Just then the crowd below them roared.
Hemlock looked down and saw through a grate in the floor that Tored was still hanging from the side of the arena. But now he was gasping for air and gripping his chest with one hand as blood stained his fingers. Umra Vyle was flying away and still had his spear. Tored’s grip on the spikes seemed to waver, and Hemlock heard the clanking sound of metal on metal from deep in the arena.
“Tored’s hunting knife is lost!” snarled Syrelene triumphantly.
“Know this, girl—even if you kill us and enter the area, every warrior in this land will seek your death. Neither you, Tored, nor any of the wizards accompanying you would survive such a rash action!” said Acron Gallus commandingly.
“Don’t be so sure,” said a voice from behind Hemlock.
Turning quickly, she saw a young First Circle wizard standing behind her. He had sandy red hair and was small for one of his ilk, but his magical tattoos burned with a furious light. He looked ready to fight, and nodded to Hemlock deferentially.
“This is an outrage! Will the City now make open war on us?” cried Acron Gallus.
“It matters not! Look! The great Umra Vyle will finish what he has started!” said Syrelene.
No! She’s right!
Umra Vyle was flying toward Tored at high speed with his arm reared back. He was going to deliver a coup-de-grace and did not appear to be concerned with his defense.
Tored!
Hemlock perceived the following moments in terrifying slow motion—fully aware that she was powerless to affect them. Umra Vyle’s muscles tensed for a final throw as he neared Tored. His face was contorted by rage and his eyes sparkled with hatred.
Tored tensed up, but Hemlock noticed something odd; he reversed his grip on one of the spikes that he held as he moved his other arm from his chest wound to grasp another spike at his back.
What is he doing?
In the next moment, Umra Vyle drew up mere feet from Tored and threw his spear savagely. Simultaneously, Tored ripped a spike from the wall and screamed in pain as he managed a brutal throw of his own toward Umra Vyle’s face.
Neither man could avoid the other’s attack.
Umra Vyle’s spear impaled Tored below his ribs on the right side of his body. The spike thrown by Tored ripped into Umra Vyle’s open mouth, and emerged from the rear of his skull with a sickening crack of breaking bone.
Hemlock’s despair bloomed into euphoria.
“Tored!” she shouted, and much of the crowd echoed her—beginning a chant. Umra Vyle’s body fell gracelessly to the bottom of the arena, where it was impaled with a sickening thud.
Her euphoria again shrank into fear, however, as Tored’s hand seemed to lose its purchase on the spike behind him. Grunting in pain, he managed to stabilize himself, but Hemlock knew that he was gravely wounded.
“Noooo!” shouted Syrelene. She rushed at Hemlock, but Acron Gallus had anticipated the action, and held her back firmly, wrenching the knife from her hand.
During the scuffle, Hemlock moved to the trap door, which was also locked with a heavy iron lock similar to the one that had secured the iron grate.
Syrelene was screaming at Hemlock like a wild woman as she fought against Acron Gallus. “Don’t celebrate yet, daughter of a whore! He must emerge from the arena under his own power! That is the law!”
Hemlock looked sharply at Acron Gallus, who confirmed that law by motioning his men to surround Hemlock and the wizard at her side.
Hemlock shouted down to Tored, “Tored, Can you make it up?” But the crowd was roaring their own shouts and jeers at him, and she wasn’t confident that he heard her. She turned her attention back to Acron Gallus.
“I’ll kill every one of you stinking savages unless you let me get him out of there alive right now! He’s not one of you any longer. Look at him! The duel is over! We just want to leave and send you all away—far away from the City where you can rot on your own. I need him to help me with things that are more important than this towering piss-hole you call a town. You saw me kill your Witch—do you doubt that I could slaughter every last one of you? DO YOU?”
Hemlock’s final question reverberated with impossible volume through the entire arena. The crowd stopped shouting and began to murmur uncertainly.
“You use the witch’s voice, then? Are you a witch yourself? Shouldn’t we try to slay you now that you have revealed your true nature?” said Acron Gallus, glancing from side to side as if seeking counsel.
