna Varrans were still rushing to his defense, but the Witch herself was looming close to the Tanna Varran hero, and slaying any brave enough to oppose her.

  Hemlock realized, to her horror, that there were simply too many of these more powerful spirits between her and Tored.

  "I won't get to him! The Witch is too close," she realized with a shock.

  Despite the feeling of dejection that she was experiencing, she slew another one of the many ornately dressed ghosts that stood in her way and she kept fighting forward, even though she feared that it was already a lost cause.

  To her great surprise and relief, she saw Taros Ranvok descend suddenly from the sky, wings extended, and confront the Witch as she approached Tored. Hemlock saw Taros Ranvok’s personal guard land behind him, but they were quickly engaged by nearby spirits.

  Taros Ranvok faced the Witch alone.

  "We will resist you to the end!" he cried, throwing one of his spears at the unearthly apparition of the Witch.

  Hemlock still had her own battles to fight, but despite her peril, her attention kept returning to the fight between Taros Ranvok and the Witch.

  The Witch responded to Taros Ranvok's attack with a laugh and a crack of her multi-headed whip, which deflected his thrown spear in mid-air.

  He held his other spear defensively as the Witch drew back and whipped him directly in the chest, causing him to recoil and cough up blood. Recovering, he surged forward to charge, but she quickly whipped him again, and he fell to one knee.

  Seven times she whipped Taros Ranvok, and though his suffering was gr
eat, he did not retreat before the Witch's fury.

  Hemlock desperately fought her way closer and closer to the scene, slaying a great many of the Witch’s spirit warriors, but the spirits were great in number and seemingly without fear; new ones continued to replace their fallen brethren, continually impeding Hemlock’s progress.

  Hemlock could see that Taros Ranvok was gravely wounded, even though he was still defiant.

  Though it was dangerous for her to do so, Hemlock found that she could not look away as the Witch stood at her tallest and drew her arm back as her features contorted with rage. She struck Taros Ranvok again and this time the whip wrapped around his neck.

  In an expression of a fury fully realized, the Witch jerked the whip back toward her with all of her strength.

  All that Hemlock could do was scream in horror, knowing that she could do nothing to stop the scene which unfolded before her.

  Many Tanna Varrans paused in horror and fear at that moment, as they witnessed the death of Taros Ranvok. His neck snapped under the violent force of the Witch and her whip. His body was thrown many feet and landed like a limp ragdoll before the Witch.

  As Hemlock fought through the final ghost separating her from the Witch, she saw the Witch gloating over Taros Ranvok. As the Witch laughed, her serpentine tongue flicked from her mouth and her haughty laughter, echoing in its supernatural way, demoralized the Tanna Varrans further.

  Hemlock arrived in front of the Witch in a fury and began to rain down blows on the ancient Ghost.

  I can still save Tored, she vowed.

  The Witch, smiling with recognition, cracked her great whip, and although it missed Hemlock, it emitted a shockwave that caused Hemlock to lose her footing and fall. The Witch turned toward Hemlock and laughed a terrible cackle that echoed over the battlefield, as she took a step over the fallen body of Taros Ranvok. The laugh compelled Hemlock to recoil away, for it carried a force that seemed almost physical. Hemlock's magical affinity talent was registering something about the magic carried in that voice, but quickly the Witch stuck again, and Hemlock was forced to leap to her feet to avoid the strike.

  The next time the Witch struck, Hemlock was ready for the crack of that whip and braced herself for the shockwave. The Witch, overconfident, turned away from Hemlock and with another stroke of her whip slew a nearby Tanna Varran, who was fighting to protect Tored.

  Hemlock was on the Witch in that instant, striking her twice in the arm with her sabres, which bit into the Witch with the enchanted power bestowed by Tanna Varran blessings. The Witch cried out loudly in surprise and leapt backward. The spirits nearby all rushed at Hemlock, but suddenly a voice halted their advance.

  "She is mine!" cried the Witch angrily in her beautiful voice, and every spirit halted instantly.

  Hemlock and the Witch stared one another down.

  Hemlock had no doubt that this was a foe quite unlike any other that she had faced–with a speed and power at least equal to her own. This thought did not deter her, however, for the intensity of the battle and the death of Taros Ranvok had already wiped away any notion of self-preservation from her mind.

  In the space of one heartbeat, the Witch began her attack, which was unprecedented to all present in its rage and aggression. Her whip cracked and her luminescent limbs moved with supernatural speed, raining blows down on Hemlock.

  Hemlock bent under the strain of the onslaught, sustaining several concussive wounds from near misses by the whip. These left great bruises on her body and those areas started to tighten up as they swelled.

  Hemlock tried to riposte, but she simply couldn't find an opening–the Witch was too fast and seemingly had unlimited endurance.

  "FEAR!" screamed the Witch and Hemlock, to her great surprise, felt fear.

  The fear gnawed at Hemlock’s concentration as the Witch pressed the attack–cracking her dark whip faster and faster as if she fed on Hemlock’s fear.

  Hemlock soon lost her focus and her movements became forced. She was struck in the arm by the whip and her arm began to feel numb.

