He was still strong. He would make it.
But her true test was just beginning. She flew far, far away from the lines of the maker’s fire—farther than she had ever flown. She feared that she might be drawn away into the emptiness and become another lost soul in the field of twinkling stars that surrounded the lattice of worlds. But the opposing currents of the maker’s fire were nearly imperceptible at this distance and would not hinder her flight for a time. She began to churn her wings.
Moments became hours and worlds whipped by around her. She still had strength, but she was already approaching the point where she would normally seek the shelter of a world, and a long rest and a feeding.
Doubt assailed her at every turn, but the memory of DuLoc and his glowing eyes sustained her. He would return and she would watch as Zaringer either knelt in submission to him or was slain. She dearly hoped it would be the latter.
As she continued to fly, a desperate pain filled her senses. She desired nothing more than to descend to a nearby world to rest, but she knew that her momentum was her only chance. She would never regain the strength to establish the speed the she had built up or the distance from the maker’s fire.
Soon even thoughts of the return of DuLoc could not sustain her. Her mind became unmoored and soon she began to question the purpose of her suffering. She no longer cared about the City, about her mountains or her favorite mountain perch. In the end, reduced to her lowest denominator, her thoughts turned to the Griffin. Her friend—no, her sister.
As the worlds flew by, she realized that she was not a lord over them as she had thought—she was just an exponent of them, and still a part of them. She experienced an intense affection for everything that she beheld, even as her already unbearable pain intensified. Even the people of the City became dear to her in that moment—even the wizards. They were all flawed creations—fundamentally constrained, but not less dear for it. Constraint! It was the one thing she couldn’t bear to think of, yet here she was, delirious with pain and embracing it. The wisdom of her sister, the Griffin, became apparent to her. Her own folly became equally clear.
If she could have wept then, she would have wept for the Creator and her part in his betrayal by the Dead God. But soon even despair was wiped away by the conflagration of suffering that had become her existence.
Soon she did little but float along lifelessly. She was too weak to even contemplate taking refuge on a world. She had made it to the inner worlds and was close to the City. She could see it. Soon she would reach the nearby worlds that the Griffin could reach—she could rest there and the Griffin could guide her back.
But she lacked even the strength to redirect her course. Had she not adjusted her course toward the City when it had first come into view, she doubted whether she would have ever been able to. Now she was at the mercy of her prior sense of direction—so near to death that she became a spectator of her fate rather than a participant.
She faded in and out of consciousness as she flew. The transition into the upper air of the City jolted her awake for a moment and she exerted a herculean effort to steer herself toward the mountains. Her next memory was a hard landing amidst rock, and then a welcoming blackness, not unlike the void she had just traversed.
A long time later she awoke. She was wedged at the bottom of a ravine. The surrounding peaks were low, and she judged that she had landed at the western outskirts of the mountains.
She had survived! A tremendous feeling of relief came over her. And she began to fantasize about the return of DuLoc and of hunting and soaring. She dimly remembered some unusual thoughts during the final moments of her approach toward the City. But they seemed distant and dream-like now.
But then she became aware of footsteps around her. She saw wizards and felt the sting of their spell net as it covered her. Zaringer stepped into her field of view.
“What have you been up to? You look worse for wear. No matter! We have decided that we need you back in the Wizard Tower. It seems that while your scales have certain beneficial properties—your flesh will have far more benefit to us. You’ve made this easy for us by exhausting yourself. Very kind of you. But I ask again—what have you been up to?”
She mustered what strength she could and fought angrily. But as the arcs of lightning subdued her, she recalled her thoughts from the final approach to the City more clearly, and was comforted by them. The final thing that she saw was a young wizard approaching her. Did tears fall from the young girl’s eyes?
Chapter Eight
Renevos shook his head disapprovingly as he regarded the hostile faces of the Tanna Varrans that surrounded him. They rested in the portion of the hall where the wizards had been given shelter during the duel. Hemlock and the wizard named Otticus had just arrived with a gravely wounded Tored.
“What have you done? It looks like the entire town will soon be at our throats,” said Renevos harshly.
“It’s none of your concern. Just heal him,” responded Hemlock.
“Fine, fine.”
Hemlock watched as the old wizard began to inspect Tored’s wounds. He seemed most concerned with the chest wound, which seemed to be causing Tored difficulty breathing.
Hemlock felt desperate and scared. I would have killed them all in that moment. What am I becoming? She suddenly wasn’t sure whether she was more scared for Tored or for herself.
In contrast to Hemlock, the short wizard who had helped her above the arena bubbled with excitement as he related the details of the duel to his comrades.
“You should have seen him! He was magnificent! Umra Vyle fought bravely, but Tored outsmarted him. He threw an iron spike right through Vyle’s open mouth!” exclaimed the young wizard too loudly.
“Otticus! Not now!” hissed Hemlock.
Turning back toward the throng of Tanna Varrans, she scanned their ranks for members of the Vyle clan. She recognized a few from the recent journey, and hoped Otticus’ remarks wouldn’t further inflame their fury.