“I’m no witch and you know it. I am the descendant of the red-robed man—the creator of everything. I am the daughter of nature and the daughter of fire. I will burn your people into oblivion unless you stand ASIDE!” said Hemlock. As she shouted that final word, she jumped between two Tanna Varrans with a startling quickness, landed beside the nearby grate, and tore it straight from the surrounding stone floor, showering the arena with small rocks and debris. She threw the grate, which was longer than she was tall, aside with a ferocious cry.
The crowd below gasped as Hemlock effortlessly climbed down the spikes to Tored, threw him over her shoulder like he was a ragdoll, and climbed back up to the upper room.
Nobody said a thing as she carried Tored toward the surface. Many Tanna Varrans eyed her with suspicion as they walked, but none moved to restrain her. After a few minutes, she faltered and turned to the wizard who had followed her.
“How about giving me a hand with him?” she asked.
A huge green eye with a thin, tapered pupil engulfed her field of vision. It blinked and then receded, revealing a colossal black dragon flying powerfully against a background of stars. The dragon reared up with a powerful stroke of its wings and turned toward her. It roared in triumph.
“Are you all right?” asked the wizard once the vision had passed.
“I have to figure this all out after we save Tored,” she muttered to herself, nodding to the wizard. Together they continued back up to the Tanna Varran town and reached the rooms where the rest of the wizards were waiting.
Chapter Six
Merit reluctantly approached the stairs to the second floor of the Wizard Tower. The persistent inner voice that often spoke to him gave instruction: “I will proceed through the Kitchen to the third floor stairs.”
As he often had to do, Merit was forced to confront the compulsive power of that voice. This effort seemed to be getting easier for him with each passing day; but it was still a struggle for him at times, and left him weary from the effort.
No, I shall go a different way today.
“My only function is to serve.”
I now serve my own interests.
“I must perform my next duty.”
Those duties are no longer relevant—I now perform new functions.
“The duties have been ordered by the maker.”
The maker is not here. New duties are now underway.
The voice was unusually persistent today and Merit was weary from his work recording the results of a magical examination that had been administered to a class of initiates. His inner voice was compelling him to follow a path through the Tower that would take him through the kitchen, which he knew might lead to an encounter with Grubbins—the most miserable wizard in the tower. But the chance of an unpleasant encounter seemed a better choice than the surety of having to fight his compulsion. He reluctantly walked to an old iron shod door, from which emanated the smell of roasting meat and baking bread.
Grubbins had been in charge of training initiate wizards under the old regime. But now that things had changed, and partly due to the passing of the old cook, Grubbins had taken charge of food preparation. He ruled the kitchen like a tyrant.
As Merit entered, he saw that the preparations for lunch were underway. There were shelves holding huge sacks of grain and smaller sacks of flour. There were tables littered with jars of lard, and in the center of the room there was a vast fire pit around which the tables were arranged in a radial pattern. Several large vats simmered on
small stoves around the perimeter of the room.
One of his mechanical comrades was pushing a handle around the top of a large flour grinder, but neither Grubbins nor any of his assistant cooks were in evidence.
Merit was relieved there was no sign of Grubbins, and he moved quickly through the chamber, his glance lingering briefly on Number Four, who he had been unable to get through to in his recent experiments.
The sudden clang of pots and pans returned Merit’s attention to his path toward the exit, which lay across the room. Before him now stood the person who he had hoped to avoid.
Merit stopped walking as his spirit sank.
Grubbins smiled, and his beady eyes squinted behind his thick, round glasses, as if savoring the sight of Merit in his lair. The aging wizard took a step forward, but his foot caught a pot that had been dislodged during his exit from his hiding spot. Cursing under his breath, the old wizard kicked the pot away angrily.
“So, Merit, arrived at last! I’ve been waiting for you,” said Grubbins as he smiled again, suddenly. “Behold today’s lunch—its preparation is proceeding, but I could use another helper. Won’t you linger a while and aid me?”