  "FEAR!" screamed the Witch again with an incredible volume that echoed through the Valley. She pressed the attack again.

  Hemlock was struck again by the whip–this time in the leg as the fear interfered with her reflexes. In addition to this new wound, her arm was beginning to throb with a dull pain and becoming unresponsive.

  Hemlock realized that she was weakening dangerously.

  Hemlock feared that the Witch might slay her at any moment.

  This was not a thought borne of the magical fear, but from some new voice within her that was devoid of any emotional context.

  Hemlock suddenly felt deconstructed, like many surface layers of her consciousness were peeling away, leaving something elemental within. This newly revealed being was incapable of fear, and it was a darkness that was not oppressive or malicious–rather it was a void, null and completely without form. All this part of Hemlock was concerned with was survival, and it took control of her completely.

  Whereas before her injuries, Hemlock had possessed unnatural speed, now she became supernatural, displaying a speed which defied comparison. Where her blows had before landed with a force that seemed almost impossible for her size and body mass, now her blows seemed to strike with elephantine weight behind them. Her eyes became dull as they darted to and fro with the flow of the combat.

  Soon no normal demon or ghost could conscience her gaze or the threat of her attack. While before they had been held at bay by the will of the Witch, now they fell back from Hemlock in waves of fear, leaving only the shimmering beauty of the Witch and her three headed whip to confront Hemlock.

  Hemlock moved against the Witch with renewed vigor, no longer conscious of any fear or wounds.

  As the Witch parried and then began to fall back under the weight of Hemlock’s new power, her visage began to transform. Each time that she contorted her face in rage, it seemed like some of her unearthly beauty faded away. After several minutes, the Witch was no longer beautiful – she now had the appearance of a hideously disfigured, ancient crone.

  This transformation did not weaken the Witch however– rather it seemed to enhance her abilities. Her strength soon exceeded even Hemlock’s, which itself had swelled to an unearthly proportion. She was not faster than Hemlock, but the Witch seemed to shrug off Hemlock’s sabres with alarming ease.

  The battle continued for another few minutes, with the Witch continuing to display an advantage over Hemlock.

  Finally, Hemlock was exhausted, and a direct impact from the whip struck her down to the ground. She struggled to maintain consciousness, and her vision became cloudy.

  Without warning, Hemlock’s consciousness seemed to be transported to some inner space.

  She stared into a great lattice of interconnected existence and thought. Within this void were an infinite number of versions of herself, each connected by a tendril of time and space which she was able to perceive with some sense which was alien to her.

  She saw these same tendrils extending out from her own spirit body.

  She beheld nearby incarnations that were going about their lives. Most were oblivious to her but some seemed to sense her and even give her their attention.

  Her spirit, still in great peril, involuntarily reached out to them. Most of the other incarnations answered this plea, although some resisted her call and Hemlock sensed that they were engaged in their own difficulties and could not help her.

  There was a sensation like a thunderclap, although it was not rendered in any familiar sensory impressions. She perceived energy traveling along the network of tendrils toward her.

  She was afraid, and cowered before the onslaught of crackling force. But when it overcame her, she felt warm and then hot and then the force became so powerful, as it was channeled to her, that she felt like her spirit might burst under the strain.

  Her attention was being pulled back to the external world, but she concentrated on trying to send some fee
lings of gratitude back over the tendrils to the others, of whom she understood so little.

  Her eyes snapped open and in an instant she was back in the Witch Crags, about to be slaughtered by the Witch who had led the vast demon horde which was now overrunning the plain upon which she lay dying.

  But in that moment she had ceased to simply be Hemlock and was now a composite of the many beings which had contributed some of their energy to help her.

  Hemlock looked up and saw the Witch leering at her and gloating over her.

  Head outstretched, the Witch leaned down toward Hemlock and her great forked tongue undulated forth from her fanged mouth in triumph.

  Looking at the newly revealed ugliness of the Witch’s face closely, Hemlock focused on the forked tongue.

  Why has this feature of the Witch’s face been monstrous all along, when the rest of her face has been cast in a terrible beauty?

  Hemlock suddenly understood what she had to do and, in that instant, mustered all of the force that her inner journey had conferred upon her.

  With a degree of speed that was little different than teleportation, Hemlock bolted to her feet and slashed with her sabre at the outstretched tongue of the Witch; rending it, and tearing it completely from the Witch’s mouth.

  As the ghostly piece of flesh fell to the ground the Witch was overcome by convulsions. She tried to speak words of power, but without her tongue, she couldn’t form the phrases that she sought.

  The Witch moaned in agony and fell to her knees. Dark cracks seemed to form on her face, emanating from her mouth, which was contorted in agony.

  Hemlock was transfixed as she watched the cracks open up in expanding chasms of decay, and in a few moments, the Witch’s form disintegrated and a burst of un-light seemed to emanate from it.

  As the Witch died, this terrible energy washed over the battlefield. The other demons and spirits seemed energized by that energy for a few moments and fought more vigorously; but then, like a proud wave breaking with suddenness upon ancient stone, the energy left them in great confusion and fear swept over them. They sensed that their leader was no more. Broken, they ran off in a chaotic flight.