She tried to remain patient for several minutes, but finally she gave in to curiosity. She returned her attention to Renevos and his work on Tored. She saw that he worked with slightly less urgency, and had already applied a bandage to the chest wound. Two other wizards flanked him and were passing their hands over Tored’s body, applying healing spells.
“How is he?” she ventured.
“He is as strong as an ox. I doubt many would have survived that wound. But he did. He will be all right provided he is given time to rest,” said Renevos, glancing pointedly at the angry faces around them.
Moments later, Hemlock noticed Acron Gallus entering the chamber and approaching her. She braced herself for another confrontation.
The new Steward of the Town proudly strode towards Hemlock and halted before her. His colorful robe set him apart from the more simple dress of the other warriors. His face wore a neutral expression, and Hemlock noted that he calmed several of the Tanna Varrans around them with a nod or a restraining hand on the shoulder.
“How fares Tored?” he asked after it became clear that Hemlock was not going to initiate conversation.
“He does relatively well. We have several skilled healers with us. We only require a few days to rest and then we will resume our mission.”
“He has one night—and it will be a strain for me to get my people to support that. You have broken our law and your presence here is now an affront to us.”
“I understand,” replied Hemlock angrily, “but he needs more time than that!”
Acron Gallus looked reflective for a moment. “There are some things worse than death. Some indignities are simply too much to bear. If you are still here at dawn tomorrow, I doubt I’ll be able to restrain the warriors. They are too proud. You will all be slain or we will die trying. Only the threat of casting you out into the spectral night restrains us now.”
Hemlock looked back at Renevos for a reaction. He shook his head uncertainly. “It could kill him. But he will have a chance.”
&n
bsp; “That is more than he deserves,” said Acron Gallus.
“Fine. We will leave the Town by dawn. But if he dies as a result, there still may be an issue between us.”
“My conscience is clear and I am prepared to die. Can you say the same?”
His words stung Hemlock and she did not respond.
“One more thing. I will accompany you on your journey with a party of warriors. We will be present when you free our land from this place and return us home,” said Acron Gallus.
“We can make it without you—but do what you want.”
“Food and drink will be brought here. I shouldn’t have to tell you that I would not leave this room for any reason tonight.” With that final remark, Acron Gallus turned and departed. A number of the crowd that had gathered left with him, including the members of the Vyle clan. The tension in the air had been defused by several degrees, although it was still palpable.
Otticus approached Hemlock. She inspected his compact frame; it was rippling with muscle under his robes. His blond hair was short cropped like most of the First Circle and his eyes were ice blue. Hemlock imagined that a frame like Otticus’ would be a likely result if Tored were somehow shrunken down by half.
“You need to contain your enthusiasm,” she said.
“My apologies. But the duel really inspired me. I’ve never seen anything so glorious! We should create something like it for our First Circle.”
“Yea, that’s just what we need: all of you fighters killing yourselves. I don’t see the glory in that. I think it was just sad.”
“I suppose that every coin has two sides… But you’ll never convince me it was anything other than glorious. And what of the feats of strength you did down there? How did you do that?”
A sharp voice rang out from their side: “Otticus!”
“Yes, sir?” replied Otticus under the glaring stare of Renevos, as the latter tended to Tored.
“Leave her alone and return to your men.”
“Yes, at once,” said Otticus, winking at Hemlock before he left.
I wonder how long he’ll survive?
Hemlock laid down and played back the events of the duel in her head. She remembered the vision that she had had with the Black Dragon. I had a similar vision before I butchered the Badger Clan. What does it mean?
Then her mind focused on the vision of the Red-Robed man and the feeling of peace she had experienced under the influence of the witch’s Kinslayer cloth. The two visions suddenly struck her as being polar opposites: peace and destruction, love and predatory violence.
Why do I feel like I am at war with myself? I tire of it all but I also yearn for the single-mindedness of battle. Another aspect of my struggle. She sighed, and decided the easiest course forward was to try to stop thinking. She still had a quest in front of her and it would be resuming in mere hours. It was the most reassuring thought she could muster.
In the pre-dawn, Hemlock awoke to Tored’s coughing. She rolled over and saw him rising to his feet.
“Stop—they are bringing a litter for you,” insisted Renevos.
“No need. I can walk. When do we leave?”
“Now,” called a loud voice from across the chamber. Acron Gallus approached with a detachment of warriors. Hemlock did not recognize any of them from the prior leg of their journey.
“It is well,” muttered Tored, looking unsteady on his feet.
Hemlock rose and went to his side to steady him. “You made it. It looked bad there for a while,” she said.
“Yes. I am surprised to be alive. I’m not sure I should be. How did I leave the arena? My last memory is being impaled by Umra Vyle’s spear.”
“I…rescued you.”
Tored took a few moments to digest her words. “Then we are outlaws,” he said.
“Yes, it appears so.”
“Then why do we yet live?”
Hemlock leaned close to his ear. “I threatened to kill the entire town. I think they believed me.” She felt a bit of self-loathing at the pride she detected in her voice as she spoke.