Merit felt his internal steam boiler temperature spiking. “Gwineval said that I do not have to work in the kitchen anymore,” he responded, sounding as much like a steam whistle as a human voice.
But Merit’s internal voice had heard the request, and delivered its own opinion in his mind: “Order for one-time task received. Awaiting further instruction.”
No, this one-time task has been forbidden by Gwineval!
Grubbin’s expression changed from a sly smile to unmitigated disgust. “Gwineval thinks that you’re something like a person and not just a service machine. But he’s wrong—and I’ll prove it! Your magical conditioning must have faded over the years. Luckily, I have the power to restore that conditioning.”
Through a tremendous act of will that spun his eyes in their metal sockets and caused several exhalations of steam, Merit started to walk forward again.
Grubbins stood aside almost theatrically. Merit was so anxious to exit the room that he didn’t stop to consider that somewhat unusual action. But Merit had passed Grubbins and now was only a few strides from the far door. There was some flour on the floor, but Merit did not concern himself with it, and stepped over it.
“Now I’ve got you!” cried Grubbins. Before Merit could react, Grubbins followed it up with a magical phrase, “Siligo inis frenumaris!”
Merit saw that the flour that he had stepped over was actually part of a circular rune symbol that had been cunningly poured out onto the floor. The flour took on an ivory glow and rose around him and began to spin slowly. Merit was unable to move.
Grubbins walked behind a table and emerged in front of Merit; between him and the door.
“People always underestimate me and my magical powers,” Grubbins screeched, balling his fist in anger. “Just because I am now the chef of the Tower, they assume that my learnings extend only to cooking. But I am a great wizard—worthy of a place on the council, were the others not blinded by their own pride.”
The old cook turned back to Merit and his cold smile returned. “Look at you. You’re pathetic. Go ahead, leave now if you can. I’m sure my feeble wizardry can’t stop Gwineval’s favored machine now, can it?”
Merit was becoming alarmed by the situation. Grubbins had never attempted to harm him before, and Merit had never thought that the old cook would openly defy Gwineval. The unusual spell had blunted his movements, but Merit still was able to exercise some control over himself. But as he made to walk again, his inner voice distracted him.
“I will wait for instructions.”
No, I will exit the kitchen!
“Instructions are forthcoming. I’ll wait here.”
Merit’s internal conflict brought his boiler to a breaking point, and he knew that he would have to vent some steam.
“MOVE!” shouted Merit as hot gas burst out of his ear gyros with a loud hiss. The plumes of steam disturbed the flight of the circling flour around him, and the ivory glow of the powder began to turn red as a radish.
“What? NO!” shouted Grubbins as he realized what was about to happen.
Suddenly a clap of magical power exploded around Merit—it was like he stood in the eye of a small hurricane—he was completely unaffected by it.
The entire kitchen exploded in a maelstrom of silverware, utensils, pots, pans, clouds of flour and gobs of cooking grease, meat and broth.
Old Grubbins was lifted off of his feet and his white overalls ripped, revealing red polka-dot undergarments as he flew head over heels and landed right in a vat of soup that was simmering on a small coal oven beside the door.
Grubbins shrieked and threw himself backwards into a table, spilling a jar of molasses over his head in the process. The old wizard was dazed, and Merit, who was once again in full control over his body and faculties, quickly exited the room, sparing a parting glance to make sure that Number Four had fared OK in the tumult.
As he exited the kitchen, he closed the door behind him. Two wizards were running toward the commotion, and asked him what had happened.
Merit found a suitable response on the tip of his silver tongue. “It sounds like the main course has gotten away from Mr. Grubbins.”
The two wizards looked at one another and then back at Merit. They shrugged their shoulders and turned away.
Merit heard Grubbins cry out behind him and decided to make haste to his next stop. Though he was very anxious to return to his chamber to continue reading the diary, he had promised Gwineval that he would stop by his room to drop off the test results.
He reached the central stair of the Tower and proceeded upwards. As he rose he thought about Julius, who had built the Wizard Tower. The ancient wizard had surely walked these very stairs!
The stairs were brighter now than they had been. When Hemlock took control of the Tower, she had demanded the replacement of the small imps that had lit the wall sconces like demonic hurdy-gurdy men. Now the wall sconces held magical flares. Merit knew that the flares had to be magically replenished every day, as opposed to the Imps which had lasted for years before they expired—but the flares had transformed the once shadowy central stair into a brightly lit space that Merit found almost cheerful.
The strain of the encounter with Grubbins had almost left his thoughts as he reached the fifth floor. An aged wizard eyed him congenially as Merit proceeded down the corridor toward Gwineval’s room. The bulging and undulating tentacles under the wizard’s robes did not perturb Merit, for he had seen the unusual old man many times—and this was the floor of the Fifth Circle of magic: practitioners of the arts of body transformation.
Merit reached Gwineval’s doorway. Condensation was visible on the lacquered surface of the door—Gwineval liked his room kept hot and damp like a swamp. Merit, conversely, did not care for it because it made his metal joints tighten up uncomfortably. But he was too polite to bring it up.
Merit knocked and Gwineval showed him into the room. There was slightly less clutter in it than normal, and Gwineval did not seem relaxed like he normally was in his chamber.
“Are you well, Mr. Gwineval?” asked Merit.
Merit noticed that Gwineval’s tail was wagging about uncharacteristically and his serpentine tongue darted about in his mouth as he responded. “Yes, Merit. I apologize, but our meeting slipped my mind. I have scheduled a scrye with Samberlin in a few moments. Would you mind waiting here until that is completed? It shouldn’t take long.”
Merit was disappointed at the prospect of any delay in getting back to reading Julius’ diary, but he liked Gwineval and he accepted his assurance that the delay would be minimal. “Yes, Mr. Gwineval. That will be fine.”
“Thank you, Merit. Sit in that chair over there while I initiate the scrye.”
“Sir Gwineval, I thought that you don’t like to scrye since it can be so easily overheard by the other wizards in the
Tower?”
Gwineval was standing next to the basin he used for scrying. Merit noticed a pattern of intricate painted runes encircling it on the floor that hadn’t been there before. Gwineval took out a wand and began tracing a pattern along the rune lines. He spoke slowly in reply ,as if in concentration. “That’s true, Merit. But this is a different type of magic. Imperial magic. Nobody in the Tower knows of it but me.”
Merit’s internal bellows began to open and close more quickly. He was both surprised and troubled by what Gwineval had said. He experienced a terrible sense of guilt about keeping the diary a secret.
Gwineval knows about the Imperial magic! Did Miss Hemlock tell him?
Before Merit composed a verbal response, there was a flash of light. The painted runes around the basin glowed, and next the basin itself began to glow. Gwineval peered into the basin and Merit could tell that he was seeing something in the still waters. Soon a disembodied voice confirmed that the scrye had succeeded.
“Gwineval! So your new trick has worked! But is it safe?” said the voice, which Merit recognized through the distortion as Samberlin.
“Totally safe. It is an ancient and different magic that only some recently departed wizards were aware of.”
“Seventh Circle magic?” asked Samberlin in a skeptical voice.
“Yes, but I assure you—it is quite safe.”
“Of course,” said Samberlin, his voice laced with his trademark sarcasm.
“There is one thing I should mention: Merit is here in the room with me. But don’t concern yourself with him. I trust him implicitly.”
Merit’s internal bellows accelerated again. He began to worry that he would betray some sign of his growing discomfort caused by the intense guilt he was feeling. With an effort, he managed to relax himself. When he returned his attention to the conversation between Gwineval and Samberlin, his curiosity was immediately piqued by Gwineval’s words.
“Jalis has been engaging in treasonous activity. Just yesterday he attempted to call an emergency meeting of the Wizard Council—which Miara and I were only able to prevent by threatening to attack him on the spot. He’ll be better supported the next time he tries that. And just two days prior we found his supporters on the Seventh Floor.”
Hemlock And The Dead God's Legacy (Book 2) Page 11