Tored made to grasp her shoulders, winced in pain and lowered his arms. But he engaged her in a fierce stare. “One condition to our association is that you never threaten anyone like that again for my sake. Nobody will kill in my name again. You must treat my company as a temporary boon. If I meet my demise, then you must not stand in my way. I now journey to my death. It may be a long journey or it may be short. But it is my journey to make. Not yours. Do you understand?”
“No. I honestly don’t. I will try to abide by your wishes, but if that includes standing by and watching you get killed, then I can’t make any guarantees.”
“Consider my words. We will speak again soon and then determine if we can continue together or not.”
Hemlock felt like she had been slapped in the face as Tored turned his back on her and accepted help from the wizards.
Acron Gallus was urging them all to leave the chamber, so she was forced to swallow her anger and quickly gather her few belongings.
Many of the Tanna Varrans had gathered to watch them leave. No words were spoken. The stares were as cold as the crisp morning air.
As the first light of dawn broke over the plain, the new group assembled at the base of the Town. The composition of the wizards had not changed, but the Tanna Varrans were far different. Acron Gallus led a smaller group of twelve warriors.
“All have been selected for their even temperament,” said the Steward.
“It is wise,” replied Tored.
The Tanna Varrans once again outfitted the group with their wings, and they took to the air to cover the remaining distance to the accursed vale.
“It will be a two day journey by air,” said Tored.
When they landed after the first day of flight, Hemlock could see the mountains in the distance, although most of their expanse was obscured by a thick fog. They later found the shelter of another Tanna Varran cave, and sat in a loose circle around the warmth of a flickering fire. The topic of conversation returned to the thick fog surrounding the mountains.
“It is too dense for flight. We will have to enter the vale on foot,” explained Acron Gallus.
“Maybe the wizards could cast a spell to clear the fog?” replied Hemlock.
“It has been tried. The fog itself is magical and resists all attempts to dispel it.”
“With respect—we have some powerful wizards with us.”
“We have had great wizards in our time as well, and one is known to live at present. He has tested the fog and assured us that the magic cannot be broken. Your wizards are welcome to try their magic, but I advise that you save their strength.”
Hemlock nodded, though she noticed a hint of defiance in the look Renevos shot her across the fire.
The night passed without incident, and they returned to the peace of flight through the morning air. As the mountains approached, Hemlock was stuck by their mysterious appearance. She had a feeling of foreboding and there was a strange sensation coming from her magic attunement. Finally she put her finger on it: she could sense the presence of a Wand of the Imperator. She remembered the same feeling as she flew toward the ruin in the desert on the back of the Griffin.
When they landed in the early evening, they camped on the surface in the shadow of the nearby peaks.
“The yearning spirits do not haunt this mountain,” explained Tored. “It has been so for as long as anyone can remember. But people feared the area because of the witches. They were seen here regularly. Though the witches are gone now, we must still be vigilant.”
“That seems odd. Why would the witches have been here if there are no spirits to feed on? It’s strange,” said Hemlock.
Tored nodded but did not reply.
“Tored, it’s here,” she said.
“What?”
“The Wand. I can feel its presence.”
“That is good. Our journey was not in vain.”
“Yes. And I’ve been thinking about w
hat you said about your part in the journey.”
“And?”
“I think I understand it, but I don’t like it. I am your friend. It’s natural for me to want to help you.”
“I don’t mind your help, but if it is my time to die, then you must accept it. For both of our sakes. If you had murdered all of those people to save me, then you would have condemned me to death just as surely as leaving me in that arena. I could never live with all of those deaths on my conscience. And one day soon, you might discover similar feelings.”
Hemlock considered discussing her recent vision of the Black Dragon with him. But something held her back.
They camped for the evening, and Tored volunteered to take watch. He was clearly restored to health, and though he still wore the bandage over his chest, Hemlock felt sure that he did it only to avoid the reproach of Renevos.
Hemlock was restless that evening. The air had developed an acrid odor that she found puzzling—it roused her just as she was finally nearing the boundary between wakefulness and sleep.
Next she saw a slight glow through her closed eyelids. She exhaled forcefully and opened her eyes.
There was a dim light near a copse of trees that was a hundred yards off from the campsite. She knew that Tored was posted there on watch. She quickly rose, grabbed her sabres, and jogged off toward him. As she ran, she could see that the light was clearly growing in intensity. She couldn't see where Tored was, so she dove into cover once she had passed beyond the outlying trees.
The light had a bluish hue; and as Hemlock found its source, she was startled to see that it emanated from a figure that was approaching from the far edge of the treeline. Her blood cooled as she noticed that the outline of the figure—though hazy—showed that it was wearing a familiar tricorne hat.
It approached the treeline and passed directly through a tree. Both the blue figure and the tree were unperturbed.
"You have nothing to fear from me," said the figure in a distorted voice. It reminded her of the voice Falignus had used prior to their battle with his corrupted father, Zaringer.
Hemlock And The Dead God's Legacy (Book 2) Page 15
